Adapted from Hostage Bound, Hostage Free with Dennis Benson, (c) 1987 Ben and Carol Weir. Used by permission of the Westminster/John Knox Press.
For Ben Weir, a Presbyterian missionary who had lived in Lebanon for thirty-one years, life changed dramatically on May 8, 1984, when he was taken hostage at gunpoint by Shiite Muslims in Beirut. For the next sixteen months, he faced loneliness, imprisonment, and the constant threat of execution.
In this excerpt adapted from his book Hostage Bound, Hostage Free, Weir tells of his experiences and the spiritual resources on which he drew for sustenance in the ordeal. His testimony points to the unchanging Source of strength for every pastor facing a crisis.
Before we left the apartment that morning, I gave Carol our residence permits. Since it was always possible for them to be stolen or lost, I asked Carol to have them photocopied at the seminary where we both taught. At the door I paused briefly, considering the possible dangers of going out into the street again. But we both felt the meeting to which we were going at the seminary was important.
We had walked only a short way when a car pulled up from behind us and stopped. Two men got out and said something. The words were not clear.
“What do you want?” I asked.
I barely understood the response: “I want you!”
With that one of them grabbed my arm and started pulling me toward the car. Carol began screaming, and I yelled for help.
I tried to resist, but the man was much younger and stronger than I. He twisted my necktie and pulled me toward the car. I braced my hands on both sides of the open back door, but he gave me a tremendous shove from behind and forced me into the back seat.
A man with a black beard jumped into the front passenger seat and pointed an automatic pistol at my head while the driver put the car in motion. The man who had seized me forced me down on the floor of the car and pulled a sack over me, keeping his hand on my back. By now the car was speeding along.
Thoughts raced through my mind. Will I be killed? Held for ransom? Tortured? Why me? Did they want someone else and take me by mistake?
After a half hour or so, the car came to a sudden halt. My captor and the other man in front got out and closed their doors almost without sound. Then the man next to me got out, while the others opened my door and slipped a plastic bag over my head. The driver said in a whisper, “Get out, but don’t make any noise. If you do, I’ll kill you.”
Once I was out of the car, one of the other men took my left arm in a firm grip. The driver pulled the bag tight around my face and neck. The plastic sealed my mouth and nostrils each time I breathed in. In near panic, I whispered, “I can’t breathe! Give me air!” I tried to keep the plastic away with my free right hand.
All this happened as I was being walked across a cement floor, tripping on small objects as I went. We seemed to be in some kind of large building, like a garage or warehouse. I could not hear anyone, but from our whispering, I guessed that other people were not far away.
We walked through what seemed to be a doorway into a room. Someone else was there, and from behind, he removed the plastic bag, carefully replacing it with a cloth blindfold tied around my head. Then he said, “Lie down! Face down!”
I found myself lying on a bed. He spread my hands and feet. After a minute or two, the man who had blindfolded me began to search my pockets. From my pants pockets he took my money, pocketknife, keys, and comb. Soon he returned my key case to my pocket. He felt his way through my jacket but didn’t try to remove my glasses, for which I breathed a silent prayer of thanks. He tried to pull off my wedding ring, but it was tight, and after several tugs he gave up. [Later, however, it would be tom from Weir’s finger and never returned.]
I was led into another room. Again I was told to sit. This time I let myself down carefully onto a mattress; it was on the floor. A man said, “Move back.” I did so until my back was against a wall. Then he told me to stretch out my left arm. I obeyed, and he wrapped the end of a chain around my wrist and closed it snugly with a padlock. He said sternly, “You not see,” and touched the strip of cloth covering my eyes. I understood I must remain blindfolded. “Sh-sh-sh … no sound. You quiet. You much quiet.” He went out, sliding a door closed behind him. I heard him lock it. I was alone.
I sat there for a while with my eyes covered, wondering where I was. The guard did not return, and there was no sound of footsteps. I figured the noise of unlocking and opening the sliding door would warn me of his return. Carefully, I raised the cloth strip enough so I could see.
