I stood in the assistant prison director’s office and breathed slow and deep as I begged to be allowed to remain at Sakran. I remembered all the stories my cellmates told about Buca when I first arrived, and I was desperate to avoid it. I knew that I was in no condition to move to an aging prison full of PKK fighters where for half the year the water was too cold to wash with and the days were spent huddling beneath whatever blankets you could find.
When I was done talking the prison director spread his hands and shrugged. “It has already been decided. You have to go.”
The fear unraveled inside me again. “But what if it’s overcrowded there? What if I’m put in a packed cell like the one here and there’s no bed for me? If I have to sleep on a mattress on the floor they’ll make me roll it up during the day, and then how will I spend my time if I can’t walk outside? Or my meds? What if they won’t let me have my meds there?” The words came tumbling out of me. I was fragile enough that any major change in routine sent me over the edge into panic.
“There’s no discussion, Andrew. You’re moving.”
Back in the cell I started to gather my possessions. As soon as it became clear that I was leaving, the men who were sleeping on the floor started talking among themselves about who should have my bunk. A couple of the original guys who had treated me well said they were sad to see me go. They helped me throw my things in trash bags while the guards waited in the doorway. As I headed for the door I quickly hugged each of my twenty cellmates—including the ones who had criticized me and treated me as unclean.
Kaya, a kind man who had seen the warning signs of suicide in my early days and made sure I was not left on my own, put his hand on my shoulder when I was done. “Andrew, if they gave me a chance to go to Buca I would leave here in a heartbeat. It’s much better.”
I knew he was doing his best to encourage me and I appreciated it, but there wasn’t a single cell in my body that believed him.
AT SOME POINT between leaving Sakran and driving up through the hills to the east of Izmir that lead to Buca Prison, I had a revelation. And while it didn’t remove my fear of what lay ahead, it changed something in me.
Throughout the drive I tried to ignore the submachine guns slung over the laps of the military police guarding me. Instead I stared out the scratched-up window that formed one side of the prisoner bubble I was riding in. It was afternoon when we left Sakran and by the time we reached Izmir the streets were crowded with people beginning their journeys home.
Home.
The thought stabbed me at first. I was so far from home, so powerless to get there. My wife, my children had never felt so distant. But then a small ray of light broke through my sadness.
I looked at a man sliding past in a white VW Golf. He was totally oblivious to my presence. Like everyone else on the road, he was driving home to his family.
Ahead of him lay years of freedom. Ahead of me lay Buca. I didn’t know if I’d ever be free again to be with my family. But while I knew nothing about his story, I knew something about mine: I knew Jesus. I may be a prisoner now, but I had the promise of eternal life, the guarantee of ultimate freedom.
My life had meaning.
My suffering was not the end of my story.
WHEN WE ARRIVED AT BUCA I could tell we were in the mountains. It was hot, but not as hot as Sakran. If nothing else, I was grateful for that. I could also tell that the men in my old cell were right. Sakran was a sprawling, modern, high-tech prison. Buca was older and more austere.
The arrival routine was much the same as it had been at Sakran. I was handed over to the guards, taken to a side room, and searched. The assistant prison director was a large, gray-haired man. There was no question he was in charge, but he seemed more relaxed than the directors I’d met at Sakran. He ran his hands over my possessions that were laid out on the table before me—the books and clothes that I’d been allowed in the cell, plus the various items that the authorities had kept back from me, like my wallet, IDs, and passport. It was strange seeing those forbidden items. With each move they felt less and less like mine.
When I was in Sakran Norine had fought hard for me to be allowed to have a Bible and other books in English. It had taken months but eventually someone had managed to get approval from Ankara. I wondered how long it would take in Buca before I’d be allowed to have them again.
“Please,” I said. “If I’m going to be placed in solitary at first, could I take my Bible and another book? It’s hard to be on my own without anything to read.”
The prison director stepped back from the table and weighed my request, letting the silence hang in the air. Finally, he said, “Okay.”
I gladly picked up my Bible as well as the biggest book I could find, a fist-thick novel by Tom Clancy.
The director dismissed me and I walked in silence behind the guards to my cell. It was a similar setup to Sakran—the self-contained cells all had their own courtyards—but there was one major difference. Buca was a maximum-security prison. The logic was that in a prison full of people accused of terror offenses and the worst crimes committed, the greatest risk wasn’t so much in them escaping but in violence, or the inmates spreading their ideology among others. The more dangerous or valuable the prisoner, the fewer other prisoners he should be with. In Buca the cells were made for three people, and they were keeping the cells at three, unlike Sakran where twenty or more inmates were crammed into each cell.
