by David Rohde
I am nearly forty and have just gotten married. I hope to have a family, but other things were more important to me until now. I regret to admit that the clock is now ticking full force. In fact, the alarm bell rings every hour. One subtext to all this uncertainty and waiting is that I wonder if David and I will miss the opportunity to have a family together.
My mother and I are quite different, yet I know no one feels my pain more than her. It’s tough for her to see me in distress. She has been a real trouper, doing her best to conceal her own sadness and fear. This alone is a huge service. I often feel I have no room for anyone else’s emotion. I am constantly barraged with well-meaning but often tearful inquiries about David. Calls from friends and family once a comfort now feel like an added responsibility. I do not know what to tell them. I have hit full saturation. It’s all I can do to keep myself composed, let alone comfort someone else.
At this point, David’s colleagues, other news organizations, the United States government and close relatives are aware of the situation. Yet most of my colleagues, with the exception of the top editors at Cosmopolitan and a few close friends, are still in the dark.
My mother tells me on occasion that she does not quite know what to do to help me. I reassure her that just her presence is enough—the fact that she has kept the apartment in order, reminded me to eat and rest. These things, while so basic, are so easily forgotten in the midst of crisis. She is also quite handy, I have learned, and regularly assigns herself home improvement projects, executing them flawlessly. They involve everything from putting a closet door back on track to repairing floor tiles and managing the plumber when the faucet leaks. As I look around, the apartment seems brighter. She confesses that she has painted the hallway. “When?” I ask, astonished. “While you were at work one day, just some minor touch ups,” she replies. I am exhausted by the thought of her seamless productivity around the home. Exhausted and thankful.
If nothing else, I have a newfound respect for my mother; not just her efficiency, but her strength and her complete willingness to be my silent hero. I appreciate the power her presence has to make everything seem like it will be all right. My father, too, has been a strong support, shuttling my mother between New York and Maine and visiting on the weekends. He has been a selfless advocate, willing to accommodate my mother’s long absences as he knows her presence has been an essential part of my ability to cope with the daily challenges of the kidnapping.
I never wanted to be the spouse stuck at home, waiting for someone to return. For years, I chose a career that would enable me to be the one off having adventures, often at the expense of my personal life. In David, I chose a partner who had taken a similar path. Our desire to reform our solitary lives and build a home life seemed to converge. I recall our first meeting in New York, or the first meeting I remember. I had met David briefly in college, at Brown where we were both students. He had bright red carrot-top hair, was always dressed in khakis and an oxford shirt, and never said a word to me. He swears we met in New York five years or so after graduation when he stopped by my apartment with a mutual friend. I have no memory of it. The same friend suggested we meet in June 2006.
We exchanged e-mails and met at a restaurant in my neighborhood. At any rate, the David of 2006 breezed into the restaurant, only a few minutes late.
I didn’t consider our dinner to be a date, but merely two people with a mutual friend, meeting for a casual meal. He had just finished a day of reporting. I’d just come from a still-life shoot for Self magazine, where I was working as a photo editor.
I was pleasantly surprised. For starters, David was taller than I remembered. I was in heels and he still had a few inches on me. He was also friendlier, more talkative. And he was a good listener—probably a side benefit of his job, or perhaps the reason he was so good at it. We spoke freely. He told me he had recently returned to the States from a reporting posting in Delhi. He was looking to slow down a bit, maybe settle down. He asked how I felt about my life now. I said I had spent a lot of time thinking only of me. I was ready to share my life with someone else. This was risky for a first nondate, but I was tired of game playing: I was ready to think about someone else for a change. I wanted to start a family. We also shared a mutual connection to Maine. By coincidence, his father lives twenty minutes from my parents. We each treasured our fond memories of spending time there.
At the end of the night, I kissed David on the cheek. He told me he was headed off to Afghanistan, but would call from there. The very notion of calling me from a war zone seemed a bit improbable, impractical. To my surprise, that is exactly what he did, on a regular basis during his monthlong assignment.
