The Captive (Part 1)
He was sitting at home when it happened.
Living in a war zone is actually incomprehensibly worse than living under a dictator for most people. It is a very rough transition point. Whilst the despot had slaughtered and persecuted a countless number of people, basics like food, water and, often, electricity were available. But during war, food is incredibly scarce. Water does not run freely. To be a civilian in the middle of a conflict is not an existence much worth living.
Before they arrived, he had been looking at his children. They were wearing torn rags, the constant chaos of war had left all their garments scrappy and impoverished. Through the rips he could see their skinny arms and he worried about their health. It had been a week since the last time any troops had entered this district with food supplies. The market was mostly rubble and was a hotbed for terrorist attacks. There is no peace in a war zone. He closed his eyes, solemn and resigned. He understood the cause, he understood that the war was started to liberate his country, to free him and others like him. These were not ‘infidels’ like the radicals claimed. His brother had been taken in by the extremist propaganda, he had turned against the liberators. He had not seen his brother for months, claiming he must choose a side - for or against the invaders. He could not do this, however. He knew that they wanted to remove a dictator and offer the opportunity for democracy. He knew that their mission was never going to be easy, he accepted that he had to be patient and that he should be grateful for their efforts. He opened his eyes and they were slightly more alive; a flicker of hope briefly shone through them. One day, they would be free. Free of tyrants and free of war.
Free.
That was his last thought when the door burst open. Rough shouting everywhere and the chaos of war was suddenly in his front room. Through the insanity he could not understand what was happening, who was shouting at him or why.
His wife came flying into the room hysterically, arms flailing in terror and screaming with primal fear. One of the intruders shot instantly, instinctively, and she was silenced by immediate death. He leapt out of his seat and let out a painful cry of denial. As he stood he received a vicious strike to the ribs, the impact brought him to the ground. He tried to scream some more but the wind had been taken out of him, stifling his voice.
They were upon him with violent speed. A bag was put over his head and he entered darkness. His ears were filled with shouting and the horrified, desperate yells of his children. They grappled his arms and roughly, forcefully locked them behind his back. Something else was roaring, this time specifically at him, but he could not understand the language. He tried to answer in a panic but received another painful blow to his ribs. He was lifted and then taken one direction and another. Being blinded, he could not work out what was happening. He called out to his children. He called their names again and again until something collided with his skull. His mind went blank.
*
He woke up with a powerful, pounding migraine. He was lying on some unknown floor. His head covered, he could not see a thing, could not know a thing. The hood was uncomfortably warm and suffocating in its claustrophobic pressure. All he could smell was the mustiness of the bag and his stale breath. He attempted to move but discovered that both his arms and legs are tied. What is more, the thumping in his brain began to pulsate with agony at the slightest strain. He let out a pained groan.
Someone or something reacted to the noise and he could hear their muffled speaking. Despite their words being dulled by the bag over his head he could tell that they were not speaking his language. He felt like crying as he began to realise: He was a captive.
He felt the bag ripped off of his head and his eyes twitched as they adjusted to the gloomy light. The man standing over him stared with a cruel sneer on his face. The man said something but he could not understand his words. He responded with a confused look and received a kick in the gut for his troubles. He was then picked up and carried into a new room.
This room was also grimy and dull; it had an unpleasant odour, something like mould. As his eyes scanned the back wall, he realised that it was a shower room. Upon further inspection he noticed that he was not the only captured person in the room. Standing in front of the showers was a long line of men. Men like him. They were naked, bruised and looking straight ahead as if statues, except statues do not shiver. He was placed at the end of the line and the locks on his hands were removed. However, a gun was now directed straight at his face. Less than a foot away he could see that hole at the tip of the rifle - one wrong move and a bullet would escape. He would join his wife. He considered it and then considered his children. He clung to that idea desperately, that they might be alive somewhere. On the streets. Hungry. Searching. Waiting.
One of the soldiers, not the one aiming the gun, said something to him. He did not understand and so he looked at him, confused. The soldier pointed at the other men, the naked row, and then pointed back at him. The soldier then began to simulate stripping, in an elaborate, taunting manner. Some of the other soldiers laughed but the prisoner could not see the humour. Suddenly, they went serious again. The soldier that had originally addressed him clapped his hands and he began to strip.
