by Dayna Curry
I struggled with the decision to lie for the Aamirs. I still struggle with it. Reading scripture, I understand lying to be wrong. But how do I respond when I know people might die based on the way I answer a question?
At the time, covering for the family seemed the right thing to do. We had seen one of their men put into a trunk and taken away. We knew family members might be tortured or killed because of their inquiries about Jesus. I had to balance the ethical principle of always telling the truth with the fate of someone’s life—an issue I had never considered or faced before. In the end, I did what I thought best at the time. I wanted to protect our Afghan friends who were innocent of any wrongdoing. And I wanted any blame or punishment to fall on us.
Later in the questioning, signs pointed toward our having been set up on the day of our arrest. Our interrogators seemed to possess foreknowledge of our plans on that day, Friday, August 3. During one session, a Talib told us he had been waiting outside the Aamirs’ home for hours while we were inside with the family. We later found out two or three Aamir men initially had been arrested but then were released; and we did not hear another word about the family from any of our contacts in prison. If the family had not been cooperating with the Taliban, then the religious police no doubt would have made a point to punish them harshly as an example to all Afghans. For the family’s sake, Dayna and I very much hoped that we had been set up. We never found out what happened. We prayed the Aamirs were safe.
Regardless of what actually happened between the Taliban and the Aamirs leading up to our arrest, because I decided to lie for the family, I had to ask myself: Was I willing to take the punishment for the Aamirs? Was I willing to die in the place of these Afghans who as far as I knew merely had exercised their inalienable right to freedom of conscience?
Originally—according to some language that we understood to be written into one Taliban edict—it did not appear that Dayna and I would be sentenced to anything worse than a five-year prison sentence for sharing our faith with the Aamirs, even if we had taken all the initiative as we claimed. Our Shelter Germany coworkers, of course, had not been with us at the scene the day we were arrested, making the specter of a harsh sentence for our group more remote. But as our interrogations progressed, I quickly realized that we were in deeper water than we had first thought. Death began to seem a real possibility. And it terrified me.
I do not remember the first time I felt afraid. I recall that during those early days in prison my heart felt peaceful. I knew God was with me wherever I went; he would not fail or abandon me. Daily I spent time with God in prayer, worship, and reading the scriptures. This time was life to my soul. I felt strengthened and comforted by Jesus.
Gradually, however, over the course of the initial three weeks, fear gripped me. We were under tremendous pressure. The interrogations took all of my mental, emotional, and physical energy. We had no idea when we might be released or when we might be able to contact our loved ones. It appeared the Taliban wanted to convict us of a high crime and make an example of us before a watching world. I broke under the strain.
I cried almost daily in the courtyard. Mariam, our overseer, comforted me and begged me not to cry. The boss even came to the yard to check on me. We were their guests, he claimed. He wanted us happy and healthy.
“Do you need a doctor?” he asked one day. I suggested the Taliban let me call my father; that was the only medicine I needed. But the boss thought my request too steep.
Much of my distress stemmed from concern for my parents. Here I was in a Taliban prison after my mother had begged me not to go to Afghanistan. My younger sister had just passed away one year earlier. Before coming to Afghanistan I acknowledged I might face persecution, imprisonment, suffering, and even death as inevitable aspects of the normal Christian life. To the best of my ability I faced these prospects where I was concerned. But the arrest had happened so soon, and what would become of my family should they lose a third child? I worried that my dad might suffer a heart attack.
In the face of death, I grew faint. I was not confident that I would give up my life for my Afghan friends. “Lord, I’m not there yet,” I wrote in my journal. I was so disappointed in myself. Why was I falling apart? “Lord, change me!” I wrote. “Let me be so free that I could lay my life down for my friend [and] even my enemy.”
When I later learned that Taliban officials were talking about the death penalty as a sentencing option in the media, it confirmed my worst fear. The Taliban announced that they were going to try us in the Supreme Court of Afghanistan under Sharia law, and my heart sank further. To our knowledge, the Taliban had never gone to such extremes to punish foreigners. As the aftermath of the September 11 terrorist attacks on America unfolded in Kabul, fear nearly wiped me out. My heart physically hurt with the pressure and pain. I felt as though I were suffocating. “Oh, God,” I cried. “Why don’t you do something? I feel like I’m dying.”
I wrestled with God. I did not understand why he was letting everything crumble around me. I could not grasp why after spending only four and a half months fulfilling my destiny in Afghanistan I might lose my life. I was not ready to die, not at the age of twenty-four. “I have only just begun to serve you,” I prayed. “Would you allow it all to end now?” I was so confused.
I often have wrestled with God, and in doing so have learned a great deal. By asking tough questions about issues or conflicts, I have come away from various trials in life with a deeper understanding of both God and myself. I have not always gotten clear answers from God, and in those cases, I was able to declare, “Jesus, I love you. I trust you. I am going to follow you even if I do not understand.”
But to come to that point of surrender and healthy resignation, I had to have started with the presupposition that God is good, that God’s ways are higher than mine. Without such a foundation, wrestling with God becomes an excruciating ordeal. You have nothing to stand on. Such was my experience for the better part of my captivity in Afghanistan. I fought hard with God, and I lost.