I was in a bare room, its walls and woodwork painted a light gray. The floor was covered with the ceramic tile squares so often found in the city’s buildings. Louvered shutters closed off the French doors.
I was sitting on a foam rubber mattress a few inches thick, six feet long, about three and a half feet wide. It showed sunken spots in the middle. The pattern on the cover was stained, and the underside was full of dust and dirt. On the mattress was an uncovered pillow of equal vintage.
I examined the link chain. It was stamped HARDENED STEEL. The padlock likewise looked sturdy, hardened, and bore the usual MADE IN CHINA. There was no chance of undoing that restraint. I counted thirty-three inch-sized links between my wrist and the radiator, to which the chain was fastened with another padlock.
Later that day, Weir was fed and given a blanket when he grew cold. That treatment led him to conclude his captors probably wanted to keep him alive and well, at least for the time being. His fears eased somewhat, he realized he was exhausted and soon fell asleep.
I awoke refreshed by my nap. What other gifts would God show me in addition to sleep, a blanket, and a spirit of resistance and survival? Once again I lifted my blindfold and began examining the room. What was here that could bring me close to the sustaining presence of God? I let my imagination have total freedom.
Looking up, I examined an electric wire hanging from the ceiling. The bulb and socket had been removed so that it ended in an arc with three wires exposed. To me, those wires seemed like three fingers. I could see a hand and an arm reaching downward-like the Sistine Chapel in Rome, Michelangelo’s fresco of God reaching out his hand and finger toward Adam, creating the first human being. Here God was reaching toward me, reminding me, saying, “You’re alive. You are mine; I’ve made you and called you into being for a divine purpose.”
What else? I began counting the horizontal slats of the shutters outside the French doors. There were 120. What could those horizontal pieces of wood stand for, so many of them? That’s it! Many of them, a crowd! A cloud of witnesses past and present, who through times of trial have observed the faithfulness of God. Recognizing I am surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, I thought, let me lay aside every weight and sin and run with patience the race set before me, looking to Jesus, the initiator and completer of our faith. He endured the cross with its shame and is now seated at the right hand of God on my behalf.
This recital of the basics of my faith sent a chill through me. What a message! I desperately needed it in my present setting.
Then my eyes lighted on two white circles near their ceiling, one on the right-hand wall, the other on the left. Everybody in Lebanon knows what they are, plastic covers for electrical connections. Yet what could they be for me? What comes in a pair? Ears! They were the ears of God. The Lord hears the groaning of the saints. So listen to me, dear God; I also surrender to your care and will.
My eyes returned to the electric wire, following it up toward the ceiling. There I noticed a commonplace item for the first time. A hook of reinforcing rod had been bent out of the concrete form before pouring, forming almost a closed ellipse. Every home and apartment had one near the ceiling on which to hang a light, so the electric wire would not have to bear the weight of the fixture. What could that elevated ellipse be for me? An eye! The eye of God-admittedly anthropomorphic, but a reminder that in his sovereignty and wisdom, his ways are not thwarted but ongoing.
On a shelf in one corner of the room stood a game bird, perhaps shot and stuffed by a former occupant. A gray bird, like a dove. A dove! That’s it, Noah’s bird, the one released from the window of the ark! It went searching and brought back a bit of greenery, a sign of life, a new beginning, hope in the chaos.
Sounds around me aroused images that were more ambiguous and troublesome. I listened to footsteps outside my door and speculated on their comings and goings. I heard Arabic voices but could not make out what they were saying. Occasionally I would hear the motor of a vehicle passing by outside but could conclude nothing. I noticed the voices of children, but they disappeared in the distance. As each sound approached the building, I hoped someone was coming to rescue me, even though my reason told me that was not probable. How long, O Lord, will this go on? There was no answer.
As the light coming through the shutter faded, I began to get settled mentally for the night. I reviewed the events of the day. I was here, alone but alive. I still had things to appreciate. My body, though sore, was still whole. I had survived capture and a terrifying ride. My captors seemed to want me alive rather than dead. I was sure of Carol’s love and deep concern. I had happy recollections of our family, and most recently of our daughter Chris, who had visited us from Saudi Arabia two months ago.
