Hoda

by Hoda Kotb

  When you travel to a foreign country as a television crew, you always hire what’s known as a “fixer.” He or she is someone who knows the local area, knows how to talk to the military, translates the language, knows what areas are safe, knows where to get lunch, and all that invaluable stuff. Our fixer was named Hamid. He was a great guy and told us how one day he’d been arrested by the Taliban just for wearing a hat during prayer time. Hamid was with us as we prepared to shoot a stand-up near a tank off the Southern Half Road. We’d asked Hamid if that stretch was mined, and he told us no.

  Tracking bin Laden

  Honestly, I had my doubts. Just a few days earlier, we’d picked a shooting location where Hamid assured us there were no mines. However, we drove by the same location the next day and saw demining crews laying down red stones in the exact same place. “This is where we shot!” I gasped, looking wide-eyed out the car window. Hamid apologized. So, with that mess-up in mind, I was very nervous at this latest location, tiptoeing behind our body guard as he stomped on any and all lumps to see if they were mines. (Isn’t there a better system?!) The region was infested with them. Looking back, that seems so stupid—too risky.

  Our next shooting location was the desert. There were camels everywhere, wandering and watching us. I shot another stand-up, this time near a nomadic tribe. There were so many beautiful children! If you spilled a box of marbles, you still wouldn’t see all the colors that we saw in their eyes—ice blue, sea-foam green, cat’s-eye yellow, deep emerald. I got so filthy during our desert shoot. Dust, dirt, and sand were everywhere. The baby wipes I rubbed across my face turned completely black.

  The next day, we went back to Kabul to shoot along Chicken Street, a busy area with shops and outdoor markets. What a huge pain. As it turns out, the urge to say “Hi, Mom!” in whatever language is a constant around the world. Wherever we set up our camera, out came the crowds and waving hands. It took us forever to get a clean take. Our hotel was getting old, too. The toilets—though we were glad to have them—were filthy. The water only trickled, and the rooms felt like saunas in the 100-plus-degree temperatures. The good news was that we were leaving. The bad news? Sudan.

  What a hole. Government minders followed us everywhere. Add to that 115-degree heat and the rainy season. We shot all day in primitive villages. I was amazed that somehow the children who lived there were smiling. With no balls or toys to play with, they kicked around old cans and glass bottles. They lived in huts side by side with the family goats. No water, no electricity. Whenever we took a photo of the children, they always wanted to stand near their cow—a status symbol—just like posing near the shiny new car.

  We shot a stand-up on the road that bin Laden’s construction company built, another by his office in Khartoum. The women there were dressed in striking colors: bright oranges, vibrant greens and reds. They covered only their hair, not their faces or eyes—a refreshing change from Kabul. Our stand-ups completed, we headed for Islamabad. I was tired and had lost some weight on the Pepcid AC diet. Ugh. I would’ve loved to have flown home to the United States from Islamabad, but that would’ve been a mistake.

  I was just 300 miles away from a story heard round the world.

  Pakistan

  It’s nearly impossible to imagine how a woman could overcome such a cruel, treacherous, violent attack. But somehow, Mukhtaran Mai did. She was the reason I didn’t fly home. Dateline was now sending me to Pakistan to find her—a needle in a haystack in a tiny village in a time warp.

  The good news for me was that they paired me with producer Tim Uehlinger. The guy is amazing. It’s like he has an internal metal detector just for finding needles. And this was a story where even the haystack was hidden. I had to have him for a chance at finding her.

