The Shattered Lens

by Jonathan Alpeyrie

  I went back and pretended nothing had happened. But he came right in with his AK-47, loaded it with a magazine, and pointed it at my head. He kept screaming at me, cursing incomprehensibly. Mej woke up and asked what was going on. I looked down and saw the cigarette I’d just finished smoking on the floor. I could feel the cold barrel of the gun on my forehead. Psycho kept cursing at me in Arabic. Then Mej nudged Psycho’s weapon away from me and said, “No, no.” Ali came in all gruff because of the rude awakening and grabbed the gun from Psycho.

  I didn’t do anything or show any emotion. Something in me was already numb. I felt like I could say, Do it now, I don’t care anymore. At one point I even had a smile on my face. I was just sizing Psycho up, thinking, You have a gun now. But if you didn’t, in this situation, just you against me, I’d kill you without a second thought.

  Later Mej pleaded with me not to do that again. But Ali and the other guys never said anything. I’d been sneaking around, pretending I needed to go to the bathroom, but I didn’t really have to go to the bathroom. I’d been exploring my options, planning to bolt. Something in me sensed they knew that’s exactly what I was doing and they could only respect me for it.

  The next day Psycho was gone. I never saw him again. I asked Mej, and he said, “No good man. He went back to Yabroud, to his family.” It dawned on me that they thought I was too valuable to have a loose cannon like that around. I was precious merchandise.

  * * *

  AFTER A WHILE BOREDOM started to become demoralizing in and of itself. Just sitting there in the dark, doing nothing. The men smoked a lot of cigarettes and watched TV. Whenever I heard them light up I’d try to bum a cigarette.

  I was getting a bit more comfortable and decided I needed to be friends with them. Otherwise I’d just be aggravating the torture.

  One evening Abu Talal walked by. My blindfold was lifted because they’d just fed me. I motioned for him to come over. He did, and with a few gestures I asked if I could watch TV. He said okay and uncuffed me. From then on I started watching TV at night, mostly Egyptian movies, often with the famous comedian Adel Imam. The men in the room were always laughing, and I would just sit there and smoke cigarettes. Obviously I didn’t understand a thing, but the laughter helped—any laughter that wasn’t directed at me had a healing effect. We were all able to share something, and as a result they were getting used to me, like a new piece of furniture. At times it almost felt like I was free, just hanging out with these rebels.

  But then they would put the cuffs back on me before going to sleep. Or whenever a car pulled up to the house they would hurry me back to my room, cuff me again, and lower my blindfold. Then some officers would come in and take a look around, and the men would act like everything was in order.

  * * *

  I NOTICED THEY HAD MADE dumbbells out of tin cans filled with cement. While I was sitting there blindfolded, Ali would come into the room and work out in front of me as if I weren’t there. But one time he saw me looking at him from under the blindfold, my head tilted back, and I made him understand that he wasn’t doing the exercise properly. He was trying to do curls with his elbows out, and that made for a jerky motion that would eventually cause back problems. I stood up and put pressure on his elbow so it was closer to his body; that way he could isolate the bicep.

  He suddenly became interested, so for about a half an hour I showed him how to lift weights, basic exercises.

  They had a series of makeshift dumbbells and one barbell made out of a metal pole with two huge aluminum cans on the end. Both the cans had USAID written on them.

  When the other rebels found out that I knew what I was doing technically, many of them came in to train and I’d lead them in a workout session. They came into the house to do push-ups, sit-ups and squats together. I’d spend an hour every day teaching everyone how to lift weights and showed them how to do dead lifts and curls. We even set up a makeshift bench for bench presses.

  It was good for them because it built a routine. Ali was especially into it. So was Flic, even though he smoked cigarettes between reps. I knew lifting weights would build the soldiers’ morale, because so much of a man’s morale is tied to his physical strength. But I also made myself needed, and that built up my morale as well.

