We did not stop there, however. As we passed, I tried to memorize the scene in case I had the chance to describe it later. Any landmark in this desolate territory was rare indeed.
We turned a corner on the trail. About fifty yards to our left was what looked like a home, or at least a sturdy shelter. To my surprise, we turned off our path and walked toward it.
We were about halfway there when our view opened up to a flat, barren valley. More than a hundred yards ahead were three more structures. The largest of these was about fifty feet long and closed up—I saw no doorway or windows. The other two had clearly been abandoned for some time. Neither had a roof, and the crumbling walls of one appeared to top out at about four feet high.
We approached the shelter on our left. This house of stone, brick, and mud had three rooms, though only the largest of the rooms had a roof over it. I stooped as we entered this room through the low, open doorway, which was the only entrance or exit. The space was about twenty by twenty-five feet and, unlike our previous stop, had been used recently. Several mats and blankets lay scattered on the dirt floor. To our left in an indent in the wall was a fire pit. A kettle with burn marks sat on a pair of stones next to a pile of blackened wood. A few embers still glowed.
Near the middle of the room, a single wood pole stretched to the ceiling to support the thatched roof. There were two openings in the wall for ventilation, too small to be called windows. In the far corner a shelf had been built into the wall. On the shelf were a candle, a notebook, and an item wrapped in silk. I later learned this was a Koran.
The room appeared to me to be a well-maintained space for meetings or guests. I eventually found out that despite its modest exterior, Rafiq and Farzad had immediately recognized this place as something else: a mosque. Though they said nothing, they were irate. Both had a similar thought: How can these people call themselves Muslims and hold us as prisoners in a holy place?
Our captors quickly began constructing a new fire and preparing for a round of green tea. Suddenly a young man wearing a black-and-white-checkered headscarf and carrying a plastic tub of sugar walked through the doorway. The Taliban paid little attention to this supply man. I gave him a smile, hoping to make some kind of connection, but he turned away, apparently indifferent, before leaving the room.
I took little comfort in the improvement in our surroundings. It appeared this was all part of a well-planned operation. I had the definite impression that these guys had done this before.
We were in the middle of our tea when a fourth Talib entered the room. I recognized him as one of our original abductors, one of the two younger ones. He wore a gray vest over his salwar kameez. His face and slightly wavy brown hair were caked in dust. He had a short, uneven beard. His teeth were crooked; part of a front tooth was missing.
What I noticed most about him was that he seemed a natural leader—and that he immediately made a point of looking intently at me and smiling.
The new arrival entered into an animated conversation with the other three Taliban. From their gestures, facial expressions, and use of the word Wallakah—the same word that had been repeatedly shouted the night before—I decided that this was the new guy’s name and that they were discussing his failure to show up. It wasn’t an argument. I sensed that the others accepted his explanation.
There was something different about Wallakah. He was quite engaging and did most of the talking. He also continued to glance my way to make eye contact. For some reason it didn’t feel threatening. Sometimes he even smiled and put his hand over his heart as if to say, “It’s going to be all right.”
After more discussion between Wallakah and the older captors, we all sat down to finish our tea. One of the Taliban produced naan that had been left over from the previous night. This seemed to be a welcome sight, not only to Rafiq, Farzad, and me but also to our abductors. I knew I was hungry. Although the bread was now hard, it was almost tasty, especially after dipping it in the hot tea.
Once tea was over, Wallakah waved the rest of us toward the door. Rafiq explained: “We’re going to make that phone call.”
I tried to swallow the apprehension that rose like bile in my throat. If they ask me to talk, what will I say? I need to choose my words carefully. I want to share as much as I can, but I don’t want to say anything that will upset these guys. Then I remembered that none of our captors spoke English. Other than words that were common to our multiple languages, they wouldn’t understand anything I said.
