“Your safe return has already been communicated,” the colonel said. “You will definitely have the chance to call them after we get you to your room and you get a little rest.”
I didn’t protest. I realize now I was a bit disoriented. I really couldn’t believe it was all over.
The two officers took me to a cabin, where two sergeants stood guard. Inside were three small rooms. My hosts showed me one of the rooms. It was basic soldier’s quarters, with a bunk bed, desk, and closet. To me, it looked like luxury. “This is yours for you to just rest,” the colonel said. “If you need anything—food, drink, TV—just ask a sergeant.”
I wasn’t ready to rest yet, though. After five days of wearing the same outfit and sleeping on dirt, I wanted a long, hot shower and a change of clothes. One of the sergeants walked me to a large bathroom that had been locked and set aside just for me.
For the first time since I’d been abducted, I was truly alone. It was a strange feeling. I approached the mirror over the sink and examined myself.
Wow! I thought. I look terrible.
My face was covered with dust. My hair stuck out at crazy angles. I had a scraggly beard. My eyes had dark rings around them. It was hard to believe I’d been in captivity for only four days. Based on my appearance, you’d have thought it was four months.
More disturbing was the reflected image of my salwar kameez. I still recognized a few of the pomegranate stains from my meal at the police chief’s house in Pul-i-assim on Wednesday, which seemed a lifetime ago. But much of these were covered by another dark-red substance. I had been splattered with blood.
It was a relief to take off those clothes and step into the shower. The water was cleansing in more ways than one. I felt as if I were scraping away a terrible burden that had attached itself to my body. All the worry and tension and fear that had clung to me for the past few days mixed with the soap and water on the shower floor and washed down the drain.
It felt so good.
By the time I’d changed into a fresh T-shirt, sweatpants, and military jacket provided by my new hosts, I felt at least a bit more like my old self. Back at my cabin I tried to rest on the bed. But my mind wouldn’t relax.
What, I wondered, do I do now? Will they let me call Cilicia and the kids? What about my sister, my uncle, my dad? Are Rafiq and Farzad safe? What’s next?
At about four thirty, Colonel Hansen and Sergeant Sprague returned to the cabin and said I was welcome to call my family if I was ready to do that. Of course I was ready! They advised me to keep this first call brief.
I soon understood why. Alone in my room, phone in hand, I waited for what seemed an eternity for the connection to go through to Colorado Springs. It was five in the afternoon on Saturday there.
“Hello?” It was Cilicia’s voice.
“Hi, honey. It’s me. I just want you to know . . . that I’m okay.”
That was all either of us could manage. We both started crying.
It didn’t matter. Words weren’t important at that point. Just hearing each other’s voices and connecting again—knowing that we would see each other again—was all we needed.
I called my sister, also keeping that call short to give her a chance to recover from the emotional roller coaster she’d been through. She said she would contact my father, who’d been traveling and had only heard about the kidnapping the day before. Then I connected with Roy, who passed on the wonderful news that Rafiq and Farzad were both well and out of harm’s way.
It was only later that I heard the details of the amazing story of Rafiq and Farzad’s journey to safety. Both tribal influence and the efforts of family played important roles in their survival.
Rafiq was part of the Khugiani tribe, born and raised in an area called the White Mountains, not far from where we had all hiked. When his extended family, including six uncles, nephews, and other close relatives, heard about the kidnapping—as did members of the villages where Rafiq worked—all were outraged. They learned who some of the kidnappers were and went to their family homes, demanding our release. Some found out who was behind the abduction and called the Commander directly to insist that we be freed. Though I didn’t know it at the time, I had witnessed some of these calls.
It turned out that the Taliban had lied to us about the Hilux full of armed men. They weren’t Taliban from Pakistan trying to take us away, but members of Rafiq’s family intending to liberate us. When I heard this, I finally understood why our captors had been in such a hurry to get away.
