In the Presence of My Enemies (26 page)

Sabaya had it. “Is that box for us?” I eagerly asked, even though I could see the New Tribes Mission marking on the outside.

“Yes, it is. But I have to look through it, because it might have some kind of microchip or homing device in it, so they’ll know where we are.”

“Sabaya, trust me—our mission would never do that!”

“Well, I have to look through it.” With that, he turned away. A crowd began gathering around him.

I went back to where Martin was just being unchained from the tree after a night of sleep. “Martin, a box came in for us last night. They’re going through it right now. Maybe you’d better go over there and claim it, or there is going to be nothing left!”

He immediately headed that way. When he got close, Sabaya said, “Oh, don’t come over here; we’ll bring the box to you.”

“I just want to make sure that we get it,” Martin said, standing his ground. Sure enough, he saw items starting to be removed from the box. One of the guys was already holding a package of Snickers bars.

Meanwhile, I went to get the glasses from Musab. He handed them over, a new pair from the same optician as before. When Martin put them on, a big smile came across his face; he could see clearly again, after so long! We were both so thankful.

In time, Sabaya finally brought us the box. “I had to take out the Cheez Whiz, because I really like that stuff,” he said with a smile. “But the bulk of everything is still here for you.”

We sat in our hammock and began pulling out our treasures—everything from cookies and crackers and peanut butter and bouillon cubes and soup mixes to letters and pictures. There was a
Newsweek
magazine with a cover story about the U.S. military buildup in Afghanistan. It had pictures of the weaponry they used—such as night-vision goggles and various guns. We knew the Abu Sayyaf would be interested in seeing the pictures even if they couldn’t read the articles.

November 22–24

The Burnham children spend Thanksgiving with Grandpa and Grandma Jones in Arkansas.

We began making little piles of all the wonderful things. But at the same time, we couldn’t stop thinking about those Snickers bars. The bounty we had wasn’t quite enough somehow. And then we looked at each other and said, “You know, this box has arrived from our mission out of nowhere—and we’re complaining about what the Abu Sayyaf took? We should be rejoicing in the Lord’s goodness.”

We decided we needed to share. Martin began going from group to group, giving out spices, soup mixes, and cookies. I gave one of the two deodorants to Ediborah, plus some peanuts. She was very happy, and so were the others.

All of a sudden, Martin and I looked at each other again and realized something incredible: It was Thursday, November 22— Thanksgiving Day! We had asked the Lord earlier in the month to send us something nice for Thanksgiving, and he had done it!

Of course, I had asked for things before—a gift for Martin on his birthday—and been disappointed. So I hadn’t really expected God to do anything this time. But here was a whole box of food, and it was so humbling. The Lord showed us he could bless us even when we didn’t have any faith. How we enjoyed that package!

We were a little apprehensive that the
Newsweek
might cause trouble as people began seeing how well-prepared the American troops were for battle. But it had the opposite effect. The guys eagerly passed the magazine from one to another, studying the pictures and even ripping out some of them to save. They were totally intrigued. Martin and I had to fight to get to read the articles ourselves.

By now, of course, President Arroyo had made her U.S. trip, and we were still alive instead of in body bags in the cargo bay of her plane, as Sabaya had threatened. Actually, she had said earlier on the radio that she would be escorting us back home as her gift to the American government. It sounded good to the Filipino audience, but obviously, it hadn’t happened.

Over the months, we had heard so many rumors about our being ransomed. But because the president of a country said, “They are almost out; I’m going to take them to the States with me,” we couldn’t help but hope.

A day or two after Thanksgiving, she came back on the radio to report that her time in Washington had been very productive, and she had called our parents to say we would be home by Christmas. We just laughed when we heard that. We knew it wasn’t going to happen.

* * *

November 30

Bryant Gumbel of CBS’s The Early Show does a live interview with Martin’s mother, daughter, and sister-in-law.

