Det brutale drapet på den amerikanske journalisten James Foley (40) har rystet en hel verden. Foley har vært savnet i to år, etter å ha blitt kidnappet på jobb i Syria i 2012.
Fotojournalisten kom fra en katolsk familie i Rochester, New Hampshire.
Tirsdag var familie og venner samlet i sorg i kirken Our Lady of the Holy Rosary, der familiens prest oppfordret til ikke bare å be for familien, men «også for de som har utført denne onde handlingen».
I en artikkel skrevet for magasinet til det jesuittdrevne universitetet i Marquette, beskriver Foley hvordan han under sitt 44 dager lange fangenskap i Libya i 2011 fant styrke i bønn, spesielt rosenkransen, og familiens tro.
I began to pray the rosary. It was what my mother and grandmother would have prayed. I said 10 Hail Marys between each Our Father. It took a long time, almost an hour to count 100 Hail Marys off on my knuckles. And it helped to keep my mind focused.
***
One night, 18 days into our captivity, some guards brought me out of the cell. In the hall I saw Manu, another colleague, for the first time in a week. We were haggard but overjoyed to see each other. Upstairs in the warden’s office, a distinguished man in a suit stood and said, “We felt you might want to call your families.”
***
I said a final prayer and dialed the number. My mom answered the phone. “Mom, Mom, it’s me, Jim.”
“Jimmy, where are you?”
“I’m still in Libya, Mom. I’m sorry about this. So sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Jim,” she pleaded. “Oh, Daddy just left. Oh … He so wants to talk to you. How are you, Jim?” I told her I was being fed, that I was getting the best bed and being treated like a guest.
“Are they making you say these things, Jim?”
“No, the Libyans are beautiful people,” I told her. “I’ve been praying for you to know that I’m OK,” I said. “Haven’t you felt my prayers?”***
My last night in Tripoli, I had my first Internet connection in 44 days and was able to listen to a speech Tom Durkin gave for me at the Marquette vigil. To a church full of friends, alums, priests, students and faculty, I watched the best speech a brother could give for another. It felt like a best man speech and a eulogy in one. It showed tremendous heart and was just a glimpse of the efforts and prayers people were pouring forth. If nothing else, prayer was the glue that enabled my freedom, an inner freedom first and later the miracle of being released during a war in which the regime had no real incentive to free us. It didn’t make sense, but faith did.
Phone call home |A letter from James Foley, Arts ’96, to Marquette.