'I
was having a heart attack'
William Sampson, with Francine Dube
Original link: "'I was having a heart attack'" (William Sampson with Francine Dubé, National Post, 2003/09/09)From: "William Sampson: Confession, torture and freedom - in his own words" (National Post, 2003/09/12)
Part 1: "'I am not quite the man I was'" (William Sampson with Francine Dubé, National Post/Watch, 2003/09/06)
Part 2: "My eleven days of Saudi torture" (William Sampson with Francine Dubé, National Post/Watch, 2003/09/08)
Part 3: "'I was having a heart attack'" (William Sampson with Francine Dubé, National Post/Watch, 2003/09/09)
Part 4: "And then I began to fight back" (William Sampson with Francine Dubé, National Post/Watch, 2003/09/10)
Part 5: "I angrily lunged toward my father" (William Sampson with Francine Dubé, National Post/Watch, 2003/09/11)
'I was having a heart attack'
William Sampson, with Francine Dubé
National PostIn the third of a five-part series, William Sampson describes his confession, torture and hospitalization in Saudi Arabia.
- - -
LONDON - After 11 days being tortured into near delirium at an interrogation centre run by the secret police, I was transferred to Al-Heil prison, located some 50 kilometres from Riyadh.
I was photographed and fingerprinted. My prison number was assigned to me -- 357.3 -- a number etched in my brain as deeply as if it had been tattooed on my skin.
My torturers -- Mr. Acne and the Midget -- had forced me to falsely confess to being responsible for two car bombings in the capital of Riyadh in November, 2000, six weeks earlier. They had further forced me to confess to the ludicrous story that I had been acting on the orders of the British government, to embarrass the Saudi regime. I thought they had everything they required.
I was led from the prison intake centre to a small changing room and given my new clothes, which consisted of a T-shirt, shorts and a thobe -- a floor-length white shirt -- and sandals. I was once again blindfolded and led some considerable distance through a series of pneumatically controlled gates and entryways, to a small 2.5 by 4 metre prison cell, about the size of a small bedroom or large walk-in closet.
The accommodation was a slight improvement over my previous prison residence. It contained a combined toilet, sink and shower cubicle (stamped with the word "Canada" -- my shackles were embossed with the word "Britain") and the mattress was on a raised sleeping platform or plinth. In one corner a stainless steel stool stood rooted into the concrete floor, facing a concrete shelf and a large metal slot, like an oversized mailbox, through which my food and other items could be passed.
A closed-circuit television camera mounted in a corner of the ceiling monitored my every movement. Fluorescent strip lights illuminated the cell 24 hours a day, bathing it in a harsh, white-yellow light.
I was given a towel and some soap. Now at least I had the means to try to stay clean, though at a later date, cleanliness would become a weapon, first used against me, then by me.
I was relieved that the torture seemed to have stopped, terrified that it would start again. Once my interrogators had extracted my confession, they said things would move very quickly -- that now that my mind was right, it would only be a matter of months, and perhaps even weeks before I was sent home. Once again, their acting skills left a lot to be desired. While I hoped that their promises would prove true, the core of me could never believe it. I was fighting a constant battle in my mind between hope and my new reality.
Soul-consuming fear allayed any potential for boredom that this situation of near complete sensory deprivation might have produced. To slow my racing pulse, I meditated as best I could. I would focus on a spot on the wall, holding it still and in so doing, slow my heart.
I was able to keep track of time by the five daily calls to prayer broadcast over a loudspeaker system in the prison. I paced to measure time.
I worked out that breakfast -- tea or coffee, pita bread, "foul mesdams," a bean dish that resembled reconstituted diarrhea, and boiled eggs or goat cheese and honey -- arrived at about 8 a.m. The midday meal, passed through the slot in the cell wall, at 1 p.m. each day, usually consisted of chicken and rice, sometimes with fruit. Occasionally, I would be served lamb that was almost entirely fat. This was the main meal of the day. In the evening, at 8 p.m., I would be served tuna, tuna stew or hummus and pita bread.
My drinking water was kept outside the cell and rationed out to me at meal times. Two or three times a week after breakfast, I would be blindfolded and led to a small office near my cell, where I would be seen by the prison doctor. For the next few weeks I would be taken to the barber once a week to be shaved and be given a haircut. At this point, they were desperately trying to maintain my appearance as normal and healthy. This was difficult, considering that the abuse which began at the interrogation centre following my arrest, and which my interrogators had said would end after my confession, resumed within days of my relocation to Al-Heil.
