Lebanon Hostage Ch. 08

What does it mean that they're waiting for the rain to stop before they take us away? This new piece of information doesn't help us resolve the "transfer or release" question, Allan and I are able to brainstorm too many possibilities supporting both sides. They might be waiting for the rain to stop so it won't prevent a speedy getaway when they release us. Or might they be waiting out of consideration for us, our health, so that when they release us we're not left standing somewhere in the cold pouring rain, in pajamas? Then again, they might be transferring us somewhere, like the mountains, where driving in the rain might cause them to slide or get stuck. Or they just don't want to get wet while lugging us out to the car in sacks. Or they don't want to risk slipping while carrying us.

Too many possibilities to draw even a tentative conclusion. We continue to hang in suspense.

* * *

On March 9, the rain stops. Waleed's team is on shift, once again enforcing his rule of silence. As an extension of that rule, we're not allowed to knock on the wall for a toilet run. Instead, Waleed decrees that we will be taken to the bathroom four times a day, coinciding with our three feedings plus a "last call" just before the guards go to bed. I suffer, not only because my bladder wants to be emptied more frequently than four times every 24 hours, but also because the stress of waiting to see what will happen, now that the rain has stopped, loosens my bowels.

In the evening, the phone rings. "Someone's coming for us," I whisper to Allan. "Probably," he whispers back. We fall silent, each of us stewing in his own hopes and worries. As disruptive and stressful as it's been, in the past, when they've showed up to move us without warning, I can see now why it might be better for us, emotionally, not to know in advance.

I'm banking that before the night is out, a transfer team will arrive, like the team who brought us to this apartment from the abandoned office. But they might not be coming right away. When the guards go to bed, I conclude that we'll be moved out in the early morning.

Tomorrow is March 10. The very threshold of my anniversary. How spectacularly, providentially coincidental it would be if that were the day of my release. What a climactic reversal after the misery of the past few nights. Please, God, do it. For your glory.

This night feels longer than usual, and I sleep even less than has become usual. From his breathing, it sounds like Allan does a little better.

I haven't yet heard the morning call to prayer when the guards come to fetch us. They take me first. Coming out of the bedroom, they steer me left instead of right. I pull back, telling them I need to use the toilet. They shush me and continue walking me into the front area of the apartment, a place I haven't been since the night they brought me here. They sit me in a hard chair. The early morning quiet is suddenly rent by the now familiar shriek of packing tape.

I'm frantic. "Waleed, I have to use the toilet first, I cannot wait!"

"You need pee-pee?" Waleed asks in a babyish voice.

Fuck you, Waleed. "Yes. I need pee-pee. Please!"

I hear someone fumbling around in a plastic bag, apparently retrieving something from the trash for me to pee into. "Waleed!" Because I'm trying to be insistent and quiet at the same time, my voice comes out as a whine. "Just take me to the bathroom."

A tin can is thrust into my hand. "Make pee-pee in this," Waleed orders. Peering under the bottom of the blindfold, I see that this must be the can from which they poured beans over our rice at yesterday's midday meal. I stand to tug down the front of my pajama bottoms and my flyless briefs. After two months of going to the bathroom under the open-door rule, I'm resigned to exposing myself in front of the guards, and doing number one while they watch is far less humiliating than number two. Nevertheless, I resent having to do this, especially with the guards standing so close around me. I hope that with their delicate Shiite sensibilities, they're squirming. Well... Waleed won't be squirming, unfortunately. He enjoys making me submit to this indignity.

When I'm finished, they tape me up the same way they did when I was transferred from the abandoned office: reinforced blindfold, cloth-and-tape gag, wrists behind my back, ankles together. Again, I'm threaded into a burlap sack. Once knotted shut, the sack is dragged across the floor to some spot where I'll be out of their way while they tape up Allan. I immediately set to work on making the gag slip.

I hear Waleed ask Allan if he, too, needs pee-pee. They didn't empty the can after I used it, so there isn't enough volume remaining to accommodate Allan's entire morning piss. "I'm not finished," he protests when he has to cut his stream short. "No, you are finished," Waleed counters imperiously.