That Saturday, the guys brought in some
gabi
, which is a kind of stalk with a leaf on it, similar to rhubarb, only three or four times bigger. They cut it up and boiled it, then poured off the water because it was poisonous, then put in new water and boiled it again.
Gabi
is similar to cassava, which has a high arsenic content; if it’s not fixed right, it’ll kill you.

That night, the cooks must have been in a hurry and taken a shortcut, because while I was eating, my mouth began to itch, and my tongue started swelling. This had happened once before with
gabi
. I knew to back off immediately.

During the night, I woke up with severe chest pains. I wondered if I was having a heart attack. Then I thought back to the
gabi
at suppertime. I lay awake for much of that night and was glad I hadn’t eaten more.

Early the next morning, which was Sunday, Sabaya called us over to say, “We’ve got a television reporter coming in. You are going to do an interview.”

This was interesting. We didn’t know whether to be glad or apprehensive.

“This is your chance to let the world know what poor condition you’re in,” he continued, “and that they need to ransom you. Gracia, if you could cry a little bit and be upset, that would help.”

I looked at him and said, “How many days recently have I
not
cried?”

“Oh, yeah. That will be no problem for you.”

Sabaya went on to tell Martin to mention two mediators: Sairin Karno, the Malaysian ex-senator, and somebody named Yusuf Hamdan. He rattled off those names like I’d say John Smith. Martin replied, “Well, when I start talking to a camera, I’m not going to remember.” So Sabaya grabbed a piece of paper and wrote out the names.

Within minutes we were ushered down the hill. On the way, I thought to myself,
This could be good. Maybe we’ll get to say happy birthday to Zachary!
He would turn eleven in a couple of weeks, on December 13.

Waiting for us was a young woman in khaki pants and an Adidas sweatshirt, with her head appropriately covered, of course. She had no film crew; instead, she held a small video camera in her left hand. She introduced herself. “Hello, I’m Arlyn de la Cruz from Net 25 television.”

I gave her a hug and said, “Thank you for coming.” I was struck in that moment that someone like this had actually been able to find us! The AFP had been trying for six months, and all of a sudden, here was a TV reporter right in front of my face. What I didn’t know at the time was that this young woman was a personal friend of Janjalani’s. She prided herself on getting into dangerous places and coming out with gutsy, award-winning interviews.

Accompanying her was a man named Alvin Siglos, a boyhood friend of Sabaya’s. He stood around the edges taking his own home videos.

The Abu Sayyaf, meanwhile, encircled us like a choir, brandishing their weapons. The heavy-gauge barrel of an M57 mortar was intentionally placed right over Martin’s shoulder. Sabaya stood with arms folded across his black shirt with the “No Fear” logo—a fitting mark for him—ready to throw in comments along the way.

Martin looked gaunt in his brown plaid pullover shirt and brown
pantos.
When he spoke, he clearly articulated the message that we were in desperate straits and needed help. “I would say to my own government,” he said, “could you negotiate or talk to these people?”

Throughout the interview, his tone was controlled, almost flat, without flair of any kind. He seemed to be conveying to the viewer,
I’m walking a real tightrope here. I’m not telling you the tenth of it, but . . . fill in the blanks, okay?

Meanwhile, I did what Sabaya wanted me to do and what I felt inside: I let my emotions show. My voice quivered at times as I said, “We’re always hungry; there’s never enough food. This is no way to live. There’s no way to take care of yourself. . . . We’ve been forgotten. We need someone to show us some mercy. Is there no one in this whole country who can help us?”

After the interview, Arlyn went over to sit by Sabaya’s hammock for more conversation. Martin and I went back to our place.

“I really just want to talk to her for a while,” I told Martin. “There’s so much I want to say off camera.”

“Then go over there. Tell Sabaya you want to talk to her, woman to woman. He’ll understand that.”

I did. We began to visit. Arlyn also promised me a day at a spa when I got out. I told her I’d never been to one and would look forward to it.

