My thoughts drifted to things such as ‘how would they repatriate the body?
My eyes had been taped shut with electrical tape and my sunglasses placed on top. I was then led gently to a car outside. The night air felt cool and refreshing and I tried to keep my euphoria in check – reminding myself that it was not over yet.
However, by the time we had driven several kilometres and my escorts led me inside a new house, I felt certain that I had been saved. The glasses were taken off and the tape removed. I found myself in a clean home sitting on a bed looking at three smiling Arabs. My guards from the other house were in the doorway and one of them waved his hand in a fluttering motion, smiled and said, “Free. Bye, bye.” The door shut behind them and all of a sudden the three Arabs stopped smiling. The big man standing in the centre of the room strode towards me pulling a pair of handcuffs from behind his back. The nightmare started all over.
They cuffed my hands behind my back and instructed me to sleep. Two of them slept in the same room as me – armed with pistols – while the home owner had taken the precaution of padlocking us in. It proved impossible to sleep with my arms pinned back like that and after two hours I felt stabbing pain in my shoulders. In an attempt to alleviate the pressure, I tried to sit up on the edge of the bed. Startled by my movement, one of the Arabs put his pistol to my forehead and motioned for me to lie back down. For the next six hours I could do nothing but try to block out the pain.
The following morning it became clear that instead of taking me to a ‘safe’ house en route to freedom, I had been transferred to yet another fundamentalist faction. At about 10 a.m. I was prepped for my new interrogation by having my feet and hands chained to the bed and my eyes once again taped firmly shut. I estimated that at least three additional terrorists entered the room and began talking with my guards. Anticipating yet another beating, I fought to control my fear. One man simply stated in excellent English, “We know that you are a Mossad spy.” As I started to protest he interrupted me, “Don’t waste your breath. You have 24 hours to decide whether to tell the truth and die with a clear conscience, or go to your death as a liar. That is your choice. Think it over.” With that said, the newcomers promptly left the house.
That evening I was once again asked what I would prefer as my final meal.
I spent that entire day chained to the bed and for the most part blindfolded. As a gesture of compassion they would occasionally free my eyes so that I could watch the television. All the programming was focused on the anniversary of the World Trade Center attacks. It was September 11th, and I was tied to a bed in an al-Qaeda cell house in Iraq. I felt my fate was truly sealed.
With so many hours to once again contemplate my own death I began to think of all the practical aspects which would be attendant upon my demise. My family would now be informed of my capture/death by Zeynep Tugrul – if indeed she had been released – so my thoughts drifted to things such as ‘how would they repatriate the body?,’ ‘Was there a process for moving corpses out of Iraq?,’ ‘Who would take care of the funeral arrangements?’ etc.
When the food arrived, they kept one of my hands tied to the bed and kept a pistol to the back of my head.
That evening I was once again asked what I would prefer as my final meal. After arguing, again, that my appetite wasn’t exactly stimulated by my imminent death, I asked for a roast chicken. When the food arrived, they kept one of my hands tied to the bed and kept a pistol to the back of my head. It seemed they were taking no chances in letting me escape execution.
It was only 9 p.m. – just 11 hours after they first came, not the promised 24 – when the three other terrorists returned. I did not feel cheated out of the time, as I was actually dreading the thought of another night of agony in the handcuffs. I had made my peace with God and if necessary, I was prepared to die. Another 13 hours of mental anguish was not necessary.
“You will live. You are free.”
As soon as everyone was settled around my bed, the interrogator said that I did not have to fear any torture as this round of questioning would be far more straightforward. “It is either life or knife – with each answer that you give us,” he said, “So please relax.” For over one hour I carefully answered all their questions -careful to avoid the obvious traps. For instance, when asked, “Have you ever visited the State of Israel?” I answered, “No, I have never been to the occupied State of Palestine.”
“¦the interrogator suddenly said, “Stop. Get your things. You will live. You are free.”
I have no idea whether or not my answers were convincing – in fact, I suspect that the decision to release me had already been made at some high level – but during one of my lengthy replies, the interrogator suddenly said, “Stop. Get your things. You will live. You are free.”
Once the handcuffs were removed, I was handed my shoes and jacket and it seemed as though they were the ones anxious to be rid of me. Still with my eyes taped shut, I was driven to a highway where one of the guards flagged down a passing taxi. Another man ripped the tape off my eyes, pushed 10,000 dinars ($6 U.S.) into my shirt pocket and pushed me head first into the back of the cab.
I was free.
*Clarification: While Zeynep Tugrul acted as a translator for Scott Taylor during this ordeal, she was not formally employed in this role. As stated in the text, Tugrul was working for Sabah as a journalist.
Please wait...
