After we were locked back up, all the men stood and ran over to me for a hug, a kiss, and to say congratulations. When I was finally able to see through the cluster of soldiers around me I noticed Ayman sitting against the back wall, tears flowing down his cheeks. Not out of jealousy, or even sadness that he was staying; they were flowing out of happiness.
I sat next to Ayman, took out my mesbahah—the one I’d made at the villa and had prayed with ever since—and handed it to him.
“Now you give me yours,” I said, holding back my own tears.
He produced his beautiful white mesbahah with its long tassels and purple twine and gave it to me. I had seen him praying with it for hours some days. I promised him that I would never lose it or let it go, but I don’t think he understood that part of the conversation because later, after the tea was served, he came up to me with Ali as translator to deliver a message.
“Ayman says that if you lose his mesbahah he will come to America and kick your ass,” Ali said with a big smile.
I laughed and told him I would die first.
We waited all night to be taken from the cell, but nobody came to get us. That long, long night was followed by an even longer day, but on the evening of the twentieth Obeida entered solo and called the three of us over once again. He told us that we were about to be transferred and that Shareef and the Senator would follow as well. I only caught part of this statement, their names, and when Obeida allowed me a few minutes to say goodbye to the men I walked right past Shareef without even a glance, thinking he and the Senator were coming with us.
“Jumu’ah,” he said.
When I turned around to look at this gentle giant who had become a brother to me I could see the sadness in his swollen red eyes.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” I asked.
“No,” said Shareef.
I grabbed him and we hugged tightly, knowing our chances of ever seeing each other again were slim. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t.
“Jumu’ah,” Obeida called from the doorway.
The cell grew silent as I turned and the men parted to make a path to the door. In Obeida’s hand were white lace blindfolds. He put mine on, and a moment later we were led out of the cell.
THE WAREHOUSE
JUNE 20, 2013
As soon as we were taken from the van, we knew we weren’t going home.
“Yala!” a voice roared as I was ripped from the vehicle.
The moment my bare feet touched the pavement, my arm was twisted viciously behind my back. I was led into a building and down a long, winding staircase. Wherever they were taking us was deep underground and definitely not the main headquarters of Jabhat al-Nusra. When we finally reached the bottom I was pushed into a cavernous basement where my holders’ yelling echoed all around me. I was placed on my knees. It was quiet now, and I heard them bringing in Theo and the Moroccan. Then I heard someone running right at me, his footsteps reverberating like thunder—
Boom!
The bottom of a boot landed in the center of my back and my head snapped back like a rag doll. I flew forward, landing facedown on a foam mattress. I felt like I’d been hit with a wrecking ball and slid from the mattress, gasping for air. When I finally caught my breath I heard the unmistakable sound of the wooden stick being picked up and moved into position—they were putting Theo in the tire. I just lay there, waiting for my turn.
The blows landing on the bottoms of Theo’s feet were fierce and each followed by the same word, in Arabic:
“Kafir!” Nonbeliever.
Theo’s screams were horrific, echoing throughout the enormous room.
“Kafir!” the voice continued to yell, until at last Theo screamed that he was a Christian and another voice stepped in on his behalf.
“No, wait, wait,” it said. “He believes in something! He believes in something!”
Now it was my turn, but no one bothered putting me in the tire; instead he crept up on me and gave me seven or eight good licks on the bottoms of my feet, my ass, and my ankles. This guy was whaling on me harder than the punks at the hospital ever did, and the shots to my ankles stripped the skin off as efficiently as a weed whacker. All the while he screamed a question, but I had no idea what the maniac was asking.
“No Arabic, no Arabic!” I kept shouting.
Finally, Theo answered for me.
“He’s a Muslim,” he said.
As soon as the words were out my punishment ceased; I was rolled over and told to remove my blindfold. Standing above me like the Grim Reaper himself was our new captor, holding his pointer finger up toward the sky. This meant he wanted me to recite the Shahada.
“There is no God but Allah and Mohammad is the true prophet,” I said in Arabic, through gasps of breath.
The man slowly nodded his shaggy head in approval. He was not particularly large, but terrifying to look at, with a long beard and spiky eyebrows, his mass of dark hair pushed back. His name was Abu Abdullah, and with me out of the way he turned to the Moroccan, dealing him heavy blows across the ass and backs of his legs.
“I’m a doctor!” Abdelatif pleaded, over and over.
When the abuse stopped at last, Abu Abdullah informed us that he would be back in the morning to repeat the ritual, and then our holders took their leave.
As we heard them securing the door with a padlock, the Moroccan and I exchanged looks, our eyes awash in fear and uncertainty.
“A new beginning,” he said to me, nodding.
I nodded back, holding his gaze.
