sandwiches wrapped in Arabic bread. I was told by the guard ‘Soon, my boss he come.’ I shrugged my shoulders, confident and nonchalant. The door closed again but it was not locked. I could dimly see the guards moving past. There seemed to be several of them. They hovered about my door trying to look in, me looking out, convinced that it was only in this eye contact that I could maintain a distance from them. In those first weeks when confronted by them I would not take my eyes from their faces. In the few times that I did see a face, all the faces were as one to me, each blending in to one another, and I could hardly distinguish their separate features.
The door opened again, four men in their mid-twenties, some with hand guns, peered in at me. They stood in silence. Two of them just inside the door, two of them standing in the hallway beyond, looking intently at me as I looked back at them. I felt like a fish in an aquarium.
They were silent and staring and I stared back. There was something between us. Maybe it was the fear in the air.
The long minutes of gazing down at me as I sat on the floor were oppressive. Then suddenly there was movement. The men parted, and an older man in a brown suit, with grey wavy hair and a full grey beard was standing in the doorway, studying me. He was obviously a man of some rank. The other men stood back in fearful respect. He looked at me, and I looked back at him. I was unmoved and did not blink. He asked me ‘Are you English?’ I noted that his English was an educated one. He spoke it well and I answered him. ‘No, I am not English … I am Irish.’
He looked at me again in silence, with long pauses between his questions: ‘Where do you come from?’ I answered with the same nonchalance, perhaps this time filled with the native stubbornness of rny city: ‘I’m from Belfast… Do you know it?’ There was a touch of anger and aggression in my voice. He noted it, nodded, yes he knew it. He asked me how long I had been in Lebanon. I was uncomfortable that I had to sit on the floor while I was being questioned. It put me at a disadvantage. I wanted to stand up to him face to face, but something told me that that would be foolish, perhaps dangerous.
He muttered something to the guards, and there was an exchange between them. He looked back at me and asked calmly did I have an Irish passport. I told him of course I had an Irish passport. He asked ‘Where is it?’ I saw that it was time for ajoke. ‘Well if you’d like to take me back to my apartment I’ll get it for you.’ I smiled. He did not return the smile, but turned again to the men with the guns and said something in Arabic. There seemed to be some confusion. It was hard to tell with these excitable men. He turned and quietly told me that if I co-operated I would not be harmed. He told me he would return, and the door banged shut again. The padlock rattled, accompanied by the babble of this fearfully incomprehensible language.
I was pleased with my first interrogation. I sensed that my interrogator was confused about my nationality. I was equally pleased that I had made him feel I was not afraid of him, though secretly I was. I had simply not allowed myself to think of what could have happened, only what I could prevent happening. The Arab mind is often dominated by its cult of masculinity. It admires what it conceives to be courage, a show of power, of fearlessness. I tried to maintain these defensive self-images in my head, and wondered how long I could continue if things got much worse and if they began to play games —
psychological torture games — or resorted to some more brutal violence.
Yet I told myself constantly that I was of no value to them. What did I know? What did they think I knew that might make them turn to more severe methods?
1 looked at my two sandwiches and Coca-Cola still sitting untouched in the corner. I was not hungry, but I began to wonder what a first prison
The door opened again, four men in their mid-twenties, some with hand guns, peered in at me. They stood in silence. Two of them just inside the door, two of them standing in the hallway beyond, looking intently at me as I looked back at them. I felt like a fish in an aquarium.
They were silent and staring and I stared back. There was something between us. Maybe it was the fear in the air.
The long minutes of gazing down at me as I sat on the floor were oppressive. Then suddenly there was movement. The men parted, and an older man in a brown suit, with grey wavy hair and a full grey beard was standing in the doorway, studying me. He was obviously a man of some rank. The other men stood back in fearful respect. He looked at me, and I looked back at him. I was unmoved and did not blink. He asked me ‘Are you English?’ I noted that his English was an educated one. He spoke it well and I answered him. ‘No, I am not English … I am Irish.’
He looked at me again in silence, with long pauses between his questions: ‘Where do you come from?’ I answered with the same nonchalance, perhaps this time filled with the native stubbornness of rny city: ‘I’m from Belfast… Do you know it?’ There was a touch of anger and aggression in my voice. He noted it, nodded, yes he knew it. He asked me how long I had been in Lebanon. I was uncomfortable that I had to sit on the floor while I was being questioned. It put me at a disadvantage. I wanted to stand up to him face to face, but something told me that that would be foolish, perhaps dangerous.
He muttered something to the guards, and there was an exchange between them. He looked back at me and asked calmly did I have an Irish passport. I told him of course I had an Irish passport. He asked ‘Where is it?’ I saw that it was time for ajoke. ‘Well if you’d like to take me back to my apartment I’ll get it for you.’ I smiled. He did not return the smile, but turned again to the men with the guns and said something in Arabic. There seemed to be some confusion. It was hard to tell with these excitable men. He turned and quietly told me that if I co-operated I would not be harmed. He told me he would return, and the door banged shut again. The padlock rattled, accompanied by the babble of this fearfully incomprehensible language.
I was pleased with my first interrogation. I sensed that my interrogator was confused about my nationality. I was equally pleased that I had made him feel I was not afraid of him, though secretly I was. I had simply not allowed myself to think of what could have happened, only what I could prevent happening. The Arab mind is often dominated by its cult of masculinity. It admires what it conceives to be courage, a show of power, of fearlessness. I tried to maintain these defensive self-images in my head, and wondered how long I could continue if things got much worse and if they began to play games —
psychological torture games — or resorted to some more brutal violence.
Yet I told myself constantly that I was of no value to them. What did I know? What did they think I knew that might make them turn to more severe methods?
1 looked at my two sandwiches and Coca-Cola still sitting untouched in the corner. I was not hungry, but I began to wonder what a first prison
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