  THIRD INTERROGATION

  SEVERAL DAYS AFTER the interrogation with knives, the same men came back again. Abu Talal and the others were out. They had a document with many pages in Arabic and told me it was a transcript of my testimony. They wanted me to sign every single page of it. I didn’t even bother to bring up the objection that I could have been signing my own death warrant for all I knew. It would have been as pointless as saying, Talk to my lawyer.

  They looked at the papers and picked up where they’d left off, still aggressive—minus the kitchen knives, though. “You’re lying, we know it.” The fear was steadily building inside me. It set off a metallic taste in my mouth. I had a queasy feeling that I wasn’t going to get out of this one. “You’re an American. We know you’re working for the Americans. We’re going to kill you. We’re going to execute you. You’re a spy and we kill spies.”

  I stuck to my story and tried not to think about the ridiculous logic of what they were saying. Why would they want to kill an American if they were hoping to get aid from the Americans? There were already rumors at the time that the CIA was vetting rebels for a covert training program in Jordan. They must have already had operatives on the ground. I assumed none of them had ever shown up in these parts and the rebels were getting disillusioned. During the beginning of the war there was talk that the Americans would funnel tons of arms to the rebels and create a no-fly zone. All I saw was Russian-made equipment (probably captured from Syrian army stocks) trying to shoot down helicopters that were bombing the rebels mercilessly. So resentment against the Americans was understandable.

  Still, I intuitively felt that the interrogators were grasping at straws, trying to trip me up in my story. They were hoping I was more important than I was, but it was becoming clear to them that I was just a paltry young freelance photographer who’d gotten a little too hungry for the right shot.

  After about an hour, as the interrogation was winding down, Abu Talal showed up with Ali and the other kids. They gave me the papers to sign, which I did, and then suddenly everyone was very nice to me, like, Hey it’s okay. It’s all over.

  The sudden switch caught me off balance. Abu Talal was my buddy now. He told me to grab my computer and open it up with the password. I assumed he wanted me to show them pictures of me with the Ogaden rebels in Ethiopia. But as soon as I opened it he knew exactly which folder he wanted me to double-click—my personal photos.

  “What is this?” he said.

  My heart sank. I suddenly realized that they’d gone through my computer at some point and found the folder with all the pictures of my past girlfriends. One of them had been a very successful model for a well-known lingerie company—as well as somewhat of an exhibitionist. While we were going out, before one of us had to go on a lengthy trip for work, she’d sneak little videos onto my computer to tease me while we were apart.

  Abu Talal went straight for her. The two interrogators were sitting next to me. A few minutes earlier they were telling me they were going to execute me for being a spy, and now they were all pals of mine anticipating a hormonal rush. I clicked the video and my girlfriend appeared sauntering around in her lingerie. She uttered a few seductive words that the men clearly couldn’t give a rat’s ass about, and then slowly started showing her magnificent body, bit by bit.

  They called in other guys from the unit waiting outside. Two more showed up and sat next to me to watch my ex-girlfriend spread her long, sensuous legs and finger herself for me. For me exclusively.

  This video used to drive me crazy. She knew all the teases and reveals that could press my buttons. Now I was just feeling depressed because I had to share it with this band of troglodytes drooling over my shoulder.

  This was the li
fe that I’d left behind, the life they’d taken away from me. And they were all just laughing. My intimacy had become a mockery to them. I tried to feign indifference, but I felt mortally wounded deep inside, in a place I hadn’t even realized existed.

  IT SEEMS THAT even when I felt good about something I was doing, even when my morale was high—all things considered—something would happen to put me back in my place. In ordinary life, the life that had been taken away from me, such instances tended to involve little shots of humility to set you straight and put things in perspective. Working in conflict zones makes you acutely aware of what a spoiled lot we Westerners who grow up relatively wealthy with a sense of entitlement are: you come face-to-face with people who have lost everything—home, loved ones, hope—because of a random artillery shell. Fate literally comes crushing down on them. But there’s a fine line between humility and humiliation. In the context of my captivity, humility usually had to come as a by-product of humiliation.

