was walking through a park, thinking how great it was to be far away, when three guys approached me—one white, two black.
“We know about a party not far from here,” they said. “You interested?”
They spoke in accents. The black dudes said they were Nigerian; the white guy was from Morocco.
“Sure,” I said, thinking there might be weed or hash at the party.
“There are pretty girls too,” they said. “Our car is right around the corner.”
They seemed friendly enough, and I sensed no danger. Turned out, though, that the car wasn’t around the corner. It was several miles away. Didn’t matter. The night was invigorating. I was ready to go.
Once we got in the car and started driving to the party, the guys said they were Muslims.
“Fine,” I said. “I respect Islam. I respect all the religions.”
“I respect Hitler,” said the black guy sitting next to me.
“Hitler!” I said. “How can you respect Hitler when he saw blacks as inferior? Hitler believed in the master white Aryan race. What’s to respect about Hitler?”
“He got done what needed to get done.”
“By creating the Holocaust?”
“Some people don’t believe the Holocaust ever happened.”
“Some people are crazy. The Holocaust is historical fact.”
“I’m not at all sure.”
Suddenly I wasn’t sure what was happening. Obviously the party wasn’t close by, because we had entered a freeway. When I asked where we were going, I got no answers, only sneers. Finally, after twenty minutes, we pulled off the freeway into a housing tract. The Moroccan, who was behind the wheel, kept turning in circles and doing donuts. He was intent on making me lose my bearings, an easy enough task.
“Where are we? What are you guys doing?” I asked.
When I got no answers, I knew I was in trouble. At that moment, as we turned up a dirt road, all my survival instincts kicked in. I opened the door and jumped out of the moving car.
Car screeched to the halt. The white guy came after me, chasing me at full speed. He caught me. We locked arms. I blocked his kicks. When he head-butted me, his forehead caught my open mouth. My tooth cut his skin and blood gushed out. My front tooth cracked in half. He was taken aback.
For all the fear coursing through me—fear of being murdered in cold blood—I was somehow able to hang on to a degree of control. I knew that if I panicked, it would also make things worse. Before I could put together a plan, though, the black guys were kicking me to the ground. One had a pair of pliers and was going for my nuts. I squirmed away and threw a wild elbow that—thank God—caught one of them square in the face. The other grabbed my jacket that, because it was a slippery fabric and loose on my body, came sliding off me. The guy wound up holding the jacket, not me, and I took off.
I ran like the wind. I ran through the snow. When one of my shoes came off, I kept running. I jumped over a hedgerow and rolled down an embankment. Ran even harder until I found myself in a wooded area. My head was filled with one thought and one thought only: “ I’m not going to die here! I’m not going to die here! ” I hid under some leaves for thirty, forty minutes. I was freezing, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, jeans, and one shoe. When I thought it was safe to come out of hiding, I walked out of the woods where I found a neighborhood of small homes. I looked for one that had Christmas lights.
Knocked on the door.
Man answered. He looked me over. I was bruised, my T-shirt torn and covered with blood, my hair matted with twigs and leaves.
“I don’t know French,” I tried to say in French.
“I don’t know English,” he tried to say in English.
He called his daughter, who came downstairs. She knew English. I told her that I had been beaten, my passport and wallet, with eight hundred dollars, had been stolen, and I needed a ride back to my hotel. She believed me. She, her father, and her father’s brother put me in
“We know about a party not far from here,” they said. “You interested?”
They spoke in accents. The black dudes said they were Nigerian; the white guy was from Morocco.
“Sure,” I said, thinking there might be weed or hash at the party.
“There are pretty girls too,” they said. “Our car is right around the corner.”
They seemed friendly enough, and I sensed no danger. Turned out, though, that the car wasn’t around the corner. It was several miles away. Didn’t matter. The night was invigorating. I was ready to go.
Once we got in the car and started driving to the party, the guys said they were Muslims.
“Fine,” I said. “I respect Islam. I respect all the religions.”
“I respect Hitler,” said the black guy sitting next to me.
“Hitler!” I said. “How can you respect Hitler when he saw blacks as inferior? Hitler believed in the master white Aryan race. What’s to respect about Hitler?”
“He got done what needed to get done.”
“By creating the Holocaust?”
“Some people don’t believe the Holocaust ever happened.”
“Some people are crazy. The Holocaust is historical fact.”
“I’m not at all sure.”
Suddenly I wasn’t sure what was happening. Obviously the party wasn’t close by, because we had entered a freeway. When I asked where we were going, I got no answers, only sneers. Finally, after twenty minutes, we pulled off the freeway into a housing tract. The Moroccan, who was behind the wheel, kept turning in circles and doing donuts. He was intent on making me lose my bearings, an easy enough task.
“Where are we? What are you guys doing?” I asked.
When I got no answers, I knew I was in trouble. At that moment, as we turned up a dirt road, all my survival instincts kicked in. I opened the door and jumped out of the moving car.
Car screeched to the halt. The white guy came after me, chasing me at full speed. He caught me. We locked arms. I blocked his kicks. When he head-butted me, his forehead caught my open mouth. My tooth cut his skin and blood gushed out. My front tooth cracked in half. He was taken aback.
For all the fear coursing through me—fear of being murdered in cold blood—I was somehow able to hang on to a degree of control. I knew that if I panicked, it would also make things worse. Before I could put together a plan, though, the black guys were kicking me to the ground. One had a pair of pliers and was going for my nuts. I squirmed away and threw a wild elbow that—thank God—caught one of them square in the face. The other grabbed my jacket that, because it was a slippery fabric and loose on my body, came sliding off me. The guy wound up holding the jacket, not me, and I took off.
I ran like the wind. I ran through the snow. When one of my shoes came off, I kept running. I jumped over a hedgerow and rolled down an embankment. Ran even harder until I found myself in a wooded area. My head was filled with one thought and one thought only: “ I’m not going to die here! I’m not going to die here! ” I hid under some leaves for thirty, forty minutes. I was freezing, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, jeans, and one shoe. When I thought it was safe to come out of hiding, I walked out of the woods where I found a neighborhood of small homes. I looked for one that had Christmas lights.
Knocked on the door.
Man answered. He looked me over. I was bruised, my T-shirt torn and covered with blood, my hair matted with twigs and leaves.
“I don’t know French,” I tried to say in French.
“I don’t know English,” he tried to say in English.
He called his daughter, who came downstairs. She knew English. I told her that I had been beaten, my passport and wallet, with eight hundred dollars, had been stolen, and I needed a ride back to my hotel. She believed me. She, her father, and her father’s brother put me in
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