The Story of My Kidnapping in Nablus

Instead, I hurried on my way. But before I could get to the cafe, I was grabbed by two men, forced into a car and driven off.

In the car, a blanket was thrown over me and my hands were bound. After about half an hour, I was blindfolded, taken out of the car and into a room, and tied to a bed.

I didn't know where I was or why I had been seized. I lay in the dark, picturing my parents pacing our home in Louisiana, their hearts in their throats. My kidnapping was the kind of experience they feared when they begged me not to go to the West Bank. I knew they would be panic-stricken when they heard.

But in the morning, my captors removed my blindfold, gave me food and water and told me that soon I'd be going back to my family. They spoke broken English, and I speak little Arabic, but we managed rudimentary conversations.

They asked if I wanted more water. I asked if I could sit up.

Perhaps surprisingly, I never feared for my life. I'd been teaching English in Nablus since June, and many people knew me. I was certain they would help. And they did.

After a day and a half, my captors untied me and drove me to Balata refugee camp, near Nablus. A Palestinian Legislative Council member and scores of Palestinian friends greeted me. No one knew the group claiming credit for my capture, but the police assured me they would search for them.

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