Captivity (13 page)

Nothing happens. We sit and we sit. Someone enters the room. Tom asks for water. We are each handed a cup of water in turn. My saliva has grown thick for want of water, but I take only a few sips. There’s already enough pressure on my bladder. More time passes. Someone enters the room. Something rustles. “Biscuit?” the voice asks.

“Yes please,” Norman says. Something is put into my hand. I look down through the bottom of my hat. Two sandwich cookies with pink icing. They feel like a pat on the head.
Here you are, have a cookie, everything’s going to be all right
. Keep your fucking cookies, I want to shout. The only thing I want from you is my freedom. I hear the others munching. My resolve crumbles. They’re suddenly irresistible. I eat them quickly. The cookies are stale, chemical-tasting, dry my mouth out even more. I sit in disgust at myself.

We talk to each other in furtive snatches when the captors are out of the room. Every word is a risk. I find out that Harmeet and Norman have been allowed to keep their watches—cheap dollar-store digitals that keep track of the date. Norman is concerned about his supply of blood pressure medication. He has only five days’ worth. How can he get more? We’ll have to ask the captors. Norman says he doesn’t have the prescription. Tom says all we have to do is give the captors the name of the drug and they can get it over the counter at a pharmacy; prescriptions aren’t required in Iraq. Who should be the one to ask? Norman, we decide. His age gives him the most leverage.

Harmeet asks if we heard the Iraqi man pleading and crying. Yes. Tom wonders if he’s a collaborator.

Norman changes the subject. He asks how he can change his plane ticket and get his luggage from the CPT apartment when we’re released.
Tom and I caution him against the expectation of being released any time soon. It could be weeks or months, we say, if we even get out alive.

Norman changes the subject and apologizes for his hamam emergency. I ask if anyone else is having trouble going to the bathroom. No. I ask if anyone else has seen the huge, thick feet? Yes.

Somebody wonders whether we have been kidnapped by criminals or insurgents. Tom says Harmeet and I will be safe as Canadians. He says he and Norman could be sold to a group like al-Tawhid wal-Jihad. Norman says he doesn’t want to hear about it and changes the subject.

Tom says it’ll be a while before the news breaks in the media. He says the team will call everyone they know to try and make contact with the kidnappers, that there’s a chance the captors might release us if the right person vouches for us before our disappearance becomes public knowledge.

We agree Number One is the leader. We disagree about how many different voices we’ve heard.

Sometime in the afternoon we hear voices in the living room. Chatty and buoyant, they move into the room together. A voice from the doorway says, “Good afternoon. How are you?” We do not answer. “Please, you must to take your hats off. We are going to take some picture.”

I take my hat off slowly. My eyes blink rapidly against the sudden flood of light.

The voice tells us to turn our chairs around. As I do, I see Suit Jacket Man, Young Moustache Man and Great Big Man standing in front of us. Great Big Man is barefoot and wearing flip-flops; his are the feet I saw last night. There’s also a grim-faced man holding a video camera; a little boy, no more than four years old, hanging on the man’s pant leg and staring rigidly at the floor; a buxom woman in a long sand-coloured dress watching in the corner, her head covered by a scarf.

I get my first look at the room. It’s quite big, about twenty feet by fifteen. They have us sitting in a corner. There’s a door in front of us that opens into a hallway. I can see a set of stairs going up and what appears to be a door to the right at the bottom of the stairs. There’s a jumble of shoes lying on the floor to the left of the stairwell.

The wall to our left is covered by a gauzy, floor-to-ceiling curtain that turns the light filtering through it a stop-sign red. The window behind the curtain appears to look on to an internal courtyard. The wall to our right is banked by a finely crafted armoire. The tile floor is covered with a green outdoor garden rug. The walls are pink.

There are two single beds in the room. The one closer to us is laden with folded-up sleeping mats, blankets and filthy-looking pillows. The other bed is covered with a rumpled blanket, where Number One must have slept. Next to the bed is a cluttered night table. On the wall across from us, at the height of a man’s chest, two exposed wires dangle from an electric heater. I shudder at the thought of what they’ve been used for. Next to the door is a coat rack burdened with jackets, track pants, shirts, trousers, belts, towels.