Out of memories came the phrase, “Count your many blessings, name them one by one.” This statement seemed appropriate. I fingered the links of the chain that bound me. Then I began counting: health, life, food, mattress, pillow, blanket, Carol, Chris, John, Sue, Ann, faith, hope, prayer, Jesus, Holy Spirit, Father’s love. … I reached the thirty-third link before I was finished, so I returned in my counting from the radiator toward my ankle.
Before it was completely dark, a guard came again. He said, “Face the wall.” I did. “Now take your blindfold off and put this on.” He handed me something solid that had a strap on it. I took off the cloth slowly. I found I was holding plastic ski goggles in which the eye holes had been taped over with thick plastic adhesive tape. I put it on my head, and the guard checked to see that the headband was tight. He said, “You keep this on. Good. No see.” Then he went out. I lifted the mask to my forehead and decided it was a good exchange. It would be ready so that at a moment’s notice I could pull it down over my eyes. I thanked God for this new convenience.
I could now imagine that the sun had set. In the twilight there came to mind the hymn “Abide with me / fast falls the eventide.” I felt vulnerable, helpless, lonely. I felt tears in my eyes. Then I remembered the promise of Jesus, “If you abide in me and my words abide in you, ask what you will and it shall be done unto you.”
Lord, I remember your promise, and I think it applies to me, too. I’ve done nothing to deserve it but receive it as a free gift. I need you. I need your assurance and guidance to be faithful to you in this situation. Teach me what I need to learn. Deliver me from this place and this captivity if it is your will. If it is not your will to set me free, help me to accept whatever is involved. Show me your gifts, and enable me to recognize them as coming from you. Praise be to you.
As darkness became complete, I found myself recalling one hymn after another. Of some I could remember several verses, and where there was a gap I could improvise. Of others I could remember only a phrase or two. I was surprised to see how many came to mind.
As I was preparing to stretch out and find a comfortable position for my aching neck, chest, and legs, I heard footfalls near my door. Quickly, I pulled on the ski mask and sat up. The door slid back. The guard came in and said, “Food.” I put out my hands and he gave me a sandwich. “Tea.” He poured me a glass of tea. Then he went out. Once the door closed, I found I had a generous apricot jam sandwich rolled in a large loaf of Arabic bread and a hot glass of sweetened tea. I was hungry, and it tasted good. I ate slowly. Another gift.
Once again I stretched out, pulled the blanket over me, and dropped off to sleep, thinking how much I wished Carol were near.
The next morning, Weir decided to stay as active as possible. He devised an exercise routine that was as vigorous as being chained to a radiator would allow. He also reflected on his and Carol’s recent decision to return to Lebanon.
I thought about my recent seven-month furlough in the United States and the decision Carol and I had faced about whether to return to Lebanon.
Our family and friends didn’t want us to go back. Heavy fighting had again erupted in the nine-year civil war. First one person and then another showed me fresh pictures and news reports. The worst was the ugly assassination of Malcolm Kerr, the president of the American University of Beirut, on January 18, 1984, in the hallway outside his office. Was it right for us to return?
On the other hand, was it right not to return? We hoped for an end to the warfare and a chance to prepare Protestant leadership for the future. Furthermore, we had a clear call from the Lebanese church to serve with them. During this period of turmoil, they were asking us to demonstrate by our presence the solidarity of our Presbyterian church with them and with the suffering people of Lebanon.
As I had pondered this dilemma, I happened upon a saying of Christ in the New English Bible translation that made the edge even sharper: “Whoever cares for his own safety is lost; but if a man will let himself be lost for my sake, that man is safe.”
I had no desire to be a martyr. Yet I knew physical security could not be the most important criterion for our decision. I knew then that God’s will was for Carol and me to proceed toward Lebanon.
I now sat as a prisoner of unknown forces. The golden opportunity to seek a life of spiritual growth was before me, yet I felt like a novice. It was true that I had made my commitment to Christ and accepted the new life he offered years ago. From that time on I had found meaning, joy, and direction in periods of daily Bible reading and prayer.
