On February 10, 2012, Saroo boarded an airplane and flew to the airport closest to Khandwa. He hopped a taxi and followed familiar looking streets to the Khandwa train station. He was positive this was where he had been with Guddu twenty-five years ago on their last evening together.
Saroo stood for a while on the platform, awash in memories. Then he walked down busy streets, past spots he had charted on his mental map, past places he had pictured in his dreams. Eventually he found himself in front of a tiny mud hut with a tin roof.
A woman emerged from the house. “Do you need help?” she asked. Saroo pulled out a photograph his adoptive parents had taken of him when he was a boy. “Do you know where my family is?” he asked.
Although his family no longer lived there, a neighbour led him to another house not far away. Three women wearing colourful saris stood outside. The one in the middle was older than the others. Without saying anything, the woman stepped forward. It was his mother, Kamala. She hugged Saroo, took him by the hand and welcomed him home.
“How do you know this is your son?” some of the neighbours asked her. In reply, she simply pointed to the scar on Saroo’s forehead, proof of his encounter with wild dogs all those years ago.
News spread of the lost son who had come home. Soon other members of the family gathered at the house, eager to reconnect with Saroo. One person was absent, though. “Where is Guddu?” Saroo asked.
Kamala told the story of the day Saroo had disappeared. Guddu hadn’t come home either, it turned out. His body was later discovered on the train tracks. For Kamala, it was a double blow. One son was dead; the other missing. Her heart was broken, and life was never quite the same afterward.
For Saroo, the journey he’d started with Google Earth was complete. Although Tasmania was now his home, he had roots in India, too. The family of his youth was there; the gaps in his past were filled. Before he flew back to Tasmania, Saroo swore a solemn promise. He would keep the ties in Khandwa alive, he told his mother, no matter how far away he lived.
OVERCOMING THE IMPOSSIBLE
April 1, 2009 / Oxford, England
When a teen in Maryland, US, received a message that an English boy she had befriended on Facebook was planning on killing himself, she told her mother. Little was known about the boy — just his last name and the school he attended in Oxford — but the girl’s mother notified Maryland Police. From there the message passed to the White House, then to the British Embassy in Washington, then to the Metropolitan Police in London and finally to Thames Valley Police who patrolled the district where the school was located, 5000 kilometres away from Maryland.
After searching on Google and checking voting lists for a match to the boy’s last name, the local police narrowed their list of potential addresses to eight locations in Oxford. At one home after the other they knocked on doors, asking residents if a teen in trouble lived there. At the third address, police found the teen unconscious in his upstairs bedroom, suffering from a drug overdose. His parents, downstairs at the time, were unaware of the problem. The boy was rushed to hospital, where he made a full recovery.
From the time the teen had posted his Facebook comment to the moment he was discovered, only two-and-a-half hours had passed. “It was a race against time,” Sergeant Paul Sexton, Acting Inspector for Oxford that night, said. “We didn’t know what we were going to find. He could have been dead. I was so happy when I heard he had been found safe.”
15.
126 DAYS IN HELL
With their eyes trained on the street, the rebels didn’t notice the rescue plan unfolding below their feet.
Just before the explosion, Canadian Ambassador Anthony Vincent had been chatting with other diplomats. His wife, Lucie, was outside on the garden patio. It was December 17, 1996, Japanese Emperor Akihito’s birthday, a reason to celebrate. At the Japanese ambassador’s residence in Lima, Peru, waiters served sushi and opened champagne bottles as the Vincents and five hundred other guests mingled, their cares mostly forgotten.
At 8:20 p.m. a powerful blast rattled glasses and ended conversations. Seconds later fourteen armed rebels dressed all in black crashed the party. Some entered through a hole blown through the garden wall. Others disguised as waiters pulled out automatic weapons hidden in large flower arrangements.
“This is the Tupac Amaru Revolutionary Movement,” one of them announced. “Obey, and nothing will happen to you.”
“We’ll shoot you if you move or say anything.”
