A Rope and a Prayer

by David Rohde

  Then like an apparition, Tahir’s leg emerges from the window. His upper body and head follow and, finally, his second leg. As he stands up, I rush out of the bathroom to meet him and accidentally kick a small plastic jug used for ablutions. It skids across the ground, and I motion to Tahir to freeze.

  Tahir and I stare at each other in the darkness. The cooler roars. No guards emerge from the room. Taking a few steps forward, I whisper in Tahir’s ear. “We don’t have to go,” I say. “We can wait.”

  “Go get the rope,” he says.

  Inside the room, Asad is sound asleep with the guards. This afternoon, Tahir and I made the gut-wrenching decision to leave without him, fearing he would inform the guards of our escape plans—as he had repeatedly in the past.

  Two weeks ago, after Abu Tayyeb had me make the last video, Tahir had whispered to Asad “Let’s escape” at night while the guards slept. Asad did not reply, according to Tahir. Instead, a guard told Tahir that he had heard Tahir was talking about trying to escape. Finally, Asad had seen me trying the keys in different padlocks in our current house and told the guards, according to Tahir.

  Our rupture with Asad has become the darkest aspect of our captivity. Over the months, the solidarity the three of us shared immediately after the kidnapping frayed under the threat of execution and indefinite imprisonment. Yet Tahir and I also know that Asad is under enormous pressure. He may be cooperating with the guards in order to save his life. In the end, though, we decide we cannot trust him. If Asad tells the guards, we will squander an opportunity for freedom we might never have again. We know that this house is closer to Miran Shah’s Pakistani military base than any we have been held in.

  Since we arrived in the house two week ago, we have been trying to think of ways to flee. When the guards let me sit on the roof with them as they prayed at dusk, I noticed that a five-foot-high parapet surrounded it. If we could hoist ourselves over the wall, I thought, we could use the car towrope I had found to lower ourselves the ten to fifteen feet to the street.

  At the same time, Tahir had surveyed the area around the house when the guards took him outside to buy food and watch cricket games. He plotted a route to the Pakistani military base. Finally, a few hours after Timor Shah lied to us about the negotiations, electricity returned to Miran Shah for the first time since fighting cut power lines six days earlier. We knew electricity meant the swamp cooler and ceiling fan would help conceal any noise we made when we fled. Unsure when we would have power again, we decided to make our attempt that night. We also added one last touch. We agreed Tahir would try to keep the guards up late playing Checkah. If they were tired, they would sleep more soundly.

  Our plans for how to get over the wall were in place. Unfortunately, we disagreed about what to do next. Tahir believes the militiamen who guard the military base will shoot us if we approach them at night or hand us back to the Haqqanis. He says we should hike the roughly fifteen miles to the Afghan border. I do not think we could ever make it that far without being caught. Going to the Pakistani base is a risk we have to take. If we surrender to an army officer, I told Tahir, he will protect us.

  One of our guards then walked into the room and Tahir and I stopped speaking. For the rest of the evening, we were not alone again. Our plan still had no ending.

  After Tahir and I meet in the courtyard, I retrieve the rope and we slowly walk up a flight of stairs leading to the roof. Threading the rope through a drainage hole in the bottom of the five-foot parapet, we tie the rope to the wall and throw the long end toward the street below. Placing his toe between two bricks, Tahir climbs to the top and peers at the street below. He steps down. “The rope is too short,” he whispers.

  I shift the knot on the rope to give it more length, pull myself up on the wall, and look down. The rope does not reach the ground, but it appears close. I glance back at the stairs, fearing the guards will emerge at any moment. “We don’t have to go,” I repeat to Tahir. “It’s up to you.”

  He signals that he wants to try again. I get down on my hands and knees. Tahir steps on my back and lifts himself over the wall. I hear his clothes scrape against the bricks, look up and realize he is gone. I grab his sandals, which he left behind, and stuff them down my pants. I climb over and momentarily snag a power line with my foot as I slide down the wall faster than expected. I land in a small sewage ditch. I look up and see Tahir striding down the street in his bare feet. I run after him.