Once he had taken his clothes off, he and the others were made to wash. However, there was no water in the showers, despite it being a shower room. The soldiers flung buckets of water - cold and unclean - over the naked men. They recoiled and vibrated with chill. Afterwards, they were thrown robes to wear, although they were still wet. Whilst dressing, the soldiers called out and directed the group of captives out of the room. They were now in a corridor of cells. Each captive was given their own cell and he entered silently, the door slamming, ominous and powerful behind.
Alone in the grimy room he realised the seriousness of his situation. He had been falsely identified, he was considered another extremist. He would have to explain to them that he knew their cause was honourable and that he accepted the difficulties involved in their work. He would plead with them, he decided. He would make them realise that he did not consider them ‘infidels’ or ‘the enemy’ and he would be released. Any information he could offer them he would give. He realised he would have to wait for one of the soldiers to return.
In the meantime, he sat in the cell and the day began to seep into his consciousness. He felt the sense of loss wake up inside him once more; he remembered the sharp, automatic end to his wife’s pained screams. He felt the echoes of his children; he heard their calls, their pleas. His emotions swathed through him like sewage and he felt violently ill and desperately ashamed. He rolled onto his back and began to cry, consumed by humiliation and an oppressive melancholy. His tears eventually led him to sleep.
He woke as the cell door screeched open. His head still ached and his body felt drained of all its energy. A soldier and a nicely-dressed man entered the room. The soldier dropped a tray of food carelessly on the floor and it vibrated an unnerving rattle. The soldier’s eyes were cold - equally menacing and indifferent. He spoke to the other visitor who then spoke to the captive:
“You are here because of your association with the extremists. We cannot let you go until we have all the information we require. You have an opportunity to right your wrongs. If you comply sufficiently, you will be freed and taken somewhere safe. If we feel you are lying to us or withholding information, you will be punished. We are not negotiating. We are offering you a chance to help us and help yourself. Understand?”
This smartly dressed visitor spoke the captive’s language with an accent but he was clear enough. The captive nodded. His head moved in a cautious, slow manner though his heart and mind were racing furiously. He knew so little and had not been associating with extremists as far as he was aware. However, he hoped their questions would be answerable and he could achieve his freedom.
After an hour-long interrogation it became desperately clear that his information was to be of no use at all. He had pleaded and apologised all the way through the questioning but it was to no avail. Their inquiries increased in volume and in aggression. They never struck him but they threatened him terrible repercussions. They told him his truths were lies, his honest answers unacceptable and his hopes were dust. They left in silence, the air full of malice. The soldier kicked the food tray as he left, scattering the watery, stew-like meal upon the floor. The captive picked up the bread and began to mop the food from the floor, tears falling in the midst of his miserable chewing.
The days began to pass beyond the captive’s comprehension, days meshing into one after the other. Everyday brought more sessions of questions and harassment, increasingly their aggression turned into threats turned into deeds. At first they kicked him with irritation, nudging him for the answers they wanted as if swatting an insect. However, as their attempts remained futile, their methods grew more unpleasant. They began thrusting the butts of rifles into his body, occasionally swinging them like bats. They spat on him and slapped his face. By the end of the tortuous interrogations he was bruised, sometimes bleeding, and humiliated. However, it did not matter what they did to him, it was impossible for him to give them the answers they were looking for because they made no sense to him. The groups they mentioned, the people and the code names of places, none of these held significance to him. They punished him for his insolence, his disobedience.