I remember saying good-bye to David that night and rushing home to call my mother. “I met the most interesting man,” I told her.
THE TALIBAN TRUST THE RED CROSS
David, Mid-January 2009
Badruddin arrives for another visit. He walks into the room and I greet him respectfully, shake his hand, and sit on top of my pink Barbie bedspread. He formally greets everyone else in Pashto. As he makes small talk, I am on my best behavior and trying to regain the trust of the guards. I brace myself for the bad news that seems to come with each of Badruddin’s visits.
After several minutes, he pulls papers from his pocket that bear the seal of the International Committee of the Red Cross. “Red Cross Message” is printed just below the seal, followed by a blank form where prisoners or refugees give their name, date, and place of birth as well as other details that prove their identity. I’m going to be allowed to write a letter to my wife. My fake suicide attempt may, in fact, have placed some pressure on our captors.
For weeks, I’ve been practicing what I would say to my family if given the chance. I want to communicate far more than I did in the first video. Someone produces a pen and I stare at the form. Badruddin and the guards stare at me.
The form asks the prisoner to list the full names of their mother, father, and grandfathers. I hesitate, fearing that listing names could endanger my family. At the same time, I know that if I refuse to name them or give false names it will raise my captors’ suspicions.
I write down their names, hoping my family will understand the rationale that has gradually solidified in my mind. Crying on videos, begging my family for money, and obeying my captors’ commands is justifiable if it saves the lives of Asad and Tahir. My wife, family, and friends are strong, I tell myself, and they will able to bear this burden.
I begin writing the letter. To make it seem like I have nothing to hide, I describe each sentence to Badruddin before writing it on the form in clear capital letters.
“Thank you for our wonderful wedding on September 6, 2008,” I write in clear capital letters that I hope will be easy to read. I try to include innocuous details that will both prove I am, in fact, the author of the letter and bolster my wife’s spirits. “Memories of that wonderful day and our beautiful time together keep me strong here.”
I tell Kristen I love her “so very, very, very much” and thank her, my family, and my friends for all they are doing to help us. Then I try to ease any guilt they may feel. I know I might not have another chance to communicate with them and I want to give them closure if our case ends badly.
“Simply do the best you can,” I write. “That’s all I ask.
“I accept the consequences of my actions and thank you all for all of the joy you’ve given me,” I write. “I thank you and love you all so much.”
Badruddin declares that the next portion of the letter should focus on the Taliban’s demands. We briefly argue over what those should be. I insist they are vastly too high. He says he is already compromising.
“The Taliban started out asking for 10 prisoners and have reduced their demand to 5 prisoners from Pul-e-Chargi prison,” I write, using the spelling for the government prison that Tahir gives me. “They have reduced the money from $25 million to $15 million.”
The figures deeply depress me. They refuse to red
uce them further.
Badruddin will not allow Tahir and Asad to write letters to their families. In mine, I insist that their release must be part of any agreement. “Any deal must be for all three of us,” I write. “Again, any must be for all three of us.”
“Please tell the International Red Cross to tell Asad and Tahir’s family they are alive + well,” I write, using a “+” to save space. “Tell Asad + Tahir’s family to please send messages to them through the International Red Cross. They love their families very much.”
I urge my family to negotiate through the Red Cross. I want to somehow shift Badruddin’s and Abu Tayyeb’s attention away from the Times’ Kabul bureau, which I worry is still the focus of their paranoia. I am also desperate to find a middleman who they believe will not steal any ransom.
“The Taliban do not trust and are very angry + suspicious of the office,” I write, referring to the bureau. “You should negotiate through the Red Cross only. All negotiations and transactions of any kind should be through the Red Cross. The Taliban trust the Red Cross.”