The last time I’d seen my friends, they were hiking down the mountain with the Commander, his assistant, and the black-outfitted Urdu guy. Rafiq’s legs stiffened, and he had trouble keeping up with the others. He fell to the end of the line, though one of the Taliban stayed within visual range.
After they were off the mountain, another man suddenly appeared on the trail and ran toward Rafiq. He recognized Rafiq from his work in the villages. “Who are these men you’re with?” the man asked. “What is happening here?”
Rafiq had been told by the Taliban to say nothing. Fearing for his life, he said, “I cannot answer you.” The man ran off.
Rafiq eventually caught up with the other Taliban. They’d been joined by at least two other Taliban from Pakistan. When they rounded a bend in the trail, they were opposed by a group of about ten villagers. The villagers had been alerted by the man on the trail and were angry.
“We hear in the news that three doctors were kidnapped,” one villager said. “Where is the other? You want to kill them, sell them? What is your plan?”
“No, that’s wrong,” the Commander said. He made up a story about helping these two “shepherds” look for their lost animals.
An argument ensued. More villagers kept arriving. Some carried stones. Soon the crowd swelled to as many as seventy people.
The Commander tried to lead Rafiq, Farzad, and the rest of the group past the villagers. They made it about a hundred yards before they were stopped again. This time, pushing and shoving led to a fight between the villagers and the Taliban. The Taliban didn’t raise their guns, perhaps because there were too many villagers to subdue. The fight broke up after a few minutes. No one was seriously injured, though someone smashed the glasses of an older Talib from Pakistan.
The Taliban managed to take Rafiq and Farzad to a house, though they were still under the watchful eyes of some of the villagers. After tea Rafiq and Farzad were escorted by six armed Taliban, including the Commander and his assistant, to a remote location. There they met Farzad’s brother and cousin, who’d driven there in a car. Their arrival was supposedly part of Rafiq’s plan to bring money to the Taliban in exchange for their release.
What the Taliban didn’t know was that Rafiq’s family had also alerted Afghanistan’s military and intelligence network.
The Taliban pushed Rafiq and Farzad into the backseat of the vehicle; then the Commander and his assistant also climbed in, one on each side of Rafiq and Farzad. Both carried AK-47s. With the brother driving and the cousin in the front passenger seat, the six of them drove off. The two Taliban expected that they were about to get their money.
What happened instead was that after driving a few minutes on a dirt road, they reached pavement. And a minute after that, they came to a checkpoint manned by Afghan National Security Forces.
Uniformed men quickly surrounded the car, weapons raised. There was nothing the two Taliban could do.
One of the security men saw Rafiq and smiled. “Rafiq, we found you,” he said. “Be happy.” For Rafiq and Farzad, it was a moment of overwhelming relief.
Reborn, Rafiq told himself. I am reborn.
At the base, I spent the rest of my first morning as a free man in debriefing meetings. I related my experience to the colonel and sergeant, to representatives of the U.S. Embassy, and to the FBI, first in separate meetings and then later to groups that combined members from different agencies. The repetition was actually beneficial—it was healing for me to get the story o
ut. I also met with a chaplain and his assistant.
I learned that an embassy official named Rahim had been involved in my rescue and coordinated much of the service I was now enjoying. He was in charge of crisis citizen services for the state department. I thought his work was an amazing example of our increasingly multicultural world. A Muslim South Asian–American had helped retrieve a Christian Indian-American being held by Muslim extremists in Afghanistan. I’d always admired America for being a place where people of different cultures and beliefs could exist and thrive side by side. Now I was seeing firsthand another example. Though I’d lived in many countries, I’d yet to experience this anywhere else in the world.
“Dr. Joseph,” Rahim said, “I want you to know that for the past forty-eight hours, you were at the top of the U.S. government’s priority list. That included President Obama and all the way down the line.”
I was truly humbled to hear this.
When I walked back to my cabin after my debriefing meetings, I met yet another officer who’d played a key role in securing my freedom. Standing next to my door was an air force captain.
