I cried and cried until a man came up beside me and said, “I am sorry. I am sorry.” And he untied my blindfold, undid my zip ties, and released my legs and arms from the walls of the plane. I was too scared to look around. I kept my eyes down and continued crying. They were evil. These men were the epitome of evil. They understood psychological torture and deployed it.
When I finally looked up, two middle-aged men dressed in military uniforms were sitting across from me. They looked at me sympathetically. They had kindness in their eyes. Anthony, Steve, and Tyler remained tied to the walls and blindfolded, their heads slouched over toward their knees. Were they sleeping? I again felt guilty for getting easier treatment because I was a woman. When we began our descent, one man refastened my blindfold.
We landed in a frenzy. We were off-loaded from the plane, and Steve and I were put into a police wagon. Men with automatic weapons stood over us. I could see the tips of their guns through the bottom of my blindfold. They were thugs. Qaddafi’s famous “Zenga Zenga” speech played on someone’s mobile phone. (In the midst of the uprising Qaddafi gave a speech vowing to hunt down protesters “inch by inch, house by house, room by room, alleyway by alleyway [zenga zenga].”) Hearing his speech again motivated them to beat us down. A few different men put their hands between my legs, over my jeans, and rubbed my genitals with their fingers. They were more aggressive than all the others before them, laughing when I pleaded with them to stop. I prayed they didn’t find my second passport tucked into a money belt nestled in my underwear. It was all I had left of my identity at that point.
Outside I heard them beating my colleagues with their guns—that awful thumping sound. Someone let out a muffled squeal and a moan, and I strained to decipher—by the sound of the moan—which one of my friends was being brutalized. It wasn’t Steve, because he was in the paddy wagon with me, being forced to yell “Down, down Ireland” by someone who had no idea that Ireland wasn’t part of any foreign coalition against him. With the next round of thumps I recognized Tyler’s voice. He had been silent throughout his other beatings, and I knew this was a terrible sign. He was getting beaten on the tarmac. I couldn’t hear Anthony.
When their parade was over, we were transferred to a Land Cruiser again.
“Is everybody here?”
“Yes.” “Yes.” “Yes.”
Tyler’s voice was empty.
We rode for about twenty minutes in the Land Cruiser as a man who spoke very clear English explained that we would not be beaten anymore and that we were now in the hands of the Libyan government. Anthony later told us that before this announcement there had been a fight (in Arabic) over who would “get” us on the tarmac: the Interior Ministry or the Foreign Ministry. When we were put into the police wagon, we were initially to be released to the Interior Ministry. But somehow the Foreign Ministry won. I didn’t care anymore where they were taking us. I was so resigned to whatever fate lie ahead, too beaten down to feel fear. I rode along in a stupor.
When the car stopped, the man who spoke English helped me out of the car—I was still blindfolded—and as he placed his hand on my shoulder and offered to lead me up to a building, I flinched.
“Please just stop touching me! Please don’t touch me anymore!”
“Listen to me,” the man with perfect English said. “You are now with the government of Libya. You will not be beaten anymore. You will not be mistreated. You will not be touched.”
I didn’t say a word. I felt the tears welling up again in my eyes.
? ? ?
WE WERE LED into a room with a clean, soft, off-white carpet. We had all endured misery on the trip from Sirte to Tripoli, but when our blindfolds were removed, it was as if we had to confront one another’s pain. I looked first at Tyler, my stoic friend whom I admired so much. He was hunched over, crying. Perhaps they were tears of relief that we had survived so much brutality and finally were given a reprieve by a man who spoke English, offered us juice boxes, and promised not to beat us anymore. Or perhaps Tyler was just broken. Seeing him, usually so strong and poised in the face of anything, tore me apart, and I cried, too. I looked over at Anthony; his eyes were glassy. Steve was stone.
A nameless Libyan man who claimed to be with the Foreign Ministry reiterated that we would no longer be beaten or bound. We would, though, be blindfolded when interrogated, and they were going to hold us in a nearby guesthouse while they questioned us. The interpreter, who had a permanent, gentle smile from the moment we were able to see his face, leaned in close to me and in a hushed voice asked, “Are you OK? Did they touch you?”
I was surprised by his candor. “Yes, they touched me. Every soldier in Libya touched me.”
“But were you raped?” he persisted.