by David Rohde
Carol has been concerned about David’s eyesight throughout his captivity. With this in mind, she leaves a bottle of Visine on the altar as a symbol of protection, to help him see clearly—as well as to ease any tears.
Before David departed New York for Kabul back in October, I gave him a sacred-heart charm I had purchased on our honeymoon in Paris from Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre. I wear an identical charm around my neck. I recall that David looked at me quizzically when I gave it to him, because he is neither Catholic nor religious. But being somewhat of a reticent romantic, he took it with him. I was shocked at my own insistence that he do so, because I had never before given him anything to carry as a memento or good luck charm. Still, I wanted him to keep it in his pocket or duffel as a reminder of our recent time together and as reassurance that there would be cheerful times ahead.
I now remove the matching charm from the chain around my neck and fasten it to one of the branches of the twig cross that is centered on the altar. I hope that David and I will one day return to retrieve it together.
Back in New York, on June 8, I am surprised by a Google alert about David. It links to the Huffington Post, which has put up a story titled “U.S. Journalists Arrested, Kidnapped Abroad.” It’s a roundup of American journalists detained in the past and present and includes a short bio and photograph of each: Daniel Pearl, kidnapped and murdered in Pakistan in 2002; Jill Carroll, kidnapped and eventually freed in Iraq in 2006; Roxana Saberi, charged with espionage in Iran and recently freed on appeal; Euna Lee and Laura Ling, detained in North Korea in March and recently sentenced to twelve years in a work camp for “hostile acts.” I am mortified to see that David is included as “still missing.” A photo accompanies his bio. I am shocked that the Web site did not consult our family before posting this. While it is not the best-kept secret in town, it’s also common knowledge among the journalism community that David’s case has been kept out of the news as a safety precaution.
Lee and Ling have been in jail for three months. Recently, their families have gone public, making a plea to the North Korean government on Larry King Live and holding a candlelight vigil in Rockefeller Center. My heart goes out to their families. The decision to go public seems to be helping in their case because they are able to appeal to an established, albeit unreasonable, government. Recent press coverage of their case has sparked renewed interest in the issue of journalists’ safety and the role of diplomacy. It has also begun to draw attention to David’s plight.
I contact Lee and David McCraw at the Times and alert the paper’s vice president of communications, Catherine Mathis. Catherine has done an expert job of tracking media activity and requesting the removal of any content that may endanger David. I tell her I have no qualms about contacting Arianna Huffington and holding her accountable should anything happen to David because of the publication of this piece. But there is no need to do so. The Huffington Post honors Catherine’s request and immediately removes David’s name and portrait.
The main side effect of being on leave from work is that I now have twenty-four hours a day to devote to obsessing about David’s case. This is a blessing and a curse. My mother, Mary Jane, returns in mid-June after a six-week absence. She is in good spirits, but still limits her movements and activities because of the healing slipped disc in her back.
I have no idea if the family’s message sent through the FBI or my video has made it to any of our intended targets. But we receive word that another video of David has emerged through the FBI’s unnamed contact, the same one who provided the crying video. The FBI, along with a member of our private security team, plan to meet with the source of the video, who will travel to Dubai in the next few days.
As always, I am reassured by the agency before I watch that this is not an execution video and that David appears to be in good condition. They add that this video is not as menacing as the last. My mother and I huddle together on the sofa and watch it on my laptop. The sound and image do not sync up. I have to periodically stop and resume by hitting the play/pause button. The audio is clear, and David’s voice is strong, but the video is stilted and appears as a series of stills. David seems at peace as he sits on a cushion with a full white beard, wire-frame glasses, and a white salwar kameez. He looks like John Lennon. He seems to have come to some inner resolution. He is clean and calm. His words are personal.
“My name is David Rohde. Today is Thursday, June 4, 2009. Myself, Tahir, and Asad are alive and well. Please tell our families that we are alive and we miss them very, very much and we are so sorry for the pain they are feeling.”
