Captivity (6 page)

My first impression is of the colour blue, the colour of the room’s grubby, threadbare carpet. Then I hear the undulating cry of Quran song, a commotion of Iraqi men around me. Harmeet and Tom are standing against a wood-frame couch. A young, lean man with a moustache walks in front of Harmeet.
“Ogod,”
he snarls, pushing him in the chest.

Harmeet drops like a stone. Young Moustache Man steps sideways.
“Ogod,”
he orders, pushing Tom in the same way. Tom braces himself against the shove. Young Moustache Man glares. Tom sits down slowly and puts his right foot on top of his left knee. The sole of Tom’s shoe is dangerously exposed. In Arabic culture one never displays the sole of one’s foot unless to show contempt.

Young Moustache Man is not pleased. “No,” he says, slapping Tom’s foot. Tom holds it in place.
“La!”
Young Moustache Man says, his voice louder, hitting Tom’s foot with more force, then threatening him with his fist. Tom looks at him defiantly. A man wearing a green suit jacket with a gun tucked in his belt touches Young Moustache Man on the arm and says something in Arabic. Young Moustache Man moves away, scowling. Tom puts his foot down.

Above Harmeet and Tom, hanging on the wall, is a picture of a bearded man with puppy-dog eyes. He’s wearing a crown of thorns
and long flowing robes. His fingers are pointing to a flaming heart in the middle of his chest. It’s the Sacred Heart. Who are these people? I wonder. Young Moustache Man grabs my arm and turns me around. “Sit down,” he says, shoving me in the chest.

Don’t let him push you around
, my brain screams, but my body stays relaxed and falls into sitting. Norman is brought in next and made to sit on a second bench seat located against the wall on our right.

The process of Observing Everything I Possibly Can begins immediately. Every scrap of information is vital. Who knows which detail will be the vital clue, the
key
that will open the door to freedom. Doors and windows first. No windows, four doors. There’s a glass door opening into an interior window-well in the corner to my left. Another door in the next corner moving clockwise. A door into the kitchen. A door in the corner to Norman’s right.

Quran song is coming from a 24-hour Quran channel and Arabic script flows below halcyon images of running water, green forests, blue cloudy skies. The television, with satellite hookup, sits in a white and grey plastic wall unit located along the left wall. There are three worn and scratched wood-frame bench seats: the one Tom, Harmeet and I are sitting on, the one Norman is sitting on, and one against the wall across from me to Norman’s right.

In the corner to Norman’s left, a waist-high wooden ironing board sheathed with a soiled coverlet. An antiquated iron and a disc made of clay from Karbala sitting on top, a set of Muslim prayer beads hung over the narrowing end. Above Norman, the only other picture in the room, a portrait of Saint Bernadette.

The room is spacious, fifteen feet deep and twenty-five feet wide, with faded lime-green walls and a pink ceiling. A naked light bulb hangs from ornate plaster mouldings in the middle of the ceiling. On the wall across from us, to the right of the kitchen door, there are two plaster arches. Inside each arch a decorative wall hanging has been taped to the wall: On the left, two straggly-looking purple plastic flowers; on the right, a wooden cooking spoon and salad fork crossing each other in an X. To the left of the arches, a broken heart-shaped wall
clock, garish, plastic and red. To the right of the kitchen door, a wooden shelf holding a kerosene lamp. To the left of the kitchen door, a Western 2005 calendar turned to September.

Observing Everything I Possibly Can must be done carefully, discreetly, disinterestedly, as much as possible with peripheral vision, the art of seeing without looking.

There is a quick conference of captors in the kitchen doorway. Heads nod and everyone except Young Moustache Man leaves the room. He paces back and forth, rubs his hands together with an excited smile, stops in front of Norman.
“My? My?”
he asks, forming his hand into a cup and raising it to his lips, eyebrows lifting in question.

Norman shakes his head. “No, thank you kindly,” he says.

He turns to us and makes the same gesture.
“My? My?”
he asks.

Tom and Harmeet both shake their heads.
“La shokren,”
Tom says.

I want to say no. The water must come from the tap, and the last thing I want is to be stricken with diarrhea while kidnapped. Plus, the thought of accepting anything from these men, save the immediate return of our freedom, is repugnant to me. “Yes, please,” I say. I have to. It’s an opening, the first opportunity to communicate, a chance to make them see our humanity. It’s a lot harder to kill someone if you see him as a human being.