Hoping to increase the pressure on my family, Badruddin orders me once again to falsely state that we are in the mountains of Afghanistan. Hoping to tip off my family that I’m being ordered to lie, I write: “They are telling me to tell you that we are in a mountain area in Afghanistan with cold weather, snow and Afghan food + water that make me sick.” Badruddin then dictates more lines. “They say that if their demands are not met they will kill the three of us,” I write. “They are telling me to tell you to hurry up + meet their demands.”
There are only a half dozen blank lines left on the small form. I try to communicate the argument I’ve been making to our captors. “I’ve said I’m a journalist who has spent my career writing to help Muslims but they say you must meet their demands,” I write.
Three lines remain on the page. I scribble my final words.
“Please, please, please help us,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay back anyone who helps us for the rest of my life.”
“I’m so, so sorry,” I repeat. “I apologize to you, my family and friends.”
I scrawl “I love you!!!” in large letters and sign my name.
Badruddin takes the letter and has Tahir slowly translate each passage to him. When he hears the phrase “they are telling me to tell you,” he grows suspicious. I immediately offer to blot those words out with the pen. He agrees and then departs. For hours afterward, I berate myself for how I constructed the sentence. I need to be humble and patient and think small. Haste had gotten us into this disaster. Being impatient will only make things worse.
Roughly two weeks pass and we hear nothing from Badruddin. Then he arrives without warning and tells us we are going on a picnic. At first, I think he is joking. The guards tell me to cover my face with a scarf, follow Badruddin outside, and get into his pickup truck. After a five- to ten-minute drive, I am allowed to take the scarf off and look around.
Dust-covered hillsides surround us as we wind our way up a valley somewhere outside Miran Shah. There are no trees or discernible landmarks. We could be anywhere in the tribal areas. As we drive, I ask Badruddin if he has any response to my letter. He says the International Red Cross will not act as an intermediary for negotiations. My hopes fade. Badruddin stops the truck and we walk up a barren hill. I ask him how the negotiations are proceeding. He says he has nothing new to report. What has he been doing all this time? I ask. He says the problem is on my side. He scoffs at the amount of money they are offering for our release.
Badruddin asks me if I want to fire one of the guard’s Kalashnikovs. I decline. If I look like I know how to fire the rifle, I will appear to be a soldier. And if I take the rifle and try to shoot Badruddin and the four guards who are with us, I’m unlikely to kill all of them before they shoot me. Asad walks to a nearby hillside and fires a Kalashnikov with one of the guards. Badruddin has the most advanced Kalashnikov, which has a grenade launcher mounted on the end of it. For entertainment, he fires a grenade at a nearby hillside and it detonates loudly, and he and his men watch to see if it frightens me. I try to show no reaction.
Badruddin, the guards, Tahir, and Asad then spread scarves on the ground and perform afternoon prayers. After they finish, Badruddin invites me to sit down. I oblige him. Unsure when I will see him next, I again tell him he will never get five prisoners and $15 million for us. He vows that he will and tells me the United States freed seven Serbian military officers in exchange for my 1995 release in Bosnia. Amazed by his statement, I tell him that is absolutely false. He responds that I told him that when we first arrived in Miran Shah.
“You said I was slow,” he says, smiling. “You said seven prisoners were released for you after only ten days.”
He is lying, apparently for the fun of it. No Serbian prisoners were released for me in 1995. The Haqqanis have turned my arrest for helping to expose the massacre of 8,000 Muslims into a liability in my case, not an asset. We sit in silence for several minutes.
“I could shoot you here and end this now,” Badruddin offers with a smile.
I do not respond.
He again ridicules the ransom being offered for us. “I will sell your bones to your family” for that amount, he says.
Again, I do not respond.
We drive back to the house in silence. The following day, I learn that the guards are angry with me. They say Badruddin took me on a picnic and I was rude to him.
