PRAISE FOR THE DAWN PRAYER
“Captured by al-Qaeda in Syria, Matt Schrier essentially played a long game of chess with them—and won. He escaped from their torture chambers and went on to write one of the most terrifying and suspenseful books I’ve ever read. This is an absolutely extraordinary story.”
—SEBASTIAN JUNGER, AUTHOR AND JOURNALIST
“A tightly told story of brutal survival, unexpected friendships and ultimate escape . . . Matt’s engrossing story took me back to those days of struggle and survival and the desperate need for freedom.”
—BILLY HAYES, AUTHOR OF MIDNIGHT EXPRESS
“This gripping memoir tells the incredible story of American photographer Matthew Schrier’s abduction from the battle-scarred streets of Aleppo by the al-Qaeda-linked terrorist group Jabhat al-Nusra. It’s a searing narrative of personal courage and the determination to survive. Schrier takes us inside the hellish world of secret Syrian prisons and his daring escape from his jihadist captors. He also paints a brutally frank portrait of the unexpected friendships and hostilities he formed with his fellow captives.”
—PHILIP S. BALBONI, CEO AND CO-EXECUTIVE EDITOR OF DAILYCHATTER AND FOUNDER OF GLOBALPOST
“The Dawn Prayer by Matthew Schrier is a thrilling documentary that reads like a novel. His account of being captured by al-Qaeda and held by some of the most savage and ruthless enemies of all, while being undermined and betrayed by one of his own, exhibits his fortitude, bravery, and cunning abilities to extend his life and someday hope to escape or be rescued. His words transport you to the places of manmade hell where survival is earned every day. Physical torture and mental abuse was the order of most days with very little food and water for survival. The fact that he, as a Jewish photographer, survived to tell his story is amazing enough, but his escape to freedom was nothing short of miraculous. Take a deep breath before you begin reading; there is no breathing room in the pages of this one!”
—A.B. GRANTHAM, COMMANDANT, DEPARTMENT OF ALABAMA, MARINE CORPS LEAGUE
“If I ever had a chance to pick a guide to walk through hell, that would be, no doubt, Matt Schrier, whose gifted hand is able to tame the dreadful memories of his darkest hours in captivity into the most clear, powerful, and enlightening narrative.”
—JUAN RÍOS, SPANISH MISSION TO THE UNITED NATIONS
THE DAWN PRAYER
THE DAWN PRAYER
(OR HOW TO SURVIVE IN A SECRET SYRIAN TERRORIST PRISON)
MATTHEW SCHRIER
BenBella Books, Inc.
Dallas, TX
The events, locations and conversations in this book, while true, are re-created from the author’s memory. However, the essence of the story and the feelings and emotions evoked are intended to be accurate representations. In certain instances, names of persons, organizations, and places have been changed to protect an individual’s privacy.
Copyright © 2018 by Matthew Schrier
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
BenBella Books, Inc.
10440 N. Central Expressway, Suite 800
Dallas, TX 75231
www.benbellabooks.com
Send feedback to [email protected]
First E-Book Edition: April 2018
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN: 9781944648886
e-ISBN: 9781946885210
Editing by Alexa Stevenson
Copyediting by Scott Calamar
Proofreading by Laura Cherkas and Greg Teague
Text design and composition by Aaron Edmiston
Front cover design by Pete Garceau
Jacket design by Sarah Avinger
Printed by Lake Book Manufacturing
Distributed to the trade by Two Rivers Distribution, an Ingram brand
www.tworiversdistribution.com
Special discounts for bulk sales (minimum of 25 copies) are available.
Please contact Aida Herrera at [email protected].
To all my friends who never made it home, the few who did, and those who risked their lives to get me here.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The events described in this book aren’t always pretty, and neither is my language. At times, the person you will meet in the following pages is not a reflection of who I really am on the inside, but who I had to become on the outside in order to adapt to my surroundings and survive with my dignity. I may sometimes be harsh, but harsh environments sometimes call for harsh measures. That’s war. At least I’m honest about it.
CONTENTS
Karm al-Jabal
The Hospital
The Electrical Institute
The Hospital II
The Villa
The Stores
The Warehouse
The Transportation Building
Aleppo
Turkey
Epilogue
About the Author
Somebody told me a joke once, when I was over there . . .
Three al-Qaeda guards enter a cell packed with regime POWs and take five men from the room. They bring them into the cell next door and line them up. After a few minutes, one of the rising stars of the organization, General Mohammad, arrives to deliver a message:
“I’m going to kill every one of you,” he says. “I am going to cut your heads off one at a time.” And then he leaves.
Two days later he comes for the first soldier, and the day after that the second. Four days later the third, and then three days following that the fourth, until there’s one lone soldier standing in the room, waiting to die. Finally, after five more long days of waiting, General Mohammad comes to collect his last victim.
The prisoner is blindfolded, bound, taken upstairs, outside, and placed in the trunk space of an SUV—while being taunted the entire way.
“Are you ready to die?” General Mohammad asks again and again. “Are you ready to get your head cut off ?”
