A Rope and a Prayer (37 page)

“My message to my government of Poland is don’t send more army for Muslim country,” Stanczak replies, clearly trying to play along with his captors. “Because Muslim people they fight with, with another army.”

“And now, what you want to give a message to your country?” the questioner asks. “What will they make their relationship with Pakistan country?”

Stanczak stares at the camera. “I would say to government of Poland break, break relation with Pakistan because, because government of Pakistan nothing do for me,” Stanczak replies. “I am here four months and nothing do for me.

“Nothing contact with me,” Stanczak adds, as the camera slowly zooms in on his face. “I am self here. Not, not security. This country is not safety for me.”

“And what do you think about the people of Pakistan, who kidnapped you, the surrounding people?” the questioner asks, apparently referring to the men with Kalashnikovs.

“About people, yes, of Pakistan?” Stanczak replies.

“Yes,” the questioner says.

I realize this is the second tape made of Stanczak, not the first. The tape will end in his beheading.

I immediately stand up and begin walking out of the room. I do not want to see it—or give Mansoor the satisfaction of watching me see it.

“I would say people of Pakistan is very good, people is very good,” Stanczak says as I walk out the door and into the yard.

 

 

Each time we think our captivity has reached its low point it somehow gets worse. The videos are the latest example. They are impossible to avoid at night, when I am confined to the room where we sleep alongside the guards. Instead of singing after dinner, we watch jihadi videos that are little more than grimly repetitive snuff films.

The Taliban execute local men who they have declared pro-American. Taliban roadside bombs blow up Afghan government trucks and American Humvees. Taliban plunder the limp bodies of dead Afghan policemen. The moment of a sniper firing a shot or a roadside bomb exploding—the moment of death—is shown over and over in slow motion. As I silently watch, Mansoor repeatedly asks me what I think of seeing American soldiers killed on the screen in front of us.

“All killing is wrong,” I say.

The high-quality sound tracks include prayers, religious chants, and computer-generated gunshots. To aid foreign viewers, English subtitles and computer-generated graphics have been inserted. An arrow indicates which Humvee is about to be incinerated. A circle shows how a roadside bomb tosses a human torso in the air like a rag doll. Snipers gun down American soldiers and veiled women donate their jewelry to aid insurgents in Iraq. In other videos, unidentified young boys miraculously recite vast portions of the Koran. Men compete in Koran recitation competitions and Taliban prisoners in Afghan government jails recite the Koran together. One video features dozens of images of the word “Allah” miraculously appearing on clouds, mountainsides, rocks, flowers, gourds, and other objects.

On some nights, we watch American movies and television shows apparently downloaded from the Internet. In a movie called
Windtalkers
, Nicolas Cage battles Japanese soldiers in World War II. In an HBO series,
Band of Brothers
, American and German soldiers fight the Battle of the Bulge.

We are also shown a popular—and heavily edited—YouTube video of George W. Bush stuttering as he tries to make a statement at the White House. To an American, the video makes fun of President Bush’s halting oratory. To the Taliban, it is proof that God is on Islam’s side.

“He is trying to insult Islam,” Mansoor says. “But Allah is stopping him.”

The longest videos—and the most popular among our guards—document the final days of suicide bombers. Most are young men in their twenties. The videos follow the same formula. In the first scenes, the bomber happily receives military training, jokes with friends, and explains why he is eager to die. Then he builds the bomb that will kill him. Finally, he bids his friends good-bye, hugs them, and climbs behind the wheel of the vehicle and drives into the distance. His car or truck is shown speeding toward its target. The vehicle detonates and the cameraman shouts “God is great!” as an enormous plume of smoke rises in the air. As they watch the explosion, my guards utter the same phrase. Finally, a computer-generated graphic lists the number of American or Afghan soldiers killed in the attack.

Other videos show dead American soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq, wreckage from downed American helicopters and drones, and frenzied Taliban fighters pounding a captured Humvee into small pieces with hammers. My guards rejoice at each image of American impotence. The videos—and their reactions—are evidence of how desperately the Taliban want to exact revenge on Americans—and how valuable a prize I am in their eyes. A constant theme is that the United States and NATO underreport the number of their soldiers who are dying in Afghanistan. Overall, the videos create a false, pro-Taliban narrative of the war in Afghanistan. My guards denounce journalists for reporting American military “lies.”

“How can only one or two people have died?” Mansoor scoffs, as we watch a dust cloud from a roadside bomb engulf an American Humvee. “The vehicle was completely destroyed.”

The videos are not limited to the conflict in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Images of dead Palestinian, Kashmiri, and Iraqi civilians deliver the message that vast numbers of Muslims are being slaughtered across the globe. A series of flags flashes on the screen—American, Israeli, Indian, British, French, German, and United Nations—representing the international Judeo-Christian conspiracy against Islam that they believe exists. Finally, bearded men dressed as seventh-century Muslim warriors are shown galloping across the desert on horseback wearing conical helmets and carrying scimitars. Young Taliban are taught that they are Muslim warriors battling crusader Christian armies that have again invaded the Middle East.

The tapes strike me as jihadi versions of Western music videos. Militant groups compete with one another to produce the most sophisticated and gruesome scenes. Our guards cannot get enough of them. For the few hours each day that electricity is available in our house, they watch the videos over and over. The constant images of violence seem to numb our guards to the idea of death. Over and over again, human beings are killed on the small screen in front of us. To me, the videos are cynical efforts by Taliban commanders to brainwash their foot soldiers. While death is ignored in the West, it is embraced in the videos. Death, the message goes, is not a distant fate. Instead, it is a friendly companion and a goal.

