As the questions continued, I stole glances at the others in the room. Rafiq and Farzad both seemed to be listening intently. Haqqani was actually smiling, apparently enjoying our conversation. It was nothing like his earlier demeanor.
Ahmed sat behind Wallakah and to his left. His expression was neutral; I couldn’t tell if he cared about our conversation or not. To Wallakah’s left, almost against the far wall, was Hopeless. For an instant my eyes caught his, and I realized he could not have been more indifferent. He was always fiddling with something—his shoes or his prayer beads. This time it was his Kalashnikov, and it was pointed at me. I found myself praying that the gun would not go off while he cleaned it. I would rather be taken out in the wild and shot intentionally than be killed by a misfire while talking casually in this shelter.
“Where do your cousins work?” Wallakah asked me. “Why do they live there?” I tried to explain my extended family’s whereabouts and motivations. Wallakah’s questions were more evidence to me that the Taliban, like other Afghans, defined themselves first by their families, which included their extended families, and their people group.
“Which of your cousins are you closest to?” Wallakah asked.
“I’m naturally closest to those who live near and that I see most often,” I said. “But we try to all get together at least once or twice a year.”
As I answered this question, I noticed Ahmed tearing up. I didn’t understand why but didn’t want to interrupt the conversation with Wallakah to ask. For all I knew, it was just dust bothering his eyes. Later, however, Rafiq told me that Ahmed had been complaining to the other insurgents. “I didn’t want to be part of a kidnapping,” Ahmed told them. “I thought we were going to recover money that was owed to you. You lied to me.” Apparently my sharing about my family triggered more regret and a tearful reaction.
It was shortly after I observed this change in Ahmed that Hopeless gave me a dark look, then spat out a few words in the direction of Wallakah and Haqqani. They ignored him.
To my surprise, Farzad then put his finger to his lips and briefly spoke to Hopeless in a calm, even dignified manner. Whatever he said, Hopeless took it without comment or retaliation.
Months later I learned what was actually said during this exchange.
Hopeless: “Why are you talking to this donkey’s son? Just give me the word and I’ll end it all.”
Farzad: “Shh. We are not going to be talking about such things.”
When I found out what Hopeless had said, I was glad Rafiq chose not to translate at the time.
A few minutes after Hopeless expressed his desire to put an end to the “donkey’s son,” Haqqani provided the explanation for Hopeless’s attitude. He gestured at Hopeless and said, “He has a mission. He’s been assigned to take your truck and perform a suicide bombing in Kabul next week.”
No wonder Hopeless looked so hopeless! His anger and emotional distance now made perfect sense.
I’d heard stories that in some madrassas, students were taught that a glorious eternity was in store for them if they gave their lives to kill “infidels.” Paradise was a place where blue skies and virgin girls awaited suicide attackers.
Based on the behavior of Hopeless, however, I didn’t think he truly believed it. He and others like him tried to act in a way they thought would please God, yet they had no joy or hope over it. It seemed they had only uncertainty in their minds and spirits.
I actually felt sorry for him.
Wallakah still paid no attention to Hopeless and continued his questioning. After more than an hour of queries about my family, our conversation took an abrupt and more personal turn.
“If I put a gun in your hand, would you find it easy to kill someone?” he asked.
I was startled by the question, but my answer was blunt. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I could not bring myself to hurt someone that way. I am trained as a doctor to save people’s lives. Even if I was not a doctor, my faith and personality would not allow me to do this.”
It was Wallakah’s turn to be blunt. “I have killed many people,” he said. “This is all I’ve done in my life—kill people.” I noticed that there was no pride in his words. Then this apparently ruthless murderer surprised me with the depth of his thinking. He compared and analyzed our lives.
“You do these humanitarian projects because of what your father and your family taught you when you were growing up,” he said. “The reason I do what I do is because it is what my father showed me. He taught me everything that I know. This is all I watched my father do until I was five years old—kill people. Then he was arrested, and I joined the Taliban. My father is thirty-four years old and has been in Pul-e-Charkhi prison in Kabul for the last fourteen years.”
Sadness washed over Wallakah’s face when he spoke about his father. After his words were translated, I interjected a comment of my own.
“You are nineteen years old,” I said. “I am thirty-nine years old. I am old enough to be your father.”
This brought a grin back to Wallakah’s face.
“I am a father myself,” he said. “I have a one-year-old son.” I noticed he did not add that he wanted his son to follow in his father’s footsteps.
I was astonished. Through our conversation, I had connected with this young man, a teenager who looked so much older, a teenager who had personally and violently taken many lives. Despite our divergent backgrounds and my horror at the atrocities he had committed, I could converse with him based on the common threads that linked us as husbands, fathers, and sons . . . as human beings.
During past visits to Afghanistan, I’d wondered more than once what I would say if I ever had the chance to speak with an active member of the Taliban. Given what I knew of their hatred of foreigners, particularly Americans, I expected it would be nearly impossible to get them to even listen to me, let alone convince them that they had other options for the future and how to view life. I now realized that my own views would also have been an obstacle to any meaningful interaction. I hated how they intimidated their fellow Afghans in rural areas, and I deplored the violence they perpetrated against anyone they perceived as an enemy. I had categorized them as inhumane, wild cannibals who wanted nothing to do with a civilized way of life and would do anything to preserve their way of living and thinking.