  In my case I was very happy to finally be allowed to help the soldiers with some sort of physical fitness routine. I’d gained some respect in their eyes. I was making them feel better about themselves. We were building a sense of fraternity.

  Then Abu Talal got involved. He liked to walk into a room and start roughhousing with the younger guys—wrestle them, slap-box a little. Sometimes he seemed to just want physical contact. Other times he looked like he needed to prove a point.

  I happened to be in the room one day and he said, “Come here.” I went over to him and he gave me a shove. As soon as there was a little distance, he waved me back toward him. As I approached he put his hand behind my neck in a wrestling lock and put his weight on me. You have to find a way to fight back that isn’t so aggressive as to be disrespectful, but not too passive, either—enough force to let him know you still have some dignity to defend. Abu Talal was tall, at least my height, but much heavier. I knew with utter certainty that if we had been alone on neutral ground, unarmed, with all my built-up rage, I would have not only killed him, but probably disfigured his body for good measure, maybe ripped off his balls and shoved them into his fat mouth. But I also knew that showing my anger would be like committing suicide. So I wrestled, and resisted just enough.

  He felt me resisting, pushing him back, and then basically started whaling on me with looping haymakers. I covered up and closed the distance. We got into a clinch and he started to strangle me from the front. Somehow I manage to trip him and we wound up on the ground, with him on top. Suddenly I felt two of my ribs snap. One after the other—pop, pop. While I was on the ground he got up and started kicking me as I lay there unable to move or breathe. Then another guy came in and held Abu Talal back, but it was too late. My ribs were broken.

  * * *

  FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS every movement that involved my abdominal muscles—that is, just about every single movement, including the indispensable one of breathing—was accompanied by a pain that practically made me convulse. I tried to will it away, but my will was just a shadow of what it once had been.

  Exacerbating matters was the fact that my difficulty in breathing and the consequent lack of air summoned up another memory of my childhood friend David. With the arrival of puberty he became more erratic. And the more erratically he behaved, the more I was drawn to him. We became inseparable. I’d sleep over at his family’s house in Normandy and we’d play war for hours in the woods with the local boys, or sneak wine and cigarettes from his parents. One time I was in his room, we were playing Risk or some other board game and he exploded. I don’t even remember why. By that point some itch that was imperceptible from the outside would get into him and he’d go ballistic. This time I wound up on the floor, on my belly. His hands were wrapped around my neck and I couldn’t breathe. I was helpless, but I remember seeing a small stuffed Mickey Mouse lying at the foot of his little brother’s bed. When I clutched Mickey, David let go. I’d almost passed out from him squeezing the sides of my neck.

  After he released me, the blood rushed back to my brain. He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t say anything to anyone. But that was when I decided I wanted to go live with my father in New York. I needed to get David out of my life.

  As with the knife incident, I played the choking episode over again in my mind, conflating it with my current predicament as a hostage. David had been my lifeline to the outside world, and he was tainted by violence. Inevitably I’d come to see the whole outside world as tainted by violence. I began to understand how the conflicts I’ve always been drawn to were connected at the deepest levels of my psyche to a sense of loyalty and devotion—imperatives which are manifested to the extreme by soldiers willing to take orders and sacrifice their lives for an ideal. Over time, violent conflict had become the magnetic north for my compass. At university I wrote my thesis on the Viking invasions of Carolingian France in the ninth century. Violent conflict gradually became a framework of worship for me. As such, war was a sacred rite that reenacted the human drama. But of course this kind of reverence for violence bordered on idolatry, at best. In the worst cases, when entire societies fell under the same ferocious spell, the historical ramifications have been devastating.

  As I lay on my mattress, in pain every time I inhaled, I was in no position to work these ideas out. All I felt was that the mere thought of breaking away from the violence that had informed me was like being confronted by the prospect of losing my identity.

