The Dawn Prayer (Or How to Survive in a Secret Syrian Terrorist Prison)

him off on some kind of errand. When the boy returned he was carrying a black plastic bag, which he handed to his grandfather with the change. Then the boy fetched some bread, and from the bag the Sheikh produced a huge bunch of glossy green grapes and several beautiful yellow figs. Another grandson brought a metal dish, and I stared at the fruit as the Sheikh fixed a plate for me. The moment he handed it over I picked up a fig and bit into it like a Neanderthal, its juices dripping down my beard and all over my hands. Right away the Sheikh motioned for me to stop; he took a fig from the plate and, with tremendous compassion, began to peel it for me. I was so ashamed of my manners that I once again felt like an animal and began to cry, apologizing all the while for my actions. The old man seemed to understand everything I meant without knowing a word I uttered; he handed me the skinned fig and encouraged me to eat it with a piece of bread. I ate, and before I knew it I was dozing off and could refuse the offer of a bed no longer.

I thought I’d pass out as soon as my head hit the pillow, but I didn’t. I just lay there facing the wall with my eyes open, stuck floating somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness. I don’t know how long I lay like this, but eventually I heard my name being called from the doorway and turned over. Standing there were many of the men from before, along with two new faces. I stood up and walked over to them, and one of the newcomers greeted me in perfect English.

“How are you?” he asked.

Like the jihadi who’d let me in the door, his name was Ahmed. He was in his early twenties, with a cleanly shaven face and a cigarette burning in his hand. He had an innocent, kindhearted way about him. The other newcomer, Firas, was much the same, except he had a neatly trimmed beard and didn’t speak more than a few words of English. Once our introductions were complete, Ahmed, Firas, and I sat in the courtyard and talked. Ahmed explained that he himself was not a jihadi but a humanitarian who had once lived in the area; he had a degree in English from the University of Aleppo. Now he was a refugee, living in Turkey, but luckily for me he’d been in Aleppo visiting family and friends—one of these friends was Firas, who the men from the group had called in for help.

Ahmed spoke and listened patiently; he seemed to understand the situation. But though both he and Firas seemed trustworthy, I still wasn’t comfortable telling them who I’d escaped from, sticking to my story that it had been a random gang of criminals. When I told them how long I’d been held they looked amazed.

“Seven months!” Ahmed said, his eyebrows shooting to the sky.

One of the first subjects he raised was Theo.

“Do you know where the other journalist is?” he asked me. “Because the men want to go rescue him.”

“No, I don’t know. I walked and zigzagged through the city for over half an hour before I came here. I need to get to Hraytan. I know a commander there who may be able to help him.”

“Well, you are safe now,” he said.

“Safe,” said Firas firmly, in English.

“Now we are going to take you to a barber to get you cleaned up, and then to an internet café, so you can contact your family.”

“I’m not going out there,” I told them, knowing al-Nusra could be scouring the city for me.

“Then we will bring the barber here,” Ahmed said easily.

Sure enough, a few minutes later a barber walked through the door with a box holding a mirror and his tools. I was so touched that it almost made me start crying all over again. The barber set himself up in the room leading to the office, and after walking me in there and getting me settled in a chair, Ahmed told me he and Firas were leaving but promised they’d return in a few hours.

Now I was forced to make a call. Clearly these men were the good guys from where I was sitting, and I trusted them, but this group was no match for Jabhat al-Nusra. Then I thought about what I would expect Theo to do if he’d gotten out and I was the one left back in the cell. I would expect him to do everything he could to help me, as soon as he was safely in the hands of the FSA.

“Ahmed, you swear on the Koran that if I tell you something I will be safe?” I asked.

“Yes, I already told you—you are safe,” he reassured me. “What is it?”

“I know who had me,” I said, looking up at him.

“Who? We will go get them!”

“Jabhat al-Nusra.”

“What?” he asked, his face going white.

“I was with Jabhat al-Nusra.”

“You escaped from Jabhat al-Nusra?” he said in awe. “Nobody escapes from Jabhat al-Nusra!”

“I did.”

“Come on, we have to talk some more.”

He took me back to the chairs in the courtyard, where he and Firas exchanged a few words in Arabic. Then he turned his attention back to me as I watched the barber leave out the main door.

“I am glad you told us, because this changes everything,” he explained. “The people you escaped from are going to come looking for you, so we have to get you out of here as soon as possible. We are a small group of just twenty men and the people you escaped from are just too strong. There is nothing we can do for your friend.”

I knew he was right, but I did not let this deter me. His advice was to run for the border, but I insisted that I needed to get to Hraytan. That plan crumbled a couple of hours later,