Under an Afghan Sky

by Mellissa Fung

  I really miss you, dude—all of you guys, and I can’t wait to get home and see you. We’ll have our own private party—with just us girls—first. Okay?

  Take care and say hi to everyone. I’ll see you soon, I hope.

  It was nearing midnight, and Toronto was nine and a half hours behind. I figured my friends were all probably at work, and Kas assigned a story for that night’s newscast. I hoped she didn’t have to report on me. That was one thing I really didn’t want to think about, that I must be a story back home, and a big one—I couldn’t remember any other Canadian being kidnapped in Afghanistan. I hoped other reporters were respecting my parents’ and friends’ privacy. I dreaded that my family was being constantly harassed by reporters who needed to file their stories. Journalists are sometimes asked to “get” someone: a grieving parent, an angry sibling, anyone who could lend emotion to a story. It’s the part of the job I hate the most. I would make the phone call, but if the person didn’t want to talk, I would leave my phone number and then leave them alone.

  Sometimes things worked out. Years ago, while a local reporter covering the ongoing story of the missing women in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, I was able to get close to several family members of the missing women. But I was always respectful of their wishes. If they didn’t want to talk, I left them alone. If they needed someone to talk to, I would spend hours on the phone, just listening. In the end, I know that the families were satisfied with our coverage, and their participation in it, and I was proud of my colleagues for treating such a story—one with the potential to be so sensational—with restraint and respect.

  But I know that not all reporters exercise the same restraint. Sometimes the thrill of getting the “get” overrides one’s sense of what’s right and how far to go. I said a silent prayer to God that my colleagues in the business would treat my family and friends with respect. I felt horribly guilty for exposing them to the glare of the spotlight, and I prayed that they would find the strength to deal with it.

  Dearest M,

  The news embargo has been holding, but we got a call that Reuters is agitating and wants to publish a story unless CBC gives them a good reason not to. Then we get a call from Valma in London saying that Turkish television in Kabul is offering clients the story of the missing Canadian journalist, including pictures from the camp and interviews with eyewitnesses. Margaret quickly got on the phone and persuaded the local bureau chief to call the story down. All of this was being done in the garden while we were having lunch. Surreal or what?

  xx

  Khalid brought me a brand new notebook with a shiny blue cover. It was not as thick as my notepad, but every page was a blank canvas, waiting for me to fill in the grey lines. He’d known for a while that I was running out of pages, and while I thanked him for his gift, I was secretly disappointed that my hope of being freed before running out of pages in my own notebook had been dashed.

  “You must write,” he told me. “Write, write.” He would occasionally flip through my full notebook, reading—or trying to read—the letters to my friends and family. I didn’t think he actually understood any of it, so I never hesitated to hand it over.

  I flipped through the pages of the new book, then closed it, promising to write in it later. I wanted to ask Khalid about his nickname. “Hezbollah?”

  He smiled. “I have many names.”

  “What other ones?”

  “Many other names.” He smiled a wide smile. Then asked me if I had email.

  “Email?” I asked. “Of course I have email.”

  “What is your email?” Khalid asked me.

  “Why do you want to know? Do you have email too?”

  “I have email. Yes. When I go Pakistan. When you go to Canada, I will write you.” He was staring intently at me. Was he serious? He wanted to stay in touch? This gave me hope, though, that I might be released soon.

  “What is your email?” I asked him. He wrote it down for me. Hezb_ullah@yahoo.com.

  “What is yours?” he asked.

  I decided against giving him the address to my CBC account and gave him my Yahoo account instead. “You will write to me?” I asked.

  “Yes, I write to you. You go to Canada, I write to you. You my sister! You will write to me?”

  I nodded, knowing there was no way either of us would honour that agreement, but it was a compelling notion, the idea of hostage and kidnapper staying in touch, a continuation of a relationship formed out of captivity.

  “Who do you email now?” I asked, half surprised but not astounded that this young Afghan in this remote area would have access to the Internet and email.

