Kidnapped by the Taliban (10 page)
10:00
A.M
., T
HURSDAY
LIFE AS A PRISONER OF THE TALIBAN COULD BE A BIT SURREAL. On this day it certainly felt that way to me.
We were back in the thatch-roofed room of brick, stone, and mud that Rafiq and Farzad recognized as a mosque. While we three hostages leaned against the wall and tried to get some desperately needed rest, the four Taliban sat in a circle and talked among themselves.
“What are they saying?” I whispered to Rafiq.
“Nothing to do with us,” he whispered back. “It’s all local things—religion and politics.”
Religion and politics. Most of the Afghans I knew—in fact, most people I knew, no matter where they were from—loved to express their opinions on these two time-honored topics. Apparently what was true for the rest of the world was also true among the Taliban. I watched as they shared their thoughts, sometimes smiling or laughing, other times with earnest expressions.
Islam was by far the predominant religion in Afghanistan. Roughly 80 percent of the people belonged to the Sunni denomination, including the Taliban, while as much as 19 percent were members
of the Shia branch of Islam.
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The Taliban represented only a small segment of the Sunni population (one recent estimate placed the number of rebel fighters at twenty-five thousand
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). That segment practiced a particularly extreme version of the Sunni religion, one that rejected any compromise with moderate Islam or traditional values.
In recent history Afghan Muslims had been largely tolerant of each other’s religious differences. That began to change, however, during the bloody civil war in the 1990s. The conflict pitted sects and ethnic groups against one another. When the Taliban gained military and political power, anyone who disagreed with them suffered. The Hazara, Persian-speaking Shiites living primarily in central Afghanistan, were victims of multiple massacres. Author and journalist Ahmed Rashid wrote, “While the Taliban claim they are fighting a jihad against corrupt, evil Muslims, the ethnic minorities see them as using Islam as a cover to exterminate non-Pashtuns.”
3
I wondered what our captors were saying. Were they discussing a recent confrontation or battle? Were they expressing their admiration for the Taliban way of life? How could they defend a society that so easily embraced intimidation, terrorism, and murder? It was strange to watch this casual conversation while we sat just a few feet away, not knowing if or when they might decide to end our lives as well.
It must have been about eleven that morning when the supply guy returned to our room carrying fresh naan and another dish in a steel bowl. It was time for lunch.
Rafiq, Farzad, and I sat cross-legged in a circle with our captors. The main course was freshly cooked potato curry. It looked like something I would make for our family in our kitchen at home. Both the
naan and the curry were passed around then placed on top of a mat in the middle of the circle where anyone could reach them for seconds.
After several minutes of eating and small talk by the Taliban, I began to feel full. Wallakah looked at me and said, “Did you get enough? Please eat more.” To be polite, I took another helping of curry.
As we ate, I thought about the importance of food and mealtimes in the communal life of cultures. There was something about the shared experience of replenishing ourselves with tea, naan, stew, or curry that broke down barriers and encouraged relaxed and heartfelt communication. It was a practice as old as history. Sitting and eating here in the same manner as people had centuries before, I felt a connection to them I couldn’t fully explain.
I also recalled Haqqani’s comment from earlier that morning: “We’re not treating you this way, are we? We don’t treat people like that.” It was true that we weren’t being mistreated. We were given regular square meals and, in fact, were invited to share in everything that the Taliban ate. There was no sense of hoarding or possessiveness. It was in some ways a contrast to Western materialism.
I found myself caught between feelings of revulsion and admiration for my captors.
When Wallakah again implored me to eat more, I raised my hands to indicate I was more than satisfied. “Thank you,” I said, as I nodded to each of the Taliban in turn, “for the wonderful lunch.”
With a full stomach and after the long hike of the previous night and the events of the morning, I felt exhaustion overtaking me. I sensed no immediate threat. I retreated to a spot against the wall as did Rafiq and Farzad to my right. Haqqani moved to sit next to Farzad. To their right was the fire pit.
