The Dawn Prayer[Or How to Survive in a Secret Syrian Terrorist Prison]

by Matthew Schrier

  “How are you?” Abdullah asked me.

  “I miss my family,” I lied. “What’s going on with the investigation? You guys have had me for like five days now. I mean, where am I?”

  “You’re in an Islamic court,” he answered.

  This caught me completely off guard.

  “What? But why?”

  “You know why, and tomorrow you will be judged.”

  “Judged for what, man, being an American? What are the charges? I didn’t do anything!”

  “Don’t worry, we’re not going to kill you,” he said calmly.

  “Then what are you gonna do with me?” I asked.

  “That’s up to the judge.”

  “Well, where am I gonna be judged?”

  “In here.”

  “In here? This room?”

  “Yes, the judge will come here.”

  “And what about evidence? How can I prove my innocence if you won’t let me use my photos and contact witnesses?”

  He just smiled and waved off my questions. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. With all the men I’d heard marching by my room and screaming “Allah Akbar,” I’d been almost positive I was on some kind of jihadi base.

  “I have a proposition for you,” Abdullah said, abruptly changing the subject.

  “All right.”

  “We want you to call your embassy and ask for three million dollars, and we will give you five percent.”

  I sat there in shock as the three of them looked at me, patiently waiting for an answer.

  “What are you, crazy?” I said with a laugh. “That’s never gonna happen! My government doesn’t negotiate with—”

  I stopped and looked at them. They just waited for me to go on. None of them seemed to realize that I’d been about to call them terrorists.

  “. . . with people who do things like this.” I finished. “But if you think it’s possible, yeah sure, I’ll do it. Where’s the phone? You got the number?”

  But now Abdullah had a different proposal for me.

  “How would you feel about helping us get things across the border?” he asked.

  “What do you mean? Like a smuggler?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what are you gonna pay me? If I take a risk like that I expect to be well compensated. I’m not fuckin’ stupid,” I said firmly, trying to give the impression that any of this was possible.

  “Don’t curse.”

  “Sorry, I come from a broken home.”

  “And America,” he said.

  “That’s true,” I agreed with a smile, and we both had a laugh.

  “You will be well paid.”

  “But why me? I’m sure you have no shortage of people willing to do this for you.”

  “Yes, but none of them look like you.”

  “And how do I look?”

  “Well, you’re white, for one thing.”

  “So are you,” I said, holding up my palms.

  “I mean you’re not an Arab, and you’re an American,” he said firmly.

  For the next few minutes we discussed this ridiculous scenario as if I wouldn’t make a run for it as soon as they let me go.

  “Okay, well, we’re going to put you back in your room now, because as you can see, me and my brothers are very busy.”

  “Doing what? Come on, man, don’t put me back in there. I’m goin’ crazy in there. Can’t I just sit over there and watch TV? I won’t try to run away, I swear.”

  “No,” he said, with a smile on his face. “Come on.”

  As I stood up and covered my eyes again I pleaded with them not to take me back, but it didn’t work. As soon as they locked the door behind me I started banging on it harder than ever, screaming out the same things as before. This time it only took about ten minutes for them to come and get me, only now it wasn’t for tea and business propositions. Instead, they led me down the hall and into the bathroom, where Abdullah was standing in camouflage, holding his AK-47.

  “What the fuck, man? This is bullshit!” I yelled, hysterical.

  “Don’t curse!”

  “But what do you want from me? I’m not a CIA agent and you know it!”

  “I don’t know anything!”

  “Well, use your instincts!”

  “No! I believe in your country you have a saying, ‘innocent until proven guilty,’ right? Well, here you are guilty until proven innocent.” Abdullah was angry now, his voice rising. “We do not know who you are! For years, men like you have been coming here,” he screamed, “killing our men and raping our women!”

  “Americans rape your women? You’re crazy!” I said, grabbing both sides of my head. “You know what? Just do it! Fuckin’ shoot me! Do it and get it over with!” I started banging my head against the wall to prove I wasn’t afraid of pain or death, just like them. In reality it was mostly for show because I kept my hands to my head, my fingers between the ceramic tiles and my skull.

  “Don’t curse! I am not going to tell you again!” Abdullah said furiously. “And stop doing that! Now we are going to put you back in your room—”

  “No, come on, it’s gonna be dark soon and I can’t take the darkness anymore!”

  “Then I will give you a candle!”

  “Well, what about a shower? I stink.”

  “As you can see, the electricity is out—” Actually I hadn’t noticed, still being blindfolded. “So if you want to bathe you will have to do so in the cold.”

  “But it’s freezing in here; I’ll get sick.”

  “Then don’t take one! Now we are going to put you in your room and you will be silent or we will silence you! Do you understand?”

  That shut me up. I could tell I had really pissed him off.

  “Yes.”

  “Now take off your shoes,” he said, calming down.

  I did, and as soon as they were off, someone dropped a pair of brand-new black rubber slippers on the floor. I assumed that they were for me to wear inside my room so that my sneakers could remain outside as custom demanded.

