1. Posted
(Human Shield, Jessica Verdi)
Before I begin my debriefing report I should give a little background to
myself.
I am from a good middle class home but my lifestyle since my teenage
years has been 'alternative' - that wonderful catch-all term for political,
vegetarian, left-wing etc. I've been a hunt saboteur, an anti-vivisectionist,
anti-capitalist and anti-globalisationist. I was what they called a militant
pacifist!
When I heard that a red London double-decker bus was about to depart for
Iraq, I knew I had to be on it. Thanks to the publicity I received in Cosmo
magazine as the 'glamour girl of the alternative movement' my credentials were
not in doubt and they were glad to have me aboard. A few days later I was
trundling through western Europe on that bus with a bunch of idealists, misfits
and thrill-seekers.
Any Londoner can tell you how often their buses are seen broken down at
the side of the road. They will recognise the traditional signal of the rear
seat removed and leant between the road and the back of the bus. The law of
probability stated that we were due at least breakdown during our journey. We
had two breakdowns, and used up most of our spare cash on the repairs before we
even reached Iraq.
The Iraqi people welcomed us warmly. They were so hospitable on that
first evening. We ate well, sung and danced until late in the night.
The next day we got ready to do what we came for. The twenty of us met
with the equivalent amount of military personnel and minders. It didn't take
long before the disagreements started. We expected to be 'human shields' in
various hospitals and schools in Baghdad, but it soon became apparent that they
had 'more important' sites for us to protect.
I had expected something like that to happen but many in our group soon
got the jitters about the thought of being anywhere near a military installation
when the bombs dropped! After day of futile discussions, most of my group went
back to the hotel to start booking their flights home, disappointed and
disillusioned.
I was furious that my fair-weather activists hadn't forced the issue
harder. Along with five others I decided to spend a further day persuading the
officials that it was better to have the six of us in the hospitals instead of
following the other human shields back to the UK.
The meeting resumed after lunch and the Iraqi officials were all smiles
as they walked into the room. Apparently the great leader himself had intervened
on our behalf! We were to be taken to three different hospitals the following
day. I felt vindicated. If only the others had shown a bit more backbone instead
of flying home we would have been able to protect even more hospitals.
The next morning we were taken to our posts. A pair of us would go to
each hospital. I was paired up with another girl - Emma. She was a lovely girl;
nineteen years old, slim, with long dark hair. Being ten years older and much
more experienced in the ways of the world, I felt protective towards her, like a
young aunt. Emma and I hugged the other four, wished them all luck, and shedding
a couple of tears. We clambered into the back seats of our respective
Landcruisers that were lined up and waiting.
We drove for nearly an hour, away from Baghdad and deep into the desert.
Eventually we reached a place that didn't look anything like a hospital. The 10
feet high barbed wire fence was an ominous sign. We stopped at the sentry post,
where a brief discussion took place between our driver and the sentry guard.
It appeared we were in some kind of industrial complex.
"Hospital?" I asked the driver, desperate for reassurance.
"Yes, yes," he said, but 'yes' was one of the few English words he knew.
along with 'Bekkam good!', whatever that means!
The Landcruiser stopped in a large open area some 50 yards away from any
of the neighbouring buildings. Ready to greet us was yet another
Saddam-lookalike Colonel. He seemed very pleased to see us, and as he greeted us
we realised he spoke English very well.
"This isn't a hospital!" I shouted at him angrily. I learnt long ago
that you don't get anywhere without creating a noise.
"Dear Ladies!" he responded. "You are just stopping her for lunch.
Please get out of the vehicle."
We got out from the air-conditioned Landcruiser into the baking heat of
the midday sun.
"Here is your post," he announced.
With utter horror I realised he was pointing to a telegraph pole nearby.
My driver and minder grabbed me and frog-marched me towards the one foot thick
wooden pole.
One of the men held me with my face pressed again the pole while the
other fixed handcuffs on me. It all happened so swiftly and I was left hugging
the pole. I kicked at the bastards as they walked away from me.
Emma was marched away, kicking and screaming, by the two bastards. I
called out to reassure her that everything would be okay, but neither of us
believed it. This really wasn't good at all!
The Colonel stayed near me, seemingly amused by the sight of what his
cronies had done to me.
"Your friend will be guarding the other side of factory," the Colonel
said, his smile bigger than ever.
"We are supposed to be at a hospital," I protested, tugging at the cuffs
that bit tightly into my wrists.
