The temperature in the mountains had dropped into what felt like the midtwenties. Puffs of white floated up from my mouth with each breath. Even so, I wasn’t particularly cold. Each of us, captives and kidnappers, wore the traditional salwar kameez, which by itself wouldn’t be much protection in this weather. But I also had long johns on my legs and a black insulated jacket with a hood.
If only my legs could hold up. How long would this go on? How long would it be before Rafiq or I collapsed from exhaustion?
Another hour passed, then most of another. It must have been close to midnight when the line ahead of me suddenly halted. Rafiq, Farzad, and I sat down immediately, along with Ahmed. Hopeless, meanwhile, walked forward another thirty feet to a ledge that overlooked a valley below.
“Wallakah!” he cried. Haqqani, near me, joined in with a shout of his own. Exhausted, I closed my eyes.
Crack!
After hours of near silence the gunshot seemed deafening. Startled, I looked up at Hopeless standing on the ledge with his Kalashnikov raised in the air.
Crack!
“Wallakah!”
The shots and shouts of that one word by Hopeless and Haqqani went on for ten minutes. Clearly they were trying to signal someone. Was it one person? A gang of Taliban? An entire village? What was the plan?
Both the shouts of the Taliban and my questions went unanswered. But I was grateful for the chance to rest my weary legs. I was too tired to worry about what would happen next.
All too soon, our captors gave up on making contact with anyone. The long hike continued. We’d now been walking for nearly nine hours.
Under different circumstances the sight of soft, white moonlight blanketing these rolling hills would have conveyed a sense of serenity. My legs, however, felt anything but serene. The sensation was closer to a blaze that had ignited in the bottom of my feet and was steadily spreading to the rest of my body. I desperately yearned for a place to rest for the night.
Still, I’d survived this long. I was grateful for that.
We climbed a slope, one steeper than most we’d encountered. As I neared the crest, I noticed a one-story home on the next hill. Like the others we’d seen that night, it was dark and lifeless, apparently abandoned. I did not want to be disappointed again and refused to hope that this was our destination. My instinct was correct. We passed it by.
Fifteen minutes later, however, my self-discipline was finally rewarded. As I followed our line up a gentle rise, I saw that the landscape ahead flattened out. About a hundred yards away and twenty yards to the left sat another lonely shack. I again steeled myself against the promise of rest that this vision offered.
A moment later my mental restraint was forgotten. Ahmed, at the front of the line, veered left toward the shelter. Was this our objective? What would happen now? Was it at last time to sleep? A surprising optimism surged through me. I could not believe that these men had forced me to walk all this way only to execute me. Perhaps I would see a new day after all.
I wondered what time it was. I never wore a watch and no longer had my cell phone. As we lined up to step inside, I stole a glance at Ahmed’s arm. There was just enough moonlight for me to make out the position of the hands on his wristwatch: 12:30. Then we entered.
The shack was a room about eight by twelve feet, made of stones and mud. It had an open doorway and an open window directly across from the entrance. On the left wall, another aperture led to a smaller anteroom. The roof was a thick mass of intertwined sticks and twigs that rose in the middle about ten feet above the ground. From the heavy layer of dust on the dirt floor, I gathered that no one had been here for some time.
For a few moments I stood near the doorway to the smaller chamber. Then I sat down, hoping for a chance to sleep. Rafiq and Farzad did the same. A slight wind blew through the open door and window. It didn’t take long for the heat from the hike to dissipate. This was going to be a cold night.
Hopeless and Ahmed left the shack and returned a few minutes later with armfuls of twigs and leaves. They laid these in the center of the room and quickly started an indoor campfire. From my spot just a few feet away, I caught the eyes of Hopeless and looked closely for a sign of compassion or empathy. There was none. I diverted my gaze to the fire.
When the heat grew too intense, I scooted back a few feet, pulled the hood of my jacket over my head, and leaned my head against the wall. It was almost comfortable. Despite the fact that I was a hostage, I was so exhausted I was sure I’d soon be snoozing.