They drag Allan, taped and bagged, over next to me—in front of me, as I'm lying on my side. By this time, the call to prayer has sounded, so the guards pray while Allan and I lie on the floor inside our sacks. Their praying lasts a few minutes. My lips finish wriggling their way to freedom over the top edge of the gag, but I don't attempt to free my hands. I'm not sure I want to try even once we're in the car, knowing that Allan got his hands smacked last time. With the guards nearby, Allan too is holding still.

After the guards have prayed, we keep waiting—guards as well as hostages—for something else to happen. It's a long wait, during which my primary emotion is apprehension. Please let them be releasing us. Please help me be strong if they're not... At one point, my apprehension is interrupted by a surge of rage when I realize that if the guards took our things from us in order to pack them up for a transfer, then instead of doing that four days ago, leaving us to suffer in the interim, they could have done the packing during all this time we've been waiting just now.

There's a knock on the door, which, I discover, I am lying very close to. Booted feet pass directly behind my back as new men enter the apartment. The two sets of guards exchange quietsalaams, but otherwise few words are spoken. Everyone knows what to do. Three men lift my sack into the air between them and rush me down the five flights of stairs I was hauled up two months ago. Haste makes them clumsy; they occasionally bump me against the stairwell walls. I'm afraid that one of the guards will stumble or misstep and drop me. Please, I don't want another smashed elbow—or knee, or foot, or back, or head, or anything else.

They don't deposit me in a car trunk this time. Instead I end up on the floor of a van. Why a van? What might that indicate about where we're going? Allan, it must be, is laid down beside me a few minutes later. I hear some other things being slid into the van at the same time as Allan. Our mattresses and other possessions, I suspect. If so, then the guards haven't requisitioned our possessions for themselves, as Allan had theorized, which suggests that we're being transferred, not released.

At least one guard sits in the back of the van with us during the drive, so struggling to free our hands isn't an option. After several minutes, we park in an echoing space I take to be a garage. Oh shit, are we back at my first prison? Are they moving us back underground? Or... could this be the parking garage in west Beirut where I was taken immediately after I was kidnapped off the street? Could I be so close to Bernie's apartment? Are they taking me back to Bernie's apartment? Is this year-long nightmare about to end where it began?

All the guards—I think there are three of them—get out of the van, taking with them the items that had been loaded in with Allan. During the minute or so that Allan and I are left alone, he shifts inside his sack, but he doesn't struggle vigorously. Stress makes me want to say something, anything, to Allan, for the sake of connection. The guards are close by, though, and they left the van open, so I don't dare speak. I think the guards are reloading things into another vehicle; whatever they're doing, they're making enough noise that I don't think Allan would be able to hear me if I only whispered. Allan doesn't speak either.

When the guards return, they all get into the back of the van, closing the door behind them. My sack is unknotted and the burlap pushed down to expose my head to the air. I assume they've done the same for Allan.

A man squatting or kneeling closer to our level speaks to us. I recognize him as the same fluid English speaker who came to transfer us out of the abandoned office—the one who assured me then that we were going home.

This time he tells us: "Listen. Do not speak. We are letting you go. But not here, not Beirut. You must take a trip. You understand? You must take a trip to the place where we will let you go. For you, this trip is good—you are going home. For us, there is danger. Because there is danger for us, we must do something to make you ready for your trip. Trust us. Do not be afraid. We are doing this so you can go home. You understand?"

I nod. With my gag halfway down my chin, I could answer out loud, but he ordered us not speak. I wish I knew what Allan thinks about what we've just been told. Every time they've transferred us, they've told us we're going home; the last time they transferred us, this very man told us that lie. But of course, I want to believe him now anyway. I realize that my fervent desire to believe is why the lie works every time. And yet this time genuinely seems different. This time he has given us information.

The guard asked us to trust them. They're going to do what they want whether we trust them or not. I suppose it's easier for them, though, if we don't resist. What is this "something" they have to do to make us ready for our trip? By telling me not to be afraid, the guard has made me more afraid. Evidently I'm not going to like what they feel they need to do.

They start with Allan. Tape screeches as they wrap it around him, binding him more securely. At one point, he makes a high-pitched grunt, a noise of startlement or pain. They shush him. He remains silent after that.

