CPTnet
19 April 2006

IRAQ/TORONTO: "From the Tomb," an Easter reflection by James Loney

[Note: Loney's reflection appeared in the 15 April 2006 edition of the
Toronto Star.]

"Very early, on the first day of the week, just after sunrise they were on
their way to the tomb and they asked each other, "Who will roll the stone
away from the entrance to the tomb?" Mark 16: 2-3

For 118 days we lay in a tomb -- Norman Kember, Harmeet Sooden and me. Tom
Fox too, for 104 days, until he was murdered in the early morning hours of
March 9

Our tomb was a 10-ft.-by-10-ft. room. How I came to hate every single detail
of it: the paint-peeling walls; the dim light filtered through stained
bedsheet "curtains"; the pebble-speckle pattern of the floor tiles; the
never-ending hours and days of sitting, sleeping, three-times-a-day eating,
handcuffed and chained except when let free to go to the bathroom.

 We were sealed into this tomb on Nov. 26, 2005. It happened in a
finger-snap, just as we were leaving the headquarters of the Muslim Scholars
Association, where we had been meeting with their human rights officer. A
white, economy-size car pulled in front of us and forced us to stop. Four
men with guns stormed our van with military precision.

They went first for our driver and translator, pulled them from the front
seats. One of the men jumped into the driver's seat while the others opened
the passenger door and, with guns pointed at our heads, took control of the
vehicle -- and our lives.

They didn't say a word. They didn't have to. We knew what the score was:
co-operate or die.

With that act of violence, we all fell into a pit -- captor and captive and
rescuer. A trap had been sprung and there seemed to be no way out unless a
price was paid.

The captors wanted money to fund their war against the occupation of Iraq.
If ransom was negotiated, it would be young American soldiers who paid. If
ransom was denied -- the policy of both the Canadian government and
Christian Peacemaker Teams, the organization I work for -- it would be one
or all of us hostages who paid. If an attempt was made to rescue us by
force, it would be a soldier or a captor or one of us that paid.

 Even if our captors decided to just let us go, clearly the best possible
scenario, there was still the cost of losing face, something I sensed they
were not prepared to do. In the end, it was Tom who paid.

Bleak as they were, I did have options. I could have risked everything in an
attempt to escape. I could have stripped off my clothes, refused to eat,
told them "release me or kill me" -- either way I will not co-operate with
your captivity or your plans for ransom. But the truth was, my desire to
live, to be free, was stronger than my principles. I did not want to pay. So
I smiled for them, ate their food, held out my hands for handcuffing,
accommodated them in a thousand and one ways.

While the prospect of ransom repulsed me, and I resolved never to ask for it
(my greatest fear was that I would be tortured into pleading for it), I co
operated in the secret hope that it might be the key that opened the door.

I was a prisoner of my own moral cowardice. "Dear God," I prayed, "Let this
bitter cup pass me by. Let our freedom be restored with the least amount of
suffering possible." Days piled into weeks, and weeks piled into months.

On March 23, at about 7:30 in the morning, our tombstone was rolled way: not
by angels garbed in heavenly robes, but by a unit of British Special Forces
in full battle gear. There were the sounds of boots on concrete, the door
being smashed open, gunfire, voices in English shouting, "Get down! Stay
away from the door!" Then a roomful of commotion, soldiers telling us
"You're free, it's okay, it's over." And hands, shaking with excitement,
cutting us free with a bolt-cutter.

They led us past the smashed-glass threshold of our tomb and out. Out into
blue! Beautiful all sky blue! Fresh flowing air and a palm tree and good
morning sunlight! They led us through a smiling gauntlet of soldiers and,
with a big step up and a big hatch down, we were entombed again.

This tomb was a bland desert-camouflage colour. It was squat, constructed of
impregnable steel, moved on a rolling tread of metal plates. The passenger
section was dark and cramped and crammed with carefully tooled metal shapes
(each with an exact purpose) and little signs that told you things like what
to do in the event of a rollover. A young soldier named Rob kept watch
through a tiny slit of super thick plate glass. Through it, you could see a
small, distorted rectangle of the world outside.

The armoured personnel carrier in motion was excruciatingly loud. The roar
and staccato-grind of it pounded in my bones. It brought us to a helicopter
armed with a fixed, heavy-calibre machine gun, and the helicopter brought us
to the Green Zone -- the sprawling, blast-wall lock-down that houses the
offices of the fledgling Iraqi government and the occupying forces of
Britain and the United States.

Yes, we went from one tomb to another.

I am learning many things from my captivity, and have a universe of things
to be grateful for. Among them is a new and deep appreciation for the women
and men who wear the uniform of military service. I likely would not be
writing this today if it were not for them. Thus, I am confronted with a
great paradox. I, the Christian pacifist peacemaker, am alive, am free
because of the very institutions I believe are contrary to Christian
teaching.

Christ teaches us to love our enemies, do good to those who harm us, pray
for those who persecute us. He calls us to accept suffering before we
inflict injury. He calls us to pick up the cross and to lay down the sword.

We will most certainly fail in this call. I did. And I'll fail again. This
does not change Christ's teaching that violence itself is the tomb, violence
is the dead-end. Peace won through the barrel of a gun might be a victory
but it is not peace. Our captors had guns and they ruled over us. Our
rescuers had bigger guns and ruled over the captors. We were freed, but the
rule of the gun stayed. The stone across the tomb of violence has not been
rolled away.

I'm learning that there are many kinds of prisons and many kinds of tombs.
Prisons of the mind, the heart, the body. Tombs of despair, fear, confusion.
To