Kidnapped by the Taliban (11 page)

Wallakah shifted his position and leaned even closer to me. I saw the excitement in his eyes.

“What steps would I take to start the process?” he asked.

“You would first need to go to Kabul and apply for a passport and visa.” I tried to imagine a member of the Taliban going to the U.S. Embassy and filling out papers to enter the United States.

“I have never been out of the country,” he said. “I’ve never even been to Kabul. What would I do if I came to America? Could I start my life over again? Could I further my education there?”

“Yes, there are many educational opportunities,” I said. “You could train for a new career and make a new start.”

Wallakah’s grin grew even larger. I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. I wondered if he’d ever had the opportunity to sit down with someone and talk about other options for his life.

I was amazed. It was as if Wallakah was saying openly what all
of these insurgents must have sensed in their hearts, though they wouldn’t admit it—that there was something more to life than what they were currently pursuing and experiencing.

I was struck by the irony of our circumstances. These men had their guns pointed at me and had complete control of the situation, yet they were operating under a heavy blanket of fear. They feared change—they wanted to hold tightly to the only way of life they knew. They feared the outsiders that they believed came to pollute and dilute their society and its rich culture and traditions. They feared a god that they believed waited to punish them the moment they stepped out of line.

At the same time, I was the one sitting and staring at the barrels of loaded Kalashnikovs, the one knowing that my life could end at any moment. Yet I was also the one who lived with hope. I had gained hope from trying to bring blessings to others out of the blessings I’d received. I had hope from teaching Afghans about basic health education and seeing how that bettered their lives. I had hope that sprang from getting out of my comfort zone and following my dream of meeting the needs of the downtrodden and forgotten. I had hope in even the worst circumstances because I believed in a God who loved me unconditionally.

Yet in his fear one of these terrorists also dared to hope—for a chance to start over, a chance to become more than a killing machine.

And perhaps he was not alone, for Haqqani now entered the conversation. “Would you keep in touch with us,” he asked, “after you are released and you rejoin your family in the U.S.?”

He was talking about my release? This was a good sign!

“I would love to keep in touch with both of you,” I said, nodding to Wallakah and Haqqani. I wanted to reciprocate further, so I picked
up my notebook and started to write down my cell phone number. It was almost as if we were at a coffee shop back home, exchanging business cards. I half-expected these two to pull out a piece of paper and write down their own contact information, though in the next instant I remembered that they were constantly changing phones and SIM cards to avoid being tracked. Of course they didn’t have a regular phone number. Then I wondered if my own number would be passed into the hands of other insurgents and further complicate my chances for release. I stopped writing.

Wallakah was still smiling. “I would very much like to keep in contact with you,” he said. Haqqani voiced his agreement.

We had been talking for nearly three hours. Wallakah finally and graciously drew our conversation to a close: “Thank you so much for being very open in answering all my questions. You did not deter from any of them and answered all of them with much patience and kindness. I want to thank you so much for doing this.”

I also expressed my thanks and then leaned back against the wall of the shelter, feeling a new wave of exhaustion cascading over me. Despite my fatigue, I was flooded with thoughts. How easy it was to live with assumptions, prejudice, and hatred toward others and cut off any chance for relationship. To move forward required effort, commitment, a thirst for human connection. It demanded respect and even love for one another.

In Wallakah, a man most people would regard as a terrorist, I had seen respect and a thirst for connection. Earlier in the day I wondered how, or if, I would ever relate to my kidnappers so that they saw me not as an enemy or resource to trade for cash but as a fellow human being. Yet it was one of them who initiated the link. All we had to do was talk about the basic things that all people relate to: family,
relationships, aspirations, love, hope. It was enough to cut through our differences in culture and worldview.

I wondered what impression I’d left on these stalwarts of mujahideen and Taliban tradition. Nearly everything they knew of Western civilization probably came from movies and the media and led them to categorize all foreigners as infidels. I hoped our interaction would lead them to rethink their ideology.

