Under an Afghan Sky (38 page)

And then I started again, praying the rosary, and the one prayer that I must have said thousands of times over the last four weeks.

I was sitting with my girlfriends by the infinity pool at our rented villa in Umbria, and we were drinking beer. The girls looked worried. I can’t remember what we were talking about, but my friend Angela put her hand down firmly on the arm of her deck chair and declared, “This weekend! It’s going to happen this weekend! It will be over this weekend!”

I sat up, confused as to where I was. Where did everyone go? Where was the pool? A beam of light illuminated a small patch of wall across from me. And then my heart sank as I realized I had been dreaming. I wasn’t with my girlfriends in Italy. I was still in a dark, disgusting hole somewhere in northern Afghanistan.

What a strange dream. It had felt so real. I could see all my friends as they were the summer before, sitting by the pool and talking to each other, faces illuminated and skin darkened, kissed by the Umbrian sun. What was Ange talking about? I looked at the clock—it was almost six o’clock. Damn if I couldn’t get a break and sleep for a few more hours. Six in the morning, Saturday, was about nine o’clock Friday night in Toronto, and I imagined that my girlfriends were gathering somewhere over drinks, talking about their week—and probably worrying about me. At least they were together, and I knew they would be drinking copious amounts of wine. Another day, another week had passed with no news of me. Or maybe there was news. I thought about my parents, and my sister, and how helpless and far away they must
be feeling, hope ebbing and flowing with the dawn and dusk of each day.

Not unlike what I was experiencing in my hole. My emotions rode the same wave almost every day. I’d wake up and wonder if this would be the day. Anticipation would start growing by the hour, peaking around six in the evening, when it was dark, because I knew if I were going to be dug out, they would come at night. Then between six and eight, I would be on high alert for any sound, any hint, that my kidnappers were coming to take me back to Kabul. Nothing would happen, and by nine o’clock I would be despondent, resigned to another night in the hole, disappointed that yet again I was still here, and freedom was only a dream. And this pattern would start all over again as soon as I woke up.

This dawn was no different. It was Saturday, November 8. Three nights had passed since my kidnappers returned me to the hole after our mountain hike. Exactly four weeks before, I was in my work tent in Kandahar, packing a small bag to take for my flight to Kabul. Paul had walked with me to the tent—we’d gone to the gym on the base that morning, and I had to pack the camera and my computer, and my radio equipment. The public affairs officer was going to take me to the civilian airport for my Kam Air flight to the capital. I should have been home by now, my five-week assignment in Afghanistan over, and organizing my move to Toronto from Regina.

I sighed and was just about to turn to a fresh page in my notebook when I heard footsteps. It was early for someone to come by, but Abdulrahman had come this early before, when he was asking the proof-of-life questions.

“Mellissa.” He called my name a couple more times, and it occurred to me that he might have forgotten what I was told about not answering to my name.

“Khalid!” he called down, finally realizing his mistake.

“Yes, Abdulrahman?” I stood up and shuffled my chained feet over to the pipe hole.

“
Saba
—tomorrow—we go Kabul. You and me go.”

“What?” I asked. “Tomorrow? Are you sure? Where’s Khalid?”

“Khalid go too. You, me, Khalid.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said. I could hear him stuffing something into the pipe. Two batteries for the lamp, four boxes of juice, and two packages of cookies fell into my hands. If I was leaving tomorrow, why was he giving me more supplies?

“Okay?” he asked.

“Cigarettes!” I called up. I had only two more left in the package Khalid had left me.

“No cigarette,” he said.

“Come on, Abdulrahman. Please! Cigarettes!”

A few seconds later a package came down the pipe. It was stuck somewhere in the middle, and I had to shuffle back to get my pen to dislodge it. The package landed on the floor and when I picked it up, I saw that it had been opened and was missing a few smokes. Still, better than nothing, I thought.

“Thank you,” I said.

“
Saba,
Kabul,” he repeated.

“Okay. In the morning or in the evening?” I asked, knowing the answer but hoping he would say morning. He didn’t respond right away, and I repeated the question.

“Afternoon,” he called down. Afternoon? I assumed he meant late afternoon—early evening, after the sun had set.

