Kidnapped by the Taliban (21 page)
Early in the afternoon, an embassy official pulled me aside. “Dr. Joseph,” he said quietly, “we are picking up intelligence that your life may still be in danger. So we’re moving you tonight to the U.S. Embassy in Kabul.”
The official didn’t explain further, but I wasn’t too worried. After all I’d been through, this seemed more an inconvenience than anything else. I trusted that I was in good hands.
Now I was on the base airfield, back in a military helicopter. We lifted into the twilight for the second helicopter ride of my life. Colonel Hansen and four other officials accompanied me. We flew to Kabul International Airport, where a convoy of SUVs transported me to the embassy. Two men joined us in the SUV. They wore suits and carried automatic weapons. One of them handed a weapon to the colonel and gave him a security briefing.
I might not have been worried, but clearly these guys took their jobs seriously.
I spent the night at the embassy. The original U.S. Department of Foreign Affairs, I learned, was established and signed into law in 1789 by President George Washington. One of its early purposes was to help protect U.S. civilians from pirate attacks.
Not long after we arrived, Rahim apologized to me. I’d requested a meeting with Rafiq, Farzad, Roy, and other members of our NGO’s team in Kabul. I wanted to see again the friends I’d shared my ordeal with, as well as thank the friends and colleagues who had done so much to help secure my release. Rahim told me, however, that for security reasons they’d had to cancel our appointment. Because of the security risk and because I seemed to be recovering quickly, they had decided to fly me out of the country in the morning.
I was deeply disappointed to miss what would have been an emotional and heartwarming reunion. Either over the phone or in person, these were the people who had shared and encouraged me through the most harrowing days of my life. I felt more connected to them now than ever and so wanted that time to gain a sense of closure.
Despite this letdown, I more than welcomed the rest of the embassy official’s news. I was going home.
At five thirty the next morning, I heard a knock on the door to my room. Standing there was a familiar and smiling face—Jerry, a fellow doctor from Chicago who worked at the CURE International Hospital in Kabul. Morning Star and the embassy staff had arranged for him to fly back home with me.
“Hey, Dilip, how are you doing?” Jerry said while giving me a hug.
I laughed. “I’m doing okay, Jerry. Glad you could come along.”
I felt better already. After so much intensity, Jerry’s friendly and easygoing nature was just what I needed.
Later that morning I traveled with Jerry, Colonel Hansen, Rahim, and Jay, another embassy staff member, to the Kabul airport. I carried with me reminders of my captivity—the piece of naan, the gum wrapper, one remaining piece of cloth—as well as important mementos from my time at the base and embassy. In addition to a new passport and some cash, Rahim gave me a gold-plated coin representing the U.S. Embassy. It featured an eagle holding an olive branch in one talon and a group of arrows in the other. I put the coin in my bag with the SEAL medallion.
I also carried the military Bible that was provided for me in my cabin at the base. Most of the officers I’d come to know and respect in the last two days had signed it. One of them was Jay, the embassy worker who was also an ex-SEAL and had played an important part in coordinating my rescue. He had signed my Bible with a verse from the book of Isaiah, which reads, “Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!’ ”
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It had helped inspire him to join the military so he could serve others.
So many of the people I’d met since early Sunday morning had, like Jay, demonstrated amazing passion for their work—for taking care of civilians like me, for serving their country with honor, for doing the job right. It made me proud to be an American.
While we sat and waited for the plane, Rahim received a text that made him smile. It was from the secretary for the U.S. ambassador to Afghanistan. The ambassador had planned to meet with me later that day, but my top-secret departure had changed the plan.
“You can tell your NGO friends that they shouldn’t feel too bad about not meeting you,” Rahim said. “Even the U.S. ambassador won’t have the chance to meet you.”
Soon I was shaking hands and saying good-bye to Colonel Hansen, Rahim, and Jay. I would never be able to thank them enough for what they’d done. Then Jerry and I boarded the military contractor plane. After a half-day layover in Dubai and a thirteen-hour commercial flight, we landed on U.S. soil in Washington, D.C. on what was Wednesday morning in America.
