telling myself this had to be part of our training. If it was for real, we’d have been more badly beaten, or killed. Still, I couldn’t be completely sure. The truck lurched to a stop. We were led into a building, down a hallway and into a large room. The walls were bare except for a series of iron rings. Our captors tore the sacks from our heads for a few moments, and tied our wrists to the manacles. For the first six or seven hours we were kept together, arms shackled and raised. Then they took us away one by one. I was the last to be led out. I was taken to a room so small there was not even space for a cot. It wasn’t until the last shaft of light disappeared from the slit-like window near the top of wall that the first interrogator showed up. He unlocked the door, entered and unfolded a metal chair. He wanted answers: what unit was I from, what did our unit do, who were our commanders, what were our orders, and what was our designated role in the event of war. I told him my name, rank and serial number. After each question, I repeated them, or shook my head in silence. “You wi// answer, sooner or later,” he shouted in heavily Arabic-accented Hebrew, hitting me across the face. “All of you will.” For four days and nights, other interrogators shouted out the same questions. I was slapped dozens of times. Punched in the stomach. One of the captors uncuffed me and bent my arm behind my back, wrenching it upward. Though I was determined not to cry out, I grunted in pain. Over and over, I told myself: “This is not for real. They can hurt me. But they have limits. They can twist my arm. They can hurt me. But there’s no way they can break my arm.” I was not allowed to sleep. I was never left alone for more than a half-hour. If I was crouching on the stone floor, I would be yanked to my feet and punched or slapped. Twice a day, I was taken from my cell to a primitive toilet and given a minute to relieve myself. There were only two changes to the routine. On a few occas