Kidnapped by the Taliban (15 page)

It had been a rough two days for Cilicia. She had taken Daniel’s advice to heart and said nothing about my abduction to anyone, not even her father. Keeping that news to herself, along with her fears and concerns, was among the hardest things she’d ever had to do.

She’d been told I was alive, of course, and about the ransom demands. But she also knew that the demands were so outrageous that there was virtually no chance they would be met.

Our children were still going to school. Cilicia didn’t want them to worry, so she didn’t fill them in. But Asha and Jaron, in particular, realized that something was up. “We just need to pray for Papa,” was all Cilicia would say. “Papa’s in some kind of trouble.”

On Thursday a woman named Mary called Cilicia from the FBI office in Washington, D.C. She reassured Cilicia that the FBI, the state department, and the ISAF were aware of the situation and were
working together to secure my release, though she didn’t provide details.

My sister, Deepa, meanwhile, was alarmed. About two o’clock Thursday morning, the U.S. State Department in Kabul had called and left a message at her Los Angeles home. They wanted to verify that she was my sister, but the caller didn’t explain further. It left her scared and wondering what was going on.

Cilicia received another call from the FBI that day. This agent informed her that preparations for a military rescue were underway. Before they could act, however, they needed her to sign a form. It would give the government permission to attempt the rescue—and release it from any legal responsibility if things turned out badly.

Cilicia didn’t know what to do. Was it better to try to negotiate or attempt a dangerous rescue? What created the greatest chance of bringing me home? She called my boss, Daniel, for advice.

For the remainder of Thursday, Cilicia was in almost-constant contact with Daniel, Mary, or Lars, Morning Star’s executive director, as they talked through the latest updates and options. All of them were a steady source of support, answering her questions and providing a measure of comfort and peace despite the dire circumstances. Mary also called Deepa, filling her in and leaving her feeling at least a little hopeful that she might see her brother again. Later that day Cilicia and Deepa connected by phone and text. They encouraged each other through their shared concern for me.

Yet a decision had to be made. Cilicia and Daniel both agonized over the choice before them. Some of the people advising Daniel recommended immediate military action. Others strongly pushed for continuing with negotiations.

Cilicia went to bed on Thursday night, my Friday morning in
Afghanistan, still uncertain about what to do. When she woke up in the middle of the night, she did what was natural for her—she turned to her Bible. As she sat in bed and flipped pages, she sensed God leading her to a passage:

Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. . . . Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.
¹

They were encouraging, peace-giving words. Cilicia realized that no matter what happened to my body, I had already dedicated myself to God. My soul was safe with him.

Suddenly Cilicia had the strong impression that it was going to be okay—that they should try for the rescue. She would talk with Daniel, but she already felt sure he would agree. They’d already discussed the idea of Daniel signing the government permission form for both of them. Now it was time. She would trust in her new feeling of assurance and in God.

Cilicia swung her legs out of bed, walked downstairs and into our dark kitchen, and opened up her laptop. It was two o’clock Friday morning in Colorado Springs, one thirty in the afternoon in Afghanistan. After a few keystrokes, she sent Daniel the following e-mail:

Hi Daniel,

Here is my formal authorization; please let me know if you need something different.

I will be waiting to hear the latest from you.

Thanks,

Cilicia

December 7, 2012, 2:00 a.m. MST

I, Cilicia Joseph, authorize Morning Star Development to make a decision(s) in the best interest of my husband, Dilip Joseph, to involve the U.S. State Department and/or other agencies.

Now all she could do was wait.

On Friday afternoon Cilicia heard a knock on our front door. She’d been expecting it. When she opened the door, she found a group of four men and women on our porch. Some carried bags or what looked like small suitcases.

“Mrs. Joseph?” said the man in front, showing an identification badge. “We’re from the FBI. With your permission we’d like to come in and gather some of your husband’s DNA samples.”

Cilicia let them in and showed them to our bathroom upstairs. The FBI team took one of my old toothbrushes and hair samples from a clipper.

Left unspoken was the reason for gathering remnants of my DNA—if needed, a way to identify my body.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ON THE RUN

5:30
A.M
., S
ATURDAY
, D
ECEMBER
8

B
LACK
M
OUNTAIN
R
ANGE
, A
FGHANISTAN

SOME OF MY FAVORITE “PAPA” MOMENTS HAVE OCCURRED ON Saturday mornings. While sleeping soundly in my bed at home, I might suddenly be awakened by a small but warm body cuddling up next to me. Asha had mostly outgrown that, but Jaron and Tobi still loved to crawl into bed between Cilicia and me for a few minutes of cozy time to start the weekend. Seeing their obvious pleasure at being with us always brought me a generous measure of joy as well.

As I emerged from my slumber on this Saturday morning, I had the briefest hope that the kidnapping was a terrible dream, that I would wake up at home and find one of the boys quietly snuggling next to me, a shy smile on his face.

Instead, I awoke to the sound of voices chanting in Pashto.

I blinked a few times in the predawn darkness, trying to get oriented. Senior Mullah was on his knees, leading a time of
namaz
. Facing him in a row, all nine of the other Taliban, along with Rafiq and Farzad, were also on their knees, chanting prayers.

I was the only one still in “bed.” I was actually embarrassed and wondered why they hadn’t woken me.

Should I get up? Should I not? It’s weird to lie here when everyone else is up praying.

I remembered that on Thursday, Wallakah had asked me, “Do you believe in prayer? Do you pray?”

“Absolutely I believe in prayer,” I’d answered. “Prayer to me is having a conversation with our creator God.” I’d then shown him how I prayed—on my knees, palms open, and eyes closed.

I decided to do the same thing now. I got on my knees right where I’d been sleeping and began to pray quietly: “Lord, you have been with me for the past three days. Give me the strength and courage to face today as well.”