And then one day, he made a tragic error in judgement. Recalling his brother’s flight to an extremist resistance group, he mentioned it in the hope to receive their approval. They had never mentioned his brother or asked any information about him or his group; this would be new information, he had thought, they would treasure it. However, instead of appreciating the details he could give them, they merely took this information to be evidence of his surreptitious association. They refused to accept that he was bestowing all he could - they wanted more and, when he could offer no more, they punished him worse than ever before. They grabbed him by his hair, knotted and greasy with neglect, and dragged him from the room. He struggled as they pulled, his legs splaying around the floor desperately but their violent tugging was irresistible. They threw him down and he found himself back in the useless shell that was the shower room. As soon as his head was freed and his bearing grasped, they grabbed him by his hair again. There was yelling, bellowing, taunting, the language completely alien. He looked up at one of his khaki-clothed tormentors and he saw their teeth gnashing as they roared in his face. The soldier then spat a globule of saliva violently into the captive’s face, it splashing into his left eye. His face was then turned to a bucket and the stench immediately overwhelmed him. A gruesome cocktail of filth and shit confronted him, stinging his eyes to tears. The bewildering bellows began once more and his head spun with fear, repulsion and confusion. Without warning they lunged his head forwards into the disgusting mix of slop and excrement. The vile, rancid liquid forced itself down his throat and nose before immediately making him wretch and choke. His entire body flailed as they kept his head under through is vomiting. Though the intensity of his torment did not dull, his lungs feeling hot and stretched, he felt himself growing gradually more faint and then they finally tore his head out of the filthy hole. Once again they began their shouts, others screaming and others laughing. Countless soldiers looking and taunting him; their eyes revealed multiple emotions, all of them violent. Once again, his head was pushed under and, though he tried, he could not keep control during the horrific ordeal. He could not help but immediately repeat choking on the bucket’s contents. As the time before, they kept him under for a gruellingly long time, pushing his body to the very limits of distress and abuse. When they pulled out his head for the second time they flung him onto his back. Two of the soldiers then pinned him to the ground with their feet - one on his neck, the other on his belly - while a third cut and tore his clothes away. The soldiers then poured the bucket over him, laughing and whooping as it doused him with faeces and filth, one of the soldiers adding further shame by urinating on the captive’s chest and face. As soon as they were done, they grabbed him under his arms and returned him to his cell. Naked, ashamed and unclean. Incredibly ashamed. Incredibly unclean.
Following the evil abuse of his captors, the man became far more solemn and unhelpful. He no longer told them the little he knew, nor did he implore upon them his innocence and ignorance. Bizarrely, they were far less hostile to this behaviour. Or perhaps it wasn’t that odd, their preference to a broken man over a desperate one - a broken man expected much less.
He was most certainly broken. Now almost a mute, his mind was as hollow as his voice. He struggled to think of his wife and children and accepted that he was not going to see them again. Any further reflection either brought forth painful memories or futile desires. His mind was dominated by the torture he had suffered from his supposed liberators. He felt stupid, cretinous and naïve for having thought that these people were here to help him. There was no honour in their actions, there could be no honour in their motives. He hated them, hated them all. Far more than any frustrated terrorist, he loathed the existence of this occupying force more than words could ever reveal. However, his emotions soon shifted once again. He became such a shell of a man that he could not maintain his bitterness, his shame or his anger. As his feelings began to dissipate, they speedily evaporated, leaving him hollow and indifferent. A vacuous soul trapped in a shell, locked in a cell. Until one day he could concede to his empty existence no longer. One more plate of unpalatable food was thrown pathetically into his room; the tray clattered and the paper plate flipped, spilling his food once again onto the floor. He began to scrape the ugly mush back onto the plate with a plastic fork and, as he did so, he began to realise its potential as a key. He closed his eyes and muttered a prayer, something he had not done in a long while. As he mumbled and weakly intoned the words he snapped the fork producing a splintered, uneven edge. He continued and concluded his incantation as he tore at his wrists, occasionally wincing and yelping. He began to lie back, the river of life flowing freely from him. He could feel his soul slowly escaping its shell. He thought of his wife, his love, as he finally began his escape. The captive was quickly becoming a captive no longer…
END
The Captive (Part 2)
He considers it strange how working in a war zone has slowly become normal. The routine of travelling, working and sleeping through chaotic violence has gradually become as banal as any other life he has experienced. The spitting bursts of gunfire are registered with as much indifference as heavy rain when clashing against the windows of his house in Dorset. The rupturing explosions, no doubt killing tens or even hundreds of people at a time, are commented on as if thunder. ‘Doesn’t bode well,’ someone might say, a phrase that can be used to describe either signs of unpleasant weather or the continuation of on-going devastation. It’s not that these people are heartless or ignorant. They have become desensitised; a tragic trait of human beings - both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it allows them an immunity; an ability to adapt, to resist and to improve when the odds are so heavily against them. A curse because it can equally lead to resignation and acceptance of the most terrible atrocities. It is all the more unpleasant to consider that humans more frequently find this trait to be a curse.