“You’ll stay here for a while,” said the guard as he showed me into the cell. I noticed that unlike Sakran, where the guards always seemed tense and hard, the two who showed me into my cell in Buca appeared just a little more relaxed.
When the door shut and locked behind the guards, I felt the silence weigh heavy upon me. Sakran was busy and loud, not only inside the cell but also out in the corridors as the guards came and went all through the day and night. Buca was different. There was nothing to hear apart from the distant whir of a generator.
Within an hour my door was thrown open. “We’re moving you,” said a different guard, almost smiling. “We phoned Sakran and they told us about you. They said not to leave you alone. Grab your things now, we’re putting you in with someone else.”
I grew more nervous with every step. Even though I knew it was better to be with someone than in solitary, my mind taunted me about who I was about to be placed with. Would he be a hardliner who would take offense at my faith? An aggressive nationalist who would be angry at an American, especially one accused of being a spy?
The guard unlocked my new cell and I stepped in.
The man inside looked harmless, like the kind of Turkish neighbor who would be quick to drop everything he was doing and sit and drink tea with his guest. He greeted me with a half smile as he studied my face.
“I know you,” he said once the guards had left. “I’ve seen your story on TV.”
I waited for his verdict.
“Welcome! I’m Ramazan. Do you prefer I call you Rambo Priest or just plain Andrew?”
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS I found out more about Ramazan. He was a lawyer who handled some work for Asya Bank, which was linked to Fethullah Gulen. He also had ByLock on his phone, so according to the authorities there was more than enough reason to consider him a high-security prisoner and hold him for more than a year without trial. But while my cellmates in Sakran had often been angry about their cases and were desperate to get things moving, Ramazan in many ways had accepted that he was powerless to change his situation and knew that all he could do was wait.
I LIKED RAMAZAN, but I was still on edge.
The move left me shaken psychologically, upsetting my already fragile spiritual state. I felt like I had no anchor, as if God wanted me to be in a position where everything was completely dark and unknown. I could see that my cell situation was better in Buca, but I was fearful that being in a maximum-security prison would eventually mean trouble for me. Either they’d be stricter with me—like giving me less access to Norine—or the move was an ominous sign that the government was going to double down and dream up some new, more serious charges against me.
As part of my intake I was taken to the prison psychologist. I told her I was very stressed about my wife not knowing I had been moved. She picked up a pen. “Give me her number and I’ll call her later. I’ll let her know you’re here.” A couple of hours later I was surprised when a guard came to our cell to tell me Norine had been contacted. Knowing that eventually I would see her eased my mind. In Sakran no one ever, ever told us anything.
But then I was taken to the prison psychiatrist.
I told him about my medication in Sakran and how much it helped.
It was going okay, until our session came to a close. “These meds they put you on,” he said, confidently. “You don’t need them. I am sure you can do without them.”
I pushed back instantly. “No,” I said. “I really can’t. I’ve had frequent panic attacks and was suicidal before I started on them. Ever since starting the meds I’ve been much better. Stopping isn’t an option for me.”
He nodded at the guards to take me away. “I think you’ll be fine. We’ll start cutting your dose down.”
Back in the cell I tried to push down the fear of losing my meds. I had learned that in prison, no matter how urgent a need may be, there was nothing I could do to tell anyone outside until I had a visit. I had to be patient and wait for someone to show up.
THE NEXT DAY, sooner than I had expected, I was taken out of the cell to meet with my lawyer. Suna was concerned when I told her about the psychiatrist and promised to tell Norine so she could follow up with the embassy. “I’m worried,” I said, trying to hold my voice steady. “This is not the kind of place they let you out from. This is where they send you when they want to forget about you for years and years. This place is tougher than Sakran.”
Suna shook her head. “No, Andrew. We think this is a positive move for you. They may have moved you for your own security.”
“How is that good news for me?”
“They know that if anything happens to you there will be consequences. You’re more valuable now. Maybe they moved you here to keep you safe.”
I wasn’t so sure myself.
But when Norine came to visit two days later, she brought the same message as Suna. She told me that the visiting policy was much better—that we’d be allowed a full hour together instead of the usual thirty-five minutes at Sakran.
“We think this is going to be better, my love,” she said cautiously.
Maybe she was right. Buca was maximum security, but I was beginning to feel the difference between the intensity of the overcrowded cell in Sakran and living only with Ramazan. Now I could be alone, in quietness, most of the time. But there was another person around, which kept me from the fear that I felt in solitary.
I still had my doubts, though. “Why would God be setting me up in a better place? What if I’ve been sent here because God knows that I couldn’t survive long term in a place like Sakran? What if he’s setting me up for a long imprisonment?”
I wanted to allow her and Suna’s optimism to encourage me. But I’d allowed myself to find hope behind bars before. It hadn’t worked out so far.