| Esprit
de Corps Sunday, September 26, 2004
Hostage
in Iraq: Five days in Hell By Scott Taylor
7:16 PM September 7, 2004: Tal
Afar Iraq. It was nearly dusk when we arrived at
the city outskirts of Tal Afar. On the main highway
to Mosul, about a dozen Iraqi policemen at a
checkpoint were supervising a frightened exodus of
civilian refugees. For the past week there had been media reports
of escalating violence between resistance fighters
and U.S. troops in Tal Afar, and already the many
of the residents had fled the embattled city. From
American services in the Mosul Airfield, I had
learned earlier that day that a major U.S.
offensive was about to begin. The Americans had
reinforced their local garrison with an additional
battalion of armour and infantry and I was advised
that within days, the U.S. military was going to
'clean house' in Tal Afar. It was my intention to enter the city before it
was shut down, and then send reports about the
civilian casualties and possible humanitarian
crisis that would result from a major battle. Admittedly, it had not been easy to find a taxi
driver willing to take me to Tal Afar. All the
drivers in Mosul had been warned that the
mujahedeen were in control of the city -- and that
it was 'too dangerous'. One Kurdish fellow
disagreed with his colleagues and said that their
fears were unfounded. With daylight fading, we
quickly made a bargain on the fare and set off. Tal Afar is an almost entirely Turkmen enclave
in northwestern Iraq. I had just finished writing a
book about the history of these Turkish ----
speaking indigenous Iraqis. As part of my research,
I had visited Tal Afar in June and felt that if I
could just reach my known contacts, I would be safe
among friends. I knew there would be some risk
involved -- particularly once the Americans
attacked -- but I planned to observe the fighting
from a safe house, well away from any actual
combat. The sight of U.S. paid Iraqi police forces
monitoring traffic had seemed like a good sign that
things were still under control, despite the recent
fighting. As I did not have an exact address for my
previous contact, I approached a police checkpoint
to ask for assistance. When I asked them to be
taken "to Dr. Yashar", they recognized his name as
a prominent local Turkmen official and eagerly
nodded in the affirmative. A senior policeman was
summoned and he instructed me and Zeynep
Tugrul, a Turkish journalist who was serving as
my translator, and filing her own reports for
Sabah, a daily national newspaper, to climb
into a nearby car containing four masked gunman. As
we clambered into the backseat, one of the gunmen
said in excellent English, "We will take you to
Doctor Yashar -- please do not be afraid". I had presumed that these men were some sort of
special police force -- our own Canadian
counter-terrorists teams often wear ski-masks -- so
I had no immediate cause for concern. However, as
soon as we entered Tal Afar, I saw that the streets
were full of similarly masked resistance fighters
armed with Kalashnikov rifles and RPGs
(rocket-propelled grenades). I suddenly realized we
were in the hands of the resistance. Still
believing that they were taking me to my friend's
house, instead we were ushered into a small
courtyard outside a walled two-story building.
There were about a half dozen armed men inside --
none of them smiling. As soon as the metal door clanged shut behind
us, the English-speaking leader said, "You are
spies… and now you are prisoners". All of our
cameras, equipment and identification were taken
from us and we were told to sit on a mat with our
backs to the wall. "The Americans will attack soon
and I have to see to my men," said our captor. "I
will deal with you when I return".Shortly after
nightfall, they brought a platter of food into the
compound, and in what would soon become a routine
pattern, they served us first before eating dinner
themselves. Admittedly I did not have much of an
appetite. The plates had just been cleared away when
another car pulled up outside and four more gunmen
came quickly through the door. Before I could even
react, I was pulled to my feet and pressed against
the wall with my hands on top of my head. Almost
immediately I heard the distinct sound of a
Kalashnikov being cocked about a metre behind me.
In fear and shock at the realization that they were
about to execute me, Zeynep screamed at them in
Turkish: "Don't shoot him… he has a son!" The outburst was enough to distract them
momentarily and they began to explain to her the
necessity of killing a "Jewish spy". Thankfully, I
had no idea what was being said. The brief
discussion was still taking place when our original
captor returned. Harsh words were exchanged between
the two groups of gunmen, and it seemed as though a
prisoner's fate was the proprietorship of those who
made the capture: The would-be executioners
left. It was at this point that Zeynep was blindfolded
and taken away for questioning. The remaining
guards -- their ages ranging from 15 to 50 -- took
alternating turns between watching me and crouching
behind the second -- floor parapet and looking in
the sky for signs of the imminent U.S. attack.