He addresses some short comments to me and the family and then concludes by asking us to help them. “Please help us as quickly as possible,” he says. “Please free us soon. Please.”
It is a relief to know he has received my Red Cross letter—and that he knows he has not been forgotten.
I find the video reassuring: David’s message is largely personal. I take this as a good sign, as it seems his captors have permitted him to speak freely. I am comforted to hear him repeat the words in my letter. He has not given up. It is a relief, too, that he realizes the futility of our situation on the outside and trusts that we are doing everything possible to bring him home. He is composed, a striking contrast to the seemingly broken subject in the “crying video” we saw in Washington. So much for the previous video being “his last.”
I begin to realize there is a pattern to the captors’ communication. Six to eight weeks of silence, followed by some form of contact. It seems that communications will resume again. Although it is tough to think in terms of eight-week cycles of waiting, it is somehow reassuring to know the captors may actually be following some kind of thought-out strategy. My greatest fear now is not that they will harm or kill David, but that they will hold him indefinitely.
A few days later, I receive an e-mail from a friend and colleague of David’s in Pakistan, Beena Sarwar. She has been in touch with me several times over the last few months to check on David.
It seems I am not the only one who is looking for an alternative, positive outlet. Beena and some of David’s colleagues have come up with a meaningful way for people to reach out to David. Beena’s e-mail explains:Dear Kris,
Just want to let you know that David has many friends here and elsewhere who are all thinking of him. I was online with a reporter just now and she wanted me to let you know that the mood in Pakistan is changing, too, and things will come right. That is what I believe, too.
So here’s a bizarre notion I’ll share with you which sounds very silly—but the idea is basically for all those who know and care about him to spend ten minutes, all at the same time on the same day, all over the world, thinking of him and sending good vibes, goodwill, reiki, whatever, all at the same time. It can’t hurt. And it may comfort friends and family members if nothing else.
We were thinking a good time would be when it’s morning in the U.S. and evening here—say this Sunday (June 14) 10 a.m. EST, 8 p.m. in Pakistan.
We don’t need to go public on it if you don’t want but just let everyone who already knows to spend ten minutes at that time, like a kind of a worldwide mental vigil.
Let me know what you think.
With very best wishes and hopes that you and the rest of the family remain strong and positive.
Beena
This is a lovely sentiment, and I write back to her to thank her and tell her I support her efforts.
A few days later, I hear from Michael Semple. John has made contact with the uncle of Siraj and Badruddin Haqqani and claims that they are willing to settle for much less money than what they have been demanding. Lee, McCraw, and I are skeptical, because the FBI’s point person, the one who has provided the last two proof-of-life videos, is still asking for $8 million and four prisoners.
The FBI and Team Kabul meet with the FBI source in Dubai twice over the next two days. On day one, he claims he can get David released and would be willing to carry funds should the fam
ily be able to raise them. He adds that the kidnappers are willing to be “flexible” and settle the deal for reasonable money. Day two, he changes his story, stating that he will not be able to facilitate an exchange and that the Taliban still want prisoners in addition to money. The family must work through a third party.
Similarly, we have recently heard from Karzai’s government in Afghanistan, which says the Taliban are asking them for three Taliban prisoners in exchange for David. Michael has forewarned me about these pleas. He tells me to ignore them because both channels are false. He believes John’s contact has the ability to cut a deal, even though this channel has produced no proof-of-life videos. We are told that if John’s source is correct, we should expect to hear back for instructions on how this will proceed.
Still on leave from Cosmo, I keep myself busy at home and sort through a clutter of papers in an attempt to restore some semblance of order to my life. My dining table overflows with notes pertaining to David’s case, updates or “sit-reps,” from our security team, and thoughtful letters from extended relatives—all of whom are now aware of our situation. Amid the random pile is a prayer card from Mother Teresa’s mission in Calcutta, a place David and I visited together during my first trip to India a year ago. Mother Teresa’s calling had always intrigued me, and we had flown in specifically to see her orphanage and home for the destitute. For me, growing up Catholic, there seemed to be only two cool contemporary female role models: Madonna and Mother Teresa. Together their various behaviors seemed to define what was possible within the realm of my faith.
