Kidnapped by the Taliban (17 page)

Several minutes later everyone in the group stood. The Commander had Rafiq make a call. Since Rafiq spoke to the caller in English, I guessed that it was Roy or Dean. I moved closer.

After a few moments Rafiq covered the phone. His jaw tensed as he spoke.

“The Taliban are talking about releasing only me and Farzad to get money for you. Dean says we should go. But I will not leave you.”

I didn’t like the sound of this. I took the phone. “Dean, I’m really concerned about this idea they have of separating us.”

“Dilip,” he said, “this plan of Rafiq and Farzad leaving is a great idea.”

A great idea? I’d be losing my friends, my translator, my only lifeline to our captors. I’d be totally alone.

“How could that possibly be a good idea? I wouldn’t have any way of communicating with these guys. I don’t think I can handle this on my own.”

Dean’s voice was calm and reassuring. “Trust me on this one, Dilip. This is the best thing that could happen to you.”

I squeezed the phone tighter and tried to control my emotions. Dean was the professional. I wanted to believe him. But I did not want to be left alone with these people.

I took a deep breath. “I will have to trust you,” I said. “But I don’t understand this at all.”

Moments after I ended the call with Dean, the Commander motioned Wallakah over to the rock and made a short speech. Whatever he said, Wallakah didn’t like it. His voice grew louder, and his face reddened.

Then Wallakah started yelling at the top of his lungs. Most of it I couldn’t understand, but one phrase was clear: “Pakistan madrassa! Pakistan madrassa!” The Commander, his expression neutral, raised his palms in an effort to calm Wallakah.

I realized that Wallakah was objecting to the plan of separating us, maybe also to his role in the new arrangement. He was more or less saying, “You guys don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t want to be part of this anymore. I’m going to Pakistan to join a madrassa.”

I put my hand over my heart and tried to catch Wallakah’s eye. I wanted to communicate the same message that he’d given to me so many times these last three days: It’s okay. Don’t worry. It’s going to work out.

A minute later Rafiq approached me. I saw the anguish on his face. He couldn’t look me in the eyes.

“They have decided to separate us,” he said. “I do not want to do this.”

I didn’t want him to do it either. I realized how terrible he felt about leaving me and feared for what was going to happen to all of us. But Dean had said this separation was a good idea.

And we had no choice.

“Go,” I said, tears coming to my eyes. “Go to Roy and discuss with him what to do next.”

“Dilip, whatever I have, I will sell it,” Rafiq said. “I will raise the money. Any help that I can do.”

Now it seemed everyone in the camp was stirring, preparing to move. Farzad walked over to Rafiq and me.

For the last three days I felt I’d been calm and strong, even at peace, despite being held hostage by dangerous insurgents and despite continual death threats. Now, however, I felt myself falling apart. I didn’t see how I could get through this without the two friends who’d shared this ordeal with me. Would I ever see them again?

The Commander and some of the other Taliban moved toward the trail that led down the mountain. It was time to say good-bye. Because of our language barrier, there was little Farzad and I could say to each other. His eyes, however, communicated the same concern, compassion, and sadness that I felt. Rafiq, meanwhile, raised his head this time to look at me. I saw that his eyes had also welled up.

I slipped my backpack off of my shoulder and handed it to Rafiq. The Taliban had taken most of my possessions, but they’d left my medical lecture notes in the backpack. I’d worked hard to refine my presentations at rural clinics over the years. If I didn’t survive this, I wanted Cilicia and the kids to at least have this evidence of my work among the people here.

“When you get to Kabul,” I said, “hand this over to Roy.”

Rafiq took the backpack, then removed his checkered head scarf and wrapped it around my neck. “Keep this so you stay warm,” he said, his voice catching. “I am promising that we will come back for you.”

Tears ran down my face as I gave him, and then Farzad, a long hug.

They walked about twenty feet to the edge of the plateau then turned. Rafiq motioned to his heart. Farzad touched his chest, then spread his palms. He was telling me to have a big heart.

“Yes, Farzad,” I said. “Yes, I will do that.”

