The ISIS Hostage

by Puk Damsgård

  Foreword

  The phone rang one afternoon at the end of May 2013. I had just returned home to Beirut after a two-week reporting trip to the Syrian city of Yabrud, which lies slightly north of Damascus. The trip had ended dramatically when the Syrian regime started sending fighter planes over the city. The bombs hit our neighbourhood and shattered the windows in the building where we lived. My photographer and I decided to leave Syria by crossing the border into Lebanon.

  We were totally exhausted after working for days on end under the constant threat of danger. It wasn’t just the bombings that made us feel nervous, but also the Syrian rebels who came from the many different groups in the area. We just didn’t trust them. We knew that a French photographer was already being held captive a little further south. The mood in Yabrud had also changed considerably since I had been there a few months earlier and I was on my guard with everyone we met.

  I was lying sprawled on the sofa, trying to recharge my batteries, when the call came. It was the accomplished war photographer Jan Grarup on the other end. He asked me to keep our conversation strictly confidential. I sat up as he told me that the Danish freelance photographer Daniel Rye, who had been his assistant, had been kidnapped in northern Syria.

  ‘Do you know anyone with contacts in the sharia courts?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so – no one springs to mind,’ I replied.

  According to the limited information available, a group of Islamic extremists were behind Daniel Rye’s abduction and he would apparently have to stand trial before a sharia court. However, Jan had only a few details. I felt powerless because there was nothing I could do to help. My first thoughts went to Daniel Rye’s parents. I had always worried that if anything like this should ever happen to me, my parents would be the ones to suffer the most, just sitting there waiting, with no idea where I was. It was too unbearable to contemplate.

  The news of Daniel Rye’s capture was just one of several events that emphasized the fact that my profession was under serious attack. Several of my foreign colleagues had been kidnapped in Syria. It was a much-discussed subject, because the prospect terrified us. In principle, we were all potential hostage victims and this meant it was becoming increasingly difficult for us to tell the important stories of the war and to report on the tragedy unfolding in Syria.

  Over the following year an increasing number of foreigners were captured. A feeling of panic was spreading through the journalist corps in the Middle East and in the closed circles where we discussed the kidnappings. People we knew were being held hostage for indefinite periods of time. When I returned to Syria in September and November 2013 and in June 2014 it was with a great deal of trepidation.

  The Islamist terror organization known as ISIS set the agenda for where we could go. Even if ISIS disappeared from an area that had been under their control, their tentacles reached deep into Syrian society and souls. The armed men I met in northern Syria in June 2014 had a wild and unpredictable look in their eyes. As it turned out, my friendly driver was a former ISIS fighter. ‘But no more, Madame,’ he reassured me.

  I couldn’t avoid the presence of ISIS in Baghdad, either. In spring 2014, ISIS attacked a stadium filled with several thousand people – men, women and children – who had come to a Shiite party election meeting that I was covering. When the first bomb exploded I completely lost my hearing and I hid behind a freezer in a makeshift street stall. When I saw bullets being fired wildly all around me I ran across the road, down which a suicide bomber drove his car shortly afterwards. It was a narrow escape and I felt the blast of the explosion against my back. More than forty people were killed that day. That spring the only positive news from the region was that several European hostages had been released after their ransoms had been paid, including Daniel Rye.

  One evening in August 2014, while I was in a hotel room in Iraq, a video was uploaded on YouTube. It showed the murder of the American freelance journalist James Foley. He could be seen kneeling in an orange prison uniform in the Syrian Desert, at the hands of an ISIS executioner. An American colleague, whom I was supposed to meet for a beer later that evening, wrote to me that she was in total shock and we cancelled our plans. I couldn’t sleep that night. It was so utterly tragic for James Foley and his family, and it was also a brutal attack on journalism. With these new developments, it was no longer enough to prepare yourself and your loved ones for the unavoidable fact that bullets and bombs could strike when you’re covering a war.

  I was now first and foremost a target; a potential and valuable political tool that could be used at will. The world was certainly no stranger to such tactics, but this was the first time, as a journalist, that the threat felt so intensely close, almost personal. Nevertheless, my greatest wish was to be able to travel to the ISIS stronghold in Raqqa and report on the Islamists and the life they had created for the civilians; I was keen to investigate them further and discover who they really were. Out of pure frustration at being so far away from the story, I seriously considered dressing in black from head to toe and travelling there with a trusted local.

  Instead, I chose the next best thing. I decided to use my journalistic skills to write about what had happened to my colleagues and, through their stories, come a little closer to the core of ISIS. Daniel Rye had been a hostage along with James Foley, so I sent him a message via a mutual acquaintance, asking him if he would talk to me about his thirteen months of captivity at the hands of ISIS. He answered me on Facebook: ‘Hi Puk. My name is Daniel Rye. You’ve probably heard of me. I suffered a slight occupational hazard last year. Luckily for me, it had a happy ending.’ We met for the first time one Friday in early October 2014 at a basement restaurant in central Copenhagen. We agreed that Daniel’s story needed to be told.

