A Rope and a Prayer

by David Rohde

  We talk about photography, and he asks me about the famous photograph of the Afghan girl that appeared two decades ago, on the cover of National Geographic. The one with the terrorized, intense green eyes. “What was so compelling about it?” he asks. “She looks like every other Afghan girl.”

  I tell him my husband has been held since November 10, just over three months. He says I am a brave woman and is amazed I am not a puddle of tears. I think brave is overstating it—I have no other option, I respond. And thanks to a hefty share of defense mechanisms—denial, distancing, humor—I’m still able to function.

  For some reason—most likely stress—I am incredibly exhausted. I take a nap. One would think it would be difficult to sleep under the circumstances, but I have learned to sleep when I can. Rest is an essential part of staying sharp. I have been on an adrenaline rush since David’s call and am now experiencing the downswing. The hours tick by: 1 A.M., 2 A.M., then 3 A.M. We have well surpassed our midnight deadline. At 3:30 A.M. we tell the translator he can leave and that we will see him again tomorrow evening.

  Lee settles in on the couch and I retire to the bedroom. At 4:30 A.M. the phone rings. I jolt out of bed and run into the living room. Lee is in his running shorts and a T-shirt, looking equally startled and disheveled. I pick up the phone. Lee reads and records the phone number off the caller ID. The area code indicates a Pakistani number. He texts it to the FBI.

  “Hello, salaam alaikum,” I say. This is a Muslim greeting which means “Peace be upon you.” It never hurts to be polite.

  “Alaikum asalaam,” or “The same to you,” the caller responds. What a gentleman, I think.

  “Call me back, this number,” the voice says before the line goes silent.

  Several rings later, a small eternity, our call resumes.

  “This is Kristen, can you understand?” I ask. I hope.

  “No speak Eng-leeesh,” he exaggerates. “Only Pashto.”

  Oh no. I am concerned they think I slacked off on finding a proper translator. Screw it, I say to myself, and proceed to speak in English, without making any apologies. They will either understand me or they won’t. I tell them to call John’s number in Afghanistan and that he will be representing the family in negotiations. This is Michael’s contact. The captors have long stopped calling the security experts that make up Team Kabul for fear that they are government agents. They have also shunned The New York Times bureau, because we have convinced them that this is a family matter.

  Michael suggested I use specific wording in conveying information to the captors. I recite the phrases I have memorized: “My representative, my friend, John, is in Afghanistan and he is authorized to help you. He is the only one you should speak to.”

  For the next five minutes, a somewhat comical exchange ensues as I relay numbers to Atiqullah and he repeats them back to me. He is oddly polite and somewhat cheeky. I laugh triumphantly when he gets all the digits correct and in proper sequence. Lee looks somewhat quizzical as he witnesses this exchange. Lee calls Michael on the other line to alert him that his contact should expect a call.

  Luckily, Atiqullah knows his English numbers. Within minutes, Michael calls to alert us that Atiqullah has already made contact with John. I hope passing Atiqullah on to this negotiator is the right decision.

  It’s now early March and my mother has returned to New York with my father, Jim, for a visit. My parents have been happily married for over forty-five years. Seeing them together gives me a sense of comfort, but also makes David’s absence more palpable.

  Two weeks have passed since my call with Atiqullah. Our noon updates continue. Atiqullah had at first made repeated calls to our contact, John, then stopped abruptly. John informs me and Lee over Skype that during the initial calls, Atiqullah said he would kill David on the spot, a threat John found ludicrous. “I knew there was no way David was with him,” John tells us. “It would be too risky.” When John remained unfazed, the kidnapper’s tone once again shifted to “Let’s make a deal.” John says they have come down from $7 million to $5 million and that they are trying to arrange to meet face-to-face in a few days. To my knowledge, this never transpires.

  A few days later, on a Sunday morning, my phone rings at 7:30 A.M. Unfortunately, I’ve left the cordless handset in the living room, where my parents are sleeping.

  I wish this was not happening in front of them. My father has not yet been subjected to a call from the captors. I know he would do anything to protect me. Proactive and sensitive, seeing me go through this ordeal and feeling he cannot remedy the situation is a strain on him as well. I motion for them to leave the room to avoid distraction. I hit the record button attached to my answering machine.

  “Hello, salaam alaikum,” I say.

  “Alaikum asalaam,” he responds.

  “This is Kristen. Who is this?” I ask, trying to buy some time to catch my breath.

  “This is the translator for Atiqullah. So what is the progress?” he asks.

  My heart is racing but I try to sound as calm and casual as possible and stick to the talking points outlined by our security team. I continue: “I gave Atiqullah the phone number of John, our representative in country. We are still working on raising money. It has been difficult to raise money because it is illegal to do so, so people have been, you know, a little hesitant.” I chastise myself for the stupidity of this statement, then add, “I have a friend in country now who could arrange to get it to David’s hosts.” The line goes dead.

  I phone Michael to alert him that I have just received another call. I ask him why they are contacting me when John is still in Afghanistan. He tells me to stonewall them if they call again. “Keep referring them back to John,” he advises. “Also, tell them you are shocked they are speaking with you directly. You are a woman and it is dishonorable for them to be speaking to you. It goes against all they preach.”

