My hands were tied behind my back and I was rolled over with my feet up in the air ““ tied to a pole. Two men held the pole up when two others began beating my feet with straps and batons.
At first I could not see the blows coming. In his pent up fury, one of my attackers struck my face several times with his fist knocking my blindfold aside. I mentally promised myself not to give them the satisfaction of hearing me scream until after the 20th blow. I bit down hard on the cloth and focussed on counting rather than the pain. I kept my promise, but on the 21st strike I screamed out, “Fuck!” the cloth muffling the sound somewhat. With each successive blow I uttered the same expletive. They deliberately hit the same spot on my thigh repeatedly. For the first four or five blows the pain would increase incrementally and then the final strike would force an involuntary convulsion. I could feel the pain explode in my head and my body jack-knifed upwards reflexively.
In these instances I found myself blurting out “Jeeesus Christ!” through my gritted teeth. I lost all track of time – I could have been tortured for 5 minutes or 25, I have no real conception of the actual duration. I do remember that despite the excruciating pain in my legs, I kept fearing that the next blow would be to my genitals. With my legs splayed apart and upended I felt incredibly vulnerable. When the beating finally stopped, I felt a tremendous sense of relief that they had not used the batons on my crotch.
After my feet were cut loose, I was roughly pulled upright and the interrogator handed me a pen and paper. “You will write down all the websites you think might help to confirm that you are in fact a Canadian journalist”, he said. I made some remark that I would have gladly done so without the beating, but my attempt at black humour was wasted.
Also read: Inside Iraq: Five Days in Hell-II
I had been badly beaten and as I walked out of the anteroom back into the main parlour, most of the Arab ‘pupils’ had gathered to see my reaction. I tried my best not to let them see any weakness by pressing the pen hard against the paper so that they could not see my hands shaking. Taking the list of websites from me, the interrogator told me, “If this checks out, you’ll live. if you lied, you die.”
It was Zeynep’s turn to be beaten…
A few minutes later, I was ushered into an adjacent room, told to lie face down on the floor and a gun barrel was placed against the back of my neck. It was Zeynep’s turn to be beaten, and as she cried out in pain, the guard behind me kept repeating, “You can spare her the pain, simply confess that you are a spy.” As I kept uttering denials, he spat on my head and said, “Only a dog would let a woman suffer like that!” I thought to myself, “And what kind of animal would torture a woman?”
“I want you to teach me an Islamic prayer before you kill me.” I said,
For several hours after the beating, I was kept alone in that room. My legs were aching and would occasionally seize up on me. I tried to stand, but the guards insisted that I remain seated on a mat. When the interrogator finally re-entered my holding cell he said, “You failed the test on the internet. Prepare yourself to die – tonight.” As the door banged shut behind him, I once again had an all-consuming sense of dread. The next time the door opened it was an armed guard and one of the ‘pupils’carrying a platter of food. Once again I was being encouraged to eat my final meal.
I did not know it at the time, Zeynep and the UNICEF driver had been set free, while both of them were told that I had been beheaded.
After I picked away at my food, the dishes were cleared away and a heavy set young Arab entered the room. He was grinning from ear to ear and I recognized him as one of my torturers. “I am the lucky one who has been chosen to kill you, American dog,” he said.
It was at this time I decided to play my final card. Zeynep had always told me that I should tell our captors I wished to convert to Islam – even if I wasn’t sincere, she thought it might buy me time (if not freedom). “I want you to teach me an Islamic prayer before you kill me.” I said, “A man about to die should have a God to pray to –shouldn’t he?” Other guards and pupils had overheard this and they seemed excited at the prospect of converting a ‘Kaffir’ and then executing him.
When the interrogator finally re-entered my holding cell he said, “You failed the test on the internet. Prepare yourself to die ““ tonight.”
As they started to explain the conversion process and necessary prayers, one of the clerics returned to the house. He put an end to the commotion by informing me my religious conversion was no longer necessary as I was ‘free to go’. Thinking this may be yet another test of my resolve to convert, I explained that in that case it was even more important, “as a man needs a God to thank for sparing him his life.”
I was advised that the procedure would have to be performed at a later date, as a car was waiting to take me to a safe house in preparation for my release. Once again, I dared to start believing that I might actually survive this ordeal.
Please wait...