  “My friends,” he said with a smile. Then he changed the subject. “My sister husband—he in Kabul. He have work for me.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Important work. You will hear from it. When you go to Kabul, you will hear what is it I do for him. People will be dying from me.”

  I asked him who would be dying and why would he want to kill his own people, if it was just foreigners he hated. He tried to explain that the idea was just to create havoc. Afghans, he said, hated foreigners, which wasn’t news to me. After thirty years of being invaded by them, the country had had enough, and most Afghans just wanted to be left alone to rebuild the country their way.

  If there were no foreigners, I tried to argue, the Taliban would take over, and women and children would suffer again.

  “Taliban good. Taliban are Afghanistan,” he insisted. I knew there was no arguing this point, so I gave up.

  I was, however, still hopeful that I might be released soon, given that he was talking about keeping in touch when I got back to Canada. Maybe Shafirgullah was right. Maybe Sunday would really be freedom day. Today was Thursday. The next day would be Halloween.

  “Khalid,” I asked, “Shafirgullah said my case will finish on Sunday. Is that true? Is that what your father said?”

  “Inshallah, Mellissa. Soon. Inshallah.”

  “I’m tired of ‘inshallah.’ It’s always ‘inshallah.’ ‘Inshallah, inshallah.’ Why can’t you just say yes or no?”

  “It must be inshallah. Without Allah, nothing happen.”

  “Well, Allah is taking too long,” I said.

  Khalid sighed and picked up the package of cigarettes. I shook my head. I had decided a few days before that I was smoking too much, and so was limiting myself to one cigarette an hour. I would have a few drags and then put it out, to relight later, or smoke half of it on the half-hour. But one cigarette an hour was already nearly a pack a day. I didn’t even want to know how much damage I was doing to my lungs and how long it would take me to get back into running shape when I got out of there. Assuming that I was getting out of there. I wasn’t sure what to think anymore. I was tired of getting my hopes up every time someone said “two days” or “three days.” I was still hopeful about Sunday, but I had learned that with hope came the risk of crushing disappointment. Every time I heard digging, I’d wonder whether it would bring freedom, or just another night of detention with a new guard.

  “I tell your friend three days,” Khalid said, trying to explain.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I tell him… three days then I kill you.” I took that to mean that he—or his father—had given the negotiators a deadline. Presumably for money. Or another prisoner. I thought of Khalid’s friend at Bagram.

  “What if they can’t give it to you in three days?” I asked. “You’re really going to kill me?”

  Khalid laughed. “No, I no kill you.”

  “Will you let me go?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. I wondered how long they would keep me before they decided I just wasn’t worth the investment. They’d already invested almost three weeks in this hostage taking; maybe that was the point of no return. But if they were asking for a prisoner exchange, there was no telling how long it would take. I did not even want to hazard a guess. If only there was an opportunity for escape. Maybe if they were g
oing to keep me longer, they would move me somewhere else and I’d have that chance.

  I didn’t know what to think anymore, and I was getting tired of thinking. “I just want to go home,” I said out loud.

  “Inshallah, you go soon,” he said, a little exasperated. His phone rang, and a quick conversation in Pashto followed. After hanging up, he turned to me. “We need to make video.”

  “Video?” I asked. “I thought Abdulrahman did that on the first day! With his cell phone. And Zahir was supposed to take it to your father in Pakistan. Didn’t he do that?”

  Khalid shook his head. “I do not know. Your friends—they do not believe we have you.”

  What? How could they not believe they had me? I’d answered the second round of proof-of-life questions just a few days ago.

  “They don’t believe it is you,” Khalid repeated.

  This was not good news. The Sunday deadline looked less likely if they were demanding a video and the negotiators required further proof of life. “Well,” I said, “if they need the video, let’s do it tonight. Get Shafirgullah to bring a camera and then they can have the video tomorrow. That will work, won’t it?”