I could almost feel everyone’s eyes on me. It was a little strange, all of us praying at the same time, though not quite in the same way. Yet it had a unifying feel. Despite all our differences, prayer was a pivotal part of life for every person in that room.

As soon as
namaz
ended, we all huddled in the front of the room. Haqqani and Wallakah started a fire to heat a kettle for tea. For the first couple of days, our seven glasses had been enough to go around. Now there were thirteen of us.

“You go ahead,” I said when tea was poured and offered to me.

“No, you drink first,” someone insisted. Hostage or not, the custom of serving guests first still prevailed. I sipped quickly, knowing that others were waiting for their turn to drink.

After draining my tea and while the others talked and were served, I asked to go outside to relieve myself. I was grateful that Wallakah was the one who offered to go with me.

As I crouched in the cool, cloudy morning, I again heard the
sound of a plane. I couldn’t see who was up there, but it sure seemed that someone was trying to track us. Was there a plan? With the three of us surrounded by so many armed Taliban, was there any chance of getting out of this alive? I realized there was no point in trying to figure out the details. I had no control over it.

Wallakah and I walked silently back to the shelter. Just outside the front door, a boy of about twelve held a large water jug with both hands. He’d just filled the jug that sat outside the shelter.

Wallakah, smiling, gestured at the boy. “Mujahideen—training,” he said to me. There was a hint of pride in his voice.

I was surprised and pleased to meet a young man. He was about four and a half feet tall and slim, with smooth features. My first instinct was to extend my hand and shake his. When the boy raised his head and his eyes met mine, however, I was startled. His eyebrows were low and knotted, his lips pressed into a tight frown. It was a look of anger and hatred.

I tried not to react, but I felt anger rising in me as well—not at the boy but at his circumstances. As with the boy who brought us water during the long hike on Wednesday, I wondered if the Taliban had taken over this youth’s life and poisoned his thoughts, filling him with hatred for anyone foreign. Or was he angry about his lack of opportunities, the education and freedoms he would never experience?

I nodded at the youth and stepped past him to wash my hands and face. Compassion and sadness mixed with my anger. This young man was not so much older than my own children, but his life was headed in a very different direction.

When I entered the shelter, I sensed another shift in our captors’ attitude—more businesslike, more urgent. The casual conversations
had ceased. No one was smiling. People were moving quickly and gathering up belongings.

I remembered Haqqani’s early Thursday announcement that we had three days to meet their demands. This was the third day.

I noticed Rafiq and Farzad huddled in the corner, having a serious conversation. Before I could ask what they were discussing, we were all herded out the door.

The Butcher prodded me with his AK-47. We started walking to the left, toward the same mountain where we’d made calls the day before. Rafiq was next to me. The Commander also walked with us.

The rest of the group, however—including Farzad—moved to the right, toward the same area where we’d hiked the previous night.

My concern hit a new level.

We’re separating. We’re getting weaker as a unit. There are so many more Taliban than before. What’s going to happen to Farzad? Will we ever see him again? What’s going to happen to us? The captors we’re with now are guys I haven’t connected with—the Commander and the Butcher who’s so threatening I can’t even look at him.

This was truly grim.

As if to confirm my fears, Rafiq moved closer as we hiked and whispered, “Do you see what they’re doing? They’re separating Farzad from us. I don’t like this at all.”

Unlike the day before, this time we climbed all the way to the top of the mountain, which had a flat peak. It was warmer than previous mornings, probably in the forties. A smattering of clouds marred an otherwise blue sky. From here we could see for miles into the valley below.

The Commander gave me a phone. “Call your guys,” he said.

Roy answered the phone immediately. “Let me give you a quick
summary on what’s happened since yesterday afternoon,” I said to him. I explained about the growing Taliban numbers, about the feast, and how Farzad was no longer with us.

Suddenly the connection went dead.

Here we go again
, I thought. I tried repeatedly to reconnect, without success. Finally I got through again. Roy turned the call over to Dean.

“Dilip, can you describe their attitude toward you?” Dean asked.

“It’s been okay. So far.”

“All right,” he said. “I have a request for you. If possible, we’d like you to take a picture with your phone and send it to us.”

“A picture?” I said.

“Yes. If you can show some of the mountain, the valley, and the angle of the sun, that would be extremely helpful.”

I pondered this. I had my doubts that I could successfully pull this off. On the other hand, if I was discreet, it might work. I decided I had to try.

I disconnected the call but kept talking, pretending that my conversation was continuing. I also told Rafiq what I planned to do so he could focus even more than usual on keeping the Commander and the Butcher occupied.

Now I frowned at the phone and walked in a circle, acting as if I was having trouble with the reception. I ended up in a spot about thirty feet away from the rest of the group.

I found the camera application on the phone. When I thought no one was looking, I quickly lined up a shot and pressed the “take picture” button.

On my phone the picture process is a silent one. That was what I expected on the Commander’s phone. When I pressed the button,
however, I was horrified to hear the sound that an old-fashioned camera makes—a loud
click
.

The Butcher noticed it immediately.

“Did you just take a picture?”

My heart started pumping double-time. “No,” I said. “Not that I know of.”

I quickly switched the phone from camera to call mode. The Butcher rushed over and snatched the phone from my hand. He pressed buttons until he found the images stored on the phone, including the one I’d just shot.

“You did take a picture.”

I fought off a feeling of rising panic and forced my voice to remain steady.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” I said. “I think I might have pressed a button by mistake. I’m not used to this phone.”

The Butcher deleted the image and glared at me but said nothing else.

That was that. I wasn’t going to try any more photos. I wondered if I’d just pushed the Butcher’s suspicions to a dangerous level.