A few minutes later Wallakah and Haqqani picked up their weapons and gestured for us to leave the shelter. I wondered where we were going. It couldn’t have been time for our five o’clock call to Roy yet.
Early or not, we did hike up Black Mountain. Once again Wallakah pulled out a cell phone. Instead of handing it to me, however, he stared at its screen for a few moments.
“It looks like they cut off the signal early today,” he said. I didn’t understand exactly how, but apparently the Taliban controlled cell reception in this area. “There’s nothing now. Let’s try again tomorrow.”
As Rafiq translated, Wallakah turned and began walking down the mountain. An expressionless Haqqani prodded us to follow. Just like that, our phone attempt was over.
I was a bit stunned by the Taliban’s response. Our captors wanted their money in three days. Now because of a technical difficulty, they’d lost a chance to move things forward. Yet they didn’t seem angry or frustrated at all.
I realized I was looking at the situation from my Western perspective. It had been two days since I’d checked my e-mail. I’d been cut off from the gadgets I was so used to: smartphones, computers, iPods, iPads, i-anythings. Now our cell reception had been cut off. I was upset that a technology failure had prevented me from connecting with my lifeline to the outside world. I expected them to be upset also.
But these guys lived a simple life. They weren’t as tied in to gadgets and schedules. They were more flexible than a gymnast—if something didn’t work out the way they wanted, they accepted it and were able to move on without handwringing or drama.
Though I was disappointed by the failed phone call, in another sense I was relieved. If we had to wait for tomorrow to continue negotiations, I was likely to live at least another day.
Not surprisingly, following another tea session back at the shelter, I needed to relieve myself. After I secured permission, Ahmed escorted me past the large house with the pool that we’d seen when we first arrived and toward the two roofless, abandoned shacks. His AK-47, slung by its strap on his shoulder, bounced against his side as we walked.
Ahmed pointed at one of the crumbling shacks; then he went to lean against the long building that sat near the two shacks, a spot where he could still see me.
I stepped “inside” the rubble of the shack he’d pointed out. Its walls were too low to hide my head. For a moment I considered my options. Do I have a chance to escape here?
Then I recalled a comment Haqqani had made to us that morning: “I’m glad you guys didn’t try to escape during our walk yesterday. If you had rolled down the hill or tried to run, we would have shot and killed you.”
No, I decided. My chances of getting away in these desolate mountains from four guys who knew the terrain and had guns were practically zero.
Once I’d urinated, I sat down behind the wall for some privacy and to think. After the scary and shocking events of the last two days, it was a relief to have even a moment alone. The same questions that had formed at the time of our abduction continued to tumble through my mind. Would Rafiq, Farzad, and I survive this and see our families again? If not, how and when would we die?
I remembered a statement Roy had made on the phone that morning: “Dilip, I want you to remember this. If there’s a rescue effort, I want you guys to lie down and put your hands where people can clearly see them.”
I continued to hope that we’d get out of this mess, but a rescue effort—especially a successful one—seemed highly unlikely to me. We were continually surrounded by experienced men with guns. Despite the connections I’d made with these guys, the fact remained that they were Taliban and we were their hostages. If a rescue attempt really was launched, a quick death seemed the far more likely outcome than liberation.
Back at the shelter I noticed someone had left a jug of water out for me in the entryway before the doorway. It felt good to wash my hands and face for the first time since our capture. It was a normal thing to do at a time when normal seemed rarer than a four-leaf clover.
Inside, I sat next to Rafiq against the wall. Our captors talked among themselves for about five minutes. Then Haqqani, sitting on the other side of Rafiq, spoke to him in a polite tone while looking at me.
“He would like to know,” Rafiq said, “if you would give permission for him to ask you for medical advice.”
This was indeed a rare request. “Yes, of course,” I said.
“Can you tell me,” Haqqani said, “what is wrong with my arm?”
I’d already noticed that Haqqani held his arm out stiffly and often flexed the fingers on his left hand. I moved to sit next to him. I massaged his fingers, feeling for abnormalities, and then had him move each finger in different directions.
Haqqani explained that he’d lost his sense of feeling in two of the fingers.
“When did this start?” I asked.
“It was after I was shot in a gunfight with the Afghan police and army,” he said matter-of-factly. “They had been tracking our movements. The bullet is still inside me.” He pulled his shirt down so that I could see the scar where the bullet had entered his chest.
“We made it out,” he added, a tinge of pride in his voice. “We were fighting for the right cause. It was worth it.”
I wasn’t going to debate him on the validity of his actions. Instead, realizing he probably had nerve paralysis, I suggested some finger exercises and massages that might moderately improve his condition and sensation. If things didn’t improve, I said, I recommended surgery to correct the nerve damage.
I realized as soon as I said it that surgery was unlikely. The Taliban were constantly on the move. They also distrusted doctors, hospitals, and Western medicine. It was amazing that Haqqani was allowing me, a foreigner, to examine him at all.
I’d been holding Haqqani’s hand while examining his fingers and continued to do so while suggesting treatments. It occurred to me that in light of this man’s lifestyle, he rarely, if ever, had the chance to be touched, held, cared for, or listened to.
