My 48 Hours as a Prisoner of Hezbollah

A wrong turn in Beirut became a crash course in paranoia, power, and faith.

Image provided by author

Imagine sitting in a cell in the Middle East, blindfolded prisoners being dragged past you, Arabic shouting you can’t understand, no clock, no sunlight. That was me on August 28.

Hezbollah — the armed resistance against Israel — had detained me in Southern Beirut, accusing me of being an American spy.

It was a literal nightmare.

I’d searched “camera stores near me” after leaving Ashrafieh, a suburb of Lebanon, and decided to walk. It was a near-fatal mistake. The city shifted block by block: pavement to dirt, glass towers to bullet holes, expats to hijabs and barefoot kids.

Before I knew it I was in Dahiyeh — Hezbollah-controlled territory.

I snapped a picture, then a short video. That’s when the shouting started.

A man grabbed my phone. A crowd encircled me and a brawl started. Someone pushed me against a car and I pushed back. I stammered apologies and deleted the clip. Too late. “Wait for the police,” someone said. Then a motorbike claiming to be police pulled up: “Hop on, now!”

What the hell was happening?