Soon tea was over, and our host and his mujahideen guest left us. The others got on their knees for namaz. Senior Mullah led Wallakah, Ahmed, and Junior Mullah in the prayer chants.
I didn’t join them. Instead, I lay down, using my two head scarves as my new pillow and pulling the second blanket over my body. I turned away from Hopeless and the assault rifles in the corner. I didn’t want to look at them. Instead, I faced the others and adjusted my hood to avoid breathing in dust from the blanket. I was just too tired to do anything more. Since Hopeless was already sleeping, I didn’t feel too bad about it.
As I watched the others pray, I wondered what had been going through Hopeless’s head this evening. I’d seen the uncertainty on his face. Was he contemplating his suicide mission? Did he skip namaz because he was tired or because he no longer cared? He and I had something in common—both of us were facing the strong possibility that our lives were about to end.
All those years ago, when I was a boy watching a documentary, I’d been so impressed by the Japanese doctor who’d served the people in rural China and ultimately given his life for them. It had crystallized my thinking, become part of my philosophy, without me even realizing it. The concept resonated with my soul then and still did now: if you truly believe in something, you should have the courage to live it out—and if necessary, even die for it.
It was my faith that gave me the strength to say this. I had tried to live in a way that served others and was pleasing to God. On that first long hike after our capture, I had made peace with him. If he was deciding that my time on this earth was done, I could and would accept that. I was in his hands.
Yet I wasn’t giving up on this life. Somehow, I thought, I needed to convince the Taliban that I was their friend, that I didn’t mean any harm to them, that they should release me. I didn’t agree with most of their choices or their violent lifestyle, but I could still choose to love and connect with them as human beings. But how would I communicate any of this to them?
How in the world am I going to convince them to spare my life?
I went to sleep with many questions and no answers, yet trusting God with whatever would happen next.
At nearly the same moment back home, Cilicia was in our kitchen, serving a second helping of Saturday morning pancakes to our children. Asha, Jaron, Tobi, and Eshaan in his high chair were all in pajamas and gathered around our long dark-maple table. The day before, Asha and Jaron had finished school for the year. Today was the start of their Christmas vacation, but their minds were on something else.
“Mama, how is Papa doing?” Jaron asked, syrup dripping from his chin.
“When is he coming home?” Tobi asked.
Cilicia, about to drop a pancake from the spatula in her hand onto Jaron’s plate, paused. Her hand wavered.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “The government is trying to help Papa.”
“What is the government trying to do?” Asha asked.
Cilicia turned the spatula over. The pancake fell gently onto Jaron’s plate. “They’re doing something,” she said. “But we don’t know the details. We just need to pray that everything goes smoothly.”
She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t. She needed to be strong in front of the kids.
Please, God, Cilicia prayed silently.
Please do let it all go smoothly.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
RESCUE
12:20 A.M., SUNDAY, DECEMBER 9
SOMETHING WOKE ME UP.
The room was pitch dark. I heard the faint snoring of Hopeless, about a foot away from me on the floor, and the steady breathing of my other captors. Otherwise, it was deadly still. It felt like the middle of the night.
My nose was running, so I reached into my pocket for the wellused handkerchief I’d been carrying around the last four days. In Afghan culture, blowing your nose is offensive. It’s good manners to excuse yourself and find a private place for such behavior. Sometimes, of course, that isn’t an option. I’ve been in the middle of a lecture on hygiene techniques to rural Afghans when my nose starts to run. When that happens, I turn my back so no one can see me make a quick wipe.
This time I quietly rubbed my nose with my handkerchief. I tried to move as little as possible so I wouldn’t wake anyone.
The only problem was that now I was fully awake. For the next five minutes I listened to the peaceful sounds of the Taliban at rest. Once again I mentally ran through the desperate plan I was hatching. All I needed to do was find a way to communicate with my captors, convince them to let me go, stop for food and water at small towns along the way to Kabul, make my way into the city, find a way to get some money, and then pass that on to my kidnappers.