Irrespective of this, he is not here for the war. He is not here against it either. He is merely here because of it and his actions are to the benefit of this country; he is not here to create further devastation. Granted, his motives have nothing to do with rebuilding this country; this is not an altruistic gesture. To work in this war zone, with all the horrific sights and the genuine risks that one encounters, without reward would not be simply generous - it would be insane. Instead, he reaps a considerable economic reward to benefit himself and his family. He will be able to retire at 58, in three years, instead of ten years later than that as he originally feared. His work here is to start the restructuring of the country; to aid its growth back into a place to live instead of a place to suffer and die.
Truth be told, he has never held much opinion on the war. He still doesn’t approve or condemn the actions of his government. He does love his family, however, and he feels that this move to working in a war zone does not have to compromise his neutrality. (Neutrality is a kind way of describing his indifference. It’s how he perceives his position - a position that is shared with a great number of people).
Now he is travelling to work, protected and secure in a British Army vehicle, escorted by two other trucks - one in front, one behind. Just because he is here to rebuild does not mean that he is free of threats. He and his colleagues are discussing the building - what is to become a hospital - casually. This is not a meeting on the way to work, merely the discussion point that they can all share with equal passion. (Not all of them support a Premiership football team). The mood is relaxed, despite the shouts of the country’s angry citizens outside. Even when a rock makes a dull thud against the side of the vehicle not one of them flinches or comments.
The plating of the vehicle does not let those outside see in or those inside see out. This is to the workers’ advantage because certain individuals - terrorists or especially bitter and vengeful fathers - cannot see what they look like. However, today it means that they do not notice that the vehicles have taken a detour. The trucks are being moved out of the conventional route because of some allied soldiers attempting to diffuse a car bomb that has been discovered. This is a rare occurrence but, amidst such chaos, not a surprising one. The journey will merely be slightly delayed.
But there is no bomb. There is not meant to be a detour.
The trucks move round into awkward, narrow streets, the desolate houses look deserted - shells of what they once were. They look haunting. Dead. Another unpleasant component to the sad mechanics of war. There is a blockade in the middle of the road; a collection of barrels, rocks and rubbish. The vehicles slow and then stop. The workers continue their conversation, unperturbed by the fact that they have stopped before their arrival. An inter-com on one of the soldiers reveals the reason for the delay and a few of the soldiers step outside the vehicle. They sense a trap but do not wish to alarm the workers because they are essentially civilians.
A minute later the thunderous roar of detonation booms from outside. And now he and his colleagues can hear gunfire. These noises no longer sound like weather, they are very real. Terrifyingly real. No one nonchalantly suggests that this ‘doesn’t bode well’, instead they are screaming as they feel the truck rock and shake with the violence of the explosion.
Men are shouting and calling outside. In the confusion it is hard to tell if they are speaking in English. Perhaps the attackers have gained the upper-hand. The workers huddle in a corner, covered by their guards. As the doors fly open the soldiers open fire but are quickly overwhelmed and slaughtered. He can smell urine, though he is certain it is not his own. It’s hard to see and the smell of smoke, burning and piss makes him feel disorientated. There are new people on the truck. People he does not know, who do not speak his language. They wear black and look strong, bulky and foreboding. They look like warriors of death. He thinks he might go insane with the fear.
A mumble from one of them. More shots are fired and a few of those around him die. And then they come at him and the rest that are living. They are attacked, hit with gun butts, clubs and knives. A solid crack to the side of his temple renders him unconscious.
*
He wakes up with a powerful, pounding migraine. He is lying on some unknown floor. His head is covered and he cannot see a thing. The hood is uncomfortably warm and suffocating in its claustrophobic pressure. All he can smell is the mustiness of the bag and his stale breath. He attempts to move but discovers that both his arms and legs are tied. What is more, the thumping in his brain pulsates with agony at the slightest strain. He lets out a pained groan.