About two hours later, it was my turn to be
blindfolded and roughly manhandled into what felt
to be an SUV or Land Rover. At the second house, I
was rushed through several doorways and up several
stairs. With my hands tied behind my back and
unable to see, I stumbled and fell several times
only to be pulled forcibly back to my feet and once
again shoved forward. "Hurry, hurry, you bastard
Jew," whispered one of my guards as he slammed my
head into a doorframe. I was forced to lie face down on a mat, and two
men carefully searched through all of my pockets.
Finding my money inside my sock (about $700 U.S.)
they laughed and said, "Your money is our money --
you won't need cash in heaven". It was difficult to gauge how long I laid there
in the dark, but my shoulders were aching when they
finally untied my hands and brought me to another
room for interrogation. My blindfold was removed
and they shone a bright flashlight directly in my
eyes. "Which intelligence agency are you working
for?" began the questioning. For about one hour I
did my best to answer all their allegations and
explain to them my intentions for going to Tal Afar
was as a journalist. Two men were questioning me.
In what seemed like a bad Hollywood comedy, someone
started up a generator outside and, the lights came
back on and the two interrogators clumsily tried to
pull their ski-masks back on before I could
recognize their faces. With the tension broken, the one who had
identified himself as "Emir" (leader) actually
started to laugh and left his mask off. This man
had been among the group that had taken us at the
police checkpoint. "Sleep now and I will check your
story. If you are telling the truth, we will
release you -- if not, you die," he said. 
IT was about 6 a.m. the following morning when I
was kicked awake, rolled onto my stomach,
blindfolded and bound. This time they transported
Zeynep and me at the same time. Although the
vehicle had roared through the deserted streets at
top speed, you could hear the engines of U.S.
unmanned aircraft flying overhead, watching every
move made by the resistance. Knowing that these
"Predators" have the capability to not only
transmit video images but also launch guided
missiles, I felt incredibly vulnerable during that
short drive. At the third house, our blindfolds
were removed and we were fed a generous breakfast
of fried eggs and flatbread. After a cup of tea, I
was escorted to a small room with barred windows.
There were three guards at this facility which
appeared to be a small house or workshop. Two were
middle-aged men while the other was just a
15-year-old boy. They were obviously not frontline
mujahedeen, but were still supportive of the
resistance.
In the first hours, they had been very strict in
enforcing the rules. I was to sit on a broken chair
in the middle of my cell. However, as the
temperature rose to a 45° Celsius and my
sun-baked room turned into an oven, they had
compassionately allowed me to venture outside. By
nightfall everyone was so relaxed that Zeynep and I
sat eating dinner and talking to our guards. The
young boy stated that his only ambition in life was
to "die a martyr." Shortly past dark, the Emir
returned and informed that he had confirmed that we
were not spies. He gave a 'Muslim promise' to set
us free in the morning. On this night Zeynep and I
would remain his 'guests'. We were also about to
become front -- row spectators to an intense battle
between resistance and the U.S. forces.
JUST past midnight, the American Apache helicopters
attacked. Their arrival over Tal Afar was greeted
by a heavy barrage of RPG and cannon fire. We could
hear the distinctive 'crack', 'whump' sounds of the
Iraqi rocket grenades being launched and then
deafening bursts of fire from the Apaches. From
inside the workshop's courtyard, we could not see
the battle's progress, but from the sounds of the
gunfire we could plot its course. On several
occasions, the mujahedeen fighters all across the
city would scream out "Allah akbar! Allah akbar!"
(God is great!) I had first thought that these
cries were in response to them downing a
helicopter, but our young guard explained that they
were cheering the deaths of their own, newly
created martyrs. At about 3 a.m. there was a loud banging on the
courtyard gate. Our guards let a mujahedeen fighter
inside, and he spoke quickly with them in Turkish.
Hurriedly a storeroom was opened and the fighter
helped himself to three RPGs, which he tucked
inside his belt. I could see inside the small room,
which was literally packed with munitions, and I
realized that we were being held captive in one of
the resistance's ammo depots. The fighter took a
bowl of water, drank thirstily, then rushed back
out onto the darkened streets. Minutes later he
began firing from a rooftop about fifty metres
away. He had only managed to launch two of his
rockets before he disappeared in a burst of 25 mm
cannon fire from an Apache which literally blew him
into pieces. Following a brief silence came the
chorus of "Allah Akbar!"
