A Rope and a Prayer

by David Rohde

  When we return, the head of Clayton is very confident that AISC is a good choice. “They bring a different set of assets and skills to the table,” he says archly. “We’ve checked out their bona fides,” he adds. “They are the real deal. We feel comfortable working with them.”

  On the basis of this recommendation, we set aside our fears and decide to hire AISC. They will send a negotiator to Kabul to represent our family and to work alongside a kidnap expert from Clayton. We will come to refer to this duo as Team Kabul. We will be in regular contact with them, along with McCraw, on a daily noon conference call.

  Both teams advise us to keep “the bureau,” or the FBI, out of it. They are useful for some things, but cannot deliver funds, release prisoners, or provide direct negotiations when discussions involve ransom. They are strictly an information-gathering agency.

  I’ve confided in several of David’s closest friends at this point. Each of them offers unwavering emotional support. A few also provide invaluable practical advice. One longtime friend, Samantha Power, suggests that I reach out to Richard Holbrooke, a former official in the Clinton administration who knows my husband and is aware of our situation. Rumor is he will be assuming a diplomatic position in the incoming Obama administration, with a focus on Afghanistan and Pakistan. While our friend admits that Holbrooke is often referred to as the diplomatic equivalent of a “bull in a china shop,” he is also smart, passionate about causes, well respected, and personally moved by our situation.

  As fate would have it, David had introduced me to Holbrooke and his wife, Kati Marton, several months ago at Samantha’s wedding. We sat next to each other at the church service. David respects him, but is a bit embarrassed in his presence because of their history.

  Thirteen years ago, Holbrooke played a key role in negotiating for David’s release from Serbian authorities. During the Dayton peace talks in 1995, which Holbrooke had convened to help end the bitter civil war in Bosnia, ten members of David’s family showed up and threatened to protest on the street outside if the Clinton administration did not pressure the Serbs to free David.

  I call Holbrooke in the evening to ask his advice about what more I can be doing to get assistance from the United States government and to hear his thoughts on our decision to keep David’s case out of the public eye. He responds with a reference to the wedding.

  He reminds me that he orchestrated David’s release in Bosnia. “I put our peace talks on hold for three days to work for the release of your husband, simply because it was the right thing to do,” he says. “What were my parting words to David this past summer—do you remember?” Holbrooke reminds me that when he learned David would be going back to Afghanistan soon after our own wedding, he half jokingly told him, “Don’t get captured again.”

  Holbrooke ruminates as he speaks. You can hear the wheels turning. His speech is deliberate, thoughtful, and slightly muffled. I have to strain to hear him. As a result, he has my undivided attention. He tells me he has been turning this over for quite some time—especially the thought of whether to go public or remain quiet. “Given that we are not dealing with a legitimate government, I think you are right to keep this private. You are dealing with a set of unpredictable, ruthless individuals.

  “I am sure you have Googled the Haqqani family, and if you’ve done your research, you know of the connection to the ISI. So, you might want to think about reaching out to them. Rumor is I may be working with the new administration, but I won’t assume my post until January. I promise to work on this, to make this a priority when I assume my post. Until then, I suggest you stay in close contact with Condi Rice. Have you contacted her? It would be good to check in with the State Department on a regular basis in case anything can be done, any pressure applied on the diplomatic front to keep this on the radar of the Pakistanis.”

  Before we say good-bye, Holbrooke emphasizes that it is a good sign that David has survived the first few weeks. He reassures me David will come home.

  Atiqullah continues to call the Kabul bureau of The New York Times regularly, reiterating his possession of “our three,” as we have come to refer to them. Since the beginning of the case, the FBI has been sending negotiations experts to the Kabul bureau to assist in communications and record these phone calls.