  * * *

  IN RETALIATION FOR THE BROKEN RIBS, I tried to lash out in a way that only I would notice. Ever since they put me in that house I kept unscrewing the neon strip light above the bed when the others weren’t looking. I must have done it about twenty times. Then finally I got the chance, despite the pain in my midsection, to reach up and smash the light’s contact altogether so it wouldn’t work again. For a fraction of a second I felt triumphant.

  But that didn’t last long.

  Soon after, I really needed to go to the bathroom, but my wrists and ankles were cuffed—during the day this time—and I was blindfolded. My ribs were throbbing with pain. There was only me, Mej and Baby Donkey in the house. The others were out fighting. I told Mej, but he said he didn’t have the key. I couldn’t walk, so I went on my knees. But I couldn’t really move my feet because the cuffs on my ankles were so tight and the chain was very short.

  The two of them looked at me like, Where are you going? And I glowered back at them, Fuck you, I’m going to the bathroom. I’m really in pain. So I started crawling and they just watched me. I could tell Mej felt bad. But Baby Donkey was laughing at me. I wanted to grind his face into a pile of shit. And then I realized I was peeing all over myself. I wanted them to feel bad about it, so I just stayed there, sitting in my own piss.

  They felt sorry for me and dragged me back. Mej asked if I was okay. Baby Donkey just laughed that imbecilic laugh of his.

  * * *

  WHEN NOBODY WAS LOOKING I curled up into a ball as best I could and tried to become numb. It was dark enough to imagine myself elsewhere, as a boy, my father reading some adventure story to me.

  I tried to breathe in a way that minimized the pain. Of course, it wasn’t so much the physical pain in my ribs, which was bad enough, as it was the psychic pain of captivity. Along with freedom you lose all the other entryways to joy that you never realized were contingent on that freedom: the smell of the surf just as the morning fog is lifting; the sound of a campfire crackling under a desert sky whose stars multiply with every step you take away from the firelight; the womblike sound of your head underwater when you’re swimming on your back for miles parallel to the shore with the horizon in the distance; your father’s impish laugh when you recount a funny anecdote from your adventures; the thick, sweet taste of that condensed milk you drank as a kid; your mother’s coq au vin; how she tells you you’re crazy when you’re about to travel, but says it with admiration; the rumble in your gut as you cross into a country you’ve never seen before, one in the process of a historic uphe
aval; the look in your lover’s eyes when she sees you for the first time after a long absence, the first feel of her freshly wet lips, the taste and squeeze of her. I lost all these things as soon as I lost my freedom. And they kept wheezing away with every labored breath in the silence.

  Then Flic walked into the room and turned on the light. He shook me up, told me to grab my clothes. I asked where we were going and his normally jovial face looked grave, as if to say, Just shut up . . . Then he dragged me outside into Abu Talal’s car. What little gear I had at that house—my computer and all the memory stored in it—I’d never see again.

  THE LIGHT HOUSE

  THE CAR TOOK OFF IN THE DARK. I thought they were driving me to where I’d be executed. They no longer needed me. I’d become a liability. But the level of tension on their part seemed a bit too relaxed. I started to think they might be taking me to where I’d be free. My hopes rose and fell with the car over the potholed road.

  In the end the ride was brief, only about a mile or so. We parked on the side of the road and got out at the gates to a villa. Once inside I was led down a slight slope. As soon as we stepped into the house, old man Flic, who had shaken me out of bed, was in a much friendlier mood. He led me into a large TV room. There was a young man sitting on a couch: good-looking, stubbly beard outlining his aquiline features, dark intelligent eyes, and lashes that practically cut into his brow. He was medium height and thin, relaxing with his hands behind his neck, wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Alors, ça va?” he asked, just to show that he knew a little French.

  He said his name was Fares. I registered his features, his natural way of looking into things, and trusted him immediately. Instinct told me he might become the key to my well-being in this new situation.