by Dayna Curry
Not much time passed before Qasim returned. This time he brought us a note: “Dayna and Heather, you need to come right now to the ICRC office. Georg.” The two of us got up and went with Qasim. Peter joined us.
When we arrived at the office, Georg was talking on a satellite phone with David Donahue in Islamabad. Donahue wanted to speak with each of us personally to make sure we were safe. He wanted to hear our voices for himself. It was wonderful to hear his. We told him we were well and shared with him briefly what had happened since our departure from Kabul. Then Donahue relayed several important pieces of information:
Helicopters were coming tonight. We were to be at the pickup spot at 11:30 P.M. We could not bring anything with us.
Tonight helicopters were coming. We tried to stay calm. We asked if our parents were informed. They were not. Donahue wanted to make sure that the rescue went as planned before getting our parents’ hopes up. Further, with our lives and the lives of U.S. soldiers at stake, the mission needed to be kept under wraps.
“Much has to go right for the rescue to take place,” Georg told us after we finished the phone call.
He explained that several local commanders would have to be in agreement over our pickup spot. The city was incredibly tense. Shooting was breaking out among people of different ethnic groups. Taliban surrounded Ghazni. If the commanders did not agree on the details of the pickup, the rescue would be too dangerous to attempt.
Before he sent us on our way, he said: “You and the other ladies must pray.” We couldn’t wait to get home and deliver the exciting news.
“We will be rescued tonight,” we announced to the others back at the room. Everyone was shocked. Things were happening very fast. We explained that Georg had urged us to pray for agreement among the commanders.
“And there is one other thing,” we said. “We can’t take anything with us—no purses, bags, or luggage.”
Mayhem ensued. We spent the next couple of hours dressing, undressing, and stuffing everything we could inside of our clothes.
Dayna: The Germans decided that they were taking their purses; and in the end, everyone who took a purse got away with it. Kati wanted my little pocket Bible as a memento; she used it all the time in prison. I let her take it. She secured it in her tiny purse.
I figured out a way to strap the CD player on my back with an elastic strap from my pants. I planned to cover up the hump with my chawdur. I stuffed my socks with lipstick and my inhaler. I stuck a container of face powder down the leg of my long johns. My prescription eyeglasses and sunglasses went down my pants, too. I stuffed my whole makeup bag into the front of my long-john bottoms and my journals down my back.
In the end, I was wearing both pairs of NBC long johns, a black long-sleeve shirt, and a blue jean dress my mom had sent me from Pakistan through Atif. Everyone convinced me to pull on a black dress from Pakistan, too. I could barely breathe by the time it was all over.
Heather: I put on several items of underclothing, including both pairs of NBC long johns. On top of those I wore two dress-pants sets, called shalwar kamiz, and a black Kuchi dress I had ordered from the bazaar when we were staying at the intelligence prison. I ordered the dress specifically for our rescue. I had never worn it until this evening.
I stuck the roll of film from Georg’s camera, courtesy of Najib’s brother, in my underclothes. A tube of liquid eyeliner went in my socks; I was wearing three pairs. I put a set of disposable contact lenses in my embroidered pencil case—this was the pencil case the large-nosed senior Talib left in my cloth backpack the day of our arrest. Necklaces made by the Afghan girls at the reform school prison also went inside the pencil case, which I stuffed down the front of my shirt. My journals and letters went down the front of my pants; the tight long johns held the mass in place. I put my hefty reference Bible that the Taliban let me take out of our house in Wazir down the back of my pants. I saved three head scarves; one was the thick wool scarf that Georg’s prisoner contact had given to me at the shipping container.
Heather & Dayna: All the while, the Afghan women could not make out what we were doing. Clothes and items were strewn across the room. We were laughing hysterically. It felt wonderful to laugh again.
One woman popped her head in. “We are having a fashion show,” we told her, and smiled. Obviously, we were not allowed to explain what was really going on.
As it started to get dark, the woman told us we needed to move into another room where she had set a gas lamp.
We took some of the items out of our clothes so we could move freely and carried our things into the side room. Some people played cards.
Dayna: I pulled out the book I was reading, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus.
Heather: I took a turn listening to the CD player to spend time with God, but two young, rowdy boys soon interrupted me by pushing all of the buttons. I let them listen to the music awhile, hoping to quench their curiosity, but they continued to pester me.
Heather & Dayna: Inspired by the CD player, we began to sing celebratory worship songs. One was called “You Have Turned My Mourning into Dancing,” the same song we sang and danced to in our room at the reform school prison when we were praying for the Afghan women’s freedom. We got up now and began to dance and celebrate our release. Six o’clock came and went. We decided to pray. Soon it was 7:30. “Where is Georg?” we began to wonder. We hoped the delay was a sign of progress.
“We are concerned our boss is not back yet,” we said to the Afghan woman tending to us. “Why might he not be back?” We knew she did not have the answer.
We continued to pray: Jesus, help Georg wherever he is, empower him to negotiate, give him favor with the right people, protect him, and make it all work out.
Heather: Let it happen tonight, I prayed. Please let it happen tonight.
