Captivity (15 page)

NOVEMBER 29
DAY 4

Young Moustache Man enters the living room in his undershirt. He’s cleaning his ears with the same green towel I’ve seen Number One using. “Good morn-ning,” he calls buoyantly. It’s time to get up. For a moment I’m not sure that I can. I’ve lost confidence in my body, no longer know what it can and can’t do. My brain sends the signal and, much to my surprise, everything still works. I roll onto my right knee, use my left elbow as a fulcrum against my left knee and ease myself into standing. I immediately reach above my head with my handcuffed hands. A delicious release of tension floods my body.

I look over at Norman. He’s struggling to get a foot planted on the floor so he can push himself up. “Would you like a hand, Norman?” I ask.

“No, I think I’ve got it, thank you,” he says. With a Herculean grunt he hauls himself to his feet.

Great Big Man is just sitting up. His eyes are puffy with lack of sleep. He’s wearing the same clothes he’s worn since Day One—a long-sleeved navy blue denim jacket with three pockets (one at the left breast and two at the waist; keys in the right waist pocket) and matching denim track pants with an elastic waist. The word “GAMMA” is written along the left leg of his pants and his right sleeve. There’s no way he could have slept—the couch is two feet shorter than he is. He stands up, arches his back, exits the room.

We fold up our bedding. Young Moustache Man nods approvingly. When our
hamam
rotation is over, we are instructed to go back into the other room and sit down.

–

“What do you mean?” Harmeet says. “It’s only been two and a half days.”

“No,” I say, “it’s been four.”

“How do you figure? We were captured on Saturday and now it’s Tuesday morning. That’s two and a half days, not four.”

“Saturday was day one,” I say, “Sunday day two, Monday day three and today is day four.” Harmeet insists that’s not correct. “I don’t care,” I say, almost boiling over. “If it’s even one second past midnight, it counts as a day.”

“I don’t see that it matters,” Tom says. “We’re going to get out when we get out. The important thing is to stay in the present moment. We don’t know how long we’re going to be stuck here.”

I grit my teeth. The last thing I want to hear is a lecture on “the present moment.”

“Okay?” Young Moustache Man says, entering the room. “Come on.
Akeel
.” We follow him into the living room. “Sit down,” he says. He turns on the television with the remote and selects an Arabic pop music channel. His eyes light up when he hears the song that’s being played. He closes his eyes and sings, hips swaying with the music. Then he goes into the kitchen.

“This is different,” Tom says.

“What do you think? Bacon and eggs?” I say.

“I would settle for some crumpets and tea,” Norman says.

Great Big Man appears with an oval tray and sets it on the floor in front of us. It holds four glass tumblers, each with an inch of sugar at the bottom, four pieces of the Amriki sawdust bread and four foil-wrapped triangles of cheese.
“Chai
?” Great Big Man asks, smiling broadly.

“Yes!” we say.

He pours hot tea from a dented kettle and serves each of us, beginning with Norman, as if we are honoured guests. The tea—warm, sweet, instantly comforting—fills me with ravenous hope. Does this generosity mean we’re going to be released? Is today the day? I can’t handle another minute of this.

Great Big Man jumps up—he’s just remembered something important. He goes into the kitchen and returns with a jar of marmalade.
“Good, good,” he says. Our breakfast sits in front of us. We wait to see if they’re going to remove our handcuffs.
“Akeel, akeel!”
Great Big Man says, gesturing towards the tray. He takes the bread, breaks it, gives us each a piece. “Hubis Amriki. Good.” He points to the silver triangles.
“Franci. Zane.”
We’re eating in our handcuffs.

“This in Canada?” Young Moustache Man asks.

“No, I don’t think so.” I open one of the triangles. It’s some kind of processed cheese spread.

“This in
Britannia
?” he asks.

“Oh yes,” Norman said. “It’s made in France. It’s called Babybel.”

It’s a difficult procedure, extracting the soft cheese from the foil and getting it onto the bread. The others just use their fingers and lick them clean. I am revolted. In accordance with my mother’s strict training in table manners and hand hygiene, I use the foil to spread the cheese on my bread, being careful not to get any on my hands.

We pour the marmalade directly onto our bread from the jar and use our wrappers to spread it. I am aghast when the others lick marmalade off their foil. Proper manners apply even in captivity.