When I was close enough, I checked his nametag: David Norse.
“Norse,” I said. “I know that name.” I remembered an air force officer named Norse who’d made an off-site video presentation right after mine for a leadership seminar.
I eventually learned that Captain Norse had taken part in planning and coordinating my rescue, which included the Navy SEAL team and air force pararescue and combat control special operators. He also was in charge of my reintegration process at the base and coordinated my meetings with the different agencies.
I was amazed. The army of people who’d been part of my liberation seemed to keep growing.
Throughout my meetings the status of the wounded SEAL continued to weigh on my mind. I’d repeatedly asked Colonel Hansen, “How is the man doing who got shot?” He wouldn’t tell me, which I knew couldn’t be good. Finally, early that afternoon, he was cleared to fill me in.
“Dilip, I’m very sorry to inform you that the operator who went in first during the rescue essentially gave his life for you. He passed away.”
I wasn’t surprised to hear it, but it still hit me hard. This man, someone I’d never even met, had made the ultimate sacrifice for me. How could I process this? What had I done to deserve an act as selfless as this? What would his death mean for his family, his friends? Once again I was humbled beyond words.
U.S. Navy SEAL operators—SEAL stood for Sea, Air, and Land—are the secretive men who take on the military’s most dangerous missions. Their training is so rigorous that class dropout rates sometimes exceed 90 percent. They have been active in Afghanistan since shortly after 9/11 and have rescued a number of Americans at risk around the world. These include Captain Richard Phillips, from a group of Somali pirates in 2009, and aid worker Jessica Buchanan, from Somali terrorists in 2012, as well as a boatload of raids that no one has ever heard about.
I found out that the men involved in my rescue were part of the same team that had participated in the most famous SEAL operation of all—the May 2011 raid on a compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, that resulted in the death of Osama bin Laden. They were members of the U.S. Naval Special Warfare Development Group, more commonly known as SEAL Team Six.
Colonel Hansen told me that the SEALs would be honoring Nic that night with a special “ramp ceremony,” the traditional SEAL memorial service for a fallen fellow warrior. When I heard this, I saw an opportunity.
“Colonel, is there any chance I could attend the ceremony?” I asked. “If the whole rescue team is going to be there, could I have a chance to thank them?”
The colonel promised to see what he could do, though he made it clear that getting clearance would be difficult. Later that day, however, he returned with good news: “Dilip, after getting to know you over these past few hours, I felt I could speak firmly of your character. We’ve made sure you’ll have the opportunity to attend the ceremony and speak to the SEALs tonight. It will be good for the team and just as good for you. I think it will start the process of your healing.”
I was so glad to hear the colonel say this. But as the evening wore on, I grew increasingly nervous about it. What would I say to these guys? What did they think of me? Were they glad they’d taken part in my rescue, or did they view me as the guy who’d caused their friend to die?
More than once during the day, Colonel Hansen had encouraged me by saying, “You have been rescued, and you have returned with honor.” I thought it was his way of conveying that I shouldn’t feel shame or survivor’s guilt. I wasn’t sure if I agreed with those ideas or not, but his words meant a lot to me.
Finally, just after midnight on what was now Monday morning, I joined the SEALs and other officers on the airfield tarmac. I felt out of place, like a dolphin in the middle of a desert.
As people milled about and waited for the ceremony to begin, the SEAL shoot commander walked up and greeted me. “I hear you want to say something to my boys,” he said. “They rarely have the chance to hear a word of thanks from anyone. So whatever you want to say, make it count.”
I was nervous before. Now I definitely felt the pressure.
The SEAL senior commander also greeted me, saying it was an honor to be part of my rescue. Then he walked over to another officer and tapped him on the shoulder. This man, in a camouflage uniform and hat, broke away from his conversation and came to shake my hand.
“Dr. Joseph, my name is General Allen,” he said. “I just want you to know that we’re so glad you’re safely back with us.”