However, now the situation was different. There were no time constraints. Neither did I have the usual resources: Bible, devotional booklet, pad of paper and pencil, hymnbook, or other printed resources. This time I was really on my own.
I began with what I had: memory. A passage out of the past popped into mind. I couldn’t remember where it occurred. My mind and spirit played with the message as I sat chained to a radiator that second day: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.”
Trust. Lord, here I am. You know where I am, even if I do not. You know how I came here and what’s going to happen. You know who my captors are, even if I do not. I’m helpless. I’m in your hands. Help me to trust you.
I thought of a struggling, stranded Palestinian family. (Lord, help them!) I thought also of a dozen students from South Sudan who had no scholarships, no work, no certainty they could stay in Lebanon, no assurance they would have enough food. (God, be their sustenance!) The people of voluntary international agencies would meet next Tuesday without me as chairperson. (Dear God, strengthen them, too!) I particularly focused on my life with Carol as she faced the frustration, fear, and danger. (O God, keep her!)
Lord, I continued to pray, the truth is that I don’t have any insight into what’s happening to me. I know there are many armed groups out to kidnap people in Lebanon. They are telling me I have been taken for “political reasons.” What does that mean? Will it lead to interrogation and maybe torture? I don’t have political connections. I know that, and so do you. So the truth is my only defense.
I must remember not to “rely on my own insight,” because I don’t have any. I can easily imagine a wide range of possibilities: rescue, escape, execution, illness, dying, being injured by others in an attempt to storm this place. Or I might just wait and wait and wait until someday I’m set free, either sane or mad.
Lord, keep me from the fears of my own imaginings. Make my path to you unencumbered and direct.
As I prayed, I sensed God giving me strength. I began to sing, joyously but quietly, “Praise, my soul, the King of heaven.”
Around midday, there were more footsteps, the pushing back of the door, and the sounds of someone entering. This time a different voice said, “How are you?”
“Okay, thanks.”
“What’s your name?”
“Benjamin Weir. I’m a pastor.”
“What pastor?”
“Pastor is a minister, serving a church. I’m a Protestant-Injili.”
“What church?”
“Protestant church. Lebanese church. National Evangelical Synod of Syria and Lebanon.”
“You Catholic?”
“No, Protestant. A pastor. I also teach.”
“What you teach?”
“I teach at the Near East School of Theology sometimes.”
“What theology?”
“Theology is studying about God.”
“Oh, you priest?”
“Well, not exactly, but like a priest. I’m a pastor.”
“Okay. You American?”
“Yes, I’m an American.”
Now a second voice, breath heavily scented by tobacco: “We know you work with the American embassy.”
“No, that’s not true. I have nothing to do with the American embassy.”
“But we know you go there.”
“Yes, I go to get my passport renewed when necessary, but I don’t work with the embassy.”
“Who do you know at the embassy?”
“Well, I know the Lebanese man in the consular section who renewed my passport.”
“Who else do you know?”
“I don’t know anyone else. I’m not even sure who the ambassador is now.”
“We know you work with the embassy.”
“You are wrong. I have no political connections.”
“Maybe you don’t work at the embassy, but we know you are a spiritual adviser.”
“My friend, that’s not true. You don’t know much about the U.S. government if you think they have spiritual advisers. I’m not connected with the embassy in any way.”
“We will give you time to think about the people you know at the embassy. I’ll be back to get the names from you.”
“I don’t need time, because I don’t know anyone there. I’m telling you the truth.”
“We will be back later. For sure you know names.”
With that parting remark the two men went out.
Did they intend to fabricate some story to frame me? Was this only the beginning of more severe questioning? Perhaps they wanted me to become increasingly anxious.
After lunch the interrogators returned and questioned Weir again. When he still insisted he knew no one else at the embassy, they left and never came back. Three days after his abduction, the onset of his first weekend as a hostage forced Weir to consider how he would worship in his solitary confinement.