Right. It wasn’t much of a plan. But it was all I had.
My thoughts were interrupted by the noise of a dog barking, followed by the bleating of a pair of sheep. Apparently our host’s livestock were restless.
I heard someone in the room stir. Senior Mullah said something and was answered by Wallakah. From the sound of their voices, I could tell they were near the room’s entrance, probably lying just three or four feet from the opening. I was about ten feet from the entryway. The others still seemed to be asleep—Hopeless on my right, Junior Mullah on my left, and Ahmed by my feet.
Senior Mullah and Wallakah exchanged more whispered words. Then I realized that Wallakah was slipping under the blanket that covered the entrance and stepping outside. Was something going on?
I listened intently but heard nothing. Wallakah returned less than a minute later and had another quiet chat with Senior Mullah. Their voices were neutral. It seemed Wallakah was just being his usual diligent self and apparently hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual. I thought I heard him settle down again to sleep.
For the next few minutes I also tried to fall asleep. I wondered what had gotten the animals excited. Probably just another animal. Or maybe the wind. I again listened to the night—nothing.
I might have started to doze. I wasn’t fully asleep, but I wasn’t alert either.
The last thing I expected was for the world to explode.
Crack!
The gunshot was incredibly loud.
My eyes opened wide, my adrenaline suddenly spiking.
Fast movements in the room. Narrow beams of green light shooting this way and that. Multiple unfamiliar voices.
“Everyone put your hands in the air!”
“Everybody stand up! Stand up!”
“Put your hands where we can see them!”
What’s going on? Wait a second. These guys are speaking English. They must be troops here for me!
Both Hopeless, on my right, and Junior Mullah, on my left, rolled toward me and on top of me, covering my body. At nearly the same instant Wallakah scrambled over and sat on my feet. Only my head was exposed.
I was amazed. Wallakah, gun in hand, could easily have shot me as the Commander had instructed on Friday night. Instead, these guys were protecting me.
“Stand up!”
“Stand up now!”
The voices around me were loud, tense, insistent. It seemed everyone in the room was shouting, soldiers and Taliban alike. I didn’t know if the Taliban understood the command to stand, if the soldiers were gesturing “up” or if they were grabbing each of my captors and forcing them to their feet. But all the Taliban, except for Hopeless, quickly stood, and Hopeless rolled back off of me. I suspect Wallakah dropped his weapon at this point.
“Is Dilip Joseph here? Dilip Joseph?”
I had to swallow to make my voice work. From the ground I said, “Yes, I’m right here.”
Immediately one of the soldiers lay on top of me, covering me with his body. At the same moment another soldier standing near my leg shouted at Hopeless, “Are you good or bad? Good or bad?”
When Hopeless didn’t reply, this soldier yelled to me, “Is anybody else with you? What about your two friends?” I could barely hear him over everyone’s voices.
“Th
ey were taken away earlier,” I said. “I have no idea where they are.”
“So are the rest of these guys good or bad?” the soldier shouted.
Hopeless spoke up then. I didn’t know if he understood the soldier’s words and tried to reply in English or if he was saying something else, but what came out was “Goo! Goo! Goo!”
“No, he’s bad,” I said. “He’s bad.”
Are these guys going to be taken to prison? Will they be killed? I hope not.
“Are you hurt anywhere?” the soldier on top of me asked. “Are you ambulatory? Can you walk?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I said. “I can walk. I’m not hurting anywhere.”
A strange, muffled noise filled the room: Pop! Pop! Pop!
Oh, man! Did Hopeless reach for his gun? My captors are being shot!
“Have you been fed enough?” the man on top of me asked. “Are you tired? Did they abuse you?”
Pop! Pop!
Ah, this isn’t what I expected. I can’t believe this is how it’s ending.
“Did they abuse you?”