Haqqani had other ideas, however. With quick gestures he emphatically waved me back toward the fire. The heat was scorching, but I did not want to upset my kidnappers, so I reluctantly rejoined the group. The three Taliban kept up a steady conversation among themselves. I stole a glance at Rafiq and Farzad for a clue to what was being said, but their tense expressions revealed little.
Then the tone of the conversation suddenly grew more strident. Haqqani looked at me and made slashing gestures across his throat. At this point no translation was necessary. They were discussing ways to end the lives of their hostages.
We sat in front of the fire for about an hour. Whenever the flames began to subside, Hopeless and Ahmed either went outside to gather more fuel or pulled off a few twigs from the roof to bring the fire back to life. Haqqani, meanwhile, produced a smartphone and listened to music from a radio station. Then he began flipping through different stations—some with music, others with conversation I couldn’t understand.
All of a sudden Haqqani thrust his phone toward Rafiq, Farzad, and me. A video playing on the small screen depicted soldiers in camouflage NATO uniforms hitting and kicking Afghan men. This went on for several seconds. Then the video showed a man speaking in Arabic, which I later learned involved his commentary on the cruelty of NATO forces and the innocence of the people they killed.
There was more—Taliban leaders making speeches and recordings of multiple funerals for fallen Taliban fighters. In these scenes the camera showed women in black veils, wailing and bending over to kiss the face of a corpse in a casket. The most disturbing and gruesome clip portrayed an Afghan man, half dressed and half dead, who’d been tied up with a rope and attached to the back of a military truck. As the truck sped ahead, the man was dragged along behind it, his body jerking and bouncing in the dusty street.
Of course I felt compassion for the people depicted in these scenes. I was not so naïve as to believe that NATO forces were without fault or that they always treated their prisoners well. At the same time, I realized that these images were designed to manipulate emotions—in this case, ours. It felt like propaganda. Later I even wondered if some of the scenes might have been staged.
At the time, though, I felt Haqqani was signaling what was about to happen to us. It was a kind of psychological torture with the physical torture to follow.
Haqqani had a collection of these video clips on his phone, none longer than a minute in length. When we’d cycled through them all, they started again, playing in an endless loop. Judging by the dark intensity in Haqqani’s eyes, it was clear there would be no rest on this night. We were expected to sit and watch as he held the phone up, the distressing images flickering a few inches from our faces.
This went on for an hour, then another. Ahmed eventually closed his eyes and fell asleep.
I desperately wanted the videos to stop. If Haqqani was trying to break us down emotionally, it was working, at least on me. I almost wished he’d move on to the physical torture just so I wouldn’t have to endure the continuing displays of suffering and torment. More than once I tried to look away, but each time Haqqani’s glare was enough to indicate this wasn’t an option.
Finally, about three grueling hours after the videos started, Haqqani abruptly puts down the phone.
“You see how your people treat us?” he says to me through Rafiq’s translation, anger in his voice. “We’re not treating you this way, are we? We don’t treat people like that.”
“You guys
have been good,” I say. “Thank you. You’ve been treating me well.”
My answer isn’t enough to calm down Haqqani. Soon he launches into an animated speech as he stares at me. Rafiq tries to translate, but Haqqani doesn’t wait for his words to be communicated. He keeps talking, almost shouting.
“Are you going to follow our demands? How quickly are you going to follow them?” are two phrases Rafiq is able to pass on. Then, a few minutes later, comes the threat that was never far from my mind: “We’re going to kill you.”
It seems to me that Haqqani is in tough-guy mode, that he is deliberately trying to intimidate and provoke me. And to some degree he is succeeding—certainly my thoughts and emotions are in turmoil. But I don’t want this Taliban leader to know it. I’ve already determined that I do not want to react to my kidnappers with fear or with hatred. I don’t want to play their game. So I nod as Haqqani rants, but otherwise I say and show him nothing.