  “We need camera,” he said.

  “What do you mean, you need camera?” I asked. I was starting to lose my patience. “Don’t you have a video camera?” Khalid shook his head. I couldn’t believe it. My kidnappers were even less organized than I had first thought.

  “What do you mean you don’t have a video camera? What kind of kidnappers are you? You’re wasting time. Your time and my time.” My captor took off his skullcap and scratched his head. I was doing the calculations in my head. It was now Thursday. If the negotiators got the video by Friday, I could still be released by Sunday. But it was starting to seem like a long shot. I looked at Khalid. He seemed as annoyed and upset as me.

  “I have an idea,” I said. “I’ll write a letter, and then they will know it’s me.” Khalid looked puzzled, so I tried to explain that I would write a letter that he—or his father or Zahir—could read to the negotiators. Then they would have proof that it was really me. Khalid liked this idea, and I ripped the last page out of my notebook and started writing in big letters with double spacing.

  My name is Mellissa Fung, and I’m a reporter for CBC News.

  I had to convey information to prove that it was me. I should talk about my family.

  Tell everyone I’m sorry for all the trouble. My sister’s name is Vanessa and she is a lawyer in Los Angeles. My parents are supposed to leave for Hong Kong next week, and I hope they will still go.

  This was true. My parents were supposed to go to Hong Kong for a month to visit family and friends, and I had been worrying that my situation might screw up their vacation.

  I am in some pain, from the surgery I had earlier this year, and I will need to see a doctor soon. Please help me.

  The negotiators would be able to confirm that I’d had major surgery. I added only two words more, so there could be no doubt that it was me.

  Go Canucks.

  And then a message to Paul. I’d been writing to him all this time—letters he might never get.

  xox

  I handed the sheet of paper to Khalid. He read what I had written, then pointed to the second-to-last line. “What is this? Ca-nucks?”

  “It’s my hockey team,” I said. “Do you know what is hockey?”

  He shook his head, and I spent the next thirty minutes trying to explain our national game. He seemed intrigued, and so I continued to talk about my favourite sport. I can talk about hockey for hours. I explained that, similar to soccer, which was a game he knew, the goal was to get the puck into the net more times than your opponent. I had a little trouble getting him to understand the concept of skating on a sheet of ice. I then tried to explain the National Hockey League—with its teams in cities across North America—and how they played each other and the final prize was a big silver cup called the Stanley.

  “Stanley?” he asked.

  I nodded and explained that it was named after an important person whom the Queen had once appointed as her representative to Canada. This Khalid couldn’t understand—and I wasn’t surprised. Even if he had attended school, it was unlikely that he learned anything about the British Empire.

  He folded my letter and put it in his pocket.

  “Promise you will read that to them,” I asked.

  “I promise.”

  “Tomorrow. You must read this tomorrow. Then we won’t need any video. They will know it’s me. It will save time.” He nodded and promised again to call the negotiators and read them my letter. I could only hope he wasn’t going to throw out the letter as soon as he left the hole that night.

  Khalid seemed relieved when the digging started that evening. His time was almost done. If I was being released on Sunday night, he would have only one more night down in the cave. Shafirgullah took over, and I could tell that he too was getting tired of having to come down every other night to watch over me. Besides, the place was a mess. The stench of the toilet bucket and body odour must have been unbearable. Even I wasn’t completely desensitized. Shafirgullah started praying and chanting the Koran as soon as he came in, basically ignoring me and turning, as he always did, away from me and toward what I assumed was the direction of Mecca. It was a relief not to have to try to make conversation. I reached for my new blue notebook.

  Dear P,

  The first page of a new notepad. Khalid brought it for me because I was running out of space in my old one. I wonder how many more notepads I’ll go through before I see you again. My kidnappers have been saying soon, soon, soon, but they’ve been saying that all the time. I’m not sure what to believe anymore. I guess I should just be thankful I can still talk to you.