  Tim was waiting for me in the Islamabad International Airport at three-twenty in the morning, waving wildly from a sea of galabeas, long white housedresses worn by men in the region. He was carrying a treat—a box of LUNA bars. We took two flights to get to our final destination: Multan, a relatively modern city in east-central Pakistan. I have never felt more oppressive heat in all my life. We piled into a car for a three-hour drive to a small town whose courthouse had become a lightning rod. Inside, in the hours ahead, a historic verdict was to be handed down. Media was gathered from all over the world. Villagers angry for opposite reasons were jammed into the small, supercharged square. The area was in full turmoil when we arrived. I made it out of the car but had to wrestle my way through the masses to interview a defense attorney who claimed his clients were being railroaded because of international pressure. He insisted the filed police report in the case was a fake. “Yes, police are also an agency of the state,” he contended, “and this is all because of the pressure of the state.” So much emotion, so much anger, so much riding on the verdict. We had to get out of there. We had to leave the chaos and find the woman who was at the center of it all.

  Dateline told us Mukhtaran Mai lived somewhere in the Punjab region, an area of the world where the roots of civilization run staggeringly deep—nearly 4,000 years deep. As we drove farther and farther outside town, we realized not much had changed over those millennia. Tim had found us a police escort for two reasons: one, to point us in the direction of Mukhtaran’s village some 100 miles away; and two, to keep us safe from bandits who roamed the lawless and sparse route. I’d use the word “roads,” but that would be generous. Rugged and treacherous might be generous, too. I’ll never forget the sight of a wooden cart caught in a deep crater, the donkey suspended in air. He was calm, as if it happened often, and simply hung from his cart like Max from the sled in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.

  Why were we trying to find Mukhtaran? Because her story had made headlines around the world. And we wanted to beat 20/20. We’d heard they were on the trail, so our goal was twofold: beat the competition and tell this woman’s incredible tale of survival and strength.

  Two months earlier, thirty-year-old Mukhtaran had been raped—sadly, not a rare crime anywhere in the world, let alone in her small village of Meerwala. The reason this crime made news around the globe was that the local tribal council members in her village ordered Mukhtaran raped—by the members—as punishment for an alleged act committed by her twelve-year-old brother. Astounding. Fiendishly, the tribal councilmen had lured Mukhtaran and her father to them, claiming they needed her to simply apologize to a wealthier clan. Instead, they grabbed her and held her father at gunpoint. Fellow villagers looked on as she was led into a shed where she was raped repeatedly. After an hour, when the councilmen were finished, they stripped Mukhtaran and forced her to walk naked with her father and uncle through the village, assaulted once more by the screams and taunts of onlookers.

  The rapes and naked walk were designed to bring so much shame to Mukhtaran that she would consider suicide and her family members would become outcasts in the village. For thousands of years in this region, women have been punished for the crimes of men, in this case, Mukhtaran’s brother. He was accused of sleeping with an older woman from a wealthier clan. Dishonor to one family demands dishonor to the other, and often a female member is the pawn. This ancient tradition of justice is simply a way of life in the rural land. But the incredibly brutal nature of the punishment doled out by the tribal council caught the attention of a local imam. A few days after the rape, the Islamic leader publicly denounced the council’s decision as “evil.” Mukhtaran’s shattered family found strength in the imam’s support and reported the crime to police.

  That was the game changer. That’s when the terrible tale got what it needed to bring justice: ink. When Mukhtaran’s story appeared in Pakistani newspapers, word of her gang rape quickly spread around the world. The story ignited outrage and put pressure on the Pakistani government to do something. Within two weeks, the tiny village of Meerwala—with no water, no power, no electricity—was crawling with investigators. Fourteen men were arrested, death by hanging the potential punishment.

  (I should note, invest
igators also determined that Mukhtaran’s brother never did sleep with the older woman from the wealthier clan, but was instead sodomized by men in the clan. When he threatened to report it, he was set up with the phony story.)

  The pressure on Mukhtaran to remain silent was tremendous. She and her family were the target of constant death threats. Still, determined to see justice served, Mukhtaran took the rare step of publicly testifying about the gang rape. You can see why we’d want to search a desolate 110-degree plain for this strong, brave woman.

