The Sky is Always There: Surviving a Kidnap in Chechnya

THE SKY IS ALWAYS THERE

After their release from captivity Camilla Carr and Jonathan James returned to Britain and married. They now live in Devon. Camilla gives talks and workshops using their story as a focal point for debating the nature of conflict and forgiveness. Jon is following his dream of eco building.

Jon and Camilla both feature in www.theforgivenessproject.com which aims to reframe the debate about how individuals and communities can learn to celebrate difference and overcome division, thereby fostering positive social change.

The Sky is Always There

SURVIVING A KIDNAPPING IN CHECHNYA

Camilla Carr and Jonathan James

© Camilla Carr and Jonathan James 2008

First published in 2008 by the Canterbury Press Norwich

(a publishing imprint of Hymns Ancient & Modern Limited,

a registered charity)

13–17 Long Lane, London EC1A 9PN

www.scm-canterburypress.co.uk

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, Canterbury Press.

The Authors have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the Authors of this Work

British Library Cataloguing in Publication data

A catalogue record for this book is available

from the British Library

ISBN 978–1–85311–856–2

Typeset by Regent Typesetting, London

Printed and bound in the UK by CPI William Clowes Ltd, Beccles, NR34 7TL

Being human

our nature is love

our nurture is fear.

For Ben and Ashok

With love

Contents

Acknowledgements

Preface

1. The Kidnap

2. The Kiva

3. The Pink Crystal Room

4. Flashback

5. The Kiva Revisited

6. Into Chechnya

7. The Hot House

8. Pink Crystal Room, Autumn

9. Bleak House

10. The Ice Palace

11. The Base

12. The Sauna

13. One-Night Stand

14. The Farm

15. The Carpet Room

16. The King’s Chamber

17. The Cricket Cellar

18. Freedom! Cveboda!

19. Coming Up for Air

20. Surviving in Freedom

21. Still Breathing

Plates

Acknowledgements

Jon and I would like to thank all our family and friends and those we have never met who prayed for us and supported us throughout our time in captivity and in writing this book. They are too numerous to mention, but they know who they are. However, we would like to make a special mention of Frances Haynes for her initial help and encouragement in writing the book and Margaret Edmonds for all the hours of work helping to edit the final version.

Preface

Ten years on from a meeting in a café that led to 14½ months of captivity in Chechnya, I sit with Jon in our Dartmoor home reflecting on our experience. From the time we were held in the ‘Pink Crystal Room’, I knew I wanted to write about it and, when our captors were not disturbing us, I balanced some paper on our Russian/English dictionary and wrote in tiny pencilled letters about our first days in the cellar.

We were in deep shock from the kidnap but thankfully had many tools to help us cope and survive – mainly tools of the mind such as yogic and tai chi practices, meditation and belief in the power of prayer and love. Neither of us follows a particular religion but we believe in love, understanding and compassion, the essence of all religions.

After we were released many people were interested in our story but I wanted to use the writing as a form of cathartic healing and not be stressed by deadlines so we decided not to publish until we were ready, however long it took. Over the years, we have experienced how the shock of being held on a knife edge of life or death has given us a greater understanding of the strengths that come out of suffering while also adversely affecting our physical well-being. This is our story of surviving and living with conflict and trauma within ourselves and on the outer world stage, our struggle to connect with the source of love while facing fear. A work in progress . . .

Anyone interested in having a copy of the exercises and meditations we used to survive, please contact us through office@scm-canterburypress.co.uk.

1. The Kidnap

About midnight, 2 July 1997

Jon – A bright purple beam of light shines out of the crystal hanging in front of the window above our heads. ‘I wonder if it’s a message? If I go back to sleep I might get it.’

Approximately two hours later we wake up hearing angry muffled voices through the thick brick wall. We lie in the darkness, still, alert, tension mounting.

Jon thinks, ‘This sounds ominous and there’s no escape, the bars on the window protecting us from thieves stop us jumping to safety. Perhaps that purple light was a warning.’