Even so, his words have left their mark. The yo-yo of my emotions have hit another trough.
It’s no longer a matter of whether or not they’re going to kill me. It’s just a matter of how and when.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHATEVER THIS IS
2:30 P.M., WEDNESDAY
COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO
DANIEL, MY BOSS, DRUMMED HIS FINGERS ON A TABLETOP. HE was uneasy. If I had known what he was facing, I would not have envied him.
He sat in a windowless room at the headquarters of Compassion International, where Cilicia worked. Joining him at the table were a Compassion vice president and chaplain, as well as Lars, Morning Star’s executive director, and Anne, Daniel’s wife.
I hate to do this, Daniel thought. I hate for Cilicia to hear the news I’m going to bring her. But I have to do it.
At about the same time another staff member at Compassion entered my wife’s second-floor office and asked her to stop what she was doing and come with her. The woman escorted Cilicia to the room where everyone was waiting.
Daniel watched the alarm grow on Cilicia’s face when she entered the room and absorbed who was present. Lord, help me. I want this to be as clean and crisp as I can make it.
“What are you doing here?” Cilicia asked, her eyes wide. Her coworker gently guided Cilicia to an open seat at the table.
Daniel took a deep breath. “Cilicia, I got a call from Kabul this morning. Dilip, Rafiq, and Farzad were supposed to be at dinner with Roy a few hours ago. They didn’t call in and never showed up. Roy has been trying to reach them by phone for several hours and hasn’t been able to make contact. We don’t know where they are.”
As Daniel and Lars had agreed before the meeting, Daniel made no mention of the visit and report from Rafiq’s cousin. The last thing they wanted was to further distress Cilicia with what could turn out to be false information.
Cilicia kept her composure. “What does this really mean?” she asked. “What do we do?”
She is so strong, Daniel thought. “Does it mean that they’re just out of cell phone range,” he said, “or that they broke down somewhere, or that they’ve been kidnapped? We don’t know yet. But I can tell you this. Number one, we want this contained. We don’t want you to talk about this with anyone until we find out more. Number two, we’ll give you information as soon as we get it. We want you to know that you and your family will get every bit of the support you need through this.”
Daniel could see Cilicia’s mind working through the scenarios and coming to the awful but most likely conclusion. Finally, the moment caught up with her. Her eyes filled with tears.
He didn’t want to prolong her agony. “That’s pretty much all we have right now,” he said quietly. He stood, as did everyone else, and stepped around the table to give Cilicia a hug.
“We’ll be here with you all the way through this,” he whispered. “Whatever this is.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
DEMANDS
5:45 A.M., THURSDAY, DECEMBER 6
MOUNTAIN RANGE EAST OF KABUL, AFGHANISTAN
THE FIRE INSIDE OUR SHACK WAS PETERING OUT. THE CURRENT leader of our Taliban captors ignored it. Haqqani was still bent on intimidating us. He sat less than three feet away from me. Though he didn’t raise his voice, his eyes communicated an intensity that demanded attention.
“Why are you here? What do you guys do? Where is your NGO working?” Haqqani spit out the questions faster than Rafiq could translate them. He didn’t wait for our answers.
“Here are our demands.”
Here it comes, I thought. We were finally about to learn the objective of our kidnapping.
The answer, not surprisingly, was money. Millions. I had trouble understanding exactly how much, but it was clearly beyond any realistic possibility.
This wasn’t good.
Then Rafiq said they were talking about a prisoner exchange—the three of us for an unknown number of Taliban being held in the notorious Pul-e-Charkhi prison east of Kabul. This also wasn’t good. The prison, constructed in the 1970s, was infamous for the torture and executions of inmates after the 1978 Saur revolution and the war with the Soviets that followed. Though the United States had recently helped expand the prison and transferred people there from the detention facility in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, living conditions for its two thousand or so inmates were still being criticized by human rights groups. The reputation of Pul-e-Charkhi had changed little over the years—those who went in rarely got out.