Pop! Pop!
Man, life is ending all around me.
“You’re going to be okay,” the same soldier said. “We’re going to get you out of here.”
The soldier got off of me and helped me to my feet. He and another soldier sandwiched me between their shoulders and moved me toward the exit.
“Wait, guys,” I said. “Give me a second to find my shoes.”
They stopped. I turned.
I sensed, more than actually saw, bodies on the floor as my gaze immediately went to the figure that still breathed. He sat in an almost fetal posture, knees up with arms wrapped tightly around them, his chin resting on one knee.
Wallakah.
We were just three feet apart. He appeared unhurt.
Our eyes locked.
When Wallakah and the others first abducted me, I was certain I was about to die. I couldn’t believe it. I felt shocked and desperate. At the same time, though, I still felt hope for my future—if not in this life, then in the afterlife.
Now, in the eyes of the young man who was my kidnapper and who had also, in a strange way, become almost a friend, I saw many of the same emotions. Shock. Desperation. Disbelief that he might be about to die.
Sadly, however, I did not see hope.
I wanted so much to reach out to Wallakah, to give him a hug. But I did not want to disrespect the soldiers around me. I owed them my life. In that moment I didn’t think they would understand.
I have regretted my inaction ever since.
The look between Wallakah and me felt like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. I broke away and focused on the floor to search for my shoes. Between the darkness and my shock about what was happening, I had trouble finding them. Finally I slipped them on and was escorted through the opening. The blanket was gone.
Several soldiers were moving about on the veranda. All wore night-vision goggles and carried weapons. The two soldiers with me steered me toward the outside wall just outside the room. “Stand right there,” one of them said in a respectful tone. “Don’t move around too much. Wait right here.”
This is amazing, I thought. How did these guys figure this out and find me? I couldn’t believe it.
I heard a radio crackle and a voice say that a helicopter was twelve minutes away. A minute later, a soldier said, “We’re going to have you stand inside the room again and wait for a little bit.”
A shard of fear sliced through me.
“There were five of them and four guns between them,” I said. “Did you guys get all the guns?”
“Yes,” the soldier answered. “Everything’s been taken care of.”
He took my left arm and guided me back toward the room. “When we go in,” he said, “don’t look around.”
I didn’t. Not at first. The soldier escorted me to the corner directly across from the entrance. I stood facing that corner for about five minutes and tried to wrap my mind around what had just happened.
I was safe. I was free. It didn’t seem real.
When the soldier came to retrieve me, curiosity took over. I took a quick peek at the room as we walked out. The first thing I saw was Senior Mullah’s body on the ground, blood oozing out of him in a dark pool.
The second thing I saw was Wallakah. He also was on the ground, a pool of blood beside him. Clearly he was dead. Had he made a last, desperate attempt to grab his gun? Had he tried to escape?
It didn’t matter now. They all were dead.
I felt an overwhelming wave of sadness. These guys had put themselves in this position, of course. They’d aligned with the Taliban and aided or participated in a kidnapping. If not for this rescue, it was likely I’d be the one lying on the ground beside a pool of blood.
But I’d shared life with these men over the last four days. In one of the lowest moments of my life, some had even showed me unexpected compassion. I’d connected with them—Wallakah in particular.
Not so long before, I’d thought of staying in touch with these guys. I’d hoped I could influence them, demonstrate another way of life, help them see there were other choices they could make. Whether it had been realistic or not, that dream was now shattered.
When I was escorted outside, one soldier stood directly in front of me while another was right behind me. Another group attended to a comrade lying on a gurney. The fallen soldier had bandages wrapped around his head. The soldier behind me was mumbling something under his breath.
“What are you doing?” asked the man ahead of me.
“Praying for Nic,” the soldier in back of me said. “Praying that he’ll be okay.”
