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The Kidnapped NY Times Reporters on their Ordeal



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The entire piece is interesting to read, but here are a few excerpts that jumped out at me (Mohammed was their driver at the time of their capture by Libyan troops):

From the pickup, Lynsey saw a body outstretched next to our car, one arm outstretched. We still don’t know whether that was Mohammed. We fear it was, though his body has yet to be found.

If he died, we will have to bear the burden for the rest of our lives that an innocent man died because of us, because of wrong choices that we made, for an article that was never worth dying for.

No article is, but we were too blind to admit that.

I would like to read more about what mistakes they think they made.

And then there’s this:

In hindsight, the rebels and the army, or militia, didn’t seem separated by all that much. They were really gangs of young men with guns, each convinced of the other’s evil.

The rebels’ story was more familiar: They were fighting nearly 42 years of dictatorship, wielded by a man whom the vast majority in opposition-held Libya deemed insane. To the soldiers around us, they were fighting Al Qaeda or homegrown Islamists, and they couldn’t understand why we, as Americans, didn’t understand their battle.

If the rebels win, will we need a no-fly zone to protect loyalists to Qaddafi?

And I wonder if this little exchange happened on St. Patrick’s day?

We were put in a police wagon, reeking of urine, that resembled so many Interior Ministry vehicles in so many Arab capitals. Guards stripped of us our shoes, socks and belts. One then yelled in Anthony’s ear, “Down, down U.S.A.!” He did the same to Steve. “But I’m not American, I’m Irish,” Steve answered.

“Down, down Ireland!” he shouted back.



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