As January progresses, events in the outside world become a growing source of tension. The Israeli attack on the Gaza Strip infuriates the Taliban. Along with monitoring Western news broadcasts on Afghanistan, our guards closely watch world events as well. As the number of Palestinians killed spirals to 1,400—as compared with 14 Israelis—the Taliban seethe. Our guards see the campaign as the latest example of Muslims being slaughtered by an arrogant, hypocritical West. I wonder if we will be killed on videotape in retaliation. A second date also hovers: January 20, the inauguration of Barack Obama. I worry that the “blood message to Obama” that our kidnappers promised on the day we were abducted will finally be delivered.
The Israeli assault on Gaza ends on January 18 and Obama’s inauguration passes without incident two days later. I read about it in one of the Pakistani English-language newspapers the guards bring me once or twice a week. The newspapers continue to be a godsend. I have begun reading each newspaper cover to cover to pass the time. I find myself drawn to stories that I glanced at in the past. Reading them transports me to another place.
Editorials condemning the Taliban remind me that most Pakistanis oppose the group. A book review on a study that examines the history of religion states that human beings create gods when confronted by forces greater than themselves. Science section stories bolster my belief that human civilization is progressing. A paid advertisement printed on the day of Obama’s inauguration shows me another side of the Pashtuns.
It is a historical piece about a nonviolent Pashtun political leader known as the Frontier Gandhi. The political party he founded purchased ad space to print a biography of his life on January 20, the eleventh anniversary of his death. The party’s version of his life is glowing and I know from things I have previously read that much of it is true. The existence of a pacifist Pashtun seems improbable. Their fighting skills are what has made the region so forbidding.
Born in 1889, Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan was a devout Muslim and lifetime follower of Mahatma Gandhi’s philosophy of nonviolent resistance. A towering figure who was six and a half feet tall and had a hawk nose, Ghaffar Khan founded a 100,000-strong movement called the Servants of God, or Red Shirts, in the 1920s. Its members were famous for their willingness to stage nonviolent strikes to protest British colonial rule—and die by the hundreds in the process.
A friend and compatriot of Gandhi’s, Khan had the goal to free South Asia from British colonial rule and establish one independent, secular state where Muslims, Hindus, and people of all faiths could live peacefully. Lat
er in life, he also campaigned for the reunification of the Pashtuns divided by the despised British-dictated border between Afghanistan and Pakistan.
Before dying at the age of ninety-eight, Ghaffar Khan achieved one of those goals but failed at the two others. Colonial India won independence from Britain in 1947 but was divided into two countries—a predominantly Muslim Pakistan and a predominantly Hindu India. Pashtuns in Afghanistan and Pakistan also failed to be reunited. The partition of British-controlled India into two nations sparked one of the greatest and bloodiest mass migrations in human history. Over the course of several months in 1947, 14 million Hindus and Muslims crossed the newly created borders in the hope of finding a safer life in the country where they would be in the religious majority.
To the dismay of Ghaffar Khan and Gandhi, cataclysmic religious clashes erupted. As many as one million Muslims and Hindus perished on both sides of the new border. Two months after independence, war broke out after the Hindu ruler of the majority Muslim state of Kashmir said it would join India, not Pakistan. It was the first of four wars that India and Pakistan waged between 1947 and 1999.
Since arriving in the region in 2001, I had seen how the rivalry between the two countries fueled instability in Afghanistan and the wider region. For sixty years, partition colored nearly every move by India and Pakistan. Since 2001, India had backed the Karzai government with vast aid programs and record numbers of Indians living in Kabul. Threatened by what it saw as India encroaching on its flank, Pakistan’s military quietly maintained its longtime support for the Afghan Taliban. Over time, I came to see the fighting in Afghanistan on one level as a proxy war between India and Pakistan, with American soldiers caught in the middle.
As I finish reading the story, Ghaffar Khan emerges as a tragic figure. In some ways, he reminds me of the educated Pashtun moderates I have followed in “Little America” since 2004. Their efforts to promote reform were hampered by religious conservatism and regional rivalries as well.