  The oppressive heat felt extra hot to me, as I’d developed a 103-degree temperature upon landing in Multan. Dr. Tim had tracked down some sort of exotic pill cocktail for me and urged me to down it. Red, blue, randomly shaped and sized—he plopped all the pills in my hand and I popped them into my mouth. I’m normally pill averse. But I’d flown all the way to Pakistan and did not want to miss the story. Tim, once again finding what we needed, saved the day.

  With our police escort, we headed out in a Jeep—Tim and I, two photographers, and a sound guy. The drive would take hours and hours, with no guarantee of finding Mukhtaran. We made an arrangement with police officials that once we got close to her village, they would point us in the right direction, then leave. We did not want to scare off Mukhtaran. Once we arrived in Meerwala, someone pointed to a hut and told us she was there. Somehow, in the middle of nowhere, we were exactly where we needed to be.

  The first thing we saw were goats wandering outside in the yard. Then Mukhtaran’s father standing by the door. I spoke a bit of universal Arabic to him. Sort of a “Hi, how ’ya doin.” He extended his hand and we shook hello. He led us inside, where we met the family, including Mukhtaran. She was covered from head to toe, just her eyes revealed. Flies buzzed throughout the hut. At this point, you may be wondering: Why did he let us in? Weren’t they suspicious of the media? The only way I can explain it is that our world is so far removed from the world they live in, they’re just not familiar enough to feel afraid. They had been through hell in their neck of the woods. Whatever threat we may have presented just did not compute.

  We spent a bit of time getting comfortable, meeting each family member and looking around the hut. Finally, we sat down with Mukhtaran, who agreed to be interviewed. As is the case whenever a translator is involved, the pace and flow of the conversation was a bit bumpy. And I couldn’t fully see her eyes. Even the small slit she looked through was covered by another thin veil. Still, I could feel her and I liked her. She was timid by nature, not because of our presence. Knowing what she’d been through, I was completely amazed by her composure and strength to pursue her attackers.

  “If I had my way, I would have subjected them to the same treatment,” she said. “If they were human, would they have done this? They are animals.” She quietly described the horror mixed with confusion. “I begged them for mercy. I kept praying to God,” she said, “and when they didn’t listen to me, I just prayed to God. I said ‘God, you know that I haven’t done anything wrong, so why is this happening to me? And do save me!’”

  Mukhtaran’s father agreed to speak as well, telling us how council members held a gun to his head as he watched men walk in and out of the shed. “What could I have done?” he explained. “I just prayed to God. There’s nothing I could have done.”

  Our interview lasted about thirty minutes. We headed back outside into the blazing sun. Tim was constantly ringing out sweat from a red bandana tied around his forehead. I had to shoot a stand-up before we hit the road, and I kept fumbling. I could not get a clean take and was sweating like an ox. Finally, we finished and began the long trip back to Multan, then home.

  • • •

  Back in the Punjab provincial town of Dera Ghazi Khan, it was time for the verdict in Mukhtaran’s trial. Hundreds of relatives and villagers had traveled the many miles to protest and pray outside the courthouse. Journalists from across the world awaited the decision. Armed police units erected barricades to hold back the restless crowd. Nothing happened fast. The trial extended well into the night. Mukhtaran had been advised to stay in her village, surrounded by police, when the verdict came down. We’d heard that angry clansmen had threatened to pour acid in the face of the brave imam who’d spoken up for Mukhtaran. In a special midnight session, jurors made their decision: death by hanging for six men involved in the gang rape. Dateline crews that remained behind captured Mukhtaran’s relief.

  “I think justice has been done. I hope that much good will come out of this decision. I’m praying that this becomes an example, and nobody else would dare touch another in this country, ever.”

  So many legal twists and turns have unfolded over the last eight years. As of this printing, Mukhtaran’s attackers remain in prison but the death penalty has been dropped. Her case is pending. With the money she was awarded by the Pakistani government, Mukhtaran built two schools in her village—one for girls and one for boys. The girls’ school, never an option for her, is the first ever in Meerwala. Money donated by supporters from around the world allowed Mukhtaran to create a women’s welfare organization to promote safety and opportunity for women. In 2006, her autobiography was released in English, titled In the Name of Honor.

