by Dayna Curry
Nevertheless, Atif maintained his optimism about our prospects with the Taliban court. “You are not going to be used as pawns in this war,” he told us. “The war is a separate issue. The judge does not want to keep you here.”
Atif considered the Taliban in a more exalted light than we did. It seemed to us that the Taliban were trying to buy as much time as possible with the court case in order to use us as bargaining chips in the war game with America.
Since the judge would be taking his time, Atif told us he would return to Pakistan until given further notice from the court. “The judge is supposed to call me,” he explained. “I will be back as soon as I am contacted.”
We pleaded with him, “Please do not go. We need you to push our case forward.”
But Atif did not want to push the judge. He thought pressuring the judge would only backfire on us.
I became upset. Bismillah comforted me and assured me he would do whatever he could to help us. He promised to return within days. I appreciated Bismillah’s heart. He truly did care for our safety. I believed he would have risked his own security in order to keep our case moving. Still, when the two men left our prison, we had no idea whether we would see them again.
“God truly [is] our only hope,” I wrote in my journal.
In our group meetings we evaluated our circumstances and made the following determination: “We cannot put our hope in this lawyer. We cannot put our hope in this court case. We cannot put our hope in the diplomats. We cannot put our hope in parents. We cannot put our hope in the possibility that Mullah Omar might pardon us. There really is no other hope outside of the mercy and grace of God to perform a miracle on our behalf.”
Psalm 118:9 became a key scripture for us: “It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to trust in princes” (NAS).
Dayna: Day strikes started on October 15. Georg warned us to stay inside even if the bombs were distant. People die every day from stray gunfire, he told us. Whenever planes flew overhead, all of Kabul erupted in shooting. An antiaircraft gun was positioned in our compound for a period of time, and other guns were fired from surrounding compounds. The Taliban frequently placed weapons in the men’s courtyard of the intelligence prison for testing purposes. Georg said the Taliban kept their weapons in our compound because the men believed our presence guaranteed them protection from American bombs. Assuming the United States would be aware of our location and deliberately refrain from bombing it, delegations of Taliban would take shelter in our prison during the raids.
The day strikes further unnerved us—physically we were all affected. The bombs caused our bodies to shake; the explosions stunned us. Antiaircraft fire was loud and startling. Dealing with the bombs nightly took much energy. When the day strikes started, we lost our bearings to some degree.
In part, we lost the security of our daily routine, which kept us anchored. Once the day strikes started, we were forced to come in from the courtyard as soon as the planes flew overhead and shooting broke out. We could not wash clothes or dishes; we could not pump water for the toilet. We would leave our dishes outside and come in until things had quieted down. If I were having some private prayer time in the yard, I would have to cut it short.
Eventually I got used to the planes and the testing and would stay in the courtyard if the bombing and shooting were distant. Others did the same. Sometimes I lingered outside longer than was advisable. One day I saw an explosion across the city. A reddish billow of smoke ascended, and a fire started. Najib told us that a bomb had landed on an ICRC warehouse.
Meanwhile, we continued to pray fervently. We prayed no innocent lives would be taken. We prayed the Taliban would flee rather than go out fighting. We prayed for the strength and wisdom of President Bush. We prayed for Afghanistan’s restoration according to Isaiah 61—that now would be the time of God’s favor. At one point we heard that other nations had pledged to give aid money to Afghanistan. We prayed the nations would not shrink back from rebuilding the country and that aid would be given to the poorest of the poor.
Heather: We tended to pray for whatever seemed most unlikely or impossible. We believed God could do the impossible. He could turn these devastating circumstances around for Afghanistan’s good. Let the war be the thing that frees, not destroys, the Afghan people. Let there be dancing in streets instead of mourning. Prosper the land.
We prayed for our own situation. We prayed that men in authority would have mercy on us and let us go. To gain comfort, we often wrote songs based on Bible verses. Kati wrote a song after Psalm 86 titled “Hear and Answer Me.” The words to the song uplifted us all. One line ran, “Guard my life and rescue me, for I am devoted to you.”
Dayna wrote several of her own songs. One, titled “My Times Are in Your Hands,” was based on Psalm 31. The lyrics resonated deeply with us: “This waiting seems unbearable, not knowing what’s ahead. I’m feeling insecure, this world has nothing to hold on to. But Lord I trust in you.”
Eventually, we began toying with an idea Yvonne once mentioned to us—making a CD of worship music. Dayna pressed the idea at first, and later Kati took charge and helped us organize a list of our top fifteen favorite songs. We also talked about making another CD of original songs. We wanted to use the proceeds to raise money to help rebuild Afghanistan and meet the needs of the poor. We also hoped the songs that had given us strength through our captivity would greatly encourage others. Who knew if the project would materialize—but we could dream. Dayna, after all, was from Nashville.
Dayna: I read scriptures on perseverance. “Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him” (James 1:12, NIV).
This verse touched my heart. When I read it, I saw that the only requirement for receiving the crown of life was that I love God. If I could just come out of the prison experience loving and worshiping God, then I would be rewarded with a crown. God was only asking me to continue loving him.