They turned again and joined the Commander and his assistant. The Commander beckoned for the Urdu guy, who stood near me, to come over too. I motioned to the Urdu speaker, trying to convey “Can you stay?” If he remained with me, I might be able to communicate at least a little with these guys.

But my despair deepened when the Urdu speaker quickly turned away. Was he sorry about leaving me and couldn’t look me in the eyes, or was he just eager to link up with the Commander and the others? Either way, I’d lost my last chance at talking with my captors.

In single file Rafiq, Farzad, and the others stepped onto the slope. In seconds they were out of sight.

Moments later the Butcher and Haqqani walked away from us and down a different side of the mountain. Suddenly there were just six of us left: Wallakah, Hopeless, Ahmed, Senior and Junior Mullah, and me.

I sat down in front of a large rock, put my head down, and sobbed. I’d never felt so alone.

I was stunned by what happened next.

Ahmed, the young wrestler who’d put me in a headlock two days before, walked over, crouched in front of me, and waited for me to raise my head. He looked into my reddened eyes. I saw no anger, hatred, or contempt in his expression. Instead, I detected compassion.

Slowly Ahmed pulled out part of the scarf that surrounded his head and neck and raised it toward my face. Then, to my astonishment, he ever-so-gently began to dry the tears on my cheeks.

I was so surprised that I didn’t know what to do. A few seconds later he tapped his hand over his heart and, without a word, stood and walked away.

My sobs subsided a bit. Before I could recover from this amazing and unexpected display, however, Wallakah stepped into my view, crouched before me, and used his own scarf to carefully dry my tears. He also tapped his heart.

Incredibly, after Wallakah finished, Junior Mullah also took his place in front of me, removed the scarf that covered his face, and used it to wipe what remained of my tears. It later hit me that this was an especially vulnerable act by Junior Mullah since it was the first time he’d revealed his face.

I was blown away. These men were Taliban, kidnappers who associated with killers. In Wallakah’s case, at least, he was a killer himself. They had abducted me and my friends in order to extort money to support a violent insurgency. Yet something in my plight had struck a chord in them and brought out the best that humanity has to offer.

We might not have been able to communicate in words, but the language of compassion is understood by all.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE LAST NIGHT

3:30
P.M
., S
ATURDAY

WALLAKAH WAVED HIS ARM AT ME, INVITING ME TO JOIN THE others as they sat in a circle at the top of the mountain. Still moved by what had just happened, I did not hesitate to take a spot next to my captors. For good or ill, my fate now rested in the hands of these men.

Rafiq and Farzad were gone, hopefully on their way to being released. I was on my own. My mind raced as I tried to think of solutions. If I could somehow convince these guys to let me go, I could keep in touch with them, hitchhike to Kabul, get some money from my family and friends to pay them. But how could I convince them to release me? It was a crazy idea, but I was feeling desperate.

Hopeless made a fire at the edge of our circle. The base of the big rock where Senior Mullah still sat served as a windshield. I watched, fascinated, as Hopeless then removed the cleaning rod from his Kalashnikov, produced a plastic bag with leftover meat from last night’s dinner, and proceeded to mount pieces of the meat on the rod, using it as a skewer. He jammed a few sticks into the ground in front of the fire, creating a makeshift mount for the rod. In no time, we were being treated to barbecued lamb.

I was incredibly thirsty, but our group had no water. I repeatedly said, “
Pani
,” the Hindi-Urdu word for water, and pointed to the side of the mountain we’d climbed up earlier, remembering the pool we’d encountered on the trail. Yet the answer was always “No
pani
.” Apparently they didn’t want to go back that way. They must have still been worried about being discovered by the other Taliban.

Senior Mullah eventually pulled another Fresh & Cool gum stick from his pocket and handed it to me. It did help me produce some saliva for a few minutes, but when I was done, it left me thirstier than before.

Once we finished eating, the Taliban began packing up. We gathered at the edge of the plateau and began our descent down the steep mountainside and toward the valley.

Wallakah was next to me. As soon as we started, he said, “Rafiq, Farzad—brothers.” He pronounced it “buh-ruh-thers.”