IN the morning, Tal Afar was strangely quiet except
for the continuous buzzing of the unmanned
Predators overhead. The Apaches were gone and the
resistance was licking its wounds. It was reported
that 50 mujahedeen had been killed and another 120
wounded. The worst news of all was that the Emir
had been killed, the target of a Predator missile
that had successfully destroyed his Land Rover.
While his followers celebrated his martyrdom, the
Emir's death left a power vacuum among the
mujahedeen. Around mid-morning, a group of gunmen arrived at
the workshop to take us away. Zeynep pleaded with
them in Turkish that we were to go free, but it was
to no avail. "We received no such instruction,"
said the man who now appeared to be in charge. "You
are spies." This time they were extremely rough in applying
my blindfold. It was tied so tight I could sense
losing blood circulation in my brain. They pushed
and prodded me blindly towards a car and then
deliberately bashed my head against the doorframe.
"Jewish pig!" spat one of the guards. At the fourth house, which smelled like some
sort of farm complex, I was once again rushed
through doorways and then down into a cellar. In
addition to the blindfold they placed a hood over
my head and I felt I was suffocating in the heat
and dust. I could feel the fear well up inside me
as one of the gunmen forced me onto a mat and
placed the barrel of a Kalashnikov against my neck.
"Don't speak… Don't move." Another group of men entered the cellar and
began questioning Zeynep as to our identity. She
told them of the Emir's promise, and advised them
that our papers, ID and passports were all at the
first house. Finally, we were allowed to remove the
hoods while the mujahedeen went to check out our
story. At this point I realized that there was
another prisoner in the room with us. He was an
Iraqi from Mosul -- also accused of spying. He was
not allowed to remove his hood. Throughout the rest of the morning, there was
plenty of activity in the resistance bunker. About
thirty or so fighters were busy transferring
stockpiles of RPGs and explosives. In addition to
the gruff male voices, we could hear an elderly
woman shouting encouragement to the men. "They call
her mother" whispered Zeynep. "She is encouraging
her 'sons' to go out and become martyrs and die in
battle. Can you believe it?" Our previous interrogator returned to our
makeshift cell to advise us that our bags, cameras,
and identity papers were now buried in a heap of
rubble: The first house had been destroyed by a
precision -- guided bomb. With no proof of our
nationality or profession, a heated debate among
the fighters soon erupted outside in the
corridor. Listening to their conversation, Zeynep suddenly
gasped: "Oh my god -- they're going to shoot us!" I
fought to suppress the panic that I felt. It was
then the other prisoner spoke for the first time.
In good English he said, "Are you sure?" The door burst open and several men stepped
inside. "Stand up," one of them said to me. "You
are the first to die, American pig". My hands were
still tied and I felt helpless as one of them
approached me with another blindfold. I told them
that I did not want a blindfold -- not out of any
bravado, but because I found that the sense of fear
was magnified by the inability to see. I received a
punch on the head for my protest and the blindfold
was pulled snugly into place. This time they added
a gag and a black hood. Once again, I could feel the claustrophobia and
fear beginning to panic me, and I struggled to
maintain some composure. The cries of fear and
alarm from Zeynep had caught the attention of the
woman, who apparently had not realized that the men
were detaining a female. She entered our cell and a
heated discussion took place between her and the
fighters. Several times I was struck during this
conversation and I still believed I was about to
die. Finally one of the mujahedeen came close to me
and whispered, "I have a brother in Canada… I
have just saved you my friend -- at least for
now". Instead of being shot, they had decided to take
us with them. They had learned that the Americans
were about to bomb their complex so they were going
to leave Tal Afar until the air strikes were over.
The hood and mask remained in place, and the man
who said he'd saved me warned me not to make any
noise. "If my people hear someone speak English
they will beat you to death before I can stop them
-- now move!" Once again I was roughly manhandled through the
passageways and pushed into the backseat of a car.
I was shaking uncontrollably as I realized that I
was not going to die -- at least not that
moment.
