by Dayna Curry
The chief justice began by asking us if we had a lawyer. We were all aghast.
Dayna: “They didn’t even tell us there was going to be a trial, and now they want to know if we have a lawyer?” I whispered to Heather.
Heather & Dayna: “How are we supposed to get a lawyer when we barely have contact with anyone on the outside?” Diana fired off.
Georg complained to the same effect. “We were never allowed to talk with anybody from the outside about anything, just about how we are doing and what our health is.”
“Now you are informed,” replied the unflappable chief justice. He told us we either could defend ourselves or hire a lawyer. The attorney could be Afghan or foreign, Muslim or non-Muslim.
Heather: “Your excellency,” I said, standing, “can you please explain to us the process by which we appoint a lawyer? As far as I know, none of us are familiar with the legal process in Afghanistan, so we therefore don’t know how to go about this.”
Heather & Dayna: A vague, unmemorable answer came back through the translator.
Donahue and his Australian and German counterparts complained about being denied access to us. For weeks they had tried to get in to see us before they were finally permitted a visit. If they were not allowed to see us, how could they help us find a lawyer?
Some in our group took advantage of the public setting to announce that they had no idea why they had been detained in the first place.
“I don’t even know why I need a lawyer,” Peter complained. “I have only been questioned once.”
“We don’t know why we are accused!” Diana blurted out.
All of us became more riled as the ordeal progressed, and the room seemed unbearably stuffy. After an hour, the chief justice dismissed us and told the press he would answer their questions at that time. Our parents and diplomats stayed behind.
As we walked out, our parents reassured us one more time that they would do everything possible to secure our release. “I love you,” they said as we walked out. We mouthed the same words back to them.
On leaving the room, we were not much wiser than we were when we entered. We knew we could hire a lawyer, but we did not know how we would find or hire one. The whole production seemed absurd.
Gun-toting guards called for Mariam, still ensconced in the back room, to join us, and then the men escorted us to the van. Numerous cameramen awaited us outside. We were all noticeably more relaxed. We did not cover our faces but instead waved and smiled. Various reporters with microphones in hand solicited sound bites about the proceedings as we walked to the van, but we provided no information.
On driving out of the compound, Georg said: “Wave at the camera, look happy. Your families are going to see this on television.” The cameramen waved back as we passed.
thirteen
TERROR BY NIGHT
SEPTEMBER 10, 2001
Heather: Late in the afternoon, Karim came to the courtyard and told us that Ahmed Shah Massoud, illustrious leader of the Northern Alliance, was rumored to be either dead or seriously injured. Two terrorists posing as journalists had been granted access to Massoud and detonated a bomb hidden in their camera. If Massoud was dead, we feared the Taliban likely would take over the northeast corner of the country, sealing their rule over Afghanistan for good.
If the Taliban was to defeat the Northern Alliance and conquer the country’s remaining pocket of opposition-held territory, what would happen to the Afghan people? Would their lives continue to deteriorate under the Taliban’s oppressive regime? Would the Afghans sink further into hopelessness? We were shocked and discouraged by the news. Our dream that Afghanistan soon would experience a new day seemed farther away than ever.
Can this get any worse? I thought.
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
Dayna: Near lunchtime we met with our diplomats in the boss’s office. Donahue brought us a package of practical items. The eight of us talked in small groups with our respective diplomats, then gathered together for a larger meeting.
There was some conversation about whether we could appeal to a somewhat recent Mullah Omar decree naming detention and expulsion as the punishment for foreigners in our position. Donahue indicated that the Taliban did not appear to want to use the decree as the controlling rule in our case.
“Mr. Donahue,” Heather asked. “Is there a possibility they will sentence us to death?” The Taliban did not seem inclined to impose so harsh a punishment, Donahue said, though some mention was made of Mullah Omar pardoning us should a death sentence be handed down.
Primarily, we discussed whether we should defend ourselves or hire a lawyer. We concluded that we needed someone familiar with Islamic law to defend us, someone who fully understood the charges and their ramifications. We did not want to hire a Western Christian; our preference was a Muslim Pashtun, and preferably not an Afghan, as the Afghans had already heard many incriminating and misleading stories about us. Along with a list of lawyers’ names, Donahue presented us with the resume of a young man who fit the profile.
Atif Ali Khan, a Pakistani, had studied at both American University’s Washington College of Law in Washington, D.C., and the International Islamic University, Islamabad. He spoke Pashtu, the language of the Taliban, though he did not speak Dari. He was a young man—only twenty-six—but seemed eager to take the case. We agreed to hire him.
Heather: Our parents came again to the boss’s office in the afternoon, but this visit involved an incredible surprise. Early in the morning, Karim had informed me my mother was flying to town. I was floored. My mother swore she would never come to Afghanistan. “If you go to Afghanistan,” she warned, “I will never visit you there.” She would meet me in Germany, or perhaps even Turkey, but that was the farthest east she would venture.
I knew my mother would be flying in on a UN plane from Islamabad. We saw a UN plane fly over our courtyard daily, and I guessed my mother would be on the plane that passed overhead midmorning. As the plane went by, I pointed it out to the Afghan women and said, “My mom is on that plane.” They shared in my joy. But following our meeting with the diplomats, the afternoon dragged.