Heather & Dayna: At nine o’clock, Georg still had not returned. Curfew fell at eight o’clock. Was Georg safe?
We had not eaten in nearly ten hours and were hungry. The Afghans served us seasoned potatoes in oil for dinner. Afterward, some of the women wanted us to dance for them.
Dayna: The mood was still positive and we were goofy. I performed some American-style dance moves—in the vein of Saturday Night Fever—for the ladies. It was fun to make these ladies laugh. They had been working so hard serving us.
Heather & Dayna: At some point we all restuffed our clothing. We knew that the minute Georg walked in we would have to leave to make it to the pickup point by 11:30.
Georg entered the house after ten o’clock holding a satellite phone. Several men, including the local commander, Qasim, and the ex-Talib, accompanied him.
“Everything is falling apart,” Georg said. “There is no agreement among the commanders.”
It turned out that the local commander had decided not to raise the issue of the rescue with the other commanders in the area. Any agreement on the location and circumstances of our rescue would take days to achieve, the local commander said. Meanwhile, if the pickup went forward tonight as planned, the other commanders would suspect that whoever facilitated the ordeal had received a great deal of money. The other commanders would want to share the money, the local commander told Georg.
Furthermore, the local commander explained that everyone in Ghazni was expecting a Taliban counterattack. Men all over the city were armed. In the end, the commander refused to take us to the pickup spot. U.S. officials in Islamabad had spoken to him earlier by satellite phone and tried to convince him to help us, but with no effect. The rescue could not happen tonight. Soon after he came in with Georg and the other men, the local commander left the house.
While we stayed in our room, Georg was on and off the phone with U.S. officials. Georg talked on the phone in the courtyard where some of the men were standing and then reported the developments to us at intervals.
The U.S. officials told Georg that the rescue had to happen that night. The next day was not an option.
“Can you do it in the morning?
” Georg asked a U.S. official.
The rescuers would have to come very early in the morning, before curfew lifted.
That would not work on our end. No one would take us anywhere before curfew lifted.
In the commander’s absence, the ex-Talib claimed that he could not help us. “I cannot change the decision of the commander. I cannot act without the commander’s permission.”
The ex-Talib said he would not take us to the pickup point for anything, not for any amount of money. He came to our room to explain his position to us. “Do you want me to die?” he asked. “I am a father and a husband. If I do this, I could be killed. The commander will think I have taken a bribe.”
“Can you go back and get the commander so we can talk to him?” we asked.
“It is after curfew,” he answered. “I could be shot.”
At one point Georg said, “I have talked for hours and no one will move. It is not happening.”
Diana began to pull out her toshak and blanket and prepare for bed. “It’s not happening tonight,” she said as if to resign herself. Some of us joined her and started preparing the room for bed.
The U.S. official pressed Georg again: You have to make it happen tonight. It must happen tonight. It will not happen tomorrow. Do whatever you have to do to get out of there, but make it happen.
The helicopters were on their way, the official said.
Meanwhile, the ex-Talib stayed on top of Georg, pressuring him to give it up.
“Look,” Georg said fiercely. “The helicopters are already in the air. They are going to land in this courtyard if they have to, but they are coming to get us tonight.”
“Pray,” Georg told us.
We began praying loudly, fervently. “God, do something!”
At about eleven-thirty we heard a loud banging on the courtyard door. The Afghan women were terrified. Some were shaking and having difficulty breathing. It was hours past curfew. Only enemies would be coming to the house at this time of night, one woman said. We grabbed the lantern and hid in the hallway.
We could hear men’s voices outside. The local commander had arrived. We learned what transpired after the fact.
“We have to move you,” the commander told Georg. “It is not safe for you. We have heard of some Taliban intelligence people who may try to come here and take you.”
Sensing that the commander had another agenda, Georg looked at the man and spoke firmly. “We are not moving.”
“You must come with me now. You will be harmed if you stay here. Get ready. You have to come.”
Inside the house, the ex-Talib and Qasim pressured us. “Come on, get your things. We are moving you somewhere else.”
Outside, Georg turned to the commander: “You can kill us, but we are not moving.”
Moments later, something extraordinary happened. The commander came into the house. We do not know what caused him to alter his position, but for whatever reason he completely changed his mind. He looked at us. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” we asked.
“We’re taking you to the helicopter.” We froze.
“Come on! Now!” Georg shouted.
Heather: I had taken my Bible, journals, and letters out of my clothes. Our toshaks and blankets were spread out in the room. I grabbed my journals and letters and stuffed those in the front of my pants. I could not pull my pants out fast enough to get my Bible in place. I ran to an Afghan woman: “Help me, help me.” She stuffed the Bible into my pants and I flew out the door.
Dayna: Everyone ran out of the house and took the lantern. The side room was pitch black. I had unstuffed most of my things. I groped for the journal but couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find the CD player. I tried to get my sandals on but could not manage the Velcro straps. An Afghan man called out, “Just go barefoot.”
“I can’t go barefoot.”
As I was trying to get the strap to hold, a woman came to the door.
