Kidnapped by the Taliban (14 page)
“Tomorrow you are going to make us a lot of money,” the Commander said. “We want to give you a feast.” Clearly I was not going to win this argument.
Our captors gathered up the blankets, kettle, tea, and sugar on the plateau. I noticed that another member had joined our group. This man appeared young, though it was difficult to tell since only his eyes were visible behind the scarf wrapped around his head and face. One of the others referred to him as a mullah, which seemed odd, considering he had a Kalashnikov strapped to his back. Nevertheless, I began to think of him as “Junior Mullah.”
For the next hour we hiked downward toward a valley.
Where
, I wondered,
are we going? This is taking a long time.
I surveyed the vast, arid plain that surrounded us. If someone was considering a rescue, this would be a bad place to try it. There was nowhere to hide.
The sun had just begun to set when we reached the base of the
mountain, which connected with the valley floor. About a mile ahead, a dark object rose from the lowland, like a lonely grave. As we got closer, I saw that it was a two-story building, two windows with light emanating from within on the left and a single covered window on the right. Unlike most Afghan homes, it had no stone walls to indicate property boundaries. Apparently it was so isolated that boundaries weren’t needed.
The owner of the house came out to greet us. I wondered if he was a cattleman—what other business could he operate way out here? He seemed to recognize some of our party and invited us in, shaking our hands as we entered. He had a light brown complexion and wore a white skullcap called a
taqiyah
. He was probably in his late forties or early fifties, though with his white beard and lined face, he looked to be in his late sixties.
I wondered if he knew that three of his guests were hostages.
We crowded into a living room that was roughly eight by fifteen feet. There were fifteen of us now—the house elder and his son, ten Taliban, and Rafiq, Farzad, and me. I realized we must have acquired yet another Taliban during our hike here because a slender young man with a scraggly beard and a
pakol
on his head now spoke with the Commander.
Some of the Taliban had stacked their guns in the corridor, but others carried their weapons right into the home, keeping them out of sight by stuffing them under the cushions that we began to sit on. The AK-47s were the elephants in the room—we all knew they were there. In most cultures it wouldn’t be considered polite to bring assault rifles into a home. Security concerns apparently trumped manners on this night.
As we sat facing one another in a rectangle and talked, “Senior
Mullah” broke out a package of candy and passed it around. The mint gum treats came in shiny green wrappers with the label “Fresh & Cool.”
Sweets were a symbol of celebration in this culture. I found the mullah’s act odd. There was nothing to celebrate, at least not yet. Even so, I popped one into my mouth and tucked the empty wrapper into my pocket. It would be another souvenir from this experience—I hoped.
A minute later the need for security was underlined when I again recognized, above the buzz of conversation, the sound of a small plane somewhere overhead. The Commander must have heard it, too, because shortly after he wanted to talk about phone call surveillance.
“Do you know anything about it?” he asked me. “How do they listen in? Do you know anything about the satellite, how they track people?”
“I’m not an engineer,” I said. “My area is medicine. I am not well versed in these things.” I wondered why he thought I’d tell him even if I did know.
Our host sat at one end of the rectangle, near the doorway. Suddenly he threw a handful of medicine tablets onto the blanket in the middle of the room and began talking, an unhappy grimace on his face.
Apparently the Commander didn’t appreciate this interruption. “Shh,” he said. “Don’t speak.”
To my surprise, most of the other Taliban spoke up to defend the house elder. “No,” more than one said. “This is his house. Let him speak.” I found it interesting that even though the Commander was clearly in charge, his authority was not so ironclad that it prevented the others from disagreeing with him.
While this was going on, I reached out and picked up a couple of the tablets. They were ordinary antihistamines.
The elder, perhaps having heard that there were doctors present, explained that he suffered from itching all over his body. That morning, the itching on his scalp was so bad that he couldn’t stand it anymore. He’d shaved his head. He took off his
taqiyah
to show us his bald pate.
