Kidnapped by the Taliban (2 page)
Now, just a few minutes later, we spot a dozen boys walking the same way we’re going on the side of the road. We saw these students in the educational facility next to the medical center this morning. They’re on their way home, after spending time in computer or
literacy classes. When we offer them a ride, they pile into the open truck bed, smiling and grateful for the lift. We let them off in a village about five miles down the road, wave good-bye, and continue down the winding dirt road.
As we drive, I think ahead to my evening plans: dinner and a meeting with my NGO’s country director and his wife in Kabul. We’re going to discuss current programs and plans for the future. There is so much yet to do here. Then, in another week, I will be home with my family and getting ready for Christmas.
We are traveling in a white, ten-year-old Toyota Hilux. Rafiq is behind the wheel of the four-door pickup for this first leg. I sit beside him in the front seat while Farzad sits in the back.
When we approach a hairpin right turn about fifty yards ahead, Rafiq slows down. Our road is on a hill that gradually declines. To our left, after a short drop, the mountain rises steeply into sunny blue sky. To our right is an equally steep drop into a canyon below.
A tap on the shoulder is my first hint that something is wrong—Farzad is reaching forward to get Rafiq’s attention.
What’s going on?
Rafiq slams on the brakes.
Through the windshield, a hundred feet ahead of us on the right, I see him. Next to an outcropping, where he’d obviously been hiding moments before, stands a man. He is wearing a thick, beige jacket over traditional garb. On his head is a brown wool
pakol
, a hat with a kind of double-pancake appearance. He has a long black beard that covers his neck.
What most gets my attention, however, is the ammunition belt around his waist and the Kalashnikov assault rifle in his hands.
The man raises his Kalashnikov—also known as an AK-47—and fires a single shot into the air.
A surreal feeling washes over me.
No, no
, I think.
Is this staged? This can’t be real.
Two more men, also carrying assault rifles, pop out from behind another hill ahead and run directly toward us.
I’m suddenly aware of my heart pumping into overdrive.
This can’t be happening. Oh, man. I can’t believe this is how my life is going to end.
One of the pair of men ahead is shouting orders in Pashto. I don’t understand a word. Both Rafiq and Farzad open their doors and get out of the pickup. I follow their lead and do the same. As I open my door, a fourth armed man comes toward us from the rear.
This is clearly a strategic action. Which is it—robbery or kidnapping? I hope the latter. Most roadside robbery victims in these rural areas are quickly killed.
Rafiq, Farzad, and I huddle together next to the left side of the Hilux. All four of our attackers begin yelling at us. Rafiq and Farzad raise their hands in the air, so I do likewise. The man who arrived from behind us begins to take charge. He appears to be the oldest, perhaps twenty-eight. His beard is shorter and better groomed and his outfit a lighter brown compared to the rest.
This leader is angry with us. He raises the butt of his rifle as if to strike me with it. I wince, but the blow does not come.
The leader keeps shouting in Pashto. As Rafiq attempts to answer, the leader flings open the back door of the Hilux and grabs the backpacks Rafiq and I brought. He makes an abrupt search. Rafiq whispers to me, “He wants to know why we’re here and what we do.”
I say nothing and avoid eye contact with the gunmen. Since I am an ethnic Indian, I can easily pass for an Afghan—at least until I open my mouth and those listening realize I don’t speak their language.
I don’t want to incite these men further by revealing that I’m an American.
All our attackers are dressed similarly. The man we spotted first looks to be in his midtwenties and is the tallest of the group, nearly six feet. The other two, who appeared ahead of us, look nearly as old but may be much younger—with their dust-caked faces and ruddy complexions, it’s difficult to tell. The taller of this pair may still be a teen, but he carries himself like an experienced soldier. This one points his rifle at us and gestures for us to step to the side of the road, away from the pickup.
Now what?
I wonder.
What are their intentions? Are they going to shoot us right here on the side of the road?
Suddenly, coming down the same road we’d traveled moments before, a lone man on a motorbike appears. He stops within five hundred feet of us, assesses the situation, and turns around. Seconds after his arrival, he has disappeared.
Will he report what he’s just seen?
One of the gunmen begins tearing a cloth into long strips. He uses one of these strips to tie a blindfold around my head. The makeshift blindfold isn’t 100 percent effective. At the upper left corner I have a tiny opening. Since my hands aren’t tied, I’m able to tug it down a fraction, providing me with a little better view of what’s happening.
I fear this is the end. My mind is functioning just well enough to offer a silent prayer:
God, save me from this situation!
Our captors attempt to put blindfolds on Rafiq and Farzad as well, but something doesn’t work—maybe the other strips are too short. Though it feels like an eternity, it’s probably less than ten minutes later when my blindfold is removed.
Now the same strips of cloth are used to tie our hands behind our backs. We’re each pushed into the rear seat of the Hilux. The leader
climbs into the driver’s seat. The second-oldest joins him in the front passenger seat.
My heart rate drops one notch.
Okay. At least this doesn’t appear to be a robbery. We’re still alive. They’re taking us somewhere, so there’s some plan here.
The leader shifts the Hilux into reverse and guns the engine. He turns us around, driving so quickly and carelessly that for a moment I think we will careen over the road’s edge and tumble down the mountain.
My heartbeat resumes its frantic pace.
In a few minutes we reach the village where we’d dropped off the boys. A few of the inhabitants look up as we drive by. I plead with my eyes,
Please notice that this is a medical truck and there are armed men in the back. Please alert someone!