  The ISIS Hostage is about surviving one of the most notorious kidnappings in recent times – a hostage drama carried out by Islamic extremists, against whom much of the West is at war, including Denmark, since October 2014.

  Twenty-four hostages – five women and nineteen men – from thirteen different nations ended up in the same prison in Raqqa in northern Syria. It was controlled by the terror group known as ISIS – it later changed its name to Islamic State (IS) – which has conquered and administrates large areas of Iraq and Syria. Daniel Rye was one of those hostages and, at the time of writing, he was the last prisoner to leave captivity alive. Six of his fellow prisoners were murdered while in captivity.

  This book is a journalistic narrative based on countless interviews and conversations with Daniel Rye and his family, and it follows the struggle to get Daniel released from the clutches of the world’s most brutal terrorist organization. I also talked to a large number of other relevant sources: former fellow prisoners, jihadists and background contacts from around the world with extensive knowledge of the case and of the people who held Daniel Rye captive.

  This story is also based on interviews with kidnapping expert and security consultant, Arthur. He led the search for both Daniel Rye and his American fellow prisoner James Foley, who ended his days in Syria. Arthur isn’t his real name; in fact, he lives a very discreet existence, which is crucial for his work in negotiating hostage releases all over the world. It isn’t in his nature to discuss his work, but he has nevertheless chosen to participate, because he believes that there is much to learn from this story. And, as he says, Daniel’s experience also shows that ‘where there’s life, there’s hope’.

  This book describes the reality as experienced and remembered by Daniel Rye and the other contributors. It is told with respect for those who were murdered, those still in captivity and those who survived, as well as for their families.

  Puk Damsgård
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br />   Cairo

  September 2015

  Happy Birthday, Jim

  The plane had just taken off from Heathrow Airport and was high above the clouds when Daniel opened his wallet and took out a small piece of cardboard. He silently contemplated the white surface, studying the image of his own face sketched with thin pencil strokes. He wasn’t wearing his glasses in the drawing and he had a beard, but otherwise you could tell it was him.

  He showed the picture to his travel companion, Arthur, who was sitting next to him, his long legs stretched out under the seat in front.

  ‘Actually, some of the stuff we did was quite enjoyable,’ said Daniel, gripping the mini-portrait tightly between his fingers. ‘We played our own homemade version of Risk and I did gymnastic exercises with the other hostages.’

  The drawing was the only memento from his time held hostage by ISIS in Syria. It had been drawn by one of the other western prisoners, Pierre Torres, who had sewn it inside his sleeve and smuggled it out of captivity. Pierre was another of the lucky ones whose freedom had been successfully negotiated.

  Once freed, Daniel feared the worst. The Islamic State started killing the remaining western hostages, which was the reason why, on 17 October 2014, he found himself flying over the Atlantic with Arthur on their way to New Hampshire. They were on their way to attend James Foley’s memorial.

  Daniel put the drawing back in his wallet and ordered a glass of wine to accompany the predictable ‘chicken or beef’ in-flight menu. After the meal he fell asleep, his head resting on the still folded and plastic-packaged blanket he was using as a pillow. His hair was sticking up from the static electricity and his mouth hung open. He woke up five hours later, just as they were preparing to land in Boston. Outside the airport terminal he lit a cigarette in the clear autumn air and inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. He didn’t usually smoke. In the meantime, Arthur went to pick up the keys for their rental car and they drove to their hotel on the outskirts of Boston.

  The next morning they headed towards the Foley family’s home town, Rochester, New Hampshire. The eighteenth of October 2014 dawned with sparse clouds in the sky. On this day James would have been forty-one years old.

  In August 2014 the American freelance journalist had lost his life in the Syrian Desert. He was the first western hostage to have his throat slit by the British ISIS fighter known in the media as ‘Jihadi John’.

  Daniel had been held captive in Syria for thirteen months, spending eight of them in the company of James and other western hostages. Daniel had thought highly of James, who was always optimistic, even though he had been imprisoned since November 2012. They had had plenty of time to get to know each other and Daniel had listened to James’s anecdotes about his siblings and parents. Now he was on his way to meet them and to pay his final respects to a friendship that had started, and ended, in captivity.

  The trees leaned forwards invitingly along Old Rochester Road, the narrow country road that wound its way through New England. Bright red maples stood out among the green pines, and shades of yellow, orange and brown clung to the branches like a final breath before winter fell. The scent of winter’s impending arrival mingled with the smoke from Daniel’s and Arthur’s cigarettes. Daniel scrolled through the music on his iPhone and played the melancholy song ‘Add Ends’ by the Danish band When Saints Go Machine – a song he had listened to countless times since James had been murdered.

  Nestling between the trees were tall, well-kept houses and there were pumpkins carved into cheerful faces with star-shaped eyes or else frozen in menacing screams. These jack-o’-lanterns kept a vigilant watch from the lawns and driveways. Even the local grocery store was overflowing with them, almost blocking the entrance.