I am a big believer in the power of intention, and in writing things down. With this in mind, I compose a written prayer to Mother Teresa, who died in 1997 and is on the road to sainthood, having been beatified by the Church. In doing so, I feel I am recruiting a higher entity to share in the responsibility for David’s release. Over the past few months I have written to my husband, government officials, CNN reporters, former CIA officials, newspaper editors, Taliban elders, religious extremists, and Siraj Haqqani. By now, writing to a Catholic icon on her way to sainthood doesn’t seem far-fetched in comparison. And it doesn’t seem any less likely to produce a response. It’s a surrender of sorts. A last-ditch effort.
I ask for the safe return of David, Tahir, and Asad, by whatever means possible. I believe in and would welcome a miracle.
In the days ahead, I make an effort to fill my time with activities that will boost my spirits—catching up with friends, talking with family, walking along the Hudson River—which is particularly meaningful because David and I did this weekly. I recall David’s romantic marriage proposal, and how nearly a year has passed since then. My only comfort is the realization that nothing is permanent. Things are inherently ephemeral. At some point, this situation will change—it will end. I desperately hope it resolves with David’s release and our reunion, but if it ends otherwise, there is some small relief in knowing that this suffering will cease. We have been in limbo for far too long.
PASHTUNWALI
David, June 19-20, 2009
I lie awake in the darkness and wonder if the guards have fallen asleep. Their breathing is heavy and regular but I cannot see them. I blink over and over in the darkness but see no difference when my eyes are open or closed. I turn around and look at the orange light on the swamp cooler—an antiquated version of an air-conditioner—to make sure I can still see.
It is roughly 1 A.M. on Saturday, June 20. After seven months and ten days in captivity, Tahir and I have decided to try to escape. I fear that the guards will wake up and catch us. I fear even more that our captivity will drag on for years.
The confidence I felt while walking around Sharif’s house—the belief that we would be released if we were patient—has faded. The determination to survive in Makeen, the willingness to wait as long as it took, has been replaced by a searing rage at our captors. As my abject hatred for Abu Tayyeb, Timor Shah, and Badruddin has grown, my judgment has weakened and my patience has wavered. As I lie in the darkness, I wonder if trying to escape is another rash decision that will have disastrous consequences.
I try to calm myself by praying. In February, Sharif told me that if I said “Forgive me, God” a thousand times each day, our captivity might end. I have done as he suggested for the last four months with no results. But I do not care. As it has for months, prayer soothes and centers me. Each day, I stare at the ceiling and say, “Forgive me, God” a thousand times while the guards take naps. Counting on my fingers, it takes me roughly sixty minutes to reach one thousand. Tonight, as I wait to make sure the guards are sound asleep, I ask God to forgive me two thousand times.
That day, Tahir and I were told yet another lie regarding the negotiations for our release. Timor Shah said that an Afghan government negotiator had failed to show up at a scheduled meeting in the Pakistani city of Quetta. Instead, he had departed on a religious pilgrimage to Saudi Arabia. The negotiator was supposed to be finalizing the deal that Abu Tayyeb had told us about on June 4: the exchange of all remaining Afghan prisoners in Guantánamo Bay for the three of us. Tahir and I knew Timor Shah’s claim was absurd.
Since we returned to Miran Shah, we have been talking about trying to escape, but disagreed on exactly how to do it. Infuriated by Timor Shah’s lies that day, we finalize our plan. I will get up first, go to the bathroom without asking the guards for permission, and wake Tahir as I leave. If the guards remain asleep, Tahir will follow.