“Good?” Young Moustache Man asks. He’s been watching intently, hunching forward with his elbows resting on his thighs.

“Yes, very good,” Harmeet says. The rest of us nod vigorously. It’s the best breakfast I’ve ever had.

Back to sitting against the wall. Harmeet asks what the term
haji
means. We’ve been using it when speaking to the captors. Tom says it’s a term of respect for somebody who’s completed the haj, the pilgrimage to Mecca. It’s also an honorific for an older person. Harmeet wonders if we should be using it. He thinks it could be misunderstood. I ask him what he means. He says every war has its terms. In the Second World War it was
kraut
. In the Vietnam War it was
gook
. In Afghanistan now it’s
raghead
, and in Iraq it’s
haji
. “I don’t even like to say those words,” he says.

I’m irritated. I feel Harmeet is being overly scrupulous. I say we’re using it to communicate respect. Harmeet says we can’t be sure how it
might sound to them. I say I don’t think there’s much chance that it’ll be misunderstood. Iraqis refer to each other that way, especially when a younger person is speaking to an older man. It’s a culturally acceptable way of addressing people—the equivalent of calling someone
sir
.

“Language changes,” Harmeet says. “It can come to mean different things, depending especially on who’s speaking.”

I feel myself bristling. I can’t tell if he’s agreeing or disagreeing. I decide to change the subject. “I wish I knew what to call them. Maybe we should give them names, even just to use for ourselves.”

Norman says it has to be something respectful. Tom agrees. “Names are important. The names we choose will affect how we relate to them.”

We start with Young Moustache Man. “He definitely seems like a junior player,” Harmeet says.

“Yeah, he’s kind of like a grown-up kid,” I say. I throw out Kidnap Kid, The Kid, Boy Scout. They don’t like any of these.

“Perhaps we should call him Junior, as Harmeet suggests,” Norman says. “He does seem to be the junior partner in this nefarious enterprise.”

It is agreed. The Great Big Man is next. “I have the perfect name,” I say. “Big Foot.”

“It doesn’t seem very respectful,” Tom says.

“It’s like a fun nickname. There can’t be too many people in the world with feet that thick,” I say.

“I don’t like it,” Harmeet says. “It makes him sound like a Sasquatch.”

“A Sasquatch?” Norman says. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with the term.”

“It’s a legend about a giant apelike creature people have apparently sighted in North America. It’s also called Bigfoot.”

“Oh dear. I shouldn’t think that would be a very good name,” Norman says.

None of us can think of a name.

“What about the one who wears the funny-coloured suit jackets, the one who brought the medicine?” Norman says.

“How about Medicine Man?” Harmeet says. We immediately agree. It’s perfect.

–

Someone enters the room. It’s Junior, I can tell from the breathing. “Come on,” he says. “This in TV.” We follow him into the living room and stand waiting for his next instruction. “This in TV!
Ogod!”
he says angrily, pointing at the couches. We sit. “This Khazim! This Khazim!” he cries, pointing to a crooning pop star on the television. Junior sits down and watches entranced, softly mouthing the words.

We sit like this for hours. My eyes wander aimlessly, follow the plaster moulding and cracks in the ceiling, return always to the ring of keys on the shelf next to the television.

Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, Great Big Man enters the room holding a large metal can and a skeleton key. He asks Junior a question. Junior, absorbed in the television, doesn’t answer. Great Big Man kicks him in the leg.
“La petrol”
is all I understand. Great Big Man opens the door into the four-by-five-foot window well with the key. He leaves it in the lock, steps into the window well and kneels down in front of a rusty barrel sitting on a metal stand. He opens a spigot at the bottom of the barrel and starts filling the metal can. The smell of kerosene fills the room. Junior gets up from the couch, stretches lazily and saunters over to the door. He stands with his back to us, right foot crossed over his left, his right arm above his head, leaning against the doorway.

I put my feet flat on the floor and make ready to spring. Twenty feet, five or six steps, two seconds. One hard shove is all it would take. Junior collides with Great Big Man, the two men lose their balance and fall helpless into the window well. While they struggle to get back on their feet, I close the door and turn the key. And just like that, we are free.