Our guards share a book that glorifies martyrdom. Several hundred pages long, it makes saccharine promises of fruit juices, sumptuous food, and seventy virgins in heaven. One of the guards reads haltingly, pronouncing each word out loud as if he were an elementary school student.

Most worrying of all, I fear that the videos are brainwashing Asad as well. After we move to Makeen, he seems friendlier toward the guards and begins carrying a Kalashnikov rifle they have given him. He also stops smoking, which the guards say is forbidden under Islam. According to Tahir, Asad has told the guards that Tahir encouraged him to make his failed escape attempt in January. He also told the guards how we nearly walked out of our compound when our guard fell asleep in February. Asad has also told the guards that I am playing with Islam and not serious about studying the Koran.

In mid-April, Abu Tayyeb strides into our compound just before dinner in an expensive white tunic. We haven’t seen him in the eight weeks since he had me call Kristen. Akhundzada accompanies him. In Makeen, I have learned that our guards are related to either Abu Tayyeb or Akhundzada. Mansoor is Akhundzada’s son and Akbar is Akhundzada’s nephew. And Timor Shah is Abu Tayyeb’s younger brother. The disclosure makes me realize that a small group—many of whom are related to each other—has kidnapped us. We are being guarded by Abu Tayyeb’s closest relatives. They seem to function like an organized crime group. Abu Tayyeb is a young leader—or capo—who tries to impress his Taliban commanders with his schemes. My case is one of them.

Abu Tayyeb sit downs in the room where we sleep with the guards and immediately begins toying with me, raising our hopes that negotiations are progressing.

“Dawood,” he asks, “what would you say if I told you that you could start your journey back to New York tomorrow?”

“That would make me incredibly happy,” I say, trying to be polite.

He tells me to get a notebook and pen and orders everyone else to leave the room except for his intelligence chief and Tahir.

“Your family has been very slow,” he says. “Write this down.”

“This is my proof-of-life video,” he dictates. “Maybe another video will come that will be very bad.”

He pauses and tries to think of his next line.

“If this message does not help,” he says. “I cannot say what will happen to me.”

I realize he is not here to complete a deal. He is here to make another video to pressure my family. When we called Kristen in February he demanded $7 million and five prisoners. I have no idea what his demands are now.

Calmly sitting across the room from me, he dictates more lines.

“If you don’t help me, I will die,” he says. “Now the key is in your hand.”

He pauses for a moment.

“Please save me, I want to go home,” he adds. “Don’t you want me to stay alive with you? Hurry up. Hurry up.”

Then he tells me I must cry. I look at Tahir. I can barely contain my contempt for Abu Tayyeb and what he is doing to my wife and family. At the same time, if I refuse to make the tape, the Taliban might kill Tahir or Asad to drive up a potential ransom payment. Tahir is the father of seven children. Asad is the father of two. I agree to make the video.

Akhundzada, a man who appears to be in his fifties, places a scarf over his face and picks up the guards’ .50-caliber machine gun. He points it at my head, and one of the guards turns on a camera.

During the filming, I try to convey that I am reading a prepared statement by intentionally looking down at the pad of paper. I sob intermittently but no tears flow from my eyes.

I read the message word for word and Abu Tayyeb announces that I haven’t cried enough. He orders me to read the message a second time. Standing behind the guard holding the camera, Abu Tayyeb waves his hands in the air, as if he were a film director. He wants me to sob louder. I try to cry in such an exaggerated fashion that my family will recognize that none of it is real.

Later that night, Abu Tayyeb announces that the Afghan government had agreed to free twenty prisoners in exchange for our release. The problem, he says, is that my family will not agree to pay a $5 million ransom.

“My family does not have $5 million,” I tell him angrily, making the same point I did after we called Kristen eight weeks earlier. “Why do you think we have been here for so long? Do you think they’re sitting on $5 million and just playing a game? If they had the money, they would offer it.”

Abu Tayyeb ignores me. He smiles and tells me I am a “big fish.” He says my brother is the president of a company that manufactures jumbo jets. If my brother would sell one plane, he explains, my family could pay the ransom.

He has clearly looked up my family on the Internet. My brother is, in fact, the president of a small aviation consulting company, but it consists of four full-time employees and manufactures nothing.

Abu Tayyeb goes on and appears completely convinced that he is right. He claims that the American government paid $10 million for the release of John Solecki, a United Nations worker kidnapped in Pakistan in February. As I have for months, I tell him that the American government does not pay ransom.

Ignoring me, he says that the head of the FBI’s office in New York has traveled to Afghanistan to secure my release. He vows to force the United States government to pay the $5 million.

“You know where the money will come from,” he says. “And I know where the money will come from.”

I tell him that he is delusional and that he should just kill me. Tahir refuses to translate my words. “Don’t provoke him,” he whispers.

I tell Abu Tayyeb we will “be here forever” if he does not reduce his demands.

“You are a spy,” Abu Tayyeb declares. “You know that you are a spy.”

I respond that he is absolutely wrong and that I am a journalist. Then I try to shame him in front of his men.

“God knows the truth,” I say. “And God will judge us all.”

W
alking to the subway one night after work, I notice a news flash on the JumboTron in Times Square: US DRONE ATTACKS TARGET BAITULLAH MEHSUD. The news feed feels like an oversize text message intended just for me. I now have a new fear: David and his colleagues will be killed by friendly fire.