  “Thank you,” I said, putting on the slippers.

  I was returned to my room—again. As soon as the door closed and the key turned, I took a seat on the blanket. I remember thinking there was no way they could peg me for a secret agent now, not after that pathetic display. A minute later the door opened and someone threw something inside, where it rolled across the floor. It was a candle.

  Just before the darkness set in, a guard opened the door to drop my dinner and give me a light for the candle. I stared at the dancing flame as if it were a ballet and dreaded the time when it would burn out. A few hours later the door opened again, and I placed my head against the wall. Someone tapped me on the shoulder to turn around and I did. It was one of the guards, wearing a red-and-white-checkered scarf around his face, and a tunic. He pointed to my blankets and said something in Arabic.

  “You want me to pick them up?” I asked.

  He nodded. That’s when I realized he was wearing my sneakers.

  “Hey, are those my Jordans?”

  He didn’t understand, so I pointed to his feet.

  “My Jordans—you’re wearing my Jordans.”

  He finally did the math and nodded. I could tell he was smiling, too.

  “I can’t believe this,” I said as I picked up my blankets. “You guys are stealing my sneakers now.”

  The sneaker thief instructed me to cover my eyes and follow him down the hallway. We passed a few rooms like mine and then came to a set of black double doors, made of steel and secured with a padlock. He took off the lock, opened one of the doors, and I entered a dark cell. The door closed and locked again behind me.

  The stench hit me right away; I immediately knew that I was not alone. As my eyes adjusted I saw figures all along the walls, sitting up from sleeping positions. My instincts told me that I was with POWs from the regime. Although I could not see their eyes, I felt them all staring at me. After a moment I placed my blankets on the ground next to one
of the men and he jumped to his feet.

  “La,” he said and led me over to a vacant area, next to which an isolated prisoner slept under his blankets.

  I shrugged it off and set up my bed where he’d shown me. After I sat down, I looked around again. I could still feel the stares of everyone in the room, which was significantly larger than my old one. Seeing that nobody was going to welcome me to the neighborhood, I decided I’d have to be the one to the break the silence.

  “Assallam alekum,” I said. “Any of you guys speak English?”

  Whispers in Arabic broke out all over, and then a single voice pierced through them.

  “We’re not allowed to talk to you,” it said. “If we speak to you we will be punished.”

  “Says who?” I asked.

  “They came in about an hour ago and told us you would be joining us.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  That seemed to be the end of that conversation, so I lay down and closed my eyes.

  About an hour later the electricity came back on and the room lit up. I felt incredible relief to know I would no longer be condemned to continuous darkness after sunset, at least as long as the power was running in this part of the city. Once again the men all sat up on their blankets. Everything about them, from their ragged and mismatched clothing to the slow way in which they moved, made them resemble zombies from a living-dead movie. They all had long beards and green smocks on over their rags. In the center of the room were two beat-up pairs of matching combat boots, further confirming my theory that I was with POWs. To break the uncomfortable silence that had descended again, I stood and headed over to the closest man (except for my neighbor, who was still sleeping).

  “Assallam alekum,” I said, holding out my hand. “Matthew.”

  I moved on, from man to man, from one side of the room to the other, doing the same. Everyone shook my hand without hesitation.

  “Muslim?” asked one man (whose name I would later learn was Rias) as our hands locked.

  “No, Christian,” I said, making the sign of the cross.

  By the time I was done I had made my way back to my bed. The lone man they had placed me next to was still under his covers.

  “So what? Is this where you stick the crazy people?” I asked the room at large, motioning toward the lump under the blankets.

  I saw one of the POWs smile and realized he understood me—he was the man who had spoken after I arrived.

  “Are you the one who speaks English?” I asked him.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  I headed over to him. He was young, in his midtwenties, with a very sweet face and light skin.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Ali,” he said. “Where are you from?”

  “New York.”

  “New York!” he exclaimed, shocked. “What are you doing in Syria?”

  “I’m a photographer. I came here to cover the war.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I’m an idiot. Listen, where are we?”

  “Aleppo.”

  “Is this a hospital?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think it’s a hospital. A kid in scrubs searched me my first day and I saw a hospital bed in the hallway a few days ago when they took me to the bathroom. How long have you been here?”

  “For about two weeks.”

  “Excuse me,” I heard another prisoner say.

  I glanced up and saw a man looking at me from a corner on the other side of the room.

  I walked over to him. “What’s your name?”

  “Oqba,” he replied, haughtily, “Are you American?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that’s not good for you, my friend. Jabhat al-Nusra does not like Americans, especially since your government labeled them a terrorist group.”

  “So they are Jabhat al-Nusra,” I said, feeling my stomach sink. “I was hoping they were just saying that to try and scare me.”

  “No, you are in an Islamic court.”

  “Great,” I said sarcastically. “And are the judges fair here?”

  “Yes, very fair.”

  “Pardon me for having doubts, as the American.”

  “Are you Jewish?” he asked.

  “Am I Jewish? No, why?”

  “I thought that might be why they grabbed you. It happens all the time.”

