Captivity (30 page)

Tom is convinced this is good news. He latches on like an acrobat gripping a trapeze bar. He’s so convinced, he decides to make a confession. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure things were going to work out. I didn’t want you to worry. I’ve been feeling sick about it, that I’ve put you all in danger. Maybe you saw it on the table when they filmed us with our ID. But when they kidnapped us, I had my military retirement card on me.”

I turn to look at him. First I’m shocked, astounded, flabbergasted, then sick with dread. This is bad. Very very bad. “Why would you have done that?” I ask, straining to keep my voice even.

“I know, I’m sorry, it was stupid. I always thought it would be helpful if we came to an American checkpoint or had to deal with military officials. The team warned me against doing it, but I thought it might really help us sometime.”

That’s how he could be. Maxine will tell me a story later. Restless and a little stir-crazy after weeks of confinement in the apartment, Tom decided one evening after dark to gather some soil from the boulevard in front of the apartment so he could grow some plants on the roof. She told him not to. Military vehicles routinely passed there. Anyone watching would think he was planting an IED—Improvised Explosive Device. He could be shot on sight. But Tom, having made up his mind, did it anyway. “We all did things like that,” Maxine said. “You had to sometimes. It was a way of protesting against all the restrictions the war imposed on you. But that … that was going too far.”

JANUARY 29
DAY 65

A month after her kidnapping, she declared on an audiotape that she had changed her name to Tania and joined her captors as a member of the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA). Two weeks after that, she was photographed with an M1 carbine robbing a bank. A year and a half after that, she was arrested by the FBI in an SLA safe house.

I think about her constantly—Patty Hearst, the 19-year-old American newspaper heiress and socialite who became the 1974 poster child for Stockholm Syndrome, what they call it when a hostage becomes emotionally attached to her abductors and sympathizes with their aims, even to the point of defending them against law enforcement officials.

It disgusts me every time I hold out my wrist for the captors.
Here, go ahead, lock me up, I don’t mind
. I feel like a trick poodle jumping through a hoop. I am making it easier for them. Easier to negotiate their goddamned ransom, buy more weapons, kill more people. Sometimes, in a storm of rage, I say to myself,
No, enough of this, I will not play your game anymore. Release me or kill me, you must decide. Until you do, I am taking my clothes off and I am going to sit here, naked, refusing everything—your food, your chains, your instructions. I would rather die than co-operate with murder
.

Perhaps if I were stronger, more courageous, had more faith, this is what I would do. But I don’t. Day after day I hold out my wrist, eat their food, follow their instructions. I want to live too much. It becomes a kind of dance. Where to draw the line? How much can I co-operate without becoming an accomplice to my own captivity? It’s a constant tension. I sometimes wonder if I, if we, have become like Patty Hearst, victims of Stockholm Syndrome who have internalized subservience for the sake of survival. I must continually remind myself: no, we are not the same. They are the captors and enslavers; we are the captives and slaves. Until the day our freedom is restored, we are
ipso facto
locked in existential combat. There is no escaping it.

Last night during lock-up, Uncle asked Harmeet to go and get one of the chains in the foyer. Without thinking, Harmeet went to get it. This was crossing the line. “Harmeet,” I said to him later, as gently as I could, “I know it’s a risk to say no when they ask for something, but
I’ll never do it. They’re the ones holding us captive. It’s their chain. If they want to lock us up, okay, I don’t have any control over that, but I’ll never go and get their chain. And I don’t think you should either. There’s a line between us and them. We have to always remember that or else we’ll lose ourselves in the captivity.”

I was right, he admitted. He hadn’t thought about it. He won’t do it again.

Tonight, Harmeet is put to the test. Uncle is unusually playful at the start. He provokes Junior with pinching and jostling, grabs him in a headlock, forces him onto his knees by twisting his ear. When Norman passes him on his return from the bathroom—slowly, cautiously, holding on to fixed objects, so different from the vigorous man I met in Amman two months ago—Uncle steps towards him and shakes his keys in his face. “Najis,” he taunts elfishly.
“La hubis.”
Norman eases himself onto his knees, moving as if in slow motion. “Hurry up,” Uncle says, waving his hands with comedic urgency. Refusing to be hurried, Norman turns onto his back and stretches out his leg.
“Najis,”
Uncle says, gripping Norman’s ankle with the chain.