I leaned my head against the wall. I was ready for a nap.
Wallakah, however, had something else in mind. He sat back against the pole near the center of the room, about five feet away from me. He looked at me and said through Rafiq’s translation, “Could I ask you some questions?”
I’d begun to establish a bit of rapport with Wallakah. Exhausted as I was, I certainly didn’t want to jeopardize that now. I sat back up.
“Sure,” I said. “Absolutely. I will try to answer any questions that you have.”
“Where did you meet your wife?”
I studied Wallakah’s face. I saw only curiosity there, but I remained guarded. After all, this still could be the man who would pull the trigger to end my life.
“We met in college,” I said.
“Did you fall in love with her from the beginning, or was it a gradual progression?”
“I fell in love right away,” I answered, “but our love has progressed and deepened since then.”
Wallakah didn’t hesitate. As soon as Rafiq finished his translation of my answer, my captor launched into his next question.
“Do you still love her?”
“We have our differences, of course. But I love her today more than ever. She is the only woman I have ever loved.”
The questions kept coming, about my four children, about my father and mother and their occupations, about my in-laws, my aunties and uncles and their children, and all their careers. I wondered,
Is he trying to get a feel for my family’s overall financial clout? Is the purpose of this to help him establish an appropriate ransom?
I again examined Wallakah’s posture and facial expressions. He was leaning forward, apparently eager to hear every word. There was a
kind of glee in his eyes. I didn’t sense that our conversation was about money. It felt more like intense curiosity. I decided that he was simply taking advantage of the incredibly rare opportunity to talk with and learn more about an outsider, someone different from him.
As the questions continued, I stole glances at the others in the room. Rafiq and Farzad both seemed to be listening intently. Haqqani was actually smiling, apparently enjoying our conversation. It was nothing like his earlier demeanor.
Ahmed sat behind Wallakah and to his left. His expression was neutral; I couldn’t tell if he cared about our conversation or not. To Wallakah’s left, almost against the far wall, was Hopeless. For an instant my eyes caught his, and I realized he could not have been more indifferent. He was always fiddling with something—his shoes or his prayer beads. This time it was his Kalashnikov, and it was pointed at me. I found myself praying that the gun would not go off while he cleaned it. I would rather be taken out in the wild and shot intentionally than be killed by a misfire while talking casually in this shelter.
“Where do your cousins work?” Wallakah asked me. “Why do they live there?” I tried to explain my extended family’s whereabouts and motivations. Wallakah’s questions were more evidence to me that the Taliban, like other Afghans, defined themselves first by their families, which included their extended families, and their people group.
“Which of your cousins are you closest to?” Wallakah asked.
“I’m naturally closest to those who live near and that I see most often,” I said. “But we try to all get together at least once or twice a year.”
As I answered this question, I noticed Ahmed tearing up. I didn’t understand why but didn’t want to interrupt the conversation with
Wallakah to ask. For all I knew, it was just dust bothering his eyes. Later, however, Rafiq told me that Ahmed had been complaining to the other insurgents. “I didn’t want to be part of a kidnapping,” Ahmed told them. “I thought we were going to recover money that was owed to you. You lied to me.” Apparently my sharing about my family triggered more regret and a tearful reaction.
It was shortly after I observed this change in Ahmed that Hopeless gave me a dark look, then spat out a few words in the direction of Wallakah and Haqqani. They ignored him.
To my surprise, Farzad then put his finger to his lips and briefly spoke to Hopeless in a calm, even dignified manner. Whatever he said, Hopeless took it without comment or retaliation.
Months later I learned what was actually said during this exchange.
Hopeless: “Why are you talking to this donkey’s son? Just give me the word and I’ll end it all.”
Farzad: “Shh. We are not going to be talking about such things.”
When I found out what Hopeless had said, I was glad Rafiq chose not to translate at the time.
