by Zack Love
He actually left the U.S. three days before my birthday, after finalizing all of the details of the transaction with Maria’s captors, which exchange he was personally going to oversee. Michael determined that it was far safer to get to Salma via Lebanon than from Damascus, so his flight was from New York to Beirut. From there, Michael spent several days gathering intelligence from his operatives in the area, and eventually arranged his careful transit to Salma, along with a rather complicated set of security procedures and guarantees, to minimize the chances that these kidnappers might try to harm him or my sister, when he brought them the money for her release.
Michael arrived with the $100,000 ransom in a convoy of three SUVs full of twenty armed men, including mostly fighters from his Christian militia, and some moderate Sunni rebels with ties to various Islamist rebels. He also arranged for a “deterrent” force of snipers and men armed with rocket-propelled grenades who would lie in wait, with the ability – in the event of any sudden betrayal – to kill several Jabhat Al-Nusra fighters manning checkpoints.
In the end, the exchange was executed without a hitch, and Michael escorted Maria to his secure convoy, which then transported both of them back over the Lebanese border and south to Beirut. While the sectarianism of Syria’s Civil war has crept into Lebanon – particularly in the city of Tripoli – the capital is still relatively safe. Nevertheless, Michael wanted Maria to feel as safe and comfortable as possible, after everything that she had been through, so he arranged for her to stay with some of his trusted Christian contacts while I tried to get her a visa to Canada. During that time, Michael went back to Syria to tend to the many projects and issues demanding his attention.
The plan was for Uncle Tony to bring Maria across the border the same way that he had brought me into the U.S. a little over two years ago, and I would of course travel with him to greet her at the Montreal airport. Michael would try to fly with her, if the timing of his return to the U.S. (which depended on his duties in Syria) was close enough to the issuance of her visa.
Fortunately, I had maintained some contact with my father’s connections in Canada, and promised that I would try to visit them with my sister, once Uncle Tony and I drove to Montreal to pick her up, or as soon as possible if it couldn’t be arranged on that trip. I even offered to pay them something for their assistance, but they were unbelievably kind and refused to accept anything except a promise that we would try to meet them in person someday.
I just finished a three-hour video call with Maria, going over all of these details, catching up with her in general, and giving her a virtual hug and shoulder to cry on, after all that she’s been through. During our talk, I also heard more details about her awful ordeal and riveting escape before being recaptured.
The group that murdered our family members fleeing Kessab was Ahrar al-Sham, one of the founding members of the Islamic Front, and mainly active in northern Syria. I looked up the group online and read about how Ahrar al-Sham, like other Islamic Front factions, is largely financed and supported by Qatar and Turkey. The Islamic Front rejects democracy and secularism, and seeks to implement a strict interpretation of Sharia law.
Maria told me that a man named Osama, who seemed about fifty years old to her, took her captive. He was one of the senior members of the armed gunmen and planned to use her as his concubine. She was tied up and put in the backseat of a car with a gunman next to her in a ride that lasted for a few hours, although my sister had no idea which town she ended up in. The gunman who was in the backseat with her took her to a private home, where he locked her in a bedroom, after tying her leg to the bed post. Maria said that a few hours later, Osama returned and tried to rape her but she managed to block each of his attempts, until he gave up and just beat her. Osama also tried multiple times to convert her to Islam, but she refused, which only brought more physical abuse. This pattern continued for about a week and Maria was fed just one meal per day, on the same ceramic plate that was usually left in her room without being cleaned properly.
Then, a sixteen-year-old girl from Idlib named Jamila was brought into the same bedroom and tied to a different bed post. She had been driving with her parents, who had taken a wrong turn and ended up at a rebel checkpoint. When they checked her father’s ID and saw that he belonged to the same Alawite sect as the regime, the Islamic Front rebels shot him dead on the spot and took his wife and daughter captive. Jamila was separated from her mother and brought to the same house where my sister was held.
Maria warned Jamila that Osama would try to rape and convert her, but if she showed resistance, Osama would just hit her. She told Jamila not to be afraid and that they would find a way to free themselves, explaining that Osama and his guard always left after sunset to go to the mosque, and sometimes Osama came back alone. Luckily, the Alawite girl still had her cell phone on her and her older cousin was close with a Sunni friend who could help, which emboldened Maria to pursue an escape plan. The bedroom window had a slight view of the area where Osama’s car was parked, so my sister knew roughly when they were away for about two hours. The next time Osama and his guard had left, Maria broke her plate on the floor, and tossed one of the sharp, blade-like shards across the floor to Jamila, and kept another one for herself. They each used it to cut through the rope that was tying them to a different bedpost. But because the rope was relatively thick, it would take them several hours to cut through it, so they didn’t have enough time to attempt an escape the same night that they began trying to sever the rope. They also needed Osama to unlock the bedroom door, which couldn’t be unlocked from inside the bedroom, so they had to plan their escape for a night when he came back from the mosque alone.