  I wait several minutes for Atiqullah’s translator to call me back, then take matters into my own hands, realizing once again they are going to stiff me for the cost of the phone call. I dial the number from caller ID. “Hello,” I say. “This is Kristen.”

  “Hello, hi,” he says, seemingly surprised to hear from me. “Yes, go on. So you continue.” he adds casually.

  I am struck by the conversational way the translator speaks English. I realize he’s fluent in “American.”

  “My representative in country. Atiqullah has talked to him before,” I say. “He can tell you more specifically what we can do. Do you need his phone number?” I ask.

  “Listen, listen. Master John is not good man, he is creating problems,” the translator responds.

  I take this to mean John has stood firm and not agreed to give them $5 million. Lee and I have decided to stand firm on our offer. AISC has advised us to stand fast, too. Increasing the amount while our captors remain at an unmatchable level on both money and prisoners is futile, and they claim it will only further extend our ordeal. They are of the “give them an inch and they’ll ask for a mile” school of thought. Anyway, we don’t have this kind of money and have no intention of trying to raise it.

  “And your husband has said that you speak directly to my wife,” the translator claims.

  I try to thwart this idea. “I am very concerned, but I am a woman. I am surprised you are calling me direct,” I say.

  “Well,” he says a bit sheepishly, “we are interested to hear from you, what progress you have made. So far your husband is in good condition but over time anything can happen.”

  “The newspaper will not help me and our government will not pay. Our government is very different from the Italian government or the Korean government,” I inform him, knowing that those countries had recently paid ransom in Taliban kidnappings. “So we will keep trying. Five million is a lot. We will never have it. We have a certain amount now and we can get it to you very quickly,” I add, as I have been instructed to do by John and Michael.

  “Yes. You know our circumstances,” he expla
ins. “Everybody is putting nose in. We should not talk all the time because it is dangerous. So try to keep it limited.”

  I agree with him and add, “That is why our representative is in the country. He can talk to you and the government cannot trace the call.”

  “Atiqullah says to you he is the only authentic representative for this issue,” he adds.

  “Okay, for the money issue?” I ask.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he confirms.

  I am relieved he has not made any mention of prisoners.

  “Okay,” I repeat. “John is my only rep in country. Can we have him and Atiqullah talk again? He knows my father. He is a family friend. He also knows Afghanistan. That is the connection between us.” I know invoking one’s father is a form of credibility in Pashtun culture. I also don’t want to let on that we think David and his captors are in Pakistan.

  “Listen, you just try to prepare to arrange the money, then we will talk to you. You try to prepare the money as quietly as possibly,” he states.

  “Okay, we will keep trying,” I say, to let them know more funds may be available if we keep talking. “We have an update about funding in the country, if you want to contact John he should know about it. He has access to the money and can get it to you.”

  “Yeah, we are going for praying,” he says, wanting to get off the phone, in just one of the absurdities of the situation. He may be a criminal and a kidnapper, but he’s observant. “After two days we will have another conversation, inshallah,” he adds. God willing.

  “Okay, Tahir and Asad—they are okay?” I ask. I know their families are worried sick. And I want to reinforce the idea that they must be part of the deal.

  “Yeah, yeah, completely well. There is no problem,” he says. “Is okay—one hundred percent.”

  “Okay,” I add, “and tell David I love him and I pray for you all. I pray for you all every day.” I hope in some bizarre way this will play on their sympathies, if only momentarily. There is a muffled pause, a fumbling in the background.

  “God bless you,” he responds.

  Michael alerts me he will be traveling to Washington in a few days, and I plan to meet him there. We exchange text messages and set a meeting point: the bookshop at Union Station, just in front of Au Bon Pain. At this point, we have only seen each other in miniature during our telephonic computer exchanges on Skype. I tell him I will be wearing a red scarf.

  I have no idea what to expect beyond the sandy brown hair, prophet-length beard, and broad smile I have seen on my computer screen. I have heard rumors about Michael. Mystery precedes him. A Google search reveals he was expelled from Afghanistan by President Hamid Karzai in 2007 for trying to negotiate with the Taliban. He has worked in the region for the United Nations and the European Union as a diplomat. Some speculate that he is a member of British intelligence. This is most likely wild rumor fueled by the fact that he has worked in Afghanistan and Pakistan for the last twenty-five years and is fluent in several local dialects and well versed in the nuances of tribal structures and custom. He is an expert on Taliban leadership. Two former hostages I met claim he was their lifesaver. The Kabul bureau trusts him and uses him as an analyst. David viewed Michael as a well-respected expert on Afghanistan and Pakistan. I have found him to be an insightful and articulate Skype correspondent.

  He arrives on time. I’m relieved to see he is somewhat older than I expected and slightly professorial in his demeanor. A tall man with a warm smile, he greets me with three kisses, alternating cheeks. There is an awkward charm about him and something fatherly that puts me at ease. He is quite sensible, respectful, decent—and every bit as eloquent in person as on a computer screen. He’s married and has a normal family life outside the business of kidnapping. He informs me he has just been offered a fellowship at Harvard and seems genuinely surprised by the honor. Michael says he is in Washington on business. He occupies quite a niche: a person who has talked to the Taliban. He jests that Karzai has done wonders for his brand.

