CNN Senior International Correspondent Nic Robertson and his crew were detained Friday in Tajura, Libya, east of Tripoli by forces loyal to Libyan leader Moammar Gadhafi. This is his account.
For a few moments today, for us personally, Libya‚Äôs lies and deceit were swept aside and the real deal was brutally exposed.
‚ÄúItla, itla‚ÄĚ - "Get in the car, get in the car!" - he was screaming. My cameraman, Khalil Abdallah, and I hesitated for a split-second. But that's all it was.
We were staring down the barrel of an AK-47, the weapon was jumping in his hands. He was cocking it, wrenching the handle back, a bullet being slammed into the firing chamber.
It was only a split-second.
We are free to go anywhere, any time, talk to who we want, when we want. That's what Moammar Gadhafi‚Äôs son told me, that's what Libya told the U.N. We already knew it was all lies - look at any number of our colleagues, arrested, detained, in some cases, beaten - but today it came home to us personally.
The hyper-aggressive jerk with the gun had just hit the jackpot.
There was him and three others. They were grabbing us, bundling us towards their pickup truck. He had a pistol in his belt, one of the others kept his AK trained on us too, and an older guy with the grey beard was speed-dialing his phone.
These are Gadhafi‚Äôs enforcers. They were looking for us.`
As Khalil and I were pushed through the car doors, clambering over the body armor these thugs had strewn over the seats, I could see the rest of our team try to drive away.
We got to Tajura in a random taxi that had picked us up as we walked down a street. Now it was the best hope producer Tommy Evans had to get away and report our detention.
But it was too late. They'd been spotted, blocked, and stopped, and as I watched, Tommy was forced out of the car, kicked by another thug who already had his AK pointed at Tommy‚Äôs face.
Another member of this plainclothes security force pulled open our car door, started rifling through my pockets. Patting me down about as aggressively as he could. There was nothing we could do.
They were demanding our phones, asking where was our camera.
They'd only just got hold of us. This was no accidental arrest, no fortunate stumbling across a news team. They had planned this all along.
We were trying to cover Friday prayers on the same streets where last week police attacked protesters firing tear gas and live rounds. Now it was clear they were out in force.
The questions began. "Where are you from? Where are you from?" It seemed they didn‚Äôt quite know what to do with us.
"We are going to cuff you and we are going to throw you out of the country," the angry thug with the AK and pistol was shouting at us. Then the guy on the phone got orders. The press office would pick us up.
They'd known all along who to call - the government officials who'd invited us to the country. We parked by the roadside. No chance to call CNN head office; they had our phones now.
But much worse, they were bringing the innocent taxi driver with us. He'd done nothing more than give us a ride. He had no idea he might get in to trouble. The poor fellow looked increasingly nervous.
Not much younger than me, he probably has a family waiting for him. We felt terrible for him. But there was nothing we could do to protect him. Our camera was on the floor of his car, our kit in his trunk.
In the eyes of these government heavies, our taxi driver was guilty by association. But guilty of what, what had we done? Nothing - we'd not even shot a single picture. No interviews, nothing, just driven in to a neighborhood with an anti-government reputation.
The gunmen were smoking, bored now that the thrill of the chase was over. They called again: "Where was the ride to take us back to the hotel?" The answer: "We're busy, bring them in yourself."
Amid screeching tires and the stench of burning rubber needlessly ground into the tarmac, we took off. A final indignity for these hard men, they'd got the mundane job of delivering us back to government officials.
The violent invective started again. "You should go to Palestine and film what the Israelis are doing. You should leave Libya, go to Afghanistan, report what‚Äôs happening there," "Libya mia mia," repeating a chant we‚Äôve heard many times, meaning Libya 100%.
We were screaming down the highway close to 100 mph, the radio blasting out a Gadhafi anthem, the driver pumping out the beat with his fist in the air. One-handed driving at its most worrying.
At the hotel gates, the realization we weren't alone, the realization of why the Libyan government press office had no spare vehicles to pick us up.
Dozens of other journalists like us were being brought in under armed guard, signed over to our minders. One was OK about our detention, claiming, "You know if you are there they will protest; if you don't go nothing will happen."
Of course, the protests began long before the government allowed in reporters, but that kind of logic carries no weight here.
Another official waiting for us, one I'd not seen before, was more aggressive, telling cameraman Khalil: "If you‚Äôve shot anything, I'm going to take you to the airport and deport you."
It took a long time to convince him Khalil hadn't shot any footage. Some journalists we talked to were inside the mosque when they were arrested. How they got out of that threat, I don‚Äôt know.
But right now we had only one concern: our taxi driver. We pleaded for his release –by now he could barely speak - but we were ignored.
He was stuttering and trembling as they stuffed him in his car and drove him away.
I still don‚Äôt know what‚Äôs happened to him. Our ordeal is over, but I fear his may only just be beginning.
That‚Äôs the reality of life here under Gadhafi‚Äôs rule.