The night when the two captives began sawing away at the cords restraining them, Osama came back with his guard. A few hours later, he tried for the second time to rape Jamila, but she again resisted and was beaten. Luckily, Osama didn’t notice that the rope connecting her ankle to the bedpost was nearly torn through.
The next night, soon after Osama and his guard left to pray, Maria and Jamila nearly freed themselves but the plan was to leave their binds still slightly intact to avoid arousing suspicion, in the event that Osama came back with the guard and they would have to wait for another night when he came back alone. Fortunately, Osama returned from the mosque by himself that night. Maria called him into the bedroom (effectively unlocking the door with his arrival). When Osama entered the room, Maria told him that she didn’t want him to abuse Jamila anymore and would willingly give herself to him, if he would spare her. My sister was supine on the bed mattress, near the bedpost to which her ankle was tied, with her legs spread somewhat invitingly. There were no sheets or pillows that could facilitate her plan, so she hid the ceramic plate shard just behind the mattress, on the bedframe, leaning against the nearby wall.
Osama was all too happy finally to have sex with a woman he hadn’t been able to force himself upon yet, and hardly noticed my sister’s right hand hiding slightly over the edge of the mattress, where it lay in wait, holding the sharp plate fragment. He closed the door with a perverse smile and removed the belt from his pants as he made his way towards Maria, with Jamila looking on, also holding a sharp plate fragment by her arm that was hidden under the mattress nearby.
The bearded fifty-something man arrived at the edge of the bed, leaned over my sister’s body, and started yanking down her jeans and panties, until she was exposed, while Jamila finished cutting the rope that had restricted her leg. He then dropped his pants and leaned in to violate her. But just as his face looked as if he was starting to relax and enjoy his own wickedness, Maria’s hand, holding her makeshift dagger behind the mattress, rammed the sharp plate fragment directly into Osama’s neck, where she stabbed him repeatedly, as Jamila joined the effort, stabbing him with her plate fragment as well.
Despite all of the stab wounds and flowing blood, Osama managed to resist a little, but eventually went down and stopped moving. My sister and Jamila’s hands were shaking as the
y scrambled for their next move. The bedroom hadn’t been relocked from the outside, so they were finally able to exit their prison. The two found a nearby bathroom, where they washed off the blood that was on them. Then they scoured the house looking for anything that might be useful and found some traditional, long black abayas and hijabs, the modest garb worn by Muslim women, which they donned as the best possible disguise to flee what was presumably a Sunni area.
There was no point in trying to steal Osama’s car because they had no idea where they were and would ultimately run into a checkpoint where their IDs would endanger them. They walked for about twenty minutes until they reached a market, where they learned from the store clerk that they were in the town of Aziz. Jamila called her cousin in Idlib, who sent his Sunni friend, Awwad, to pick them up. They had to wait about two hours for Awwad to drive there from Idlib.
Jamila wanted to be taken to her cousin’s house and my sister, after thinking about the issue for about a month of captivity, wanted to leave Syria and try to join me in New York. She had no more close family in the country and was tired of living in constant fear as a vulnerable religious minority. Her best hope was to get to Beirut and then try to get a visa from there to Canada. So she asked Awwad to take her to the Idlib bus station, where she would buy a ride to Lattakia, and from there take a bus to Beirut. Awwad was extremely kind to her and gave her enough money to cover both bus tickets and a few days of food, because Maria literally had nothing on her except the hijab and black abaya that she wore.
Unfortunately, the bus that my sister eventually took to get to Lattakia was stopped by Jabhat Al-Nusra fighters who demanded to see the ID of every passenger. When they saw Maria’s Christian name and ID, they realized that her traditional Muslim garb was a subterfuge and they pulled her off the bus. The Islamist gunmen took her to the house in Salma from which she called me a little over a week ago, after Michael paid off her captors for some proof that she was alive. Tired of fighting and with no hope of fleeing the much better guarded house where she was kept, Maria told her abductors that she had relatives in the U.S. who could pay for her release. They didn’t trust her to make any phone calls or get on the Internet, so she told them that they could contact me through Michael Kassab, who is known among certain moderate rebel groups. And that’s how she eventually came to be freed.
It was a riveting but emotionally exhausting story for me to hear. There was, however, a silver lining in it that related directly to my work for the MCA.
One of my summer internship duties has been to cultivate press contacts and try to get sympathetic coverage for our cause. Thanks to Maria’s incredible story of survival, I think I’ll be able to secure two major news stories that will help our nonprofit – especially as we try to raise more funds. The first article will be all about my sister’s ordeal and the MCA’s role in freeing her. The second article will be about what the MCA has accomplished thus far, and what its ambitious objectives are going forward, if the organization is able to raise more funds.
Before we said goodbye, I explained to Maria the value that her story could have to the cause, and asked if she would be OK with its publication now that she was safely in Beirut and on her way to join me in North America. “If the publication of my experience might somehow save others from similar horrors, then I’m all for it,” she confirmed. “Just make sure they don’t reveal my name because I still need to clear border controls in a few countries, and I don’t want the details of my escape from Osama to complicate things in some unexpected way.”