All of us but Ahmed walked toward a neighboring mountain, where I suspected the cell reception was better. I felt tense but had also noticed a change in the atmosphere since Wallakah’s arrival. Haqqani had given up his threats and gestures, at least for now. Clearly a new man was in charge.
It took only a minute to reach the base of the hill. The Taliban called this place Black Mountain, no doubt because it was covered with bushes as tall as a man, each filled with greenish-black, almond-shaped nuts. As we neared the top, Rafiq whispered to me, “When we get connected, say everything. I will keep these guys occupied.”
Obviously Rafiq was still thinking strategically. It was a measure of comfort. Though I certainly wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone, I was so glad I had my two friends with me.
When we reached a plateau, Wallakah turned to me. There were no smiles now. It was time for business.
He handed a cell phone to me and another to Rafiq. “We want the phone number to your colleagues in Kabul,” Wallakah said.
I had Roy’s number on a sheet of paper that I usually carried in my backpack. Anticipating this request, I’d removed the paper just before we left the mosque and put it in my pocket. Before I could take it out, however, Rafiq started paging through the contact list on the phone he’d been given until he found Roy’s number. They had apparently inserted our SIM cards into their phones. I checked the contact list in the phone in my hand. Sure enough, I recognized the names.
Wallakah addressed me via Rafiq’s translation: “Talk to them. Tell them we want twenty million dollars. Or we turn you over to Pakistan Taliban. Or we kill you.”
“Wait. What do you mean, ‘twenty million dollars’?” I asked.
Haqqani jumped in with a correction. “No, it’s two million dollars.” They talked for a few moments as if trying to make up their minds.
This didn’t make any sense. My frustration made me bold. “Look, if you guys want me to negotiate for our release,” I said, “you have to agree on a dollar amount.”
It was insane, really. I was telling them how to conduct a hostage negotiation. But after further back and forth, I figured out that part of the problem was they were talking in Pakistani rupees while I was thinking U.S. dollars.
The other part of the problem was that they hadn’t yet decided how much they were asking. Maybe they weren’t as experienced as I thought.
Once we got the issue of currency straightened out, they bounced between a demand ranging from three hundred thousand to five hundred thousand U.S. dollars. I got them to settle on the three hundred thousand figure—at least that’s what I thought we agreed on. Not that it mattered much. It might as well have been three hundred million. No one I knew had that kind of money.
Wallakah finally gestured to the phone in my hand. “Okay,” he said, “make the call.”
At that point I could have called anyone in the world—I didn’t think these guys would know the difference. I briefly considered calling Cilicia or someone else in my family, but what would I say? Although I realized Morning Star would be wondering what had happened to me, I assumed no one yet knew we’d been kidnapped. How could I call Cilicia and say, “I’ve been abducted. I don’t know if I’m going to survive this”? I didn’t want to give her that burden.
I also didn’t know if I could handle the conversation emotionally. What if I broke down when I heard Cilicia’s voice and couldn’t speak? That wouldn’t help either one of us.
I decided it was better to call Roy and let my colleag
ues know what was happening. They would know what to do.
I punched the preset number for Roy and waited.
“Hello?”
“Roy, it’s Dilip. I hope you have an idea of what happened to us.” My words came out fast but mostly steady.
“Yes, Dilip, we have an idea.”
“Well, let me explain a bit more so you have a better understanding of what’s been happening.” I related some of the details of how we’d been abducted, that we were being fed, and that for now we were all right.
“Are they treating you okay?” Roy asked. “Have they given any indication they’re about to harm you?”
“No, not yet,” I said. “Other than threats and gestures of throat-cutting.”
Then I relayed our kidnappers’ demands—as well as the three-day timeline.
It was about this time that the phone in Rafiq’s hand rang. When I heard the sound of a woman crying, I realized that the caller was his wife. While I continued to talk with Roy, I watched Wallakah take Rafiq’s phone and start to talk. He seemed to be reassuring her that everything was going to be fine.