Suddenly a boot kicks open our door and a bit of burning paper is thrown onto the floor. We sit up with a jerk watching the flame. At first I think it’s some kind of grenade and is going to explode. Strangely we are both very calm. A head peers around the door, two brown eyes are visible through holes cut out of a black knitted balaclava helmet. He comes in pointing the barrel of a Kalashnikov at Jon shouting, ‘Chris? Chris?’ ‘Niet,’ we reply. ‘French?’ ‘Niet, Niet.’ He sees my knapsack lying on the floor and turns it upside down. Everything cascades out over the bed. He grabs my camera, pulling out the film, shouting ‘Documenti! Documenti!!’ No documents are in the bag and he turns to Jon who has managed to struggle into a pair of thin black cotton trousers and has turned on the light. As Jon gets his passport the masked man says something in Russian and indicates that we should get dressed and be ready to go. I am menstruating and so am concerned about taking sanitary towels and gesture to the man with a packet in my hand whether I can pack it in my knapsack, saying ‘OK? OK?’ He nods. There is a washing line along one side of the room with all my dresses hanging on it. I’m wondering what to wear, I deliberately choose something the most Chechen, the least alluring. I pull down a rather ancient Laura Ashley dress with three-quarter sleeves and buttons all down the front. It hangs to my ankles.

By this time one of the other intruders has discovered a safe in the next room and is shouting triumphantly.

I’m asked for the key, ‘Kluchi, Kluchi!’, and am directed into the next room with the muzzle of an automatic rifle. I turn to Camilla and whisper, ‘Camils, I think this is it, we’re being kidnapped.’ As I walk towards the safe I smile to myself in this bizarre situation because I know it contains nothing but coloured soft foam balls. I open the safe and they roll out over the floor. I can only guess the masked man’s thoughts as he makes no comment. He gestures me into the kitchen by pointing his gun.

This gives me time to pack our wash-bag – toothbrushes, toothpaste, a small pink plastic compact mirror, a comb, soap, two loo rolls, a mountain of sanitary towels and tampons and Jon’s razor. I also grab our mini English-Russian dictionary knowing that our sparse Russian won’t be enough, an orange polo neck jumper and a cotton sarong. I see my money belt on the floor, I know it has $800 in it left over from buying toys in Moscow for the Chechen children, plus my documents. I don’t want the kidnappers to have it so I stuff it under a pillow on the floor. Jon manages to shove some of the dollars he has in his money belt into a drawer as he goes through into the next room. There are still no feelings of panic, our minds crystal clear, accepting and knowing.

I put my knapsack on my back and follow Jon into the next room where Anya has been sleeping. She’s a psychology student who has been working with us at The Little Star rehabilitation centre for war-traumatized children in Grozny. She isn’t there now. The safe is open, half full of brightly coloured soft balls with more on the floor, I smile inwardly. We had arrived back in Grozny that afternoon from Moscow where we had renewed our visas. We had bought some second-hand office furniture, toys and art equipment for the children, hence the balls in the safe. We had two armed bodyguards with us; Ruslan, who had been a fighter in the war, loved to tell me of his dream to be trained by the British Army. When we had gone to bed he and Hassan were sitting in the bed/sitting room next to the kitchen.

I walk into the kitchen; Jon has already been taken outside. In the room next to the kitchen the computer is still on the table. Our tape recorder is on the floor, surrounded by plates covered in crumbs. The voices beyond the wall and these crumbs make me think there had been much discussion before they discovered us. There are a couple of other masked men. I look into the brown, intelligent eyes of the one who is shouting instructions, the eyes of a young man, showing some fear and urgency. I put on my sandals and turn back to look through to the room beyond. I want to find out what has happened to the others.

There they are. Hassan, sideways on, sitting on the bed with his head bowed and arms tied behind his back. On the same bed is Anya, head bowed, knees drawn up to her chin and arms also tied. Sitting facing me is Ruslan, hands tied behind his back, a lit cigarette shoved into his mouth. It glows very red. He stares at me and I smile. I want him to know that we are OK and it’s not his fault. I lift my hand in a gesture of farewell.

