As soon as Obeida dropped by to check on us we started to bitch about the lights and he promised to bring in an electrician the next day. We were appropriately gracious but still pessimism loomed, as we all knew that in wartime plenty of things just couldn’t be fixed.
The next morning, Obeida showed that he’d been thinking of us since laying the first block—the front gate was lifted from behind the wall and light flooded into the room through the opening he’d left at the top. The cell exploded with joy as everyone jumped to their feet, cheering and embracing each other.
“Hamdullah!” the Moroccan blurted out, with tears flowing down his cheeks and his hands held up to the heavens. For once, I agreed with him.
Now we had the luxury of a bathroom in our cell, and while exploring the room the men found an abundance of materials to make use of. Above the bathroom was a lofted storage area, where Shabiha Ali found metal wires and razor-sharp shards of ceramic tile that could be used to cut things. He also found a bag filled with what looked like miles of tape from a cassette. There were two shades of the glossy plastic, black and off-white, and it was heavier and tougher than I’d thought. It didn’t take long for one of the soldiers to go to work with this, and before we knew it he had constructed a whole other chess set, with knights that actually resembled horses. With the same material Rabir made a net and a ball about the size of a softball, forming a basketball rim from the thick steel wire. By nightfall we had two chess sets, one Mancala board, backgammon, a basketball hoop, and, after a visit from an electrician, the much-needed light Obeida had promised.
I’m sure if you took a pack of dogs who got along fine and locked them up in a small cage it wouldn’t be long before they started biting each other, and that’s exactly what happened with us. Tiffs were common, but rarely went beyond yelling and shit talking. Oqba had a beef with Shareef, Rabir had a beef with Oqba, and the Moroccan had a whole list of beefs—with Rias, Fadaar, Shabiha Ali, and of course yours truly. Abdelatif wasn’t my only problem, though. Living in such close quarters meant that you could be at each other’s throats one second and sharing bread the next—fights usually didn’t last long, but they flared up easily. The closest I came to fighting one of the soldiers was when our holders were moving a group of prisoners, who they’d locked up across from us in our old cell. As soon as we heard them being taken out, I jumped to my feet and peered through the nickel-sized peephole that had been drilled just above where a doorknob would have been.
“Jumu’ah!” yelled Ali Sheikh. Ali Sheikh was the biggest soldier in the room, about 6′3″ and maybe 220 pounds. He violently motioned for me to sit.
When I ignored him, he complained to the Moroccan that if I was caught we would all be punished, and when this was translated to me I shrugged it off and kept my eye on the peephole. Then he yelled at me again and I snapped around and answered him.
“Tell him to grow some fuckin’ balls and shut up!” I said for the Moroccan to translate. “If there are other Westerners or journalists locked up in here I have to know in case I ever get out!”
Now an insult like this would no doubt have provoked a reaction in pretty much any American prison, but in an Arab one it wasn’t just an insult, it was an insult wrapped in a sin, thanks to their strong feelings about language. I definitely expected a scene once I was done with the task at hand, but first I counted nine prisoners through the peephole, all of them Arabs. Then I turned to address Ali Sheikh, now on his feet and storming toward me. I met him halfway and got right in his face, standing on my toes to meet the giant’s eyes.
“What? You think I’m fuckin’ scared of you?” I yelled.
His face was a mask of rage, but my confidence quickly drained him of his and before I knew it he was racing around me to the door to rat me out.
“C-I-A!” he said loudly, moving to pound on the door; a wall of his brothers prevented him from doing so.
This display caused quite a ruckus in the room, and later when Ayman defended my actions I heard the sound of Ali Sheikh’s open hand colliding with his face. Everyone jumped up to get between the two men.
“You see what you did?” the Moroccan bellowed at me. “You see? He was defending you and that’s why this happened!”
I stood there in shock. For an Arab to speak out against one of his own in defense of an American was unprecedented in our environment, an act of integrity and courage I never thought I would witness. I sat down next to Ayman, who was out of breath with anger, and gave him a soft pat on the shoulder.
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it with all my heart.
“You’re welcome!” he yelled out proudly in English, for all to hear.
Later, Fadaar sat down to have a talk with me, with Ali as our translator. He wanted to know what the fight was about, and after I explained myself he nodded, looking searchingly at me with his clear blue eyes.
“You have to