A few minutes later Rafiq’s phone rang again. This time it was Farzad’s son. Though Farzad kept his own voice calm, I could hear the distress and desperation in the voice on the other end of the call. They spoke for less than a minute.
Now that phones with our SIM cards were in service, family members who’d been frantically calling without success were finally getting through. Though I tried to stay focused on my conversation with Roy, it was heartbreaking to hear Rafiq and Farzad describe our plight amid the tears and strained voices of their loved ones. I thought again about calling Cilicia. Once again, I decided it was better if I didn’t.
“Dilip, do you know which direction you traveled during that long hike: east, west, north, south?” Roy asked.
I had to admit I had no idea.
At one point I handed the phone to Rafiq. He got right to the point. “This is really serious, Roy,” he said. “They are demanding this. Our lives are at risk. We need the dollars transferred now.”
Rafiq handed the phone back to me.
“Dilip, I need to tell you that this process is probably not going to happen on the timetable they want,” Roy said in a calm voice. “These things tend to move slowly. I know that’s not what you want to hear, brother. But it’s better for you if it’s not rushed.”
“I know,” I said. “But these guys are serious. If we don’t respond quickly, they might harm us.”
“Well, believe me, we are going to be doing everything we possibly can to bring you guys back safely,” Roy said. We all agreed that we would make another phone call at five that evening and then said our good-byes.
We’d done it. We had made contact with the outside world. To my surprise, we’d been allowed to talk with Roy for about twenty minutes.
I was reassured by the sincerity and steadiness in Roy’s voice. I knew that my colleagues, friends, and family would indeed make every effort to secure our safe release. I still didn’t know what fate awaited me, but just having that connection with a coworker and friend had left me feeling encouraged.
On the walk back down Black Mountain, I noticed a couple pieces of brown cloth half buried in the dirt. Without breaking stride, I bent down, scooped them up, and put them in my jacket pocket. No one seemed to notice. Part of me wanted to save them as a souvenir. The other part thought that if necessary, they would come in handy as a substitute for toilet paper.
I was becoming more optimistic again and, perhaps, more resourceful. In other words, I was learning how to survive as a hostage.
CHAPTER NINE
THE CONVERSATION
10:00 A.M., THURSDAY
LIFE AS A PRISONER OF THE TALIBAN COULD BE A BIT SURREAL. On this day it certainly felt that way to me.
We were back in the thatch-roofed room of brick, stone, and mud that Rafiq and Farzad recognized as a mosque. While we three hostages leaned against the wall and tried to get some desperately needed rest, the four Taliban sat in a circle and talked among themselves.
“What are they saying?” I whispered to Rafiq.
“Nothing to do with us,” he whispered back. “It’s all local things—religion and politics.”
Religion and politics. Most of the Afghans I knew—in fact, most people I knew, no matter where they were from—loved to express their opinions on these two time-honored topics. Apparently what was true for the rest of the world was also true among the Taliban. I watched as they shared their thoughts, sometimes smiling or laughing, other times with earnest expressions.
Islam was by far the predominant religion in Afghanistan. Roughly 80 percent of the people belonged to the Sunni denomination, including the Taliban, while as much as 19 percent were members of the Shia branch of Islam.1 The Taliban represented only a small segment of the Sunni population (one recent estimate placed the number of rebel fighters at twenty-five thousand2). That segment practiced a particularly extreme version of the Sunni religion, one that rejected any compromise with moderate Islam or traditional values.
In recent history Afghan Muslims had been largely tolerant of each other’s religious differences. That began to change, however, during the bloody civil war in the 1990s. The conflict pitted sects and ethnic groups against one another. When the Taliban gained military and political power, anyone who disagreed with them suffered. The Hazara, Persian-speaking Shiites living primarily in central Afghanistan, were victims of multiple massacres. Author and journalist Ahmed Rashid wrote, “While the Taliban claim they are fighting a jihad against corrupt, evil Muslims, the ethnic minorities see them as using Islam as a cover to exterminate non-Pashtuns.”3
I wondered what our captors were saying. Were they discussing a recent confrontation or battle? Were they expressing their admiration for the Taliban way of life? How could they defend a society that so easily embraced intimidation, terrorism, and murder? It was strange to watch this casual conversation while we sat just a few feet away, not knowing if or when they might decide to end our lives as well.
