An Evil Cradling: The Five-Year Ordeal of a Hostage

An Evil Cradling: The Five-Year Ordeal of a Hostage

Brian Keenan

Language: English

Pages: 320

ISBN: 0140236414

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

This brilliantly written account by a former Middle East hostage was a #1 bestseller in Britain and served as the inspiration for the acclaimed Broadway hit Someone Who'll Watch Over Me. "Conveys the surrealism of the ordeal, the loss of control and melting of identity that come with realizing you are a pawn in someone else's game."--Time.

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shouting, yelling. Bilal held me down. I was serenely calm. I felt nothing. Abed came charging back and ran into the room as Bilal quickly squeezed past him. He began then to do what he had wanted to do for so long. He had a brush pole and began beating and beating and poking the brush pole into my chest, into my genitals, beating my thighs, my back, my shoulders, my neck, but careful, so careful of my face. Every part of me sang with this dull thud that slapped against my skin. He continued and

preoccupied me in isolation. I imagined that my new friend would be thinking the same things. ‘All men are but teeth on a comb’ is an old Arabic saying and so it was with us. Both of us had gone through experiences that opened up new definitions of what we were as humans. But to be truly humanized and to be truly whole again it would be necessary to expose that, to share it honestly with another person. Would this man be frightened of what I thought? We become our meaningful selves only if

Belfast. I realized after having my first drink that I had forgotten to collect my wages. My friend thought I was an idiot. After many months working in the factory, I was sent off to the ‘Tech’, as it was called, to study for my City & Guilds in Heating Engineering. This different kind of classroom routine became oppressive. I remember feeling a sense of limitation. Five years of this, to end up a glorified plumber and continue with that for the foreseeable future, was not an enthralling

onto the floor. The van stank with the smell of sheep or goats. A gun was placed at my temple. The thought of the dark tunnel when I was first taken came rushing back to me. The filth and stink of this van was such an undignified place to die in. I wondered where and by whom my body would be found. Then strangely I thought perhaps it would be better for my family if I was buried here. Having to go through the suffering over my death and then dealing with the agony of bringing me home and burying

repeatedly on John’s body. Slowly and unexcitedly the blows continued and then stopped. I heard him walk towards me. This time I cared nothing. There was no trembling. m There was no fear. I secretly relished what was about to happen because of the strength it gave me. Here it was again, the thumping down of this weapon bruising my body. Unlike the excited quasi-sexual rapture of Said’s rape, this man was frightened, his blows only j half as heavy as Said’s, slow and deliberate, picking the

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