One masked man takes me by the arm through the courtyard door into the mud street where there’s a waiting white Lada. He pushes me into the back next to Jon and gets in beside me. There is another man the other side of Jon. Our heads are pushed down to our knees. One of them realizes we are not blindfolded and there is a scramble to find something to cover our eyes. A woollen mask is shoved over Jon’s head and the sarong sticking out of the top of my bag is tied over my eyes. The man sitting next to me asks us our names and giggles, saying his name is Akhmed. We later came to know him as GA, Guardian Angel – the black joker – fantasy man.

Judging from the motion in the car we turn left on to a tarmacked road, then right on to a dirt potholed road. We stop, are pulled out and guided into another vehicle, this time some kind of Jeep. Again we are pushed on to the back seat, heads bowed, squashed between two tense men, with guns between their knees. After five or ten minutes we stop again, and are led out silently, stealthily. I hold on to a thick muscled forearm with the words ‘all I can do is trust’ in my mind. We go up a couple of steps through a door, walk across a room, then he lets me go. I take one step forward into the void of an open trapdoor, falling half way down a wooden ladder, hitting my neck on the side of the opening and my shins on the wooden rungs. I cry out, see lots of stars but remain conscious.

As I hear Camilla yelp I call out, ‘Camils’, and take a step forward. A gun is cocked and pressed into my chest, a sure sign to keep quiet.

I whisper ‘I’m OK’ and limp down into the black hole.

The sound of the gun being cocked smothers Camilla’s reply, I don’t know what has happened to her. My hands are untied and placed on a rough wooden ladder leading down into a cellar. After the lid is shut I ask Camilla how she is and she says her neck is hurt. There is not the merest hint of light as we take our blindfolds off. I touch the damp earth floor with my hands and start feeling around for something to sit on. I find two bits of wood.

The black hole of Calcutta, I think. We sit in silence, listening to the heavy booted tread of the Chechen fighters above us, my neck aching in the dark. The trapdoor opens and a small stub of a lit candle and a couple of blankets are handed down. An arm gestures to a hole in the wall that leads to another room. We have our first flickering view of the cellar. Fortunately we’re not tall, the wooden ceiling hangs low above our heads with many sharp nails sticking through. There are about three centimetres to spare above Jon’s head. The room is about three and a half metres long and three metres wide, with wooden shelves full of empty glass preserving jars along one wall and a stack of wooden window frames along another. Behind the ladder one brick has been taken out of the wall for ventilation; a metal sheet on the outside blocks any view. There is a large grey chest, probably once a dowry chest, with faded and peeling flowers painted on it. On the chest stands a large wooden barrel. The rest of the room appears to be empty. The end wall, opposite the ventilation hole, is bedrock. The earth floor is embedded with small stones. The wall with the opening is a mixture of cement, stones and earth.

Stepping through the hole it is impossible to stand upright, the wooden ceiling only a metre and a half above the floor. To our right there is a sagging sun bed with faded psychedelic 1960s style material fraying along the edges and, in the far corner to our left, three wooden packing cases. This is obviously our bedroom. The bottom of the walls are thick concrete and stones, becoming brick about half way up. This cellar is about a metre longer than the other room and has two thick wooden poles in the middle supporting the floor above. The floor is covered by bigger stones like those you find on a railtrack. Luckily we are not barefoot! There is no ventilation.

