The Prophet's Ladder (8 page)

“Please, I’m just a journalist. I’m sorry if I offended you. I am a Muslim. I pray. I fast at Ramadan...please…” The man slapped him again on the other cheek.

“You are not a true Muslim, you are not one of the faithful! The man yelled in his ear, his harsh accent reverberating in the large storage room. “We’ve seen your website boy.
Inshallah
you will burn for it in the fires below.”

Ali lifted his head, barely able to focus on his interrogator’s face, which was still obscured by cloth. Only his olive colored eyes and darkened mouth were visible. “My...my website? Do you mean my blog?”

“Yes, yes. Good. You remember. You are wondering how we found you? Your father talks too much boy. He talks too much and too loudly in the cafes and coffee shops in Tunis.” The man chuckled, a phlegmy, disgusting sound. “Our agents are everywhere, doing God’s work.”

Ali frowned inwardly.
Of course. Father, why? He should never have said anything. His brothers shouldn’t have told the family about the blog. Our petty sibling rivalry will get us all killed.

“Please, don’t harm them. They don’t know what I’ve done.”

The man looked down at Ali, an apathetic expression on his face as he sheathed his knife. He had expected more resistance from such a passionate young man.

“We won’t harm them if you confess your sinful nature to the world, on camera. If you do this, and take down your website and destroy your writings, and never write such blasphemy again, we will leave you and your family unharmed. Do you agree?”

Ali had no choice. How could he let his mother and the others suffer on his behalf? “Agreed.”

“Very well then.” The man reached behind a shelf and hefted a bucket of foul smelling water in his direction. Reaching down, he unbound Ali’s hands. “Here. Clean yourself up. We need you to look presentable for the world.”

The jihadist walked out of sight, a metal door slamming behind him on rusted hinges. Ali, barely able to move his arms, began rubbing his sore muscles, noting the friction burns on his wrists from the rope that now lay on the ground. He remained chained and shackled to the bolt in the floor. Briefly, he wondered if he could pick the lock, but quickly realized he had no tools or even the skill necessary to do so. Instead, he meekly grabbed the sponge that floated in the bucket and began washing himself. The water smelled of turpentine and grease, but at least he’d be able to rinse the blood from his hair and face.

What the fuck. Why has this happened, God? I am not a fighter. I sit in libraries and write. How can I face such gross violence, such hate?

His cellphone and backpack neither on his person nor anywhere in site, Ali resigned himself to his immediate fate. He would say whatever these fundamentalist madmen wanted him to say, so long as he could avoid their violent retribution.
Perhaps I can make note of my surroundings, figure out just where the hell I am, and bring back some law enforcement or the military. Can I play the complacent spy? I don’t know, I don’t know…
Ali suddenly remembered the man’s accent.
Oh shit, he sounded Algerian. Am I across the border? How far into Algeria could we be? I couldn’t have been knocked out for that long…could they get through an actual border-crossing checkpoint?

A thousand questions crisscrossed the stage of his conscious mind, stressing his already strained mental state to its breaking point. Slowly, he began to focus on his breathing and on washing his body with the sponge. Having a panic attack would do him no good, especially not now, not here.
Breathe in, breathe out. In. Out.

Ali resigned himself to his current predicament. If he tried some foolhardy gambit or panicked it might only hinder his cause.
I’ve got to try; I’ve got to make it, if only for my family. For Amina.

The light bulb above him flickered on and off, the glow worn and desperate like its solitary imprisoned companion.

****

Amina had been unable to get ahold of Ali since last night. It had now been a whole day since she’d been back in the country, and she was starting to grow worried. This was so unlike him; he’d always responded to her calls, emails, texts, even when he was working on a story or when she was abroad. Her family had just taken the long ferry ride from Sicily to Tunis, and she hadn’t had cell service during the trip. She never understood why her father insisted on traveling by boat instead of by air as often as possible. He always claimed that it was about “appreciating the true distance” or some such, but it just an inconvenience for her. She suspected that, in truth, her father was afraid of flying.

