Kidnapped by the Taliban: A Story of Terror, Hope, and Rescue by SEAL Team Six

by Dilip Joseph M. D.

  I was moved by this man’s boldness. I didn’t know the elder’s business, but it was certainly possible that the government required bribes for him to conduct his affairs even while the Taliban demanded Zakah. He was in a predicament shared by too many of his countrymen.

  One of my great passions was encouraging people to take a holistic view of their lives. Rather than the typical Western, allopathic model of identifying a health problem and then treating only the superficial symptoms of that problem, I advised looking at the combination of the physical, intellectual, emotional, and spiritual to get at the root issues. The elder’s constant itching appeared to be a classic example of this. It seemed to me that the stress of his situation was showing up as a skin problem.

  I admired this man’s courage in sharing his frustration in front of my captors. It inspired me to speak up as well.

  “I want you to know that our creator God, the God of this universe, is a God of peace,” I said to the elder. Everyone had been talking, but as soon as I began to speak, they stopped. While Rafiq translated, it was quiet enough to hear a snake slither.

  “I regret that you feel caught between the government authorities and the Taliban factions and find it difficult to appease both parties. In fact, you are right. You can’t satisfy both sides.”

  Man, I thought, they might just shoot me right now. Yet the room remained completely still, everyone focused on my words and Rafiq’s translation.

  You could say that I had a captive audience.

  “Our God actually cares so much about us,” I continued, “that he will direct our ways so that we can make decisions that lead to peace. You never have to worry about a decision you need to make, whether it is the right one or wrong one because he will direct your steps.”

  The elder nodded his head at me.

  “It is my hope and prayer that you can make the right decisions so that you don’t have to deal with this itching anymore,” I said.

  The group went back to their conversations without any dialogue with me. I didn’t know if my words had made an impression or not. Still, just like my speech during the long first hike about my wife’s Pashtun background, I at least had the satisfaction of knowing that I had tried to connect and had expressed my views.

  The feast, on the other hand, was less than satisfying. We divided into groups of four that gathered in circles around our food. Somehow I ended up next to the Butcher. Our meal turned out to be a half-cooked lamb and a spinach dish. The lamb tasted as if it had been boiled in water but not actually cooked. The Taliban gorged on it. They couldn’t get enough.

  I could barely stand it, however. I managed to finish one piece of meat and a bit of naan. Between the taste and my lack of enthusiasm for what this party stood for, I’d lost my appetite.

  The Butcher noticed. Apparently he felt I wasn’t eating fast enough, as he motioned for me to eat more. “Keep eating, keep eating,” he said. “Be full.”

  I made a show of putting more lamb into my mouth. A moment later, not wanting to lose this rare opportunity to connect with my nemesis, I tapped the Butcher on his shoulder and patted my stomach, letting him know I was full. He didn’t react, but at least he didn’t seem to mind the interruption.

  After more sweets, tea, and conversation, it was time to go. The house elder stood at the edge of the courtyard as the Taliban lined up, shaking hands with each as they departed.

  When my turn came, our host clasped my hand in both of his. His dark brown eyes looked intently into mine. Since I hadn’t spoken any Pashto throughout the evening, I figured he’d realized by now that I was a hostage. I sensed his compassion. If he spoke English, I think he would have said, “Thank you for honoring me with your presence. Good luck.”

  “Tashakor,” I said, which was “thank you” in Dari, Afghanistan’s other official language.

  It must have been about eight o’clock when we left the elder’s home. I wondered where we were headed now. I certainly hoped we weren’t embarking on another all-night walk. As we moved up and down trails, several of the Taliban used the flashlight feature on their cell phones, swinging them back and forth to light their way in the darkness. As they hiked along in their sandals and salwar kameezes, I pondered the odd mix of centuries-old tradition and new technology.

  “Shh!”

  The universal signal for silence came from somewhere up ahead. At the same time, someone else hissed a command in Pashto, probably “Keep quiet!” Everyone around me froze.

