March 1, 2005
"From prison to fire"
by Giuliana Sgrena
Translated from the Italian by Josephine Piccolo
March 7, 2005
(the journalist's first interview, on March 6, after her release, re-published by Il Manifesto on March 7, 2005)
I'm still in the dark. Friday was the most dramatic day of my life. Many days had passed since my kidnapping. I had just spoken with my kidnappers; for a few days they had been saying that they would free me. So I was there, I had been waiting for hours. They talked about things whose importance I realized only later. They talked about problems "connected to transfers". I learned to read the situation by watching the attitude of my "two sentinels", the two people who were in charge of keeping watch over me every day. One of them, the one who was usually very responsive to all my needs, appeared incredibly self-assured that day. In order to understand what was really going on, I asked him in a kind of needling way whether he was happy because I was going or because I was staying. I was happily surprised when, for the first time, he said: "The only thing I know is that you are going, but I don't know when". To prove that new developments were underfoot, at a certain point both of them came to my room, as though to comfort me and kid around. "Congratulations -- they said -- you are about to leave for Rome. For Rome, that's exactly what they said"
It was a strange sensation. Strange, because that word immediately brought to mind freedom, but at the same time it caused a feeling of void inside of me. I understood that this was the most dangerous moment of the kidnapping. Everything that I had experienced so far was "certain", but now a canyon of uncertainty opened up in front of me, I was faced with heavy uncertainties. I changed my clothes. They came back. "We'll accompany you, but don't show in any way your identity, otherwise the Americans could intervene". It was a confirmation of danger, something I wished I wouldn't have to hear. It was my happiest and most dangerous moment at the same time. If we ran into anybody, meaning any American troops, there would be a shoot-out, my kidnappers were prepared and they would answer the fire. I was supposed to keep my eyes blindfolded. I was already getting used to a sort momentary blindness. The only thing I knew about the outside world was that in Baghdad it had been raining. The car was proceeding at a regular pace through a swampy area. There was a driver and my two usual kidnappers. Right away I heard something that I wish I didn't hear. A helicopter that was flying low right in the area where we had stopped. "Relax, now they'll come looking for you . . . in ten minutes they'll come looking for you". The whole time they had spoken in Arabic, a few times in French, many times in broken English. That's how they spoke this time too. Then they got out of the car. I remained in that motionless and blinded state. My eyes were covered with cotton and they had put dark sunglasses over them. I stood there motionless. I thought to myself . . . now, what do I do? Should I start counting the seconds elapsing between this situation and what comes next, my being freed? I had just started to count the seconds in my mind when a friendly voice reached my ears: "Giuliana, Giuliana, it's Nicola, don't worry, I spoke with Gabriele Polo, relax, you're free". He had someone remove my blindfold, a cotton cloth with sunglasses over it. I felt relieved, not so much for what was happening which I couldn't understand at that time, but for the words of this "Nicola" guy. He talked on and on, you couldn't stop him, an avalanche of friendly words, attempts at being funny. I felt an almost physical kind of comfort, a sensation of warmth, something I had not felt in a long time. The car continued on its way, going through an underpass full of holes and we almost skidded to avoid them. Incredibly, all of us burst out laughing. It was a feeling of liberation. To skid on a road full of water and maybe get into a crash after all that I had gone through was really not a story I wanted to tell. Then, Nicola Calipari sat next to me. The driver had informed both the Embassy and Italy twice that we were directed to the airport, which I knew to be under heavy surveillance by American troops, we had less than one kilometer to go, they told me . . . when . . . I only remember fire. At this point, fire and bullets started hailing on us silencing the voices that a few seconds before were joking around.
The driver started to yell that we were Italian, "We are Italian, we are Italian... Nicola Calipari threw his body over mine to protect me, and immediately, I repeat, immediately, I heard his last breath as he lay dying on top of me. I must have felt physical pain, but I didn't know why. I came to a sudden realization, as my mind went back to the words my kidnappers had told me earlier. They had stated that they would do everything possible to free me, but I had to watch out "because the Americans don't want you to go back". At the time they said these words, I had thought they were useless and just a reflection of their ideology. But at this very moment they were turning into the most bitter of truths. There are other things, but I can't tell you yet.