“I go now. Goodbye!” He was gone as quickly as he had arrived, leaving me with more questions than answers. I desperately wanted to believe that Abdulrahman was right, but I had been
disappointed too many times. Still, I thought he sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Maybe there was something happening I didn’t know about. Something that meant my release was imminent. Maybe Ange in my dream was right, that it all would be over this weekend. Tomorrow night meant only thirty-six more hours in the hole.
I can handle that,
I thought.
It’s not too much longer.

I pulled out the second-to-last cigarette from the old box and lit it. But after only two drags, I didn’t feel like smoking any more. I was tired of the taste, and I could feel my lungs weighed down by the nicotine in my system. I didn’t want to smoke any longer, even if it did help me pass a few minutes of every hour. I put the cigarette out against the wall behind my pillow and watched the ashes crumble to rest on top of my backpack. I brushed them off.

With my legs chained together, I couldn’t even do my standing stretches, so I lay down and did a few leg lifts, lifting the heavy chain as well. I was tired after just ten, so I lay down and started to do sit-ups. This I could do. And I counted. Up to ten, down to zero, back up to ten, until I did three hundred and could do no more. Not too shabby, considering that I was probably in the worst physical shape of my life.

I flipped to a new page in my notebook and jotted down a few notes from the morning.

November 8, 6:30 a.m., Abdulrahman stops by—drops off cookies and juice—says we are going to Kabul tomorrow evening.

I reread what I had just written. Tomorrow might finally be freedom day. I had to remind myself that this could once again end in bitter disappointment, but something in Abdulrahman’s voice suggested that he wasn’t making it up this time. Or at least that’s what I wanted to believe.

I counted down the hours as I’d pretty much been doing for
the last four weeks: I prayed the rosary at the top of the hour and then wrote for the rest of the hour. Noon came and went, and I ate two cookies with a sip of juice. Then it was two o’clock, then four o’clock—night would soon fall.
My last night in this hole,
I thought, even though I tried not to let myself believe it. I’d said that enough times now to know that there was always, always, another night. I was getting used to tomorrow coming, and passing, and looking forward to another tomorrow, hoping it would finally be the day. I wasn’t going to let myself be disappointed again. Instead, I distracted myself with my pen and pad.

Dear P,

Abdulrahman said I’m going to Kabul tomorrow afternoon. I know he’s said it before, but he seems to know what he’s saying this time.

The thought crossed my mind that my idea of going to Kabul might not be the same as his. I’d been saying it as a euphemism for being freed, but it now occurred to me that my kidnappers might be taking me to Kabul to be handed over to someone else. I refused to let myself go down that path. It was too scary.

You’ll be happy to know that I’ve stopped smoking for the time being. I took a puff this morning, and I couldn’t smoke anymore. Maybe my lungs are trying to tell me something—that I need to stop if I ever want to start running again.

I’m not sure where you are. Maybe you needed to leave Afghanistan after so long, and if you did, I wouldn’t blame you. It’s not a great place to be hanging out and waiting. I just hope that wherever you are, you know I’m thinking about you, and that “talking” to you all the time has saved my sanity while I’ve been here. I’ll be okay, and so will we. I promise I’ll make this up to you when I get home. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through the last four weeks. I am so, so sorry.

xox

Sure, I wanted to get the hell out of the place desperately, but more than that, I wanted to stop the pain I was surely inflicting on those closest to me.

Don’t worry, I said to myself. It’s your last night here and this time tomorrow, you’ll be on your way to Kabul, where you can tell everyone you’re okay, and you’re sorry for everything you put them through.

I was about to write more when I thought I heard footsteps. Not just one person’s, but several sets. My heart started pounding. Voices too. Impossible. It was just after seven in the evening, and I didn’t expect anyone until the next afternoon. I was settling in for what I wanted to believe was the last night in the hole. The footsteps were loud, and soon they were right overhead. Could it be police? Or just nearby farmers?

“Mellissa!” It was Abdulrahman, again forgetting that I wasn’t answering to my name.

“Khalid!” Another voice—the real Khalid—or, at least, the man I knew by that name—was calling down.