As the vehicle moves through Aleppo, the prisoner pants, prays, cries, and sweats until he’s soaked in his own tears and perspiration, and all the while the taunting never stops. At last, after about an hour of this, they reach their destination. The prisoner is taken from the trunk, marched into a building, down a flight of stairs, and locked, still blindfolded, in a room. When General Mohammad enters with his camp, he places his lips next to the soldier’s ear.
“Are you ready?” he asks one last time, in a cold whisper. “Are you ready to get your head cut off ?”
And all of a sudden the blindfold is ripped from the soldier’s eyes—revealing all four of the friends who were taken from the cell before him: alive and well, with their heads still attached.
“Just kidding!” yells General Mohammad, breaking into a wild laugh.
. . . Welcome to Syria.
KARM AL-JABAL
DECEMBER 31, 2012
New Year’s Eve and still alive, I thought with a smile. I sat in a run-down taxi in front of the driver’s house, waiting for him to come out and staring at the last cigarette in my pack. I’d planned on saving it to smoke it after I’d safely crossed the border back to Turkey, a superstitious habit I’d gotten into, but since the driver was taking so long I just lit up. Anyway, I was headed out of Syria for the last time.
I had been in and around Aleppo for eighteen days photographing the war from the Free Syrian Army’s side, and now that I had what I came for, it was tim
e to go. It was my second time in the region but my first covering a war, and I didn’t want to push my luck. About a month and a half earlier I’d been in southern Turkey and Jordan photographing refugees for the Syrian American Medical Society. During that trip I made my first pilgrimage across the border into Syria to feel things out, and met all the contacts I would need to return and travel deeper inside the country, from fixers to rebels.
Photography had never really been a passion of mine, just something I was good at. What I loved was history, and traveling; hoping to find a career that combined what I was good at with what I loved brought me to Syria, after a year spent crossing the globe to test my abilities both with a camera and to communicate with people who didn’t understand a word I said. Recording history turned out to be something that came naturally to me, especially in a war zone.
I’d spent the day before in the Karm al-Jabal district of Aleppo, where some of the heaviest fighting in the country was under way. It was like nothing I had experienced so far, which is saying something, since I’d spent two and a half days outside the besieged Air Force Intelligence Directorate, or Jawiyya, at the time considered the most dangerous place in the city. Karm al-Jabal had been literally reduced to rubble, and I made my way to the front that morning with two FSA (Free Syrian Army) soldiers who were carrying giant blue jugs of water to the fighters. It felt like we were walking through Stalingrad; there wasn’t a building untouched by bullets or bombs. As we walked I noticed a woman in a black burka about two hundred yards away, standing in the middle of a street that was almost impassable due to all the downed poles, electrical wires, chunks of concrete, and other debris. After a quick exchange of yelling in Arabic between the rebels I was with and the woman in black, I snapped a shot of her walking into one of the doorways. I couldn’t believe people were still living there.
The front was probably a five-minute walk from where I was staying at FSA headquarters, but with all the precautions taken to avoid getting shot at it probably took close to fifteen minutes to get there. We had to stick to the sides of some buildings to keep out of range of snipers’ scopes and jet past others because there was no cover, but finally, after cutting through a factory and heading up some stairs, we arrived at the front, the top floor of an abandoned apartment building. Three of the most badass-looking FSA soldiers I had ever seen were sitting in front of a wood-burning stove. The first one who caught my attention was stunning to look at. He had dark skin and a black scarf wrapped around his entire face, revealing only these bright green eyes that glowed like emeralds and brought a certain elegance to the scene of carnage.
Nobody there spoke English. As soon as I arrived, they all jumped to their feet to greet me and offer coffee or tea. I declined, being that thanks to my nerves I already had to piss so bad it was practically coming out of my ears. When I looked out the window I noticed two small kids—maybe eight or ten years old—standing on the rooftop across the street from us, watching the fighting. They were surrounded by nothing but rubble and again I couldn’t believe people were still living in this section of the city.
The other two jihadis sitting with Emerald Eyes looked just as badass, but not as pretty. One gave the impression of being huge—he was only about my height, 5′11″, but much bulkier. Almost immediately he ran off and returned holding a digital camera, handing it over to show me the pictures. From the look of this guy I thought I was about to see some really horrific shit on that camera, but I don’t remember any of the images so it couldn’t have been that bad. The third jihadi had the least imposing presence, just a skinny kid with long hair, but he made up for that with zeal.
“Yala,” he said creeping over to the window with his AK-47. Let’s go.
One of the rebels who’d carried the water set me up against a wall on the side of the room that was out of the line of fire—or would be unless they shot through the walls, which was very possible. As soon as I was in position I gave him a nod and raised my camera. I just held my finger on the button while the jihadi stuck his skinny arms out of the window, letting loose a short burst of gunfire without even sticking his head out to aim. Then he pulled back to the rear of the room, and in less than a second we heard the return fire, bullets hitting the building right outside the window. Assad’s soldiers were close, really close. The water carrier gave me a look as this happened that said: You wanted to go to the front, and now you’re here. I was so jacked up I felt my leg starting to jump.
