First of a series by Donnie Lama

By Donnie Lama

...continuation

They thought I was a Priest

It was then that the police brought out the photo albums and went through them hurriedly. They saw the picture that they would use against me. it was a picture taken on Dec. 29, 1984, when I first officiated a Eucharistic Service after being anointed as Lay Minister of the underground Catholic Church for the Filipino Group. The picture showed me while I was leading the group in prayer. The community, which I helped organize, regularly met for fellowship very early in the morning when the Arabs were still fast asleep. We started with six persons then the community grew to a little less than a hundred in just two to three months, which necessitated us to meet in smaller groups during the week. I was consulted on important plans and decisions in the spiritual care of Filipino Christians. In times of crisis, I would also mobilize my community in responding to those in need.

“You are a preacher for 15 years! You are a priest!” came the immediate accusation of the police upon seeing the picture and having known that I had been working in Saudi for the last 15 years. “No, I am not a priest.” I firmly replied. “You are a priest, where is your license?” the policemen would not change his conclusion. “I told you I am not a priest. I don’t have a license to show!" I wearily answered. Where are the people who are with you in the picture?” they interrogated further. “They are not here in Saudi anymore. The Filipinos went back to the Philippines. The Americans have returned to the States. Can't you see the difference how look in that picture and how I look now?” I defended myself. “No, you are a liar!” then my personal address book.

The Isolation Cell

Probably realizing that I was about to reach the limits of my tolerance level, having been physically abused for so long and not having eaten anything, the officer ordered that I be brought to an underground isolation cell, it was already 11pm. It was the worst place I could ever imagine to be in. The cell was a small, filthy and foul-smelling cubicle, very solid, dark, dirty and with so many cockroaches crawling all over the place. I started shivering at the terrifying coldness of the room. Its size was just a big enough to accommodate one person to lie down on the floor. That night, there were two of us licked up in one cell. There was no way we could stretch even for a little while to rest our weary feet and beaten bodies. I was feeling an attack of hypertension, my head and neck were heavy and I was aching all over. I felt as if my head would explode from all the pain I was experiencing.

The next day I was released because they had no concrete case against me.

The Terror Begins Again

The following day, a Saturday being the first working day of the week, I reported to the office, despite my beaten up condition. I told the incident to my Saudi boss and explained to him what happened to me. He assured me that there was nothing to worry about and and nothing to be afraid of as the company would try to do its best to help me out. “After all,” my boss said, “the interrogation is over.” I did not feel assured at all.

My instincts were right. The interrogation was not over. It was just the beginning. After a week, I got call from the police station. It was 2:00 in the afternoon. I requested my boss to talk to the police in Arabic. After putting down the phone, my boss informed me of the police invitation for me to go to the Police Station again. They will just ask me some questions. As I said goodbye to my boss that afternoon, my boss embraced me and sent me off with reassurance that everything will be fine. “You don’t need to worry about anything. You are a good man,” he said. As he advised me, I went to the police station in the evening even though I was wary of the intentions of the police and anxious for my life.

Before I reported to the police station, at around 7:00 pm, I drove my car heading to the house of my friend Vic Prodigalidad. His wife (Rose) cooked some scrambled eggs, hotdog and toasted bread but I refused to eat. I could not eat the food because I was very much disturbed. I requested Vic to accompany me to the police station. We arrived at 8:00 in the evening the police station. I told him to wait for me outside until 9pm. I said, “Vic, if I don’t come out of the Police Station, you will call immediately my boss to inform him that something has happened to me.”

Police Brutality

When I entered the police station, again, without any word spoken to me, I was immediately handcuffed and made to stand in one corner for three hours. The same ordeal was happening all over again – the endless questioning, the harassment, the brutality, the pain. I felt my world crumbling. This time, the three policemen with a bag they found in my apartment that afternoon of the raid were interrogating me. The bag contained bottles of perfume they claimed to belong to the murdered Filipino. I did not know anything about this and so I again denied the accusation of my involvement in the murder. The photo was again surfaced in the discussion. “What were you doing in this picture?” the police asked. “I told you, I was asked to pray. And that was in 1984, “I replied. “Liar! You are a priest! You have been preaching for 15 years!" came the insistent accusation. “I told you then and I am telling you now: I am not a priest,” again I replied. All the while, I was being slapped left and right, punched and kicked in the stomach and on my sides. As before they would bring me up and force me to stand only to be slapped and kicked again.

This Will Kill You

They wanted me to admit that I was a preacher or priest. “You see this rod?” the other policemen asked me holding in front of me one-meter long wooden stick which was able to draw a heavy line on my skin as it hit me. “This will kill you if you don’t admit that you are a priest!” they threatened. “I am not a priest,” I held on to my statement. “You are a priest! Your friend told us that you are a very religious person!” as it turned out, the police had interrogated again earlier that day Mario who had also been brought to the police station the previous week together with me. Mario thought he was defending me when he said, “Donnie is a good man. He is a very religious person.” But these were the very words that did me in. It convinced the Muttawah all the more that I was indeed a priest! I was brought to an isolation cell to spend the night there.

The Torture and Fatal Thumb Mark

For one week, the torture continued. Every night, they would pull me out of the isolation cell and interrogated me over and over again. The endless questioning, the same procedure, the slapping, the beating, the kicking. My body had turned bluish black and was completely swollen. I could barely move. Terrible pain. I could not tolerate it any longer. I was at my most vulnerable state when the police again pressured me to admit or else I would continue to be beaten. I was surprised when my interrogating officer said, “We will let you go if you sign this paper. If not, you may as well die here.” As I could no longer stand another beating I hastily attached my thumb mark on the document written in Arabic not knowing what it is I was signing. They sent me back to the isolation cell in anticipation for another week.

You Are My Refuge

Another seven days passed. I was down emotionally, besides my bad physical state. No one could visit me in the police station. Anyone who visited me would have been interrogated and imprisoned for 24 hours. I understood why my friends decided not to visit me. They knew they could face a 24 hour imprisonment with interrogation.

I was isolated in the real sense of the word. It was indeed solitary confinement for me. I had nothing except prayers to comfort me. During my lowest moments, they provided me with hope that everything was not doomed. I could only pray. I prayed the whole time. I would find myself saying to God: “Lord, help me go through this suffering. I don’t know your purpose for allowing this to happen to me. I only ask that you give me the strength to endure it.” I dreaded it when night time came. Again, I would recall Psalm 91: whoever goes to the Lord for safety, whoever remains under the protection of the Almighty, can say to Him, “You are my defender and protector. You are my God; in you I trust.” He will keep you safe from all hidden dangers and from all deadly disease. He will cover you with His wings; you will be safe in His care; His faithfulness will protect and defend you. You need not fear any dangers at night or sudden attacks during the day or the plagues that strike in the dark or the evils that kill in daylight.

These verses really ministered to me.

(To be continued in next issue)