Near three o’clock, we heard a knock at the gate. Our parents were in the compound. As Karim led us up the stairs to the boss’s office, my heart pounded with anticipation. My mother stood in the room waiting for me, and her husband, Del, was with her. We warmly embraced. My mom looked beautiful, not tired as I had expected.
Wrapped in a big wool scarf over black dress pants, my mother was doing her best to observe Afghanistan’s strict dress code. She needed a few pointers, though, and I asked one of the jailers for permission to assist her with her chawdur in the other room.
“You can stand in the hallway,” he responded.
I adjusted my mother’s scarf and presented her with a suitable Afghan outfit, which I had brought to the office from my room.
“You need to change into this when you go back to the UN compound,” I instructed. I gave her directions to Kabul’s used-clothing bazaar as well.
My mother asked me basic questions: Was I okay? Were the Taliban feeding us? Del’s presence was an obvious support for her, and I was grateful he had come.
When we all sat down along with my father, I wanted to discuss the attack on Massoud; but I was not supposed to know about it. Karim informed us of the attack in confidence. My dad, however, did make mention of the assault and encouraged me not to worry. “What happens to Massoud should not affect you. This should all be over in a month max.”
“A month!” I exclaimed. “It better not take that long.”
Dayna: As I talked with my mother, Karim came over to do his usual eavesdropping for the boss. The boss assigned him to take notes on our conversations with our parents. “We are talking about what we have been having to eat,” we said.
“Did you get the new eyeliner out of the package Donahue brought?” my mother asked.
I told her I did. To that point all of us had been sharing my eyeliner; this new
one was for Ursula. We could have lived without makeup, of course, but wearing it somehow made me feel more human.
My mom remarked that she had yet to see a completely accurate press report following the trial, though she did observe one correct quotation. A story reported me as saying “I love you” to my mother as I exited the courtroom. How strange to be scrutinized so closely.
Our parents left us in the late afternoon. Early in the evening, Karim came to our courtyard with more news.
Two planes had crashed into each other over Washington, D.C., and New York City, Karim reported. Four hundred people were dead. There was some mention of the U.S. Defense Building. The account was confusing. Why would people in Afghanistan care about a plane crash in America?
Karim went on to say that America thought Afghanistan had something to do with the crash, and he insisted Afghanistan was not guilty. We did not understand what he meant.
SEPTEMBER 12, 2001
Heather: At 2 A.M. I woke up with a great start.
“Diana, what was that?”
“That was a bomb, I think.”
Adrenaline coursed through my body. I was dazed, but I ran out to the courtyard. Red tails from tracer bullets streaked the sky. Bombs exploded one after another. Bullets from antiaircraft guns ripped through the air. What could I do? Where could I go to take cover? I started to cry.
Immediately, I thought of my parents. My poor mother. This was her first day in Afghanistan. And if something happened to my parents, what would become of my younger sister? She would lose everyone.
I went to the courtyard gate and started pounding to attract someone’s attention. That I did. Mariam tried to persuade me to stop banging. She was afraid she would get reprimanded for not controlling me. But at that point I did not care. Why were we all standing in an open courtyard in the middle of a bombing raid? Why were we not taking the necessary security measures?
Karim finally arrived at the door. His hair was matted and his clothes wrinkled. He wore no turban and obviously had just awakened.
“Karim, please take us to the basement,” I pleaded. “It is safer underground.”
Karim laughed. “There is no danger. The Northern Alliance just bombed the airport because Arabs tried to kill Massoud,” he explained. “Do not be afraid. We are not at war.”
An ordinary part of Afghan life for decades, the actions of war did not faze Karim. Nor did the bombing seem to disturb the female Afghan prisoners, many of whom were still asleep. But I was terrified. I had never heard a bomb explode in my presence.
Everyone’s seemingly lackadaisical attitude about the crisis was making me feel very insecure. All I wanted was for someone to take the necessary steps to ensure our safety, but no matter how hard I tried to reason with Karim or anyone else, no one was moving.
I took another approach: “Karim, please let me call my parents. I need to know they are safe.” He said it was not possible to make a call at that hour, but assured me he would try to get notes from my parents the next morning testifying to their well-being. I was not satisfied, though Karim’s offer would have to do for now.
Dayna: Mariam came to our room and asked me to speak to Heather in the courtyard. I tried to calm her.
“Karim and Mariam are not upset or looking for cover,” I said. “They must know something we don’t know. They are more familiar with war and bombing. If it were terribly serious, they would be moving to safety.”
By that point, the explosions had stopped. “It is over for tonight,” Karim stated conclusively. “They will not be coming back.” I trusted Karim.
Heather asked to speak with Georg, and Karim sent for him. It was odd, even comical, to see Karim without his turban. He looked meek, almost like a boy.
Georg came in and spoke to Heather: “It’s not serious. You should go back to bed.” She was not convinced.
Kati and I agreed that if the bombing started up again, we would consider going with Heather to the nearby basement. My only condition was that there be no mice. If there were, Heather would have to go it alone. But the bombing never resumed.