I read Romans 5:3–5, and my heart awakened to the enormous privilege of our imprisonment. “[W]e also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; [and] perseverance, character.” I felt I was being tested as never before, but I had the opportunity to develop character.
Even as I reflected on the romantic relationship for which I still longed, I realized that if God had given me what I wanted—if he had allowed me to leave Afghanistan and date my friend—then I would have missed out on the honor of imprisonment. I actually became grateful that God had prevented the relationship from going forward. God wanted me to walk through this ordeal and come out on the other side with his best for my life—a deeper walk with him.
Heather: In several letters to friends and family, we wrote out a passage of scripture that seemed remarkably applicable and relevant to our situation. We hoped the passage would motivate the many people praying for our safe release and believed the power of prayer would alter the course of our circumstances, enabling us to make it out of the country alive.
The scripture, from 2 Corinthians 1:8–11, read: “For we do not want you to be unaware, brethren, of our affliction which came to us in Asia, that we were burdened excessively, beyond our strength, so that we despaired even of life; indeed we had the sentence of death within ourselves so that we should not trust in ourselves, but in God who raises the dead; who delivered us from so great a peril of death, and will deliver us, He on whom we have set our hope. And He will yet deliver us, you also joining in helping us through your prayers, so that thanks may be given by many persons on our behalf for the favor bestowed on us through the prayers of many” (NAS).
Dayna: On October 21, Atif returned just as he said he would. He and Bismillah came in carrying a box, a suitcase, and two big plastic bags. Among the toiletries and foodstuffs were gifts from NBC—two sets of long johns and a pair of hand warmers for each of us. Najib stood by inspecting the items as we took them out.
Event
ually I came to an oddly shaped object discreetly wrapped in many layers of paper.
“What is that?” Najib asked.
“I do not know,” I replied. He instructed me to unwrap the item in his presence.
When I peeled back the layers of tissue I saw a portable CD player with headphones. I was amazed. My mother and one of our pastors—also staying in Islamabad—sent the player for our enjoyment along with more than a dozen CDs of worship music.
“There’s no way Najib is going to let us keep this,” someone remarked.
I turned to Najib and tried to explain what I was holding: “This is music about God and his love. It gives us peace when we listen to it.”
Bismillah tried to help me communicate. He and Najib knew each other from Pakistan.
While the two men were talking, I took out a CD, put it into the player, and pushed Play. I held out the headphones to Najib. “Do you want to listen?”
Najib took the headphones and tried to fit them over his turban, but he had difficulty. Without saying a word, Bismillah swept Najib’s turban off his head. There was Najib, bareheaded, looking as if he had just gotten out of bed! Najib was shocked and embarrassed at first; then Bismillah assisted him with putting the headphones on properly. Najib listened awhile. He seemed to like the music.
“May we have permission to keep it?” I pleaded.
“Okay,” he said. “But do not play it so loud. We do not want anyone upstairs to hear. It must be a secret. You must keep it hidden.”
We told Najib we could only listen to the music on headphones and not to worry. Later we put together a schedule of three-hour shifts for the CD player. We posted our schedule on the wall next to our window.
Listening to music—other than what we could produce with our own voices—for the first time in months proved an almost breathtaking experience. The instruments made such a rich sound. I wept the first time I listened. I played Kent Henry’s song “I Have Loved You,” and felt as if God was pouring out his love on me. The music soothed and refreshed us.
“Is it your turn now?” Najib would ask. “When do I get a turn?”
Heather: After he brought the gifts, Atif left us to try to get in touch with the chief justice. Atif said he would return that afternoon. For some reason he never did.
At 6 P.M., Najib came in and announced we were moving to another prison. He said we would return to the intelligence prison perhaps in some days.
“What?” we exclaimed. “But we are supposed to meet with our lawyer!” We were shaken. The war was weakening the Taliban rapidly, and we expected a move might be in store. But we often prayed that we would not be moved again, fearing the Taliban might take us to Pul-e-Charki, where our sixteen Afghan friends had been transferred.
Najib conveyed that he would send Atif to the new prison—our third prison—the following morning. “Do not worry,” Najib counseled. “Get ready. We will leave soon.”
Frenetic packing ensued. Since no one knew if or when we would be returning to our hallway at the intelligence prison, we packed all of our things—as much as we possibly could—and took our bags with us.
Najib loaded us into his new van—actually, a stolen van that we learned had belonged to some of our friends. On the side of the vehicle was an aid organization logo, which Najib covered up with a big soccer ball sticker from the bazaar. He drove us through town to what looked like a government office building located next to the Turkish embassy and across the street from the UN compound. We pulled around back. In the yard was a beautiful rose garden.
To get to the entrance, we walked down a sidewalk that ran parallel to the building. From the sidewalk, we could see that the windows to the rooms on the lower level were barred. Most of the windows in the building were blown out. We walked up a small flight of stairs to a barred door leading to a corridor. On the hall were a kitchen, a bathroom, a storage room, and some miscellaneous meeting rooms.