We lay a grey blanket on the sunbed and somehow manage to curl up side by side, using my jumper and scarf as a pillow and the other blanket over us. It smells of urine. My mind is in turmoil and my neck throbs with pain. I see the faces of my family in my mind. Ashok, my 11-year-old son, with his neat oval light brown face and expressive blue grey eyes, lives with Marcel, his father who, I know, will give him all the support he can. I comfort myself knowing that Ashok knows I love him and always will whatever happens. That love has always sustained us in the times when we have been physically apart. I see Ben, Jon’s son with his curly black hair and sparkling brown eyes. He’s 17 and with Jon’s parents. I remember him helping me run some drama workshops on a play scheme last summer; he was so full of bright ideas and brilliant with the kids. I’m sure he’ll be well supported by Ken and Doris and his large group of friends. Also there’s Debbie, his mum, with whom he has been recently re-united after 13 years apart. All the family faces flow past. A thought flashes in that our parents will think of selling their houses to raise money for a ransom. ‘Don’t do it!’ I scream silently into the blackness, hoping I will be heard. I need to let go now and trust that all of them will cope; I need to concentrate on surviving, which means using my mind to relieve the pain and calm myself. So I ask all the universal powers of love and light to give Jon and me the strength to cope with whatever we have to face and suddenly in the deep darkness my mind is filled with white light that helps me let go of enough tension, jumping thought and pain, to sink into sleep.

I do not sleep. My mind a whirl of questions none of which I can answer running like a tape loop round and round. How long before the news will be out? How long before we will be out? What is our fate? How long are we going to be in this place? All the time listening to the sounds upstairs, clues to any movement in our direction. Lying awake staring into the black.

A few hours later the trauma hits my stomach. It starts churning and I need the loo. There is no form of toilet and I am desperate. We light the candle stub and I get out the dictionary. ‘Toilet’ is a similar word, ‘menstruation’ is ‘menstruatie’ and ‘water’ is ‘voda’, so it should not be too difficult to make them understand. I’m wrong. With dictionary and sanitary towel packet in hand I timidly knock on the trapdoor. There is absolute silence. I knock louder and there is a scramble of movement with heavy footfalls and guns clicking. The trap door opens and I am looking down a barrel of a gun with three masked faces behind it. ‘Toiliette, pajalsta,’ I say. They look blank. ‘Mye menstruatie is’ and I hold up the sanitary towels. They whisper urgently, perhaps one of them is explaining what STs are for, but they still have not comprehended that we have no toilet. The one holding the gun is getting impatient, thinking this is some kind of escape ruse. His eyes are blank, the eyes of one who would think nothing of pulling that trigger. One of the others, realizing the danger, snatches the dictionary from my hand, frantically studying the words. ‘Menstruartie, voda, voda (menstruation, water, water),’ I whisper. The one with the dictionary speaks hurriedly to a man in the background. A couple of tense minutes pass then a dark pink plastic jug of water is handed down and the trapdoor closed. Be thankful for small mercies, I think, though it doesn’t solve our problem.

I search for something that can be used as a temporary loo and find a plastic bag and a cardboard box. Just the job!

2. The Kiva

Day one, Thursday

I wake to darkness and pain. The trapdoor opens, a loaf of bread appears and a loop of salami sausage, ‘manna from heaven’. We pour some of the water into the cleanest glass jar we can find and nibble a bit of bread, but we are in shock so we’re not very hungry. Luckily when my bag had been tipped upside down some of the small side pockets were zipped up and in one of these are two bottles of Bach Flower remedies, Walnut for change and Rescue Remedy for shock or trauma. We administer large doses to ourselves; the brandy fire warms us.

I spend the next few hours drifting in and out of sleep, jagged thoughts still tumbling in and out of my mind mingling with the gnawing pain in my neck. I pour healing love and light into my neck, knowing there will be no doctors to turn to. All we have are ourselves and our prayers.

I suggest to Camilla that we call the cellar a ‘Kiva’. In the Native American Indian tradition a Kiva is a room dug into the earth with a ladder leading to it from ground level. It is a place of inner reflection, prayer and ceremony. It’s nicer to think of our new home as a place of contemplation, a place to let our minds roam free rather than a place of captivity.