I turn to look at Norman, Harmeet and Tom. It is reassuring to see their faces. They look solemn, their eyes are blank, but I sense they’re watching everything.

The man with the video camera tells the little boy to sit on the bed. Tom asks if they want us to say anything for the video. Suit Jacket Man says no. This surprises me. If I were a kidnapper displaying my wares, I would instruct my merchandise to at least say their names to confirm their good working order. Suit Jacket Man gives Video Man the signal to start filming. They exchange some words, place candies wrapped in blue iridescent Cellophane into our hands and then turn to leave the room.

“Excuse me,” Norman blurts out. The men turn around. “I’m terribly sorry, but may I ask a question?”

“Yes, Doctor?” Suit Jacket Man says.

Norman points to his heart. He speaks loudly, enunciating each word, like someone speaking to an uncomprehending child. He explains that he has high blood pressure and needs medicine.

Suit Jacket Man looks concerned, asks if he’s sick. “Tell me, Doctor. What do you need? I will get it.”

“Any beta blocker will do.”

Suit Jacket Man looks confused. “I do not know this. You must to write this down.”

“Yes, of course, but I don’t seem to have a pen.”

Suit Jacket Man pulls a pen out of his jacket. Great Big Man grabs one of the books lying on the floor next to Number One’s bed, tears a page out and hands it to Suit Jacket Man. It shocks me to see a book being treated that way. “Here, you write this,” Suit Jacket Man says to Norman.

“This will make Mrs. Kember very happy,” Norman says.

Suit Jacket and Video Man leave with their entourage. The remaining captors tell us to put our hats back on and turn our chairs against the wall. I position my chair just a few inches farther from the wall so I can move my legs.

They come back an hour later. They want to do another video. “This time you make some speech,” Suit Jacket Man says. I suppress a flash of rage.
I’m not a zoo animal
, I want to say. They take off our handcuffs, put a table in front of us, and I lay out our ID on it.

“This is your money card? American Express?” Suit Jacket Man says to Harmeet. Harmeet nods. “How much money is on it?”

“None,” Harmeet says. “I only use it for emergencies. I’m a student. I don’t have any money.”

Suit Jacket Man picks up another card. “How much money is on this?” he says to Tom.

“It’s a bank card,” Tom says.

“How much money on this?” Suit Jacket Man demands.

“It doesn’t work in Iraq. There are no bank machines here.”

Suit Jacket Man turns to me. “Where is your passport?” His voice is hard.

“I don’t know. You took it from me yesterday.” I wonder what kind of operation this is. They don’t know how to document proof of life and they can’t keep track of our passports. I begin to shiver. That little blue book is my only link to Canada. What is going to happen to us?

“What is the matter? You are shaking,” Suit Jacket Man says to me.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Are you cold? Do you need some jacket?” He takes off his turquoise suit coat and hands it to me. It smells of cologne. I feel filthy putting it on, but I don’t dare say no. I suppress the urge to wretch.

Video Man and Suit Jacket Man consult over the video camera. Suit Jacket Man’s eyes are intelligent, penetrating, ruthless, his skin smooth and clean-shaven, chin disappearing. He is maybe five foot seven and sports a heavy round paunch. His hair is jet black, cut short, meticulously coiffed. I find it hard to judge his age; he’s at most thirty. His clothing and demeanour suggest wealth.

Video Man looks to be about ten years older. His eyes are hard and his face severe. He’s losing his hair and the skin around his eyes has begun to crease. He wears a drab, shapeless suit jacket that’s just a little short in the arms. He seems anxious and driven, capable of doing just about anything. Something about him gives me a chill.

They turn towards the woman. She laughs and touches Suit Jacket Man’s arm. The little boy sits on the bed across from us, sucking his finger. He stares at the floor but sees everything.

Video Man says something to us. We don’t understand. Suit Jacket Man steps forward. “We are going to take some picture of you. This is to show to your side you are alive.” He steps back and Video Man aims his camera at us, pans slowly from left to right, closes in on our ID. He gives more instructions, points to his left shoulder as if indicating a general’s epaulettes. The only thing I understood is, “Thank you Martin. Thank you Martin.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I say, shaking my head. Video Man repeats the phrase over and over. I have no idea what he means. The only thing I can think of is an inquisitive-looking animal with a long bushy tail. Then it clicks. He means Paul Martin, thank Paul Martin, the prime minister. Presumably because Canada stayed out of invading Iraq. We nod and smile to signify that we understand.