They keep wrapping. And wrapping. And wrapping. And wrapping. Jesus Christ, why are they using so much tape? They stop, only to start again. Did they run out of tape and start a new roll? This is absurd!

Clearly they want us to hold very, very still during this trip. Fine, so just tell us that, and we'll hold still for you. We won't move, we won't look, we won't make a sound, we promise. You ask us to trust you, why can't you trust us? It's in our own interest to help you, we know that. You don't have to do this to us...

Are they doing it because Allan pulled his hands out of the tape last time? Because they've seen us slip our gags? Oh, how we have screwed ourselves...

We're sorry. Please. We know we shouldn't have done it, we understand why it alarms you, but you're overreacting, we didn't actually make any trouble for you, don't you see that? We won't do anything wrong this time, we swear...

For God's sake, enough already! You'll cut off our circulation, using so much tape!

Finally, finally, they're satisfied. They're done with him. The van opens. An unexpectedly loud plastic crinkling accompanies what must be them carrying Allan out of the van: taped up so thoroughly, he can't be walking. As they take him away, I panic at the thought that if this is really a transfer to a new holding place, they might be taking him away from me permanently, carting us off to different locations.

The guards return quickly. My turn. They finish extracting me from the sack and sit me upright. They strip the tape from my fallen gag, then retie the gag around my mouth. They don't put fresh tape around the gag to hold it in place. Instead, they wrap a towel around my head and neck, so that only the tip of my nose is exposed.

They proceed to completely encase my towel-wrapped head in packing tape. They start at the top of my forehead, systematically winding their way down. They run new layers of tape across my already taped and blindfolded eyes. When they reach the tip of my nose, they run the strip of tape straight across—holy God, I'm going to smother! I squeal and thrash my head. "Trust us," the English speaker tells me again, sternly. Someone's fingers peel the bottom edge of the tape up away from my nostrils, leaving me a slit to breathe through. Air flows, but my breathing still feels constricted, I think because of how my nose is compressed by the tape running over it. I have no choice but, as ordered, to trust them. I have to trust that they know what they're doing, that they've done this safely before with other hostages.

They wrap many layers of tape over my gagged mouth, a ludicrous number of layers, to muffle any sound I might make. Then they run loops around my head vertically, under my chin and up over the top of my head, to immobilize my jaw in that direction. I won't be slipping this gag. Finally, they wrap tape around my neck. Swallowing is now difficult. I can do it, but it's a slow labor, not something I will be doing often. Breathing is also hard work. I have to focus on the task, pulling air in and pushing it out again through the narrow gap at my nostrils. Good God, how long do they expect me to do this?

They cut the tape off my wrists, but not my ankles, and stand me up, holding me as upright as the van's height allows. They press my arms and hands flat against my sides, as when my kidnappers taped me up, a year ago, to insert me into the compartment under the van's floor. A guard reinforces the tape around my ankles. Then he winds his way gradually, inch by inch, up my pajama-draped legs. He is wrapping me thoroughly, no gaps. Like a mummy. I am literally going to look like a mummy when they are done with me, a mummy wrapped in packing tape. This is what they did to Allan—they carried him out of here as a mummy. That is not the picture I had in my head when I heard them taping him. I had imagined him with thickly layered swaths at intervals down his body.

Two men keep holding me up at a slant, a task they seem to find awkward and taxing, while the third man passes the roll of tape around and up my lower body. The overlapping layers of tape create a very tight binding. My knees and ankle bones are squeezed together painfully. My fingers are sealed to my thighs, completely immobile. Tape presses against my crotch, around my hips and arms. They finish one roll, start another.

When it comes time to wrap my upper body, the guards change position. One kneels beside me with his arms around my hips, leaning my lower body against himself and pressing down to bend my mummified knees, so I can be held upright above the waist despite the low ceiling. The position puts a strain on my ankles. It also feels precarious, I'm afraid I'll topple over. The other two guards share the burden of propping up my shoulders while passing the roll of tape back and forth to each other. My baggy sweater becomes compressed under the tape working its methodical way up my torso. My chest strains against the binding as I labor to breathe.

