For all those that think the FSA are snugly warm democracy lovers:
The night was as sweet as wine: I had come, on 8 April, to
al-Qusayr, 22 miles south of Homs, to report on another chapter of the
Syrian war. Instead, 152 days of imprisonment followed, in small dark
rooms where I battled against time and fear and endless humiliations;
against hunger and against the absence of pity. Where I endured two mock
executions and the silence of God, my family and the outside world.I was a hostage in Syria ,
betrayed by a revolution that had lost its way and become the property
of fanatics and bandits. In this place, when the hostage weeps, everyone
laughs at the spectacle of his pain and sees it as a sign of weakness.
Syria has become the Country of Evil, the land where evil triumphs and
thrives like grapes on the vine under a Middle Eastern sun, and where
evil displays all its aspects: greed, hatred, fanaticism, the absence of
mercy; where even children and the old rejoice in their malevolence. My
captors prayed to their God standing next to me, the suffering
prisoner. They prayed content, without remorse and attentive to their
rituals. What were they saying to their God?We had arrived
at al-Qusayr in a convoy bringing supplies from the Free Syrian Army,
after a long night driving without lights through the mountains because
the roads were controlled by the regime. The city had already been
devastated and half-destroyed by air bombardment and we decided to go
back to where we had come from to try to get to Damascus.On
leaving the city, we were stopped by two pick-up trucks full of masked
men. They made us get out, took us to a house and beat us up, claiming
to be police officers working for the regime. In the following days
discovered that they were fervent Islamists who prayed five times a day
to their God in solemn tones. On the Friday, they listened to the sermon
of a preacher urging jihad against Bashar al-Assad. The decisive proof
came when we were bombarded from the air. It was clear we were being
held by rebel forces.The leader of the group holding us was a
self-appointed "emir" who liked to be addressed as Abu Omar, a nickname.
He had formed his brigade by taking people from the area, mostly
bandits rather than Islamists or revolutionaries. Abu Omar gave an
Islamic gloss to the criminal activities of his band and had links with
al-Farouk, the group that then took control of us. Al-Farouk is a
well-known brigade in the Syrian revolution, part of the Syrian National
Council, and its representatives have held meetings with European
governments. The west trusts them, but I learned to my cost that we are
talking about a new and disturbing phenomenon in the revolt: the
emergence of groups of Somali-style bandits who use an Islamic veneer
and the context of the revolution to control pieces of territory, extort
money from the population, kidnap people and generally fill their
boots.To begin with, we were held in a house in the suburbs of
al-Qusayr. The district was bombed and we were moved to another house.
When the same thing happened again, we were handed over for a week to
the Syrian al-Qaida, Jabhat al-Nusra. This was the only time we were to
be treated like human beings and even, in some ways, kindly. For
example, they gave us the same food as they ate themselves. Al-Qaida
fighters at war live an ascetic existence. They are fanatics who hope to
construct an Islamic state in Syria and then throughout the Middle
East. But towards their enemies - and being white, Christian and
western, we were their enemies - they have a sense of honour and
respect. Al-Nusra is on the list of terrorist organisations compiled by
America, but they were the only ones who showed us any respect. Then we
were handed back to Abu Omar ...One day Abu Omar was sitting like a
lord under a tree, surrounded by his little court of fighters. He
called me because he wanted me to sit down by his side. He wanted to
pretend to be our friend to deceive some others in the area who were
wondering who these westerners were, so badly dressed and physically
wasted after two months of prison. I asked him for his phone, telling
him that my loved ones almost certainly thought I was dead and that he
was destroying my life and my family. He laughed, and said there was no
signal in the area. It wasn't true. A soldier from the Free Syrian army
gave me a phone in front of Abu Omar. It was the only act of mercy
towards me in the 152 days. No one else demonstrated what we would call
pity, mercy or compassion. Even the children and old people tried to
hurt us. In Syria I encountered the land of evil. I managed to talk to
home for just 20 seconds. After the desperate cry I heard on the other
end of the line, it went dead.They kept us like animals, lying on
straw mattresses in tiny rooms with closed windows, notwithstanding the
terrible heat. They gave us their leftovers to eat. I'd never
experienced the daily humiliations relating to simple things like not
being able to go to the toilet, or having to ask for everything and
always hearing the answer "no". I think there was a deep satisfaction
for them in seeing the rich westerner reduced to the status of a beggar.The
first time we tried to escape, our guard had probably fallen asleep. We
left the house and headed to what we thought were the lights of
al-Qusayr. After 200 metres we were caught. The second time we were in
another area, during the final phase of our detention. Our captors were
often careless about looking after their stuff. We got our hands on two
grenades and hid them in a sofa. One night they failed to lock the door.
We left and tried to make it to the Syrian-Turkish border at Bab
al-Hawa after stopping a car using Kalashnikovs also taken from the
house. But there was a checkpoint. We were taken back to our captors to
face our punishment.They shut us in a storage room with our hands
tied behind our backs and kept us there for three days. Our value to
them was as merchandise. Merchandise cannot be destroyed without losing
the proper price for it. You feel like a sack of grain, something that
has value only to the extent it can be sold. They can kick you but they
can't kill you, because if they finish you off they can't sell you.Twice
they put me up against the wall. We were near al-Qusayr. One of them
approached with a pistol. He showed me that it was loaded and then told
me to put my head against the wall. He put the pistol against my temple.
Long moments followed. You become ashamed of yourself. You hear the
breath of the man next to you, who exudes the pleasure of having another
man completely in his power. He knows you are afraid. So you become
angry about being afraid. It's similar to when children, who can be
terribly cruel, pull the tail off a lizard or the legs from a fly. The
same terrible ferocity.For a laugh, our captors would tell us
every now and then: "It'll be two or three days, or a week, and then
you'll be free in Italy." It was just to see our desperation when they
added the word "Inshallah" (God willing). It was their way of lying
without seeming to lie. They continually said "bukrah" (tomorrow), and
then the next day nobody went anywhere. Finally, I sensed the moment had
really come. This time there was no "Inshallah". They made us get out
of the cars on the other side of the border, telling us to walk. I
thought they might shoot us in the back. It was dark, it was a Sunday
night, after sunset. I thought to myself that if I heard the sound of
guns preparing to fire I would throw myself on the ground. I was sure
they were going to eliminate us. I had seen their faces, I knew their
names. But no one used their Kalashnikov. Inshallah, this was the moment
of our liberation. This is an edited extract of an original article that appeared in La Stampa
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