I had been allowed four nights of sleep and three days without beatings. On the fourteenth day, the beatings began again. Mr. Acne and the Midget had followed me to my new home. I could not understand why they were doing this. I had given them what they wanted, confessing both to the car bombings and to being a British spy.
Demands to meet with consular authorities led to beatings, and so I stopped asking. I knew that to make any demands was futile. I tried only to respond to their entreaties, fobbing off personal questions as best I could. I didn't want to give them means to manipulate me emotionally.
I thought one of two things would happen. I thought they might have a show trial for the Westerners arrested in connection with the bombings, pardon and release us at Ramadan. I thought it was more likely they would execute at least one of us, to set an example. I knew of Raf's arrest, and the arrest of my friend Sandy Mitchell because I had heard Sandy's voice in the prison, but I didn't know how many others had been arrested. I assumed that they would execute me, being unmarried and without children, releasing the others to their families in order to show their mercy. This conformed with the hypocrisy I had come to expect. I did not expect to live, nor did I hope for that.
After the first beating in my new prison residence, I returned to my cell in agony. After this, and at all subsequent interrogations, I would be seen by the prison doctor to ensure that I would survive more punishment.
The next day began a cycle that continued until the 25th day following my arrest. I would be beaten, my interrogators would make changes to my confessions, I would be inspected by the doctor, returned to my cell and made to stand or sit so that I could not sleep.
The beatings, while not as prolonged as in my initial interrogations, felt every bit as severe, given the weakened and damaged state of my body and mind. I never knew a moment in which I wasn't in terror. I never knew a moment in which I was not in pain.
I was still being punched, kicked, beaten with a cane on my feet and buttocks and hung upside down. I could not think of anything but the pain.
Suddenly the beatings stopped and my interrogators became my friends again. I was left alone in my cell with the normal routine. Anticipation was my biggest enemy. About a week later, I was given the clothes I had been wearing when I was arrested, and brought before officials I was told were from the shariah court. My interrogators prepared me for that meeting by telling me what to say. At the meeting, I affirmed that the statements in the confessions were mine and that they had not been made under duress, which was something I had been forced to write in my statements anyway.
Six weeks after my arrest, near the end of January, I met with Canadian consular authorities for the first time. When my captors led me from my cell they didn't tell me they were taking me to meet the Canadians. They told me they were taking me back to the interrogation centre where I was first tortured. During the long drive there, I was convinced I was being driven to my execution, even though to my knowledge, I had had no trial.
When I arrived, my interrogators told me of my meeting with the Canadian embassy officials, and told me exactly what to say. I was to tell them that my treatment was good, that I had been dealt with fairly at all times, and to make sure that they believed me. They didn't need to say "or else."
The meeting was a farce, as all subsequent meetings were. The Canadian officials read from a sheet of prepared questions, including "Have you been tortured," and "Have you been mistreated?" The questions were unanswerable, given my circumstances. The interviews were attended at all times by at least one of my interrogators, always Mr. Acne and usually the Midget. Asking if I was being tortured in front of my interrogators could only guarantee further torture. Pleasantries were exchanged, and little else. The meeting lasted about half an hour.
A couple of days later, back at Al-Heil prison, I was once again dressed in Western clothes and taken to the interview rooms. My videotaped confessions began. I made two, one describing motive, the other describing the mechanics of the bombing. The two were spliced together and aired worldwide in February, 2001.
I deliberately used stilted, inappropriate and overly ornate language to try to send a message to anyone who saw it that the confession was false and had been made under duress. It worked. My family knew the confession was a farce, and communicated their belief to the media and the government.
At the end of this session, my interrogators demonstrated their new-found friendship with me by serving me fruit and tea by their own hand. I felt like spitting on them.
In mid-February, I received my second embassy visit. Once again, I was dressed up and presented to Canadian officials, who I felt had no comprehension of what was going on. They asked me if I had received books from the Canadian embassy. I had been drilled beforehand to say yes, and so I did, even though I had not received them as yet. I have subsequently come to learn that the vast majority of books sent by friends and supporters never reached me, although a few were drip-fed to me over the years. The officials passed verbal messages to me from my friends and family. The information contained in them was rendered innocuous by the demands of my captors. "Hi, hope you're doing all right, thinking of you," was typical. The meeting ended.
