Kidnapped by the Taliban (6 page)
Can I do it? Can I show them compassion, even love, despite what I’m feeling right now?
I wondered if I would even get the chance.
From my spot on the ground, just a few feet from the circle of kidnappers, I tried to speak as inconspicuously as possible to Rafiq: “Do you have any idea what they might be thinking?”
His whispered reply was so soft I could barely make it out: “No idea.” Then he offered some advice: “If they ask if you are a Christian, just tell them you’re a Hindu.”
I hadn’t even contemplated this potential dilemma yet. If asked, would I deny my faith, or would I stand up for my beliefs and perhaps be executed on the spot? Under the circumstances this didn’t seem the time to start a discussion about it. I whispered back, “Okay, okay.”
Once our captors finished their prayers, they talked among themselves a few more minutes. Then four of them marched down a side trail, leaving three Taliban with the three of us. I am not a violent person, nor am I trained in any kind of hand-to-hand combat, but for the briefest of moments I thought we might have a chance to surprise them and escape. Then I remembered they all had guns while we had nothing.
Two of the three remaining captors were part of the group that initially abducted us—the tall one, whom I began to think of as “the Hopeless guy” because of the forlorn expression that was always on his face, and the stocky, younger insurgent the others called Ahmed.
The new member of the group seemed to be in charge now. He had fairer skin than the rest and held his left arm out stiffly, as if it were frozen in place. They called this one Haqqani, apparently because he’d been trained in Pakistan. It also might have been because he was
part of the Haqqani network, the insurgent group believed to be based in Pakistan near the Afghan border. Founded by Jalaluddin Haqqani, once an ally of the United States and a trusted associate of Osama bin Laden, the network was tied to both the Taliban and al-Qaeda. Its members were reportedly responsible for multiple kidnappings, assassination attempts, and some of the most audacious attacks in Afghanistan, including assaults on hotels, the 2008 bombing of the Indian Embassy in Kabul, a 2011 attack on the U.S. Embassy, and several attempted truck bombings.
Jalaluddin Haqqani was in fact the original link between the Taliban and what became al-Qaeda. Bin Laden joined Haqqani in 1984 to provide funds and engineering advice for his operations. They developed a close friendship. When bin Laden founded al-Qaeda in 1988, he established his first training camp in the mountains of Afghanistan’s Khost province, on the border with Pakistan and Haqqani’s homeland. The Taliban then hosted bin Laden and his al-Qaeda training camps for years.
I did not want to think about how the Haqqani with us now might be connected to this dark history. With a frown, this Haqqani told us to get up. It was again time to walk.
Step after step after step. At least I was in decent shape. Back home I played an occasional set of tennis and often took afternoon walks along the trails near my workplace. Even so, I now struggled to keep up and often fell to the back of our procession—or nearly so, as Haqqani always brought up the rear. He continued to let me know when he felt my pace was too slow by a poke in the back with his AK-47.
I did have comfortable footwear—Faded Glory walking shoes I’d purchased at a Wal-Mart. Farzad, in tennis shoes, and Rafiq, in dress shoes, seemed to be keeping up fine. The Taliban were all fit and moved at a steady rate. Each wore American-style tennis shoes that reminded me of Converse.
No one spoke as the minutes and miles passed. It gave me a chance, for the first time, to gather my thoughts, really consider where I was and what was happening. Nothing focuses your thoughts quite like the expectation that you will be killed in the next few hours or even moments.
What, I wondered, had I truly accomplished in my life to this point? Had I had the kind of effect that would be remembered by anyone besides my family and a few friends? What kind of legacy would I leave behind, especially to my children?
I pictured my family’s faces: beautiful Cilicia, Asha, Jaron, Tobi, and little Eshaan. I’d spent enough time with each of my three eldest children to get to know them and their personalities. They would remember me, at least, if I died today. But Eshaan?
