My name is Fadi Mehanna and I am
a Lebanese national born in Lebanon, granted political
asylum in the UK, then a UK national.
I am a member of the Lebanese
Forces since 1984.
Towards the end of 1990 I was
appointed as personal bodyguard for Dr Geagea and his
wife.
In 1991, and in accordance with
the Taef Agreement, the Lebanese Forces dissolved their
militia and turned into a purely political party with
its headquarters in Ghodras north of Beirut.
The February 1994 bombing of the
“Sayyidet Al Najat” church was a turning point in
Lebanese politics; the groundless and unfounded
accusations that the Lebanese Forces were behind this
act lead to the arrest of Dr Geagea. Around 8pm on
Thursday 21st April 1994 Dr Geagea was lead by Colonel
Salloum who gave me his word that three other guards and
I will stay for the protection of Mrs Geagea. Two hours
later, I was blindfolded, handcuffed, and thrown at the
back of a military Jeep, while four members of the
Lebanese Army (Mokafaha) kept kicking me and inflicting
injuries to my handcuffed hands. When the Jeep stopped,
a soldier led me out of the vehicle, and ordered me to
run, still blindfolded, next to him. He guided me
straight into a wall where my head smashed. Amidst the
laughter that surrounded me, I was taken through a
staircase into an underground cell where I remained for
the next 45 days.
The welcome ceremony I received
consisted of forcing me to stand facing a wall, still
blindfolded and handcuffed, with my legs spread as wide
as possible. I remained in this posture for several
hours until I collapsed onto the floor. I was dragged
and thrown onto the floor of a corridor where several
other persons appeared to be sharing my experience.
I was later taken into an
interrogation room where I was told “you’re now with the
Intelligence Section of the Ministry of Defence. We want
you to answer all our questions. This is the only way to
come out clean and in one piece. Do not force us to show
you the alternative.” They called out a jailer “Attieh
(all jailers were nicknamed Attieh), take him to the
toilet, give him a notepad and tell him what to do.” He
threw me onto the floor of a toilet and handed me a
notepad saying, “You must fill all these papers. You
must tell us everything, all the atrocities you have
perpetrated, the names of all those you have
assassinated, all the drugs you have taken, all the
thefts you have committed, the women you have raped,
everything your master Samir Geagea commanded you to do,
the killings, the bombings, the assassinations.”
I held the pad with confusion,
wondering what to write while certain of our innocence
of any such crimes. Instead, I started writing the
history of the Lebanese Forces and my role in it. I
wrote how the Lebanese Forces developed from a militia
into an institution, about its rehabilitation programmes,
its political school, its military college and the
graduation of officers, its social and charitable
programmes in public transport, twinning, medical and
education subsidies.
I even wrote about our structure
and the “Who is who” in our hierarchy. I wrote in detail
about the training I undertook, the battles I fought,
the duties I assumed, and my period in Ghodras. With
nothing more to write, I gave my interrogator back the
notebook. “Attieh”, he said, “it seems this animal
did not understand. We shall make him understand.”
The next thing I remember is
being positioned on the floor, with my feet elevated and
tied to a chair, and an electric cable being used to
lash my bleeding soles. Next, I was taken to another
cell and hung on the “Ballanco”, one of the most
horrible torture tools that I have suffered, and told
that I would stay there until I started talking. The
“Ballanco” entailed cuffing the person’s hands behind
their back with a strong piece of cloth. A rope,
attached to a ceiling pulley is tied to the centre of
the cloth and the person lifted and left to carry their
body weight with their shoulder muscles. As later
explained to me by a medical practitioner, this
technique put enormous strain on my shoulder nerves and
caused irreparable damage and terminal backache.
As the dose of torture grew I
was often reminded that unless I “speak” I would end up
in an asylum for the mentally ill or the physically
handicapped.
The dose of torture grew more
and became more varied. After the “Ballanco” came the
“Flying Carpet”. The latter entailed positioning the
person flat on the floor with a chair tied to their
back. The arms and legs are then forcefully pushed
together. The natural arch-like shape the body would
have taken is prevented by the
agonizing pressure
exerted by the chair on the person’s spine. This too
left its terminal marks.
The physical abuse was always
coupled with mental torture. I could hear my comrades in
the cells next door crying for Jesus and the Virgin Mary
to save them. “You are on the third floor basement.
Jesus and the Virgin Mary don’t come here” I once heard
an interrogator shout back.
Fear grew as the physical pain
went on. I was terrified every time I heard the door
squeak open. From the “Ballanco” and the “Flying Carpet”
evolved further techniques of torture that left their
marks both physically and traumatically. Some inflicted
instantaneous pain such as electrocution: an high
voltage electric rod was applied to my eyes, ankles, and
private parts. Other techniques aimed at breaking one’s
stamina: I was made to stand motionless, legs widely
spread, with my chin resting on a pointy stick that
resembles a snooker cue. In what can only resemble the
feeling of being slaughtered, the pain was quite
excruciating.
Perhaps the most petrifying of
all was when we were threatened of having air injected
into our veins, widely believed to cause a near
immediate heart attack.
One time, I heard the
interrogators threaten our comrade Fawzi Al Rassi with
lowering him from the “Ballanco” to dip his feet in
acid. Fawzi was screaming loudly and I next heard a loud
thud. It was the last time I had heard his voice. It was
after my release that I learnt that Fawzi had died
during interrogation, probably the result of a fatal
drop from the “Ballanco”.
The fear that struck me every
time I heard the screams of one of my comrades grew even
stronger when the screaming stopped. Would I be next on
the “Ballanco”? The terrorising fear was beyond
description. I could not eat or sleep.
Eventually, their tormenting
techniques paid off. I “confessed” to what they wanted
to hear, the bombing of the church, the assassinations
of Premier Rachid Karame, President Mouawwad, and Dany
Chamoun, even the assassination of people I had never
heard of. I cannot possibly remember what I confessed
on. I just kept saying “Yes” to every question they
asked me.
Eleven years later, I still
carry the harrowing scars of my 45 days at the Ministry
of Defence, accused of bombing a church that I had
defended with everything I had for 10 years. Dr Geagea
was “successfully” made a scapegoat and has been jailed
since.
I never thought it would be this
easy to leave my beloved home country. After my release,
I did not even have second thoughts. I had been
unlawfully denied my basic human rights and personal
freedom and deprived of my dignity.
I stand here before you today to
bear testimony to the truth, and to pursue my and my
comrade’s desire to see our interrogators, those
terrorists, brought to justice. My recollection of the
Ministry of Defence prison still brings shivers. It is a
torture centre run by the Intelligence Services. It is a
butcher’s place, an abattoir.