Heather: I walked around the courtyard until daylight, praying and thinking. I needed to be on the alert. I wanted to be prepared for anything. My mind ran incessantly. I wanted to go home; I wanted it all to be over. I was so exhausted. My eyes burned, and my stomach hurt. It wasn’t fair that no one else was afraid. I hated that the pressure was overwhelming me. I wanted to be courageous and brave, but I felt so frail—so alone. Finally, I sat down.
Karim came to see us after breakfast. I asked again to see my parents.
“There is no way to arrange it,” he explained. “I cannot get permission for this.” I pressed, and Karim promised to try.
We did not see Karim again until early evening. He came with short notes from our parents assuring us of their safety. My mother wrote: “Please don’t fret. We are fine. We will be fine. I am very happy to be here and grateful that we had our visit yesterday. You take care of yourself. We will all get through this. We love you very much.”
My dad wrote that he would send a longer letter the next day.
Though I was grateful to know my parents were alive, I needed some straight answers. “Please try to arrange a phone call,” I insisted.
Karim graciously agreed to see what could be done.
Dayna: Between seven and eight in the evening, Karim and Big Eyes came to get us. Kati came, too. Karim said, “I am doing this without permission. Please do not tell anyone. My friend has agreed to let you call from his office.”
We walked through a portion of the compound we had never seen. We had no idea the facilities were so expansive. Several long, rectangular buildings bordered a huge open courtyard. Karim explained that we were in the madrassa where boys were housed for religious training. We could see the boys in their rooms as we walked down a long sidewalk beside one of the barracks.
“Do the boys stay here all the time?” I asked Karim.
“Those from the villages stay overnight. Others only come for lessons during the day.”
We turned into a desolate courtyard, entered a building, and reached Big Eyes’s office. In the corner of the office, a tiny boy slept. The boy’s head was wrapped in a black turban. He was an orphan, we learned. Big Eyes told us the boy was like a son to him.
Karim phoned the United Nations compound several times before he was able to get through. First he put Heather on with her dad. While Kati and I waited, we learned that Big Eyes was engaged to be married. We chatted. “Are you excited to see her?” I asked.
Heather: “I heard what happened in America,” I told my dad.
“You did? Well, you could not have written a worse script. But don’t worry. You’re going to be okay. We will all be okay.”
Finally, someone was admitting that our situation was serious. Not that admitting it made the experience any easier, but at least I felt understood. I deeply appreciated my dad’s optimism. Hearing his voice, I gained strength.
“I want you guys to leave immediately,” I insisted. “I want you to get out of Kabul. You must stay safe.”
“Well” he said soberly, “we are being evacuated.”
It occurred to me that whatever had happened in America must have been more serious than what Karim described. Why else would my parents be forced to leave? My dad offered no information.
“You know I wouldn’t leave unless I absolutely had to,” my dad assured me. “We have no option at this point. I will go to Pakistan and stay there. I will be there when you get out. Do not worry. For our sakes, please do not worry.”
He said they were leaving letters and money to be delivered to us the next day.
Before I passed the phone off to Dayna, I spoke with my mother and Del. Though my mom wept as she talked, she still sounded hopeful. Del was steady and optimistic. Were they really convinced my circumstances would be resolved? Or were they simply telling me what I wanted to hear? I chose to believe the former.
When I said goo
dbye, I was not certain whether I would ever see or talk to my family again. As our captivity continued, I wondered many times if that phone conversation had been our last.
Dayna: When my mother got on the phone, she encouraged us to rethink the decision to hire a lawyer. She thought it would be more expedient for us to defend ourselves, especially considering that Mullah Omar would have the last say on our sentence.
She wrote an e-mail to my father after the call: “I just spoke with Dayna. We were going to try to keep the news of the attacks in the U.S. from them, but they knew about it I think … [S]he knows we are going back to Islamabad. I didn’t tell her that [all foreigners were] going, too.”
My mother told me leaving Kabul at that moment was the hardest thing she had ever done. “I feel like I’m deserting them,” she wrote later in another e-mail update. She promised to stay in touch through a contact in Kabul. She said she would leave some jam, soup, and other essentials to be delivered.
“Do not worry,” I told her. “God will take care of us. Just keep praying.”
As Karim and Big Eyes escorted us back to the courtyard gate, Heather asked the men some questions about the previous night’s bombing. Big Eyes proceeded to share stories about his own personal experience of war.
“I have grown up fighting all my life,” he said, standing at our gate. “I have seen war, and I love war. I love fighting in the name of God. I love jihad.” He talked about fighting against Russia and other “infidel” nations, or countries that do not embrace Islam. His forthrightness shocked us.
“What are we?” Heather asked.
“Well,” he replied with a startled look. “You are our guests. You are our guests because you came here to Afghanistan to help our people. And you will be fine if America does not attack Afghanistan. But if America attacks, it will be very bad for you.”
Heather: On returning to the courtyard, all I wanted to do was go to sleep. What a distressing day. I longed to close my eyes and forget about it. Now that I knew my family was safe, I would be able to sleep. But at ten o’clock that night, Karim returned.