I realized that the injury to the soldier on the gurney was serious. I learned later that he was a U.S. Navy SEAL, chief special warfare operator, a recipient of the Bronze Star and Purple Heart. He had the dangerous assignment of being the first man to enter our room that night. Wallakah, lying on the floor, had had just enough time to raise his Kalashnikov and get off one shot.
The bullet struck the SEAL in the forehead.
For the second time in as many minutes, I felt a terrible heaviness. This man had just taken the lead in rescuing me. Here in front of me was the cost of his service. He was a hero, and now he was fighting for his life. This wasn’t the movies. It was real.
The same two SEALs stayed right next to me, protecting me with their bodies. They escorted me to the side of the house and told me to cover my face, though I couldn’t figure out why. A few minutes later a large military helicopter roared into view. It landed in the yard in front of us, its spinning rotors making a steady bom-bom-bom-bom sound and kicking up debris. What felt like thousands of little rocks began pelting my body. I pulled my hood tighter over my face and forehead, which had been partly exposed. Now I understood why the SEALs had asked me to cover my face.
We ran to and up a ramp in the back of the helicopter. “You can sit there,” one SEAL yelled over the sound of the engine and rotors, pointing to a bench along the inside wall.
Moments later another group of SEALs appeared. They carried the gurney that held Nic. These men gently loaded him into the helicopter. In seconds we were airborne. The deadly scene below us quickly receded from view.
In the cramped quarters of the helicopter, I watched Nic’s teammates pump air into his lungs as they tried to resuscitate him. I knew he wasn’t doing well. I hoped and prayed he would live. I wanted to thank him personally for what he’d done. I had lived on the brink of death for days and now had seen it up close. I didn’t want to see any more.
I leaned against the side of the helicopter and took a long, slow breath. Unbelievably, my ordeal was over. The helicopter flew on into the Afghan night, carrying me farther and farther away from a nightmare and back toward the world I knew and loved.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
REBORN
1:30 A.M., SUNDAY, DECEMBER 9
AFGHANISTAN MILITARY BASE
WHEN O
UR HELICOPTER LANDED AT A MILITARY AIR BASE, I was greeted warmly by Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Hansen of the U.S. Army and Technical Sergeant John Sprague of the U.S. Air Force, both in camouflage uniforms. They put their arms around me and helped me down the ramp.
“How are you doing?” Colonel Hansen asked. “Are you able to walk to the truck over there?”
“I’m totally fine, thank you,” I said. At almost the same moment that I stepped off the helicopter, a team of SEALs rushed by with its wounded comrade and the gurney. “Can you please keep me up to date on the man who was hurt?” I asked, watching them leave. I was definitely worried about his condition.
“We’ll definitely do that,” Colonel Hansen said. We got into a military truck and sped away.
“Dr. Joseph, I want you to be aware of how this is going to work,” the colonel said as another soldier drove. “Your reintegration process is going to take four to five months. You’ll need to spend a few weeks with us. Then you’ll have two or three weeks in a neutral setting. Then we’ll need to track you with counseling and care for another two or three months when you’re back in the States.”
That sounded complicated to me. I just wanted to go home. Of course, I was still in shock and probably not in the best shape to decide what I needed right then.
“Colonel, I know you’re intending all of this for my good,” I said. “Given what I’ve been through these last four days, all I want is to get back to my family.”
Colonel Hansen studied me for a moment. “Let’s go through the first two or three days and assess the situation at that point,” he said.
“That sounds fine to me.”
I was escorted to a base medical clinic, where a doctor examined me. Other than some soreness in my side from the Butcher’s rifle blow, I felt fine, and I was given a clean bill of health.
As I walked out of the medical clinic office, I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror. At least, I thought it was me. The dirty, hairy image reflected back looked more like a yeti than anyone I recognized.
The colonel and sergeant walked me across the base. “Has anyone contacted my family?” I asked.
Kidnapped by the Taliban: A Story of Terror, Hope, and Rescue by SEAL Team Six Page 14