It's What I Do: A Photographer's Life of Love and War (36 page)

“This is it for me,” Steve said, unwavering. “No more war. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this to Reem [his wife]. This is the second time in two years.”

“Yeah . . .” Anthony trailed off, eyes lowered onto the prison cell floor. “Poor Nada. I feel horrible for putting her through this.”

Would we even have a chance to tell our significant others how much we loved them? Covering war was inflicting immeasurable pain on our loved ones, and we knew it. This was the second time I was putting Paul through this pain. Anthony and Steve both had infants at home, too. And yet as guilty as we felt at that moment, and as terrified as we were, only Steve sounded convinced by his own declaration that he wouldn’t cover war anymore.

“If they bring us to Tripoli, we will probably end up in the hands of the Interior Ministry,” Anthony said, referring to a ministry infamous for torture. “And probably in one of their solitary-confinement cells, or where Ghaith is.” We had heard that Ghaith Abdul-Ahad, an Iraqi journalist and photographer for the
Guardian
, was being held by Qaddafi’s men. He had been missing for days, and we assumed the worst.

“But we need to get to Tripoli,” Anthony said, “because we will never get released if we don’t get to Tripoli. We will probably survive—it will be difficult, but we might live if we get there.”

“If we do, I am going to be so fat in nine months!” I exclaimed suddenly. I knew that if we made it out of Libya alive, I would finally give Paul what he’d been asking me for since we’d married: a baby. After all those years of feeling conflicted about having a child, I found myself praying for the chance to start a family with Paul. I felt confident that I could endure anything—that I would be able to survive psychological and physical torture—if it meant we would eventually be released.

Sometime in the night the clanking of our prison door woke me; I feigned sleep. A young man opened the cell door, looked at the four of us asleep, and grabbed my ankle. He started dragging me toward the door.

“No!” I screamed, frantically twisting my way back toward Anthony, who was asleep near me. The young man pulled my leg again toward the door. I squirmed back, pressing myself against Anthony, in search of protection. The man gave up and left.

Eventually I closed my eyes. I breathed slowly and took in the silence of our cell. Steve, Tyler, and Anthony were all asleep. Images of others who had spent time in prison echoed through my head: my Iraqi interpreter Sarah, who was jailed by the U.S. military in 2008 after she spent two years risking her life and interpreting for them; Maziar Bahari, a
Newsweek
colleague who was put in solitary confinement in Iran and hummed Leonard Cohen songs to stay sane. I sang “Daydreamer” by Adele over and over in my head, because I had been listening to the song as I painted my toenails the morning we were captured. I knew so many people had endured worse—captivity, torture—and their resilience helped me face my fear of what would come next, the physical pain of being bound and punched. My thoughts reverted back to Paul and my family, who had no idea where I was.

Throughout the night we listened to a man screaming in a cell nearby.

The familiar clanking sound of our prison door woke us in the morning. We heard them say Tripoli, and we knew that was our fate.

Soldiers led us outside of the prison once again blindfolded and bound, but this time with plastic zip ties that cut deep into our wrists. I asked them to loosen them. They tightened them even more, these plastic ties I had seen used by the U.S. military on so many Iraqis and Afghans. I felt my hands start to lose circulation, and when I let out a whimper, the soldier pulled the plastic cuffs even tighter, slicing them into my wrists and punishing me for my weakness. We were driven to the airport and loaded onto a military aircraft, which I recognized by the ramp, the hum of the engine, and the seats lining the walls.

“Is everybody here?” Steve’s question was first answered with a gun butt in the face.

“Yes.”

They sat us at least a few feet apart from one another, and with ropes and strips of cloth, tied our hands and ankles to the webbing covering the walls of the plane, like cattle. I heard one of my colleagues get smacked again, and then the whimper. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by desperation and helplessness. Tyler, Anthony, and Steve kept getting beaten with fists and rifles. Getting felt up and fingered through my jeans didn’t seem nearly as bad as that physical abuse. My hands and feet tied to the webbing along the inner fuselage of the plane, my eyes blindfolded, and the mystery of what would happen next was just too much to bear. I started crying uncontrollably. I was ashamed and lowered my head so whoever else was on the plane wouldn’t see me and wouldn’t hit me or tie me tighter for being weak and making noise.

