The Dawn Prayer_Or How to Survive in a Secret Syrian Terrorist Prison

by Matthew Schrier

  I didn’t know it yet, but the Old Man was Abu Khaled al-Suri, commander of Ahrar al-Sham. He’d fought beside Osama bin Laden in Afghanistan and was ordered to Syria to unite all the rebel groups under one flag—sent personally by Ayman al-Zawahiri, the leader of al-Qaeda and the most wanted man in the world.

  As one day turned into two and two into three I struggled to stay positive. On the night of June fifth, the door opened, and in stepped the emir. He looked slowly around the room until his eyes rested on me and then he pointed in my direction. I jumped to my feet and ran over to him, eager for whatever news he had come to give me. Being that he didn’t speak a word of English and Theo still refused to translate for me, even when the news involved him as well, the Moroccan struggled to his feet and hobbled over to do the job.

  “Do you know where you are?” the emir asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, you’re with Ahrar al-Sham now. You were with Jabhat al-Nusra, but now you’re with us. We are going to investigate you both, and if you are who you say you are we will let you go—maybe.”

  When the Moroccan was done translating I lit up like a menorah on day eight.

  “Thank you,” I said fervently, gripping his hand.

  “Maybe,” he reiterated.

  After I sat back down he called one of the Shabiha over to slap him around a little before locking us all back in. Many of the men came over to congratulate me as I sat overwhelmed with emotion at the possibility that maybe, maybe, I would be going home. At least if I was no longer a prisoner of Jabhat al-Nusra then Kawa was no longer the master of my fate—Blackbeard was.

  The room was like an oven now, as temperatures soared to well over 100 degrees. The gap from under the door helped a little, but not enough. To combat the heat Obeida installed a ceiling fan, but since it was on the opposite side of the room from where I slept I had to travel to enjoy the warm breeze it created. Another problem that came along with the summer heat was a lack of water. The water went out for days at a time, forcing us to ration what we drank and used to clean ourselves in the bathroom. Eventually it became so bad that Obeida had someone feed a thick fire hose through the hole he’d left in the cinder blocks, hooked it up to a tanker, and filled the stainless steel reserve tank above the bathroom. This tank would last us a day or two, long enough for the water to come back on or for Obeida to arrange for a refill. It was on the occasion of one of these refills that he surprised us all with an act of kindness.

  Once the hose was fed through the hole, Shabiha Ali would pull himself up on top of the bathroom like a gymnast. Someone would hand him the hose, and when it was in position, Obeida would yell out to the street. The water shot from the hose in a powerful blast that filled the tank—which probably held about twenty-five gallons—in a matter of seconds, and Shabiha Ali would then move the hose out of the way while Obeida yelled out to the truck to stop the water. This time, though, instead of yelling outside, he yelled to us, wearing his big smile:

  “Whoever needs a shower, go!”

  Right away a bunch of the men grabbed the blankets to keep them from getting soaked while the rest stripped down to their underwear and ran beneath the icy water. I did the same except for my green tee shirt, which I left on to cover my tattoos. The Palestinians were on squeegee duty and worked vigorously to get all the water out through the thin floor-level gap in the cinder blocks that had been placed there for that purpose.

  When I ran into the jet and that cold water hit my skin it nearly knocked the wind out of me, but once I had gotten used to it I completely forgot that I was in jail. For the next five minutes, as we passed the soap back and forth, danced, and sang beneath the water we were all children again, kickin’ the can.

  Over the next few weeks Theo’s treachery evolved into a willingness to help the Moroccan plot against me. By now Abdelatif and I were constantly at each other’s throats and I was no longer trying to keep the peace, but welcoming the confrontations—many times even starting them. Theo would act as an interpreter on a daily basis for one of the Shabiha that Abdelatif was trying to sic on me, translating his threats while standing at his side. I cannot remember who I laughed harder at.

  One morning the Moroccan even decreed to the entire room that Theo was his property, and that anyone who messed with Theo would have him to deal with. Strategically, I figured that since things between me and the Moroccan had deteriorated so drastically, I should reconcile with Theo and try my hardest to keep that peace, so that he would stop siding with al-Qaeda against me. To avoid drawing attention from his master, I asked Theo if he wanted to play chess and as we played I tried to explain how he had become a pawn himself; when that failed to get through to him I moved on to honor.

  “Theo, do you wanna go home someone you can be proud of, or someone who has to lie about everything that happened over here?” I asked.

  “I really don’t think I’ve done anything to compromise my dignity,” he said in a tone that made it clear that even he didn’t believe what he was saying.

  I brought up the massages for the hundredth time, and how by giving them he was disgracing our country in a room full of soldiers.

  “Oh, come on, the guy’s hurt.”

  “The guy’s the biggest enemy our country has ever faced! Stop giving him massages!”

  To try to penetrate his denial and pathetic rationalizations, I began to detail his actions and how they constituted treason. I tried to make him imagine returning home and how he was going to live with himself for the rest of his life. And for a minute I seemed to get through to him. He just put his head down and didn’t say a word. But I was wasting my breath.

  “I’d rather fight with you than hear it from him,” he said finally.