  On November 21, Atiqullah calls with a grim message for Chris Chivers, the reporter who has been fielding the calls: If the demands are not met, they will go public with the case and set a three-day deadline. They will kill Asad first and then Tahir. We know there is no way we can meet their demands but we must keep them talking. Coached by the FBI, Chris pleads with Atiqullah to keep our three alive until we can reach an agreement. We realize that if the kidnappers publicly announce a deadline, they will have to carry it out. In Afghanistan, never losing face is paramount. We anxiously await the next phone call.

  On Thanksgiving eve there has been no word from David’s captors in five days. Heightened security in the wake of a car bomb prevents the FBI from getting to the Kabul bureau in time to take a call from Atiqullah. The FBI experts advise Chris to delay speaking with Atiqullah until they are present. In truth, Chris is poised by the phone.

  By the end of the day, Atiqullah has not called back the Kabul bureau. Apparently the delay has upset him and made him skittish. We have no new information about our three. This reaffirms our decision to hire a private security firm.

  I am completely exhausted, on edge, and angry at the FBI agents in Kabul for scuttling our communications with David’s kidnappers. I pace back and forth in our small galley kitchen, then collapse on the living room sofa. I turn on the television, hoping to take my mind off our situation.

  CNN presents an emergency newscast of an unfolding tragedy. I watch in horror as our honeymoon spots from a weekend in Mumbai—the Taj Hotel, the Oberoi, the harbor—are in chaos and smoke. Mumbai is burning. It is sad to see our recent history in flames and disturbing to see that India has been hit by terrorists.

  Lee and I immediately personalize this horrifying event: How will it affect David? Does the recent silence in his case relate to the bombing? Once again, we question whether to make the kidnapping public. I check in with our various advisers. The FBI votes yes, but cannot provide specifics as to why they take this stance. I disagree. Our private security team advises us to keep it private. Bill Keller, the Times’ executive editor, sends me an e-mail suggesting that we revisit the situation.

  This is the first of many long periods of silence.

  It is also our first holiday as a married couple, and we will spend it apart. My family has rallied to my side in New York. I am thankful for their presence but feel a mix of emotions. I was single for thirty-nine years, and now, confronted with my first married Thanksgiving, I am disappointed that I am still the odd girl out—the only one without a date.

  I have been restless of late. The stress of the situation is starting to have a physical impact. My arms are often numb. It’s disturbing not to be able to reach out to David and help him in a tangible, immediate way. I have gained weight around my middle, which I attribute to the buildup of the stress hormone cortisol, a natural by-product of sustained tension. My chest is wound up. I liken my mental experience to the moment when a jetliner touches down and the engines are at full force but the brakes are engaged. Everything has come to a screeching halt momentarily. Suspended animation. Fear. No sense of what will come next. Not knowing whether we will move forward or spontaneously combust. My entire mode of being is stuck in the moment of not knowing, waiting, having no control over the next moment. Life is simultaneously in intense overdrive and stalled. The only thing to do is to surrender and trust that some greater benevolent force is at work. Many people have told me that this journey will be a marathon, not a sprint.

  My mother, Mary Jane, is still living with me and brings some levity to the situation. One of her volunteer projects in her community back home in Maine is to make “dishware gardens” for shut-ins—patients, the elderly, and the disabled.
As I look around the room, I see she has applied this practice in my own apartment. I notice that several of our spider plants have new companions. She has been cooking up a storm of late and placing the seeds and pits remaining from our meals in planters around the apartment. I am somewhat amused to find an avocado pit beginning to sprout among the leaves of a spider plant. I point this out to her.

  “I thought it would be a positive way to mark time,” she tells me. “It’s good to bring new life into the situation. Let’s see if he’s home before it bears new fruit.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her, and then admit to myself: I officially feel like a shut-in, albeit an emotional one. Thank you very much. Still, I have to smile.

  This is one of the reasons I love my mother—she always maintains a positive outlook and an offbeat sense of humor, and she never lets anything go to waste. Once when I was home from college, after a breakup with a serious boyfriend, I found her on the back step with a carton of expired eggs. “They are wonderful for the soil,” she said, launching one at nearby tree. “It’s good exercise. And, it’s very satisfying when you are feeling frustrated and want to channel your energy in a positive way.”

