Daniel
Pearl
Oct
10, 1963—Feb. 1, 2002
With duct tape over my eyes,
everything is black; darkness is absolute.
I know it is daytime, because I hear talking in the next room. It is in Arabic, which I don’t speak; although,
I understand small snippets of the conversation. I assume it is late morning, not that it matters. Time is irrelevant. Have I been a captive weeks?…months?… I no
longer care.
My hands are bound behind my
back with duct tape, and my wrists ache, my fingers numb. I would like to say that—over the weeks of
captivity—I have become inured to the pain, but no one ever gets used to
pain. The pain intensifies with each
passing day as my resistance weakens.
Most people can tolerate extreme pain of short duration. It is that constant never-ending toothache
that gets the best of them.
I hear the door to my room
open, followed by footsteps. It is at
least two people, perhaps more. One of
them not so gently rips the duct tape from my eyes, pulling hairs from my
eyebrows. Despite the pain, it is good
to see again; although, the room is still dark. The lone window is covered with a white sheet that emits a
modicum of diffused light—only enough to navigate the room. There are three Arabs in the room. Two of them grab me by the shoulders and
pull me to my feet. The duct tape
around my wrists is removed, and I feel circulation return to my fingers.
Trying to escape never
crosses my mind. All three of them have
pistols, and there are more people in the adjacent room who can be called
should the need arise. They push me
into a room filled with bright lights and angry people. It is a game we play daily. I am pushed to the floor and against the
wall like a cornered rat. Floodlights
hurt my eyes, and I squint at the video cameras, which capture my every
move.
I know what comes next. I will be asked questions and beaten if the
wrong answer is given. By now, I have
the correct answers memorized. One of
the Arabs will place a gun to my temple.
He will say it is time for me to die.
I will hear him pull the slide back on his pistol as he chambers a
round. The barrel of the gun will feel
cold as he presses it against my temple.
Then I will hear the click as the firing pin slams down on an empty
chamber. One time they even fired a
live round. The hole in the wall is a
grim reminder of that event.
“Do you wish to confess to
your crimes?” one of them asks in broken English.
I nod in the
affirmative. They ask me more
questions. Again, I nod in the
affirmative. At this point, I will
accept sole responsibility for the Holocaust even though I was not alive at the
time. They seem satisfied with my
answers. The video cameras roll
on. I hang my head in shame.
“Now, it is time for you to
die.” The Arab always takes immense joy
in this pronouncement. I, too, find it
comforting. It means the interrogation
is over, and I will be returned to my room and served breakfast.
The Arab grabs my hair and
pulls my head up so my eyes face the cameras.
He places the pistol against my temple as has been rehearsed so many
times before. I hear the bolt slide
back as the imaginary bullet slides into the chamber. There is always a pause before I hear the click of the firing
pin. The Arab enjoys the drama. He would do well on Broadway. He should be pulling the trigger any time
now and I…