Following our plan, I slowly stand up and creep across the room. I pass Timor Shah on my left and then crouch down and tug Tahir’s foot. Tahir groans and I fear the guards will wake up. But their heavy breathing continues.
To my right, Akbar is sleeping with his head a few feet from the door’s hinge. I worry that opening the door will wake him, but I have no choice. I’m desperate to proceed with our plan. If Akbar wakes, I will tell him I was simply going to the bathroom. I open the door and the roar of the swamp cooler and ceiling fan seems to drown out the noise. I slowly step outside and gently close the door behind me.
I slip on my sandals, walk to the bathroom, and wait for Tahir to emerge. My heart pounds. Twenty feet away, on a shelf outside the kitchen, is a car towrope we plan to use to lower ourselves down the ten-to fifteen-foot wall ringing the compound. I had found it two weeks earlier on a shelf beside motor oil and car wrenches. Compulsively cleaning as I had in every house, I placed some old clothes on top of the rope to prevent the guards from seeing it. The discovery, I thought, was the first stroke of good luck in our seven months in captivity.
Several minutes pass, though, and Tahir does not come out of the room. I stare intently at the door—roughly fifteen feet away and directly across the courtyard—still Tahir does not emerge. When I pulled his foot to rouse him, he had groaned and I assumed he was awake. As the minutes pass, I’m unsure what to do. I stand in the darkened bathroom and wonder if Tahir has changed his mind. If the guards catch us, they might kill me, but they will definitely kill Tahir. Part of me thinks it was wrong even to have asked him to do this. I wonder if we are still capable of making rational decisions.
Even if we make it over the wall, we will have to walk for fifteen minutes through Miran Shah to reach a nearby Pakistani base. The town is full of Afghan, Pakistani, and foreign militants. Whoever catches us might be far less merciful than our current guards. And we are not necessarily safe once we get to the base. We could fall into the hands of members of the ISI who are sympathetic to the Taliban. They could simply hand us back to the Haqqanis. Months ago, our guards had told us that the Pakistani tribal militia had handed back one escaped prisoner to the Haqqanis and they had executed him. A week ago, another worrying sign of cooperation had emerged. The Afghan Taliban in Miran Shah had apparently received orders from Haqqani commanders to not fight the Pakistani army if it tried to regain control of Miran Shah. Instead, the Pakistani Taliban would fight them.
But I desperately want to see Kristen and my family again. And I want our captor
s to get nothing in exchange for me. The last video I filmed with Abu Tayyeb was enormously liberating for me. I felt I had signaled to them that if I died they should feel no guilt and move on. I alone was responsible for the situation.
In the three weeks since taping the video, I’ve felt more and more willing to take risks and plan an escape. I started performing tests in the last house we inhabited. In the middle of the night, I got up and walked to the bathroom without asking for permission from the guards. To my surprise, they stayed asleep. Then I walked to the compound door, pulled on the handle, and found it locked. When I told Tahir about my test run the next morning, he said I was crazy to try such things. Along with finding the rope in our current house, I found a set of padlock keys and tried to see if they opened the padlock on our compound’s exterior doors. None of them worked.
Now, standing in the bathroom, I try to decide what to do. I could walk back in the room and go to sleep, or I could follow a seemingly foolhardy backup plan that Tahir and I had devised to make sure he woke up. Telling myself that we may never have another chance to escape, I push ahead.
In the darkness, I step out of the bathroom and pick up a five-foot-long bamboo pole that’s leaning against the adjacent wall. I walk to the living room window and peer inside to make sure the guards are still asleep. I slowly open the window beside the cooler, point the pole at Tahir’s side, and poke him. I quickly close the window, walk back to the bathroom, and lean the pole against the wall. I step inside the bathroom and wait again. Still Tahir does not appear. I am convinced that he has changed his mind. It isn’t fair of me, I think, to expect a man with seven children to risk his life.
