“Does this look like fuckin’ Kiss of the Spider Woman to you, man?” I said, disgusted. “Ask Theo.”
And just as you can guess, that was exactly what happened, and Theo gladly cleaned the shit off Abdelatif, and later carried his brimming bucket of feces and the piss bottle down the hallway to the bathroom, blindfolded and trailed by Yassine, who was toting an AK-47 and yelling at him the whole way about what would happen to him if he spilled it.
We went on like this for seven straight days, without a break or any medical attention. I remember thinking it was no longer just a metaphor: we were now literally living in a world of shit.
When we’d first returned to the hospital the light situation had been better than ever, not just because the window was no longer blocked, but because the electricity was more reliable. Shortly after Abdelatif joined us things went downhill in this department, with the power out more often than it was on. We were in complete darkness from sundown until sunrise for long stretches, once for nine days. Eventually, it got so bad that they put a generator outside and ran lights into every cell through small holes drilled above our doors. We were grateful to have the light even though the switch was outside the door and we no longer controlled it.
Early one evening we were all just chilling in our own private hell when we heard the piercing shriek of a MiG slice the air above the hospital. I saw a tiny piece of paper lying on the floor shortly after but assumed it was a tag from one of our shirts that had fallen off and didn’t give it a second thought. Later, however, Theo did, and it turned out to be one of the greatest contributions he made the entire time we were locked up together. He’d gotten up to take a piss, and when he bent over and picked up the scrap I saw his face light up; he headed right for me with his hand extended. I took the paper, a little white rectangle smaller than my pinkie nail, and flipped it over. On one side was a circular stamp with two children holding hands inside it; under them were three tiny words, in English: Aleppo Pediatric Hospital.
“Holy shit!” I said. “We know where we are!”
“It’s a sign from Allah!” the Moroccan proclaimed.
For the rest of the night we were all in high spirits. It feels paralyzing, being locked in a room and having absolutely no idea where you are, where you would even be if you somehow escaped. Now we knew, and better still, our captors had no idea that we knew.
When the torture would get really bad outside our walls I used to say we were God’s messengers, and that it was our job to live so that we could tell the world what went on here. Now “here” had a name.
The building we were in was part of a large compound consisting of several hospitals with a wall around it. When gunfire and explosions erupted from the south end it was broad daylight; I’d been pacing the cell as my two cellmates slept soundly on the floor.
“Wake up!” I yelled. “The regime’s attacking!”
It took the jihadis outside our cell about as long to figure out what was going on as it had taken me, and within seconds I heard them running and yelling, along with the sounds of clips being popped into AKs and the actions being slid back. All of their footsteps faded in the same direction: up the stairs. When I looked out the window I saw a wave of fighters rushing toward the battle with their rifles slung over their shoulders, the twelve-year-old, Abu Jaz, among them.
“Wake up!” I repeated. “They’re trying to take the hospital!”
“It’s just another group,” the Moroccan said without opening his eyes.
“I don’t think so.”
He went back to sleep. I was in awe at how he and Theo could lie there, in complete denial about what was happening. As the battle continued to rage for well over an hour it became clear that the Moroccan was wrong: this wasn’t just another militia group, this was the government. It also became clear that the entire floor, probably the entire building, was now completely vacant. Guards, emirs, kids—everyone was busy fighting.
I stared at Theo as he slept, with such intense hatred that I felt both of my hands involuntarily clench into rock-hard fists. This was the moment, the opportunity we would have been ready for if only he had let me perforate the panel in the door months earlier. Now, at this moment we could have kicked it out and walked away, and as long as we headed north we would have had over an hour’s head start before anyone realized we were gone.
When the gunfire finally died down there was about a minute of silence before I heard the roar of a MiG cutting straight toward us. The Moroccan’s eyes shot open and looked at me. I stared right back at him, my expression saying I told you it was the government. A moment later the plane flew directly over us and dropped a bomb on a neighboring building, the explosion rocking the very foundation of the hospital. That ended the battle, and the compound remained in the hands of Jabhat al-Nusra—as did I, all because Theo refused to follow my plan.
On March twenty-eighth, the door opened and in walked Mohannad. He had been kidnapped after defecting from the army while posted at the Air Force Intelligence Directorate, where I had been shooting back when I was still free. They’d told him that he would only be with us for a few hours before he was released, but he was a Shia, so I had my doubts.
With another Arab in our cell it was like the Moroccan took off the mask he had been wearing