  We’d been hiking without incident for about forty-five minutes. What had changed?

  Wallakah pointed at Rafiq, Farzad, and me, and then at the ground. We sat. He trained his AK-47 on me.

  Could this be it? Had the military arrived? Was someone trying a rescue effort?

  I stared at Wallakah, his eyebrows furrowed and lips pinched together, his attention on what was happening ahead of us, his finger on the trigger of the weapon pointed at my head.

  This is Wallakah, the guy I’ve connected with. Surely he’s not going to pull the trigger? Yet he’s the one with the gun aimed right at me.

  Ah, this is going to be a royal mess. Everybody’s going to be shot or hurt or killed. And I’m going to be the first one.

  Then as quickly as the crisis formed, it ended. Whatever had spooked the front of the line—an animal? another member of the Taliban?—must have been identified. I exhaled and got up. We resumed our hike.

  We’d walked only another couple hundred feet when to my surprise the two-story mud house with the outdoor pool of water came into view. We’d returned to the same area where we’d spent the last two nights.

  Everyone stopped at the pool to wash their hands, face, and feet. I also washed my hand and face. As I splashed water on myself, the black-clad Talib sidled next to me.

  “Hey,” he said quietly in broken Urdu, the official language of Pakistan, “do you drink? Want some liquor?” To make sure I understood, he put his thumb to his mouth and tipped his head back.

  I shook my head. “No,” I said, waving my hand in front of me.

  “Do you want a smoke?” He put two fingers to his lips. “I can get you one.”

  “No, thank you,” I said in English.

  I noticed he had blackened lips, obviously from smoking. The idea that this man apparently smoke and drank surprised me a bit, considering that he was part of a fundamentalist group. But at the same time I wasn’t that surprised. I’d come across many extremists who had figured out loopholes for nearly every religious belief.

  After getting permission to walk away from the group to urinate, I walked about a hundred feet away from the others to do so. I was uneasy. Our little group had swelled to three captives and ten Taliban. I felt little connection to most of our captors and had no idea what would happen next.

  Suddenly I realized what I was doing. A chill dropped down my spine, like a bead of sweat. My back is turned to these guys. And nearly all of them have guns.

  I was again afraid of offending the Taliban and having my life end in a most humiliating manner. Despite the difficulty, I crouched to finish my business.

  Soon everyone gathered in front of the mosque. We had to wait to bed down, however. In someone’s careless haste to warm up everyone’s blankets for the night, one had caught fire, filling the shelter with smoke. Many of the others—even Rafiq and Farzad—used the opportunity to get on their knees for namaz.

  I sat against a wall outside the entrance. It was a lonely moment. When and how was this all going to end? I said another prayer.

  I wanted to go home.

  Finally the haze cleared enough for us to enter the shelter. As we did, the distant sound of an engine reached our ears for the third time that day. There might even have been more than one.

  I didn’t think the Commander would be pleased. I was right.

  “You hear those planes?” he said to me, looking up and pointing skyward. “If they are coming for you, we are going to kill the three of you first because we know we’re g
oing to die anyway.”

  I didn’t respond. What was there to say?

  Bedtime came quickly. With thirteen of us lying on the ground, we were packed into the room like sardines. I arranged my backpack once again as a pillow and pondered the Commander’s words.

  I’d been threatened so many times in the last three days that this latest warning did not add a fresh wave of terror. After all, these guys were desperate for money, and to get their money they needed me alive. On the other hand, if things started to go south, emotions could get in the way of logic. They easily could end up pulling the trigger.

  I said another prayer, closed my eyes, and began to fall into a fitful sleep. Saturday was going to be a big day.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “PAPA’S IN TROUBLE”

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 6

  COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO

  BACK IN THE UNITED STATES, TWO PEOPLE I WAS VERY CLOSE to also were not sleeping well—my wife and sister.