Warning shots were fired into the air, followed by shouts and orders. “Don’t look at us. Down on the ground. We’ll shoot you if you move or say anything.” Ambassador Vincent and his wife obeyed. So did other terrified guests.
Outside, police reacted swiftly. They lobbed tear gas canisters into the compound and fired bullets. The rebels pulled on gas masks they had brought and fired back. After forty minutes one of the rebels forced a megaphone into the Japanese ambassador’s hand.
“Get up,” he ordered.
Repeating the words dictated by the rebel, the ambassador called out to police: “Please respect the integrity of my guests and stop shooting. You’re going to kill them.”
The shooting stopped. The rebels herded hostages, hands above their heads, into the mansion. “Sit on the floor,” they ordered. “Be quiet. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Doors were closed, windows sealed and curtains drawn. Stationing themselves around the mansion, the rebels held the hostages at gunpoint.
The rebels’ motives soon became clear. Led by Nestor Cerpa, they demanded the release of 450 Tupac Maru prisoners in exchange for the hostages’ lives. The rebels had been active in Peru for years. Wanting to bring down the Peruvian government and establish a communist-style one in its place, the Tupac Maru had launched bloody attacks — bombings, hijackings, kidnappings, slayings of key officials. In response, the government, led by President Alberto Fujimori, had outlawed the group, hunted down supporters and jailed thousands of suspected Tupac Maru sympathizers.
The rebels who had stormed the residence that evening would do anything for Nestor Cerpa, even die if necessary.
* * *
Around midnight, the rebels released some of the older hostages and all of the women, including Lucie Vincent. Hours later they released a few others. Ambassador Vincent was in this group, released early because he volunteered to act as a negotiator for the rebels.
In the days that followed, other hostages were released. Just before Christmas, in an act of goodwill, Cerpa freed 225 more. Finally just 72 hostages remained. One was President Fujimori’s brother Pedro. To Cerpa and his followers these were the most important hostages — dignitaries with influence who provided the greatest bargaining power.
To oversee discussions and mediate terms, President Fujimori appointed a commission of “guarantors.” Ambassador Vincent was one, chosen because he was trusted by rebels and government alike. As the standoff dragged on, the ambassador shuttled in and out of the Japanese residence, relaying news, settling nerves and encouraging a peaceful settlement. When asked why he risked his life each time going back, he answered simply, “Because I gave my word.”
On the surface, President Fujimori seemed willing to negotiate. In secret, however, he had other plans. Weeks before, he had visited an ancient temple at the Chavin de Huantar site in northern Peru. The temple was a maze of interconnecting passageways. In its construction, Fujimori saw promise — a solution to the rebel problem and a way to free the hostages.
Borrowing ideas from the Chavin de Huantar site, President Fujimori ordered the military to construct a series of tunnels linking houses in the embassy neighbourhood with main points under the Japanese residence. Thirty miners from northern Peru were brought to Lima. Working rotating four-hour shifts, the miners chipped and carved the rock, working as quietly as possible as they dug five tunnels — one main and four branches, each about 3 metres below ground.
The miners braced the main tunnel with steel and heavy timber, e
quipped it with electric lights and padded the floor with carpet to deaden sounds. They stocked it with food and weapons. Wide enough for two men to stand side by side, it was also tall enough for an average-sized person to walk upright.
The rebels who had stormed the residence that evening would do anything, even die.
At the same time, on the street in front of the Japanese residence, a carefully orchestrated distraction unfolded. Military vehicles circled the grounds, spinning wheels and grinding gears while helicopters chopped overhead. Soldiers ran through noisy training manoeuvres and a police band played loud marches, pounding drums and blasting horns.
To the rebels inside the residence, the round-the-clock noise was unsettling. It disturbed their sleep and rattled their nerves. It left them wondering, too. Just what was going on out there? With their eyes trained on the street, with the loud noise swallowing other sounds, the rebels didn’t notice the rescue plan unfolding below their feet.