I cried and cried until a man came up beside me and said, “I am sorry. I am sorry.” And he untied my blindfold, undid my zip ties, and released my legs and arms from the walls of the plane. I was too scared to look around. I kept my eyes down and continued crying. They were evil. These men were the epitome of evil. They understood psychological torture and deployed it.

When I finally looked up, two middle-aged men dressed in military uniforms were sitting across from me. They looked at me sympathetically. They had kindness in their eyes. Anthony, Steve, and Tyler remained tied to the walls and blindfolded, their heads slouched over toward their knees. Were they sleeping? I again felt guilty for getting easier treatment because I was a woman. When we began our descent, one man refastened my blindfold.

We landed in a frenzy. We were off-loaded from the plane, and Steve and I were put into a police wagon. Men with automatic weapons stood over us. I could see the tips of their guns through the bottom of my blindfold. They were thugs. Qaddafi’s famous “Zenga Zenga” speech played on someone’s mobile phone. (In the midst of the uprising Qaddafi gave a speech vowing to hunt down protesters “inch by inch, house by house, room by room, alleyway by alleyway [
zenga zenga
].”) Hearing his speech again motivated them to beat us down. A few different men put their hands between my legs, over my jeans, and rubbed my genitals with their fingers. They were more aggressive than all the others before them, laughing when I pleaded with them to stop. I prayed they didn’t find my second passport tucked into a money belt nestled in my underwear. It was all I had left of my identity at that point.

Outside I heard them beating my colleagues with their guns—that awful thumping sound. Someone let out a muffled squeal and a moan, and I strained to decipher—by the sound of the moan—which one of my friends was being brutalized. It wasn’t Steve, because he was in the paddy wagon with me, being forced to yell “Down, down Ireland” by someone who had no idea that Ireland wasn’t part of any foreign coalition against him. With the next round of thumps I recognized Tyler’s voice. He had been silent throughout his other beatings, and I knew this was a terrible sign. He was getting beaten on the tarmac. I couldn’t hear Anthony.

When their parade was over, we were transferred to a Land Cruiser again.

“Is everybody here?”

“Yes.” “Yes.” “Yes.”

Tyler’s voice was empty.

We rode for about twenty minutes in the Land Cruiser as a man who spoke very clear English explained that we would not be beaten anymore and that we were now in the hands of the Libyan government. Anthony later told us that before this announcement there had been a fight (in Arabic) over who would “get” us on the tarmac: the Interior Ministry or the Foreign Ministry. When we were put into the police wagon, we were initially to be released to the Interior Ministry. But somehow the Foreign Ministry won. I didn’t care anymore where they were taking us. I was so resigned to whatever fate lie ahead, too beaten down to feel fear. I rode along in a stupor.

When the car stopped, the man who spoke English helped me out of the car—I was still blindfolded—and as he placed his hand on my shoulder and offered to lead me up to a building, I flinched.

“Please just stop touching me! Please don’t touch me anymore!”

“Listen to me,” the man with perfect English said. “You are now with the government of Libya. You will not be beaten anymore. You will not be mistreated. You will not be touched.”

I didn’t say a word. I felt the tears welling up again in my eyes.

 • • • 

W
E WERE LED
into a room with a clean, soft, off-white carpet. We had all endured misery on the trip from Sirte to Tripoli, but when our blindfolds were removed, it was as if we had to confront one another’s pain. I looked first at Tyler, my stoic friend whom I admired so much. He was hunched over, crying. Perhaps they were tears of relief that we had survived so much brutality and finally were given a reprieve by a man who spoke English, offered us juice boxes, and promised not to beat us anymore. Or perhaps Tyler was just broken. Seeing him, usually so strong and poised in the face of anything, tore me apart, and I cried, too. I looked over at Anthony; his eyes were glassy. Steve was stone.

