In the Presence of My Enemies (21 page)

They will go to David, Solomon, and even Jesus. “Please ask Allah to hurry up and judge us now; we can’t stand it anymore.” Jesus, like the others, will say, “I’m not worthy.”

So finally they will go to Muhammad, the final prophet.

Success at last! Muhammad will intercede with Allah, who will judge humanity, consigning those with good deeds to paradise and condemning those who fall short to hell—unless they were fallen
mujahideen,
those who had died in holy war and were thus already rewarded.

With this way of thinking, clearly the odds of reaching paradise were slim to none. The Abu Sayyaf didn’t mince words when speaking of those who had “fallen short,” those who didn’t see eye to eye with the Abu Sayyaf and were therefore “not really true Muslims.” This included even such notables as Muammar Qadhafi of Libya and the Saudi royal family. In fact, Saudi Arabia was especially scorned for being soft on Muslim principles, as evidenced by allowing the infidel troops of the United States and other Western nations to use Saudi military bases.

It was tough to argue with such logic. Whether or not Solaiman’s information was theologically correct, to him it was entirely reliable. Of course, when it came to personal holiness, the Abu Sayyaf had their foibles, too. On the one hand, they complained, “Why does Hollywood make all this junk, all this immorality and violence, and then send it around the world?” We tried to tell them that many Americans feel the same way and don’t watch a lot of those movies.

But then, someone would say, “Hey, Martin, have you seen
Silence of the Lambs
[or another film of that stripe]?”

“No. That’s way too gory, from what I hear.”

“Oh, we loved that movie! It was great!” they would reply.

Nor would the Abu Sayyaf ever think of turning away from a tempting situation. Temptation, in their view, was something to be eradicated from the world by rules, not something to resist through personal discipline. That’s why they wanted an Islamic state. In such a place, there would be no bad movies, prostitutes, stealing, or cheating, because the rules would be so stringent that people would be afraid to do anything wrong. All the women would be dressed in such a way as to eliminate seduction. Thus, nobody would sin, and society would be perfect. To put it in Fatima’s memorable phrase, “If you remove the temptation, there will be no sin.”

Martin tried to counter this view by replying, “Scripture tells us that everyone is tempted, but you have a choice about what to do with that temptation. God always works on the heart of a person. It’s not outside temptations that make us sin; it’s our sinful heart, and God wants to change that heart.

“Christianity isn’t a big list of rules. We don’t have a manual for fasting or almsgiving,” he’d tell them. “These things instead are supposed to come from your heart. That’s what salvation is: a change of heart, rather than a change of environment.”

They were not persuaded.

Our porch was almost the only level, clean place in the camp, so when it was time for sundown prayers, this became the location of choice. If Martin and I were sitting out there talking, we’d have to move. It was always nice to be out in the fresh air, so sometimes we’d just stand at a distance rather than go inside.

Then as darkness fell, Omar began his Arabic and Koran lessons for the benefit of the new converts, Sheila and Ediborah. We had no electricity, of course. He’d bring an empty soy-sauce bottle filled with kerosene and a rolled rag as a wick. I called it “the bomb” because it seemed so dangerous to me.

Of course, we, being infidels, weren’t allowed to touch a Koran or even get near it. If it was inside someone’s backpack, we weren’t allowed to step over it, because that would pollute it somehow. More than once I was reprimanded for that. I finally got the point: Watch out for backpacks, and step around them.

* * *

The month of August and the first half of September turned into a longer and longer stretch of hiding, waiting, getting noticed by outsiders and having to move up the river, then back down the river, then somewhere else again. Days turned into weeks, and the hopes we had placed on departing hostages who had promised to work for our release grew dim. We were stuck with our lot; nothing seemed to be happening; the daily grind and Martin’s nightly confinement on the chain became a never-ending cycle.

One time, Martin became very sick with a high fever and nausea. His joints ached.
Could he have malaria?
I worried. We had no way to tell.