Unlike his brothers, Eshaan had been calm and quiet when he was born, more like his sister. There was something comforting about his demeanor right from the beginning. The name we chose for him had special meaning. In Arabic and Egyptian,
Ishaan
means “guidance and direction.” For me, it was a way to commemorate the work I did among Muslims in Afghanistan. Additionally, in Sanskrit
Eshwar
translates to “Almighty God.” I felt that in this combination of names, we were honoring the work that God would do in Eshaan’s life.
Now I wondered if I would miss it all.
Thinking about Eshaan pierced my soul in a way that nothing else
could. I choked back a sob.
Eshaan, you are so young. I’m so sorry that you may have to grow up without a father. I am so sorry.
That moment of lonely anguish was one of the lowest of my life. Strangely, however, it also became the moment when my attitude began to shift.
Yes, I have been kidnapped by the Taliban. Yes, I am marching deeper into a remote Afghan mountain range with a gun at my back, almost certain to die soon. But I do not want to die a victim.
It’s no one else’s doing that you’re here right now
, I tell myself.
You made this choice. You’ve always known about the risk. You do this work for a reason.
My father, a church historian, taught me a story in my youth that came to mind at this moment. In an ancient Babylonian kingdom three young Jewish refugees refused to bow down and worship a statue erected by the king. When the king threatened them with execution in a fiery furnace, they replied, “If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us from it, and he will rescue us from your hand, O king. But even if he does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”
2
The king had the three tossed in the furnace, but after a few minutes all three emerged unharmed.
Wow!
I think.
That is a solid faith. They believed completely that God would be with them even in that furnace.
Well, the God of those three young men is walking with me right now too. These could be my last hours. I don’t want to regret how I handle this. If I am going to die here, I want to thank God through it all. I want to express my faith and gratitude in a way that will have a lasting,
positive impact. Others may have reason to gripe, but I don’t. I have so much to be grateful for.
In my mind I begin to list the highlights of my life. Growing up in a family that taught me to reach out and help make life better for others. Moving to the States. Completing high school, college, and graduate school. Traveling to many countries and experiencing many different cultures. Joining Morning Star and having the opportunity to bring medical help and training to Afghans. Marrying Cilicia and beginning to raise my own family.
You know what? That’s a pretty good life. A full life.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized how truly blessed I was. I still had hope and peace. Could my Taliban kidnappers say that?
I wondered what these men thought as they observed me.
If I am the book these guys are going to read, what is being written in this chapter? What are they reading in me right now? If I’ve been put in this situation to show them another approach to life, how do I reflect that? Certainly not with anxiety, tension, and uncertainty.
I sensed that I was being challenged.
As I trudged farther with each step from the life I knew and the people I loved, I was thankful that the God I knew seemed to be allowing me to see the bigger picture—that he was still in charge and that I still had a role to play, even in what might be my final moments. I was okay. Even here, now, I could choose to find peace.
The sun was setting, sending slivers of uneven shadows across our path, when another childhood memory came to mind. It was a tune I’d sung hundreds of times without thinking much about the meaning of the words. Now, however, those words meant everything to me. In my mind I started singing it over and over, sometimes alternating
it with another song, but always coming back to the original. Twice, caught up in my emotions, I had to clamp my mouth shut as I began to sing out loud: “Jesus, name above all names . . .”
As the darkness spread, I concentrated my eyes on the narrow trail so I wouldn’t stumble or fall. My head was lowered, but my heart was in the heavens.
7:15
P.M
., W
EDNESDAY
I NEVER EVEN NOTICED THE DEPRESSION IN THE TRAIL. WHEN my left leg slipped into the hole, I was too tired to respond. My ankle twisted. I tripped and landed on my left knee and hand, narrowly avoiding tumbling headlong into the dirt. As tempted as I was to let myself fall so I could just lie there, I knew that wasn’t an option. Haqqani’s Kalashnikov nudged me even as I staggered to my feet.
Four hours. That’s how long we’d been hiking with almost no break at all. Fatigue, mixed with a rise in altitude and adrenaline spikes and drops from facing armed kidnappers, had begun to wear me down. Rafiq also seemed to be moving slower. I had to admire Farzad and our captors, however. They still seemed to be pushing forward with relative ease.