One day in mid-January a surprise package arrived at the Japanese residence. It was a gift for the hostages, a new guitar to replace another one that the rebels had claimed for themselves. Embedded inside was a tiny electronic microphone and battery unit, the perfect listening device.
Using planted video and sound equipment, the military eavesdropped on the rebels and collected key information — what weapons the rebels carried, the patterns of their movements, the location of hostages throughout the house. The devices also allowed them to secretly transmit important messages to the men trapped inside.
Meanwhile in a port city not far from Lima, construction started on a mock-up of the Japanese ambassador’s residence. One hundred and forty commandos, hand-picked from Peru’s navy, army and air force, were sent to the site. They experimented with manoeuvres in the copy-cat mansion — running down fake corridors, bursting through doors, seizing control from the rebels. They rehearsed their moves, knowing that in a real rescue every second counted. By their calculations, fifty per cent of the hostages might be casualties if Operation Chavin de Huantar, as the plan was called, took more than a few minutes.
* * *
Inside the residence, tensions mounted. Most mornings the rebels ran drills, screaming threats at the hostages and holding guns to their heads as they practised repelling attacks. Sometimes the rebels pretended to lob grenades at the captives, increasing fears of huge casualties if ever there was a rescue attempt.
As months wore on, rebels and hostages both grew discouraged. Negotiations stalled. Through it all, Ambassador Vincent and the other guarantors continued their visits, hoping to negotiate peaceful terms.
Using planted video and sound equipment, the military eavesdropped on the rebels.
To ease tensions, some of the rebels played indoor soccer. Other rebels watched or took short naps. The game soon became a daily ritual, a refreshing break in the otherwise dull routine.
Occasionally, when there were breaks in the game and the residence grew quiet, muffled sounds could be heard below the floor. In March, when Ambassador Vincent made one of his frequent visits, Cerpa called him into the dining room.
“Put your ear to the floor,” Cerpa said. “They are digging tunnels, aren’t they?”
Vincent said nothing and hid his surprise. He hadn’t been informed about Operation Chavin de Huantar. As much as he wanted the standoff to end peacefully, Vincent realized that the outcome was largely out of his hands.
* * *
By mid-April the tunnels were finished, the commandos were ready and the military knew the habits of those inside the house. Plastic explosives had been planted in the main tunnel, right under the floor of the residence. With the rebels’ permission, clean clothes were delivered to the hostages. Instead of dark-coloured outfits like those the rebels wore, the hostages dressed in light-coloured clothing. Against the backdrop of dark rebel clothes, the hostages looked like pale ghosts, easily distinguishing them from the Tupac Maru.
Using a hidden two-way radio, the military transmitted a warning to one of the hostages, a Peruvian naval officer. When the commandos were ready, the Peruvian navy anthem would be played outside two days in a row. An assault would follow.
On Monday, April 21, 1997, small groups of commandos disguised as police entered houses surrounding the residence. They descended into the tunnels, traded their police uniforms for camouflage and waited for morning. At sunrise the commandos donned helmets and bulletproof vests. They checked weapons and explosives. They reviewed the plans. Then they waited some more.
Above ground, for the second day in a row, loudspeakers blasted the anthem. We’re coming, the coded message said to the hostages. Take cover.
Through microphones planted around the residence, intelligence officers tracked the rebels’ movements. They listened for familiar sounds — the shuffle of feet, the shouts and cheers of opposing teams. Would the rebels play soccer like they had so many other afternoons?
Just after 3:00 p.m. the Peruvian naval officer issued a report on his secret transmitter. The soccer game was on. All fourteen rebels were either playing the game, watching it or distracted with other duties.
It’s a go, the naval officer was told. Calmly the officer spread the news to the other hostages. Lying flat on the bedroom floors, the men shielded their faces. If the assault took too long or if something went wrong, they would be likely targets.
