Like always I figured it was a good idea to introduce myself and learn everyone’s names in order to form a bond as quickly as possible. I used my Muslim name, Nassir, as if I’d been born with it. The man who’d answered the door was Ahmed. Across from him was the eldest of the group, Ali, who looked like he was still battling to keep his eyes open, and behind the desk were the two jihadis who looked about twenty, Hamed and Osama. Baby Face came in with hot tea for everybody and we all sat quietly, sipping our chai like we were in London.
“‘Sexy Lady,’” Hamed said in English, breaking the silence.
“What?” I asked.
“Shaggy, ‘Sexy Lady,’” Osama answered with a smile.
And with that Hamed hit a key on the laptop in front of him and the song “Hey Sexy Lady” by Shaggy began to play. Within seconds every jihadi in the room was bopping his head to the beat, all while staring at me. Then Hamed turned the laptop toward me and I saw that they weren’t just playing the song, but the video, which was packed with sexy ladies—who I’d seen none of in almost eight months.
“Sexy Lady!” I said, jumping to my feet and sticking my face right in the screen.
Now I was bopping my head along with everyone else. It was at this moment—watching a ten-year-old Shaggy video with five head-bopping jihadis—that I knew I was safe.
It didn’t take long to go from “Hey Sexy Lady” to the cell phone videos Hamed and Osama had taken at the front. As soon as they hit play I could tell they were fighting in Karm al-Jabal, where I’d been shooting the night before I was taken. What took longer to become obvious was just how brutal these two boys were on the battlefield.
“Bashar,” Hamed said, pointing to the screen proudly.
Standing in front of the camera was Hamed, pulling a human head out of a plastic bag. Judging from the way it was starting to decay, it looked like he’d been carrying it around for a while.
I was disgusted, but tried to look impressed. The next video showed a badly mutilated body lying on the ground inside a building that had been completely destroyed by fighting.
“Mine,” said Osama, pointing to himself with his thumb and smiling.
“Very impressive,” I said, returning the smile.
After a few hours of chilling, the jihadis’ general showed up, and everyone rose as he entered. He was probably only in his late twenties, and extremely gaunt. When his eyes hit me he looked shocked, and then broke into a pleased smile.
As I shook his hand, two more jihadis entered behind him. These men were different from the guys who’d let me in and sat with me watching videos—they were older, with a commanding presence. As soon as they’d been filled in on the morning’s events they turned to me and asked for the phone number Ahmed had pulled from my pocket. Despite the fact that the number was currently in my belly being digested I started to empty my pockets onto the table as if the slip of paper were still in there, and when there was nothing left to take out I rifled through everything, pretending to look for it. I said it must have fallen to the ground outside and made a move to go and look for it, but they waved this off and told me to take a seat. By now I hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours, and everyone in the room could tell I was exhausted. They kept encouraging me to take a mattress in the next room and get some rest, but I refused—I had to make it to Hraytan for Theo.
At one point I wandered outside into the courtyard where the hot sun was blazing down from directly above. I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen the sun, much less sat in it, and realizing I now could I took a seat against a massive pillar. It had to be close to a hundred degrees that day and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but that didn’t keep me from turning my face up to stare at the brightest star in the galaxy through almost closed eyes.
As I stared at it I started laughing, but within seconds I was crying as the reality of what I had gone through washed over me—along with the fact that it was finally, finally almost over. This made me laugh again, and then I was laughing and crying at the same time. Tears rushed down my face as I realized I didn’t have to hide them anymore. Three little boys stood before me as all this was unfolding, looking confused by the tears and the laughter, not sure if I was happy or sad.
“Nassir,” someone called to me. It was the Sheikh, an old man who was the elder of the house. I just shook my head and pointed to the sky.
“Sun,” I said in Arabic. “Sun!”
I sat there like this for several minutes more, but eventually walked over to the Sheikh where he sat in one of the chairs in the shade. As I sat before him—ungroomed, wearing clothes that were too small and stained—I looked like a homeless person. It made me feel like an animal, out of place, and I found myself looking down, not wanting to meet his eyes. He placed his hand gently on my knee and said something very softly in Arabic. Then he took out some money and handed it to one of the little boys, who were his grandsons, sending