That simple statement meant a lot to me. One of my favorite Afghan proverbs said, “The first time we meet, we are friends. The next time we meet, we are brothers.” Wallakah’s words reminded me of this. He was acknowledging that my relationship with Rafiq and Farzad went beyond friendship. He seemed touched by the fact that a foreigner like me could love Afghan people, his people, as brothers.

Yet Wallakah also had business to attend to with me. He pulled out a scarf and wrapped it around my head like a turban. Then he took the scarf Rafiq had given me, which I had around my neck, and wrapped it around my face so that only my eyes showed. He also removed one of his ammunition belts and slung it over my shoulder.

“You—shh,” he said. “You mujahideen. Mujahideen Chechnya.”

I got the idea. If we met someone, he wanted me to stay quiet and pose as one of them, a “freedom fighter.” The mujahideen part I could
understand. But from Chechnya? My appearance wasn’t anything close to Russian. Yet there was little point in trying to argue about it. I simply nodded. Later I realized he was thinking of mujahideen who traveled to other lands to fight for freedom. I was to pretend I had gone to battle in Chechnya.

I didn’t know if I should feel encouraged or more afraid that I now looked like my captors. If there was a rescue attempt, would they know it was me?

It was just after this that I noticed Junior Mullah was still showing his face, his scarf now wrapped around only his head. After he’d joined the group, Rafiq had said to me, “I might actually know him, but I cannot be sure because I can’t see his face.” We guessed that he was trying to hide his identity from us or, at least, from Rafiq. In a way I was touched that Junior Mullah had allowed me to see him. He apparently wasn’t afraid of being identified by me.

I was also touched by the solicitous way my captors treated me as we made our way down. Several times we had to jump from one rock to another. The others were quick to offer a hand or grab ahold of me to help me keep my balance. Even Hopeless put out his hand a couple of times and said something like “Steady” or “Slow.”

After about an hour, with the sun starting to set, we reached the base of the mountain. About a thousand yards beyond it was a large one-story home I’d seen from the mountain’s peak. From up there I’d noticed it had a single section nearest us, separated from at least two more connected sections by a long wall. Now, as we headed straight toward the house, it was clear that this was our destination.

As we neared that first section, I saw that it was probably a single room, constructed of the usual stone and mud. The long stone wall, six feet tall, blocked our view of the rest of the house. This wall
ran perpendicular to the front of the first room and extended about twenty feet from the right side of the room’s front face, the wall and the room forming an
L
shape around a roofless veranda. The ground here was a smooth layer of mud and rock.

Wallakah led us across the veranda and into the only entrance to this section of the house, at the corner formed by the
L
. As he went in the door-sized opening, he called out, “Woo! Woo!”

It was indeed one room, about fifteen by twenty feet. Cushions lay on the smooth dirt floor. Four ventilation holes, each about a foot square, served as windows in the long entrance wall. Another five holes were visible along the far wall.

Moments later a slender man in his thirties entered the room. He was about five feet seven inches and wore a dark
salwar kameez
. This man greeted Wallakah as if he knew him.

Wallakah introduced him to the rest of us. When my turn came, Wallakah said something like, “This is a mujahideen who fought in Chechnya.” I put my hand over my heart and bowed slightly, the traditional Afghan greeting, and took a seat on the floor with the others. The ruse seemed to be successful. I doubted our host knew I was a hostage.

Hopeless, Ahmed, and Junior Mullah all stacked their Kalashnikovs in the far corner of the room, away from the opening. I dropped my ammunition belt there too. Senior Mullah didn’t carry a gun. The night before, when the sounds of that single-engine plane had been so prevalent, everyone had a heightened sense of the need for security. Nearly all of them kept their rifles close at hand. On this day, however, we hadn’t seen or heard the plane since early afternoon. Security now seemed much less of a concern among my captors.

The lone exception was Wallakah. He kept his AK-47 slung over
his shoulder. I would dearly wish later that he’d followed the lead of his colleagues.

Just after I sat down, another man entered the room. The slender man introduced him as a mujahideen fighting in Pakistan. When I heard that, I was glad I’d been identified as having fought in Chechnya. If Wallakah had introduced me as also fighting in Pakistan, I would have been expected to converse at length with this stranger.