Moments later I had surprising and satisfying evidence that my words and actions had made an impression. Wallakah and Haqqani had continued to talk. I had no idea what they were saying, of course, but Rafiq had been listening. Now my friend leaned toward me and whispered, “Wallakah just said, ‘This guy is our captive, and yet he seems so much at peace. He is a better Muslim than we are.’ ”

I could hardly believe my ears.

I’d wondered how my kidnappers might be “reading” me. Now I had an inkling that they had indeed observed something different about me and were at least thinking about what that meant.

My captors were not the only ones who were rethinking long-held views. Our conversation had also caused me to reevaluate my perspective. How could I pass judgment on Wallakah for how he’d turned out? He had experienced nothing but chaos and conflict his entire life. From the beginning, killing was modeled as a lifestyle. I thought of my father, who had shown me a different way to live by dedicating his life to helping others. In my mind I commended Wallakah’s willingness to open his eyes. Even as he sensed the futility of his current existence, he grasped at something more.

As I drifted off to sleep, my spirit remained excited by Wallakah’s curiosity and dreams.

I may die soon, even today, but if so I think I will die satisfied. My job
here is done. I have connected with a member of the Taliban and given us both much to think about—that no matter our circumstances we still have choices in life, that despite our perceived differences we both are human beings with much more in common than we realize.

CHAPTER TEN

CONNECTIONS

3:45
P.M
., T
HURSDAY

THE ATMOSPHERE IN OUR LITTLE CAMP HAD CERTAINLY changed after the long conversation with Wallakah. When I woke from a thirty-minute nap—not nearly enough sleep to counter the exhaustion that was overtaking me—our captors seemed almost cheerful.

It was time for another round of tea. Nothing better represented the culture and tradition of Afghanistan than the sharing of green tea. As I had already learned during my previous visits to the country, the purpose of serving tea was about more than a break or quick refreshment. It was a social event.

Tea leaves from Pakistan were driven daily into Afghanistan by the truckload. When someone decided it was time for tea, which generally happened several times a day, a handful of tea plants and leaves were thrown into a kettle of steaming water. Before the leaves were fully soaked, someone poured some of this mild tea into a glass (cups were rarely seen in Afghanistan’s rural areas). This wasn’t for drinking. Instead, this same hot water was poured from one glass to another to “wash” all the glasses. When this process was complete and
the tea was ready, the host served everyone. More often than not, each serving included a generous portion of sugar. Afghans seemed to like a lot of sugar in their tea—a fifth of a glass or more.

It was rare for anyone to stop after just one serving. The focus was not on the tea but on the conversation it stimulated. Chores and other responsibilities seemed to be forgotten as those present shared what was on their minds and spent time developing relationships. This could easily go on for more than an hour.

Our Taliban “hosts” were no exception to this custom. Once we’d all gathered in a circle and had filled glasses in hand, the conversation flowed. When even Hopeless joined in the animated discussion, I wondered what topic could have attracted his interest.

Rafiq filled me in—they were discussing our abduction and analyzing how well they’d performed. Then Haqqani asked Rafiq, “What did you think of the capture? We accomplished it quickly, yes?”

“Yes, it happened very quickly,” Rafiq said. “As the driver, I had very little time to react. You did well.”

All four Taliban seemed pleased with this comment. A few of them chuckled. Even Rafiq and Farzad laughed.

I didn’t laugh. I was irritated that our captors were kidnapping people, then talking about their techniques as if they were analyzing their swings on the tennis court. I was even a bit miffed that Rafiq and Farzad were encouraging them. I was glad no one asked me for my opinion of the abduction.

At the same time, I understood and admired what Rafiq, in particular, was doing. During the last two days, he had consistently engaged our captors in conversation, asking simple questions and sometimes offering compliments. It helped reduce the tension and created more of a team environment instead of “us versus them.”