A second and more chilling thought followed. Wait a second. Osama bin Laden had a personal doctor. What if they decide they like me so much that they never release me and continue to use me for their benefit?
Haqqani may have sensed the conflicting ideas running through my brain. He suddenly withdrew his hand. The look on his face was something close to embarrassment.
The “exam” was over.
“I appreciate you giving me this advice,” he said. It had been a satisfying exchange. I’d made a deeper connection with the same man who’d been threatening me with execution that very morning.
The feeling of momentum and comradeship was so strong that I decided to take a chance. I looked at Hopeless and said, “How are you?”
He didn’t snarl or shoot me. Instead, he nodded at me and put his hand over his heart as if to say, “I’m fine.” Clearly he wasn’t ready to be chums with his captives. Even so, it was the closest we’d come to a friendly interaction.
Ahmed, who’d been watching all this, now got up and sat beside me. He spoke to me in an animated voice. Rafiq translated most of what Ahmed was saying, but there was an English word neither Rafiq nor I could get.
I should have tried harder to understand because with one sudden move Ahmed had his arms locked around my head.
What? Help!
The brief panic I felt quickly subsided, however, when I heard laughter. I realized the word Ahmed had been saying was wrestling. He’d been trying to ask if I liked wrestling!
As soon as I escaped the headlock, I explained that I didn’t enjoy that sport. Besides, I thought, I was way too old to be wrestling with a strong young man like this guy.
Ahmed said he loved wrestling. He puffed out his chest to demonstrate his strength. At this, the rest of the Taliban laughed again. I nodded and smiled, showing I agreed that Ahmed was certainly strong.
Our dinner was freshly heated naan and a spinach dish. It reminded me of a spinach dinner that Ci
licia made often. But this one was bland. Cilicia, who loved spinach, always added butter and garlic.
I missed that dish. I missed my wife even more.
Wallakah had told me he had a son. Did he have a wife as well? Did the other Taliban members have wives? If so, what kind of lives did they lead?
I had my doubts that they were fulfilling. The Taliban expected their women to exist in isolation, cut off from education, technology, and any relationships outside of family networks. They were expected to completely cover their faces and bodies when in public. During the Taliban regime, they were forbidden to work, to leave the house without a male escort, or to seek medical help from a male doctor. Essentially, they had no rights. They could almost be considered slaves.
In the cities in modern Afghanistan, the situation for women was slowly changing. Women now had the right to vote. Some were going to school and working. A few had even achieved positions in government. Attitudes were definitely shifting, even if gradually. Would the men I was with now ever be open to such changes? It was a discussion that would have to wait for another day.
Immediately after dinner our captors handed a blanket each to Rafiq, Farzad, and me. Mercifully, after close to thirty hours in captivity, it appeared we would finally be allowed to get some real sleep.
I chose a spot near the wall at the far left side of the room, zipped up my jacket, and pulled on my hood. My trusty backpack would serve as my pillow.
I smiled at the sight of that green Eddie Bauer bag. It had been with me on my world travels for nearly two decades. Even the memory of receiving it was special.
On my twentieth birthday a friend had driven me to a college campus in Pasadena, supposedly to meet my parents. When I entered the college cafeteria, however, I was shocked by two hundred friends and family shouting, “Surprise! Happy birthday!” My parents and sister had been planning the party for weeks without revealing a thing to me. Of the many gifts I received that night, the one that endured the longest was the backpack presented by a friend named Richard, who was a mentor and my boss at USC at the time.
It was comforting to look at my backpack now and recall so many wonderful people and memories. As I laid my head on it, I was thankful to have something tangible to connect me to my life back home.
Above me was a one-foot square opening in the mud-and-stone wall. From my angle on the floor I couldn’t actually see the night sky, but I could imagine the majesty and vastness of stars that shone brightly in the darkness. For a day spent with kidnappers and murderers, this one had turned out unexpectedly positive. I still had hope.
God, I prayed silently, please redeem this situation as only you can.
As I began to fall asleep and my thoughts drifted to places far away, the reality of my situation still tugged at me. I squirmed as I tried to avoid the rock digging into my upper back. My last sight before closing my eyes was of Kalashnikovs resting against a corner wall and against the pole in the middle of the room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A PRECARIOUS PEACE
6:00 A.M., FRIDAY, DECEMBER 7
THE DIM LIGHT OF DAWN HAD JUST BEGUN TO STEAL THROUGH the cracks in the two ventilation openings and doorway of our room when I yawned and opened my eyes. I felt so good. Man, I thought, did I just sleep that long?
It was more than just being rested. I had an incredible sense of peace, both physical and spiritual. I felt as if I were literally wrapped in a blanket of tranquility. The sensation was so strong that I actually lifted my arm and checked to see if there was something on top of me besides my blanket.
Even the thought of death could not disturb my new serenity.
If I am to die today, I’ll still feel good that I connected well with my captors yesterday. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll get shot and meet my creator a bit sooner than I expected. I’m okay with that.