Young Moustache Man hands me a glass smeared with fingerprints. “
Ramallah wal day ik,”
I say, as Adib taught me.

He looks incredulous, says something in Arabic. The only thing I understand is that he’s asking me a question.

“Ramallah wal day ik,”
I say again, nodding sincerely.

Young Moustache Man laughs and slaps his knee, repeats the phrase again and again. “This
Arabi?”
he asks me.

“No
Arabi
. English. I only speak English. My name is Jim,” I say, pointing to myself. Young Moustache Man nods. “Are you married?” I ask. The captor looks puzzled. “Married? Do you have children?” I point to him and use my hand to indicate the height of a small child.

“This?
Whalid
?” he says, pointing to himself, eyes widening. I nod. He shakes his head sadly.
“La whalid.”

Suit Jacket Man enters the room with four sets of handcuffs dangling from his hand. He is followed by a great big giant of a man. Young Moustache Man laughs excitedly and points at me. He says something to them that ends with
Ramallah wal day ik
. The other men do not smile.

Suit Jacket Man motions for Norman to stand up. “Where is your passport?” he says. Norman gives it to him. “Norman Kember. You are British?”

“Yes.”

“You are a doctor?” Suit Jacket Man says.

“Doctor?” Young Moustache Man says, reaching for the passport. Suit Jacket Man shows him where it says
Doctor
. “Ah, doctor,” Young Moustache Man says reverentially.

“Well, yes. I’m a retired professor of biophysics, not a medical doctor.”

“Your notebook please, Doctor. And everything in your pockets.” Norman hands over his notebook, empties out his trousers and jacket pockets. Great Big Man puts Norman’s things into a plastic bag. The last thing Norman gives him is a bubble package of medication.

“That’s medicine. It’s for high blood pressure. For my heart. My heart,” Norman says, pointing to his chest. “I need to keep that.”

“You have some heart condition?” Suit Jacket Man asks.

“High blood pressure,” Norman says.

“You can keep that,” Suit Jacket Man says, “but I must to have your glasses.”

“Oh dear,” Norman says. “Must you take my glasses? I’m an old man. I can’t read without them.”

“You do not need them for that. But they are right here. Everything is right here.” Norman hands over his glasses. “Now I must to search you, Doctor.” Norman lifts his arms above his head. Big Man and Suit Jacket Man pat him down thoroughly. “Now put your hands behind your back, Doctor.” Young Moustache Man locks his wrists into a set of handcuffs. “Now sit down, Doctor.”

It’s my turn next. Suit Jacket Man asks me for my passport. “You are Canadian?” I nod. “James Loney,” he reads. He puts my passport in his
pocket. “I must to take your camera and notebook.” I reluctantly hand him the camera. “It’s old-fashioned,” he says.

“Yes,” I say. It’s the 35-millimetre camera Dan bought with his own money when he was in grade eight. It goes into the same bag as Norman’s things.

“Now your pockets,” Suit Jacket Man says.

I pass him a handful of Iraqi dinars, a pen and a cellphone. I watch him pocket the cellphone with a pang of desperation as I realize the only number I know to call for help is Doug’s back in Canada.

“Your watch,” he says.

“My father gave me this watch,” I say.

“You will have it. Everything is right here. We are not thieves. You have everything back. We not take one dinar. Now I must to search you.”

I raise my hands for the second time that day. They are thorough, check all my pockets, my jacket, every inch of my body.

“Your hands behind your back,” Suit Jacket Man says. Somebody, being very careful, locks my wrists into some handcuffs. As they click down, I wonder how tight they will go, if they will cut into skin, press mercilessly against bone, cut off circulation, as I had experienced at the hands of municipal police when I was arrested for civil disobedience. The clicking stops and there is no discomfort. “Sit down,” he says.

Harmeet is next. Suit Jacket Man wants Harmeet’s glasses. “I can’t see anything without them,” Harmeet says, objecting.

“You do not need them. We keep them right here. This not a problem.”

When it is Tom’s turn, he pulls his last folded-up copy of the CPT magic sheet out of his wallet and hands it to Suit Jacket Man. “This explains who we are and what we’re doing in Iraq,” he says. “We’re members of a peace organization.” Tom addresses him like a peer.

