guardian.co.uk
When we were led to a run-down building, I thought it was an execution chamber. "This is it," I thought'.... It was 2005 and I'd moved to Dubai with my husband, Rupert, and three children. We were looking for an adventure en famille, as well as a skill we could learn together while we were there. We decided on sailing but, being prudent, went on a test run first without the children. We planned an overnight trip. The Persian Gulf is a narrow strip of water jammed with supertankers – like a maritime motorway. It's not a good place to bob about aimlessly, so we sailed the 38ft catamaran to the island of Abu Musa, 60 miles off Dubai. According to the admiralty chart, this was an international safe haven for yachts. Our guidebook said it was a military island, but OK to moor there so long as you didn't go ashore. The guidebook was wrong. As we approached, Rupert said, "Bloody hell, I can see three gun emplacements [gun sites/forts] just from here." Then two gunboats powered over and 10 men, many armed, came aboard. They were Iranian naval officers. I sat like a rabbit in the headlights in my T-shirt and sarong as they searched the boat. I was terrified. I tried to show them we were harmless by smiling and chatting, but they ignored me. They were examining my camera, so I opened it and exposed the film – but instead of this gesture reinforcing our innocence, it further convinced them that we were spies. The first of what became some 40 interrogation sessions began. They were perfectly civil, but I had a cold sense of dread, especially when they started filming us. Footage of doomed kidnap victims on the news flashed through my mind. What was going to happen to us? Be released or shot? It could go either way. I learned later that if it had been dark, the latter could easily have been our fate. The men assured us we'd soon be free to go, but in a sudden about-face we were told we were flying to Bandar Abbas, in Iran, for further questioning. "Just following orders," they explained, smiling apologetically. As we boarded the military plane, I thought desperately of my children, then one, four and seven. I should have been home by now. When would I see them again, if ever?
We were taken to a house on the naval base that was basic but clean. Over the next eight days we were filmed, photographed and questioned incessantly, sometimes as a couple, sometimes separately. We repeated ourselves: we were not spies or terrorists; we were just on a sailing trip. When alone, I tried to appeal to our captors' moral code. I grew to like them; they were pawns, at the mercy of their regime. Daily we were told we'd be released soon; having our hopes dashed was harder than the interrogation. I shut down emotionally and slept a lot – it was the only way I could cope. We also took up smoking again – we were given enormous supplies of cigarettes. Three days in, they let me phone the children, which was unspeakably painful. I was told not to reveal our situation, just to say we had engine trouble. Engine trouble on a sailing boat? Our nanny twigged something was wrong and alerted the British embassy. Diplomatic wheels were set in motion, but I was oblivious to this, so when we were led to a run-down building, I thought it was an execution chamber. "This is it," I thought. To my huge relief, British diplomats were inside. We were being expelled from Iran. But instead of boarding that longed-for plane, a man from "the judiciary" told us we had to fly to Tehran. Our diplomats tried to intervene, police swarmed in and a tussle ensued. We were forced to board the flight, and on arrival were sped away in a van. I was sure we were being driven to our execution. Surreally, we arrived at a five-star hotel, where the interrogation began once more. Another four days of interminable questioning went by – even the interrogators were bored now. Then, finally, after a total of two weeks, we were freed. In the ensuing months, I found myself looking over my shoulder, haunted by my incarceration. My daughter had developed separation anxiety, and it took a year for her to feel secure. My sons became hyper-aware of "good" and "evil". I've been brought up to believe that through your own force of will and intellect you can chart your own path through life. When I was yanked so dramatically off this path, I became aware of how fine the line is between a comfortable life and a living hell.
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