A few minutes after Hopeless expressed his desire to put an end to the “donkey’s son,” Haqqani provided the explanation for Hopeless’s attitude. He gestured at Hopeless and said, “He has a mission. He’s been assigned to take your truck and perform a suicide bombing in Kabul next week.”
No wonder Hopeless looked so hopeless! His anger and emotional distance now made perfect sense.
I’d heard stories that in some madrassas, students were taught that a glorious eternity was in store for them if they gave their lives to kill “infidels.” Paradise was a place where blue skies and virgin girls awaited suicide attackers.
Based on the behavior of Hopeless, however, I didn’t think he truly believed it. He and others like him tried to act in a way they thought would please God, yet they had no joy or hope over it. It seemed they had only uncertainty in their minds and spirits.
I actually felt sorry for him.
Wallakah still paid no attention to Hopeless and continued his questioning. After more than an hour of queries about my family, our conversation took an abrupt and more personal turn.
“If I put a gun in your hand, would you find it easy to kill someone?” he asked.
I was startled by the question, but my answer was blunt. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I could not bring myself to hurt someone that way. I am trained as a doctor to save people’s lives. Even if I was not a doctor, my faith and personality would not allow me to do this.”
It was Wallakah’s turn to be blunt. “I have killed many people,” he said. “This is all I’ve done in my life—kill people.” I noticed that there was no pride in his words. Then this apparently ruthless murderer surprised me with the depth of his thinking. He compared and analyzed our lives.
“You do these humanitarian projects because of what your father and your family taught you when you were growing up,” he said. “The reason I do what I do is because it is what my father showed me. He taught me everything that I know. This is all I watched my father do until I was five years old—kill people. Then he was arrested, and I joined the Taliban. My father is thirty-four years old and has been in Pul-e-Charkhi prison in Kabul for the last fourteen years.”
Sadness washed over Wallakah’s face when he spoke about his father. After his words were translated, I interjected a comment of my own.
“You are nineteen years old,” I said. “I am thirty-nine years old. I am old enough to be your father.”
This brought a grin back to Wallakah’s face.
“I am a father myself,” he said. “I have a one-year-old son.” I noticed he did not add that he wanted his son to follow in his father’s footsteps.
I was astonished. Through our conversation, I had connected with this young man, a teenager who looked so much older, a teenager who had personally and violently taken many lives. Despite our divergent backgrounds and my horror at the atrocities he had committed, I could converse with him based on the common threads that linked us as husbands, fathers, and sons . . . as human beings.
During past visits to Afghanistan, I’d wondered more than once what I would say if I ever had the chance to speak with an active member of the Taliban. Given what I knew of their hatred of foreigners, particularly Americans, I expected it would be nearly impossible to get them to even listen to me, let alone convince them that they had other options for the future and how to view life. I now realized that my own views would also have been an obstacle to any meaningful interaction. I hated how they intimidated their fellow Afghans in rural areas, and I deplored the violence they perpetrated against anyone they perceived as an enemy. I had categorized them as inhumane, wild cannibals who wanted nothing to do with a civilized way of life and would do anything to preserve their way of living and thinking.
Now, in the midst of my heart-to-heart talk with Wallakah, I realized that the picture might be a bit more complicated.
The surprises on this day were not over. Wallakah began asking me detailed questions about life in the United States. Since the Taliban
were famous for seeing America as the “Great Satan,” I did not expect this. But perhaps I should not have been surprised. When I met people on my travels around the world, everyone had an opinion about the United States, either positive or critical. Yet people were also always curious. Wallakah, it seemed, was no exception.
After I had answered a few of his questions about the United States, Wallakah stunned me once again: “Could you take me to America?”
I blinked and tried to hide my shock. The idea was outlandish, but I didn’t want to discourage him.
“Yes, that is possible,” I said. “The U.S. has its problems, but it is still the greatest place to live on earth simply because of the fact that you can exercise freedom and liberty as an individual. When people use that freedom and liberty for the overall good of their society, it has an overwhelmingly positive impact on the individual and on society.”