In the Presence of My Enemies (36 page)

“How does Monday morning sound? Soon enough?” I kept talking, trying to update them on the travel plans I’d made with Ted Allegra.

I hated to break the upbeat mood of the conversation, but I knew I needed to talk to the kids about their dad. I had read somewhere that when a loved one passes away, people want to know the details of exactly what happened, even if it’s hard to hear. Like with Martin’s parents, I wanted my children to hear it all from me, not from someone else. I asked if they were ready to hear about how their dad had died.

“Yeah, Mom, go ahead and tell us.” So I plunged into the story. The rawness of the event was impossible to gloss over, of course.

I could hear sniffling on the other end of the line. I knew they were crying—this wasn’t easy for anyone. When I finished the story, Felicia and several others left the room.

“Mom, are you going to have a nervous breakdown?” Mindy asked. “Everyone is expecting one.”

“Oh, honey,” I said, “I had my breakdowns in the jungle. Actually, I wasn’t very strong there. But your dad sure was. I learned so much from him this past year.”

Then she asked, “Are you going to make us move from here?”

Up to that point, I hadn’t really thought about our next step. But I could tell from Mindy’s tone that moving would not be popular. If my kids wanted to stay in Kansas, that’s what we’d do.

“No, we’ll live there,” I said. “I’m not going to make you pull up and move again. We’ve been through some hard times, and we are really going to be a family again. From now on, we’ll make our decisions together.”

After I spoke with the kids, I had the chance to talk to others in the room. In her classic southern “Missourah” drawl, my mom said, “We are thrilled to hear from you, Gracia. We are happy and very sad at the same time, but it’s so nice to hear your voice.”

My dad, ever protective, jumped in to say, “Gracia, you’re probably very tired now and need to stop talking.” I told him no, that on the contrary I just wanted to talk and talk.

The kids seemed to feel the same way. As Zach excitedly told me about throwing Aunt Beth off the jet ski at the lake the day before, the other kids cut in to say what a wild driver he was!

At the same time, I kept hearing my folks repeat, “It’s so good to hear your voice.” They were afraid, I guess, that I would be too broken up to carry on a conversation. Instead, we were reconnecting in a wonderful way.

In retrospect, I think the phone call was especially bittersweet for Martin’s family. I know they were glad I was alive, but at the same time they were also grieving the loss of their son and brother. It had to be extremely difficult for them. As for my kids, I think it simply helped to hear that I was okay.

That went well,
I thought as we hung up. I was encouraged by their resiliency. Maybe what I’d said about rebuilding our lives as a family could be true after all.

As the day wore on, my room filled with a steady stream of visitors. One conversation ran into another, it seemed. I received several phone calls about Martin’s body. The autopsy had been finished, and they wondered if they should leave his beard as it was or shave it off. I had no idea what to say. After several phone calls to his parents in the U.S., we decided to leave his beard on. He was so thin by the time he died, and I didn’t want to scare the kids. I thought with his beard gone, it would just show how sunken his cheeks had become. I still don’t know if I made the right decision there, because the kids had never seen him with such a long beard.

I spent the rest of the day meeting people, answering questions, and making decisions. At one point Major Stroh came to sit on the bed beside me and start the first of many debriefing sessions for intelligence purposes. I talked on and on about what life had been like the past year, how the Abu Sayyaf had treated us, and the various emotional peaks and valleys we’d been through. She diligently took notes on a pad, but when I got to the part about Martin discovering his handcuffs no longer worked, I suddenly lost control.

“No!” I yelled. “You can’t write that down! It’ll make him look bad. He was so afraid people would think he was a chicken or something for not trying to escape! Don’t tell anybody what I just said!” I was shrieking as I began to sob.

She put down her pen instantly and just sat quietly. Tears began to fill her eyes, too. She reached over to give me a big hug. We wept together, until finally I could calm down and regain my composure. I apologized for yelling at her, and we continued.

Later that afternoon, a State Department counselor arrived. Gary Percival specialized in hostage situations and was a really neat Christian guy. “You’re going to get hit with a lot of press and a lot of people wanting you to do things you don’t want to do,” he told me. “You’re also going to have to deal with people who love you and haven’t been able to do anything for you for a year but wished they could. Now will be their big opportunity—whether you want what they have in mind or not. They won’t consciously mean to run your life, but that’s what it will amount to.

“You are going to have to decide how much you want to do, what you want to do, what you can let others do for you, and how to say no nicely to the rest.” I hadn’t thought about any of this, but I was grateful for the advice.

We talked for a long time. When I became teary-eyed as I shared parts of my story, he just sat there—unlike everyone else, who always ran to get me a tissue. Finally, Gary commented, “Do you notice I’m not getting up and getting anything for you?”