“I will read it,” Suit Jacket Man says, sliding it into his pocket. Then like the rest of us, Tom is searched and handcuffed. Young Moustache Man picks up a scrap of dusty rag lying on the floor and rips it into four long strips. I note with relief that it looks reasonably clean. They blindfold Norman first, then me. The blindfold is applied gently and
sags at the bridge of my nose. I wonder what is going to happen to us as I am taken by the arm and led away. The voice beside me is calm and reassuring. I count twenty steps when a tug on my arm tells me to sit down. I manage to sit cross-legged without losing my balance. I am immediately uncomfortable, sitting without any support for my back. I know I can handle this for a while, Harmeet and Tom probably can too, but this will be very hard for Norman.

There are two more flurries of motion around me and then a long period of silence. I decide to chance it. “Tom? Harmeet? Norman?”

“Quiet. No talk,” a voice orders.

I test, probe, analyze every sound, take scrupulous measurements of the direction, force and intention of each footstep, each voice, motion, object being moved or used. Time passes. Discomfort escalates into full-body agony.

Adib will have called the team, and the team will have called Doug. One of the first things he will do is put together a crisis team. Do our families know? Has Dan been told? Where will he be and what will he be doing? This is going to be rather disruptive for a lot of people
.

The captors come and go, talk in hushed voices, answer cellphone calls. A voice begins to read, in Arabic. It must be the text of our magic sheet. The voice is rich and mellifluous, flows in perfect bass tones. It is calm, deliberate, in charge. The other voices seek instruction from it, respond with deference. Bodies move whenever the voice speaks. It is a voice we will never see the face of. We call this voice Number One.

Time passes. Then a sudden thump, a moan, silence. My heart pounds. Has somebody been struck on the head? I wait another minute and then chance it. “Norman? Are you okay?”

“Sorry. Just making an adjustment,” he says. His voice is strained.

“La killam,”
a voice commands. Silence again. Then the sound of a chain being pulled across a concrete floor. A dog snarling, barking savagely. A voice, crying, begging, pleading in Arabic. Coming from somewhere within the house. Sounds that make my eyes open wide with terror beneath my blindfold. Then, mercifully, the silence returns.

More time passes. Norman asks to use the bathroom. I hold my breath and wait for the answer. I’ve been wanting to ask myself, as a way of being able to stretch and move a little, learn more about where we are being held, but decided the safer course remained with silence and enduring.

“Yes, Doctor. One minute, please,” Number One says.

Then, footsteps entering the room, a voice out of breath. Suit Jacket Man perhaps? “Where are the Italians? Who is Italian here?”

There are no Italians here, we say.

“Who is Indian here? You. Are you Indian?”

“My parents are Kashmiri, but I am Canadian,” Harmeet says.

“We are two Canadians, one British and one American. None of us is Italian or Indian,” Tom says.

I hear a flurry of Arabic and then, “Doctor, would you like to go to the
hamam?”

I hear Norman grunting, his body struggling to get up, movement out of the room. A few minutes later I hear steps entering the room, the legs of a plastic chair scraping against the floor, Norman saying, “Thank you.”

I am suddenly lifted into standing. They unlock my handcuffs. I look down through the crack at the bottom of my blindfold and am astonished by the bare sandalled feet of one of the captors: they are the biggest, most powerful slab-of-meat feet I’ve ever seen. The captor locks my hands together at my waist, takes my arm, brings me to a destination thirty steps and two turns away. He stops, opens a door, pushes me into a closet-sized bathroom and closes the door.

I immediately tilt my head back and scan the bathroom through the bottom of my blindfold. There is a small rectangular window above my head. Impossible to climb through with handcuffs on. The toilet is a ceramic squat basin set into the floor. There’s a tank affixed to the wall with a pull chain to release water into the basin. A plastic jug on the floor. No toilet paper.

I am surprised at how easy it is to lower my zipper in handcuffs. Try as I might, my urethra won’t let go. They bring me back to the room and
make me sit in a chair with my knees touching a wall. Norman and Tom are next to me. Harmeet sits behind us on his own. The captors leave the room.

“My blindfold is really loose,” I whisper. “It’s ready to fall off.”

“I know. Mine too,” Tom says.

“If my eyes weren’t closed, I’d be able to see everything,” Harmeet says.