Family & Fatherhood

My Independence Day

It took captivity in the Middle East for me to value all of our blessings

Freedom for me always meant movement. When I was a child, I would pester my parents to go somewhere—to the beach, on a picnic. When I was old enough to strike out on my own, I went to Europe, the Far East, Africa. I never stopped. But on August 14, 2006, someone made me stop, and I learned about true freedom.

I was in Gaza City to cover the Palestinian conflict with Israel. My cameraman, Olaf Wiig, and I headed to our hotel, driving down a narrow side street. Suddenly, the little pickup truck in front of us stopped. By the time we realized it wasn’t moving, four gunmen had piled out and swarmed our SUV. They put 9 mm pistols to our heads and stuffed us down into the back of their pickup. They pulled hoods over our heads, bound our hands behind us with plastic zip ties, and sped away. It all happened so fast, I almost didn’t believe it was real.

My heart was jackhammering. I was blind. The pickup whipped around turns, starting, stopping. I don’t have heart trouble, but I wondered if I was going to have a heart attack.

The loss of control was the worst part. Americans in particular, because we enjoy so many freedoms, are big on control. It’s ingrained into our psychology. Imagine all of a sudden you have zero control over anything. It’s a horrible, helpless feeling.

Eventually, we arrived at a building that had a metal garage door (I heard it rumbling overhead). They dumped us onto a grimy floor. I could hear Olaf breathing next to me, but then a big industrial generator roared to life and drowned out everything. The place stank of car exhaust and motor oil. Something I assumed was a gun barrel was pressed against my head. Anytime I tried to sit up, someone would push me down with his foot. I thought, I can’t tolerate much more of this.

After six hours, they moved us to an apartment with a mattress on the floor. The blindfolds came off, they cut the ties off our hands, and we could move a bit. But men were always there with Kalashnikovs and pistols. Once, one of them came into our room, tossing a hand grenade like a baseball.

They fed us constant propaganda. “Bush is bad, Osama is king”—that kind of stuff. Olaf didn’t tell me until later, but they told him he was safe because he was from New Zealand. I, on the other hand, was obviously a spy for Israel and they would soon kill me. (I’m glad he kept that to himself.)