Authors: Haggai Carmon
"We're in deep shit," whispered Arnon.
The guard sitting next to Arnon hit him in the face with the rifle butt,
shouting "Uskoot!" Shut up! Blood dripped from Arnon's nose onto his
shirt. His jaw was swollen. He wiped away the blood with his hand,
leaned his head on the headrest, and closed his eyes.
We drove for more than three hours on the hardened terrain. The air
was hot and our lips were dry. No food or water was offered to us. Arnon
was moaning in pain. There was nothing I could do for him.
"He needs to see a doctor," I told the guard sitting next to him.
"Uskoot," he shouted again, waving his gun. Oded signaled me to stop;
Arnon would be okay.
I looked outside. We joined a paved road. Soon, increased traffic indicated we were entering a populated area. I saw small buildings, mostly
commercial. A few people were walking on the side of the road.
A couple of hours later we entered a city. I managed to read a road sign:
BENGHAZI. Libya's second largest city, and a major port.
We crossed several railroad tracks without a barrier. Most of the twostory buildings on the main road were shabby. Judging by the hanging
laundry, they were residential on the upper floor and commercial on the
street level. Many of the stores were selling olives and wool. Live
chickens, sheep, and other livestock were displayed in pens out front.
Camels crossed in front of us carrying goods on their backs. The caravan trade entering the city from the interior regions lent an exotic flavor,
and snarled traffic. The streets were littered with debris, and only men
roamed them. As the sea breeze came through the SUV's open windows,
the landscape suddenly changed; wide boulevards stretched in all directions, lined with palm, eucalyptus, and wattle trees in blossom. There
were many modern buildings, including what looked like a business center built in the shape of a pyramid. We approached a modern, sixstory building separated from the bay by only a narrow coastal road, and
surrounded by recently planted palm trees. Our car pulled into the semicircular driveway and stopped. A uniformed doorman, with an embroidered pocket that read UZO HOTEL, opened the passenger's-side door.
`Marhaban beekum," he said, welcome. Two of our captors got out and
said something to the doorman, who shut the car door. They entered the
lobby while the two others stayed with us in the SUV. Ten minutes later
the men returned with a big envelope, got back into the SUV, and we
were off again.
Ten or fifteen minutes later we drove into a side street in an older section of Benghazi, halting in front of a two-story residential house. The
driver stepped out of the car and opened the light blue iron gate with a
key. We drove into a yard.
A man holding an AK-47 emerged from the house. "Get out," he
shouted. We were led into a windowless basement. On the floor were
three heavily used and stained mattresses. A guard brought us three plates
with sticky, oily rice that was barely edible and cups of water. They'd been
expecting us. The door closed behind us and the light went off.
"Are you okay?" Oded asked Arnon at the first opportunity he had to
talk without risking a beating.
"Yes, I'm fine. A big headache and a broken tooth, but I'll be all right."
We sat on the mattresses wondering what was coming next. Twice
escaped and twice caught; would we have a third opportunity? We fell
asleep with the uncertainty of our fate weighing on us.
We awoke when the door opened and the light came on. The same two
men from the day before entered, holding their menacing AK-47s.
"Come," said one of them, pointing his gun at us. We climbed out of
the basement. We were tired, hungry, and smelly. It was early morning.
The SUV was waiting, motor running. Twenty minutes later we arrived
at the port. There we boarded a fishing boat: a ninety-foot-long bottom
long-liner and set-liner, probably for fishing tuna. We were led into the
lower deck. "Stay here and don't move," said our guard. They didn't
bother handcuffing us. I guess they presumed we had no place to escape to. Also, bound men attract attention, and maybe they thought they
didn't need any. An hour later the boat's engine started and we slowly
moved away. Direction unknown.
Two hours later we were allowed to go up to the deck and sit. I counted
a crew of seven. The senior-looking man approached us. "I'm Captain
Ibrahim. If you make no foolish mistakes, nothing will happen to you."
And what would happen to us if we did attempt escape? He must have
read my mind because he continued as if in answer, "The sharks would
love a free meal."
"Sharks?" I asked, looking at Oded.
"Sure," he said, amused. "Bluntnose sixgill, Hexanchus griseus."
"Very funny," I said. "What is it?"