Kati and Silke took a room by the kitchen. The rest of us put our things in a meeting room containing a few toshaks and a desk. The toshaks were thick and comfortable. One of the windows in our room was covered in plastic; the other window still had a glass pane. Catty-corner to our room was the bathroom. It was in foul condition. Feces caked the toilet. Dayna felt ill for a few hours after glimpsing the sight.
Farther down the hallway, another door led to a basement area where male prisoners were housed. Georg and Peter were taken through this door. We understood the men being kept in the prison were political prisoners and hardened criminals, some awaiting death sentences. In such company, Peter did not like walking to the bathroom late at night while the electricity was cut off for the bombing raids.
We felt vulnerable at this prison—what became our night prison. Our guard was a man, which made all of us uncomfortable. Our room door was without a lock. On our first night, the guard tried to open the door without knocking. I was standing at the door and prevented him from coming in.
“You must knock,” I said disapprovingly. He was coming to tell us to put out our candles. The authorities were very nervous that this area of town would be bombed.
Kabul was bombed heavily that night, and Ursula agreed to sit out in the hallway with me. I wanted to get away from the glass in our room. There were a couple of couches in the hallway. Our guard was sleeping on one of them. I got underneath the empty couch; Ursula sat on top.
From his couch the guard struck up a conversation with us—two women—in the pitch-black night.
He asked, “Are you scared? Why are you under the couch? Are your feet cold? Should I get you a blanket?” In Afghan culture the whole exchange was improper, not to mention that the man had asked about my feet. His questions made me extremely uncomfortable.
“No, I am fine,” I replied. I was freezing. The floor was ice cold.
Then the man shined his flashlight on us. “I do not like this,” I told Ursula. We got up and went back to the room. Though I did not want to be in an open room with glass windows during a bombing raid, at that point I preferred such environs over having to endure this man’s inappropriate comments.
After that night, we moved a couch into our room from the hallway and set the couch on cushions so I would have enough room underneath to sleep comfortably. We stacked the cushions neatly on top of the couch when we left the room in the mornings to return to the intelligence prison, which remained our day prison.
One night late in our detainment I was reading the Benazir Bhutto biography with my flashlight while lying underneath the couch. Everyone else had gone to sleep. I wept as I read Bhutto’s own story of incarceration—as a young woman she spent six years on and off in prison. I could not imagine six months in prison, let alone six years. I tried to stay awake reading the gripping account, but at ten o’clock I became tired and switched off the light.
During our worship meeting that evening, I had taken prescription medication to rid my body of parasites. After almost eight months in Afghanistan, three of them in prison, I decided it would be wise to clean out my system, and I was halfway through the six-pill treatment. When I swallowed this particular evening’s dosage, the pill seemed to become lodged in my throat. I assumed the medicine would dissolve by morning.
Once I turned off my flashlight and prepared to go to sleep, I noticed that the pill had not moved. I swallowed hard several times to clear my throat, with no result. Moments later, I felt a piece of string resting on my tongue.
How did I get fuzz in my mouth? I wondered. Did it come from the carpet? I pulled out the string, set it on the floor, and turned my flashlight on it.
“Diana! Wake up! Wake Up!” I screamed. “A worm just crawled out of my mouth! A worm!” I froze, not knowing what to do. Diana came over in a daze and looked at the ten-inch worm moving on the floor. It was still alive!
Diana was aghast. “I have only heard of worms crawling out of people’s mouths,” she remarked with unbelief. “I have never actually seen it happen.” She promptly put the worm in a water bo
ttle for safekeeping.
Immediately, I began to feel movement from one side of my throat to the other. More worms were trying to escape. I had to do something. Diana obligingly ran with me down the hall to the male prison warden’s room. I knew the visit was culturally inappropriate, but this was an emergency.
“Saeb, sir,” I called, knocking on the door. “I am sick. Could you please get me some bread?” My strategy was to eat as much food as possible and push the worms back down my esophagus.
The guard invited me into his room. “No, sir, I am sick,” I repeated. “I need some food.” Finally, he brought out some cake and tea from the kitchen. I ate as much as I could, and the plan worked. No more worms crawled out of my mouth. The next morning, Dayna showed the bottled worm to Najib and several Taliban guards.
Later, after our rescue, I asked a doctor whether the worms had crawled up my throat to escape the toxic worm medicine I was taking.
“No, not exactly,” he explained. “You probably had such a bad infestation, the worm had nowhere else to go.”
Dayna: Our first morning in the office building I went out into the hallway to spend time alone with God.
“You cannot stay here,” the guard said firmly. “This is a business floor. Men will be coming in and out.”
“Well, it’s going to be hard for us to stay in this room all day,” I replied.
“You can come out after eleven o’clock when business ceases.”
I hoped we would not have to oblige the Taliban in this manner every day.
Since we had no idea how long we would be staying at the office prison—we did not yet know it would become our night prison—Diana went ahead that first morning and made our shopping list for the bazaar. One of the high-priority items was a toilet brush. We gave the list to the guard. When he returned with our purchases, we discovered that the batteries we had ordered for our flashlights weren’t working, so we sent the poor fellow back to the bazaar to fetch us some more.