Now, in the midst of my heart-to-heart talk with Wallakah, I realized that the picture might be a bit more complicated.
The surprises on this day were not over. Wallakah began asking me detailed questions about life in the United States. Since the Taliban were famous for seeing America as the “Great Satan,” I did not expect this. But perhaps I should not have been surprised. When I met people on my travels around the world, everyone had an opinion about the United States, either positive or critical. Yet people were also always curious. Wallakah, it seemed, was no exception.
After I had answered a few of his questions about the United States, Wallakah stunned me once again: “Could you take me to America?”
I blinked and tried to hide my shock. The idea was outlandish, but I didn’t want to discourage him.
“Yes, that is possible,” I said. “The U.S. has its problems, but it is still the greatest place to live on earth simply because of the fact that you can exercise freedom and liberty as an individual. When people use that freedom and liberty for the overall good of their society, it has an overwhelmingly positive impact on the individual and on society.”
Wallakah shifted his position and leaned even closer to me. I saw the excitement in his eyes.
“What steps would I take to start the process?” he asked.
“You would first need to go to Kabul and apply for a passport and visa.” I tried to imagine a member of the Taliban going to the U.S. Embassy and filling out papers to enter the United States.
“I have never been out of the country,” he said. “I’ve never even been to Kabul. What would I do if I came to America? Could I start my life over again? Could I further my
education there?”
“Yes, there are many educational opportunities,” I said. “You could train for a new career and make a new start.”
Wallakah’s grin grew even larger. I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. I wondered if he’d ever had the opportunity to sit down with someone and talk about other options for his life.
I was amazed. It was as if Wallakah was saying openly what all of these insurgents must have sensed in their hearts, though they wouldn’t admit it—that there was something more to life than what they were currently pursuing and experiencing.
I was struck by the irony of our circumstances. These men had their guns pointed at me and had complete control of the situation, yet they were operating under a heavy blanket of fear. They feared change—they wanted to hold tightly to the only way of life they knew. They feared the outsiders that they believed came to pollute and dilute their society and its rich culture and traditions. They feared a god that they believed waited to punish them the moment they stepped out of line.
At the same time, I was the one sitting and staring at the barrels of loaded Kalashnikovs, the one knowing that my life could end at any moment. Yet I was also the one who lived with hope. I had gained hope from trying to bring blessings to others out of the blessings I’d received. I had hope from teaching Afghans about basic health education and seeing how that bettered their lives. I had hope that sprang from getting out of my comfort zone and following my dream of meeting the needs of the downtrodden and forgotten. I had hope in even the worst circumstances because I believed in a God who loved me unconditionally.
Yet in his fear one of these terrorists also dared to hope—for a chance to start over, a chance to become more than a killing machine.
And perhaps he was not alone, for Haqqani now entered the conversation. “Would you keep in touch with us,” he asked, “after you are released and you rejoin your family in the U.S.?”
He was talking about my release? This was a good sign!
“I would love to keep in touch with both of you,” I said, nodding to Wallakah and Haqqani. I wanted to reciprocate further, so I picked up my notebook and started to write down my cell phone number. It was almost as if we were at a coffee shop back home, exchanging business cards. I half-expected these two to pull out a piece of paper and write down their own contact information, though in the next instant I remembered that they were constantly changing phones and SIM cards to avoid being tracked. Of course they didn’t have a regular phone number. Then I wondered if my own number would be passed into the hands of other insurgents and further complicate my chances for release. I stopped writing.
Wallakah was still smiling. “I would very much like to keep in contact with you,” he said. Haqqani voiced his agreement.
We had been talking for nearly three hours. Wallakah finally and graciously drew our conversation to a close: “Thank you so much for being very open in answering all my questions. You did not deter from any of them and answered all of them with much patience and kindness. I want to thank you so much for doing this.”
I also expressed my thanks and then leaned back against the wall of the shelter, feeling a new wave of exhaustion cascading over me. Despite my fatigue, I was flooded with thoughts. How easy it was to live with assumptions, prejudice, and hatred toward others and cut off any chance for relationship. To move forward required effort, commitment, a thirst for human connection. It demanded respect and even love for one another.
In Wallakah, a man most people would regard as a terrorist, I had seen respect and a thirst for connection. Earlier in the day I wondered how, or if, I would ever relate to my kidnappers so that they saw me not as an enemy or resource to trade for cash but as a fellow human being. Yet it was one of them who initiated the link. All we had to do was talk about the basic things that all people relate to: family, relationships, aspirations, love, hope. It was enough to cut through our differences in culture and worldview.
I wondered what impression I’d left on these stalwarts of mujahideen and Taliban tradition. Nearly everything they knew of Western civilization probably came from movies and the media and led them to categorize all foreigners as infidels. I hoped our interaction would lead them to rethink their ideology.