The noise is reacted to, he can hear muffled speaking. Despite their words being dulled by the bag over his head he can tell that they are not speaking his language. He feels like crying as he begins to realise: He is a captive.
Someone comes over to him and roughly pulls the bag off his head. The light stings his eyes, causing the migraine to surge once more. He rolls awkwardly around the floor, sighing and moaning. The individual over him is wearing black and begins to yell at him. He can see the person’s face, it is a man - its mouth is twisted, as if snarling. He cannot understand the words. He is kicked by his tormentor, and then he sees the intimidating figure walk away.
He is close to a wall and so he uses all his might to bring himself into a seating position, his back against the wall. His sight has adjusted and he begins to achingly take in the scene before him. He is in a large room, possibly a hall. It is filled with people dressed in black. He can see many men and, to his mild surprise, a few women. Others are wearing balaclavas or face scarves. The walls are covered with flags and banners. Many are written in the language of this country, he can only assume their messages.
‘Death to the infidels.’
‘Down with America and its allies.’
‘Leave now!’
In the far corner he can see a table with a television on it and some other gadgets he cannot identify. The television is playing something but he cannot discern whether it is news or a home recording or something else entirely different.
Now another figure is heading towards him. Their face is covered and he cannot see the intent in their eyes. They have a gun slung over their left shoulder and he wonders if they’ll use it. They bend down and reach into their pocket, bringing out a small flask of water. He realises just how thirsty he is, the fear having dampened all his senses - excepting pain. They pour the water slowly into his mouth and he gulps desperately, nearly choking.
“Thank you,” he croaks. A ridiculous thing to say to your kidnapper but he is truly grateful for their compassion. At hearing him speak, the individual speaks through their face-cover. Heavily accented they ask: “English?” He nods loosely, as if drunk. He begins to feel very woozy and he collapses once more, succumbing to his exhaustion.
When he wakes this time he has been moved to a chair. His body aches but the pain he has been feeling is gradually beginning to lessen. He looks around him. To both his left and right sides there are people standing, still ominously in black. In front of him stands another two of his holders. One walks towards him and speaks in heavily broken English. They call him a dog and tell him that he will die. The idea of death enters his mind once more, stronger than ever before. Too much time has been spent dealing with the fact that he is suffering and yet still, miraculously, alive. It no longer seems that special. He is kicked in the chest, the chair falling backwards. He is picked up, winded, and he sees that the other individual ahead of him is talking to the camera. He does not know what they are saying but he assumes that a tape is being made telling people about his inevitable death.
He wants to speak. He wants to say that this is not right. That they have taken someone who is their friend, who has come to help. However, he fears that if he speaks he is going to be killed for insolence. He doesn’t think anyone would understand his words anyway. The tape is obviously not a live broadcast. He has no way of getting a message back to anyone. He may well never get a message back to someone. Not to those he works with, not to his friends and not to his precious family. His wife and his beautiful children. He loves them so much. Uncontrollably, he begins to snivel. In weak, pathetic tones, he begins to wail. Life never deserves this abuse.
Once the recording is finished, those by his side hoist him to his feet, manoeuvring his arms out of the chair. One of them, the man on his right, looks into his face and spits. The saliva trickles down his face like a humiliating tear. They drag him out of the room and he is back in the hall.
He is thrown to the floor and left alone. Occasionally someone comes up and gives him water but no food or communication is offered. He wonders, in his isolation, if he is the sole survivor from the attack. He has not seen and cannot see anyone from that day. But then, there is every possibility that others are being kept elsewhere. Keeping them divided would make it more difficult for them all to be saved. The solitary existence fills him with futility. He whispers a small prayer for those who have died and for those, if any, sharing in his suffering.
Yes, this situation feels utterly futile.
The days have passed without register. It is impossible for him to establish how long he has been kept here now. They are mostly ignoring him. His only conversations are within his own mind, with God - a subtle but ever present companion.
Not even water is administered to him anymore, they have simply left a bowl on the floor. Perhaps they really do think of him as a dog.
However, there is something different about today. They seem to be staring at him more, their attention is drawn to him. He can only assume that this will be the day they kill him. He finds it difficult to care, they defeated him a long time ago.
