Journey of an Infidel: Based on Real-Life Events of Ibrahim Ali

By Ibrahim Ali

The incredible true story of an individual who endures overwhelming pain and obstacles in his quest for freedom. Going against all odds and overcoming the challenges that life threw at him only to emerge battered but not broken. Witness the most brutal regime in modern history under to scope of cultural and religious differences. Ibrahim's arduous journey began the day he was born, and it hasn't ended yet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644241783

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Journey of an Infidel

Based on Real-Life Events of Ibrahim Ali

Ibrahim Ali

Copyright © 2018 Ibrahim Ali and Lewis Ericson

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2018

ISBN 978-1-64424-177-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64424-178-3 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

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1

By the age of twenty-seven, I’d already traveled quite a lot, but I’d only seen America in pictures and on television. This new world would be completely foreign to me. Still, I felt ready for the challenges I was sure to face. Given the clandestine nature of my exile, perhaps I wasn’t as ready as I should have been. My hand shook slightly as I reached into my jacket pocket to check my passport again for what seemed the hundredth time. The image was mine, the name was not. But I would boldly defend this fictitious identity to whoever should question its validity if it meant not being forced back into the bowels of hell that I was finally able to escape.

Breathing deeply, I closed my eyes as I waited for the plane to depart. Silently, I rehearsed English words and phrases in my head as if not to give myself away when I spoke. It felt necessary and silly at the same time. I didn’t look like anything other than what I was, an Iraqi. Born in Baghdad, my primary language was Arabic, and over time I had learned to speak a little English even if it was tinged with an accent. Also, thanks to my grandfather’s influence, I spoke Hebrew and Russian as well. A math teacher by vocation, I mastered languages quickly. Standing at a height of only five four, I wasn’t what one might consider movie-star handsome, but with my olive-hued skin tone and a full head of lush coal-black hair, I was attractive and gregarious enough to get by.

For a fleeting moment, Sarah crossed my mind. She was the first girl I thought that I loved, but what does one know of real love in high school. Still, it made me smile to remember her. The flight attendant who tapped me on the shoulder, jarring me back into this surreal reality, oddly reminded me of her. Sir, you need to fasten your seat belt, she said. I nodded wearily and complied. The roar of the airplane’s engine filled me with exhilaration. I was closing the door on what was the darkest chapter in my life and plunging further into the unknown.

Ascending further into the air and eventually leveling off, I thought I felt comforted enough to close my eyes. A thunderous explosion jarred me from a recurring nightmare. I gasped and startled the woman sitting in the seat next to me. I swallowed down the bile that had risen in my throat and glanced over nervously. She fidgeted with the collar of her blouse and squirmed as if she was trying to get away from me—as if I meant to do her harm. My heart beat furiously, and I could hear the blood pumping in my ears. I combed my fingers through my tousled mop of hair, took a deep breath, rubbed my hand over my face, and lay back in the seat. I sensed the woman’s suspicions. She’d kept a wary eye on me since we’d boarded the plane in Shanghai. I didn’t want to make sustained eye contact—not with her or anyone else. I couldn’t know for sure whether anyone could see—really see me. Getting out of Singapore seemed easier somehow compared to the escalating angst that began to suffocate me the closer I was getting to freedom. I feared getting caught, but I’d come too far. I’d gone through too much. I knew that if I had survived being beaten and tortured and nearly starved to death, I could survive anything.

Once again, I checked the inside pocket of my jacket to ensure that I still had my papers. I felt for my passport that bore the name John Patrick Anderson. I wanted to pull it out and examine it just to reassure myself of this new identity, but prying eyes kept me from doing so. It was a decent enough forgery to have gotten me this far. I glanced at my watch—six hours until we were due to touch down in Los Angeles. The reward, I thought, far outweighed the risks.

Despite my best efforts to stay awake, I could feel my eyelids getting heavy again. I hadn’t slept well in days. I was too restless from my last night in Singapore to have enjoyed much of anything at all, let alone a good night’s rest.

Sleep mocked me once more. Here I was cold, dirty, soiled, and bloodied. There were no windows, no toilet. I had no blanket, no pillow. Surrounded by jagged cinder block walls my bare feet prickly on the concrete floor in a space really only big enough to lie down in. A three-inch thick steel door with only an eighteen-inch chute cut into it by which the armed guards used to pass a metal food tray to me twice a day was my only source of light when it was opened. Food might be an overstatement. There was nothing appetizing about this soupy egg-based concoction. I didn’t want to eat this putrid smelling mess for fear that I would be poisoned. I was losing all sense of time. One, two, three days passed. I was starving. I had held out for as long as I could. I broke down. I had to eat despite what might be in the food. How long had I been in this place? They’d finally stripped me of the torn and soiled clothes I was wearing when they took me and gave me a green uniform with the number 79 sewn into it. I was thrown into another bigger cell, surrounded by other prisoners. Why were they still holding me? What were they expecting me to confess to? This was a never-ending, all-consuming nightmare that I would not soon escape.

I woke up on the verge of tears. The droning of the airplane’s engines reminded me where I was. Safe. Perhaps not. With the notable exception of a few overhead lights, the cabin was virtually dark. The woman seated on the aisle next to me was blissfully asleep. She looked peaceful. I envied that. Perhaps I would come to know a peaceful sleep once I reached my new home. Looking out the window over the expanse of the night sky, it already felt as if I were a million miles away from everything and anyone I’d ever known. My friends. My family. I knew that I would miss them immensely. I would even miss my father, though at times growing up I could barely stand the sight of him. I was the youngest, considered the runt of the family. Reared in a typical Iraqi home, we weren’t the elite of district of Yarmouk, but we weren’t dirt poor either. When my mother, Nassrat, was alive she did all she could to see to it that we had everything we needed.

After the birth of my sister, Jasmin, my mother was cautioned not to have more children. I was born on a Tuesday, October 17, 1971; several months after that my mother’s health