“Ow!” Norman protests. Uncle laughs and yanks Norman’s leg. “That’s my leg!” Norman cries out, his voice breaking with anger.

Uncle sits down, chortling as if this is the funniest thing. He points to the foyer.
“Zengeel, zengeel,”
he says, ordering Harmeet to go and get the other chain.

Harmeet shakes his head. “This
haram.”

“Haram?”
Uncle says, getting up from his chair, indignant and threatening. He clamps a giant hand around Harmeet’s crossed forearms and squeezes as hard as he can.
“Haram?”
he repeats, hoping to force Harmeet to cry out in pain. Harmeet looks at him, silent as a stone. Uncle lets go and reaches for Norman’s chain, but Norman pulls it away before he can grab it.
“Najis,”
Uncle cries. Junior slaps his knee with laughter.

“Haram
!” Norman says, his voice a foot stomping down. “Old man. I’m an old man!”

Uncle tosses his keys at Junior and storms out of the room. After this, the
najis
treatment ends.

–

“Uncle is definitely angry,” Tom says, reflecting later on Uncle’s antics during lock-up.

“What do you mean?” I say. We do it all the time, analyze and parse our captors’ moods, their glances and gestures, what they say and don’t say, alert for any sign of danger or release. We test and formulate different hypotheses gleaned from our various perceptions and understandings, always searching for the most accurate interpretation. We have to get it right. The smallest misunderstanding could be lethal.

“He’s always saying it,” Tom says. “He’s angry because there’s no hubis.”
La hubis
. No money. Uncle says it every night. Sometimes it’s an explanation, sometimes it’s a tease or a promise. Yes, I think, Uncle was angry, but it wasn’t about ransom money. It was because Norman and Harmeet defied him. I try to explain this, but Tom refuses to consider any other explanation. He insists it’s because there is no money. I’m perplexed, irritated, concerned. His perceptions are becoming more and more fixed, his mind closed, his judgment askew. If he is unable to adjust his thinking in this matter of little importance, what will happen in a matter of life and death?

JANUARY 30
DAY 66

I’m awakened by a shaft of lantern light pouring into the room. We’re unlocked! My body goes instantly to red alert. It takes me a second to realize it’s only Tom, kneeling at the edge of our bed, readying himself to pee into the hamam bottle. There’s a sudden clattering sound. “Sorry,” he whispers. He’s knocked the bottle over. I hold my breath and listen intently for the captors.

I hear Tom removing the lid of the pop bottle, a soft click as he places it on the floor, the brittle crinkling of plastic, urine streaming into a bottle. “I’m sorry to disturb you like this,” he says. “It must be the acid in my stomach.” I wince. His voice is too loud.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to apologize,” Harmeet whispers. Tom closes the door and settles back under his covers.

A sudden rush of fear. I’m not sure. I think I can hear something, a noise from downstairs. Every cell in my body listens. I hear rustling. Tom is standing up. I’m about to say something when there’s a sudden racket of chain hitting the floor.

“Tom!” I whisper fiercely.

“It’s all right,” he says. “The chain’s all knotted up.”

Please, Tom—be quiet!

He cracks the door open again. “I need a bit of light. The chain’s all knotted up.” I hear it again. Now I’m sure. Voices, movement at the bottom of the stairs, very soft. I lift my head from the pillow. Another thud of chain falling. I can feel the vibration of it in the floor.

“Tom!” I hiss.

“It’s all right. I’m just unknotting the chain.” His voice is much too loud.

“LISTEN!” I whisper-shout. He drops the chain again. “TOM! STOP!” I hiss.

He stops. I listen. Nothing. After a minute I hear a door closing. The danger has passed, thank God. I rest my head back on the pillow, shaking with rage.

“Najis!”
Junior says, pinching his nose as he enters the room. He rushes to open the window and turns to us with an angry gale of Arabic. The contempt on his face tells me everything I need to know.

Uncle stands at the door dressed in civvies: collared shirt and suit jacket—even shoes. He talks briefly with Junior before leaving. Junior kicks off his sandals, steps onto our bed and bends down to unlock Norman’s ankle, his face writhing with disgust. When the lock clicks open, Junior stands above him with his hands on his hips, lecturing. He unlocks the rest of us and leaves in a huff.