“I am not at peace,” he said loudly, raising his hands in the air. Our host said that on the one hand, he was expected to appease the local government. On the other hand, the Taliban were pressuring him to be on their side.
I was moved by this man’s boldness. I didn’t know the elder’s business, but it was certainly possible that the government required bribes for him to conduct his affairs even while the Taliban demanded
Zakah
. He was in a predicament shared by too many of his countrymen.
One of my great passions was encouraging people to take a holistic view of their lives. Rather than the typical Western, allopathic model of identifying a health problem and then treating only the superficial symptoms of that problem, I advised looking at the combination of the physical, intellectual, emotional, and spiritual to get at the root issues. The elder’s constant itching appeared to be a classic example of this. It seemed to me that the stress of his situation was showing up as a skin problem.
I admired this man’s courage in sharing his frustration in front of my captors. It inspired me to speak up as well.
“I want you to know that our creator God, the God of this universe, is a God of peace,” I said to the elder. Everyone had been talking, but as soon as I began to speak, they stopped. While Rafiq translated, it was quiet enough to hear a snake slither.
“I regret that you feel caught between the government authorities and the Taliban factions and find it difficult to appease both parties. In fact, you are right. You can’t satisfy both sides.”
Man
, I thought,
they might just shoot me right now
. Yet the room remained completely still, everyone focused on my words and Rafiq’s translation.
You could say that I had a captive audience.
“Our God actually cares so much about us,” I continued, “that he will direct our ways so that we can make decisions that lead to peace. You never have to worry about a decision you need to make, whether it is the right one or wrong one because he will direct your steps.”
The elder nodded his head at me.
“It is my hope and prayer that you can make the right decisions so that you don’t have to deal with this itching anymore,” I said.
The group went back to their conversations without any dialogue with me. I didn’t know if my words had made an impression or not. Still, just like my speech during the long first hike about my wife’s Pashtun background, I at least had the satisfaction of knowing that I had tried to connect and had expressed my views.
The feast, on the other hand, was less than satisfying. We divided into groups of four that gathered in circles around our food. Somehow I ended up next to the Butcher. Our meal turned out to be a half-cooked lamb and a spinach dish. The lamb tasted as if it had been boiled in water but not actually cooked. The Taliban gorged on it. They couldn’t get enough.
I could barely stand it, however. I managed to finish one piece of meat and a bit of naan. Between the taste and my lack of enthusiasm for what this party stood for, I’d lost my appetite.
The Butcher noticed. Apparently he felt I wasn’t eating fast enough,
as he motioned for me to eat more. “Keep eating, keep eating,” he said. “Be full.”
I made a show of putting more lamb into my mouth. A moment later, not wanting to lose this rare opportunity to connect with my nemesis, I tapped the Butcher on his shoulder and patted my stomach, letting him know I was full. He didn’t react, but at least he didn’t seem to mind the interruption.
After more sweets, tea, and conversation, it was time to go. The house elder stood at the edge of the courtyard as the Taliban lined up, shaking hands with each as they departed.
When my turn came, our host clasped my hand in both of his. His dark brown eyes looked intently into mine. Since I hadn’t spoken any Pashto throughout the evening, I figured he’d realized by now that I was a hostage. I sensed his compassion. If he spoke English, I think he would have said, “Thank you for honoring me with your presence. Good luck.”
“
Tashakor
,” I said, which was “thank you” in Dari, Afghanistan’s other official language.
It must have been about eight o’clock when we left the elder’s home. I wondered where we were headed now. I certainly hoped we weren’t embarking on another all-night walk. As we moved up and down trails, several of the Taliban used the flashlight feature on their cell phones, swinging them back and forth to light their way in the darkness. As they hiked along in their sandals and
salwar kameezes
, I pondered the odd mix of centuries-old tradition and new technology.
“Shh!”
The universal signal for silence came from somewhere up ahead.