Now it was the Big Man’s turn. He led me up the stairs to the roof, where the water carrier placed me in a snug corner that gave me cover from the regime along with a view of the whole top of the building. The water carrier ducked back down a few steps as the Big Man crouched and crept to the center of the roof with a homemade hand grenade. He’d let me hold the explosive, which was about one-quarter the size of a stick of dynamite but heavy, being packed with nails and bolts. As he lit the grenade, I raised my camera and just held my finger down on the button again. It took a second for the fuse to catch, and once it did the Big Man stood there for a moment watching it burn, waiting, so the enemy wouldn’t have time to toss it back after it landed. As he cocked back I watched on the camera, one frame at a time, until he launched it onto the rooftop of the building where the regime boys were holed up.
BOOM! The sound tore through my ears, but my finger never left the button, especially once I saw him pull another explosive out of his pocket and light it up. This time I was able to capture the grenade in midair after it left his hand while he was in full swing, arm flung in an arc across the sky. By the time we heard the second explosion we were all hurrying back down the stairs, but the noise left my head ringing nevertheless. I couldn’t understand how these guys could still hear.
Emerald Eyes was waiting for me at the bottom of the steps, black scarf still wrapped neatly around his face, holding a machine gun that probably weighed more than he did. I am no gun expert, but it looked like an M60. Behind Emerald Eyes was a scene I’d missed on my way to the roof. The wall to the outside had been completely blasted away, revealing an unobstructed view of what looked like a city square—probably a beautiful sight before the air raids began. Now there wasn’t a structure left that was salvageable, just looming orphaned walls and mountains of the same sand-colored rocks that used to make up the buildings. At one point a jihadi appeared seemingly out of nowhere, strolling through the wasteland like it was just another day at the office.
After the water carrier once again set me up in a safe corner, he and the Big Man stepped back while Emerald Eyes took up his position and got ready to fire. It was dead silent. He placed his back to the wall next to a hole they’d made, and then picked up the massive gun, rested it across the opening, and swiftly squeezed the trigger. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat! The sound was ten times more deafening than an AK, but being that one hand was holding my camera and the other the button to shoot, my ears were left bare while everyone else covered theirs. Emerald Eyes was jerking all over from the kickback, but he held on and showed no fear, knowing that the bullets could be returned any second. He fired off two bursts like this, and then we fell back without any response from the regime. By now my leg had completely stopped shaking.
Not too long after we got back to the hot stove, the Big Man and Emerald Eyes advised me that it probably wasn’t safe to stay after how they’d just antagonized the enemy, and said I should go. I didn’t want to leave yet, but when two straight-up suicidal killers tell me a place is not safe, I listen.
I made my way back to headquarters a few blocks away to spend the night, escorted by the water carrier. After looking at my work and taking into account how long I had been in Syria, the places I had been, and the fact that I had received not one scratch the entire time, I figured it was best to head home to see what I could do with the photos I had while they were still relevant. I was a lightweight and I knew it—no training, no big media organization backing me up, and no connections except the ones I’d made myself. I was relying solely on my
instincts to keep me alive and learn the job, and now those instincts were telling me to get the hell out of there. The next day, the sheikh my fixer had introduced me to arranged a ride back to Turkey with a cab driver I had met several times before. His name was Abu Mohammad and I was a fucking idiot for getting into his car, but I figured after eighteen days of persistently not getting shot, what could go wrong on my way home?
I’d finished my last cigarette by the time the driver came back out to the car, and as the cab cruised down the road outside Aleppo on the way to the border, I tapped at my phone to bring up some tunes. I looked up to see us passing the main entrance of the infantry school in al-Muslimiya, which the FSA had taken from the regime shortly before I arrived in country. Suddenly a silver Jeep Cherokee cut across from the oncoming lane, forcing the cab to stop short.
“Whoa!” I yelled. I was grinning, thinking we had just averted a serious accident. Then three men jumped out of the Jeep now blocking the road, and my smile disappeared. The one who’d been in the front passenger seat was dressed in a black tunic with a black scarf wrapped around his face and an AK-47 in his hands. One of the two who’d emerged from the back seat was middle-aged, wearing jeans, a sweater, and a big smile. He gripped a heavy-looking chrome pistol, what I think was a .45. I never got a clear look at the third guy because I was too focused on the man in black, who headed right toward me. Although all three were armed to the teeth, none pointed their weapons at us. After the man in black opened the door of the taxi, he grabbed the driver’s AK, which was propped between my legs, put it under his arm, and then pulled me out softly. He led me over to the Jeep and put me in the back seat. I didn’t say a word, just got in. He climbed in behind me as the cargo door opened and a cuffed Abu Mohammad was thrown in the back. When I slid over to make room, the man in black grabbed me by the shoulder and guided me back to the middle of the seat. I looked deep into his soul through the slit in his scarf, and he stared back with hatred in his eyes, sweat beading around his brows even though it was a cold winter day. Then he pulled the ski cap I was wearing down over my eyes, leaned me forward, and pressed the barrel of the rifle flush against my temple.
The Dawn Prayer_Or How to Survive in a Secret Syrian Terrorist Prison Page 1