I was lying on a mattress watching WWE wrestling with the jihadis when I heard the Adhan for Maghrib, the sunset prayer. This marked the end of the fourteen hours I’d had to get help for Theo and the beginning of a new hell for him—that is, if he hadn’t knocked on the door within five minutes of my escape. However, that thought didn’t cross my mind when I heard the call to prayer that evening. The only thought that did was that I had failed him; that I had not kept my promise. I lowered my head in shame and closed my eyes, unable to keep from envisioning the consequences he was facing at this very moment. These feelings weren’t easily concealed, and several of the men in the room asked me what was wrong.
“Ameriki,” I said.
They immediately understood, and left it at that.
I was the first one awake the next morning. Ahmed and Firas returned not long after, and then one by one the men began to awaken. We were sitting in the courtyard when one of the older guys entered holding a shoebox and a yellow Adidas-knockoff jumpsuit, brand new on the hanger. He called my name and I felt all warm inside knowing that they’d bought these things just for me. When I came out of the office wearing the jumpsuit everyone complimented my appearance and said I looked like one of them.
When it was finally time for the last leg of my journey out of Syria, it seemed like everyone in the group had come out to say goodbye. After we’d finished our farewells I got into the back seat of a black Cherokee between Firas and Ahmed. We all knew the ride was going to be extremely risky with all the checkpoints and my not having a passport or any cameras, so we made up a story for if we got stopped, that I’d been invited to photograph them fighting, and the apartment they’d placed me in was robbed. In the front seat were two jihadis, armed with AKs. When we started rolling I felt the butterflies dancing in my stomach. It was the first time in seven months that I’d ridden in a vehicle without a blindfold.
It was a beautiful clear day. As we cruised through Aleppo, I watched the constant bustle of the city and thought you’d never know there was a war going on if it wasn’t for all the bombed-out buildings.
“This is near the hospital,” Ahmed told me.
I was glad our windows were tinted and rolled up.
There were no checkpoints inside the city, but right at the edge of it there was a major one; I’d seen it before. We drove up and a jihadi with a black scarf around his head waved us right through after our driver flashed his FSA Easy Pass—an AK-47.
“All right!” I said, clapping my hands once and rubbing them together.
Thank God I had cigarettes for that ride; that’s the only moment I remember when one wasn’t burning in my hand. I’d told Ahmed I’d been kidnapped near the infantry school, and as the academy’s wall approached I pointed out the place where it happened.
“This is right where they got me,” I said, as we passed the exact spot.
Everyone in the truck smiled and Ahmed let me in on a little secret.
“You know, the guys were going to play a little joke on you and pull out the handcuffs when we passed there, but I told them you would not think that is funny.”
“Well, you were right!” I said, laughing.
We came to another checkpoint. This one was manned by only two jihadis and they were already busy searching a white van they’d pulled over; our driver flashed his AK and we were waved through again. We passed through one checkpoint after another like this until we were minutes from the Turkish border, in a city I recognized as Azaz.
“You’re almost there,” said Ahmed.
Finally, we reached the last checkpoint. Just on the other side was the border crossing and refugee camp, which had grown in size significantly since I’d last seen it upon entering Syria. I couldn’t help staring at the hundreds of new tents that had popped up, and all the children running around, some without shoes and socks. Weapons were prohibited beyond this point, and sitting there crammed in the back of the Jeep as the men handed them over, I knew I was finally out of the woods. We cruised through the checkpoint and then it was clear sailing, with freedom and Turkey in sight.
The Jeep pulled right up to the border, where the FSA stood on one side in their military fatigues, and the Turkish border agents stood on the other in crisp white uniforms. We all got out of the car, and I could feel my world spinning as I made my way to the Turks. Ahmed said something to the agents with the little Turkish he knew, and one of them stepped aside and motioned for me to enter. Without hesitation, I stepped across the very border I had dreamed for so many hours about crossing, while locked in cell after cell. I’d always thought I would cry the second I saw the red crescent on Turkey’s flag flapping in the wind, but I didn’t. I just turned to the men who’d made it happen with all the gratitude I could muster up.