This was my most dramatic day. But the month I experienced life as a kidnapped person has probably changed my existence forever. One month all alone with myself, prisoner of my deepest beliefs. Every hour was a pitiless test of my work. Sometimes they would kid around with me, they would ask "Why do you want to leave, why don't you stay with us". They kept harping on personal relationships. It was them who made me think of those priorities we too often set aside. They pointed to the importance of family. "Ask your husband for help", they would say. And I did ask for that in the first video, the one I think you all saw. My life has changed. Raad Ali Abdulaziz, the Iraqi engineer who was kidnapped with the two Simonas of the aid organization "Un Ponte per", told me the same thing, that his life "was no longer the same". I couldn't understand him then. Now I know what he meant. Because I experienced the whole harshness of truth, how difficult it is to suggest it. And how fragile those who attempt to get at it are.
In the first days of the kidnapping I didn't even shed one tear. I was simply furious. I would tell my kidnappers to their face: "What are you doing, kidnapping me, someone who is against the war?" At that point they would engage me in a harsh dialogue: "Yes, because you get out there and talk to the people, what did you expect us to do, go kidnap a journalist who stays locked up in his hotel room. And then the fact that you say you're against the war could be a cover". And I would reply, almost needling them: "It's easy to kidnap a weak woman like me, why don't you go kidnap one of those American soldiers". I kept harping on the fact that they couldn't ask the Italian government to withdraw the troops, they needed to address their political message to the Italian people, the Italian people who was and is against the war.
It was a month of going back and forth between great hope and great depression. Like that time, it was the first Sunday after the Friday I was kidnapped, in the Baghdad house were I was kept and which had a satellite antenna, they let me see the news on the Euronews channel. There I saw the big portrait of me hanging from City Hall in Rome. And that gave me hope. But then right away, I heard the Jihad claiming responsibility for my kidnapping and announcing my execution if Italy did not withdraw its troops. That terrified me. But they reassured me right away. They didn't belong to "Jihad", I shouldn't trust those proclamations on TV, they were provocateurs. I asked the one whose face seemed more open (even though both of them looked like soldiers): "Tell me the truth, you want to kill me". And yet many a time, it was with them that I had a window of communication: "Come on, let's see a movie on TV", they would tell me, while a Wanabite woman covered head to foot would be going around the house taking care of me.
The kidnappers seemed like a very religious group, continually praying from verses of the Koran. But on the Friday I was released, the one who appeared to be the most religious and who would get up every morning at 5 to pray, "congratulated" me, giving me a powerful handshake (incredible, that's an unusual behavior for an Islamic fundamentalist) and said: "If you behave well we'll let you go right away." Then, a funny episode. One of the two guards came in one day, utterly astonished because on TV they were showing pictures of me hanging in European cities. He also couldn't believe what Totti did (translator's note: Totti is a very famous soccer player and the captain of the Rome soccer team). The guard said he was a fan of the Rome team and couldn't believe that his favorite player was playing wearing a jersey that said "Free Giuliana".
I lived in an enclave where all my certainties were gone. I found that I was deeply weak. I had failed in my certainties. I claimed that you had to go and tell people about that dirty war. But I found myself in a situation where you were either locked up in your hotel waiting or you were kidnapped as you were trying to do your work. "We don't want anybody anymore", is what my kidnappers would tell me. But I wanted to tell the world about the blood bath in Falluja from the words of the refugees. And already that morning, the refugees, or maybe one of their leaders, weren't listening to me. What I had in front of me was the proof of what Iraqi society has become due to the war and they would throw their truth to my face: "We don't want anybody, why don't you just stay home, what good can this interview do for us?". It's the worst collateral effect -- war the killer of communication, was falling upon me. On me, one who risked everything, defying the Italian government, which didn't want the journalist to enter Iraq and the Americans who don't want our work to bear witness to what that country has truly become due to this war and in spite of what they call elections.
Now I ask myself. Is this rejection of theirs [proof of] a failure?