At the same time, someone else hissed a command in Pashto, probably “Keep quiet!” Everyone around me froze.
We’d been hiking without incident for about forty-five minutes. What had changed?
Wallakah pointed at Rafiq, Farzad, and me, and then at the ground. We sat. He trained his AK-47 on me.
Could this be it? Had the military arrived? Was someone trying a rescue effort?
I stared at Wallakah, his eyebrows furrowed and lips pinched together, his attention on what was happening ahead of us, his finger on the trigger of the weapon pointed at my head.
This is Wallakah, the guy I’ve connected with. Surely he’s not going to pull the trigger? Yet he’s the one with the gun aimed right at me.
Ah, this is going to be a royal mess. Everybody’s going to be shot or hurt or killed. And I’m going to be the first one.
Then as quickly as the crisis formed, it ended. Whatever had spooked the front of the line—an animal? another member of the Taliban?—must have been identified. I exhaled and got up. We resumed our hike.
We’d walked only another couple hundred feet when to my surprise the two-story mud house with the outdoor pool of water came into view. We’d returned to the same area where we’d spent the last two nights.
Everyone stopped at the pool to wash their hands, face, and feet. I also washed my hand and face. As I splashed water on myself, the black-clad Talib sidled next to me.
“Hey,” he said quietly in broken Urdu, the official language of Pakistan, “do you drink? Want some liquor?” To make sure I understood, he put his thumb to his mouth and tipped his head back.
I shook my head. “No,” I said, waving my hand in front of me.
“Do you want a smoke?” He put two fingers to his lips. “I can get you one.”
“No, thank you,” I said in English.
I noticed he had blackened lips, obviously from smoking. The idea that this man apparently smoke and drank surprised me a bit, considering that he was part of a fundamentalist group. But at the same time I wasn’t that surprised. I’d come across many extremists who had figured out loopholes for nearly every religious belief.
After getting permission to walk away from the group to urinate, I walked about a hundred feet away from the others to do so. I was uneasy. Our little group had swelled to three captives and ten Taliban. I felt little connection to most of our captors and had no idea what would happen next.
Suddenly I realized what I was doing. A chill dropped down my spine, like a bead of sweat.
My back is turned to these guys. And nearly all of them have guns.
I was again afraid of offending the Taliban and having my life end in a most humiliating manner. Despite the difficulty, I crouched to finish my business.
Soon everyone gathered in front of the mosque. We had to wait to bed down, however. In someone’s careless haste to warm up everyone’s blankets for the night, one had caught fire, filling the shelter with smoke. Many of the others—even Rafiq and Farzad—used the opportunity to get on their knees for
namaz
.
I sat against a wall outside the entrance. It was a lonely moment. When and how was this all going to end? I said another prayer.
I wanted to go home.
Finally the haze cleared enough for us to enter the shelter. As we
did, the distant sound of an engine reached our ears for the third time that day. There might even have been more than one.
I didn’t think the Commander would be pleased. I was right.
“You hear those planes?” he said to me, looking up and pointing skyward. “If they are coming for you, we are going to kill the three of you first because we know we’re going to die anyway.”
I didn’t respond. What was there to say?
Bedtime came quickly. With thirteen of us lying on the ground, we were packed into the room like sardines. I arranged my backpack once again as a pillow and pondered the Commander’s words.
I’d been threatened so many times in the last three days that this latest warning did not add a fresh wave of terror. After all, these guys were desperate for money, and to get their money they needed me alive. On the other hand, if things started to go south, emotions could get in the way of logic. They easily could end up pulling the trigger.
I said another prayer, closed my eyes, and began to fall into a fitful sleep. Saturday was going to be a big day.
T
HURSDAY
, D
ECEMBER
6
C
OLORADO
S
PRINGS
, C
OLORADO
BACK IN THE UNITED STATES, TWO PEOPLE I WAS VERY CLOSE to also were not sleeping well—my wife and sister.