Passing clouds partly obscured the two-thirds-full moon. My eyes had mostly adjusted to the darkness, but my feet did not always cooperate. The fall was my second since sundown. Fortunately my ankle seemed all right. And I didn’t feel so bad about it when Hopeless also tripped and nearly sprawled on the trail a few minutes after I did.
A half hour earlier I’d spotted a single-story structure on a hill, ahead and to the left of the direction we were headed. Though I didn’t see light or movement, it immediately raised my hopes. What if people saw the six of us walking in the dark? Would they stop us and ask questions? Would the sight of guns scare them off, or would they decide to get involved?
Unfortunately, our captors led us on into the night without even a glance at the home on the hill. It was another letdown on a day overflowing with extreme emotions.
A few minutes later Rafiq’s voice broke the stillness. Though I didn’t know what he’d said in Pashto, I soon understood when our captors stopped and Rafiq sat down. Grateful for the respite, I plopped down near my friend. The three gunmen soon joined us on the ground.
This was a rare opportunity to catch my breath and gather my thoughts.
Man, I need to find a way to identify with these guys. No matter how different we are, there must be a way.
Inspiration struck a moment later. I whisper to Rafiq, “Should I tell them that my kids have Pashtun blood?”
He considers this a moment; then without looking at me whispers back, “Go ahead.”
I clear my throat and begin to speak in a loud voice: “I just want you to know that I am originally from India. And as such, I am your neighbor.”
Each of the three Taliban watch me closely as I speak. I see no anger or malice in their eyes, but there is nothing encouraging there either. I keep going, as Rafiq continues translating for me.
“Historically, India has been a big-brother nation to Afghanistan. If not for the political boundaries drawn by the British close to a century ago in your land, we would all still be one nation.”
Still no response. I’m glad for the pause while Rafiq translates my words. It gives me time to decide what to say next.
“I also have the privilege of having Pashtun blood in my family,” I say. “My wife’s great, great, paternal grandmother was a Pashtun princess who married a man from India. So my children have some Pashtun blood in them as a result.
“I have come to your nation several times now with the hope of being of assistance in the rebuilding of your nation. My desire is to continue the same great relationship that our countrymen have had for a very long time.”
My speech was over. I was disappointed by the lack of response. The three Taliban made no comments and asked no questions. What had I expected? I suppose I’d hoped for something along the line of, “Sorry, we didn’t realize you are one of us. You can go now.”
Obviously that wasn’t going to happen.
Nevertheless, it felt good to have at least attempted to connect and make peace with them. I had put it out there for them to deal with. The response was now up to them.
Our hike continued, our group in the usual sequence: Ahmed led, with Rafiq just behind him. Twenty feet behind them were Farzad and Hopeless. After another twenty feet, Haqqani and I brought up the rear.
With the sun down, I had lost my sense of direction, but there was no hesitation on the part of our captors. We moved steadily, even urgently, toward what was to me an unknown destination.
It’s interesting how the mind works when it is calm. Even in dire circumstances, once you’ve resolved that you don’t need to be anxious about what’s happening—in other words, once you’ve shut down
fight-or-flight responses—the parasympathetic nervous system kicks in so your body can relax and conserve energy.
Strangely, perhaps, this was happening to me. I was pleased to notice that despite the continuous walking up and down hills and the presence of a gunman at my back, my heart was not beating at a rapid pace. For the moment, I had accepted that there was nothing I could do about the situation. It had become a routine. I wasn’t consciously thinking about the danger. Even in the dark my focus was simply on placing one foot where the other foot had just been and repeating the process.
It was about an hour after my brief speech that I was startled by movement on our left. I was amazed to see it was a boy, about seven years old, forty feet away and on an intersecting course with our path. The moonlight revealed a slim youth with unruly dark hair, covered with dust. He carried three or four loaves of freshly baked naan and a kettle of water.