In the medical bag was an antibiotic called Augmentin—a name neither of us recognized. But Ediborah, being a nurse, said it was okay and might help him. Of course, her practice of medicine wasn’t exactly what we Westerners were used to; we had once heard her tell another hostage to take “two ampicillin tablets.”

When I asked her if he needed to take the pills for seven days, she responded, “Well, you’re supposed to, but when people are poor and the supply is short, we just take a couple so we can start feeling better.” That seemed to be common protocol for her.

Nevertheless, in this case, Martin took a five-day course of Augmentin—and did start to feel better.

Fe dipped into the medical bag for an entirely different reason. One day I saw her coating her lips with iodine as a substitute lipstick.

“Fe, are you trying to make yourself look good?” I asked.

“Yeah. I just feel so ugly here, you know? There’s no way to make yourself look pretty.”

“Oh, Fe, look what happened to Reina. Don’t try to make yourself look prettier than you already are. You don’t want to get
sabaya
ed, do you?”

* * *

Whenever the order would come for us to pack up, a deathly silence would fall upon the camp. My heart would begin to pound, and all conversation would stop as we began jamming stuff into our packs. I often found myself shaking uncontrollably, so much that I could hardly pack my things.

If we finished and the leaders hadn’t yet decided which way was safest to move, we would just sit, terrified that a barrage of bullets would come flying at us any second.

The Abu Sayyaf never really had “a plan,” it seemed. They just made it up as they went along. Sometimes we would get up in the morning, be told to pack up for mobiling, walk half an hour—and then sit three or four hours while they discussed what to do next.

One night after we had been walking for hours, we stepped off the trail shortly before dawn into a grove of banana trees. They put down a tarp for Martin and me, because it had been raining. We collapsed onto the tarp. I didn’t even take my boots off; I was so tired and my feet were all muddy and awful.

In my exhaustion, I looked at Martin and said, “What is going to become of us?” Hot tears were streaming down my face.

Martin’s next words just amazed me. With complete composure, he said, “We are going to get out of here, and we are going to go home.” I heard that sentence from his mouth on more than one occasion. Every time it calmed me down. On this night, Martin grabbed my hand and we prayed together. We prayed for the strength we needed to keep up with the group. We asked that the Lord would shed his mercy on us and that he’d touch someone’s heart to pay ransom for us. And then we went to sleep.

The next night, we were mobiling through the jungle when we came upon a river. We had no other choice but to wade into the water and walk to the other side. At one point, the water was more than chest-deep. Once we reached the other side, we were totally soaked and freezing. I found myself falling more and more as I tried to keep pace with the group in the dark. I tripped on a rock and landed down on my knees and hands so hard that it rattled my teeth. I just stayed there for a minute, while the whole group waited for me to move.

Oh God,
I prayed, tears streaming down my cheeks,
how much longer can this go on? Is there a certain line that they need to cross, a breaking point where you say I’ve suffered enough? Where is it? Have they crossed that line yet or is this just going to go on and on?

I heard no answer and somehow got up on my feet again to keep walking. A little way down the trail, I realized that I no longer had my
malong.
I cried all the harder.

When we were back at the river several days later, I saw one of the men with my
malong;
he must have picked it up when I fell. Of course there was no way I was going to get it back. For weeks I went without one, until Joel found a new one somewhere and gave me his old one.

* * *

I was doing laundry in the river when Hurayra approached me.

“A new striking force has been commissioned, and I’ve been named the leader,” he told me. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow and I may never come back. I was wondering if you would sing me a song as a parting gift.”

He had been so kind (relatively speaking) to Martin and me. I wanted to please him, but I knew I couldn’t. “No, no, I can’t sing for you, Hurayra,” I said. “I’ll just cry.”

But he kept pressing me. My mind was racing,
What do I sing? A hymn or something secular?
I asked if he had any favorites.

“No, it doesn’t matter. You just pick something.”