Then our captors began asking me questions, but they had nothing to do with abductions. Instead, the topic was Indian movies. I suppose it was natural, given my background and the historically positive relationship between Afghanistan and India, but even so it surprised me.

“Have you seen any actors—Dilip Kumar, Amitabh Bachchan, Shahrukh Khan, Amir Khan, Salman Khan, Saif Ali Khan?” Haqqani asked.

I shook my head and explained I’d seen only a few South Indian movie stars, ones they were unlikely to know.

I thought they might also talk about Hollywood stars, but the focus remained on Indian actors. Afghans have long enjoyed the cinematic efforts of their neighbors in India. Even after the Taliban takeover, copies of these movies continued to make their way into the country via the black market. I found it ironic that I was discussing movies with these guys even though the Taliban considered them illegal.

“You’re a handsome guy—you should be acting in movies yourself,” Wallakah said.

“Thank you,” I replied. I appreciated the compliment but couldn’t help feeling strange about it.

We certainly were developing a sense of camaraderie. The conversation felt like many others I’d had over tea with villagers during previous trips. The only difference at this moment was the sight of Hopeless, who continued to frown under his long beard and clean his Kalashnikov as we talked. At least I now understood why he was so morose.

A few minutes later Wallakah and Haqqani picked up their weapons and gestured for us to leave the shelter. I wondered where we were going. It couldn’t have been time for our five o’clock call to Roy yet.

Early or not, we did hike up Black Mountain. Once again Wallakah
pulled out a cell phone. Instead of handing it to me, however, he stared at its screen for a few moments.

“It looks like they cut off the signal early today,” he said. I didn’t understand exactly how, but apparently the Taliban controlled cell reception in this area. “There’s nothing now. Let’s try again tomorrow.”

As Rafiq translated, Wallakah turned and began walking down the mountain. An expressionless Haqqani prodded us to follow. Just like that, our phone attempt was over.

I was a bit stunned by the Taliban’s response. Our captors wanted their money in three days. Now because of a technical difficulty, they’d lost a chance to move things forward. Yet they didn’t seem angry or frustrated at all.

I realized I was looking at the situation from my Western perspective. It had been two days since I’d checked my e-mail. I’d been cut off from the gadgets I was so used to: smartphones, computers, iPods, iPads, i-anythings. Now our cell reception had been cut off. I was upset that a technology failure had prevented me from connecting with my lifeline to the outside world. I expected them to be upset also.

But these guys lived a simple life. They weren’t as tied in to gadgets and schedules. They were more flexible than a gymnast—if something didn’t work out the way they wanted, they accepted it and were able to move on without handwringing or drama.

Though I was disappointed by the failed phone call, in another sense I was relieved. If we had to wait for tomorrow to continue negotiations, I was likely to live at least another day.

Not surprisingly, following another tea session back at the shelter, I needed to relieve myself. After I secured permission, Ahmed escorted
me past the large house with the pool that we’d seen when we first arrived and toward the two roofless, abandoned shacks. His AK-47, slung by its strap on his shoulder, bounced against his side as we walked.

Ahmed pointed at one of the crumbling shacks; then he went to lean against the long building that sat near the two shacks, a spot where he could still see me.

I stepped “inside” the rubble of the shack he’d pointed out. Its walls were too low to hide my head. For a moment I considered my options.
Do I have a chance to escape here?

Then I recalled a comment Haqqani had made to us that morning: “I’m glad you guys didn’t try to escape during our walk yesterday. If you had rolled down the hill or tried to run, we would have shot and killed you.”

No, I decided. My chances of getting away in these desolate mountains from four guys who knew the terrain and had guns were practically zero.

Once I’d urinated, I sat down behind the wall for some privacy and to think. After the scary and shocking events of the last two days, it was a relief to have even a moment alone. The same questions that had formed at the time of our abduction continued to tumble through my mind. Would Rafiq, Farzad, and I survive this and see our families again? If not, how and when would we die?