Finally the tape has climbed around my shoulders, back to my neck. Every inch of me is now covered in tape, except, for some reason, my stocking feet. Back in my first prison, when I had my meltdown and the guards taped me up for "time out," those bonds, while uncomfortable, had made me feel secure. By contrast, what has been done to me now is simply terrifying. The muscles of my arms, trapped against my sides, vibrate infinitesimally out of fear. I have never felt so helpless in my life. I'm still afraid of smothering, it's all I can do to breathe. My head is sweltering under the towel and tape.

Holding me by my shoulders and legs, two men hoist me into the air. As Allan did, I crinkle when they move me. They have turned me into a package, shrink-wrapped in plastic, ready for transportation. After maneuvering me out of the van, the guards carry me a short distance at a hasty jog and slide me head first onto a platform. They push me back until the crown of my head is flush against a wall.

I have the impression I've been loaded into the back of another van—or perhaps a pickup truck, except that the surface I'm lying on is flat, not corrugated. My left arm is pressed against another solid wall. My right side is pressed against Allan, lying next to me; I feel and hear him moving inside his wrapper. We're together, thank God for that at least. I too am shifting, straining, squirming, not trying to escape but simply to move, to try to stretch and relax the bonds a little, to feel a little less horribly, helplessly constricted. When a guard hisses for quiet, I muster the willpower to hold myself immobile.

Just beyond my feet, a metal plate clangs into position, covering up the opening through which they slid me into this cramped space. I hear screws turning. They're sealing us in. I'm afraid. I have to know where they're sealing us into. With my neck wrapped in tape, I can't turn my head, but I can lift it. I do so, cautiously. Within mere inches, my forehead touches a metal surface above me.

I've never known myself to be claustrophobic, but now I'm swallowed up by panic. I feel suffocated, crushed. They're sealing us inside a box, a shallow metal box, like... a coffin. Jesus God, it's a coffin. Images flash into my mind: They dump the coffin into a water-filled quarry and let it sink. They drop it in a dirt hole and bury us alive.

No no no no no. You cannot let your mind go there. You cannot do this to yourself, you cannot lie here imagining horrific scenarios. Trust them. Trust them. Remember what Allan said: they're terrorists, not gangsters, they wouldn't want to hide the bodies... They're transporting you somewhere, this is how they're concealing you. The guard told you that precisely so you wouldn't imagine it was something else, so you wouldknow it wasn't something else. They're taking you to be released—at worst, they're transferring you to a new holding place. You have to calm down. If you start hyperventilating, you won't be able to breathe...

It takes a long time to seal us in: many screws, only one screwdriver. At last they're done. Outside our compartment, more words are exchanged among the guards. The doors of the vehicle's cab open and close beyond my head, on both sides of me. The engine starts up, very loud. We're definitely in a truck. Hanging under the truck, more likely—a secret cargo in a secret compartment. Our guards have become smugglers.

As the engine idles, I am forced to pull diesel fumes into my lungs. Come on, get moving, you'll gas us to death...

We're off. Unable to brace myself, I am rocked by the movement of the truck, jarred by every bump in the street. Soon we're barreling down a highway. There are air holes in the side of our container; I can hear the wind whistling past as the truck races along. The cold air is bracing, my nostrils suck it in. I hear other vehicles around us. The morning traffic is beginning.

The sounds made by the surrounding traffic, and by the wheels of our own truck spinning on the asphalt, are noticeably louder than I'm used to. I'm riding outside the vehicle, not inside it. This feels so dangerous. I hope to God that this box we're in is riveted firmly to the underside of the truck. If it falls, we're dead.

The truck slows, idles, pulls forward, idles some more. I'm breathing diesel fumes again. What's the delay?

A checkpoint. Of course. I encountered these when Youssef drove Bernie and me in from the airport. That's why our captors have gone to such extreme lengths to conceal us. So they can get us through checkpoints.

The soldiers manning the checkpoint are going to search the truck. When they do, I must hold very still, I mustn't make a sound. I must show the guards that they can trust me in the future, that they don't need to subject me to this ever again...