I hugged Firas and the rebels, who’d been allowed to take a few steps inside to see me off, and thanked them a hundred times, promising never to forget what they’d done, and one day to repay them if I could. Ahmed was the last to say goodbye, and after we hugged, this unemployed refugee handed me fifty Turkish lira. I refused to take it, and immediately that familiar Syrian stubbornness I remembered from my Alawite brothers showed itself, so I made him a deal and took twenty-five lira, with a promise to pay him back.
When I turned around, the Turkish border patrol agents had a police car waiting for me with the back door standing open. They didn’t have to tell me to get inside. As I sat in the car on my way to the station I could think only one thought, over and over again, as I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the window.
I did it, I said to myself. I did it.
TURKEY
JULY 30, 2013
I sat on a couch in a small office in the big building that housed border control. Three Turks sat across from me. I could tell from their expressions that despite the new jumpsuit I still looked like I had just returned from hell—and these guys worked the Syrian border every day. When one of them finally spoke, a heavy balding man, it was in English, through a thick accent.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
I could hear the compassion in his voice, but still felt wary. I sat there looking at him for a moment.
“Am I safe?” I asked.
“Yes, you are safe,” he assured me.
So, sitting there holding a bottle of clean water, I gave him the five-minute version of the last seven months. Then I asked if I could go outside to smoke a cigarette, and when he said it was all right I was up and out in no time. When I pulled out the pack my rescuers had given me the day before, rolling around in it was a single Lucky, my last one. I laughed, remembering my last butt before getting grabbed, the one I’d defied superstition to smoke.
“I should’ve saved that cigarette,” I said to myself, lighting up.
It took the American diplomat and his assistant about two and a half hours to arrive at the border station from Adana once they heard I was there. When they pulled up I was walking around outside under the pink sky as the sun set, watching my first truly free day in seven months turn into my first truly free night.
Once we were all in the office of the border police station that stood next to border control, the first question the diplomat asked was whether I wanted to call my mother and of course I jumped at this, accepting the BlackBerry and holding it to my ear as my heart raced.
It was ringing.
“Hello?” said my mother’s voice.
“Hi, Mom!”
“Matthew!”
For the next thirty seconds or so all I heard was her crying hysterically while speaking in what may as well have been Arabic, because I sure as shit didn’t understand a word she was saying.
“Why are you laughing?” I finally made out through her sobs.
“Because I’m happy,” I answered, smiling.
Shortly after that, we were in an armored Suburban on our way to Adana.
The next day, after a night in the Hilton, a nice bath, and a great sleep on a fluffy white bed, I hit up a mall with the diplom
at and his assistant so I could get some new gear, a toothbrush, shaving supplies, and more cigarettes. Then we headed to the consulate where they took a picture for my temporary passport and got the documentation started for my trip home. Once we’d finished with everything they needed me present for, the consulate arranged to have me dropped back at the hotel along with another diplomat who was on his way home. I was making my way out of the building, past the photographs of Obama, Biden, and Kerry, just as about ten marines were filing in. Every one of them was built like a brick shithouse, all of them wearing confident smiles and laughing at whatever they’d been talking about before they walked in the door. As each one laid eyes on me the smile was wiped clean from his face. With one moment of eye contact, they knew that I had just returned from a war zone. Not one of them said a word, but every one of them nodded to me respectfully as he passed.
My hotel was on the Seyhan River, and from the breakfast patio there was an extraordinary view of a mosque. Not just any mosque—the Sabanci Central Mosque: the biggest in all of Turkey. Its six famous minarets towered above the massive dome, like tombstones honoring the prominent men who’d once rested there when the land was an Armenian cemetery.