“It looks like somebody has some time off,” Harmeet says, referring to Uncle’s brief appearance. “My arms are bruised where he grabbed me.”

“He promised we could do laundry today,” Tom says. “I’ll check that with Junior. It’ll break up the day.”

“I don’t know, Tom. He seemed pretty grouchy this morning,” Harmeet warns.

“It won’t hurt to have a try,” Tom says.

Harmeet asks Tom how he slept. Not well, he answers, even with the medicine. He doesn’t think it’s working. I look at him closely. He’s glassy-eyed, disconnected, moving like he’s under water. He asks if he can use the bathroom first. Go for it, we say.

I gather Harmeet and Norman together. I’m really concerned about Tom, I say. It’s like he’s in a fog all the time, and it’s getting worse. Last night, when I thought I heard noises downstairs, he wouldn’t stop rattling that damned chain. We have to keep our wits about us if we’re going to have any chance of surviving. We have to talk with him, I say, get him to cut back on the Valium. Norman and Harmeet agree. They nominate me. I reluctantly agree.

My mood immediately changes when I walk into the middle of the foyer for morning exercise. The sunlight pouring down the stairway is pure therapy. I lift my hands into the open-air space of the foyer and begin my stretching routine.
It’s great to be alive
, I want to shout.

Tom emerges from the bathroom. Norman goes in carrying our water bottle and metal cups. Tom walks straight towards Junior. “Sabha
il hare,”
he says.

“Sabha il noor,”
Junior grunts without looking up from the cellphone.

“How did you sleep last night?
Nam zane?”
Tom asks.

Junior shakes his head.
“Mozane. Kool y um mozane.”

“This no sleep too,” Tom says, pointing to himself.
“Kool y um mozane nam.”
Junior doesn’t answer. “Are we going to be able to do laundry today? Laundry?
Frook hind?”
Tom asks, demonstrating with his hands.

“No,” Junior says, still not looking up.

“Mbarha, yesterday,
haji
say, ‘Today laundry.’
El yom
laundry.”

Junior looks up from his cellphone. “What this, mbarha laundry? No
mbarha
laundry. No laundry
el yom
.”

“Yes,” Tom insists.
“Haji
told us we could do laundry today.
El yom
laundry.”

Junior stands up and faces Tom. He makes it very clear: he’s the one in charge today and there will be no laundry.

“Tom,” I say, my voice soft.

Tom stands over Junior and thrusts out his chest. “You go ask him. He’ll tell you. He said we could do laundry.” His voice is hot, his finger points.

“No laundry,” Junior says menacingly.

“Tom! Drop it!” I say.

The two men stare at each other. Tom turns away. Junior glares angrily.

“I’m sorry for what happened last night,” Tom says after Junior has locked us up. “The chain was all knotted up. I just can’t seem to sleep. I don’t know why, but my chain seems to get twisted around all the time.”

God, I think. We need to talk about this. I clear my throat. “I
am
a little concerned about what happened last night. We weren’t handcuffed and I heard noises downstairs—”

“It’s all right,” Tom blurts, cutting me off. “The chain was just knotted. I didn’t hear anything when I opened the door. The coast was clear.”

“But Tom, your hearing isn’t very good. Especially lately. I’m—”

“I was just trying to unknot the chain. It’s all right. Next time I’ll be more careful.”

“Tom, you’re not listening.”

Tom turns towards me, daggers shooting from his eyes. “That’s enough! Drop it!” he orders. He looks ready to leap out of his chair. I grip the arms of my chair and lean towards him, jaw clenching. “I’m warning you—drop it!” Tom threatens.

Our eyes lock.
Don’t do this
, a voice cautions. I take a breath and force my shoulders to relax. “All right,” I say, sitting back in my chair. For a long time my body trembles with rage.

–

Harmeet flicks his nails, Norman shifts in his chair, Tom cracks his shoulders. The silence is unbearable. I stare at the brown stains on the bedsheet curtain and concentrate on my breathing. I try to step back, disengage, separate from the conflict, but my mind spirals helplessly, accusation around blame, blame around accusation. It seems impossible. We’ll never find a way through this. It makes me despair for the world. If we can’t do it, find a way to reconcile, when our survival depends on it and we share a common commitment to non-violence, what hope is there for those whose enmity is written in blood? Tutsi and Hutu, Palestinian and Jew, Croat and Serb.