  I’m still okay, and the scab on my shoulder, I think, is almost ready to come off. Another good sign, maybe, that this nightmare is soon going to end.

  I’m not sure where you are. Maybe you’ve left Afghanistan already, but I feel that you are close, and that makes me feel a little better. My kidnappers are starting to tire of coming in here every other night, and maybe that means the end is near.

  I’m praying a lot, and trying to stay positive, but there are times when it’s very hard and the darkness of this place threatens to swallow me completely.

  I hope I’ll see you soon. I miss you so much.

  xox

  I traced a few more crosses from my rosary on the page and coloured them in with the pen, admiring the patterns I drew. Shafirgullah had finished praying and was looking at my crosses. He frowned and reached for a new package of cookies, stuffing them one at a time into his mouth. I frowned at him in return, and he took two of the juice boxes out of the bag, guzzling one in seconds, then taking a few sips from the other. I looked in the bag. There were only three juice boxes left, and they would have to last us until the next evening. And then it would just be one more night until Sunday.

  I dug around for an apple juice, stuck a straw in it, and took a sip. Shafirgullah was pulling out pieces of nan-i-Afghani from the bag. He ate it in chunks, chewing madly and washing it down with more juice. I suddenly found myself growing increasingly irritated by the way he ate—the noises he made while chewing, the way he wrinkled his nose, the way he chewed with his mouth open, with bits of bread flying out. I must have been glaring at him because he stared back at me. I got the feeling he was probably as sick of me as I was of him. We didn’t speak for the rest of the night. He went to sleep very early, leaving me, thankfully, alone again with my thoughts and my prayers.

  No one came the next night. Abdullah came by in the afternoon and dropped several packages of juice and cookies, and batteries and a pack of smokes, down the pipes. It was a signal that there would be no changing of the guard. Poor Shafirgullah would be stuck doing double-duty—but at least it would be the last time. A few days previously, Khalid had said, “No more girls,” and I think he meant it. It was much easier for them to kidnap men, beat them up, and
leave them alone for days than to have to keep constant watch over a woman.

  Shafirgullah and I had struck a bit of a truce earlier in the day, singing songs again, and he even opened a package of cookies and offered them to me, before eating them all himself. One more day, I kept telling myself. Twenty-four more hours. I can do it, I can do it. I had developed a little routine to help the hours pass: at the top of the hour I would smoke half a cigarette, then pray the entire rosary—five decades, which is the equivalent of fifty Hail Marys, and all the prayers in between. Depending on whether I sung it, which I usually did, it would take me about twenty minutes. At the bottom of the hour I would finish the cigarette and then either write or try to nap (which never worked) until the top of the hour, when I’d do it all over again. Sometimes I would let my mind wander in the hope that it would take me somewhere far away, until my captor or something else reminded me that I was still in captivity.

  It seemed a bit ironic to me that the faraway place so often in my thoughts these days was home. I’d spent my childhood dreaming of going to far-off places. The farther away, the better. There was a whole big world out there, and I wanted to see it all. My parents both worked in the travel industry, so as children my sister and I had the privilege of being able to travel quite a lot—and as a result, I’d developed serious wanderlust, which was one of the reasons why I was attracted to journalism. I would imagine myself reporting from places like Moscow, Berlin, Beirut—places that seemed so foreign to a young girl in Canada. Except that now, in Afghanistan, a place I couldn’t even imagine as a child, I was dreaming of Canada.

  I wondered where young women in Afghanistan dream about going when they get older. Did they even know there was a bigger world outside their country? Were they curious about the West? Did they want to explore farther?

  I thought about some extraordinary young women I’d met the summer before. Shokoor and I were in Kabul shooting a few stories on Afghan women and children. It was a blazing hot day and we had arranged to meet Awista Ayub, an Afghan-American, at the Kaldup Askari military field in the middle of the city. We were parked in a lot adjacent to the field, and as soon as we stepped out of our van we heard the peal of laughter.