  It had been a rough two days for Cilicia. She had taken Daniel’s advice to heart and said nothing about my abduction to anyone, not even her father. Keeping that news to herself, along with her fears and concerns, was among the hardest things she’d ever had to do.

  She’d been told I was alive, of course, and about the ransom demands. But she also knew that the demands were so outrageous that there was virtually no chance they would be met.

  Our children were still going to school. Cilicia didn’t want them to worry, so she didn’t fill them in. But Asha and Jaron, in particular, realized that something was up. “We just need to pray for Papa,” was all Cilicia would say. “Papa’s in some kind of trouble.”

  On Thursday a woman named Mary called Cilicia from the FBI office in Washington, D.C. She reassured Cilicia that the FBI, the state department, and the ISAF were aware of the situation and were working together to secure my release, though she didn’t provide details.

  My sister, Deepa, meanwhile, was alarmed. About two o’clock Thursday morning, the U.S. State Department in Kabul had called and left a message at her Los Angeles home. They wanted to verify that she was my sister, but the caller didn’t explain further. It left her scared and wondering what was going on.

  Cilicia received another call from the FBI that day. This agent informed her that preparations for a military rescue were underway. Before they could act, however, they needed her to sign a form. It would give the government permission to attempt the rescue—and release it from any legal responsibility if things turned out badly.

  Cilicia didn’t know what to do. Was it better to try to negotiate or attempt a dangerous rescue? What created the greatest chance of bringing me home? She called my boss, Daniel, for advice.

  For the remainder of Thursday, Cilicia was in almost-constant contact with Daniel, Mary, or Lars, Morning Star’s executive director, as they talked through the latest updates and options. All of them were a steady source of support, answering her questions and providing a measure of comfort and peace despite the dire circumstances. Mary also called Deepa, filling her in and leaving her feeling at least a little hopeful that she might see her brother again. Later that day Cilicia and Deepa connected by phone and text. They encouraged each other through their shared concern for me.

  Yet a decision had to be made. Cilicia and Daniel both agonized over the choice before them. Some of the people advising Daniel recommended immediate military action. Others strongly pushed for continuing with negotiations.

  Cilicia went to bed on Thursday night, my Friday morning in Afghanistan, still uncertain about what to do. When she woke up in the middle of the night, she did what was natural for her—she turned to her Bible. As she sat in bed and flipped pages, she sensed God leading her to a passage:

  Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. . . . Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.1

  They were encouraging, peace-giving words. Cilicia realized that no matter what happened to my body, I had already dedicated myself to God. My soul was safe with him.

  Suddenly Cilicia had the strong impression that it was going to be okay—that they should try for the rescue. She would talk with Daniel, but she already felt sure he would agree. They’d already discussed the idea of Daniel signing the government permission form for both of them. Now it was time. She would trust in her new feeling of assurance and in God.

  Cilicia swung her legs out of bed, walked downstairs and into our dark kitchen, and opened up her laptop. It was two o’clock Friday morning in Colorado Springs, one thirty in the afternoon in Afghanistan. After a few keystrokes, she sent Daniel the following e-mail:

  Hi Daniel,

  Here is my formal authorization; please let me know if you need something different.

  I will be waiting to hear the latest from you.

  Thanks,

  Cilicia

  December 7, 2012, 2:00 a.m. MST

  I, Cilicia Joseph, authorize Morning Star Development to make a decision(s) in the best interest of my husband, Dilip Joseph, to involve the U.S. State Department and/or other agencies.

  Now all she could do was wait.

  On Friday afternoon Cilicia heard a knock on our front door. She’d been expecting it. When she opened the door, she found a group of four men and women on our porch. Some carried bags or what looked like small suitcases.

  “Mrs. Joseph?” said the man in front, showing an identification badge. “We’re from the FBI. With your permission we’d like to come in and gather some of your husband’s DNA samples.”

  Cilicia let them in and showed them to our bathroom upstairs. The FBI team took one of my old toothbrushes and hair samples from a clipper.