“Bakshish?” she asked. Alms?
twenty-one
ARISE
Heather & Dayna: Out on the road, we followed the commander and a few of his men. We were not going to the prearranged meeting place after all. The U.S. official told Georg about an open area nearby. We did not need a vehicle. We could walk.
“Do not speak English,” the Afghans warned us.
Ghazni lay in complete darkness. Potholes pocked the road. Some of us stumbled.
“I can’t see a thing,” someone whispered.
“Be quiet,” others instructed. “Do not say a word.”
Qasim and the ex-Talib saw us off and returned to the house. The Afghan wearing the Western sports jacket continued on with the commander and two other armed men. To ensure the safety of the rescuers, the U.S. official explained that no Afghans were to be in the vicinity of the pickup spot. Otherwise, someone might get shot.
Our destination was a disused airfield about the size of four football fields. We approached a concrete slab, the remains of an airstrip. Mud houses surrounded the slab. Two shipping containers provided our only cover.
Georg talked on the phone with the U.S. official. We set the lantern down in front of us and waited. Ursula opened her purse to look for matches. We needed matches in case the lantern went out. She did not find any.
Dayna: In the darkness I took a wrong step and fell down a four-foot drop off the tarmac. The others helped me up. Thankfully, I was not hurt.
Heather & Dayna: The Afghan men handed us their blankets. “You are cold,” they said.
“Please leave,” we urged them. “It is dangerous for you.”
The men stayed.
After some minutes, we still did not hear any helicopters approaching. We thought we heard airplanes overhead. It was hard to tell.
“Is that it?” someone would whisper every few moments. Even our whispers carried in the eerie silence.
The U.S. official talking to Georg said the rescuers would get to us in fifteen minutes. Then the phone battery died and we lost our connection.
Sometime in the next half hour, we saw the helicopters. We cheered as quietly as we could. “This is it! This is it! They’re coming!”
Two enormous machines circled above the field searching for us. They would come in close, skirt the mud houses, and recede. Come in and then recede. The circling went on for some time.
“Don’t they see us?” someone asked. Twice the machines came so close that we were certain the rescuers had spotted us—we felt we could almost touch the helicopters. But each time, they pulled back and flew into the distance. Minutes kept passing.
Heather: Please, Jesus. Please, Jesus. Please, Jesus. Do something. Do something.
Heather & Dayna: Across the concrete strip, we saw a light come on near one of the mud houses. Someone was searching the area with a flashlight. Dogs barked in the distance. People were hearing the commotion and waking up. A man approached us from behind. “Who are you? What are you doing?” he asked.
“Nothing is going on,” the commander replied forcefully. “Go back to your house.”
Then the commander turned to Georg: “This is too dangerous. We must leave. The whole city knows you are out here. Everyone is armed. You could be ambushed. The Taliban know where you are. We must go.”
We waited. The choppers continued to pass overhead. “There must be something we can do!” we exclaimed.
“It is not safe,” the commander said again. “We must go.”
We watched the helicopters approach and recede. We picked up the lantern and waved it in the air, but with no result.
“They are not going to see us,” Georg said. “He is right. It is not safe.”
Dayna: I was willing to follow Georg if we needed to leave. I felt vulnerable. I knew we could be shot like the commander said. We were out in the open. I guess God will get us out another way, I thought.
Heather & Dayna: “Georg,” someone pleaded, “just five more minutes.”
Heather: I was not goi
ng to leave. We were in danger standing out in the field, but I knew the helicopters were not going to come back the next day. If we returned to the house, we would be open targets. The Taliban knew where we were. This was our one chance. We had to make it. We would leave tonight or we would not leave at all.
Dayna: Heather grabbed Ursula’s purse.
“I am looking for matches,” Heather said. “There have to be some in here.”
“Heather,” Ursula insisted, “there are no matches in my purse.”
Heather: I did not care. I would see for myself. I continued digging for matches, and I found some.
“Georg,” I said, “we can start a fire. We can burn my head scarf. They will be able to see a fire.”
We knew the helicopters were not looking for a fire—the flames might throw the rescuers off. But what choice did we have?
“Go ahead,” Georg answered.
We spread out the wool head scarf given to me by the prisoner at the shipping container and poured oil from the lantern on it. I was sad to lose the keepsake, but nothing mattered outside of building the fire. The scarf burned quickly. I added another of my head scarves. Dayna added hers.
Heather & Dayna: The local commander and his men found pieces of wood and laid them on the fire. One man picked up some planks and broke them. The cracking sound hung in the air. We cringed. Surely everyone in the area was awake by now.
The Afghan in the sports jacket gave us a blanket to burn.
Dayna: I felt badly burning his blanket.
Heather: I did not mind burning anything at that point, not when the fire could mean the difference between life and death, freedom and captivity.
Heather & Dayna: We lifted up the burning blanket, trying to catch the attention of the helicopters. The pilots brought the huge machines in close. They swooped overhead, creating an overpowering gust of wind. Dust blew up our noses and into our mouths. The flames of the fire washed back on top of us, catching one of our dresses on fire. We crouched in each other’s arms.