ALTHOUGH the Americans had claimed they had 'sealed
off' Tal Afar prior to launching their offensive, I
soon learned it was nothing more than wishful
thinking. We had left the bunker in a six car
convoy and made our way northward into the open
desert. It had taken some time before the
mujahedeen in our car had relented and allowed us
to remove our hoods and blindfolds. Our hands were
still tied, but I had sweat so much in the 45°
heat that the moisture had loosened the straps. I
was able to free my hands easily -- and in an
effort to gain their trust, I had shown them that
my bonds needed to be retied. The man next to me
had simply laughed and instructed me to "forget
about it"…. After all where can you go in the
desert? As we began chatting, this short grey -- haired
man with a close -- cropped beard informed me that
his brother was the now -- deceased Emir. "I'm
sorry about his death," I said to which he replied,
"Why be sorry? We celebrate his entry into
Heaven." What was reassuring to me was that, as the
brother of the former leader, this man appeared to
have filled the immediate leadership void in the
group. I was especially relieved to learn that his
brother had told him of the decision to set us
free. We were also told that we had only to have
our identities confirmed -- via a Google search on
the internet -- and he would keep the promise of
the martyred Emir. In the meantime, we would remain
with the mujahedeen. Around 2 p.m. we had stopped
near a remote desert house. The nearly 30 fighters
had assembled around our car and began to conduct a
mass prayer. Zeynep and I were instructed to remain
in the car. It was as they were engrossed in their
prayer that I spotted the two American helicopters
coming out of the south -- low and fast and headed
straight towards our parked convoy. I cried out in
alarm. At first the mujahedeen were angry at the
interruption until they too spotted the approaching
threat. Caught out in the open, they were sitting
ducks. Nobody could move; they simply watched the
helicopters steadily bear down on us. At about 800 metres distance, the gunships
inexplicably banked away to the east without so
much as a reconnaissance overpass of our mysterious
group of vehicles in the middle of the desert. We
had to have been in plain view, but the Americans
turned away. "They always fly the same patrol
routes" explained one of the fighters, "They see
nothing." Shortly after the helicopters had departed two
additional cars joined us and the mujahedeen began
hastily transferring the huge stockpiles of
explosives and rockets into them. "We are making
them into suicide bombs," said Mubashir, the Emir's
brother, of the cars being loaded and wired. "These
men will head back into Tal Afar and use the
vehicles to destroy the American armoured
vehicles." A total of four mujahedeen climbed into
the suicide cars and as they drove back into the
battle, their comrades shouted a final
encouragement. We proceeded on through the desert towards the
northern outskirts of Mosul. Along the way we
stopped at several farmhouses where the residents
eagerly offered the fighters food and water. When
we actually entered the Mosul checkpoint, the Iraqi
police appeared to take no notice of the dusty
column of cars packed with bearded men armed with
Kalashnikov's and RPG's. A gauntlet of young boys
lined the route to cheer our convoy and offer water
and cigarettes. Instead of entering the city
however, we headed further north to a deserted
house that was still under construction. We were
ordered inside the building, and it was at this
point I realized that the other hostage, a driver
for UNICEF, had spent the entire 3 hour desert
transit in the trunk of one of the cars. He emerged
from the vehicle, still blindfolded, covered in
dust and sweat, and without his shoes. He was in
terrible condition, but he made no sound of
complaint as they hurried us into the empty
house. There was some confusion among the fighters at
this point. They were eager to return to Tal Afar
-- not sit out the battle in a safe house. All but
one of their cars soon departed, leaving only two
armed guards with us. The possibility of escape
certainly crossed my mind. It was the hottest part
of the day and the sentries were exhausted.
Although it was open ground, the Mosul highway was
clearly, visible about 2 kilometres away. With all
the passing traffic it would be possible to flag
down a ride -- if I could only survive the run.
Before I could give much thought to such a plan,
another car pulled up at our hideout. Four new
mujahedeen strode into our building and immediately
began berating the two guards for being lenient
with us. The leader of this group was a short,
stocky, little man who strutted about with his
ski-mask on. He wasted no time in making his
thoughts known. "The Turkish girl will live…
you two will die" he said pointing at me and the
UNICEF driver. "I will cut off your heads at dusk
and you will be buried there," pointing to a
freshly dug grave-sized ditch about twenty metres
from the house. Zeynep was removed to another room and we were
told to prepare ourselves to die. Although
forbidden to talk whenever the guard was
distracted, the driver and I took the opportunity
to encourage each other and try to provide support.
"At least we will not die alone" he said. As dusk approached we were offered a final meal
of flatbread, roast chicken and tomatoes. The
maniacal little leader came to watch us eat, all
the while aiming his gun at us. "Eat, eat… Why
do you have no appetite, are you afraid American
pig?" he said and then laughed at his own joke.