  I love this endearing evolution—Mukhtaran’s last name is actually Bibi, but she has come to be known as I have referred to her throughout: Mukhtaran Mai, which means “respected big sister.”

  Tsunami

  “Oh, good, you’re here,” I heard, sitting in my office.

  “We need you to go to Southeast Asia right away.” Details of a horrible story unfolding there were flooding the newswires. I was told: “Hurry up and pack. There’s a night flight and we’ll need you to feed back tape as soon as you land because we’ll have a show coming up.” Damn. My producer and I were already behind—and we hadn’t even left.

  On the day after Christmas of 2004, a magnitude 9.3 earthquake struck off the northwest coast of the Indonesian island of Sumatra. The massive earthquake cracked open the ocean floor, launching the overlying water into a monster tsunami wave. The highest crest of the wave may have been as tall as 80 feet. An estimated 200,000 people were killed, including tourists from around the world and residents of thirteen countries.

  There was no way for us to get to the area fast. Our trip began with an eighteen-hour flight to Bangkok, Thailand. Airborne, with no access to the breaking and changing news of the tsunami’s aftermath, we were once again behind. When we finally landed, our emails reminded us to “Feed tape right way!” For goodness’ sake, we just hoped we could locate our London-based crew upon arrival so we could shoot something.

  Our next flight was aboard a twenty-seater plane, south to Phuket, an island off the west coast of Thailand. That’s where we had to find stories, fast. My producer, Justin Balding, and I decided to split up on the plane so we could sit next to passengers who might have interesting tales to tell. That would give us the head start we needed. I sat down next to an Australian surfer. I asked him why he was headed for Phuket. He told me his friend had been in the tsunami. “Oh, really,” I probed. “Yes,” he said. “He was in a boat, and the boat went up, and then went down.” Thankfully, he said his friend rode the big wave and was fine. My hunt continued for a better story, somewhere on that plane.

  The surfer continued to chat, showing me photos on his computer. I could barely focus, looking at pictures of his grandmother but worrying about my deadline. Then a photo popped up and the surfer said, “Oh, there’s my friend.” The photo showed a man in a wheelchair. Hold up—this was the man who rode the wave out on a boat? Our surfer had failed to share with me that his friend was disabled, had no use of his legs, and while tethered to the side of the boat, actually pulled another stranded person from the water. Now we had a story. The minute we landed, I asked him to call his friend. No answer. Panic. I asked him to try one more time. Success!

  “Oh, hey, mate. I’m with someone from . . . Where are you from? American television and they want to interview you.” />
  His friend said, “Sure, how about Wednesday?” I suggested in ten minutes.

  “Okay.”

  We headed for the beach. A dinghy was popping across the water toward us. In the name of speed, I waded out into the water to meet our guy, the crew following, splish-splash. Bruno Hanson was a thirty-three-year-old yachtsman from South Africa. Tan, beach blond, and Matthew McConaughey–fit, he looked completely seaworthy. He told us how, on that sparkling morning of December 26, he was sitting aboard his 50-foot catamaran moored in the shallow waters off Phuket when all of a sudden the cat dropped 10 feet in the water and began spinning out of control. Confused, Bruno had no idea what was happening as he clung to his wheelchair.

  “I was in the chair,” he said, “and I jumped over to the seat where I sit to control everything.”

  That’s when he saw it—the monster wave, barreling down on him.

  “It was horrific. I just sat there. I didn’t know what to do.”

  The water’s impact knocked him to the floor and he began to crawl. What a helpless feeling for anyone, let alone a man paralyzed from the waist down. Six years earlier, a car accident took his legs and now a killer wave was threatening to take his life. That’s why it’s even more amazing that this man, who somehow tethered himself to the boat, was able to pluck another man from the water who was clinging to a jet ski. Bruno and his grateful passenger watched in awe as the wave swallowed up the shoreline, hungry for more.