  “I should tell you, your husband was due to interview me before this unfortunate incident. Did you know this?” he asks as we settle into the lobby coffee shop of a nearby hotel.

  Of course I do. I’ve scoured David’s e-mail account for references to Michael and found out he was indeed going to meet with him in Pakistan, the day after his fateful interview with Abu Tayyeb. “David would be slightly upset knowing I have now scooped him on several interviews, including you,” I joke, recalling my brief chats with Condoleezza Rice and Hillary Clinton.

  Michael says he still believes that Atiqullah is not the ultimate decision maker in the kidnapping and that he does not have the authority to release our three. Michael is pushing for John to meet with a relative of Siraj face-to-face to try and strike a deal. Upon parting he praises my patience. I think this is a dubious honor. I have been beating myself up for days with the thought that if I were truly doing a good job, David would be free by now. Michael counters that the United States government cannot find Siraj Haqqani. Why should it be any easier locating David and securing a deal for his release? He adds that Siraj cultivates a self-image of being moral, but in reality heads a criminal conspiracy. “When you’re dealing with one of the world’s most formidable characters,” Michael tells me, “things take time.”

  AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE

  David, Late February 2009

  Abu Tayyeb calls Kristen to negotiate and informs me that she told him to speak with someone in Kabul. Then he disappears again. I am relieved in a way. At least Kristen is not negotiating herself. Over the next several weeks, we receive contradictory reports from our guards about the negotiations. On one day, they say an agreement is close. On another, they say there is no progress.

  Our existence reverts to its old pattern. Each day consists of the same tedium: prayers, meals, naps, and depression. Tahir and Asad grow more and more pessimistic. I tell them to be patient. They shake their heads at me.

  My mind-set is gradually shifting. For the first three months of captivity, I tried to find ways that I could somehow help engineer our release. Now, as we begin our fourth month, I tell myself it is my job to wait as long as it takes for our release. I am sure that Kristen and my family are doing all they can to free us. My part of the bargain is to be patient and strong and do nothing rash. We are being treated well compared to other hostages, many of whom spent far longer in captivity. I think of Terry Anderson, the American journalist held for seven years in Lebanon. I try to look at my time in captivity as a jail sentence that I must serve until release. At the age of forty-one, I have twenty to thirty years of life ahead of me. A few more months of imprisonment in exchange for decades of happiness are worth it.

  The question I posed about who represented the true Taliban in the first days of our kidnapping now seems silly. In my mind, Qari, the unstable guard who nearly shot Tahir and our kidnapper who uses multiple false names are one and the same. As I come to know the alternate universe the Haqqanis have created in Miran Shah, I grow more and more dejected. Our captors are unwavering in their belief that the United States is waging a war against Islam.

  It is a universe filled with hypocrisy. My captors bitterly denounce missionaries, but they press me to convert to their faith. They complain about innocent Muslims being imprisoned by the United States, even as they continue to hold us captive and try to extort money from my family. They rail against American, Israeli, and European mistreatment of Muslims, but they celebrate suicide attacks on mosques that kill dozens of Muslim worshippers as they supplicate to God. Those living under Afghanistan’s and Pakistan’s apostate governments, they say, deserve it.

  Yet in our day-to-day existence, when commanders are absent, some of our guards show glimpses of humanity. These moments give me hope that we may somehow be able to talk or reason our way to freedom. I do not know if they are simply humoring me so I will remain an obedient and patient captive. I do not know which side of our contradictory captors is real.

  Over the last t
hree months, I have gradually gained a clearer sense of our guards and their backgrounds. They are mostly Afghan men in their late twenties and early thirties. Some have grown up as refugees in Pakistan. All have the equivalent of elementary or junior high educations from government or religious schools. None have seen the world beyond Afghanistan and Pakistan.

  Waging jihad seems to give them discipline, self-respect, and a sense of belonging to a greater cause. They see the United States military as the latest foreign force trying to subjugate Afghanistan and Islam. Akbar believes he must have many children because they will be needed to fight Afghanistan’s next foreign invader: China.

  I talk the most with Akbar, who seems to illustrate how the United States lost the initial popular support in Afghanistan in 2001. In the first years after the fall of the Taliban, Akbar worked as a painter on some type of construction project. Over time, he turned against the United States as American forces arrested local leaders, searched houses, and, in his mind, humiliated Pashtuns. He also embraces wild conspiracy theories about the United States. He is convinced the American military uses some type of weapon that sterilizes Muslim men. Several of his Afghan friends, he tells me, are unable to have children.

  He praises the Taliban for cracking down on warlords, combating corruption, and delivering law and order. He despises the Pakistani army. In Miran Shah, he spends many afternoons using a Taliban radio scanner to discover the frequency used by nearby Pakistani forces. Speaking in Urdu, he lures soldiers into a conversation and then curses them in Pashto and English. He seethes with hatred toward what he sees as an apostate army that oppresses their fellow Muslims in exchange for Western cash.