The microhostageBMJ 1995; 311 doi: http://dx.doi.org/10.1136/bmj.311.7021.1716 (Published 23 December 1995) Cite this as: BMJ 1995;311:1716
- Duncan Cameron, consultant paediatriciana
- aYsbyty Glan Clwyd Hospital, Rhyl, Clwyd LL18 5UJ
The day had begun like any other. I had spent time doing a few exercises; a little thumb sucking, some deep breathing, and some bending and stretching. It must have been then that I kicked the placenta. Deep crimson eddies invaded my world, and I felt out of control, blurred. The next I knew was a shaking and pummelling, a slicing, and a huge rubbery hand coming in to grab me. I had overheard talk about caesareans, about kidnapping. This was it: it was happening to me. As best I could, I tried to fight him off, but he had me by the legs and I had no strength to resist. I had been taken. “Skinned rabbit!” I heard my masked captor shout—clearly the code phrase for a successful snatch.
The noise at first was unbearable; shouts and urgency. The lights were dazzling. I opened my mouth to yell, but they stuffed a huge vacuum cleaner tube down my throat. I thought then that it would be best just to comply, so I lay there, not moving. This seemed to enrage them; they began beating me on the soles of my feet, where the bruises don't show. “Get the transport team!” I heard someone yelling down a phone.
The team arrived some …
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