A lay there for a short while, when a guard enters my cell:

-          You go!

Really? I did not count on liberation for today anymore! I jump up; take my bags to fix them on my bike.

-          No, No. I do!

He takes my bags; I push my bike out of the cell. Two meters only. There are four men outside; one of them is the commander on the prison. He point on one of the other three:

-          English

Then he handcuffs me! Once again I sit at the back of the old Peugeot; this time handcuffed, the wheel of my bicycle pushing on my neck.

-          Where are we going?

No answer.  

First I think that they might bring me back to my hotel in Lattakia, where I left this morning. But we head south.

So maybe they will release me where I have been arrested? We come to the place, do not stop.

In that case they bring me to Jablah, where I was interrogated the first time. The road sign Jablah appears, several times, then disappears. We continue. I get more and more anxious.

Well, then it will be Tartous, where I wanted to stop anyway. But inside me I don’t really believe on liberation anymore. I will rather be jailed in Tartous. The Tartous road signs come and go.

Now I get it: They bring me to the Lebanese border; I will be expelled from Syria. Once again I am wrong. The last “Lebanon” sign has disappeared. We change direction, heading east now. Then I know: Damascus! They bring me to Damascus! Some 340 km from Lattakia! I must be in deep shit to be transferred that far in the middle of the night! I am indeed.....

-          Drink?

The first word from my “interpreter”. We stop, they have tea, and I get a cup of water.

-          Eat?

His second and last word.I was asleep. Looking around I see a sign: Damascus 18 km! Immediately I am awake. I have to be fully concentrated now. We have a second break, I get a sandwich. Then we enter Damascus. I memorize as many waypoints as I can. Later, back home, using Google World I am able to locate my prison thanks to this.

Then I can see it: This building is so imposing, so ugly, so scaring; it can only be a prison.

Before entering, my guards take two machine guns from under their seats and hand them over to the guardsmen posted at the entrance.

We stop at a ramp leading to the basement. My door is opened and I am brutally drawn out of the car. My head knocks violently against the door, I stagger. Then I am pushed down the ramp into the admission office.

I am in Far’Falastin, one of the worst prisons in the world. This the tortures centre of the Syrian secret services. Many people have entered here and were never seen again.

Fortunately, I will know all this after my release only.