  She was right—hurling a few eggs through space at a nearby target was incredibly satisfying, especially when faced with the reality that romance had gone rotten.

  There is always a certain wisdom hidden in her somewhat quirky behavior. I have no doubt there is a koan or parable embedded in these actions somehow. She can nurture anything, including my now improving mood. On the windowsill above the would-be avocado plant, she has created a miniature “zen garden” that consists of a glass vase, pebbles, and a plant. It sounds completely tacky, but it is actually quite beautiful to behold. Several friends inquire about it during their visits. They think it is exquisite. I derive great joy in revealing the punch line to these Manhattan sophisticates: That beautiful piece of zen art is the remains of a sweet potato.

  I receive a call from Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice. As Holbrooke suggested, I have been trying to reach out to her in an attempt to have regular contact with the State Department. She is aware of David’s case and has agreed to speak with me. I’ve spent most of the morning preparing a list of questions. She is warm and forthcoming. I ask if the captors or anyone else connected with David’s case is making political demands that perhaps we are not aware of. She denies this. No demands have been made to our government, she says. She advises us to keep the situation quiet. She reiterates what others have said: that we are not dealing with a legitimate government, and that the group holding David is immune to moral pressure.

  I pray that David, Tahir, and Asad will have the strength to endure this uncertain period and find peace of mind. I make the same request for me and all our families. I was raised Catholic, so my go-to device for all situations beyond my control is prayer. I try to view this through a larger lens: Why is this happening? What am I meant to learn from this situation? Patience. Surrender. These things spring to mind. Patience is my least favorite virtue, but I am certain this is the lesson I am meant to master through this harrowing test. And I am torn between feeling completely responsible for our three and realizing I may ultimately have no control over the outcome of this situation. I pray for the strength to not give up and, simultaneously, the ability to surrender. My prayer does not take a traditional or eloquent form of incantation. I do not have the strength for this. I merely express the words, “Help me, help us.” These seem the most fitting and easiest to access.

  Yet at the same time, I am having great difficulty acknowledging my own vulnerability. It must be a trick of the mind, a survival tactic. My thoughts wander to David. Is he being held with other people, or are they keeping him in a hole somewhere, underground? Does he know what day it is, how much time has passed? Has he found his own way to cope? I know it is futile to try to imagine his circumstances. Speculation only leads to a downward spiral. I am confident he will know what to say and do to keep himself and the others alive as long as possible. I worry more about his peace of mind. What is he doing to ease his own boredom and lack of control?

  David’s religion is the pursuit of the truth. An agnostic with a Unitarian-Episcopalian upbringing, he does not hold to one religious ideal or path. His reporting experience covering atrocities related to religious bigotry have made him skeptical of organized religion. With this in mind, I hope he is able to find some sort of comfort during this time—some personal expression of faith and a belief that some higher force will look out for him.

  SPEAK GOOD WORDS TO AN ENEMY

  David, Late November-Late December 2008

  Atiqullah promised to return in seven to ten days. Yet ten days pass and he does not appear. Instead, in a worrying sign, Badruddin Haqqani now seems to be in charge. A dozen members of his family have been killed by American drone strikes. He himself is a primary American target.

  Badruddin moves us to a far smaller, dirtier house five minutes away by car. Transported at night, again with a scarf placed over my face, I have no idea where our new home lies in Miran Shah. We are confined to two small rooms in the back of a large traditional Pashtun family compound with mud-brick walls. An old man and a young boy bring us meals three times a day, often with meat that appears several days old. We sleep on dust-covered mattresses.