  For the first time in seven months, I walk freely down a street. Glancing over my shoulder, I don’t see any of our guards coming out of the house, which looks even smaller than it felt like inside. We head down a narrow dirt lane with primitive mud-brick walls on either side of us. Makeshift electrical wires snake overhead in what looks like a densely populated neighborhood. I have no idea where we are or where to go.

  I follow Tahir and we walk into a dry riverbed and turn right. I keep slipping on the large sand-covered stones and feel punch-drunk. I catch up to Tahir and hand him his sandals. “My ankle is very painful,” Tahir whispers as he slips them on and continues walking. “I can’t walk far.”

  A large dark stain covers his lower left pant leg. I worry that he has ripped open his calf on his way down the wall. At the same time, my left hand stings. I notice that the rope has made a large cut across two of my fingers.

  “Where are we going?” I whisper to Tahir as we quickly make our way down the riverbed, afraid someone will see or hear us.

  “There is a militia base over there,” Tahir says, gesturing to his left. “I don’t trust them.”

  Neither do I. Earlier, Tahir had told me the Pakistani government tribal militia maintained a small checkpoint near the house. Turning ourselves in there would be a gamble. I still believe that our best chance is to surrender to a military officer on the main Pakistani military base in Miran Shah. I do not know where the base is, though. I am completely dependent on Tahir’s knowledge of the town’s layout.

  “We have to go to the main base,” I say.

  “Impossible,” Tahir says, continuing down the riverbed. “The guards said that Arabs and Chechens watch the main gate twenty-four hours a day.”

  I start to panic. We have made it over the wall but do not know where we are going. Despite his ankle, Tahir seems determined to hike fifteen miles to the Afghan border. As we walk, we argue over which way to go.

  “We have to go to the Pakistani base,” I tell Tahir.

  Striding ahead, he doesn’t respond. Dogs begin barking from one of the walled compounds to our right. “We can’t make it to the border,” I say. “We have to go to the base.”

  Tahir continues walking, but after a few minutes he complains about his ankle. “There is too much pain,” he says.

  We stop and I pull up his pant leg. His calf has not been cut. The dark stain on his pants is from the sewage ditch we both landed in outside our house. “There is another gate,” Tahir says, changing his mind. “Come.”

  As we continue walking, I expect Taliban fighters to rush out of the darkness, but none do. Tahir tells me to put the scarf I am carrying over my head. “If anyone stops us, your name is Akbar and my name is Timor Shah,” he says. “Act like a Muslim.”

  My sense of time is distorted, but it seems as though we have been walking in the darkness for five to ten minutes. I do not feel free. If anything, I am more frightened. I worry that a more brutal militant group will capture us.

  We leave the riverbed and walk down an alleyway between two compounds for about fifty yards. We arrive at a two-lane paved street.

  “This is the main road in Miran Shah,” Tahir whispers. We turn right and begin walking down the street. To our left is a vacant stretch. To our right stands a gas station with four pumps and several shops. Dim light-bulbs outside the shops illuminate the area. As we walk down the street, I silently question why Tahir is leading us down the center of a paved road where we can be easily spotted. I have no idea if he knows where we are going.

  Suddenly
, shouts erupt to our left and I hear the sound of a Kalashnikov being loaded. Tahir raises his hands and says something in Pashto. A man shouts commands back in Pashto. I raise my hands as my heart sinks. The Taliban have recaptured us.

  In the faint light, I see a figure with a rifle standing on the roof of a dilapidated one-story building. Beside the building is a mosque with freshly painted white walls. The building and mosque have concertina wire and earthen berms in front of them.

  “If you move,” Tahir says, “they will shoot us.” Then he says words I can scarcely believe. “This is the base.”

  We have made it to the Pakistanis. Tahir has guided us brilliantly.

  I hold my hands high in the air and dare not move an inch. With my long beard, scarf, and salwar kameez I look like an Uzbek suicide bomber, not an American journalist. Another voice comes from inside the building. It sounds as if the guard is waking up his comrades. One or two more figures appear on the roof and aim more gun barrels at us.