  When they turned into the Foley family’s road, the orange changed to black. They passed a large house where a hooded skeleton guarded the door. The road curved among scattered houses and American flags that were stuck in the grass by the asphalt. The whole neighbourhood was in mourning for the tragedy that had befallen the family in the white house at the end of the road.

  The large lawn at the front of the property was dense and damp, and light shone through the windows towards the driveway, where a couple of cars were parked. Daniel strode purposefully towards the front door, followed by Arthur. He knocked and entered when he heard voices. James’s parents, Diane and John Foley, greeted them as soon as they stepped across the ‘Welcome’ mat. Diane gave Daniel a long, maternal hug, her thick, dark hair brushing against his face as she held him close. She squeezed his arm and led him around the crowded kitchen to meet the family. Above the door between the kitchen and the living room were painted the words: ‘With God’s blessing spread love and laughter in this house.’ It smelled of coffee, perfume and toast.

  ‘Meet Daniel.’ Diane introduced him with a mixture of gratitude and pain in her voice.

  After a year in captivity, Daniel had finally got the sense that he might be close to being released. James decided to send a message to his own family through Daniel, but he didn’t dare write a letter. If it were found, it would jeopardize Daniel’s release and might never reach his family. Instead, they sat next to each other in the cell and James dictated the words that Daniel repeated to himself over and over again until he could remember them in his sleep.

  As soon as Daniel had been released and had arrived back in Denmark, he called Diane and repeated James’s message, word for word, over the phone. It was the only and final greeting the family received from their son in captivity. Diane wrote James’s words down to remember them.

  For the memorial service she had printed out the words so that the guests and the rest of the world could read them too. The title was: ‘A Letter from Jim’. It included a note to his grandmother:

  Grammy, please take your medicine, take walks and keep dancing. I plan to take you out to Margarita’s when I get home. Stay strong, because I’m going to need your help to reclaim my life.

  ‘Thank you, Daniel,’ said James’s grandmother in the kitchen as she gave his hand a squeeze. The slight lady with the pearl earrings wiped her eyes and looked as if she was about to collapse under the weight of her sorrow.

  To his younger sister Katie, the woman with the long, smooth hair, James had said this:

  Katie, I’m so very proud of you. You’re the strongest of us all! I think of you working so hard, helping people as a nurse. I am so glad we texted just before I was captured. I pray I can come to your wedding.

  James’s brothers Mark, John and Michael were also standing in the kitchen. They all wore dark suits and shared the same features as James: brown eyes under wide, dark eyebrows and a broad smile. Daniel felt as if he had known them for a long time, as James had talked about them at length, because he missed them so much. Daniel also knew that the brothers had been longing for good news about their brother. His message had given them a new burst of hope for a while:

  I have had good days and bad days. We are so grateful when anyone is freed, but of course yearn for our own freedom. We try to encourage each other and share strength. We are being fed better now and daily. We have tea, occasionally coffee. I have regained most of my weight lost last year […] I remember so many great family times that take me away from this prison […] I feel you especially when I pray. I pray for you to stay strong and to believe. I really feel I can touch you, even in this darkness, when I pray.

  James had finally found peace from his torment and now the family was trying to find its way back from the darkness. Mark and his wife Kasey were expecting their first child.

  ‘His name will be James Foley,’ Kasey said proudly of her unborn son as she stood in the kitchen in slippers, caressing her belly.

  The service was set to begin at 10 a.m. Everyone emptied their coffee cups and put on their shoes and coats to go to the church. Kasey kept her slippers on when the family went out to the car. Diane insisted on sitting next to
Daniel in the back seat; she took his hand and held it tight, while John drove in silence towards the church.

  Our Lady of the Holy Rosary Church in Rochester was packed with family and friends. In front of the altar was a picture of James Wright Foley. He was smiling his charming, lopsided grin, which by all accounts had brought him great success with women. Yellow and red flowers encircled his face, the eyes giving a sense of the affectionate troublemaker he was.

  There was no coffin to put in the grave. James’s body had already been laid to rest somewhere in Syria. His family couldn’t bring themselves to look at the last image the world had seen of him: a body in an orange prison uniform lying on its stomach in the desert with the arms by its sides. On top of the body, between the shoulder blades, was the head.

  Most of the media had refrained from showing the ISIS propaganda video of James’s murder. Daniel had watched it only to ensure that James was finally at peace. He had so many other images of James etched on to his brain and they flooded back to him as he sat in one of the front pews, staring straight ahead. His white shirt lit up like a moon against the dark jackets filling the church.

  He thought back to one year earlier, 18 October 2013, when they had been together in captivity. Late in the evening James had casually remarked that it was his fortieth birthday. Daniel and the other prisoners had congratulated him and said they hoped his birthday would be better the following year.

  Now Daniel was sitting in front of a photo of James, while Michael wept through his speech about a warm and loving big brother who had fought for a better world.

  ‘James died for what he believed in,’ he said.

  Daniel could see James in Michael. He leaned forwards and put his elbows on his knees, his broad back shaking uncontrollably. It was the James he had known that Michael was describing to the guests; the James who always had time for others – even when they all knew that James might end up dying in captivity.