In no time we are through the village and back on the deserted road, heading for the village and medical center, where we had spent the morning.
This could be good
, I think.
It might all go south when we reach the village and police post, but at least people will know what’s happened to us.
But this glimmer of hope vanishes as quickly as it appears. The leader makes an abrupt turn off the road and into a valley. The terrain is rocky, and our captor is driving fast. I’m afraid he’s going either to tip over the Hilux or disable it, leaving us stranded in the middle of nowhere.
As we bump along, I attempt to slide my hands over to Rafiq’s, thinking I might be able to untie him without being seen. At the same time, I whisper, “Do you have any idea what these guys are thinking?”
Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head. “No, I don’t,” he whispers. “We need to keep quiet.”
I can’t imagine our situation getting any more frightening, but it does. The two kidnappers in front trade angry comments, which I later learn were along the line of, “We will show these donkeys sitting behind their posh desks and computers what real Islamic life is like.” Then the leader tries on a pair of sunglasses he finds in the truck. They apparently don’t fit, so he smashes them against the dashboard.
He isn’t done venting his rage. While holding the steering wheel with his left hand, he rips the rearview mirror from its base with his right. Then he attacks the overhead visor. His number two in the next seat starts doing the same to his visor. Neither is successful at tearing his visor completely off, so each satisfies himself with destroying its shape.
These guys are out of their minds. They could do anything.
After fifteen minutes of this wild driving in a wide valley, we enter a passage through hill country that cuts off any view of the surrounding landscape. Then we stop and are ordered out of the Hilux.
With a jerk of his rifle, the leader points up the mountain on the left. There is no path. I look higher and see more armed men at the top of a hill about two hundred feet above us.
Apprehension surges up in me like black oil from a well. These aren’t ordinary robbers. This is too systematic.
I’ve been kidnapped by the Taliban.
Two of the men grab our backpacks out of the Hilux; then all of us begin climbing. With my hands tied behind me, it’s hard to maintain balance on the steep terrain. I’m sorry to leave the Hilux. It is a last remnant of my work here, of normal life.
As we walk, I hear our captors talking among themselves. My
sense is that they are talking about us. I fear the worst—that when we reach the top, they will shoot us.
God, however this is going to end, please don’t let them torture me to death. Let it be one shot and done.
It is amazing how quickly everything we take for granted can be ripped away. In the space of a few minutes, I have lost all control of my life. All I can do is take a step, draw a breath, and hope I will be given the chance for another.
Step.
Breathe.
Hope.
The first time we meet, we are friends. The next time we meet, we are brothers.
—A
FGHAN PROVERB
7:00
P.M.
, S
UNDAY
, N
OVEMBER
18, 2012
C
OLORADO
S
PRINGS
, C
OLORADO
ON THE NIGHT BEFORE MY TRIP TO AFGHANISTAN, THOUGHTS of kidnapping and death were the furthest things from my mind. I was instead relaxing on a couch in my home. My focus was not on the intentions of armed men but on the adventures of a trio of small trucks, otherwise known as
The Three Little Rigs
.
“Little rig, little rig, let me come in!” I read aloud in my best imitation of a talking wrecking ball. “Not by the chrome on my chinny chin chin!” I answered myself, trying now to sound like a young truck.
In my lap sat my son, three-year-old Tobi, his ears absorbing every word and his wide eyes taking in every detail of the picture book I held in my hands. Snuggled next to us was my oldest son, five-year-old Jaron. On another couch across the room, my wife, Cilicia, read a book to our oldest child, eight-year-old Asha. On the floor in a corner, the newest addition to our family, eight-month-old Eshaan, played with his puzzle toy.
I love my roles as husband and father. Anyone with children understands the rewards and joys of raising a family. I had anticipated this
before Cilicia and I started having kids. What surprised me, however, was how much my family has taught me—especially about parts of my character that still need work. When money was tight and Cilicia spent more than I thought appropriate on an outing with friends, I realized I was lacking in grace. When my kids were louder before bedtime than I initially thought was necessary, I realized I needed more patience.
Of course, my family also has taught me about each of them. I particularly enjoy uncovering the mystery of each child’s personality. Asha, for example, revels in her role as the oldest. She is a born leader, passionate and driven, with a strong sense of justice and fairness. Jaron is more easygoing, sensitive, and reflective. He often comes up with insights that surprise me. Tobiah—we call him Tobi—is what Cilicia terms “a sunshine.” He enjoys being the center of attention and knows how to draw others to him through his smiling face, his friendly and persistent questions, and his silly antics.
Eshaan seems to be easygoing, like his brother Jaron, but it is too soon to know much for certain. I especially look forward to understanding him better in the months and years ahead.
Cilicia, meanwhile, is a devoted and incredibly patient mother. She is also an amazingly genuine person with a warm heart. From the beginning of our relationship, I found talking with her encouraging and energizing. After nearly twenty years of these conversations, including a decade of marriage, that still hasn’t changed.
I let out a contented sigh as I glanced around the room. Like any married couple, Cilicia and I had our ups and downs. And certainly, raising four young kids isn’t always easy. But I realized I am truly blessed. As I approached my forties, I could not imagine wanting any other life.
Yet, once again, I was going to walk away from the people I most cherished and put all this on hold. I tried to freeze in my mind the image of my family all around me. The last night before I traveled overseas always felt bittersweet—my excitement and anticipation over the upcoming trip mixed with the knowledge that it would be a few weeks before I saw my loved ones again.
I would miss them. But this was a call I could not ignore.