“Yes?” I responded.

“We go. We go now!” Abdulrahman again.

“What do you mean? You said we go tomorrow!”

“No, we must go now!”

“To Kabul?”

“Yes!”

I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience, and I could feel my extremities going cold. The adrenaline started flowing and I looked around me at the garbage can that had been my home for the last month. I packed everything into my backpack—my notebooks, makeup bag. I shoved the cigarettes and lighter in my pocket, and patted the lower pocket of my hiking pants to make sure I still had my passport, ID, and credit cards.

The sound of digging started, and dust started falling like rain
into the hole. I covered my head with my scarf and sat down on the duvet. They lifted the cover to the hole, and I heard two thumps. I fiddled with the chain and slid my left wrist back into it.

Khalid and Shafirgullah were making their way toward me down the tunnel. They each had a flashlight.

“Mellissa, Kabul!” Shafirgullah said. I wasn’t sure if he was mocking me or if he was serious.

“Khalid, what is happening?” I asked. His brow was furrowed. He was fumbling in his pocket for keys to unlock the padlocks that held the chain to my legs and my arm. He managed to unlock all three this time.

“What is happening, Khalid?” I asked again.

“We go—now!” he shouted. I put my shoes on and grabbed my backpack.

“No, you leave that!” he ordered.

What? He wasn’t going to let me take my backpack? “But my notebooks are in it! My wallet, all my stuff!”

“No.” His voice was low and serious. “You leave. Your books—for me. You take wallet. Passport. That is all.”

“No! You said I could have my notebooks! You bought that notebook for me, Khalid!”

“No, I bring for you so you can write. What you write—is mine now.”

I couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to let me take my diary and letters. I was suddenly afraid that I wasn’t going to Kabul after all. What if I was going to a new group of kidnappers? That thought sent a chill up my spine. This was the moment I’d been waiting for—but I knew in the back of my mind that going to Kabul wasn’t a guarantee that I was going to be freed.

“Go, quickly!” Khalid pushed me toward the tunnel. Shafirgullah had gone ahead. I looked back. Khalid was gathering everything
else. My knapsack, the remaining packages of cookies and boxes of juice.

I hurried up the tunnel on my tummy and my elbows, hitting my head when I got to the end. I stood and looked up. There was a crowd outside, around the shaft opening. Khalid came up behind me and lifted me up by the legs. Someone grabbed me and set me on the ground.

“Sit!” said Abdulrahman. “Mellissa, yes! Sit!” I did as I was told. Soon Khalid scrambled out of the shaft. “We cover your eyes now,” he told me. He tied my dirty black scarf tight around my eyes.

“Ow!” I complained. “It’s too tight!” I reached up to my face and rearranged the scarf so that I could see a little through a space just above my nose. I looked around as best I could. I saw fat Abdulrahman to my left and Khalid to my right. Abdullah was there, and so was the guy with the lazy eye, who I had not seen since the first week. There were at least two others I didn’t recognize. I heard Shafirgullah say something in rapid Pashto, then felt the barrel of a gun at the back of my head, just above my neck. My blood froze. Had my kidnappers taken me out to execute me?

“Khalid,” I said softly, my voice quivering a little. “What is going on?” I reached out for his hand, but he brushed mine away.

“We are angry!” he yelled. “We should kill you now!”

I was paralyzed. Maybe freedom meant death.

“We angry!” said Abdulrahman. “But we must walk! Come!”

The fat Afghan grabbed me roughly by one arm and started leading me away from the hole. Khalid was walking next to me, and walking quickly. We were rushing, definitely in a big hurry. Someone was talking on a cell phone.

We walked in the opposite direction from where we’d come when we returned from the mountain a few nights earlier. At least
that was my sense from what I could see, given the blindfold, for I really had very little sense of direction. I could make out houses, and mud walls, and trees. They were rushing me along, and I was struggling to keep my balance. I could tell we were on the outskirts of the town, and I saw more trees ahead. The ground was bumpy, and I assumed we were in a grape field. We kept walking, Khalid propping me up whenever I lost my balance. I fell several times, and each time I’d feel the barrel of a gun at my head, signalling me to get up immediately.