"A fifteen-foot-long, thousand-pound shark; they're fairly common in
this part of the Mediterranean."
We were offered flaked and dried fish and a bottle of water. The
journey itself was almost pleasant. The sea was calm, and a light breeze
kept us cool in the high temperatures. From the position of the sun I
knew where we were going. I couldn't see land, although I figured it
couldn't be too far given the seagulls flying above. When evening
approached, we were ordered back to the lower deck. A fisherman gave
us a loaf of bread, three cucumbers, five olives, and a small bottle of olive
oil. "Stay here!" ordered Ibrahim, who'd followed us to our cabin.
Compared with our previous diet, this was a gourmet dinner.
After many more hours of uneventful sailing, we slowed down. The
engine lowered torque, and the boat rattled until it halted. We heard noises
up on deck. A sailor came down the stairs into our cabin, warned us to keep
quiet, and locked our door. Two hours later we were sweating profusely in
the cramped cabin when the boat started moving slowly again.
"Let me guess," said Arnon. "We've arrived at Port Said, Egypt."
"How can you tell?"
"We were going east. The seagulls indicated we've been near the coast
most of the time. A day's sail would get us to Egypt, and Port Said would
be a logical place to stop."
"I think you're right," I said. "If we'd been going north, into the sea, we'd have felt it. The waves would have been higher if we'd been out at
sea, and we've had a smooth ride. So if we stopped in Port Said and
they're now hiding us, we'll probably be crossing the Suez Canal heading
south." Port Said is situated a few miles west of the Port Suez bypass
approach channel to the Suez Canal.
"Then where are they taking us?" asked Oded.
"Who knows? It could be southern Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Somalia, or
Yemen," I said. "And knowingly or unknowingly, any one of these countries could be harboring our terrorists."
We were allowed onto the upper deck after the sun went down, and
there was no doubt we were in the Suez Canal. The coastline looked low
and flat. We could see Egyptian peasants in the distance. I saw a few
fishing boats and for a short minute entertained the thought of jumping
overboard and swimming to shore, which looked to be less than two hundred yards away. But the presence of the two gunmen sitting next to me
made me change my mind. I had no doubt they would shoot to kill if I
tried it - and I still had a life, children, ambition, and unfulfilled plans.
"We'll soon know," I said. "The canal is only a hundred miles long, and
at the speed we're going we'll be through in about ten hours."
The fishermen on board fried fish on a small range and gave us fairly
large portions to take down to our cabin, where we were ordered to stay.
We couldn't talk freely. The boat was too small. But I was sure that Oded
and Arnon were doing what I was doing: trying to think of ways to
escape. When we talked at all we did so in English, strictly avoiding
Hebrew. Far more than the ten hours I'd calculated it would take us to
travel the length of the Suez Canal, passing through Lake Manzalah,
Lake Timsah, and the Bitter Lakes, had passed, but we still weren't
allowed on the upper deck.
"We're going farther south," I said. "Which means that if we passed the
lakes and then the city of Suez, we'd be in the Gulf of Suez. Next on our
right would be Sudan, Eritrea, and Ethiopia; on our left, Saudi Arabia
and Yemen. If we continue south, we'll have to cross the Straits of
Djibouti then arrive in Somalia. The boat needs supplies, fuel and water,
so we're bound to stop someplace."
The voyage settled into a routine. We were allowed on the upper deck
for meals and fresh air several times a day, but were kept down below each
time the boat approached other ships or ports, and at night.
On the fifth day, if I hadn't lost count, there was sudden activity on
board. We were locked in our cabin. The boat slowed, then stopped. Our
cabin door was opened, and we were led to the upper deck. It was late at
night. I looked around and could barely make out a dark coastline. A
smaller motorboat was approaching us. After an exchange of shouted
Arabic, the motorboat stopped next to us and we were told to jump in.
Soon we were speeding through the low waves toward the shore. The
beach looked rugged and hilly, without any sign of civilization. In addition to the helmsman, there were three gunmen on board. Not a word
was exchanged. We entered a small inlet and the engine stopped. The
gunmen made us jump into the shallow water with them. After the initial shock, the cool water was quite pleasant. I hadn't had a bath or a
shower since dipping into the pond at Bir Tamam's oasis. The water was
up to our waists, so I took the opportunity to cleanse myself as much as
I could. Arnon and Oded did the same. We walked up the beach, and
after climbing a hill saw a flashlight signal.