Harmeet flashes me a look. He knows what I’m thinking. He shakes his head. I break from his gaze. There isn’t much time. My body is exploding with adrenalin. I have only one chance. What about guns? They appear not to have them. Even if they do, it won’t matter, we can easily move out of their line of fire. The crucial thing is the door itself.
It will have to close in a single slam. If it doesn’t shut easily, or if the key doesn’t turn, the captors will be able to push against the door and stop me from locking them out. Is this the careless moment I’ve been waiting for?

Great Big Man stands up with the kerosene can and Junior steps back from the doorway. My heart sinks. I’ve waited too long. I sit back and stare at the television. Great Big Man steps into the living room. I hold my breath and watch carefully as Junior swings the door closed. He has to grab the handle with both hands and lever the door into place with his shoulder before it will close. Thank God. I made the right decision.

The music videos continue. Junior slouches next to Tom, eyes glassy, remote sitting on his stomach. A video suddenly catches his attention. Tight, up-close shots of a scantily clad female vocalist. Junior sits up and bites his fingers. He points to the TV, laughs, turns to Tom with a conspiratorial grin. “Good?” he says. “This in
Amriki?”
Tom nods blankly. Junior turns to Harmeet. “Harmeet! Good?
Sadika?”

Harmeet shrugs and laughs. “I don’t know. She’s not really my type.”

“Jim!” Junior says, his eyes bright with desire. “This good? This in Canada?”

I nod and smile. Yes, very good, I say. I turn my eyes back to the television and hope that my face hasn’t turned red.

I pass the test. Junior turns to Norman. “Doctor! This in television good?”

Norman waves his hand and laughs. “I’m too old,” he jokes.

The Sacred Heart comforts and settles me. My eyes return again and again to the picture hanging on the wall, presumably left by the previous occupants of the house. I used to despise this pious, otherworldly Jesus, the vacuous heavenward stare, robes and hair flowing in saccharine cascades. Storybook camp for the spiritually infantile, I used
to think, until one summer Sunday in a little country church located on the banks of the Saugeen River, during the second summer of our Catholic Worker farm community experiment, the Sacred Heart changed my heart.

I was early for a change. I genuflected, slipped into a back pew, waited for my eyes to adjust to the stained-glass light. I’d seen them many times before, the statues bookending the altar, Jesus reaching outwards with his nail-pierced hands, Mary pointing towards her chest, both of their red burning hearts exposed. This time, though, instead of being repelled, I was startled by their uncompromising vulnerability, their unflinching openness towards the world. Everything and everyone was welcome. It didn’t matter who you were or what you’d done, whether you were an inquisitive child or an aching grandmother, a wild Janjaweed raider or an Abu Ghraib interrogator, the Sacred Heart was ready in greeting, without fear, arms and heart wide open. Thus, I began to see the Sacred Heart as a profound meditation on human freedom and the power of the disarmed life. When you know who you are, a no-matter-what loved child of God, you become like the Sacred Heart, your arms and heart wide open, free and ready to embrace anyone, do anything, go anywhere.

I next met the Sacred Heart during a visit to Auschwitz. It was on the wall of Cell Block 11, the Gestapo hellhole where the most exquisite tortures were inflicted on dissidents and resisters—a young, bearded Jesus etched into plaster, eyes luminous, halo, robes, heart exposed in the centre of his chest, the arm of someone kneeling in front of him and reaching across his waist, the shoulder of the arm stripped to bone. Stephan Jansienski, a member of the Polish underground captured in 1944, had carved it with his fingernail. Tears filled my eyes. Even here the Sacred Heart. Even here.

And here you are again, hanging on the wall of this insurgent safe house. You have found me even though I have been disappeared off the face of the earth. There is no dungeon you will not enter, no suffering you will not accompany. And if you are with me, even if the worst happens, somehow or other it’ll be okay.

–

Junior points excitedly at the television. “This action film! Action film!” He puffs out his chest and flexes his biceps. “Action film Amriki!” The movie is called
Con Air
.

“Oh dear,” Norman says. “I’m afraid Wallace
and Gromit
is more my speed.”

We settle in to watch. It’s unbelievably bad, an over-the-top bacchanalia of adolescent violence, but still it’s a welcome relief from the all-day barrage of incomprehensible Arabic television. Nicolas Cage is Cameron Poe, a highly decorated U.S. Army Ranger on his way home after serving a wrongful seven-year sentence for manslaughter. He’s shackled hand and foot on a prison air transport of America’s most dangerous criminals.