It was one of the most stunning buildings I had ever seen; it gave you the same kind of feeling I imagine you’d have seeing the Taj Mahal. As soon as my eyes and heart absorbed its beauty I knew what I was doing that night: I was making good on my word to God.
While I was in captivity, almost every time I got down on my knees and prayed, I’d made a promise to the man upstairs.
“God, please forgive me for pretending to be a Muslim and know that I do believe in you and have the utmost respect for Islam, and I promise that if I get out of here, on my first night of freedom the first thing I will do is go to the closest mosque so I can pray as a Muslim one last time.”
Being that I couldn’t get there on my first free night, I made sure to follow through on the promise my second. I walked up to the Sabanci Central Mosque just as Isha, the last prayer of the day, was ending. I’d figured it would be a bad idea to arrive at the beginning since I didn’t know all the prayers—my not keeping up would definitely attract attention, which was the last thing I wanted. Thousands of people flowed out of the sacred temple and collected their shoes, many gracing me with warm, welcoming smiles—some apologetic, as if they were a little disappointed that I’d missed out on the prayer. When they had all gone I removed my knockoff Nikes, set them on a shelf, and entered.
The inside of the mosque was as stunning as the outside, with rich red carpet and transfixing domes that seemed to spiral up endlessly, out beyond the Earth’s atmosphere and on past the stars. There couldn’t have been more than five people in the entire place by this point, and it felt like I was standing alone in some vast coliseum, or a cathedral designed by Michelangelo. I closed my eyes and raised my palms.
“Bismillah al rahman al rahim,” I said, beginning the Fatiha.
I prayed with all my heart, remembering all those I had to be grateful to, all that I had to be grateful for, and all those who were left behind. I prayed knowing that without God’s help I would not be where I was at that moment, or at any other moment moving forward, for the rest of my life. I prayed for a long while, and it left a profound impression on me; as I laced up my kicks outside the mosque, I felt different. I had fulfilled my promise to God, and I knew that as long as I continued to do so, he would continue to look over me, as he had so faithfully over the past seven months.
Once I had exited the gates and was officially off sacred ground I turned back to admire the mosque’s beauty one last time, glowing in the peace of the night. Then I placed a cigarette in my mouth, lit it up, and took a drag. I exhaled and turned from the sight of the dome.
“All right, now you’re a Jew again,” I said.
Early the next morning I was on a plane to Istanbul, where I was set down one last time before being lifted up again, climbing through the clouds to fly straight home to New York, where my family was waiting for me.
EPILOGUE
I know it’s hard to believe, but once my feet touched down on that lovely New York City soil, it didn’t take me long to get back in the game at all. I was at the gym within three days and dating within a week. And being that I’d instructed my mother not to alert the press—and the FBI only does so when they can take credit for the victory—there was no media whirlwind waiting for me when I stepped off the plane.
In other ways, however, reentry was harder. I quickly discovered that “Special” Agent Dilda Brody who’d been assigned to my case—and said she was the FBI’s Syria specialist, even though she had never been there, barely spoke a word of Arabic, and knew jack shit about Islam—wasn’t very special at all. In fact, not only had she done next to nothing to bring me home or keep me safe, she’d also failed to lift a finger to protect my finances after the Canadian jihadis—Redbeard, Chubs, and co.—took down my banking and credit information. Apparently, the fact that the terrorists had paid off my Discover Card convinced her that I had joined al-Qaeda, and I was judged guilty until proven innocent here in America just as I had been in Syria. Al-Nusra burned through my entire personal savings with online purchases (including one of a Kama Sutra guide, so yes, while I was being kept in the dark, starved, and tormented on a daily basis, some ugly bearded fuck was learning how to eat out his wife’s pussy on my dime). They also helped themselves to a nice chunk of my business assets, which Brody claimed—falsely, it turned out, according to Citibank—she’d eventually frozen. As a result, I had a little less than eight grand left to my name, which was a major blow when it came to reestablishing a life for myself in a town as expensive as New York. Thanks to all this she really could not have made coming home any harder if I were Jon fucking Voight.
