An Evil Cradling: The Five-Year Ordeal of a Hostage
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This brilliantly written account by a former Middle East hostage was a #1 bestseller in Britain and served as the inspiration for the acclaimed Broadway hit Someone Who'll Watch Over Me. "Conveys the surrealism of the ordeal, the loss of control and melting of identity that come with realizing you are a pawn in someone else's game."--Time.
voice trembling with concern. ‘Yeah,’ was all I could answer. Across the hall Abed was screaming at the Americans. There was silence. Twenty minutes later, while John and I fumbled to find reassuring, supporting and comforting words, Abed returned. He had with him a television. He set it down in the far corner of the cell, and switched it on; as he walked past John he touched his shoulder. He left. I lay chained with my feet in the air, my arms tearing at the shoulders. ‘Brian, they’re not
lay trying to sleep, to relieve this pain, but still it twisted and knotted. Through the mangle I went, and was stretched and pulled. I believed John thought I was sleeping, then I felt his hand lie gently on my stomach, and it remained there. He was praying. I was overcome. I was lost for words again. I wanted to join him in prayer, I wanted to thank him for this huge and tender gesture. It revealed more courage than my battling with the guards. This new revelation of John’s inner strength
the floor. His friend in the passenger seat was smiling and laughing. The guard on whose knee I rested my head seemed perplexed. Only the man in the passenger seat seemed to speak some English, not particularly well. The questions began. ‘You know where you go?’ Of course I told them I didn’t know where I was going. It seemed a lunatic question. ‘You English?’ At this point I sat up quite determined:‘No … I am not English, I am Irish… Irlandais.‘They looked shocked and puzzled. The passenger in
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
it was to tell me it was over. Yet I felt that what had happened in the cell was only the beginning of something worse. My premonition was to be confirmed in the months and years that followed. I heard the feet hurrying back. I was lifted out of my sitting position and marched to the guards’ room. I was pushed into a chair, my arms held by guards at each side of me. I heard the electric clipper begin its buzzing and with it felt the fall of my hair onto my naked shoulders. I sat in silence, the