The Colonel came almost to within kicking distance. "Change of plan. You
weren't needed there. Here you can protect our valuable pharmaceutical
supplies." His eyes went up and down my body, drinking in its shape.
"Tell me," he said, becoming serious. "Why do you think you are safe as
a human shield? You are a traitor to your country. Do you really think they care
whether you die or not?"
"I don't suppose they do; but I believe in peace and solving conflicts
without war. I'm willing to sacrifice my life for peace." Suddenly my idealism
seemed meaningless. I could die protecting several tons of anthrax!
The colonel left me, and I spent the remaining hours of day alone,
hugging my telegraph pole. I'd been called a tree-hugger before but never a pole
hugger! In the cause of past protests I'd chained or handcuffed myself to trees
and fences, but this was different. Usually the police or security forces were
the ones who freed me. Wasn't that ironic? My enemies were the ones that cut me
free. Where were they now that I needed them?
As the sun was setting, the colonel and his assistants returned. I was
glad of the relief from boredom but not thrilled to see the chains and ropes
they carried. First they applied the ankle chains which they fixed over the top
of my jeans and passed the joining chain in front of the pole. It restricted my
movement slightly but more worrying denied me the ability to defend myself.
After being chained hand and foot, I was baffled as to the purpose of
the rope. I soon found out as they wrapped it repeated around my waist and the
pole until my belly was compressed against it, trapping my cuffed wrists in the
process. The rope was knotted in the small of my back. Even if I remained
handcuffed I had hoped to be able to lie down during the night, but it seemed
they wanted me to remain standing.
They stuffed some bread in my mouth then offered me some water from a
bottle.
I had one last plan to get free, if only for a short break. "Toilet,
toilet!" I said, looking over my shoulder at my backside just to make sure they
got the message. Surely they didn't expect me to poo in my pants! After they had
a brief Iraqi conversation I thought that they had relented. A man bent down
behind me, but instead of releasing my ankles he started cutting away my jeans
with a small knife.
I felt the steel blade of the knife on my calves, then at the back of my
thighs, perhaps deliberately trailing the blade against my flesh. Eventually he
was able to pull off all of my jeans. Just a few more cuts and my panties gone
too, leaving three guys quietly taking in the sight of my naked buttocks. They
felt they had addressed my toilet problem.
The atmosphere seemed to become more menacing once my buttocks were on
display, and my squirming against the post only seemed to provoke them further.
One of the men was pouring water onto a rag, ensuring it was well
soaked. It was destined for my mouth, and I had little choice but to allow him
to push the wet cloth between my lips. I heard the ripping of gaffer tape and
after my mouth had been filled to capacity, the wide strips of tape were
plastered across my face. Any thoughts of talking my way out of the situation
had been literally stuffed!
A black cotton hood was put over my head, its drawstrings pulled tight
and knotted at the back of my neck. It plunged me into almost complete darkness.
Naively, I expected that they would go off to leave me 'guarding'
whatever it was they stored here. Yet the chatter continued, and I began to
sense that they were not yet done with me.
A hand started caressing my buttocks, then that same hand slipped
between my legs until the fingers found my labia. His purpose was not merely to
get a gratuitous feel, he was determined to get a reaction from me. The three
men talked quietly as the man continued his manipulations.
I'm only human, and he knew what he was doing. Despite my predicament I
felt myself reacting physically to his touch and was fighting a mental battle
against my own body.
After around five minutes of leisurely foreplay the hand withdrew but
was replaced by another hand. Fresh, even more determined, fingers went to work
on my pussy, locating and stroking my clit. I felt myself squeezing against and
hugging the post even tighter than my bonds held me. My involuntary groaning
produced mutterings of approval from the men. It was as if they were trying to
prove a point: That all western women are sluts? That I could get turned on
despite being bound and gagged? Perhaps by bringing me to orgasm without raping
me they thought they could prove their superiority. But I didn't get where I was
today by giving in so easily! I was determined to hold out and deny them that
victory.
They raised the stakes, unbuttoning the top of my shirt and pulling it
slightly off my shoulders. Hands came down into my shirt and slipped into the
cups of my bra and across my nipples. I don't know whether they were impressed,
but most men were. Despite my feminist credentials I was very proud of my tits!
Never before had anyone touched them without my permission, now the matter of my
consent or willingness was an irrelevance. I was just a bound and gagged body to
use any way they wished.
A hand cupped each of my breasts as if weighing them, squeezing them to
feel their quality. I was fighting a battle on two fronts as another hand
continued its work between my legs.
The 'breast man' had meanwhile discovered that my nipples were pierced.