  The Pakistani guard on the roof intermittently speaks in Pashto with Tahir. I hear Tahir say the words for “journalist,” “Afghan,” and “American.” I struggle to slow my breathing. My arms begin to burn, I desperately try not to move my hands. “Tell them we will take off our shirts,” I tell Tahir, thinking that will show we are not suicide bombers wearing explosive vests.

  Tahir says something in Pashto, and the man responds.

  “Lift up your shirt,” Tahir says. I immediately oblige.

  The guard speaks again. “He is asking if you are American,” Tahir says.

  “I am an American journalist,” I say in English, surprised at the sound of my own voice in the open air. “Please help us. Please help us.”

  I keep speaking English, hoping they will recognize that I am a native speaker. “We were kidnapped by the Taliban seven months ago,” I say, in the darkness. “We were kidnapped outside Kabul and brought here.”

  “Do you speak English?” I say, hoping one of the Pakistani guards on the roof understands. “Do you speak English?”

  The guard says something to Tahir in Pashto. “They are radioing their commander,” Tahir says. “They are asking for permission to bring us inside.”

  Tahir has asked the guards—who are also Pashtuns—to protect us under the tenet of Pashtunwali that requires a Pashtun to shelter a stranger in need, even at the cost of the host’s fortune and life. He urges them to take us inside the base before the Taliban come looking for us. About two or three minutes pass. The Pakistani guards stand behind sandbags on the roof. Above us, stars glitter in a sparkling, crystal clear sky.

  For the first time that night, it occurs to me that we might actually succeed. Escape—an ending I never conceived of—might be our salvation.

  I hold my hands still and wait. Several more minutes pass, and Tahir and I grow nervous. “Please allow us in the mosque,” Tahir says. “Please let us inside.”

  The Pakistani guard on the roof says they are waiting for a senior officer to arrive. Tahir asks what we should do if the Taliban drive down the road. The guard says that we should dive behind the dirt embankment, and that they will open fire on anyone who approaches. But they still will not let us inside. Tahir complains to me about the pain in his arms as he holds them in the air. His ankle hurts as well.

  “Please wait, Tahir,” I say, encouraging him. “Please wait. We’re so close.”

  Tahir asks for permission to sit on the ground. The Pakistani guard grants it. Tahir groans and seems exhausted. I sense less nervousness from the guards. Soon after, the Pakistani guard says we can take a few steps toward the mosque. With our hands in the air, we walk over the surrounding earthen berm unsteadily. As the loose soil gives way, we both nearly lose our balance. I worry that we will be shot if we slip and fall.

  “Lie down on the ground,” Tahir says. “If you move, they will shoot us.” I do so and stare at the stars above us.

  Several minutes later, a Pakistani officer arrives, and Tahir tells me to stand up. The officer stands a few feet from us on the other side of the concertina wire. He speaks with Tahir in what sounds like a reassuring tone. “He is a very polite person,” Tahir says. “We are under their protection. We are safe.”

  The frustration I have felt for months begins to fade. We are achingly close to going home. I thank the officer in Pashto, Urdu, and English, desperate to win his trust. Then in one moment, the humiliating narrative of our captivity reverses itself.

  “How are you?” the senior officer says in English.

  “How are you?” I reply loudly in English, trying again to demonstrate that I am a foreign journalist, not a suicide bomber.

  At this point, Tahir and I have been standing outside the base for fifteen or twenty minutes. We still need to get inside. We again offer to take off our shirts, and the officer tells us to do so. Then we are officially instructed to come inside.

  I watch Tahir step unsteadily over the concertina wire and into the base. “Come,” Tahir says. “Come.”

  I follow Tahir inside, and the senior officer and several Pakistani guards shake my hand. “Thank you,” I say to them in English, over and over. “Thank you.”

  The politeness of the Pakistani guards amazes me. I know we could still be handed over to the Taliban, but I savor the compassion we are receiving from strangers. For the first time in months, I do not feel hostility.

  We are blindfolded and walked farther into the base. The officer politely apologizes and says this is temporary. He is following their standard protocol. A pickup truck arrives and they let us put our shirts on. We climb into the back of the truck and it drives us toward the center of the base. I stare at Tahir and slap him on the back. We are both in shock.

