Kidnapped in Gaza

Chapter 8 - The Pitch

As I lie down I know I shouldn't but I can't help it. I can't help thinking about Alan Johnston and how during the same six month period when he was being held captive in Gaza that 40 other journalists were kidnapped and that out of those 40 only 8 came out alive including him. My mouth is dry. I pour myself some lukewarm water from the kettle and go through a mental list of other kidnapped journalists I can remember off hand: Terry Andersen, 7 years as a hostage in Beirut; John McCarthy and Terry Wait, nearly 5 years in captivity; 'Bud' Brian Keenan, almost 4 years. That canary in a coalmine feeling comes on again. It's clenching my gut tight, squeezing the air from my lungs. I feel like I'm being slowly choked to death.

The sound of someone sliding a key into the lock and the door to our cell creaking open, wakes me up. It's Mohammed with our usual Shami breakfast – hummus, flat bread and two hard-boiled eggs. My neck is stiff, my left arm refusing to help me get up seeing as how I've used it for my pillow all night. The air is stale and stinks of feet and open mouth breathing. Drew is in the same position, slowly coming back to life.

"Mesih Al Kheir, ya Mohammed," Good afternoon, Oh Mohammed, I say shaking the needles and pins out of my arm. He eyes the stool where he normally places our food tray suspiciously, as if he's noticed it's a little further in than it was before. The keys to our cell are exactly where he always leaves them, dangling in the door.

"Mesih al noor," he says finally, surveying the rest of the room skeptically - dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Unconsciously, he scratches his side. I've seen this look before on the kids in the park, in my friends when they'd relapse on heroin.

Plopping the tray down, unceremoniously he turns to leave but not before I ask him, "Ya akhee, Suhart?" meaning, "Did you stay up late, brother?"

"Eh," he says with a nod of his head but without even turning to look at me, he heads for the door.

"Ya Mohammed! Istana shway," Hold up, for a sec! I say. He turns, looks at me. Put out with the interruption.

"Shoe bidak?" What do you want?" The vein on his forehead is pulsating. He looks pastier than usual. I stand up, smiling - my attempt at being disarming.

"Lek, I'm sure you've heard by now that Hamas is an uproar about you and the shabab kidnapping us without their authority and that they're calling for our immediate release." He looks at me blankly, nonplussed. "They said that anyone caught collaborating with the Army of Islam will be treated as Israeli collaborators."

"Khalas! I know, I know, I know!" He shouts angrily.

"It's only a matter of time before someone rats you guys out, ya akhee."

"Stop with zis ya akhee shit already! I'm not your brother, he iz!" He says pointing to Drew, now fully awake. Now that I have Mohammed's full attention, I give him my pitch.

"If you could help us out, we could get you out of here and into a nice rehab in Tel Aviv on the beach – a passport to a new life, out of this prison in Gaza and the one up here between your ears," I say taking a step closer to him and tap on his right temple. He swats my hand away violently, shoving me back onto my mat. Drew pops up to his feet, ready to pounce. I signal him to stand down.

"You know nozhing about me, you fucking Zionist dogz!" Mohammed says, spitting on the floor.

"Sah. You're right. But I do know what it's like to be a slave to drugs and alcohol, ya Mohammed. I'm just like you," I say holding my palms up, "but I found a way out through rehab and I've been clean and sober for 17 years in a row, one day at a time, weekends and holidays included." He narrows his eyes and then snorts in disbelief.