The mention of a second demand definitely troubled me. Why even bring up two demands? Was it possible that if someone somehow produced money for our release, we would still be sent to prison—or worse?
I didn’t even want to think about that.
Haqqani continued his monologue, glaring at me as he explained that we would soon make a phone call to our NGO office. If we did not make quick progress toward meeting their demands, he said, the Taliban in Pakistan would come and take us. If we did not immediately follow his directions, they would execute us.
“You have three days to deliver the money,” Haqqani said to me. For emphasis, he added another throat-slashing gesture.
My heart sank at this statement. I worked for a small nonprofit, with only five full-time employees in the United States. We simply did not have thousands of dollars, let alone millions, set aside for emergencies. My family was in the same situation.
Afghans who watch American movies and TV shows often have the impression that everyone in our country has servants and drives a sports car. Of course that isn’t true. My family was certainly not wealthy. I didn’t see how they could come up with funds that would even come close to satisfying our captors. And even if they did raise some money, this was Thursday. In Afghanistan, the weekend off-days are Thursday and Friday. Then starting Friday night, banks would begin closing for the weekend in the United States.
These men were not going to get any money in the next three days. There was no chance of satisfying their demands. None.
Perhaps it’s a blessing that even in the midst of the most intense crisis, practical and routine matters will intervene to distract us. That was the case for me, when Haqqani finished with his demands and threats and left us to ponder the potentially dire consequences. As the first hints of dawn’s light filtered through the shack’s open doorway and window, I realized that I desperately needed to go to the bathroom.
I told Rafiq, who secured permission for me to leave the shack. I didn’t know where I was and really had nowhere to go even if I wanted to attempt an escape, but I noticed that Hopeless had picked up his Kalashnikov and followed me out.
I shuddered in the crisp morning chill and looked around. There was no cover, nothing but dirt and air. How am I going to find a little privacy? I wondered. Ah, what privacy? There’s no such thing out here.
I picked out a spot about fifty yards from the shack. The night before, I had seen Hopeless squat somewhere near there to urinate. I didn’t want to offend my captors, so I tried to do the same. I have to admit, though,
that between my long trousers and my unfamiliarity with the practice, I had more than a little trouble.
Despite the seriousness of my predicament, I had to stifle a chuckle. If I do this wrong, I’m going to get shot while peeing. That would be the worst way to go! At least it would be quick. I’d already made up my mind that I preferred to face death straight on, with no delay, rather than endure a lengthy torture.
When I returned to the shack, I learned that it was time to walk again. Soon we were back on the trail, moving deeper into the mountains on the crisp, hazy morning. Was this going to be another marathon hike? I hoped not. But I had greater concerns than the nagging ache in my legs.
As we again followed the rises and dips of a trail that only my captors understood, I found the silence unnerving. Since they were supposedly moving closer to achieving their goal, I expected them to clarify plans among themselves, perhaps even to show a smile or two. But there was no interaction at all, just a grim stillness.
I couldn’t erase the threatening images of both Haqqani and Ahmed looking at me and cutting a hand across their throats. They seemed almost eager to put an end to me. On the other hand, they’d already had ample time and opportunity to kill me, and I was still here. Would this be my last day on earth? I had no answer. There was nothing else to do but keep walking and hoping.
About an hour after we’d started up again, what looked like a two-story, mud-walled building appeared on the horizon. Smoke rose from the chimney. It was easily the largest structure I’d seen since the abduction. As we got closer, I noticed it had no windows. I wondered if it was a warehouse though I couldn’t imagine what might be stored there. Next to it I saw a cement rectangle about fifteen feet wide and thirty-five feet long, its walls three feet high. Inside it was a pool of water.
Kidnapped by the Taliban: A Story of Terror, Hope, and Rescue by SEAL Team Six Page 6