“Canada good. Canada good,” Video Man says. “
Britannia, Amriki mozane. Mozane!”
He points to his feet with contempt. “Bush shoes.” For better or worse, I think, we are seen through the lens of our governments’ actions.

“You must to make some speech. In a high voice,” Suit Jacket Man says. “You say your name, your passport, you have the good treatment, your health is okay, you have some food, and you ask your government to release you. We use this to make some propaganda statement, some
publicity for our organization. And then you release. The Canadians I think release first. This is not something hard.”

“I don’t know what to say. I’m not good at this kind of thing,” Harmeet whispers to me. He sounds panicked. I don’t know what to say either. My heart is pounding. I can’t believe this is really happening.

“Okay. You begin,” Suit Jacket Man says to me.

I take a breath. “My name is James Loney. I am forty-one years old. I am from Canada and I am a member of Christian Peacemaker Teams in Iraq. We are against the war and the occupation of Iraq. I am well, um, we are
all
well. We have everything we need. I urge the Canadian people to work for peace … to mobilize its resources for peace in the world instead of war.”

Then it is Harmeet’s turn. There is a tremble in his voice. “My name is Harmeet Singh Sooden. I am thirty-two and I am working … I am a volunteer for the CPT in Iraq. We are all being treated well, we are sleeping okay and, um, we would like to say thank you to our captors for that and hopefully we will be home soon.” I cringe at “thank you to our captors.” I am not thankful to our captors—for anything.

“Now the British and the American,” Suit Jacket Man says. “You must to make some speech, in a high voice. You must to say your name, your passport, you have the good treatment, and to beg your government for your release. You,” he says to Tom. “Tell to Bush he must to get out of Iraq. And you, Doctor,” he says, pointing to Norman. “Tell to Blair he must to leave Iraq suddenly. Do you understand?” Norman and Tom nod. “The American first.”

Tom’s voice is flat and calm and direct. “My name is Tom Fox and I am fifty-four years old. I am from the United States and I am a member of the Christian Peacemaker Teams in Iraq. Our treatment has been adequate and we are in good health. As a representative of Christian Peacemaker Teams we feel that continued British and American occupation is not in the best interest of the Iraqi people.”

Then Norman, the embodiment of British dignity. “My name is Norman Kember. I am a British subject. I have come to Iraq on a peace mission with Christian Peacemaker Teams. We are being treated
well by our captors. I ask Mr. Blair to take British troops out of Iraq and leave the Iraqi people to come to their own decisions on their government.”

Video Man nods at Suit Jacket Man and the two men leave, followed by the woman and the boy. Great Big Man and Young Moustache Man handcuff us and turn us back to facing the wall. I notice that each of us has positioned his chair a little farther from the wall, giving our legs a few more inches of space to move in. I smile at this. We’re all doing the same thing, pushing for the next tiny increment of freedom. This, I think, is the ceaseless cause of every captive.

Evening. “Okay? This okay?” Young Moustache Man says.

“Okay,” I say.

Young Moustache Man hands Norman a black plastic bag. “This
duwa. Duwa
. This Big
Haji.”

“Thank you,” Norman says.

“Shokren,”
Tom says.

“Do you speak
Arabi?”

“Shwaya, shwaya,”
Tom says.

“Shwaya, shwaya,”
Young Moustache Man mocks. “This
Amriki
. This CIA.”

“Hamam?”
Norman asks.

“Hamam?
Yes,
hamam
.” No one moves. We wait for him to take us, one at a time, as has been the routine. “
Hamam!”
he snaps angrily and waves towards the door. Now we’re to go on our own, it seems without his escort.

When it’s my turn, I can hardly stand. The effort of holding my bladder is physically painful. I navigate my way to the bathroom by scanning the floor through the crack at the bottom of my hat. I close the door and say a prayer. If I don’t go this time, I swear I’ll explode. I break into a sweat, lean my head against the wall, try to think relaxing thoughts. My urethra begins to let go in tiny increments. There’s no captor waiting at the door, so I feel I have time. Then, sheer full-body relief, my bladder finally lets go. I almost skip back to my chair.