As if this weren’t enough, I also discovered that for the entire duration of my captivity, Brody was doing her all, mostly via email, to convince my mother that I was perfectly okay, and probably just too busy traveling back and forth between Turkey and Syria to contact anyone. Of course, my mother trusted this woman and didn’t want to believe the truth might be much worse, and between that and the fact that she’d been estranged from my father for years, she never called him to let him know that I’d gone missing in Syria . . . and neither did the FBI. When I finally agreed to some interviews, this became a problem.
“Matthew! You have to call your father!” my mother screeched into my ear over the phone. “He can’t find out about this from the New York Times and CNN!”
I hadn’t spoken to him for a long time myself, and I wasn’t exactly eager to break the silence with a call like this, but as I’d given an interview to the biggest newspaper in the world and had 60 Minutes on the horizon, I decided there was no avoiding it. Besides, I’d had enough people screaming at me over my seven months in Syria; the last thing I needed was more of the same from my Brooklyn-born Jewish mother. I dialed my father as soon as I got off the phone with her, and was massively relieved to get his voice mail. I almost hung up, but then I realized this was probably the easiest way to get this part of the ordeal over with.
“Hey, Dad,” I said after the beep. “This is your son. I just wanted to give you a heads-up that about eight months ago I went to Syria to photograph the war, got kidnapped by al-Qaeda, did seven months in six of the worst prisons in the world until I managed to escape, and now I’m gonna be on the front page of the New York Times and on CNN. Hope all’s well with you! Byyyye!”
After I hung up I went to the gym, intentionally leaving my phone behind. He told me he almost had a heart attack when he heard the message.
My remorse about leaving Theo behind lasted about twelve hours after I’d crossed into Turkey, which was as long as it took me to find out about his Undercover Muslim exploits and realize just how much danger he’d knowingly placed me in by letting me convert, all without so much as a warning. The discovery came when I got to my hotel and went down to the business center to use the computers,
hoping to track down Theo’s mother so I could at least let her know that he was alive. When I read about the premise of the book I could not believe it. Here was an individual whose treachery was so vast that it had followed me across the border to freedom. I’d always known the clock was ticking on al-Nusra figuring out that I was Jewish, but now I realized the danger had been ten times greater because it was also ticking on them figuring out Theo’s real name, the name on the cover of Undercover Muslim. This realization took me from feeling nothing but regret to thinking, basically, life goes on. I did everything I could to help him; I risked my life by staying and trying to pull him out for longer than most would have, despite his months of repeated betrayal. I did my best for him, and that was all I was really capable of doing, but he didn’t do his best for himself, or even try. I had nothing to feel guilty about. However, this didn’t mean that I wouldn’t continue doing everything I could to keep my promise and get help for Theo. In my mind, this was not an obligation I had to him but to my country: to act according to the values that my motherland had instilled in me, so that I could come home knowing I’d represented her with honor and could be proud of who I am.
I may have felt betrayed by the FBI’s handling of my case, but I was still doing all I could to help with the investigation. When I sat down with Brody and a sketch artist, they had me describe all the top jihadis I’d met—along with the Canadians. This last part threw me off, because I’d told her they were always wearing masks, but I did my dutiful best, and a month after this session Brody called with news: the FBI had two of the Canadians in custody. When I asked when they’d been arrested, she said they’d had them for “months.” In other words, they were already in custody when I described them to the sketch artist—the FBI knew who they were even before I came home, because while I was in captivity, they’d been monitoring my accounts as every cent was stolen from them, including tracking the two items that one of them mailed to himself in Quebec under his real name. That terrorist has since moved back to Canada where he lives a free man, having never been arrested or punished in any way for his role in the crimes committed against me.
The Dawn Prayer[Or How to Survive in a Secret Syrian Terrorist Prison] Page 27