  “Thank you,” I say to Tahir. “Thank you.”

  I ask Tahir to tell the officer that I want to call Kristen. I need to somehow communicate to the outside world where we are—on a Pakistani base in North Waziristan. If we can get word to American officials, it will be extraordinarily difficult for the Pakistanis to hand us back to the Haqqanis. Tahir tells me to be patient and wait. I stop talking. Since we were kidnapped, Tahir has skillfully kept us alive and given me sound advice. He has never shown fear and navigated a cultural and religious labyrinth I do not understand. He has not abandoned me and remained true to his ideals, beliefs, and traditions. I know I will be eternally grateful to him for this night.

  We arrive in the center of the base, and I get out of the back of the truck. A row of well-lighted, white one-story, colonial era offices sits fifty feet away on the other side of a neatly manicured lawn. It is the first green grass I have seen in seven months. I walk across it and relish the smell, sense of openness, and safety. The Pakistani officer brings us to a clean, modern office with a large desk and couches along the walls.

  After several minutes, a young Pakistani captain who speaks perfect English introduces himself as Captain Nadeem, the duty officer. He looks as if he had just gotten out of bed. He says he had no idea that any American and Afghanistan hostages were being held in Miran Shah. No one had informed him of our case.

  After explaining our kidnapping, I ask him if I can please call my wife. He hesitates at first and then says he will try to find a phone card to make a long distance call. As we wait, Tahir speaks in Pashto to the various militia members in the office. A doctor cleans and bandages cuts on Tahir’s foot and on my hand. Tahir laughs and his face beams as he speaks. I have never seen him so happy. But after several minutes, his face darkens.

  “David, I feel terrible about Asad,” Tahir says of our driver. “What have we done?”

  I look out the window in the direction of Miran Shah and wonder whether our former guards have awakened yet. When they do, they will be furious. “We had no choice,” I say, trying to rationalize abandoning Asad. I know our escape could prompt our captors to kill him. I pray that they will spare him.

  My stomach churns and I make small talk with Captain Nadeem. I remain eager to call Kristen. After what see
ms like an hour, a soldier arrives with a phone card, and I write my home number on a white slip of paper. The captain dials the phone on his desk and hands me the receiver. The phone in our apartment back in New York rings repeatedly. No one answers.

  Finally, the answering machine picks up and I listen to Kristen’s cheerful voice ask callers to leave us a message. Our escape still seems like a fantasy. The machine beeps, and I speak in an unsteady voice.

  “Kristen, it’s David,” I say. “It’s David. Please pick up.”

  I repeat the words several times. Fearing that the tape on the answering machine will run out, I finally blurt out, “We’ve escaped.”

  Moments later, someone picks up the receiver in New York.

  “David,” a woman’s voice says. “It’s Mary Jane.”

  My mother-in-law has answered.

  “We’ve escaped and are on a Pakistani military base,” I tell her.

  I ask her to call the Times immediately and tell them to evacuate Tahir’s and Asad’s families from their homes in Kabul, as well as the people in the newspaper’s bureau there. I remember Abu Tayyeb’s threat in December that he could trigger a suicide attack on the bureau at any time.

  I spend the next several minutes describing our exact location. I give my mother-in-law the names of the tribal area, town, base, and commanding officer. I tell her she needs to contact American officials and ask them to help evacuate us. I want Captain Nadeem to hear that the American government will soon know we are on his base. At the end of the conversation, I apologize to her for all the pain and worry I have caused.

  “Just come home safe,” she says.

  ANSWERED PRAYERS

  Kristen, June 19, 2009

  It’s a warm summer Friday evening. I am sitting at an outdoor café along the Hudson River in Battery Park. I have tried to fill my spare time in the hopes that it will make waiting easier. I am catching up with an old friend from college who has been working abroad in Africa on a public health project. It’s a calm, still evening, and the sun begins to set. There is the faint churning of river ferries and sailboat masts in the distance. Just as dinner arrives, my cell phone rings. It’s my mother.