  One room has posters on the walls. One shows a Swiss chalet in the snow-covered Alps, a setting often used in Indian movies. Another features a majestic Ottoman mosque in Istanbul, a city I have visited with Kristen. The other room holds sleeping bags and camping equipment apparently used by Taliban fighters when they enter Afghanistan. A large radio antenna perched on a nearby rooftop is part of a seemingly sophisticated Taliban communications system in Miran Shah.

  We are allowed to walk in a small courtyard that is the width of a city sidewalk. Direct sunlight reaches it for a few hours each morning. Throughout the day, we hear children playing and laughing on the other side of the walls but never see them.

  Akbar—the seemingly kind guard—departs. Qari—the unstable guard who nearly shot Tahir—arrives with a new Taliban fighter in his early twenties named Mansoor, who speaks broken English.

  During our first night here, the Taliban commander who owns the house introduces himself to us. At first, he is polite and respectful. He promises to update us every three days on negotiations for our release. As the conversation continues, though, my optimism fades.

  He proclaims that he was held in American detention and I am receiving vastly better treatment than he endured. Then he complains that the Taliban released the group of Korean missionaries they kidnapped in 2007 far too quickly. I had covered that kidnapping. The Taliban first demanded that the Afghan government free twenty-three Taliban prisoners in exchange for twenty-three Koreans. President Karzai flatly refused, citing the blistering domestic criticism he came under for releasing five Taliban prisoners for the Italian journalist four months earlier. In response, the Taliban executed two male Korean missionaries.

  The Korean government then carried out direct negotiations with the kidnappers, who released the remaining twenty-one hostages after six weeks in captivity. The Taliban triumphantly announced they had been paid a ransom of roughly $20 million. Afghan officials said the actual number was closer to $1 million. American and NATO special forces units later hunted down and killed the Taliban leaders involved in the kidnapping. The commander tells me the Taliban mishandled the case. If they had held the Koreans longer, he believes, the Taliban could have forced the world to accept them as Afghanistan’s legitimate government.

  “The elders should have listened to me,” he says. “I could have gotten the Emirate recognized.”

  I think to myself that we are in a giant insane asylum. Next, he asks me if I support the American government. I respond that I am an independent journalist and try to explain that American government and military officials frequently do not like journalists and are often angered by our stories.

  “Who did you vote for
in the presidential election?” he asks. Sensing a trap, I tell him that I did not vote in the American election because I was in Afghanistan at the time. In truth, I voted by absentee ballot. He says that if I had voted in the election it would mean that I am personally responsible for the actions of the American government, including drone strikes carried out in the tribal areas. He promises to give us an update on the negotiations in three days and leaves. We will not see the commander again for months.

  In our first days in the new house, I try to engage Mansoor in more in-depth conversations. Mansoor is short—roughly five foot six inches tall—but stocky and strong. He has dark hair, a thin beard, and a boyish face. He and Qari occasionally wrestle each other to pass the time. Mansoor wins every time.

  Our talks do not go well. During one, Mansoor complains that when he got married in Afghanistan, American warplanes circled over the large crowd that formed in his village in a pro-Taliban part of Afghanistan. His family was terrified that the group would be seen as Taliban fighters and bombed. During another, Mansoor agrees with me that he will teach me Pashto and I will teach him English. He buys me a notebook in one of his trips to the local market. For a few days, we give each other brief lessons. Then we both lose interest. Mansoor and I fail to connect on a fundamental level. What interests me—the outside world and my wife and family—does not interest him. What interests Mansoor—religion and jihad—does not interest me.

  Qari increasingly unnerves me. He spends hours each day memorizing verses in an electronic Koran. Seated on his knees, he holds the small device—which looks like a digital camera—in his hands. As a computerized voice repeats verses in Arabic, he rhythmically recites them. Rocking back and forth, he seems to be in a trance. After each session, he gently kisses the electronic device, recites a blessing, and wraps it in a small cloth. He then carefully places it on a shelf to ensure it does not make contact with the ground. Qari is polite to me but we rarely speak. I fear provoking him and have no interest in trying to understand him. He has no interest in trying to understand me.