The trapdoor opens, daylight floods into the first room and seeps into the bedroom. What a joy to see natural light again. We stand under the ladder looking up at two faces, masked by black knitted balaclava helmets, the uniform for this group it seems, along with black tee shirts and trousers. We try to tell them that we are friends and have come to Chechnya to help the children. We know instinctively that the only way to survive is to build up a rapport with our captors so they see us as human beings and not just commodities to be exchanged for money. Fortunately the men want to communicate as well. They laugh saying they’re bandits so how can we be friends. We explain about the lack of a toilet and GA, who had organized the water in the middle of the night, ducks his head down through the opening and expresses surprise. He immediately goes off and comes back with a red plastic bucket with a lid. Then he produces an English-Russian phrase book and starts asking questions such as ‘What is your name?’ ‘What is your job?’ ‘Do you like the theatre?’ The conversation is light hearted, there is no malice in their eyes. They’re not so traumatized as to have lost all feeling. With a help of the dictionary I ask for a pillow and GA brings a large, square feather one with a faded and unwashed forget-me-not blue flowery cover. I’m having trouble holding my focus because of the pain in my neck and so return to bed with my beautiful pillow.

At least we’re talking with each other, that feels good. Soon our conversation runs out due to the limitations of language, hand gestures and possibly our different world views. I sense they are getting tired of the effort, I know I am. The trapdoor closes and the darkness returns.

A little later Jon lights the candle stub and pushes the three packing cases together, covering them with bits of cardboard and the grey blanket to make a second bed. The sunbed is so old and damaged it will not bear the weight of both of us for very long. We talk about our situation, the length of time we may be captive – one month, one year, two? I don’t want to think beyond two. We know we have to be ready for anything and not dwell on negative possibilities. We look back over the day, thankful for the few hours of dim light, conversation, laughter and the big red bucket.

I settle down on the sunbed with the pillow and urine-scented blanket while Jon lies on the packing cases. We both fall into a light sleep until the trapdoor is quietly opened and someone comes down the ladder. We are silent, alert. There’s the whirr of a generator torch being pumped and a dark figure enters the bedroom. As Jon lights the candle I notice the man has the phrase book in his hand and that he is not one of the men we were speaking to earlier. He squats on the floor and starts asking us questions out of the phrase book. He is younger, slow speaking, his dull brown eyes are not eager to make contact. I’m watching the candle, wishing he would go away as our only source of light is diminishing rapidly. The light goes out and I hear him moving towards me. He sits beside me, putting his hand on my knee. Jon stands up and takes a step towards me and the man forcefully pushes him back. I try to move away but he grabs my arm and pulls me towards the door. ‘Jon mye mooge!’ ‘Jon’s my husband!’ I whisper sharply. Even though we are not married I know the Muslim law preaches strongly against adultery and I’m hoping this will deter him. I manage to pull away, negotiating the darkness to the packing cases where Jon is sitting. Silence. The torch whirrs and he says something that I interpret as ‘What now?’ I reply ‘Spit, spit’, ‘Sleep, sleep.’ Thankfully he gets up and leaves the cellar.

The first battle won.

Day two, Friday

Sitting on the packing cases in the pitch black, Jon with his back to the wall and me nestled against him, we gain strength from our combined warmth and love. We’re shaken by the experience of last night. I think Jon was wise to remain silent; if he had retaliated the men above would have heard and it could have been much worse for us.

‘I wanted to hit him. If he had started to rape you I would have done.’

‘But if you hit out there’ll be more violence and we’ll both be hurt. If it happens again and they use force I’ll have to go with it.’

I understand Jon’s reaction and it disturbs me. I feel hypocritical telling him to hold back as I would also want to retaliate if he was being hurt. We decide it will be better for our survival to follow the line of least resistance.

The trapdoor opens and we hesitantly go towards the light, two bone china cups and saucers appear followed by a plastic bottle full of sweet tea and a newspaper parcel containing hot hard boiled eggs. We ask for another candle and they provide another stub. More manna from heaven.

Back in the darkness, my mind becoming more lively as the pain in my neck recedes, the hours begin to drag. What do I see in the darkness? Pin pricks of light and colour, swirling shapes conjured up by my mind. How am I going to remain sane in this perpetual black, coloured only by my thoughts? Thank God there are two of us and we can whisper, but the fear of insanity doesn’t go away.