On Friday, May 11, my ears told me that a longwinded sermon was being given at the weekly gathering for prayer at the mosque, even though I could not hear the words. The end of the week was approaching. Sunday would be for me a special day of worship. I decided to observe Communion, so when supper came on Saturday I set aside a piece of bread from my sandwich.
On my first Sunday morning in captivity, I awoke thinking of a visit Carol and I had made ten months earlier to Pakistan. Once more I could see Christians coming to church, the women in their colorful and graceful native dresses. I thought of a village congregation seated on the floor singing the gospel story enthusiastically in their Panjabi language and clapping to the beat. I imagined teachers, students, doctors, nurses, patients, public health workers, literacy teams, men in construction projects, seminary students and faculty along with missionaries-all awaking and proceeding to places of worship while I was still sleeping. There they gathered at the Lord’s Table.
My mind moved westward with the sun: Assyrian, Armenian, Persian-speaking Christians in various cities of Iran, and Arabic-speaking Christians in Iraq coming to worship also. I envisioned people of various cultural backgrounds gathering at an ecumenical center in Kuwait. I was part of this far-flung family, the very body of Christ.
I unwrapped my piece of bread and began the Presbyterian order of worship: “We are now about to celebrate the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper.” For me the “we” had special meaning. The “reading” from 1 Corinthians 11, with its account of the meal with Jesus, took me back to apostolic times.
I ate the bread behind closed doors with the fearful disciples and the risen Lord on that first Easter. When it came to sharing the cup, I had no visible wine, but that didn’t seem to matter. I knew that others were taking the cup for me elsewhere at this universal table.
As others prayed for me, so I prayed for them and their ministry and mission. It was the longest Communion service I have ever attended.
As night came, I recalled how Carol and I had listened to hymns on the BBC’s “Evensong” every Sunday evening before dropping off to sleep. So I proceeded to have my own quiet evensong. The hymns came tumbling out one after the other.
Some were great historical hymns of the church with resounding phraseology, singable tunes, and consistent theology. Others were gospel tunes or children’s songs. I even included a few Christmas carols and Easter songs.
I was finally able to settle down for the night with a feeling of trust, comfort, and praise, plus the hope that I might again share moments with Carol. This last thought brought tears to my eyes.
As time went by, Weir grew increasingly bold in removing his blinder goggles and looking out the window of his room. He enjoyed being able to look at the sky and plowed fields, and he also took comfort in recognizing where he was being held: the Bekaa Valley of northern Lebanon. His enjoyment of looking at his surroundings, however, came only at the risk of great danger.
One night I made what could have been a fatal mistake. Evening had come, and I consumed my supper sandwich and glass of tea and stretched out to sleep. Believing George, my guard, had made his last check, I removed my mask as usual and kept it in my hand. Suddenly there were footsteps and a hand on the door.
I grabbed my mask, put the elastic band over my head, and had just pulled it over my eyes when the door opened. George had seen me with my hands on the mask and asked gruffly, “What are you doing?” I replied that I was adjusting my mask. He said sternly, “Didn’t I tell you to keep it on all the time? Don’t ever touch it!” I knew the kidnappers were worried about the possibility of being identified. But I thought to myself, That’s not a very realistic request.
The next day, to my surprise, he brought a present with my luncheon sandwich: a tube of Terramycin eye ointment, which I’d been asking for. I was also given a handful of Kleenex. This was a wonderful surprise. I guessed I had a touch of conjunctivitis, and my eyes were getting a bit blurry from a discharge. It was not surprising with so much dirt and dust on the floor. I began applying the greasy ointment morning and evening.
The following morning I had just applied the ointment and was wiping away the excess when there was a noise at the door. Again George saw my hands on the mask. He came over and thumped the mask on my face. “Didn’t I tell you never to touch the mask?”
“I was just wiping my eyes.”
“Never mind. Don’t take it off. I’m warning you.”
In spite of my caution, he surprised me with his sudden entry again that evening. I had lifted the mask to my forehead in order to blow my nose. I was just wiping my nose and getting the mask in place when he came through the door. Angrily he demanded, “What are you doing, looking at me?”
“No, just wiping my nose.”