  “Really?”

  “Can I ask you for a favor, please?” he said abruptly, changing the subject.

  “Yeah, sure, what’s up?”

  “Please do not talk to any of the men in the room,” he said seriously. “I am asking you for your safety and for theirs.”

  “Okay, but what do you want me to do, just sit there and twiddle my thumbs?”

  “I am only asking for your safety and theirs, believe me.”

  “Yeah, I heard you, but they’re grown men and if they choose to talk to me that’s their decision. I can’t do anything about that. But I’ll tell you what: How about I just don’t talk to you?”

  “That’s all I am asking.”

  “Okay, I gotcha,” I said, heading back over to Ali.

  After spending the past five days in solitary, speaking to Ali was very steadying. He didn’t want the people holding us to know he spoke English, so I promised not to say anything. I was surprised that he didn’t show an ounce of animosity toward me for working with the FSA, his sworn enemy. In fact, he didn’t seem to care one bit, and neither did anyone else. I suspected they were all Alawites, a Shia sect that made up only 10 percent of Syria’s (mostly Sunni) population, but controlled the government from Bashar down. Out of politeness I refrained from asking. Asking someone if they were an Alawite while in a Sunni environment was like asking someone if they were a Jew in Nazi Germany. I had made my first friend and I didn’t want to risk losing him.

  Ali and I hadn’t been talking long when we all heard the door being unlocked. I ran back over to my bed and hid dramatically under the covers, causing a slight stir of laughter throughout the room. After the door opened I felt a tap on my shoulder and came out of hiding to see a kid of around twenty standing over me—one of the guards.

  “Hi,” he said, waving. He had thick black hair that was long in the back, and an effeminate manner.

  “Hi.”

  In Arabic, he asked my name and I told him it was Jumu’ah.

  “Abu Hamza,” he said, his hand on his chest.

  After introducing himself to me he moved off to bring a bottle of rubbing alcohol, some cotton, and fresh bandages to two men who were wounded. One had a bandaged foot, and the other’s hand was wrapped up after being shot through twice. The soldier with the wounded hand was Shareef, a thirty-year-old captain in the Syrian army, and the officer with the wounded foot was Fadaar, a lieutenant colonel.

  Yassine entered the room and stepped over to me. “Is this better?” he asked, motioning to the other men.

  “Yes, much. You speak English?”

  “A little. I am learning, so speak slowly. Are they being nice to you?”

  “Them? Yeah, but none of them speak English so it’s not like they can really be mean.”

  “I did not understand,” he said, confused.

  “That’s all right. Yes, they’re being nice to me.”

  “Okay, I have to go now,” he said. “Bye.” He left again, followed by Abu Hamza, and the door locked behind them.

  Shortly after this, the electricity blinked out.

  I was amazed at how programmed these men had become. As soon as the lights died, most of them immediately lay down to sleep, except for a group that congregated in the corner around a fading flashlight. None of that group spoke English, so I was on my own. As I lay there, I heard the door being unlocked again and pretended to be asleep so I wouldn’t have to face the wall. A second later someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I turned to see who it was.

  Bent over me was a firmly built man, dressed in all black and wearing a ski mask.

  “Are you Matt?�
�� he asked in a terrifying whisper.

  I lay there, frozen, choosing my words carefully.

  “Nuh-uh, my name’s Jumu’ah,” I said.

  He turned and left the room. I sat up like a switchblade.

  “What the fuck was that, man?” I said. “Did anyone just see that? Anyone?”

  Nobody answered me. My gut said the fanatics were just having some fun so I decided not to let it worry me and instead closed my eyes to sleep. I remember lying there before I dozed off, smiling because I was no longer in solitary. I felt no fear among these men; instinctively I knew that as long as I was with them, I would be among friends.

  When the lights came back on, everyone who had fallen asleep woke up again. It was still night. I stood, stretched, and watched as every man in the room, almost in sync, took off his shirt and started examining the fabric closely. For a second I was confused, and then it hit me.

  “Oh no,” I whispered, full of dread. “Lice!”

  I looked over at Oqba.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “Are you lookin’ for lice? Do you have lice?”

  “They’re everywhere,” he said, matter-of-fact.

  “Oh, great!” I muttered, stripping off my vest, hoodie, and tee shirt to examine myself.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rias pointing at my abdomen; within a second, so was everyone else.

  “What is that tattoo of ?” Oqba asked.

  “It’s a tribal sun.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a Native American thing.”

  Tattoos were haram, but the Alawites seemed more curious than anything. In fact, out of the eighteen of them, it turned out that only five even prayed.

  “I don’t see anything on my shirt,” I said. “Can someone show me what one of these things looks like?”

  Oqba translated what I’d said and Rias called me over. Crawling on his finger was a clear insect with a black dot in the middle.

  “What the fuck is that thing?” I said, disgusted. “That’s not lice. It’s too big.”

  Crunch! Rias crushed the parasite on the floor and held up his finger for me to see. It was smeared with blood—his blood. They were bedbugs.