Around 3:15 p.m. a goal was scored. At the same moment commandos blew a hole in the floor. Tear gas launched through windows filled the rooms with smoke. From the hole, thirty commandos emerged, gas masks over their faces, automatic weapons ready. Twenty more commandos stormed the front door and chased fleeing rebels, aiming to stop them before they reached the hostages on the second floor.
A Peruvian soldier gets ready to storm the residence of the Japanese ambassador.
While helicopters circled, snipers stationed on roofs of neighbouring buildings opened fire. More commandos poured from side tunnels that opened in the backyard. They scaled ladders that had been placed against the rear walls of the residence, blew out a door on the second floor and blasted two holes in the roof. Through billowing black smoke, the commandos led hostages down an outside stairway to safety.
The assault was televised live. After 126 days, it was over in just 20 minutes. All 14 rebels were killed. Two commandos died, one while opening the balcony door to reach the hostages, another as he led them away. Of the 72 hostages, all made it out of the building alive, although one later died of a heart attack.
Peruvian President Alberto Fujimori walks through one of the tunnels two days after the dramatic rescue took place.
Across the country, Peruvians celebrated the success of Operation Chavin de Huantar. To this day, though, the mission is steeped in controversy. Arguments rage that rebels were killed unnecessarily, that some were shot while trying to surrender and that a peaceful settlement might have been possible with more time and effort. Others justify the method, saying it was the only option.
16.
THIS SIDE UP WITH CARE
The wooden box looked ordinary enough. No one suspected there was a man inside.
August 1848. Richmond, Virginia: Three hundred and fifty Black slaves were being led down a street. Men, women and teenagers marched forward, ropes tied around their necks, their arms and hands bound, while young children rode in wagons. Many of the slaves were in tears. Sold to a new owner in North Carolina, they knew they would probably never see their families again …
Henry Brown, himself a slave who belonged to a different owner, stood on the street watching as his three children and his wife, Nancy, who was pregnant with their fourth child, were sold away. There was no chance for him to say goodbye, no opportunity to hug his children one last time.
That heartbreaking moment, the sight of his family being led away while he stood powerless to prevent it, stayed with Brown. I cannot express, in language, what were my feelings on this occasion, he would write later.
At slave auctions it was common f
or people to be sold away from their families.
From that point on, Brown was a changed person. He vowed that whatever it took, he would find a way to escape slavery and become a free man.
The next year he contacted James Anthony Smith, a free Black man and friend. When Brown asked for his support, Smith put him in touch with a White storekeeper named Samuel Alexander Smith, a man who had helped other slaves gain their freedom.
“I told him I had a little money,” Brown said, “and if he would assist me I would pay him for so doing.”
It was a risky step for both men. If Brown was caught escaping, the penalties could be severe — punishment for himself, but also for the men who were helping him. Even so, they struck a deal and settled upon a price. For $86 — half of the money Brown had managed to save — Samuel Smith agreed to help him escape.
The men discussed escape plans that had been used before. None of them suited Brown or his situation. Then one day a solution appeared. “I was at work,” he later explained, “when the idea suddenly flashed across my mind of shutting myself up in a box and getting myself conveyed as dry goods to a free state.”
The idea was deceptively simple. Construct a large wooden box. Hide inside. Ship the box to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where slavery was outlawed. If he survived the trip, when the box was opened he would be a free man.
Samuel Smith contacted James Miller McKim, a leader of the Philadelphia Vigilance Committee, an anti-slavery group. Would he accept shipment of such a box when it arrived? Assured that he would, Brown designed a wooden box for the journey. It was 0.6 metres wide, 1 metre long and 0.8 metres deep. A bladder of water was tucked inside, along with a few biscuits. To provide air, three holes were drilled through the wood.
On March 23, 1849, Henry Brown squeezed his ample frame into the crate. He was 1.75-metres tall and weighed close to 90 kilograms. To fit, he folded his body and wedged it inside the box with his face pressed against the ventilation holes. The two Smiths nailed the box shut and looped five hickory hoops around to make sure it stayed sealed. Stamped on the box was the message: This side up with care.
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