The tears flow.

I’m numbed out. A mishmash of thoughts come and go about freedom, family, how long we’ll have to endure this. I quickly get to a point where I am here and now . . . accepting. This is my logic protecting me from my scrambled emotions. I sense Camilla’s panic and suggest a game of imaginary I Spy in the dark; it calms her down for a while until we both get bored.

Boredom is dangerous. My mind turns to thoughts of Ben, my son. He’s in the middle of his A levels. I think he’ll cope well – he has a strong out-going personality, a stable base living with my parents and a close group of friends. But it will still be hard, my parents and he will be in shock. The trapdoor opens, stemming the flow of my painful thoughts.

‘How are you?’ chorus the two friendly masked faces of the previous day. Our night visitor is nowhere to be seen. Again we talk about ourselves, our work and our families. They talk about their boss being a barbarian, ready to commit all kinds of atrocities. GA giggles and I do not believe him. We ask if we can have a bit of paper to write to his boss and tell him why we came to Chechnya, it may help. He goes away and returns with a piece of paper and a Biro and tells us that it’s OK to write.

With lots of gesturing we complain about the lack of ventilation and talk about going mad in the dark. They say they’ll fix up a light, then they pass down two child-sized plywood chairs. We ask if we can have some fruit and one of them disappears and comes back with a branch laden with apricots. Though slightly green and spotty they taste delicious. The daylight is fading fast and the trapdoor comes down. We stay in the darkness, conserving our candlelight for visits to the bucket. Not much sleep this night. Ears alert, listening, listening, to heavy boot treads, the scrape and grating sound of moving chairs, the bounce of bedsprings. Waiting to hear the thud of the weight being removed from the trapdoor and the rasp of the wood as it is opened. It doesn’t happen.

Day three, Saturday

We hear morning sounds: the dawn chorus, the thudding of cows’ hooves as they are led along the road by the house, the shouts of children, laughing and crying, the yells of their mothers and grandmothers trying to keep order. It’s calming to hear the sounds of the day dawning, the sounds of humanity setting about the day’s business. And also strange and incongruous hearing this normality happening all around us while we sit in darkened captivity. Only a few yards separate us, but it is as if we have ceased to exist in that world.

The trapdoor opens and once again we are greeted by our friendly hosts. They organize a light bulb to illuminate our darkness by splicing bits of wire together and attaching a socket and bulb. They drop the swinging wire through the trapdoor, leaving Jon to hook it over a couple of bent nails in the ceiling. A plastic bottle of tea (without sugar this time, on request) is lowered, followed by bread, eggs and freshly picked earthy smelling tomatoes, with a small saucer of salt for our eggs and a bowl of sugar lumps because they can’t believe we really don’t like sugar, a rarity in Chechnya. They tell us that we will probably be moving to a ‘haroshi miassa, better place’, on Monday. Today they have brought with them a Chechen backgammon board to alleviate their own boredom and they leave us in peace, keen to get on with their game.

Light at last! Such luxury. I immediately set about the task of composing a letter to ‘The Boss’ retelling our reasons for coming to Chechnya and our work with the war-traumatized children. I explain that neither of our families have much money and that our organization ‘Centre for Peacemaking and Community Development’ is a small charity with no spare cash at all. I also point out that the British government has a policy of not paying ransoms for hostages. Then I appeal to the goodness in his heart to set us free. This is a painstaking task as I have to translate everything into Russian using our tiny dictionary. Many words have multiple meanings and I have no knowledge of Russian grammar or sentence structure. However it feels very good to do something constructive that might help our situation. The trapdoor opens and I hand up my letter into the fading evening light with many prayers. This has been a good day.