"Here they are," said one gunman. Not far away I saw a light truck
parked on a dirt road. We were told to sit in the back and the truck moved
out. After more than a four-hour jarring drive on a rough dirt road, most
of it climbing mountains in pitch darkness, we arrived at an inhabited
area. It was past midnight. I looked at the few people I could see in the
narrow streets, attempting to determine where we were. But customs and
dress don't change abruptly just because you cross a political border. We
could have been in Eritrea, Ethiopia, Somalia, or any other close location.
The truck slowed down; we were nearing a small town. There was a road
sign in Arabic. I slowly read it: AL-JUMHURIYAH AL-YAMANIYAH.
"Guys," I whispered, "we're in Yemen."
"Damn," said Arnon. Yemen was a lawless, remote country, openly
cooperating with terrorists of the worst kind and offering them safe
haven. Terrorists' strength is in their small number and their lawlessness.
They have no sovereign territory, and that makes them hard to trace and difficult to predict. On the other hand, their sparse numbers complicate
things when all of a sudden they need to assume duties usually carried out
by governments, such as maintaining prisons. I assumed they were
moving us around to avoid detection by the outside world.
The truck continued along a winding road, climbing higher and higher.
The air became cooler. We passed a few houses built into the hills, and
saw very few cars. A few of the homes had electricity, but we were far
from what I'd call civilization. We arrived at a three-story building at the
top hill of the town and were locked immediately in a room on the
ground floor. We got water but no food. The floor was covered by straw.
I figured they must have kept sheep there. We made nests of straw to
soften the hard ground, and we fell asleep.
Early in the morning we woke up from the cold and the city noises.
Muezzins called from the minarets of mosques in all directions, "Hasten
to prayer!"
"Where do you think we are?" asked Oded.
"I can only guess," I said. "I would say we are at least five thousand feet
high. We must have heard more than ten different muezzins calling, so
we must be in a city. If I had to guess, I'd say we're in the capital, Sana'a."
"Why the hell move us here?" asked Oded. The strain was getting to
him, his voice tired and weaker.
"They are going to kill us here," he continued, answering his own question in despair.
"I don't think so," I said; "exactly the opposite. They brought us to
Yemen to keep us alive. They could have killed us in Libya. I think we're
here because nobody knows this country well, not even the locals. You
think Libya is primitive? Try Yemen. At least Libya has a government,
crazy as it is, that grinds everyone under its boot, even organizations they
support. Even as Khadafi's pets, the Slaves of Allah couldn't do anything
in Libya without his consent. Since Khadafi is so unpredictable, they
couldn't entrust us to him. We're a valuable commodity in the trade-in
business."
Although Yemen has a national government, it has no real power.
Yemen has been run in the same manner for thousands of years as a loose federation of tribes. Each tribe has a leader with no respect or allegiance
to other tribes, and certainly not to central authority. All of this made the
country a fine place for the Slaves of Allah to hide their treasures.
"I have no idea which tribe's auspices we're under, but it doesn't matter,
because none of them have foreign interests or policies. I wouldn't be
surprised if they don't even know or care where Canada or Hungary are,"
I said.
"So where does that leave us?" asked Oded.
"The Slaves of Allah are smart. They know, given Yemen's lawlessness,
that no one will pressure the tribe to release us, since the tribe obeys no one
- and as long as the Slaves of Allah pay their price, they will hold us here."
We all knew that Yemeni tribesmen kidnap hundreds of foreigners
every year. Their families or employers pay a ransom, and they're released.
And if no one pays, Allah yerahemo: God will have mercy on them.
An hour later the door opened, and a skinny boy in a long galabiya
brought us three bowls of baked beans, three large thin pita breads, and
some putrid water. We devoured the food, and had to drink the water for
survival. We were then moved to a higher floor, to a room with windows
that had bars. Arnon and Oded were made to sit and wait on a wooden
bench while I was brought into an adjacent room. A fat man with three
small knife scars on his face was behind a desk. I was told to sit on a stool.
An armed guard with sunglasses was standing silently in the corner
behind me.