It must have been about eleven that morning when the supply guy returned to our room carrying fresh naan and another dish in a steel bowl. It was time for lunch.
Rafiq, Farzad, and I sat cross-legged in a circle with our captors. The main course was freshly cooked potato curry. It looked like something I would make for our family in our kitchen at home. Both the naan and the curry were passed around then placed on top of a mat in the middle of the circle where anyone could reach them for seconds.
After several minutes of eating and small talk by the Taliban, I began to feel full. Wallakah looked at me and said, “Did you get enough? Please eat more.” To be polite, I took another helping of curry.
As we ate, I thought about the importance of food and mealtimes in the communal life of cultures. There was something about the shared experience of replenishing ourselves with tea, naan, stew, or curry that broke down barriers and encouraged relaxed and heartfelt communication. It was a practice as old as history. Sitting and eating here in the same manner as people had centuries before, I felt a connection to them I couldn’t fully explain.
I also recalled Haqqani’s comment from earlier that morning: “We’re not treating you this way, are we? We don’t treat people like that.” It was true that we weren’t being mistreated. We were given regular square meals and, in fact, were invited to share in everything that the Taliban ate. There was no sense of hoarding or possessiveness. It was in some ways a contrast to Western materialism.
I found myself caught between feelings of revulsion and admiration for my captors.
When Wallakah again implored me to eat more, I raised my hands to indicate I was more than satisfied. “Thank you,” I said, as I nodded to each of the Taliban in turn, “for the wonderful lunch.”
With a full stomach and after the long hike of the previous night and the events of the morning, I felt exhaustion overtaking me. I sensed no immediate threat. I retreated t
o a spot against the wall as did Rafiq and Farzad to my right. Haqqani moved to sit next to Farzad. To their right was the fire pit.
I leaned my head against the wall. I was ready for a nap.
Wallakah, however, had something else in mind. He sat back against the pole near the center of the room, about five feet away from me. He looked at me and said through Rafiq’s translation, “Could I ask you some questions?”
I’d begun to establish a bit of rapport with Wallakah. Exhausted as I was, I certainly didn’t want to jeopardize that now. I sat back up.
“Sure,” I said. “Absolutely. I will try to answer any questions that you have.”
“Where did you meet your wife?”
I studied Wallakah’s face. I saw only curiosity there, but I remained guarded. After all, this still could be the man who would pull the trigger to end my life.
“We met in college,” I said.
“Did you fall in love with her from the beginning, or was it a gradual progression?”
“I fell in love right away,” I answered, “but our love has progressed and deepened since then.”
Wallakah didn’t hesitate. As soon as Rafiq finished his translation of my answer, my captor launched into his next question.
“Do you still love her?”
“We have our differences, of course. But I love her today more than ever. She is the only woman I have ever loved.”
The questions kept coming, about my four children, about my father and mother and their occupations, about my in-laws, my aunties and uncles and their children, and all their careers. I wondered, Is he trying to get a feel for my family’s overall financial clout? Is the purpose of this to help him establish an appropriate ransom?
I again examined Wallakah’s posture and facial expressions. He was leaning forward, apparently eager to hear every word. There was a kind of glee in his eyes. I didn’t sense that our conversation was about money. It felt more like intense curiosity. I decided that he was simply taking advantage of the incredibly rare opportunity to talk with and learn more about an outsider, someone different from him.
Kidnapped by the Taliban: A Story of Terror, Hope, and Rescue by SEAL Team Six Page 7