Day four, Sunday

We move the sunbed next to the packing cases; it’s nicer to lie side by side and feels safer. During the night we heard a scraping sound in the wall behind our heads and outside the brick hole in the other room. This morning our bedroom is flooded with a soft orange light: someone has removed a brick in the end wall of our bedroom. In the hole lies a solitary ripe apricot. We feel blessed and full of gratitude. They’ve also moved the metal sheet from the other hole and we smell fresh air tainted by paint and corroding metal. If we squint through the hole at an acute angle we can see the rusting top of a metal paint pot with some green gunge oozing out of the lid. The view from the ‘apricot window’ is much more appealing – sunlit green grasses with a tall chicken wire fence a few yards away. Occasionally we see the top half of a person walking along the dirt road just the other side of the fence. This is a real treat.

Breakfast arrives. GA is on his own today and a little more jumpy because of that. We thank him for the apricot. He is not in the mood to talk, keen to get back to his solo backgammon. We don’t mind, it’s very tiring communicating through a dictionary and phrase book and besides, we have a window to look out of, even if it means a bent back and cricked neck.

I am sure I can make something to improve our view of the outside world so I look around our den and find all sorts of string, broken glass and an iron bar that could make a very nasty weapon if needed. I slot two pieces of lath together to make a long thin arm, into which I slot the small pink compact mirror. I push this homemade periscope through the small holes we call windows, being very careful to avoid detection. Wow! Life is a little more colourful. Out of the bedroom ‘window’, which is half a metre above ground level, I can see clearly some sweetcorn growing near the wire fence, the other side of which is an untarmacked crossroads. There is a road sign nailed to a wooden fence, but no matter how hard I try I cannot make out all of the Russian letters, let alone guess the name. I twist the periscope and see the red brick wall of our house and a corner of asbestos corrugated roof.

Even the view from the ‘stinky window’ expands. By tilting the periscope through it at an angle, the space between the wall and the metal sheet reveals a triangular opening of sky with the branches of a cherry plum tree spreadeagled across it. We use the periscope to bathe our eyes in natural light, being aware that living in darkness will affect our sight. On a piece of newspaper that had contained our breakfast eggs we find a holographic sticker reflecting all the colours of the rainbow. We already feel starved of colour and use the sticker to absorb the rainbow colours through our eyes, knowing that all colours radiate different frequencies that can be used to heal energy imbalance in the body, keeping disease at bay.

There is only so much meditation, sleeping and peering through small windows one can do. With the sound of the dice rolling overhead, I decide to make some sort of board game. I have to look deep in to my memory banks to find a game. I come up with ‘Ludo’. Using the biro I mark out the ‘board’ onto a sheet of newspaper. The counters are small coloured stones from our prison floor, and the die is a sugar cube. How bizarre. Here we are, sitting in a dimly lit cellar rolling our die, while just feet away our captors are doing the same, playing backgammon in the full daylight.

We spend a lot of this day thinking about the letter we have sent, calling on all the forces of love and light to act and somehow enlighten the mind of ‘The Boss’ to see that no good will come out of holding us. We feel waves of love coursing through our bodies as we pray, giving us strength to relax, stay calm and accept our captivity without anger or frustration. We have a positive frame of mind; after all, we’ve not been beaten, chained or tortured in any way, in fact we have been shown some kindness. Today we have a glimpse of blue sky and can smell gusts of warm summer air fragrant with hot grasses and cow pats.

Day five, Monday

I find it difficult to sleep, with the possibility that we might be moved at any time, and the fear of another unwanted night visitor. I lie awake listening to all the sounds of our guards, the continuous rolling of the dice (how much backgammon can you play?). They fall silent when any late night vehicle passes, and I hear them walking to a window to observe. I hear when they lie on a bed as the springs squeak, especially when they roll over. They speak to each other in Chechen; I cannot understand a word. An hour before dawn there’s the first call to prayer ‘Allah oo akhbar.’ Then I know we aren’t going anywhere and slip into deep sleep.

As Jon relaxes into unconsciousness I wake up watching the square of daylight growing brighter on the crooked cement walls. I muse on our first few days of captivity and the strange paradoxical relationship we have with our captors. They hold us in this place,