“No. I was not raped. I was touched, punched, pushed around, but no one took my clothes off.”
“Oh, good.” His body language immediately relaxed. I was shocked at how relieved he was; it was so jarring to come out of this world of abuse and fear and meet someone who cared for my well-being. Perhaps he was worldlier, or perhaps he was just worried about a potential public-relations nightmare. But it was as if rape was his own red line—the beatings, gropings, psychological torture, and threats didn’t matter, but rape did.
The man in charge asked us whether we had any passports or possessions, and at this point I surrendered my passport and was reassured it would be returned before we were released. They transported us to our temporary accommodations, and they told us that if we attempted to open a door or a window, we would be shot.
The apartment had two bedrooms: one with three beds for the men and one with two beds for me. We shared one large, dormitory-style bathroom with several stalls and a shower. We had a kitchen with a table just large enough for the four of us and a youngish, handsome cook, who was always pleasant.
The Libyans sat us down in a reception room of our VIP prison and, over tea, offered to get us clothing, toiletries, and food. Qadaffi propaganda blared on the TV set in the background like white noise; I was riveted by the presence of a television—any connection to the outside world. None of us wanted to ask for much, because a long shopping list might imply we were staying for a while. As I finished up my list, the smiling interpreter whispered in my ear: “Do you need any women things? Any feminine things?” I shook my head. My body had a perfect knack for shutting down all monthly rituals in the face of trauma. I found it odd that the Libyans would tie us up, beat us up, psychologically torture us for three days, and then offer to buy me tampons.
As the officials sat across from us, they filled the room with empty pleasantries. Anthony grabbed the TV remote and changed the channel from the pro-Qaddafi propaganda videos to CNN. Within seconds still images of our faces flashed on the TV screen, along with the words “the Libyan government still cannot ascertain the whereabouts of the New York Times journalists . . . but they have reassured New York Times Executive Editor Bill Keller that they will cooperate . . .” I started crying again.
The dignitaries sitting across from me begged me to stop.
“Don’t you have children?” I asked. “How could you do this to our parents? Our families? Our families think we are dead. Why can’t you let us make one phone call?”
The next time any of us entered the TV room, the only thing remaining of the cable box was a dangling wire.
A few hours later our Foreign Ministry interpreter returned with a crew carrying maybe a dozen bags of groceries and new wardrobes for all of us. It was a terrifying sight—did the bags and bags of groceries mean we were staying for months? There were roughly six jars of Nescafé, cookies, chips, packaged croissants, dry little Italian-style toasts. We were each handed a tote bag full of everything we had requested. The men received shiny, cool Adidas tracksuits. In my bag there was a giant tan velour sweat suit with smiling teady bears embroidered on the front, emblazoned with cursive script that read THE MAGIC GIRL!! There were also three pairs of underwear, with the words SHAKE IT UP! written across the front, as well as a toothbrush, shampoo, conditioner, and a hairbrush.
? ? ?
SOMEWHERE AROUND two in the morning there was commotion in the hallway outside the room and a knock at my door.
“Wake up! You get one phone call.”
I paused. Without my BlackBerry I had no idea what Paul’s telephone number was. I didn’t want to waste my one call on my mother’s phone, because I was sure the phone would be lost somewhere in the depths of her purse and she wouldn’t answer. And my dad never answered his phone. The four of us met up in the guys’ room and conferred with one another on whom each of us would call. Without Paul’s number, I offered to be the one to call the foreign desk at the Times, to let them know we were OK. Tyler, Anthony, and Steve all knew the number of the foreign desk; I committed it to memory.
One by one we were blindfolded and led into the TV room without a functioning TV. I was placed in a chair near a man who I presumed was there to monitor our calls. I recited the foreign desk’s phone number.
Someone answered, and I said, “Hi, this is Lynsey Addario in Libya. Could I please speak with Susan Chira?”