A nameless Libyan man who claimed to be with the Foreign Ministry reiterated that we would no longer be beaten or bound. We would, though, be blindfolded when interrogated, and they were going to hold us in a nearby guesthouse while they questioned us. The interpreter, who had a permanent, gentle smile from the moment we were able to see his face, leaned in close to me and in a hushed voice asked, “Are you OK? Did they touch you?”

I was surprised by his candor. “Yes, they touched me. Every soldier in Libya touched me.”

“But were you raped?” he persisted.

“No. I was not raped. I was touched, punched, pushed around, but no one took my clothes off.”

“Oh, good.” His body language immediately relaxed. I was shocked at how relieved he was; it was so jarring to come out of this world of abuse and fear and meet someone who cared for my well-being. Perhaps he was worldlier, or perhaps he was just worried about a potential public-relations nightmare. But it was as if rape was his own red line—the beatings, gropings, psychological torture, and threats didn’t matter, but rape did.

The man in charge asked us whether we had any passports or possessions, and at this point I surrendered my passport and was reassured it would be returned before we were released. They transported us to our temporary accommodations, and they told us that if we attempted to open a door or a window, we would be shot.

The apartment had two bedrooms: one with three beds for the men and one with two beds for me. We shared one large, dormitory-style bathroom with several stalls and a shower. We had a kitchen with a table just large enough for the four of us and a youngish, handsome cook, who was always pleasant.

The Libyans sat us down in a reception room of our VIP prison and, over tea, offered to get us clothing, toiletries, and food. Qadaffi propaganda blared on the TV set in the background like white noise; I was riveted by the presence of a television—any connection to the outside world. None of us wanted to ask for much, because a long shopping list might imply we were staying for a while. As I finished up my list, the smiling interpreter whispered in my ear: “Do you need any women things? Any feminine things?” I shook my head. My body had a perfect knack for shutting down all monthly rituals in the face of trauma. I found it odd that the Libyans would tie us up, beat us up, psychologically torture us for three days, and then offer to buy me tampons.

As the officials sat across from us, they filled the room with empty pleasantries. Anthony grabbed the TV remote and changed the channel from the pro-Qaddafi propaganda videos to CNN. Within seconds still images of our faces flashed on the TV screen, along with the words “the Libyan government still cannot ascertain the whereabouts of the
New York Times
journalists . . . but they have reassured
New York Times
Executive Editor Bill Keller that they will cooperate . . .” I started crying again.

The dignitaries sitting across from me begged me to stop.

“Don’t you have children?” I asked. “How could you do this to our parents? Our families? Our families think we are dead. Why can’t you let us make one phone call?”

The next time any of us entered the TV room, the only thing remaining of the cable box was a dangling wire.

A few hours later our Foreign Ministry interpreter returned with a crew carrying maybe a dozen bags of groceries and new wardrobes for all of us. It was a terrifying sight—did the bags and bags of groceries mean we were staying for months? There were roughly six jars of Nescafé, cookies, chips, packaged croissants, dry little Italian-style toasts. We were each handed a tote bag full of everything we had requested. The men received shiny, cool Adidas tracksuits. In my bag there was a giant tan velour sweat suit with smiling teady bears embroidered on the front, emblazoned with cursive script that read
THE MAGIC GIRL!!
There were also three pairs of underwear, with the words
SHAKE IT UP!
written across the front, as well as a toothbrush, shampoo, conditioner, and a hairbrush.

 • • • 

S
OMEWHERE AROUND
two in the morning there was commotion in the hallway outside the room and a knock at my door.

“Wake up! You get one phone call.”

I paused. Without my BlackBerry I had no idea what Paul’s telephone number was. I didn’t want to waste my one call on my mother’s phone, because I was sure the phone would be lost somewhere in the depths of her purse and she wouldn’t answer. And my dad never answered his phone. The four of us met up in the guys’ room and conferred with one another on whom each of us would call. Without Paul’s number, I offered to be the one to call the foreign desk at the
Times
, to let them know we were OK. Tyler, Anthony, and Steve all knew the number of the foreign desk; I committed it to memory.

One by one we were blindfolded and led into the TV room without a functioning TV. I was placed in a chair near a man who I presumed was there to monitor our calls. I recited the foreign desk’s phone number.