“Didn’t I tell you before always to keep your eyes covered?” he shouted angrily. “Now I’ll show you.” He went out and closed the door. I could hear him take his pistol belt from the shelf and then handle something metallic that sounded like bullets.
George returned and came storming over to the mattress. He put the barrel of his pistol to my temple. The gun was cool and hard against my skin. He said, “I could shoot you.” Then he poked the muzzle at the back of my head and said, “I could blow your brains out.” Next he poked the barrel under my chin and snarled, “One bullet and you will be dead. I can kill you and throw your body into the street. No one will ask about you. Do you understand?”
I replied, “Yes. I understand you want to kill me.”
“You’re right. Don’t forget it. One more mistake on your part and you’re dead. Don’t ever lift your blindfold again.” With that threat, he strode out and closed the door noisily behind him.
I didn’t forget. I was very careful to keep the mask on my head, to listen even more carefully for footfalls, and to be sure the mask covered my eyes before the door was opened. But I could not accept the prospect of continuous darkness. If I were to keep my sanity, I would have to use my eyes.
With so much time on his hands, Weir sought additional ways to keep himself occupied.
My blanket had a plaid pattern that could be a playing surface. I tried using bits of dried bread for a game of checkers, but the pattern did not adapt to the requirements of a checkerboard. I tried something simpler: tic-tac-toe. I played against myself until we both knew all possible combinations. Then I tore the cornered top off a pyramidal fruit juice carton, subdivided some drinking straws, and practiced dropping them from a height into the opening. I learned it was much more fun thinking up the games than playing them.
On Fridays, I would hear the mosque prayers and sermon. This confirmed my orientation to time. For me the week began with Sunday, always a special day to anticipate.
As the first days of June passed, I began to realize there were two different ways to regard the passage of time. One was to regret each day as freedom lost, twenty-four hours of my life spent without profit. This was true. I did yearn to be active. I also longed to be close to Carol and in touch with my family. However, to concentrate on this kind of regret would only be frustrating and depressing.
Perhaps practical faith and hope and the will to survive required a different point of view. So I chose to add up the days with a sense of achievement, insofar as possible. At day’s end I would say to myself, Well, you made it through another day. Now you must have strength for the next one.
As the light dimmed I would sing to myself, “Now the day is over. / Night is drawing nigh. / Shadows of the evening steal across the sky.” And I would thank God for providing me with resources and stamina beyond my expectation.
In the morning, I would thank God for another day of living, refreshing sleep, sound body, and assurance of his sustaining presence. After my first exercise period, I would do my Bible “reading,” recalling passages that came to memory. I reviewed various psalms and fragments of them. I would choose each day a figure from the Old Testament-Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Gideon, Samuel, Saul-and tell myself his story of faith.
I tried to reconstruct the account of Jesus from his birth to his resurrection. I detailed the travels of Paul, adding with mental pictures those places in the story that I had visited. I was astounded at Paul’s persistence in the face of obstacles and dangers; I returned again and again to Romans 8:28: “In everything God works for good with those who love him, who are called according to his purpose.” This assurance was the foundation for my grip on sanity and hope.
Weir’s curiosity about whether other hostages were being held nearby led to an interesting discovery.
As the days went by, I realized I was occasionally hearing a woman’s voice. When George was relieved of his duty and two new guards replaced him, I learned something more. I could hear them occasionally, in the evening, talking with a person in one of the back rooms. I was sure it was the voice of a woman.
A few days later one of the guards said, “Tell me about the principles of psychology.”
“Psychology has many different aspects,” I said. “I cannot tell you about the whole field in a few minutes.” I asked why he wanted to know about psychology.
“There is a woman here who is in low spirits,” he said. “She does not have much inner sense of stability. She misses her two children. I want to know what to do to cheer her up.” I suggested he might just try to listen to her to determine what her real needs were. He could then encourage her in an appropriate way. After he left, I heard her vomiting in apparent distress. So I began praying for her, hoping she might be released and returned to her family.