Moments later I had surprising and satisfying evidence that my words and actions had made an impression. Wallakah and Haqqani had continued to talk. I had no idea what they were saying, of course, but Rafiq had been listening. Now my friend leaned toward me and whispered, “Wallakah just said, ‘This guy is our captive, and yet he seems so much at peace. He is a better Muslim than we are.’ ”
I could hardly believe my ears.
I’d wondered how my kidnappers might be “reading” me. Now I had an inkling that they had indeed observed something different about me and were at least thinking about what that meant.
My captors were not the only ones who were rethinking long-held views. Our conversation had also caused me to reevaluate my perspective. How could I pass judgment on Wallakah for how he’d turned out? He had experienced nothing but chaos and conflict his entire life. From the beginning, killing was modeled as a lifestyle. I thought of my father, who had shown me a different way to live by dedicating his life to helping others. In my mind I commended Wallakah’s willingness to open his eyes. Even as he sensed the futility of his current existence, he grasped at something more.
As I drifted off to sleep, my spirit remained excited by Wallakah’s curiosity and dreams.
I may die soon, even today, but if so I think I will die satisfied. My job here is done. I have connected with a member of the Taliban and given us both much to think about—that no matter our circumstances we still have choices in life, that despite our perceived differences we both are human beings with much more in common than we realize.
CHAPTER TEN
CONNECTIONS
3:45 P.M., THURSDAY
THE ATMOSPHERE IN OUR LITTLE CAMP HAD CERTAINLY changed after the long conversation with Wallakah. When I woke from a thirty-minute nap—not nearly enough sleep to counter the exhaustion that was overtaking me—our captors seemed almost cheerful.
It was time for another round of tea. Nothing better represented the culture and tradition of Afghanistan than the sharing of green tea. As I had already learned during my previous visits to the country, the purpose of serving tea was about more than a break or quick refreshment. It was a social event.
Tea leaves from Pakistan were driven daily into Afghanistan by the truckload. When someone decided it was time for tea, which generally happened several times a day, a handful of tea plants and leaves were thrown into a kettle of steaming water. Before the leaves were fully soaked, someone poured some of this mild tea into a glass (cups were rarely seen in Afghanistan’s rural areas). This wasn’t for drinking. Instead, this same hot water was poured from one glass to another to “wash” all the glasses. When this process was complete and the tea was ready, the host served everyone. More often than not, each serving included a generous portion of sugar. Afghans seemed to like a lot of sugar in their tea—a fifth of a glass or more.
It was rare for anyone to stop after just one serving. The focus was not on the tea but on the conversation it stimulated. Chores and other responsibilities seemed to be forgotten as those present shared what was on their minds and spent time developing relationships. This could easily go on for more than an hour.
Our Taliban “hosts” were no exception to this custom. Once we’d all gathered in a circle and had filled glasses in hand, the conversation flowed. When even Hopeless joined in the animated discussion, I wondered what topic could have attracted his interest.
Rafiq filled me in—they were discussing our abduction and analyzing how well they’d performed. Then Haqqani asked Rafiq, “What did you think of the capture? We accomplished it quickly, yes?”
“Yes, it happened very quickly,” Rafiq said. “As the driver, I had very little time to react. You did well.”
All four Taliban seemed
pleased with this comment. A few of them chuckled. Even Rafiq and Farzad laughed.
I didn’t laugh. I was irritated that our captors were kidnapping people, then talking about their techniques as if they were analyzing their swings on the tennis court. I was even a bit miffed that Rafiq and Farzad were encouraging them. I was glad no one asked me for my opinion of the abduction.
At the same time, I understood and admired what Rafiq, in particular, was doing. During the last two days, he had consistently engaged our captors in conversation, asking simple questions and sometimes offering compliments. It helped reduce the tension and created more of a team environment instead of “us versus them.”
Then our captors began asking me questions, but they had nothing to do with abductions. Instead, the topic was Indian movies. I suppose it was natural, given my background and the historically positive relationship between Afghanistan and India, but even so it surprised me.
“Have you seen any actors—Dilip Kumar, Amitabh Bachchan, Shahrukh Khan, Amir Khan, Salman Khan, Saif Ali Khan?” Haqqani asked.
I shook my head and explained I’d seen only a few South Indian movie stars, ones they were unlikely to know.
I thought they might also talk about Hollywood stars, but the focus remained on Indian actors. Afghans have long enjoyed the cinematic efforts of their neighbors in India. Even after the Taliban takeover, copies of these movies continued to make their way into the country via the black market. I found it ironic that I was discussing movies with these guys even though the Taliban considered them illegal.
“You’re a handsome guy—you should be acting in movies yourself,” Wallakah said.
“Thank you,” I replied. I appreciated the compliment but couldn’t help feeling strange about it.
We certainly were developing a sense of camaraderie. The conversation felt like many others I’d had over tea with villagers during previous trips. The only difference at this moment was the sight of Hopeless, who continued to frown under his long beard and clean his Kalashnikov as we talked. At least I now understood why he was so morose.
Kidnapped by the Taliban: A Story of Terror, Hope, and Rescue by SEAL Team Six Page 8