What I didn’t know then was that during the night—daytime Thursday in the States—my extended family, friends, and colleagues had begun to find out about my predicament. Many of these people immediately started praying for me, and some of them contacted national and international prayer networks. By the time I woke up, thousands of people around the world had asked God, on my behalf, to protect and safely deliver Rafiq, Farzad, and me from captivity.
Had I realized what was happening, I would have been humbled beyond measure. As it was, I simply reveled in the calm that enveloped me.
Am I still in captivity? I turned my head to take in the room. Yes, the stirring bodies of my captors, along with their Kalashnikovs, were all still here. Though I felt like a new man on the inside, my outer circumstances had not changed.
What I didn’t know was that change was indeed on its way.
While we ate our usual breakfast of naan dipped in hot tea, the supply guy in the checkered headscarf returned. He was accompanied by a man I hadn’t seen before. This one was older, probably in his midthirties, and had a short, neatly trimmed black beard. He was dressed in an all-black salwar kameez, a color more commonly seen in Pakistan or especially India. Unlike the supply guy, he definitely took notice of me. He didn’t say anything, but when he entered the room, he gave me a long, intense look.
After breakfast Wallakah and Haqqani led Rafiq, Farzad, and me to a nearby hill. Wallakah handed me a cell phone and said, “Call your guys.”
This time we got through to Roy. I explained how our signal had been cut off the day before. I also told him about the long conversation and connection with Wallakah during the previous afternoon.
“Even so, my feeling is that they still want to see a resolution in the next day or two,” I said, “or something will happen.” I didn’t want to say what that “something” might be.
“Dilip, this just isn’t going to resolve quickly,” Roy answered. “We need time.”
What Roy didn’t say, but what I read between the lines, was that no one was going to come up with three hundred thousand dollars for our release. I’d already concluded as much.
Roy also introduced me to another voice on the line: Dean. He was a private negotiator our NGO had hired to help guide them. That sounded fine to me—having a professional involved couldn’t hurt.
When our call ended, Wallakah asked what we’d talked about. I said only that I’d explained why we weren’t able to connect the afternoon before. I left out the news about the private negotiator. Wallakah seemed satisfied with my answer.
A new character joined our troupe after our return to the shelter. The man who walked into our room was only about five foot two. He was probably in his fifties, with a dark complexion and a full but short black beard.
I was stunned. I’d seen this man somewhere before.
He seemed to know Rafiq. “Doctor sahab, salaam alaikum [sir, peace be upon you],” he said to him. He also greeted me, though I doubted he recognized me.
Then I remembered. He was a mullah—a local religious leader. He had represented the Taliban when Rafiq and I met with him and local police officials two years earlier, shortly after the opening of our education center in Pul-i-assim. We wanted to talk with them about how we could best serve the local population and also keep our staff secure. The mullah responded then that we were welcome to work and serve there, though the intention may have been to appear cooperative rather than actually be so.
Because the Taliban had almost no contact with our staff and deeply distrusted anyone foreign, animosity was bound to grow. They had kidnapped and killed several people east of Kabul during the previous two years, many of them Afghan construction workers led by foreign project directors. The Taliban had even harassed, abducted, or killed local government workers because of their links to foreign governments. For the citizens of this country, simply associating with foreigners was dangerous business.
In an attempt to be careful, I’d already canceled trips to the area because of these attacks. Obviously I hadn’t been careful enough.
Seeing the mullah now angered me. How could he greet us so casually, as if ru
nning into people he’d met before and who were now hostages was routine? What upset me most was the difference in our worldviews. I viewed our situation as a crisis. To the mullah, this was just how business was done. It was a typical scene for him.
It bothered me, but I had to let it go. My day had started so well. I didn’t want this incident to disrupt my sense of peace.
The mullah’s arrival altered the casual, relaxed atmosphere of the previous day. Suddenly everyone was active. Wallakah and Ahmed gathered our blankets into one large bundle while the others picked up loose items. I didn’t know where or why, but we were moving again.
We walked up and down more mountains. Based on the position of the sun, I thought we might be heading east, but I wasn’t certain. We hiked about ninety minutes until we reached a plateau that lay between two hills. It was a space about twenty feet long, steep on both sides, with a trail that wound higher up the mountain ahead. Our only view was behind us on the trail we’d just walked, which revealed a mostly brown valley. A gust whistled through this opening, causing me to shudder. I guessed that our elevation was about five thousand feet.
While blankets were placed on the ground and we settled in, the mullah climbed the steep bank to our right for another four hundred feet, followed by Ahmed. The mullah sat atop a rock, apparently to make a phone call. I wondered whom he was calling.
Using leaves and twigs, our captors built a small fire. Not long after a serving of tea, a rare sound drifted up from the valley below—the whine of a motorbike’s engine. I couldn’t have been the only one who heard it, but no one else reacted to the noise. It seemed to be expected.
What, I wondered, was happening now?
The answer arrived soon enough. Our company was growing.
Two men marched into the middle of our camp. The first was probably in his early- or midthirties. He was tall and lanky, with a well-groomed beard that extended about two inches past his chin.
Kidnapped by the Taliban: A Story of Terror, Hope, and Rescue by SEAL Team Six Page 9