I hugged Firas and the rebels, who’d been allowed to take a few steps inside to see me off, and thanked them a hundred times, promising never to forget what they’d done, and one day to repay them if I could. Ahmed was the last to say goodbye, and after we hugged, this unemployed refugee handed me fifty Turkish lira. I refused to take it, and immediately that familiar Syrian stubbornness I remembered from my Alawite brothers showed itself, so I made him a deal and took twenty-five lira, with a promise to pay him back.
When I turned around, the Turkish border patrol agents had a police car waiting for me with the back door standing open. They didn’t have to tell me to get inside. As I sat in the car on my way to the station I could think only one thought, over and over again, as I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the window.
I did it, I said to myself. I did it.
TURKEY
JULY 30, 2013
I sat on a couch in a small office in the big building that housed border control. Three Turks sat across from me. I could tell from their expressions that despite the new jumpsuit I still looked like I had just returned from hell—and these guys worked the Syrian border every day. When one of them finally spoke, a heavy balding man, it was in English, through a thick accent.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
I could hear the compassion in his voice, but still felt wary. I sat there looking at him for a moment.
“Am I safe?” I asked.
“Yes, you are safe,” he assured me.
So, sitting there holding a bottle of clean water, I gave him the five-minute version of the last seven months. Then I asked if I could go outside to smoke a cigarette, and when he said it was all right I was up and out in no time. When I pulled out the pack my rescuers had given me the day before, rolling around in it was a single Lucky, my last one. I laughed, remembering my last butt before getting grabbed, the one I’d defied superstition to smoke.
“I should’ve saved that cigarette,” I said to myself, lighting up.
It took the American diplomat and his assistant about two and a half hours to arrive at the border station from Adana once they heard I was there. When they pulled up I was walking around outside under the pink sky as the sun set, watching my first truly free day in seven months turn into my first truly free night.
Once we were all in the office of the border police station that stood next to border control, the first question the diplomat asked was whether I wanted to call my mother and of course I jumped at this, accepting the BlackBerry and holding it to my ear as my heart raced.
It was ringing.
“Hello?” said my mother’s voice.
“Hi, Mom!”
“Matthew!”
For the next thirty seconds or so all I heard was her crying hysterically while speaking in what may as well have been Arabic, because I sure as shit didn’t understand a word she was saying.
“Why are you laughing?” I finally made out through her sobs.
“Because I’m happy,” I answered, smiling.
Shortly after that, we were in an armored Suburban on our way to Adana.
The next day, after a night in the Hilton, a nice bath, and a great sleep on a fluffy white bed, I hit up a mall with the diplomat and his assistant so I could get some new gear, a toothbrush, shaving supplies, and more cigarettes. Then we headed to the consulate where they took a picture for my temporary passport and got the documentation started for my trip home. Once we’d finished with everything they needed me present for, the consulate arranged to have me dropped back at the hotel along with another diplomat who was on his way home. I was making my way out of the building, past the photographs of Obama, Biden, and Kerry, just as about ten marines were filing in. Every one of them was built like a brick shithouse, all of them wearing confident smiles and laughing at whatever they’d been talking about before they walked in the door. As each one laid eyes on me the smile was wiped clean from his face. With one moment of eye contact, they knew that I had just returned from a war zone. Not one of them said a word, but every one of them nodded to me respectfully as he passed.
My hotel was on the Seyhan River, and from the breakfast patio there was an extraordinary view of a mosque. Not just any mosque—the Sabanci Central Mosque: the biggest in all of Turkey. Its six famous minarets towered above the massive dome, like tombstones honoring the prominent men who’d once rested there when the land was an Armenian cemetery.
It was one of the most stunning buildings I had ever seen; it gave you the same kind of feeling I imagine you’d have seeing the Taj Mahal. As soon as my eyes and heart absorbed its beauty I knew what I was doing that night: I was making good on my word to God.
While I was in captivity, almost every time I got down on my knees and prayed, I’d made a promise to the man upstairs.
“God, please forgive me for pretending to be a Muslim and know that I do believe in you and have the utmost respect for Islam, and I promise that if I get out of here, on my first night of freedom the first thing I will do is go to the closest mosque so I can pray as a Muslim one last time.”
Being that I couldn’t get there on my first free night, I made sure to follow through on the promise