That afternoon she’d decided to make her way to Ali’s family home in the old medina. It was a bit of a trip, and she’d have to hire a taxi to get her back to her father’s after the bus stopped running at five, but she needed to find him, Amina’s intuition getting the better of her.

Turning the corner onto her suitor's street, she immediately noticed the police officer standing outside Ali’s family’s doorway. Adrenaline flooded her body as she quickly approached the officer in his blue and black uniform. “Sir, please, my fiancé lives here. What is the matter? What happened?”

The policeman looked at her; he had a young face. “You know the Al-Aziz family? Who is your fiancé?” His voice conveyed urgency, worrying Amina further.

“Ali. Ali ibn Abd Al-Aziz. Please, tell me what’s going on!”

“You’d better come with me miss. Chief!” The officer called inside the doorway to a superior. “The boy’s fiancée is here.” Amina stepped inside.

Ali’s home was crowded with police, neighbors, extended and immediate family members, it seemed like the whole block was jammed into the small dwelling. Law enforcement personnel were busy interviewing witnesses, taking testimony amidst the chaos. Many of Ali’s female relatives crowded around his mother, Sharifa, attempting to spoon-feed her warm broth, combing her hair, wiping her forehead. Her face was wet with tears as her body gently shook from slow, silent sobs. Amina began maneuvering around groups of people towards Sharifa but was pulled aside by another, higher-ranking police officer. “Miss, my name is Radhouen Al-Din, I’m in charge of this district’s law enforcement bureau. Am I to understand that you are Ali ibn Abd Al-Aziz’s fiancée?”

The police chief was older, his black hair flanked by silver streaks on both sides of his head, a drooping mustache covering his upper lip. His face conveyed a kindly disposition, but his eyes were hard, and tired.

“Yes, I am. My name is Amina Hannachi. Please, no one has told me what’s happened. Is Ali alright?”

The man shook his head. “We’re not sure. It would appear there’s been a kidnapping. We’re trying to identify the perpetrators and locate your fiancé now.”

Amina’s body seized with disbelief. She fought to hold back tears, her mind reeling over what she’d just heard. It was a tremendous shock, truth be told. But those who knew her, who had seen her rallying her fellow students in the face of tear gas during the Tunisian revolution, her bandaged hands holding placards and chanting slogans in the face of armed, hired hooligans knew she was of a stoic, resilient disposition. A heavy blow like this could only serve to strengthen her resolve to fight back, to confront those who would harm her friends and family. After a brief time she was able to collect herself.

“Officer, what can I do to help? My father has influence in Tunis, and we have money. Is there a ransom demand?”

“That is very noble of you, miss, and no we’ve discovered no message or written demands of any kind. Perhaps you can help us understand why anybody would want to attack and kidnap Ali? From what I hear he was a freelance journalist?”

“Yes, well…” Amina hesitated. She didn’t want to connect Ali’s family to the blog and its recent media coverage. The chief immediately picked up on her reticence.

“Perhaps you’d like to talk more down at the district station? I promise you, you won’t be detained. We’re here to help.” The man gestured to the doorway.

“Yes, I think that would be best.” She steadied herself, her will to fight for Ali and his life quickly superseding any fear she felt.  “I’m prepared to leave now, I just need to speak with Ali’s mother.”

The chief acquiesced. “Alright.”

Amina approached Sharifa, the nieces, sisters, and cousins parting to let her approach. She was seated on a low-lying
ponj
sofa, her tiny frame braced and framed by familial hands. Amina knelt down and grasped the sickly woman’s hands with her own. The frail mother looked up and fresh tears sprung to her face. Amina found that she too had begun crying, though her outward expression conveyed only confidence.

“Oh my daughter, my daughter! They took him! They took our boy!”

“Mama, we will find him. I promise. I am going with the police officers now. We will get him back: I will help; my family will help. Don’t worry, okay?”