Although I was certainly not hungry, I did my best
to choke down a few difficult mouthfuls. Inside, I
had to stifle a trembling fear from overcoming my
composure. My fellow prisoner began to sob, and I
reached over to take his hand. "How long do you think the pain will last?" he
asked. It was something which I had been giving
careful consideration and I replied, "About three
seconds". As the sun started to set on the horizon,
Mubashir drove up and entered into a heated
argument with the newcomer. Reassured at the sound
of his voice, I had risked a glance out of the
window -- just in time to see the ceremonial dagger
being returned to the trunk of the car. We had been
spared once again.
WHEN it had proved impossible to enter Mosul
safely, we had circled back into the desert and
spent the night at another farmhouse. The scorching
heat of the day was replaced by a cool breeze, and
after a meal of lamb and rice we had spent a
relatively relaxing evening under the stars. It was
the first good sleep that I'd had in days and I
began to believe that with Mubashir to protect us,
we would survive this ordeal. It was during some candid conversations at this
farm that I finally learned the identity of my
captors. As we talked about the various ethnic
factions and politics at play in northern Iraq, I
had mentioned the group Ansar al-Islam. Mubashir
had looked surprised at my comment and said, "Don't
you know? We are Ansar al-Islam?" My heart sank
when I heard this because I knew that this group of
fundamentalist extremists had links to al-Qaeda.
"Yes," confided Mubashir, "Osama is our brother in
Afghanistan, and al- Zaqarwi is our brother in
Jordan." This group had never before released a foreigner
and this revelation explained why they had never
mentioned ransoming us off as hostages. The Ansar
al-Islam fought for their religious beliefs -- not
money. Although I expressed my fears to Mubashir,
he once again stressed the fact that his brother's
wish would be granted -- provided we were telling
the truth. We spent Friday morning at the farm awaiting
word that we could enter Mosul and be granted an
audience with the new Emir. Again, everything
seemed to be relaxed, and although the notion of
having someone pronounce a 'live-or-die' sentence
upon me was still very frightening, Mubashir
assured us that his brother's promise would be
kept. We got the word around 2 p.m. that the Emir
would see us. We climbed into one car -- the UNICEF
driver in the trunk, Zeynep and I along with
Mubashir and two guards in the front. Our hands
were not tied and we wore no blindfolds --
everything seemed to be going well. However, once
inside Mosul, it became apparent that something had
gone wrong with the plan. We had stopped at several homes and picked up
different guides at various locations. Eventually
we were taken to a large house in a northern
suburb, and led into an empty room. The UNICEF
driver was released from the trunk and taken into a
small anteroom beneath a staircase. Mubashir had
complained of being ill, and he now seemed
disinterested in our fate. There were about a dozen
young men inside this house and they were extremely
hostile towards us. Blankets were placed across all
the windows despite the soaring temperature. Zeynep whispered that these new men were not
Turkmen but Arabs, as she no longer understood
their conversation. Mubashir made some sort of
statement to them on our behalf and then bade us
farewell. He and his men were heading back into Tal
Afar to join the fight. Within minutes of his departure, the Arabs burst
into the room and roughly blindfolded me. As I
tried to protest, I was kicked in the ribs,
knocking the wind out of me. "Shut up American
spy!" shouted my assailant. For the next hour, I was interrogated --
beginning again with their presumption that I was
either a CIA or Mossad spy. I gave all the possible
details of my identity and when asked how I could
confirm these "lies" I told them to research my
writings on the Internet. In particular, they could
not believe that I had written features for
al-Jazeera's website. Although intense, I
was relieved when the questioning had ended without
any physical force being used. I was premature in
my assumption. I had barely removed the blindfold and taken a
sip of water when five men rushed back into the
room. I could see the batons and ropes, but I had
no time to react before I was pulled to my feet.
When I attempted to resist, my feet were knocked
out from under me, and I was savagely kicked. They
blindfolded me and gagged me with a headscarf. 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, "F - - k!" 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. 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." 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?" 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. 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.
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. 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 by 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. 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. 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". 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. 
The
terror, the terror: Iraq is becoming daily more
chaotic and murderous, says Richard Beeston
 -
Casual
massacre of civilians by US forces: all in a
day's work
-
George Bush's Killer Quisling in Baghdad
Iyad
Allawi, US-appointed Prime Minister of Iraq,
personally shot six Resistance suspects at a
Baghdad police station a few days ago
| ![[]](../../std/dings/list.gif){kind=small}
write to David
Irving