  This was the reason he gave for siding with the Moroccan against me. For the rest of the game we discussed other things, and after all that we ended on a positive note: Theo and I shook hands and made a pact between countrymen, agreeing that we would both try harder to get along and, moving forward, work together as Americans.

  A few hours after the chess game was over I was lying on the floor with my head on a pillow, just zoning out, when the Moroccan crawled up next to me. After a little small talk he got right to the point.

  “Did you tell Theo that I was using him against you and to stop giving me massages?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Theo had shaken my hand while promising to work with me for our mutual benefit moving forward—then he’d gotten up, run over to my greatest enemy, and told him every negative thing I’d said about him, including that I wanted Theo working with me instead.

  “No, I didn’t say that,” I said to the Moroccan. “He’s just trying to start a fight between us.”

  Naturally, he believed me, and just ended up getting mad at Theo. The next morning, I sat across from Theo and promised to tell the world what he’d done. He had officially earned a nickname of his own: The Benedict Arnold of Journalism.

  June nineteenth started out like any other night. I was sitting in the rear of the cell playing chess when we heard the door being unlocked. We swept the chessboard aside so it wouldn’t be seen just as Obeida and the Wolfman entered and summoned the Moroccan, Theo, and me over to them. The Wolfman looked me over, confused—I was wearing my jeans inside out.

  “So the bedbugs can’t hide under the seams,” I explained.

  Then the Wolfman told the three of us to change: we were going to be released, after first being taken to Jabhat al-Nusra’s main headquarters in Aleppo to do some paperwork. The Moroccan and I rejoiced, while Theo showed virtually no emotion. To celebrate the occasion Obeida promised to bring an enormous kettle of chai for everyone.

  After we were locked back up, all the men stood and ran over to me for a hug, a kiss, and to say congratulations. When I was finally able to see through the cluster of soldiers around me I noticed Ayman sitting against the back wall, tears flowing down his cheeks. Not out of jealousy, or even sadness that he was staying; they were flow
ing out of happiness.

  I sat next to Ayman, took out my mesbahah—the one I’d made at the villa and had prayed with ever since—and handed it to him.

  “Now you give me yours,” I said, holding back my own tears.

  He produced his beautiful white mesbahah with its long tassels and purple twine and gave it to me. I had seen him praying with it for hours some days. I promised him that I would never lose it or let it go, but I don’t think he understood that part of the conversation because later, after the tea was served, he came up to me with Ali as translator to deliver a message.

  “Ayman says that if you lose his mesbahah he will come to America and kick your ass,” Ali said with a big smile.

  I laughed and told him I would die first.

  We waited all night to be taken from the cell, but nobody came to get us. That long, long night was followed by an even longer day, but on the evening of the twentieth Obeida entered solo and called the three of us over once again. He told us that we were about to be transferred and that Shareef and the Senator would follow as well. I only caught part of this statement, their names, and when Obeida allowed me a few minutes to say goodbye to the men I walked right past Shareef without even a glance, thinking he and the Senator were coming with us.

  “Jumu’ah,” he said.

  When I turned around to look at this gentle giant who had become a brother to me I could see the sadness in his swollen red eyes.

  “Aren’t you coming with us?” I asked.

  “No,” said Shareef.

  I grabbed him and we hugged tightly, knowing our chances of ever seeing each other again were slim. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t.

  “Jumu’ah,” Obeida called from the doorway.

  The cell grew silent as I turned and the men parted to make a path to the door. In Obeida’s hand were white lace blindfolds. He put mine on, and a moment later we were led out of the cell.

  THE WAREHOUSE

  JUNE 20, 2013

  As soon as we were taken from the van, we knew we weren’t going home.

  “Yala!” a voice roared as I was ripped from the vehicle.

  The moment my bare feet touched the pavement, my arm was twisted viciously behind my back. I was led into a building and down a long, winding staircase. Wherever they were taking us was deep underground and definitely not the main headquarters of Jabhat al-Nusra. When we finally reached the bottom I was pushed into a cavernous basement where my holders’ yelling echoed all around me. I was placed on my knees. It was quiet now, and I heard them bringing in Theo and the Moroccan. Then I heard someone running right at me, his footsteps reverberating like thunder—

  Boom!

  The bottom of a boot landed in the center of my back and my head snapped back like a rag doll. I flew forward, landing facedown on a foam mattress. I felt like I’d been hit with a wrecking ball and slid from the mattress, gasping for air. When I finally caught my breath I heard the unmistakable sound of the wooden stick being picked up and moved into position—they were putting Theo in the tire. I just lay there, waiting for my turn.

  The blows landing on the bottoms of Theo’s feet were fierce and each followed by the same word, in Arabic:

  “Kafir!” Nonbeliever.

  Theo’s screams were horrific, echoing throughout the enormous room.

  “Kafir!” the voice continued to yell, until at last Theo screamed that he was a Christian and another voice stepped in on his behalf.

  “No, wait, wait,” it said. “He believes in something! He believes in something!”