Ali’s mother only nodded, unsure as to how her daughter-in-law could affect the outcome of this horrible situation. She saw, however, the resolve in Amina’s face, and she kissed her three times on both cheeks before letting go of her.

“God bless you, my girl,
Bshatik. Llah Y-hm-y walidin.
God bless your parents.”

“I will see you soon mama Sharifa.”

Amina rose to her feet. She noticed Ali’s brothers in one corner arguing heatedly with their father and several other relatives, but she didn’t see the need to interject. Ali had never been close to any of the men in his family, and though she was always polite when she encountered them, she saw no point in further delaying her conversation with the police chief.

Chief Radhouen Al-Din helped her into the passenger side of an old model Renault police cruiser that was parked at the alleyway’s entrance. Sirens blared, and pedestrians, pack animals, and mopeds all scrambled to get out of their way as they barreled down the old medina’s main thoroughfare. Amina and the chief rode in silence, except for the occasional static burst of alerts emanating from the cruiser’s radio. She finally had time to process Ali’s kidnapping, connecting questions with various pieces of critical information: who had the motive to do such a thing? In all likelihood someone had found out that he was the author of the blog posts that had been covered by
Tunisia Today
. Someone who was opposed to liberal religious reform...Amina shuddered as her conscious mind reviewed every fundamentalist sect she knew to be operating in the country: a radical offshoot of the
Ennadha
party, possibly even Al Qaeda or the Islamic State, who would make an example of Ali if they could. Likely they were a group or sect operating in the rural inland of Tunisia, where the people were more conservative, less inclined to oppose those types of organizations setting up shop in their neighborhoods.

The chief pulled up to the dilapidated but still imposing district police bureau, parking the vehicle directly in front of its heavy steel doors. The place resembled a prison or a military barracks more than a typical police station, its walls made of reinforced concrete, jersey barriers flanking its sides like a medieval castle.

“Here we are, miss. Please, right this way.” The chief buzzed the intercom next to the entrance, and the doors swung open electronically, a security camera observing them from above. “Can I offer you some tea or coffee?”

“Yes, coffee would be wonderful. Thank you, chief.” Maghrebi hospitality ruled even here.

Making his way to his office desk, the chief signaled to an underling who brought in a coffee kettle and two cups, along with a dish of sugar cubes and some milk, placing the laden tray on the chief’s desk. Amina sat down in a green plush chair opposite her host and began pressing the chief for more details concerning the kidnapping, which he readily provided.

“From what we can tell after our initial interviews of the family and the neighbors, there were three armed, masked men, all wearing paramilitary fatigues and a nondescript green Mercedes van with no license plates or identifying marks of any kind. Two of the men had assault rifles. One remained behind as the driver, while the other two broke into the Al Aziz home, forcing the mother to remain quiet until, shortly thereafter, Ali returned home and was assaulted. Mrs. Al-Aziz claims her son suffered a blow to the stomach and then to the back of the head, which rendered him unconscious. The kidnappers then bound Ali and dragged him into the van.  So please tell me, Amina, if I may call you that, why this has happened? What cause do these terrorists have for kidnapping an educated, seemingly responsible young journalist?”

She again weighed her options. Her immediate fears for her fiancé’s life currently outweighed any concerns she might have as to his reputation, but another thought crept into her mind: how could she be sure this police chief was honest? He could be as corrupt as any other, despite his amiable, polite disposition. He might even be on the payroll of the very people who’d hurt Ali. She’d have to trust her instincts, her assessment of his character, a tenuous plan at best. Looking at the man once more, his mustache sagging as he sipped his coffee, she decided she’d tell him about Ali’s blog and its coverage by the mainstream media. She had little left to lose at this point, and if he turned out to be crooked or working for some other party, well, she’d cross that burning bridge when she came to it.

“Ali is not just a journalist, officer Al-Din, but a blogger as well. He began keeping a blog several years ago, a website commenting on the state of Islam in Tunisia, about the current pitfalls of our society, our cultural values. He decided to start writing after Mohamed Bouazizi’s self-immolation...I’m sure you recall….”