Chapter 19: Julien
Sunday, 5/25/14 at 19:27.
It’s been about a month since I had sex (the last time was with Anissa). I can’t seem to get myself to fuck someone else, because I’m still hooked on the pipe dream that Anissa and I might somehow get back together. But a month is a very long time for me, and probably explains why I’ve been so horny lately. A few hours ago, as Lily and I were saying goodbye at the end of our therapy session, I was breathtakingly close to pulling her in for a hug. Her breasts seemed particularly perky at that moment – maybe because she was pushing them out a little (I couldn’t tell for sure) – and there was something powerfully inviting about her twinkling blue eyes and pouty lips. Somehow I continued resisting the temptation, but when I got home, I just couldn’t stop thinking about sex, imagining the two of us stepping back into her office, closing the door, and ravenously flouting whatever taboos or ethical concerns had been holding us back all this time as we stripped each other and fucked.
To relieve my pent-up desire, I was extremely tempted to call one of my standbys – Elise, Raegan, Maya, or one of the others. It’s been only about a month since I stopped responding to their regular Facebook and text messages, inquiring about my availability to see them, so it would probably still be easy to have one of them come over, even on the spur of the moment.
But I’ll hold out a bit longer, until I can check in with Anissa. I’ve been so tempted to text or email her, but had to stop myself each time, out of an abundance of caution. After all, if she didn’t answer, or if the conversation didn’t go well, she could later claim that I retaliated against her with a lower grade, unless I give her an A. That was prudent planning on my part because, given how she did on her final exam, unfortunately I can’t in good conscience give her that grade. While the final exam is graded anonymously, I still prefer to err on the side of caution and avoid any possible accusation or appearance of impropriety. And that means that I can’t contact her at all until she has her grade.
I do wonder if she still thinks of me and whether she’s really with Michael now, or if she purposely had him pick her up from the last two lectures of my course just to get back at me somehow. Both of them (and their political efforts) have been on my mind quite a lot lately – probably because of two major news stories that I recently read.
The first was a captivating story about a young woman’s gripping ordeal – watching her relatives gunned down, killing and fleeing her kidnapper, only to be abducted again before finally being released when her ransom was paid by the MCA. The article didn’t state the poor woman’s name, for her security, but it did mention that she had moved from Raqqa to Kessab, only to have to flee that Armenian village when it came under attack by Islamists, so I’m almost positive that she is Anissa’s sister. I felt terrible for the woman, and the fact that she might be the sister of Anissa, who herself has suffered so much, made it that much worse: “how much misfortune can a single family sustain?” I thought to myself, shaking my head in pity.
The second article, an in-depth feature about the MCA, Michael, and some of those working closely with him (including Anissa), provided extensive details about all of their important efforts in Syria, and what they’ve managed to accomplish thanks to the generous support of an anonymous donor. I couldn’t help smiling when I read that, as if this whole thing was our little secret. I also felt genuinely glad to have made such a difference to so many people who desperately needed some help and support but weren’t getting it from a world that has been shamefully indifferent.
Then, I thought about how this distressed asset deal just earned JMAT a few hundred million dollars, which means that, after the fund gets its share of that profit, and after the tax that I’ll have to pay on my personal gain, I’m probably about twenty million dollars richer than I was yesterday. So why not give half of that to a good cause? What else would I do with the money? The economic law of diminishing marginal returns applies as much to wealth as anything else – which is why very wealthy people need to make vastly greater sums of additional money for the gains to feel good.
The more I think about my psychology as it relates to this particular scenario, the more I’m convinced that I would probably derive greater psychic benefit out of keeping ten million dollars and giving away the other ten million to such a good cause, than I would get out of keeping all twenty million for myself. And, on the off-chance that Anissa might forgive me, I’d be transmitting a very positiv
e message, and the ultimate sign of strength and confidence: I’m so comfortable with who I am that I can be generous even to those who spite me, out of heartbreak, jealousy, or any other reason.
Whether Anissa and Michael have been playing me for my money or that’s just some paranoid notion that I’ve conjured up in my own head, they’ll be very grateful for this. More importantly, by being above any sort of petty grudges, maybe I can reintroduce some good karma into the air. And if nothing comes of it in terms of Anissa and me, I’ll still have done a good thing. If nothing else, maybe it’ll make Anissa feel a little better about the grade I unfortunately have to give her, based on her final exam.
Chapter 20: Anissa
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
To My Dearest,
I’ve been busier than ever helping the MCA on a full-time basis, and it’s as hectic as what I imagine running a company must feel like. Michael even suggested that, on my resume, I more accurately reflect the depth of the work experience with a title like “Deputy Head of North American Operations” or something else a bit more impressive-sounding than just “Summer Intern.”
Most exciting of all, the Canadian friends of my father came through for our family again and were able to expedite a visa for Maria today. It was a bitter sweet moment to think about how my father – if only in spirit – is still looking after us. The personal connections that he made when he was alive are still strong enough – thanks to his blessed memory – to help his eldest daughter in her time of need.