Only two weeks into the ordeal, I wondered how our situation could get any worse. Did God hear my prayers? I cried out like the psalmist David: “Listen to my prayer, O God. Do not ignore my cry for help! Please listen and answer me for I am overwhelmed by my troubles. My enemies shout at me, making loud and wicked threats … My heart is in anguish. The terror of death overpowers me. Fear and trembling overwhelm me. I can’t stop shaking. Oh, how I wish I had wings like a dove; then I would fly away and be at rest!” (Psalm 55:1–6, New Living Translation).
David’s heart encouraged me. It helped me to know that men of faith also struggled and spoke honestly with God. When life closed in around David, when he was being attacked from all sides, he never withheld his feelings from God. He was honest about his pain, his struggles, and his fear. As I read almost daily from the Psalms, I understood what I read in an altogether new way. Until prison, never in my life had I faced literal enemies, nor had an actual battle been waged against me. Through our daily interactions with the Taliban, I confronted both phenomena.
The other Shelter Germany women tried to encourage me. They would pray with me; some would hold me. Diana suggested that I closely study Psalms 27 and 91. In Psalm 91, I read: “Because he has loved me, therefore I will deliver him; I will set him securely on high, because he has known My name” (v. 14, New American Standard).
“Though a host encamp against me, my heart will not fear,” stated Psalm 27. “Though war arise against me, in spite of this I shall be confident” (v. 4, NAS).
Nevertheless, I did not feel confident. In the midst of chaos and ever-deteriorating circumstances, I lost touch with these scriptural truths.
Over the next weeks and months, I tried to hold on to God. I looked up verses in the Bible that described God as my shield, my defense, and my refuge. I meditated on the miracle-working power of God and the sufferings of Christ. I was reminded that Jesus, who had died on the cross for me, understood my pain. I was not alone. I re
ad about the persecution of the early church in the New Testament Book of Acts. My experience was not so different from that of others who followed Christ throughout history. Many were imprisoned and even killed for their faith. Despite our uncertain fate, I caught glimpses of hope. God was working out a beautiful plan for my life and the nation of Afghanistan, and I was grateful to be a part of it.
Ultimately, though, my struggle with fear and my inability to break through the despair strained my friendships with the other Shelter Germany women. We fought among ourselves and tension escalated. At times I endured deep rejection, and so did they. For two weeks I stayed away from the daily worship and prayer meetings we held in our room. I felt hypocritical worshiping God with the others while our relationships were under duress. Instead, I spent honest time alone with God praying for deliverance from the fear.
nine
REFORM SCHOOL UNIVERSE
Right now one of my best time passers is fly killing. We ordered some fly swatters last week, and we kill an average of 200 flies a day. It helps me keep my hand and eye coordination at peak level.
—LETTER TO A FRIEND, AUGUST 21, 2001
Dayna: On our first full day in prison, Saturday, August 4, the boss began ordering meals for Heather and me from the Herat Restaurant downtown. “You are our guests here,” he told us.
For that day’s lunch Mariam brought in Kabuli palau, the oily Afghan rice dish with meat, raisins, and carrots. After several meals in a row from the restaurant, we told the boss to quit placing orders. We did not feel right about receiving special treatment. Mariam—or her alternate, Lumya—would bring in bread and several bowls of food usually oily vegetables, for the women to share at lunch and dinner. We wanted to eat what the other women were eating, and this arrangement suited the boss. His money was running thin.
On that first day while the senior Talib was trying to locate an English translator and—we hoped—a note from our boss, Heather and I wrote a song called “Fear Not.” We incorporated several verses of scripture, particularly a passage from Isaiah that was special to Heather. “Fear not, I am with you,” the song started. “Fear not, you are mine.” Then a verse picked up:
When you walk through the waters they will not overtake you;
When you walk through the fire you will not be burned;
When you go through the valley, I will be with you:
You are mine.
“Do not let your heart be troubled,” went another one of the lines. “Do not let it be afraid.” We often sang this song to encourage ourselves.
Late Saturday night the boss came to our room with a few of his right-hand men. They brought in plastic sacks and seemed excited. The boss wore a big smile. “See, your friends know where you are. We have had contact with them.” He told us that our boss had brought these gifts for us. Later we found out an Afghan brought them on Georg’s behalf.
In the bags were a couple sets of clothing, underwear, bottled water, jam, butter, cake, cookies, and plastic ware. We gave the jam to the Afghan women the next morning. We wanted them to have a special treat, but we also expected to be released soon. Our Taliban interrogators kept telling us, “It will only be two or three days. You will be okay. It will be over soon.” Mariam, too, would tell us, “It won’t be long before they let you go.”
In the beginning, the interrogators wanted to put together our profiles. They asked Heather and me questions about our families, and since both of us had divorced parents, the subject of divorce came up for discussion. The men were intrigued that we did not agree with divorce. A couple of times they even complimented us on our morals.
“But what about you?” the men asked. “Are you nuns? Do you not want to be married?”
I explained that in our culture our parents did not arrange our marriages for us. “We are waiting on God to bring the right person.” They nodded but looked puzzled.
