As I slunk down in that cold, dark, stenchy cell, surrounded by half-drunk, suspicious-looking characters, I tried to collect my thoughts. How had I ended up in this situation? And how long would I be in this place? The day had begun very auspiciously just a few hours before. . . .

With the hope of improving my Arabic, making new contacts and reconnecting with old ones in this unreached North African city, my outreach visit this late January day had progressed as others before. It began on a beautiful, mildly warm winter day. I made several new acquaintances on my language route. People were friendly. I was communicating well, picking up new vocabulary.
As evening fell, I continued visiting shops along the boulevard, slowly making my way back to my Airbnb. Just before 9:00 p.m., I stopped into one of the last shops on my route—a health food store whose owner had been quite friendly to me on several previous visits. He welcomed me once again, and we started dialoging on the topic of work.

A customer stepped in, so I began browsing around my friend’s shop as he attended to his new client, not noticing that my friend, the shopkeeper, made a quick call on his cell phone. Within a couple of minutes, a police officer walked in. Acting as if he were just doing a routine check, he asked me for my ID.

“You need to come with me to the police station. We are just going to ask you a few questions, and then we will let you go.”

My heart skipped a beat as the officer led me into the police van, and we were soon on our way. At that moment, I felt a mixture of concern, fear and even wonder, mentally processing my first time ever being in police custody. This is quite the first! I wonder how this is going to turn out? I thought. At that moment, the LORD gave me the presence of mind to text my wife and let her know what was happening and to ask her to pray.

As soon as I got to the station, they confiscated my cell phone. They then took me into a side room and sat me down across from a desk. A policeman, perhaps a detective, began questioning me: “Where are you from? How long have you been here? What’s your work? How do you know Arabic?” I was then whisked away into a larger office, where they sat me down once again. Now, surrounding me in a semi-circle, there were six or seven detectives firing questions at me, half in Arabic, half in French, not really giving me a fair chance to answer completely. At this point, my anxiety level launched into the red zone. I was trying my best to keep my cool, not lose my composure, despite their very hostile and intimidating attitude.

The biggest problem was that I could not tell them the real reason I was in their country—to be a missionary. All I could say was that I was there to learn their language and culture, and to start an as-to-be-determined social aid project in the future. This was technically true. But they were not buying it. They seemed convinced that I was hiding some nefarious purpose.

After three or four rounds of intense interrogation, about ten detectives and I piled into two black SUVs and sped towards the Airbnb apartment where I was staying. Powerless to intervene, I could only watch the entire intrusion of my personal space and belongings unfold before my eyes. They grabbed my laptop and my other cell phone, which I used to make language recordings, then headed back to the station. Now they had all the electronic devices I had brought with me, as well as my passport, language learning materials and even my money.
I spent the rest of the early morning hours waiting in a room and being interrogated a couple more times. There was no heat, and the temperature was in the mid-40s F; they seemed to have intentionally left all the windows open so the cold air could pour in. I was shivering, sleep-deprived, hungry, and emotionally and physically exhausted.

Finally, around 4:00 a.m., a police officer walked into the room, fastened handcuffs around my wrists and led me away to the overnight jail. Shocking. Surreal. I could not believe it was actually happening. The jail itself was dirty, smelly and extremely cold. “Place your shoes on the shelf and grab some blankets,” the guard ordered. They shoved me into the cell, the heavy metal door clanging shut behind me. I squinted in the darkness, trying to make out who my new roommates were and where I could find a spot of my own. Several men milled around aimlessly while a handful of others were sitting up against the opposite wall. In one corner, a very unkempt man with an incessant cough was sleeping on a filthy mat. The stench of squalor and urine filled the air.

After familiarizing myself with my new environment, I found a free corner near the bars at the front of the cell and sat down. My body was desperately craving sleep, but my mind was racing. As I began silently pleading with God to calm my fears, everyone’s attention was soon captivated by the presence of some new guests. Down at the far end of the cell where the squat toilet was located, two extremely large, brownish-gray, burly rats, each over a foot and a half long including the tail, began to forage for scraps of leftover food that prisoners had left hanging from the bars in white plastic bags. Thankfully they kept away from all of us, though they were quite aware of our presence. With these new arrivals, my weary body banished all possibility of sleep.

By sunrise, the rats returned home via the squat toilet, and soon the guards began coming in every few minutes, taking out prisoners. By late morning, I was left alone. My newfound solitude allowed me to begin pouring out my heart to God. I prayed for my wife and children, the police, the guards—my whole situation. Although I knew this was extremely serious, I could sense God’s continual presence encouraging me not to be afraid.

I might have dozed off briefly a couple of times that day, I don’t quite remember. Yet as night came on, my need for sleep became overpowering. But—the rats! With the darkness, they had returned from their putrid dwelling, and now there were three. They saw me huddled on my dirty mat as far from the toilet as possible, and continued foraging around. At least they did not seem interested in coming in my direction.

As you can imagine, trying to fall asleep knowing rats are roaming around your sleeping quarters is not particularly easy. I lay there for three or four hours trying to relax, but I could not help keeping an eye on my furry companions. Finally, around 3:00 a.m., my body succumbed to exhaustion. Lying on my right side facing the wall, I must have been out for an hour and a half or so when I was jolted awake by the sensation of two tiny paws on the back of my head. Casting off my covers, I sat up with a shot just in time to see a huge rat scurrying back towards the toilet area. “LORD, get me out of this place!” I cried.

Eve, my wife, glanced anxiously at her phone–11:58 a.m. She had hoped to hear back from me that morning after having received my text the previous night. She decided to wait until noon. Finally, when the 12 o’clock hour came and went with no word from me, Eve sprang into action. Having already alerted our field director about my situation, she phoned the U.S. embassy to report my arrest. They said they would check into it. By 4:00 p.m., the embassy had located me. The jail where I was being kept was in a town I will call Spider City. Our field director then advised her to find a lawyer and to begin cleaning all our devices, removing any possible link to mission work. Adding to the tension was, no one knew why I had been arrested! Were they also going to arrest Eve? Other people connected to us?

Sunday evening, Eve boarded a bus for a two-hour trip to Spider City to meet with the lawyer the next day. That morning, ten minutes into her meeting, her phone rang. It was our landlord. “Where are you? You need to be here right now. The police are at your house.”

Part 2 continues in the November AF magazine.

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