A few days later, I was suddenly removed from my rather large room and taken to a much smaller back room where the sun beat directly against the shutters. There was mud caked to the floor. Furthermore, the chain that bound me to the radiator was much shorter, and it was attached to my right wrist, giving me much less freedom of my more useful hand. I was aware that the woman had been moved from her back room into my front room.
How ironic! I had prayed for her relief, and this had meant giving up my room so that she would have a more pleasant place. I thought to myself wryly that God really does take me at my best intentions.
As his captivity ground on past the one-year mark, Weir continued to live in isolation. His only direct human contact was with his guards. But then the situation changed suddenly.
One day in July, a guard came in and asked if I wanted to see a television program. I was delighted. He unlocked my chains, saying, “I will take you to see the TV program.”
I got up with my blindfold on, and he led me by the hand through a series of passageways. He told me to sit on the mattress on the floor and then offered me the greatest surprise. “You have a friend next to you. Take his hand.” I reached out into the space next to me. Another hand met mine. I was holding the hand of another human being!
The guard then told me to take off my blindfold. I did. I looked into the face of the man next to me. He had a full beard just like me. The guard was behind us, out of our sight. He asked who the man was. I said I didn’t know. I did not remember having seen him before.
We were ordered to watch the TV in front of us. It was a videocassette on how a Muslim prepares for prayer. I couldn’t concentrate because I wondered who the person next to me was. The tape went on for twenty minutes or so.
The guard then told us to put our blindfolds back on, and he led me out. I wondered what this was all about.
In the middle of the night, I was awakened and told, “You are going to be moved.” The guard led me outside and along a walkway, upstairs, and into a room. I was seated on a mattress and chained to a wall. He said I was going to find a friend. Then he went out and locked the door. I lifted my mask. To my surprise, I was in the room with the man I had seen earlier. He was chained to the opposite wall. I asked him in a whisper who he was, and he said, “Father Martin Jenco.” I introduced myself. The experience of being in communication with another person was so different from the loneliness of the past months that I was very suspicious. Was this some kind of trick in a bugged room? Were they trying to get information about us?
We started talking in whispers. We shared things about our lives. He had read of me before his capture, which took place eight months after mine. We joked and cried. There were concerns and fears to share. It went on and on; there seemed to be no end to what we had to say. I was communicating with another human being after fourteen months.
I learned that Father Martin had also been kept in isolation. We were quietly establishing a close relationship. I asked him, “Why do you suppose this is happening?” The guards had never permitted this kind of interaction in the past. I still wondered if the room had a listening device. Would they soon separate us and pump each of us for information about the other? “I think this place is bugged!” I told him. “Look at that thing down by the wall.”
Father Martin didn’t say anything. He reached for the object I’d pointed to and examined it for a few seconds. Then, with a shrug and a smile, he said, “It’s solid air freshener.” We laughed and laughed over my paranoia. My sides were hurting. I had not laughed in fourteen months! Now we joined in laughter, one of God’s most incredible gifts.
It was amazing how naturally we moved to prayer after our laughter. God’s joy had revealed itself, and our natural response was worship. After two hours, we were emotionally exhausted by this burst of community and sharing. Finally we dropped off to sleep.
The next morning, we awoke and exercised for a half hour before breakfast. We talked about the events of the night before and the noises we were hearing in the hallway. We wondered if there were more hostages nearby. We also made plans to worship after breakfast. I asked Father Martin to direct us. He agreed, but he insisted that I lead worship the following day.
By the next day, we were convinced there were other people next door to us. The guards were busy knocking on the walls, which we assumed was to fix metal rings to which chains could be attached. We were also allowed to read the Bible in English for a time; then it would be taken away, as if others were to have it. Later Father Martin was taken out by a guard. When he returned, he said he had been taken next door to hear confession from a Catholic layman: Terry Anderson, Middle East correspondent for the Associated Press.
Father Martin learned that David Jacobsen, administrator of the American University Hospital in Beirut, was also a hostage in the same room. He said Terry had been reading the Bible to David, who did not have his eyeglasses. Father Martin also revealed that the two men were asking for permission for all of us to worship together. After he returned, we began asking daily for the same opportunity.