By this time the boss had found us another translator, Noorahmed, to replace the first translator. Noorahmed lasted only a couple of weeks.
One day he said to me, “You should become a Muslim. You will be happy if you become a Muslim.”
I said, “Thank you, but I love Jesus. He changed my life, and I am very happy.”
“How did he change your life?” Noorahmed asked.
“I did many bad things when I was younger. I did not obey my parents. Then I asked Jesus to come into my life, and he gave me a new clean heart. He changed me. Now I have a good relationship with my parents.”
One morning Noorahmed brought in a note he had written to Heather and me. He did not give the note to us, but he read it to us aloud. In the note Noorahmed encouraged us to be strong and not to be afraid. “I do not expect anything from you, but I want you to know I am going to help you.” We never saw him again.
Sunday afternoon, August 5, all of the Afghan women ran to the courtyard gate. Heather and I were sitting on the cement steps outside our room after a grueling day of questioning.
“They are bringing in foreigners!” the women exclaimed. In walked Kati and Silke. We ran over to them and hugged them.
Diana and Ursula came next. Mariam separated Heather and me from the others, but we learned later what had happened.
An emergency Shelter Germany prayer meeting had been scheduled for 2 P.M. that day. Kati had gone to the street kids project beforehand to collect some things. Everyone anticipated that the Shelter Germany facilities would be searched. In fact, a cadre of Taliban showed up at the project while Kati was still there. The men told her they wanted to bring her into custody to question her. She said she needed to return to her house first, and the Taliban conceded.
When they all got to the house, the men followed Kati inside and arrested Silke, too. Fortunately, Silke was able to grab a substantial amount of cash before she left. This cash lasted us the three and a half months we spent in prison.
We learned some weeks later that our leader, Georg, was passing by Kati and Silke’s house while the Taliban were inside. When Georg stopped to see what was happening, a couple of Taliban roughed him up and pushed him into their vehicle. Kati and Silke never saw Georg, and, in fact, it was some time before any of us Shelter Germany women even could confirm Georg’s arrest.
Meanwhile, Ursula and Diana had gone to the Shelter Germany office in Shar-e-Nao to get money out of the safe. There was quite a lot of money in the office, since Shelter Germany was about to start a large project at the refugee camp in Herat. When the women arrived, they saw that the Taliban had barricaded the compound’s front gate. A Talib assured Diana and Ursula that he would try to find a key. In the meantime, the women stood outside the gate and waited.
As the women were waiting, an armed Taliban guard fired a shot in their direction as if to intimidate them. Soon afterward, Diana realized that no one had gone to fetch a key. In fact, she recognized, the Taliban likely were preparing to arrest them. She and Ursula decided they had better leave the scene, but as they turned, another Talib made a gesture as if he was going for his whip. The women decided it would be wise to stay put.
At that time Diana sent out a call on her handheld radio. “We are outside the office,” she said. “They’re here to take us.” A Talib took the radio out of Diana’s hands as people began responding to her call.
In the midst of the radio episode, Diana spotted her countryman Peter Bunch and an Afghan man approaching the gate in one of the organization’s vehicles. Suddenly, she heard a skidding noise and thought, Oh, good. They saw us and got away.
But moments later Peter drove up—he could not leave the women there. When he came to a stop, the Taliban instructed Diana and Ursula to get into the vehicle. Then the Taliban themselves climbed in and told Peter to drive. The whole group went together to the reform school prison compound. On their arrival, Diana and Ursula were brought back to our courtyard, Peter was taken away—eventually to a Vice and Virtue prison, we later learned—and the vehicle was confiscated.
At some point, Shelter Germany’s sixteen
Afghan employees were rounded up and arrested, too. We found out later that all remaining foreign Shelter Germany workers fled the country the next morning, Monday, before dawn.
Interrogations proceeded apace once the other four Shelter Germany women were brought to the prison. By that time we were being taken to the boss’s office each day for questioning. The sessions were very draining; in particular, grappling with the issue of truth-telling took a large amount of emotional energy.
Neither Heather nor I wanted to lie, but we were decided about generally denying the Aamir family’s interest in Jesus to protect their lives. I did not have trouble justifying the lie, given what could happen to the Aamirs if their interest in Jesus were exposed. Rather, navigating the ripple effects of this general lie is what created stress and difficulty.
“We have found these folders of copies in the Aamir house,” the boss announced one day. He meant the copies of my children’s storybook that I had handed to the grandmother on the day of our arrest. The boss asked who had given the family the copies.
“I did,” I confessed.
I claimed I made the copies of the book on my own initiative, which was a reach. I had initiated making copies in the sense that while declining to give Aly and his relative the book, I had offered instead to make copies. But by omitting the fact that the family members ever asked me for the book in the first place, I felt I was riding the line on truthfulness.
When the boss asked us whether we had shown the Aamirs the film about Jesus, Heather and I tried to protect the family by asserting simply that we had experienced computer difficulties that day. The implication, if the Taliban chose to read our answer this way, was that because of our difficulties we had not shown the whole film. What the Taliban chose to conclude was their business, of course; but I would have felt more comfortable telling the boss flat out, “We showed the whole film.”