As I lay there, on the first mattress I had been on in almost six months, one thought finally began to take hold.
“You know, this is the first time I actually feel like I might not live through this,” I said.
“Me too,” said the Moroccan.
Theo agreed as well, but then again he always thought they were going to kill us.
It had taken us a few moments to get our bearings. On the floor were three mattresses with blankets and pillows, but the welcoming touches ended there. We must have been fifty feet underground—that was about the height of the ceiling. Massive concrete pillars adorned with Arabic graffiti loomed throughout the space. In the far right corner was a towering mass of debris, everything from plywood, to dozens of glass hookahs, to the huge sign that had once graced the outside of the warehouse where we were now confined. Thanks to that sign, for once we knew right away where we were: the Talal Tourism and Trading Cargo Co. To the left, jutting out from the back wall, was a partition of cinder blocks, and behind it an elevator shaft. In the center of the basement was the entrance, the bottom of the stairs barricaded by a green gate. We did have electricity, when it was running, but when it was out there was no natural light during the day except for what crept through the elevator shaft and the fogged windows high up at ground level along the front.
There was absolutely no getting out of there.
“That’s not a good sign,” I heard Theo say.
I turned, just as the biggest rat I had ever seen skittered across the room and disappeared into the pile of debris. Not long after, the lights went out; we were back in the black of darkness, only this time we weren’t alone. All around us we could hear the scratching of the rats, who were clearly used to living with humans and not afraid of us at all.
Theo was right for once: this was not a good sign.
We could usually hear our captors coming well in advance thanks to the endless echoing staircase. Not long after the darkness overtook us we heard them returning, three of them. By now the protocol was second nature; we moved to the back wall and put our faces to it as the glow of their light drew closer. When the footsteps stopped we were told to turn, and found an older man with a long black beard and a baseball cap crouched in front of us, with Abu Abdullah to the left of him and another guard on the right. I don’t think he was an emir, but he was definitely intense and definitely in charge. He was in his mid to late forties, but had the worn face of a sixty-year-old, and he held the light under his chin, the shadows it threw making him and his comrades—Abu Abdullah in particular—look especially fearsome. The Leader addressed the Moroccan first, and as he turned his attention toward me Abdelatif filled him in on my history—including the fact that I had found Allah.
“Do the Fatiha for them,” he said.
As I sang their most sacred prayer our three captors looked at me as if I were an angel. Abu Abdullah seemed the most moved by my performance, and by the end was nodding vigorously. Now came the questioning, with the Moroccan acting as translator.
“Do you regret coming to Syria?” the Leader asked me.
“No,” I said with conviction.
“Why?”
“Because it has made me a stronger person, a better person.”
“Do you think you are going to die here?”
“No,” I said.
“Good, your faith is strong,” said the Leader, turning his attention to Theo.
“Do you think you’re going to live?”
“I sure hope so,” Theo answered meekly.
“You are weak and your faith is weak!” he spat.
The Leader asked us if we were hungry, and a little while later a healthy portion of greasy fried eggs and Spam was delivered to us by two guards, along with an abundance of bread. It was a nice way to end a rough night, but we still had the next morning to look forward to, and with it Abu Abdullah’s promise to return for another round of torture.
Next to the warehouse was a mosque, and the Adhan blaring out of its speakers meant there was no mistaking when morning arrived. None of us said a word and none of us prayed. We just sat there, waiting for Abu Abdullah to appear. As day overcame the night the basement took on a gray and colorless gloom. It couldn’t have been more depressing. When we heard footsteps coming down the stairs we all quickly scooted to the wall and put our heads against it while seated. The door opened and the footsteps continued, coming to a stop right behind us, and then the voice of Abu Abdullah began speaking to the Moroccan.
“He said you can turn around,” the Moroccan said to me. “This is so nice.”
I turned around and looked up. Peering down at me with these big, apologetic, puppy-dog eyes was Abu Abdullah, looking as if he was waiting for me to say something.
“He wants you to know that what happened last night was a misunderstanding,” the Moroccan explained. “That they got some wrong information and he’s really sorry about what happened.”
“Are you serious?” I asked.
He was. I sat there in stunned disbelief for a moment as Abu Abdullah anxiously awaited my answer—he needed my forgiveness, or else Allah would hold him accountable one day for this sin.
“Okay, thanks,” I said finally, extending my hand for him to shake.
Then he moved on and apologized to Theo before leaving, telling us he would return shortly with our breakfast. He also promised to bring a plumber in to fix the toilet.
“Dude, did that really just fuckin’ happen?” I asked, once he was gone.
“That’s the first
