![]() He has no idea why, on this warm summer night, he is being trafficked at gunpoint over the Chechen border by a group of unidentified men whose language he doesn’t speak. ![]() The action-packed panels are captioned with André’s narration: it’s 1997, and he’s working as a financial administrator on a Médecins Sans Frontières mission in the Russian Republic of Ingushetia. A bearded Frenchman named Christophe André is wrestled out of bed, shackled, and dragged off into the night. A car, headlights slicing white across the panel, pulls up to the building. ![]() The drama of the next thirty pages unfolds in darkness. ![]() And then a single, arresting phrase: “It was in the early morning hours of July 2 that I was kidnapped.” The rest is space: a dark night sky stretching upwards, a plunge into deep bluish gray. ![]() The top of a building and some telephone wires edge along the bottom of the full-page panel. Against the white page, it feels like stepping inside on a sunny day: a layer of inky shadow flattens, disorients. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the first panel of Guy Delisle’s Hostage. ![]()
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