Throughout my trip I’d had the feeling I was being watched. It seemed as if every time I turned around, men in dark suits and sunglasses were nearby, observing while pretending not to observe.
I figured it was more than just my imagination when Jerry and I were met by a team of FBI agents once we walked off the jet bridge and into the Dulles International terminal. Among the agents was Mary, the woman who had been extremely helpful and comforting over the phone to both Cilicia and Deepa. Mary wanted me to appreciate what had happened. “Your case is unique,” she said. “Few people get out of situations like yours.” The agents then explained the services the FBI would provide for me now that I was in the States.
A few hours later we landed in Los Angeles and met another group
of agents. My sister, Deepa, greeted me with a long, powerful hug and a relieved smile. We spent the night and morning with Deepa and her family, then took off the next day for Colorado Springs.
When our plane landed, FBI agents escorted me to a side exit. I suddenly realized Jerry was no longer with me and asked what had happened.
“He’s getting off with the other passengers,” one agent said. “Don’t worry. Jerry’s well taken care of.”
I was sorry I didn’t even get the chance to say good-bye to my friend. But I didn’t have much time for regret. There at the bottom of the mobile stairs was Daniel.
“Dilip, I’m so glad to see you,” he said after a hug.
“I’m very glad to be home.”
More FBI agents ushered me into an SUV. They drove me to a retreat center in the Colorado Springs area. I would spend the next three nights there, secluded from the media and other responsibilities and at last allowed the chance to unwind after all I had been through.
The moment I’d hoped for, waited for, and prayed for almost since I’d been abducted finally arrived. It was already dark when I reached a log cabin with three or four units inside. I climbed the steps of the porch and pushed on the heavy wood door that led into a hallway.
The door swung open, and there was Cilicia, holding little Eshaan, standing up and waiting for me.
Just as in that first phone call, words were unimportant. I managed to say, “Honey, how are you?” That was about it. We hugged and just held each other. When you’re living out a miracle, you don’t need to make a big speech. You just take it in with gratitude.
That time at the retreat center was wonderful. I couldn’t believe how much Eshaan had grown since I’d last seen him nearly a month before. A fresh helping of joy filled my heart at the thought that I would get to know him better and watch him grow after all.
The other three kids were with my sister-in-law. We got the entire family back together for the first time on Saturday and then went home on Sunday.
Now that I was back in familiar surroundings, it almost seemed as if nothing had changed. I knew that wasn’t true, though, when Asha asked, “Papa, do you know how famous you are now? You’re on TV all the time,” and when Tobi kept using the latest word he’d added to his vocabulary:
captured
.
When the kids’ bedtime arrived on our first evening back home, we helped them into their pajamas and gathered in the living room for our usual good-night prayers. When I sat on the couch, Cilicia held Eshaan while the three oldest kids fought for position and tried to snuggle with me.
It seemed they’d missed having Papa around. I’d missed them too.
I closed my eyes. “Dear God,” I said, “thank you for bringing me home safely and for putting the right people in place and orchestrating events so that I could be rescued. Thank you for allowing me to return to my family. Thank you for your blessings. We pray that you would be with each of us tonight, tomorrow, and in the days and years ahead. Amen.”
I opened my eyes and exchanged smiles with Cilicia. I had survived the worst ordeal of my life with my faith and hope intact. God had been there throughout my captivity and would be there still. He had given me a new chance at life.
I intended to cherish every moment of it.
M
AY
2014
C
OLORADO
S
PRINGS
, C
OLORADO
WHEN I RETURNED HOME FROM AFGHANISTAN A YEAR AND A half ago, I had no intention of writing a book about my experience. Yet when I described the events of my kidnapping and rescue to others, they invariably told me in one way or another, “This is amazing and important. People need to hear about this. You need to tell your story.” Their continuing encouragement led to what you’ve just read.