  Left unspoken was the reason for gathering remnants of my DNA—if needed, a way to identify my body.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ON THE RUN

  5:30 A.M., SATURDAY, DECEMBER 8

  BLACK MOUNTAIN RANGE, AFGHANISTAN

  SOME OF MY FAVORITE “PAPA” MOMENTS HAVE OCCURRED ON Saturday mornings. While sleeping soundly in my bed at home, I might suddenly be awakened by a small but warm body cuddling up next to me. Asha had mostly outgrown that, but Jaron and Tobi still loved to crawl into bed between Cilicia and me for a few minutes of cozy time to start the weekend. Seeing their obvious pleasure at being with us always brought me a generous measure of joy as well.

  As I emerged from my slumber on this Saturday morning, I had the briefest hope that the kidnapping was a terrible dream, that I would wake up at home and find one of the boys quietly snuggling next to me, a shy smile on his face.

  Instead, I awoke to the sound of voices chanting in Pashto.

  I blinked a few times in the predawn darkness, trying to get oriented. Senior Mullah was on his knees, leading a time of namaz. Facing him in a row, all nine of the other Taliban, along with Rafiq and Farzad, were also on their knees, chanting prayers.

  I was the only one still in “bed.” I was actually embarrassed and wondered why they hadn’t woken me.

  Should I get up? Should I not? It’s weird to lie here when everyone else is up praying.

  I remembered that on Thursday, Wallakah had asked me, “Do you believe in prayer? Do you pray?”

  “Absolutely I believe in prayer,” I’d answered. “Prayer to me is having a conversation with our creator God.” I’d then shown him how I prayed—on my knees, palms open, and eyes closed.

  I decided to do the same thing now. I got on my knees right where I’d been sleeping and began to pray quietly: “Lord, you have been with me for the past three days. Give me the strength and courage to face today as well.”

  I could almost feel everyone’s eyes on me. It was a little strange, all of us praying at the same time, though not quite in the same way. Yet it had a unifying feel. Despite all our differences, prayer was a pivotal part of
life for every person in that room.

  As soon as namaz ended, we all huddled in the front of the room. Haqqani and Wallakah started a fire to heat a kettle for tea. For the first couple of days, our seven glasses had been enough to go around. Now there were thirteen of us.

  “You go ahead,” I said when tea was poured and offered to me.

  “No, you drink first,” someone insisted. Hostage or not, the custom of serving guests first still prevailed. I sipped quickly, knowing that others were waiting for their turn to drink.

  After draining my tea and while the others talked and were served, I asked to go outside to relieve myself. I was grateful that Wallakah was the one who offered to go with me.

  As I crouched in the cool, cloudy morning, I again heard the sound of a plane. I couldn’t see who was up there, but it sure seemed that someone was trying to track us. Was there a plan? With the three of us surrounded by so many armed Taliban, was there any chance of getting out of this alive? I realized there was no point in trying to figure out the details. I had no control over it.

  Wallakah and I walked silently back to the shelter. Just outside the front door, a boy of about twelve held a large water jug with both hands. He’d just filled the jug that sat outside the shelter.

  Wallakah, smiling, gestured at the boy. “Mujahideen—training,” he said to me. There was a hint of pride in his voice.

  I was surprised and pleased to meet a young man. He was about four and a half feet tall and slim, with smooth features. My first instinct was to extend my hand and shake his. When the boy raised his head and his eyes met mine, however, I was startled. His eyebrows were low and knotted, his lips pressed into a tight frown. It was a look of anger and hatred.

  I tried not to react, but I felt anger rising in me as well—not at the boy but at his circumstances. As with the boy who brought us water during the long hike on Wednesday, I wondered if the Taliban had taken over this youth’s life and poisoned his thoughts, filling him with hatred for anyone foreign. Or was he angry about his lack of opportunities, the education and freedoms he would never experience?