Immediately after the visit, I was taken to the interview room. The Midget stood on my testicles while I was made to handle a 20-centimetre circular disk, six centimetres thick, covered in black tape. It was either a bomb or a mock-up of a bomb. I believe they did this to get my fingerprints on an object that would be submitted as evidence against me. The interrogators obviously no longer wished to be my friends.
After that night, I was left alone for a week, before once again being given my own clothes and led to the interview rooms. As this seemed to be the normal procedure before visits, I believed I was being led to another meeting with officials. Instead I received one of the worst beatings I was ever to receive.
It lasted at least eight hours. I was repeatedly kicked between the legs. I was hog-tied with handcuffs and shackles and whipped across the soles of my feet with a bamboo cane. At one point, the Midget kicked me in my kidneys while I was lying on my side. He rolled me onto my back stamping repeatedly and with extreme violence on my pelvis and lower back. I felt the bones of my lower spine shift. Throughout this, both my interrogators laughed.
They accused me of adultery with the wives of my friends and of homosexuality. The contradictions in the accusations provided a fleeting moment of humour amid the horror.
They told me that my confession was incorrect. They asked questions about my friend Les Walker and others and demanded that I implicate them in the bombings.
I was beaten for five days and deprived of sleep for 20. They wanted me to confess to an adulterous affair with Noy, the wife of my friend Sandy Mitchell. I knew they would kill her if I did. I would rather have died myself.
- - -
On the morning of March 13, I developed what I thought was a muscle cramp in my left forearm. An hour or so later, the cramp returned to my forearm and was accompanied by pain in my upper arm and shoulder. I knew I was having a heart attack. I called for the guards and asked to see the doctor. I was told I would see him later. The pain subsided. This process was repeated twice more, until after lunch, when I was collected for interrogation. The pain began to come more frequently and was in my arm, shoulder and back.
I told Mr. Acne that I needed to see the doctor. He told me I would see him later, after the interview. I was made to stand. The Midget whipped me on the buttocks. I collapsed, with pain in my arm and chest. I kept telling my interrogators that I was having a heart attack. A doctor was summoned. He diagnosed flatulence and left. I was made to stand up again. I was punched in the back and collapsed.
While waiting for the doctor, the Midget kicked me a number of times in the lower back, demanding that I stand up. I was in agony. My chest felt like it was going to explode. My lower legs were ballooned with fluid. I could not distinguish my ankles from my feet. They burned like fire. I'd been standing or sitting up for 20 days, prevented from lying down at all.
The doctor returned and he tentatively diagnosed heart trouble. About an hour later, I was removed from prison to a hospital, where I spent nearly two days suffering the constant chest pains of a heart attack before I was finally sent to surgery, for an angioplasty. This was not just the pain of my beatings, this was the pain of my body dying. They had almost managed to kill me.
The hospital where the surgery took place was state of the art, and the medical treatment could not have been better. The medical staff, being expatriates, were kind, but were instructed not to talk to me. They did, at risk to themselves, giving me messages of support.
A member of the Canadian embassy was in attendance during my operation. A day later, I received another visit from the embassy, while recovering chained to my hospital bed. A member of the Saudi prison service was also present. I could not speak freely.
I had a bedsheet up to my chest. Any bruising was on my back and lower limbs. I told embassy officials the medical treatment was excellent, which at that point it was. However, that is a bit like congratulating a fireman for putting out a fire he started himself.
The visit by consular authorities was followed by a visit from two of my tormentors, Mr. Acne and the Midget. They arrived with a large tin of Quality Street chocolates. Hooked up to the monitors as I was, their arrival sent my by-then stable heart rate through the roof, as they played their part and acted as my friends. The heart rate monitor alarm went off, and the nurses ran in to see what was wrong.
Obviously stressed by the presence of my tormentors, I knew in the back of my mind that I had a respite in which to try to rebuild myself. I knew that in the months ahead I had to find some way of exploiting my newly precarious medical condition to use it against them.
Tomorrow: In Part 4, William Sampson describes his strategies for resisting his captors, including his refusal to bathe or wear clothing.
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