I was always asking Theo what he was going to tell people when they asked why he’d gone to Syria in the first place, knowing full well that when they found out he’d been kidnapped while trying to drum up a story about a famous kidnapping victim he’d be ridiculed. He never answered the question; just lay there pompously stroking his mustache in a way that told me he had no intention of ever admitting his real motivation for the trip.
But here at the villa, he began crafting an alternative story, telling the soldiers that he’d come to Syria to visit villages and speak to citizens on both sides of the conflict, focusing on the dissent between them. I told him it was delusional to think that would ever fly at home, being that he’d already admitted the real reason, both to me and to Tice’s editor, who he’d emailed before he left.
Theo’s usual response when I reminded him of this was some belittling comment. I didn’t get it, because I’d told him straight up that I would never lie for him. The only thing that ever explained his confidence was something he said once when we were talking about telling our stories back home. “That all depends on your ability to convince people,” he’d told me. “I am the media.”
The first week at the villa was one of the most refreshing I had experienced in captivity. Yes, we were constantly abused and insulted by the guards, but after almost a full month of nobody but Theo and the Moroccan it was worth it to be back with friends. Just like before, I clicked instantly with all the men I had not had the privilege of meeting or getting to know well the last time, especially Rabir and Ayman.
Rabir had a shady look that didn’t in any way reflect his personality, with one eye open slightly more than the other and two bullet holes in him, but he was genuinely loved by all due to his warmth and great sense of humor.
“I love you, Matt!” he’d say in English, a big smile on his face.
“I love you too, Rabir!”
Ayman was a grunt, but one who was generally respected by all in the room. He was of average height and build, with one truly stunning feature: his hair. It was so thick that when he ran his fingers through it wet, it stood up in porcupine spikes all around his head. We became friends immediately, thanks to our identically competitive personalities. It began one day when he was sitting across the room and motioned for me to toss him the ball I’d made. I lobbed it gently over. He caught it and fired it back at me like he was Roger Clemens. I was caught off guard and failed to make the catch.
“One,” Ayman said, wearing a smug grin and holding up a finger.
“Oh, you wanna play rough, huh?”
I hurled the ball right back, even harder. We went back and forth like this a few times . . . and then I dropped it again.
“Two,” he said, holding up two fingers with that same grin.
He also liked to give me shit when I was working out—I’d finish a round of push-ups and he’d have someone translate as he told me how meaningless my exercises were and demonstrated how they were done in Syria. The comical and endearing way he joked and competed with me made me love him like a brother from the jump.
Aside from my ability to make everyone laugh, which is no small feat in a prison, my single greatest contribution to the room was the introduction of the ball. It started with me trying to show them how to hack, but since there wasn’t room to move around much, this quickly evolved into something new: hacky sack, Aleppo-style. Instead of standing and using our feet, we sat cross-legged or on our knees and used our hands—and instead of playing civilly, we beat the shit out of each other. Five or six of us sat in a circle, and once the ball was served the object was to keep it in the air and moving at a fast but reasonable pace. There was no spiking or anything like it allowed, and the penalty for fucking up a round was severe. Whoever missed the ball or hit it out of the circle into nowhere had to enter the ring of men to accept his punishment: a solid punch to either the back or the shoulder from every player, hard enough that they sometimes produced thuds that made everyone in the room wince and say “Oh!” before laughing at the loser.
Intense rivalries formed, like the ones between me and Rias—who would throw fits when he lost—and me and Rabir, who just reveled in hurting me. Rabir may have loved me when we weren’t hacking, but when we were, it was total war. One time after I blew a round I entered the ring for my punishment and Rabir waited until everyone else was done dealing me my licks to take his turn. As I crouched down, knees and elbows to the ground in the customary position, Rabir pretended to spit shine his fist, as if he was about to deliver a blow so epic it would shake the villa.
“Come on, already!” I yelled.
As Rabir wound up, I put my head down and shut my eyes tight, just waiting for him to sock the same goddamn spot he had been pounding on the whole game, but nothing happened. I looked up, thinking maybe he wanted me to see it coming, and I was right—as his fist started down I braced myself for the impact and saw the massive ball of knuckles coming straight for
