The Hostage Experience

It always surprises people to meet a hostage survivor. I happen to be one. It is not something you expect. Neither is it something that comes up often in conversation. Having reflected on the subject, I understand that hostage taking or kidnapping is not a crime we have to face up to in most societies. As such, why would anyone ever expect to meet a hostage survivor.  Nevertheless, it does happen and sadly, worldwide, it is one of the fastest growing crimes. Let me tell my story. 

When we were taken hostage, I was eight years old and my brother, Seth, was five. After our hostage adventure – and I use the word “adventure” with intent, because that’s truly how we children saw it at the time – we returned to normal life, unaware of the full magnitude of what we had just endured.

Life simply carried on. Our friends knew nothing of our experience, and the adults around us treated us no differently. We resumed school, lived active lives, and both became competitive swimmers, representing our province in championships, which took the majority of our time, focus and energy.

By the time we reached high school, our past experience had faded into the background. I was vaguely aware that Dad was trying to write a book about our story, but for us, the world was opening up. We spread our wings—university, careers, independence awaited.

Ironically, it was only when I finally read Dad’s book as an adult, more than thirty years after the event, that I began to truly understand the depth of what my parents had experienced. In a strange way, it stirred a kind of retrospective empathy—a delayed awareness of the trauma we had experienced.

At the time, we were simply too young to grasp the reality. However, with the benefit of age and reflection, Seth and I have come to realise just how easily we could have been trapped in a narrative of victimhood. Only in retrospect can we see how powerfully our parents shaped our perspective—choosing survival over victimhood, resilience over despair. Unconsciously, we absorbed that same mind-set.

While my memories of sailing have dulled with time, I do still hold a few clear memories. I do recall vividly the day before we ran aground and were taken captive. During a fierce storm, Arwen was tossed by the wind as Mom and Dad fought to control the yacht. Seth and I were safely below deck, watching through the portholes as they submerged, fish swimming past like in our own private aquarium. It was strangely magical.

Other fond memories of our time in captivity include simple pleasures such as rolling bicycle wheel rims around the camp with the boys without a care in the world, eating fresh cashew nuts, receiving sugarcane to suck, and fresh paper to draw on. While the experience was undoubtedly traumatic for our parents, we remember it largely as an unusual and exciting time—a testament to how well our parents shielded us from the brutal reality of the war we were trapped in.

Even the missile attacks, the mortar fire, and the near-daily gunshots have faded into curious fragments. Childhood has a way of softening the edges. Seth recalls running around after the shooting collecting bullet shells, blissfully unaware of the danger. I’m told I was frightened and hid during the shootings, but I have no memory of it. What I do remember is the freedom, the novelty, the games.

Laughter filled many of our days—childish, silly moments that still make us smile, though I suspect our parents found some of them rather mortifying and best left unsaid.

What has surprised me is how deeply moved I have felt while reading Not Child’s Play. At times, caught unawares, I have stood at the brink of a sadness I never expected. Recently, Dad discovered a charity called “Hostage International” and reached out to them. They asked for a copy of his book, and Dad asked me to deliver it. As it turned out, I was working just a few kilometres from their office.

That is how I met Georgina, head of communications at Hostage International. She must have sensed something in me needed sharing, because she invited me for a coffee. From that simple meeting, I’ve come to understand how important it is—even for those who think they’re fine and strong —to have someone who will listen with compassion.

From trauma can come growth, and should you choose, the ability to build a life that benefits others.  I now feel compelled to give back—to contribute to society in a way that honours the second chance my family was given. That gift is not something that should be taken lightly.