I’d already realized that the rescue mission had touched the highest levels of the U.S. government. Now I had even more evidence of it. General John Allen was the commander of all ISAF troops and additional U.S. forces in Afghanistan.
Just before the ceremony began, Colonel Hansen rejoined me. I think he sensed my anxiety.
“Don’t worry so much about the words you’re going to use,” he said. “Just speak from your heart. Just thank them. That’s all you have to do.”
Once again I appreciated the colonel’s encouragement and insight. It came just in time.
The ceremony began with the arrival of Nic’s casket. The casket was draped with an American flag. More than one hundred military personnel lined up at attention and saluted as eight pallbearers slowly and silently carried the casket up a ramp and into the back of an enormous cargo plane, a Boeing C-17.
Nic’s SEAL teammates joined him inside the C-17 to pay their final respects while the rest of us waited below.
When the ceremony ended, Colonel Hansen asked me to walk up the ramp and speak. Once inside the giant metal tube, I saw that the casket had been moved to the far end of the plane’s interior. While I stood with my back to the opening at the tail, nearly thirty SEALs gathered in front of me in a semicircle.
“As a medical doctor,” I began, “I can appreciate what it means to save lives. But what you guys did for me last night—”
My eyes began to well with tears. My voice broke so that I could barely get the words out. I hoped they could understand me.
“What you guys did for me,” I continued, “goes way beyond even my imagination. The courage and commitment and strength that you’ve shown to rescue me from my situation speak volumes. To do that at the cost of sacrificing one of your own means so much to me.”
U.S. Navy SEALs have a reputation as the toughest people on the planet, one they have rightly earned from their training and from the skill they’ve demonstrated in mission after mission. But as I observed the faces of the men gathered around me, I saw more than a few eyes, like mine, filling up. A few of the SEALs had tears running down their cheeks.
As I finished, my voice was nearly inaudible. “Your service and sacrifice will not be forgotten,” I said. “The memory of what you did for me will live on in our family for generations to come.”
When I finished, the SEALs lined up in single file. Not one left
the plane until he’d shaken my hand. I had the opportunity to look into the eyes of each man and thank him for what he’d done. Their responses varied. Some said, “It was our pleasure,” or “It was an honor to serve you.” Others simply replied, “You’re welcome” or said nothing at all.
It didn’t really matter. I wasn’t looking for a response. I just wanted to personally express my gratitude to these American heroes, men who tackle the toughest assignments, always dangerous and never in the limelight.
They had given me my life back and allowed me to share in a private memorial to one of their finest. The chance to have a moment with each of them was meaningful beyond measure. It is carved permanently into my life story, part of a night I will never forget.
After all the SEALs had walked down the ramp, Colonel Hansen clapped me on the back. “What you had to say out there really encouraged those guys,” he said. “You did well.”
I remained on the plane for another minute to regain my composure. When I walked down to the tarmac, I was surprised to see that all the SEALs were still there, waiting for me. They wanted a group picture. Once that was done, the team leader again shook my hand.
“We can tell that the type of work you do is quite commendable and very important to you,” he said. “It probably makes a huge difference in the lives that you serve. It’s obvious you really love what you do. It’s been an honor to serve you.
“But,” he added, “if you ever come back to Afghanistan, we will kill you.”
The team leader half smiled as he said this. I knew it was a joke, of course. But at the same time I understood that it also wasn’t. He was reminding me of all that had transpired to bring me here.
He then handed me what I first thought was a large gold coin. “We would like you to have this,” he said, “as a token of our service to you.”
After he left, I took a closer look. The coin was actually shaped like a shield. It featured the SEAL symbol, which included a trident, pistol, and eagle, signifying the SEAL’s abilities at sea, on land, and in the air. This symbol was overlaid on a huge Roman numeral VI.
Kidnapped by the Taliban: A Story of Terror, Hope, and Rescue by SEAL Team Six Page 15