Some time later, a third hostage was added to the room with Weir and Jenco: Thomas Sutherland, dean of the school of agriculture at the American University of Beirut.
By the end of the first week, the guard told us there would be a gathering of all the prisoners and that Father Martin would lead the worship. When the time came, the guards led us, one by one, to another room. They would not let us remove our blindfolds. We could shake hands but not say anything. The guards told us to sit down with our backs against the wall.
Again they provided an English translation of the Bible.
Father Martin was permitted to remove his blindfold and read from the Bible; then he passed out bread, but there was no wine. Thus we celebrated together in the presence of two armed guards. We could hear them occasionally cock their weapons. We were permitted to hug each other before the guards led us out.
The following day I asked if we could worship together again. The guard said sometime. It happened about a week later. I was told I would lead worship. I led the service according to my memory of the Presbyterian Book of Common Worship, but I missed my worship book; I had not memorized the Communion service as Father Martin had the Mass.
I read from Paul’s account in 1 Corinthians 11 of the Last Supper and served Communion. We sang softly, because the guard didn’t want us to make much noise. I also read Psalm 103: “Bless the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless his holy name!” The guards kept rushing us along. When we finished, we hugged each other as a sign of God’s peace.
Each day Father Martin and I asked for an opportunity to worship. About ten days later, the guards collected all of us in the same room again. Then they told us to worship; we could remove our blindfolds once they closed the door. We were on our own for good, no longer chained to a wall! We were five in a locked room about ten feet square. When our mattresses were on the floor, we had very little space to walk around. During the day we would put our mattresses against the wall or stack them in the corner so we would have freedom to exercise.
Father Martin led the worship service one day, I the next. We all took turns reading Scripture passages. Each evening we prayed together again. We spoke of family members about whom we had special concern. Colleagues, other people in Lebanon, and ourselves were included. We began to feel like real brothers, worshipers in “the church of the locked door.”
Finally, after sixteen months in captivity, the time for which Weir had prayed and hoped arrived. But concern for his fellow hostages made his good news bittersweet.
Toward the end of the first week in September, the Hajj [director of the guards] came and sat on a mattress in our room and began talking with us. As usual, I served as translator.
He said the guards were considering the possibility of releasing one of us and asked which person we would choose to be freed. The hostage would need to convey a message to the U.S. government to put pressure on Kuwait for the release of Shiites held there and he should also try to convince the American public to press their government to become more active in responding to the demands of the captors.
We told him we would need some time to talk it over. When he came back the next day, we said that Terry Anderson, the AP correspondent, would in our view be the best choice. The Hajj didn’t seem impressed by our decision; he seemed to think someone else would be better, but he didn’t say.
As the days passed, we began to think nothing would happen. Then one evening, without prior announcement, the Hajj appeared. The guard, Said, was with him. The Hajj said it had been decided that I was to be released that evening.
“You mean right now?”
“Yes, you will be released right now.”
“I would like to go, but are you sure I am the one who is most helpful and in most need of release? If you want someone to take a message, Terry Anderson is more capable, because he is a newsman and has connections. If you want someone who needs to be released, I think of Father Martin, who is not in as good physical condition as I am.”
“No, you are the one who is going to go,” the Hajj responded firmly. “You will have your beard trimmed by Said, you will take a shower, and then you will go.”
I translated the Hajj’s announcement to the other hostages. They were dumbstruck but quickly congratulated me. I sympathized with the deep yearning of each of them to be free. I wanted to return to my family, but at the same time, I was in deep consternation. Could I do anything to bring about the release of my brothers? I doubted that and felt helpless. But there was no time to reflect.
Said came in immediately and trimmed my beard. As he worked, I thought of how I had never had a beard before being taken captive. I didn’t like it, but at that moment I determined to wear it until my fellow hostages were released. It would be a way by which I would continually remember them and perhaps remind others that there could be no rest until these men were also free.
Since the book’s publication, Father Martin Jenco and David Jacobsen have been released. Terry Anderson and Thomas Sutherland remain in captivity.
Copyright © 1989 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