He fingered my nipples and their jewelry, trying to feel exactly what was going
on there.
It was a boyfriend from several years ago who said my large nipples
'were made to be pierced'. I relented to his suggestion and never regretted it.
I loved the feel of the piercings and the way that intruding metal made my
nipples feel.
I don't know whether the piercings had offended them, excited them, or
whether they were simply tiring of their efforts to stimulate my body. Suddenly
my shirt was yanked fully off my shoulders, down to my elbows, and likewise the
straps of my bra. My breasts were dangling free and the noises from my three
captors left me in doubt about the topic of their conversation.
I felt a man's fingers unscrewing the barbells from my nipples. They
were gold so perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised. I could imagine one of the
men smugly dropping them in his pocket, looking forward to visiting a goldsmith
the next day.
What happened next shocked me. Something else was being push through the
holes in my nipples, first one, then the other. The metal felt strange and rough
- not like anything I'd felt before. A hand lifted up my left breast so my
nipple was against the wooden post.
A sharp pinging sound accompanied a sudden jolt in the nipple. The awful
truth struck me: They were nailing my nipples to the pole. Each tap of the
hammer sent the nail more firmly into the wood until I sensed the flat head of
the nail was against the side of my nipple. The same treatment was meted out to
the right breast. My only consolation was that I was already so well chained and
tied to the pole that I couldn't easily move enough to pull on the nails. Nor
did I have any inclination to do so.
(Guys, if you ever want to subdue a woman, nail her tits to a pole or a
tree. That'll do it!)
I was defeated. They knew it and I knew it. I just wanted them to go
away for however long they planned to leave me like that. But they weren't
finished. Something slashed across my buttocks. I had heard that in Iraq they
used rubber hose pipes as part of their punishment and tortures. And this
certainly felt like a hose-pipe would.
Several more well-aimed blows fell on my buttocks. The pain left me
beyond tears, in a kind of semi-consciousness. Fingers stroke my buttocks but
they were really just tracing the tingling welts made by their blows.
I hoped and prayed that they were done with me after that. They still
had Emma to play with, I thought selfishly. The Iraqis had one final torment for
me.
Something was being applied to my anus. An oil, but not a sanitary one;
perhaps it was olive oil. A finger repeated popped in and out of my sphincter,
then something that was undoubtedly metal pushed between my buttocks. All I
could do was grunt in protest as it forced its way into my rectum; four, maybe
five inches of it. Someone started tying it in position with rope passing from
my waist, between my thighs and tied at my back where the other knots were
located.
That's when I knew that it was a gun barrel in my anus. There was an
ominous clicking which made me wonder whether they were going to shoot me. The
colonel shocked me by speaking in English.
"So now you know what it feels like to have a gun barrel up your ass.
Just like a typical Iraqi." He paused as if waiting for an answer, but my gag
spared him the worst of my sarcasm. "The gun is loaded and ready to fire, but we
are not going to kill you. Tariq is now tying rope around your right ankle. This
is attached to the trigger of the gun. If you want to kill yourself just kick
out your right leg."
He must have been expecting my high-pitched muffled 'why?'
"Why? Because if this site is bombed you should use it. If some of these
gasses escape you will be grateful for that gun. The first thing you will feel
is a burning in your throat, which will rapidly reach your stomach. Your head
will feel a pain that you can not imagine. The strokes we gave you were like a
tickle in comparison. You won't be able to see the blood bursting from your skin
but you will surely feel it. I recommend that you pull the trigger to kill
yourself before you lose control of your leg."
Following the vivid description of what could happen, I wanted to thank
him for the merciful provision of the gun.
"Farewell, Ms Jones," he said with a bizarre air of melancholy and
affection, "may our God be with us tonight."
I could hear the three sets of footprints trudging away from me. They
were heading in the direction of Emma. The daylight that I saw earlier through
my hood had all but disappeared. All I could do was stand perfectly still,
meditate on my life and pray for a miracle.
Straining my wrists upwards my fingertips could just about touch my
nipples. I felt the flat head of the galvanised nails which impaled them. The
nails were firmly banged into the post - I had not a hope of pulling them from
the wood. My fingertips caressed the tips of the nipples, comforting them, and
my thoughts soon turned to sex. Despite the all-too-real plight I found myself
in, tied, chained and nailed to a telegraph pole, if someone would have come
along and rammed their penis in me right there and then I would have been
eternally grateful. To my shame I started to squeeze down on the gun barrel.
Sometimes you just have to take comfort where you find it.
end of part 1 (of 2)