So I started to sing the old John Denver song:

Almost heaven, West Virginia,

Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River . . .

Country roads, take me home

To the place I belong . . .

I suddenly realized what I was singing, and that’s when I lost it. I made it through the chorus and then just quit, weeping in my heart.

“Continue, continue!” Hurayra said.

“I’m sorry, Hurayra, I just can’t.”

He walked off then to his mission, and I didn’t see him again for several weeks.

* * *

One evening not long after that, a young guard came to see Martin and me quite late. “Solaiman and Sabaya want to talk to you.”

We followed the boy up a steep, slippery trail, finally arriving at a little house. Solaiman began the discussion.

August 21

Paul Jones first raises the topic of paying ransom in a phone call to Oreta Burnham. No conclusions reached.

August 25

Zach’s football team wins its first game of the season; Mindy’s soccer team loses its first game.

August 30

Jeff plays wide receiver for the Rose Hill Rockets freshman team as they win their opening game.

“We want you to make an audiotape for the Muammar Qadhafi Foundation.” This was the same organization that had put up (or at least passed along) $25 million the year before for the Sipadan hostages. This was a handy way for them to appear magnanimous and caring in the eyes of the world while simultaneously financing their Muslim brethren’s jihad.

“There are several phrases we want you to use,” he continued. “You should say that the Philippine government and the American government aren’t doing anything for you. So even though the Foundation hates the U.S., maybe they would choose to help you personally, as individuals. And be sure to include the phrase ‘We would be forever grateful.’ ”

We had been hoping and praying for some source of ransom money, but the strongman of Libya wasn’t exactly who we had in mind. This certainly raised an interesting moral dilemma.

Of course, they weren’t giving us a choice. This was an order: Make the recording.

Martin took his turn first. I noticed he conveniently forgot to say the American and Philippine governments were not doing anything for us. When he finished, Solaiman said he thought that it was okay.

Now it was my turn. He reminded me to include the comment about governments. Well, at that point, I more or less agreed with him; I didn’t see any action being taken on our behalf. So I gave my little spiel, saying, “I know that our countries don’t see eye to eye, but maybe that would not stop you from helping us personally.” I told them how much our children needed us. Then I said that we would be eternally grateful if they would help.

On the way back to our place, we walked hand in hand in the dark. “Do you think we’ve done anything wrong, asking Libya to ransom us?” I asked Martin.

“We did what they ordered us to do,” he reasoned. “I’ve been told you are not held accountable for anything you’re forced to say under duress. So I think it was okay.”

Of course, when we got back, everyone wanted to know how it had gone. We gave a little review.

Ediborah then said, “You didn’t mention the Filipino hostages, did you?”

No, we hadn’t, we said. They had told us just to talk about ourselves.

“Well then, you know what is going to happen, don’t you?” she continued. “You’ll be ransomed out, and we’ll be left here, and everyone will forget about us, because Filipinos don’t matter. You are the ones the world cares about.”

“No, no, Ediborah!” we protested. “We weren’t trying to leave you out. We just followed their instructions!” Martin and I felt horrible.

Two days later, we were called back for another meeting. This time they had us write out pretty much the same thing we had said on tape. Martin wrote:

August 15, 2001

To the Muammar Qadhafi Foundation:

I am a citizen of the United States of America. For the past fifteen years I have been residing in the Philippines as a missionary with the New Tribes Mission.

On May 27, 2001, my wife, Gracia, and I were abducted from Palawan where we had gone to celebrate our wedding anniversary. For the past 2½ months we have been held by the Al-Harakatul Islamia on the island of Basilan. We are well, but we desire to return home. We remember that approximately one year ago your foundation was instrumental in the release of the European hostages taken from Sipadan. We are requesting that you would consider helping us also. I realize that our two countries have not been on friendly terms in the past but I hope that this will not hinder you in helping us as individuals. As parents we would really like to be returned to our family. They and we would be eternally grateful for your help.