‘It was normal journalism’: Peter Greste explains how it all began
Australian Al Jazeera journalist Peter Greste along with his colleagues, Egyptian Baher Mohamed and Canadian Mohamed Fahmy, were imprisoned in Cairo amid false allegations of aiding the Muslim Brotherhood. In his book Freeing Peter, Greste recounts the 400 days he spent in prison just for doing his job and the events that led to his release.
When I arrived in Egypt, I’d had no trouble going through the airport. I didn’t apply for a press accreditation card, as it took two weeks to process, hardly worth the effort for a three-week stay. You only needed it to attend government news conferences, which we were able to receive live on local TV anyway, so there was no need to go in person.
Although not getting accreditation could have drawn attention, the reports we were doing were neutral and balanced. They weren’t especially focused on politics; we did a few stories about social issues, looking at normal people and normal life. Having been a foreign correspondent for twenty years, I knew what the safe ground for reporting was, and we didn’t go anywhere near the edge.
Having been a foreign correspondent for twenty years, I knew what the safe ground for reporting was, and we didn’t go anywhere near the edge.
Because of the political climate, we didn’t use big TV cameras in public, only small, high-definition handicams. If we were doing a stand-up, we would rehearse it first and do it in one take without attracting attention. But we weren’t hiding – we were in a well-known hotel with plenty of surveillance. We were specifically trying not to bring ourselves into conflict with local authorities.
Things changed on December 24, when there was a bomb blast at the Mansoura police station, to the north of Cairo, which killed and injured a number of police officers. The government accused the Muslim Brotherhood of being behind the blast, and for the first time declared it a terrorist organisation. Our report was very critical of the attack and included interviews with wounded police, as well as strong statements from the government. It was normal journalism.
Two days later there was a second bomb attack, this time in Cairo, and the government began a crackdown, with police arresting anyone they believed to be Brotherhood supporters. Following Friday prayers that week, there was a big protest against the crackdown. We covered the demonstrations, and filmed another about the impact of a government decision to ban all charities with links to the MB.
On December 29 we had a fairly quiet day, editing a story about commuters. I went for a walk around the neighbourhood, and was back at the hotel getting ready for a dip in the pool when there was a staccato knock on my door. It was odd. Anyone from AJE would call my mobile rather than come to my room, and the knock seemed quite forceful for the hotel staff. There was an authoritative, demanding loudness to it, an unexpected urgency.
Anyone from AJE would call my mobile rather than come to my room, and the knock seemed quite forceful for the hotel staff. There was an authoritative, demanding loudness to it, an unexpected urgency.
Slightly annoyed, I called out for whoever was there to wait, and there was a harder second knock. I went to the door and cracked it open. A bunch of men thrust it wide, six or eight of them, and bustled me backwards down the corridor into the bedroom. ‘Who are you?’ I shouted. ‘What the hell is going on?’ ‘Are you Mr Peter Greste?’ the smallest of them asked aggressively. Still backpedalling, I said, ‘Why? What does it matter?’
When he repeated his question I nodded, but continued asking why they were there. Another man had a video camera, which he was hosing around, pushing it at my face. I repeatedly asked for ID, saying, ‘Who are you? Where is your identification? Are you the police?’ I tried to hold my nerve and appear assertive, but it wasn’t working. They didn’t respond. A uniformed hotel security guard was the only one who was identifiable, and I asked him, again without getting a response, what was happening. Eventually one of the men grunted, ‘Interior Ministry.’ That was all they would tell me.
I briefly contemplated making a run for it – images of Matt Damon as Jason Bourne in my head – bolting off into the streets and leaving behind my overweight pursuers. But I realised that if I had to throw a punch I’d probably break my hand on someone’s chin.
They held me in my room for a few minutes while they gathered my computer, cables and other electronic equipment, as well as my notebooks, phone, wallet and passport, and put them in a rucksack. ‘You’re coming with us,’ a small man said. ‘Not until you tell me who you are and why you’re here,’ I said. ‘We are the police. You will come with us.’ ‘Where is your warrant and ID?’ I insisted. ‘Am I under arrest?’ Finally he said that he had a warrant but it was in Arabic, so there was no point showing me. They demanded that I open the safe.
I refused; I had about $US 8000 in it, cash to pay for my $US 250-a-night hotel bill plus expenses. It was standard to use cash in Egypt, but I wasn’t going to let these men take some extra holiday money courtesy of AJE. When they ordered the hotel security guard to get a master key to the safe, I yielded and opened it. To my surprise they didn’t pocket the money, and didn’t even count it. They let me take it.
But they wouldn’t tell me where we were going. I put on a black fleece jacket and my Akubra hat, and let them escort me in the lift to the ground floor. We crossed the large, covered concourse linking the two towers of the Marriott, where there were scenes of a normality I found surreal: glamorous couples sitting in bars, people smoking shisha pipes outside in the cool winter night.
Experience in Africa and South America had taught me that the best defence in these situations is a kind of feigned nonchalance. If they thought I’d nodded off, they might get tired of their silly little game and send me back up to my room.
Experience in Africa and South America had taught me that the best defence in these situations is a kind of feigned nonchalance. If they thought I’d nodded off, they might get tired of their silly little game and send me back up to my room.
Beneath the hat my mind was racing. I guessed we were waiting for Mohamed Fahmy. If they wanted to talk to me, surely they’d want to talk to him as well, since he was the senior producer in our team.
Then, after an hour or so, I heard his voice. The questions soon dried up, and after another hour or so we were handcuffed together and taken from the hotel to a van, the cameraman still filming us. We set off with Fahmy holding his shoulder and struggling with pain. He winced and groaned with every bounce of the vehicle.
We’d had no further opportunity to talk to Marwa beyond Fahmy’s last words as we left: “Call Al Jazeera!”