  Now it was my turn, but no one bothered putting me in the tire; instead he crept up on me and gave me seven or eight good licks on the bottoms of my feet, my ass, and my ankles. This guy was whaling on me harder than the punks at the hospital ever did, and the shots to my ankles stripped the skin off as efficiently as a weed whacker. All the while he screamed a question, but I had no idea what the maniac was asking.

  “No Arabic, no Arabic!” I kept shouting.

  Finally, Theo answered for me.

  “He’s a Muslim,” he said.

  As soon as the words were out my punishment ceased; I was rolled over and told to remove my blindfold. Standing above me like the Grim Reaper himself was our new captor, holding his pointer finger up toward the sky. This meant he wanted me to recite the Shahada.

  “There is no God but Allah and Mohammad is the true prophet,” I said in Arabic, through gasps of breath.

  The man slowly nodded his shaggy head in approval. He was not particularly large, but terrifying to look at, with a long beard and spiky eyebrows, his mass of dark hair pushed back. His name was Abu Abdullah, and with me out of the way he turned to the Moroccan, dealing him heavy blows across the ass and backs of his legs.

  “I’m a doctor!” Abdelatif pleaded, over and over.

  When the abuse stopped at last, Abu Abdullah informed us that he would be back in the morning to repeat the ritual, and then our holders took their leave.

  As we heard them securing the door with a padlock, the Moroccan and I exchanged looks, our eyes awash in fear and uncertainty.

  “A new beginning,” he said to me, nodding.

  I nodded back, holding his gaze. It was the first time in a long time that we’d agreed on something.

  As I lay there, on the first mattress I had been on in almost six months, one thought finally began to take hold.

  “You know, this is the first time I actually feel like I might not live through this,” I said.

  “Me too,” said the Moroccan.

  Theo agreed as well, but then again he always thought they were going to kill us.

  It had taken us a few moments to get our bearings. On the floor were three mattresses with blankets and pillows, but the welcoming touches ended there. We must have been fifty feet underground—that was about the height of the ceiling. Massive concrete pillars adorned with Arabic graffiti loomed throughout the space. In the far right corner was a towering mass of debris, everything from plywood, to dozens of glass hookahs, to the huge sign that had once graced the outside of the warehouse where we were now confined. Thanks to that sign, for once we knew right away where we were: the Talal Tourism and Trading Cargo Co. To the left, jutting out from the back wall, was a partition of cinder blocks, and behind it an elevator shaft. In the center of the basement was the entrance, the bottom of the stairs barricaded by a green gate. We did have electricity, when it was running, but when it was out there was no natural light during the day except for what crept through the elevator shaft and the fogged windows high up at ground level along the front.

  There was absolutely no getting out of there.

  “That’s not a good sign,” I heard Theo say.

  I turned, just as the biggest rat I had ever seen skittered across the room and disappeared into the pile of debris. Not long after, the lights went out; we were back in the black of darkness, only this time we weren’t alone. All around us we could hear the scratching of the rats, who were clearly used to living with humans and not afraid of us at all.

  Theo was right for once: this was not a good sign.

  We could usually hear our captors coming well in advance thanks to the endless echoing staircase. Not long after the darkness overtook us we heard them returning, three of them. By now the protocol was second nature; we moved to the back wall and put our faces to it as the glow of their light drew closer. When the footsteps stopped we were told to turn, and found an older man with a long black beard and a baseball cap crouched in front of us, with Abu Abdullah to the left of him and another guard on the right. I don’t think he was an emir, but he was definitely intense and definitely in charge. He was in his mid to late forties, but had the worn face of a sixty-year-old, and he held the light under his chin, the shadows it threw making him and his comrades—Abu Abdullah in particular—look especially fearsome. The Leader addressed the Moroccan first, and as he turned his attention toward me Abdelatif filled him in on my history—including the fact that I had found Allah.<
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  “Do the Fatiha for them,” he said.

  As I sang their most sacred prayer our three captors looked at me as if I were an angel. Abu Abdullah seemed the most moved by my performance, and by the end was nodding vigorously. Now came the questioning, with the Moroccan acting as translator.

  “Do you regret coming to Syria?” the Leader asked me.

  “No,” I said with conviction.

  “Why?”

  “Because it has made me a stronger person, a better person.”

  “Do you think you are going to die here?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Good, your faith is strong,” said the Leader, turning his attention to Theo.

  “Do you think you’re going to live?”

  “I sure hope so,” Theo answered meekly.

  “You are weak and your faith is weak!” he spat.

  The Leader asked us if we were hungry, and a little while later a healthy portion of greasy fried eggs and Spam was delivered to us by two guards, along with an abundance of bread. It was a nice way to end a rough night, but we still had the next morning to look forward to, and with it Abu Abdullah’s promise to return for another round of torture.

  Next to the warehouse was a mosque, and the Adhan blaring out of its speakers meant there was no mistaking when morning arrived. None of us said a word and none of us prayed. We just sat there, waiting for Abu Abdullah to appear. As day overcame the night the basement took on a gray and colorless gloom. It couldn’t have been more depressing. When we heard footsteps coming down the stairs we all quickly scooted to the wall and put our heads against it while seated. The door opened and the footsteps continued, coming to a stop right behind us, and then the voice of Abu Abdullah began speaking to the Moroccan.