Sonallah Ibrahim - Beirut, Beirut

My ears picked up the sounds of doors slamming, footsteps and muffled shouts. Footsteps approached and I heard someone say angrily: “The bastard was shooting at us.” Another one answered him, saying: “Come on. What do you want her for? There must be a thousand girls who wish they could get their hands on your salary.” A third voice reached me, this one in a tone of command: “Do you have authorization from the party?” The voices clashed with each other and I couldn’t make out a single word. It wasn’t long before they gradually grew faint and distant.

I stood up straight and noticed a light switch beside the door. There was an electric lamp hanging from the ceiling. I flicked the switch several times, but without result. I could feel the cold more strongly, so I jumped up and down repeatedly, then started some warm-up exercises until I felt tired.

There was one corner in the room protected from the draft coming through the skylight — the one taken up by the cardboard boxes. I walked over to it, and started moving the boxes, taking them to another corner. Then I flattened one of them between my hands, put it on the floor, and sat on it. I did the same thing with another box and put it behind my back.

I enjoyed a little warmth until darkness fell, and the two boxes became saturated with the dampness of the walls and floor. The cold was soon penetrating into my bones. Coiling myself up did me no good. A little later, I had a strong urge to urinate.

I knew by experience that as long as I was by myself and didn’t have a way to resist or put pressure on them, then no matter how much I yelled or banged on the door, I wouldn’t change anything about what had been decided for me. Most probably I would run the risk of getting myself hurt. So I decided to wait until my kidnappers revealed their intentions.

But urine pressed on my bladder, and made me abandon my wisdom or fear, so I walked up to the door and started pounding on it with all my strength while shouting and calling out.

After a while my hands hurt, so I stopped the pounding and listened. I heard footsteps approach. A key turned in the lock and then the door opened up onto a dim electric light, and a young man carrying a machinegun slung over his shoulder, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth that gave off the smell of hashish.

“What are you knocking for?” he said to me sharply.

“I want to go to the bathroom,” I said.

He shut the door without saying a word. I stood there, confused and contemplating whether I should start pounding on the door some more. Soon the door opened again. The young gunman appeared, holding a plastic bucket that he tossed at my feet. Then he closed the door in order to lock it, but I objected, saying: “I want to speak to the person in charge here.”

“Not my concern,” he replied.

He pushed me away, then pulled the door closed, and turned the key in the lock.

I carried the bucket over to the corner that was occupied by the cardboard boxes, and urinated. I felt relief. I resumed pacing the room back and forth, groping about for a little warmth. Then I sat down on the floor in the corner I had prepared for myself. I lay down with my knees bent and my arms beneath my head. I fixed my eyes on the thin strip of light underneath the door.

I must have nodded off for some time, because I suddenly became aware of a sound at the door. I found that it was open, and a broad-bodied man had planted himself in the doorframe. He had a machinegun in his left hand. Dim light fell from behind him onto part of the floor in the room, concealing his face from me. But I perceived the movement of the machinegun in his hand, gesturing me to come out.

I stepped outside, and he forcefully grabbed me by the arm. I saw that he was a man noticeably advanced in age, with a head of white hair, although obviously endowed with bodily strength. We walked along a long passageway lit by a single electric lamp, and with two other doors opening onto it. The smell of the air, the heavy dampness coming from the walls, and the tiled floor made me feel that we were below ground.

We went up a steep staircase to another passageway, this one flooded with the warmth of strong light from fluorescent lamps. The floor was covered with colorful linoleum. The passageway was long, and at the end of it hung a flag next to a photograph I couldn’t clearly make out.

My escort came to a stop in front of a door and knocked on it. Then he turned the handle and pushed me in front of him. He entered behind me and closed the door.

I was struck by the heat coming from the radiator on one side of the room. I saw that I was facing a desk, behind which sat a heavy-set, rough-lipped, clean-shaven young man. He was talking on the phone with his eyes on a color television screen that rested on top of a wooden table beside the desk. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing thick hair on his chest and arms. The hair on his head was fine and black, carefully trimmed and parted on the left.

I couldn’t understand anything he was saying on the phone because he was speaking French in a low voice. I directed my attention to a piece of cloth hanging on the wall above his head with a colorful cedar tree embroidered on it. On another wall there was a piece of paper with a line of Arabic written on it in a substance like liquid gold: “Of the repositories of knowledge in the world, their treasures are from Lebanon. Of the languages of nations, their most beautiful letters come from Lebanon. Of the Seven Wonders of the World, their greatest legend comes from Lebanon. The tree of eternal life selected for its everlasting abode a mountaintop from Lebanon. The Son of God was baptized in water from Lebanon. I wonder: did Adam leave Paradise for your sake, O Lebanon?”

The young man finished his phone conversation, put down the receiver, and continued watching the television screen for a moment. Then he reached out and turned it off. He directed his attention to several pieces of paper in front of him, among which I recognized the contents of my pockets. He flipped through them with short, plump fingers that had long, manicured nails.

He addressed me without taking his eyes off the papers in his hand.

“I can’t find any indication here of your sect.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” I said.

“Your religion,” he asked. “What is it?”

For the first time, he lifted his eyes up at me, and two cold, yellowish circles looked out from a bloated face with oily skin.

“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself to me first?” I asked. “And tell me why I’m here?”

A ghost of a sardonic smile appeared on his lips.

“You don’t know yet?” he asked.

“I could guess where I am. But I don’t know why I’ve been abducted.”

He slowly lit a French cigarette, then explained: “You’ll find that out after you tell me first what you’re doing in Beirut, and where you’re staying. You’re living in West Beirut. Isn’t that right?”

I nodded.

“So you won’t tell me what your religion is?”

“What does my religion have to do with it?” I asked.

He stared at me for a moment, and then spoke in the tone of someone using self-control: “Religion is the mark of a man. His identity. It’s what determines his relationship to his Creator.”

“Then defining it is of no importance,” I replied. “Every individual determines his relationship to his Creator according to his religion. And as far as I’m concerned, religions are all the same to me.”

“That’s not how we see it. For all of its existence, Lebanon has been threatened with annihilation by Islam.”

“I have another idea of the danger that has threatened Lebanon, and which is threatening it now.”