I have been blessed, not only by my rescue but also by how I’ve been able to deal with the impact of my ordeal. In those first two weeks back in the States, I had trouble falling asleep as I replayed events and realized how easily things could have turned out differently. I also had a couple of nightmares. Once, I woke up thinking I’d been shot.
Since then, however, I’ve worked through much of the trauma from my captivity. I’ve seen no signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. I attribute much of this to the excellent care and counseling that began as soon as I reached the military base in Afghanistan and continued after I returned home. This, combined with my strong belief that God is in control of my life and will bring good out of all my experiences,
even a kidnapping, has made for a relatively smooth transition back to my normal life.
The transition hasn’t been as smooth for my two friends and colleagues, Rafiq and Farzad. Unlike here in the West, their culture does not promote the same level of social and professional care that I received after my release. And unlike me, they could not leave it all behind when they went back to their families. For them, home remains a dangerous place, the fear of Taliban reprisal very real. In fact, both they and their families left Afghanistan for four months in 2013 because the risk of staying in the area was so high.
Yet now they are back. Dangerous or not, Afghanistan is their home. Rafiq has told me that he still has a great passion to help his people, to give them new opportunities in medicine, education, and building a greater sense of community. He refuses to live in fear. Every day I admire the strength and courage of my two friends and pray for their safety.
None of this has been easy for my wife or extended family as well. It’s been healing for me to talk and write about what I went through. Everyone is different, however. For Cilicia and my extended family, answering questions about those days and reliving the experience brings back all the stress and worry. I’m so sorry about all they’ve had to endure.
Afghanistan continues to be a challenging place to work. The Taliban remain active, and innocent lives continue to be lost. One loss in particular weighs heavily on my mind. I will never forget the sacrifice of a brave twenty-eight-year-old. He served his country with honor and was decorated many times over. He was a Pennsylvanian who, even as a youth, wanted to serve his country as a Navy SEAL. He was a born leader who loved life and brought joy to everyone around
him. The shoot commander at the base said he was “one of my best.” By the way he said it, I knew he meant every word. Because of Nic’s courage and that of his teammates, my children still have their papa. His service is a debt I can never repay.
And then there are my Taliban captors, in particular Wallakah. Yes, I grieve for them, too, though perhaps not in the same way as others. That may be hard to understand. To me, every life on this planet is precious. I am a doctor. My passion is to bring holistic healing—physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual—to everyone. Of course, I realize that Wallakah, Hopeless, Ahmed, and Senior and Junior Mullah were part of the group that kidnapped and threatened me. During their lives, they made terrible and even evil decisions. But who can say what I would have done if I’d grown up in their shoes? After connecting with Wallakah and some of the others and seeing their humanity, I can’t help feeling sad about their loss. There was potential, at least, for change and a better future.
That said, I certainly have nothing but respect and admiration for the SEALs and their actions. They entered a hostile situation to save me and were fired upon by my captors. They also had to be concerned about the possibility that one or more of the Taliban wore a suicide vest or had another hidden weapon, or that other Taliban might arrive on the scene. I will always be grateful that these brave Americans risked their lives for mine.
After so much violence and death, the question continues to be raised: Is it worth it for me and others to continue to put our lives at risk in Afghanistan? From my point of view, the answer is unquestionably yes.
Some would argue this from a strategic and security perspective, saying that even a limited U.S. military presence in the country will
continue to help prevent al-Qaeda and other terrorist groups from training jihadists and launching attacks against our homeland. This is likely true, but it’s not the main motivation behind my answer.
Though it’s not often reported in the media, Afghanistan has come a long way since the rule of the Taliban. Government-sanctioned public executions are part of the past. Women, admittedly in small numbers, hold jobs and even positions in parliament. Roughly seven million of the twelve million eligible voters in Afghanistan braved nasty weather and threats of Taliban violence to vote in the April 2014 presidential election. That’s a higher percentage than we often see in the United States.