She told us that September 11 had really hurt our chances, because now the U.S. was mad at terrorists and would never pay anything. As far as other sources of money were concerned, the stakes had grown too big for ransom. And besides, the Philippine generals and government officials would need their cut. It was not very encouraging news.

She was hungry, and it felt good to be able to share crackers and peanut butter with her. She clearly sympathized with how awful our plight was. She ended up giving me a red sweater. I gave her letters to forward to our families. We had written them just in case we got a chance to send them out with someone.

December 7

Arlyn de la Cruz’s jungle interview airs on Net 25 in the Philippines.

December 11

Mindy’s school Christmas concert is held. A special video tribute is given to the victims of 9/11 as well as Martin and Gracia.

While there, I learned that a new plan was being hatched. Sabaya said, “Arlyn, you can go out and sell this footage to CNN or some network for at least a million dollars—maybe two million. Just send it back to us directly for their ransom, and then we can let them go. You’ll get to be famous, we’ll get paid—everybody will be happy.”

Sounded good to me! (None of us knew in that moment, of course, that the market value of the interview was not nearly so huge. CBS ended up paying fifty thousand dollars.)

“Even if I can’t sell this to some foreign media,” Arlyn added, “maybe my church, Iglesia ni Cristo, could help me put something together to help you.” This is an indigenous denomination that’s very large, with some unusual doctrines; for example, they believe that when Christ returns, not only will they rise to meet him but their
buildings
will go up as well, all of which have the same architecture across the Philippines. Attendance at weekly services is mandatory, complete with a sign-in procedure for enforcement.

Soon the reporter was gone, and we immediately mobiled out of that place, in case the military found out what had occurred. Would this interview get anyone’s attention? So many other attempts had produced nothing to this point. We didn’t expect miracles, that was for sure.

* * *

The longer Ramadan goes on, the more irritable its observers become from the odd eating schedule. Someone told us that in some Islamic countries, there’s a lot of road rage and street brawls near the end. It’s as if people are just sick of the regimen.

I guess during Ramadan, you’re also not supposed to have sex—although maybe that rule is like eating and applies only to daytime hours. Musab loaned me a rule book once that outlined all the requirements for those who disobey. I had to chuckle at one that said, “If you inadvertently have sex during Ramadan, here’s what you have to do to make it right.”

I looked at Martin and said, “Excuse me, but how does a person inadvertently have sex? I don’t know!”

Meanwhile, of course, earning points with Allah had to go on. One day a captor named Lukman brought Martin and me a huge plate of bananas boiled in coconut milk. “Thank you!” we exclaimed. “How nice of you!” We assumed this was an act of almsgiving on his part.

It got to the point that there just was not enough food to support everyone. We were all scrounging for nutrition. At one point we had nothing but
carabao
hide for three straight days. They put the skin into the fire to burn it, then scraped it to remove the hair and soften it up, then burned it again, then scraped it again, over and over. At last they cut it up into chunks with a
bolo,
then boiled it for a long time.

What all this effort produces is a hunk of fat with extremely chewy skin on it. But by the time we put salt on it, it didn’t taste as bad as it sounds. Of course, when a person is extremely hungry . . .

I found a piece of paper and, for the first time, began making some daily notes, like a journal. It was mainly a record of how long we walked, whether it rained or not, what food we managed to get, and how we slept. On Thursday, December 13, which was our son Zach’s birthday, I recorded, “I feel like a dirty animal—muddy, wet, stinky. Asked God for a nice place to take a bath.”

A day or two before, a delegation had been sent out to get budget. In the process, however, they had met up with the AFP. One person was killed, and a couple of others were separated from us for a while. The rest came back empty-handed. Now we would have nothing.

On that Thursday morning, I said to Martin, “It’s Wednesday night in the States—midweek service time in at least some churches. People are praying for us right now.”

December 13

Zach’s eleventh birthday. CBS manages to attend the party. Zach has to blow out his candles four times for the camera.

“Yes, that’s true,” he replied.