He looks at the flags once more. Some of them are quite beautiful, the designs ornate and tender. Red and gold woven together on some of them - it looks almost majestic, regal. Proper. He spits on the floor with contempt. The splendour of the flags seems so inappropriate in this disgusting, hateful arena.
They are walking towards him and he shrivels in fear - just because he is beaten does not mean that he cannot be hurt anymore. He hopes that they did not see his disrespectful act. One boots him but it is lazy, he is not being punished. The characters are wearing balaclavas and face-masks, they look like assassins. ‘And so they are,’ he thinks to himself solemnly.
Once more he is off the floor and made to walk into the room with the camera. He has not been there since he was called a dog and told about his fate. Looking around, all the people shrouded in blackened mystery, he becomes more certain than ever that this fate is to be sealed today. He is pushed onto a chair once more. Two eyes come level with his. They are sharp; malicious. Deadly.
“Today… you die,” say the eyes and a large blade is unsheathed.
He nods. He understands. There is no chance of escape and there is no hope. Just inevitable death.
The camera is clicked on and there is silence. He cannot bring himself to look at the lens, instead letting his neck roll over his left shoulder. He looks at the ground. Through the camera his face looks a lot like Jesus’ does in images of him upon the cross: bearded, weak and dejected. He is oblivious to the comparison but in this moment his faith is brought back to him.
There have been times through this ordeal that he has addressed God. Through his mind he has asked for favours. Not for his own life - such a deal was far too late - but for the well-being of his family. For them to find out about his death and to mourn and then to live happy. He prayed for them to never go through this nightmare. It was a Hell he had experienced, he did not even wish it on those who had taken him hostage. He just wanted to have this torment done.
As the camera records the voice of one of the kidnappers, he wishes once again that he could just die.
In apparent answer to his request, his head is straightened by someone gripping his hair. The blade begins to move. He closes his eyes, both to block out the blade but also to concentrate. Death is seconds away. He feels already dead. And in his last moments, in his head, he begins to recite The Lord’s Prayer:
Our Father,
Who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be Thy name,
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done-
On Earth as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us,
And lead-
END
Reflection:
A few years back I came up with a concept for a novel called ‘Prisoners of War’. Like every other idea I have had, it never got written. It never even got started. However, the essence of the story was that there are many more prisoners of war than just the obvious ones, the soldiers who become captured. The citizens of the war zone are the biggest prisoners, they who never volunteer for war endure it the most. The soldiers who joined to protect their country but find themselves helping to ruin another suffer a terrible entrapment that desecrates their previous ideals. The families back at home who find their loved ones have been killed become eternal prisoners of war, ensnared in its most apparent and consistent consequence: loss. I never wrote it but I really felt that I had to write something about war, especially as resisting it had been a key part of my political development.
It’s obvious that the above stories are immersed with uncomfortable thoughts about the Iraq conflict. In a way, I became captivated by the war, obsessed with the lies, deceit, manipulation, callousness, racism and on and on. It battered my mind everyday and at times I would get powerfully depressed at the horrors of the world and the fact that I, and millions who felt as I felt, were so ineffectual and irrelevant. Once, I had a nightmare of a gladiatorial arena on a huge podium. People were slaughtering each other but their attacks were being marred as they slipped on the blood that had flown forth from thousands already butchered. I awoke with a jump and I knew the dream was about Iraq. It was as subtle as the war itself.
Two stories from the many atrocities of Iraq stuck in my head; one was Abu Ghraib and the other was the Kenneth Bigley execution. I was struck in both cases by the futility, stupidity and hypocrisy of these events. Abu Ghraib was the tormenting and degrading of people who were meant to be liberated from torment and degradation. Kenneth Bigley was used to symbolise the evil of the West though, no doubt, the terrorists themselves probably resented the way Iraqis were being perceived as friends of Saddam and other evils of the East. It was all so crass. So sick.
My message is clear. In this horror of a war, those who deserved least to be its victims, its captives, suffered the greatest humiliations and injustices. I am no longer so bound to this conflict; my heart goes out to those that are and to those that always will be.
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