“Well, I hadn’t really noticed.”

“I’m going to let you ask for what you need. If you need a Kleenex, you can ask me for a Kleenex,” he said. “You haven’t had to make very many decisions for more than a year, and now you may not know how. I’ll help you if you need help. But you have to express it.”

I thought back to this advice more than once in the days and weeks ahead. The other thing Gary told me was, “It is not your job to make everybody happy now that you are out. Just from being with you for these few hours, I can tell that you want everything to run smoothly, you want everybody to feel good, you don’t want to disappoint anyone.” This guy obviously had my number! “Your job now is not to make everybody happy with you. Your job is to do what is best for you and get on with your life.

“For example, you don’t owe the media anything. Feel free to talk to them—in fact, it’s probably good if you do. But don’t feel like you’re obligated to them. Just write out a good statement to make when you leave here, and another one for when you land in America, and you’ll be set.”

Later on, three of our mission leaders came to see me: Bob Meisel; Jody Crain, the field director; plus Macon Hare from the home office in the States. It was so good to see them and talk together.

Just before President Arroyo was set to arrive, it dawned on me that I hadn’t yet prayed about the visit. In the jungle, Martin and I had prayed about every little thing. We had thanked God for every drink of water. Now here I was, only twenty-four hours into the midst of plenty, with a nice bed and medicine, and I could already see my whole attitude and thought process changing.

Martin’s sister Cheryl, who lives in the Philippines, had come to be with me. I turned to her and said, “Would you sit down here and pray with me about President Arroyo’s visit?” She held my hand and we prayed together. I can’t tell you how good that felt.

President Arroyo finally showed up about nine that evening, complete with a video crew. I hadn’t realized what a small person she was. I’m only five foot two, and she was noticeably shorter than I.

She was beautifully dressed. I knew she had had a long, hard day, and I was honored that she still came to see me so late. She brought a basket of orchids with other gorgeous flowers, as well as a basket of fruit. She sat on the couch near my chair, and at first, as the cameramen were maneuvering to get the angles they wanted, it seemed kind of awkward. She didn’t quite know what to say, and neither did I.

“Tell me how you are feeling,” she began.

“Fine—really, I’m doing very well,” I answered. “My leg is going to be all right, they say.”

What do I say now?
I wondered.

Without thinking, I said the first thing that came to my mind. “You know, you might be interested in the fact that the Abu Sayyaf really don’t like it that a woman is running this country, because they don’t think much of women. Personally, it seems to me you’re the first president who has ever said no to them. Maybe that’s part of why they’re upset that the Philippines would let a woman be president.”

“No, I hadn’t realized that,” she said, keeping her composure.

I glanced over at Ted Allegra, who looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

Oops! That wasn’t a very good way to start, was it?

I took a breath and said, “Um, would you like to hear about my husband, Martin, and how he died?”

“Yes, I would.”

I began the story of our walking all night, getting to the hillside, setting up our hammocks, and then hearing gunfire start from the top of the hill. I went through it all. She was genuinely listening. By the end of the story, we were just sitting there facing each other and talking like two friends.

I told her I wasn’t mad at anybody, and I wasn’t blaming anybody—except the Abu Sayyaf. I assured her that we had never forgotten who the bad guys were.

Sometimes at night when I couldn’t sleep in the jungle, I used to lie in the hammock and think of all the unkind things I would say to President Arroyo someday—about how her military was on the take, and how they were too proud to stand aside and let the Americans lead the rescue effort. I’d made up my little speech. It wasn’t nice. My natural self wanted to blame someone.

Then I would try to tell myself either that it wasn’t her fault, or that even if it was, she was responsible to God, not me, for her actions.

At this meeting, none of my venom came even close to the surface. I didn’t feel like chewing her out after all. I knew the army felt very bad for what had happened. I didn’t need to make anyone feel worse.

* * *

On Sunday, I fulfilled my wish and called my brother, Paul, to say happy birthday. We had a wonderful talk. He told me later, “When I first heard that Martin had been shot to death, I got very angry and bitter. But when I heard how well you were coping, something healed in my heart.”

Around noon, my New Tribes Mission friends began to arrive—probably thirty of them altogether. Ted Allegra let them in six or eight at a time so I wouldn’t be overwhelmed. What a special time we had, talking and crying and even laughing together. Everybody seemed to want to touch me and make sure I was okay.

Later in the day, I got a chance to meet Ediborah’s four children, her mother, and her brother, all of whom President Arroyo had specially flown to Manila. We spent maybe an hour together, and I told them stories about the year and how brave Ediborah had been. I told them she had been a good cook and had even built the cooking fires when the guys were too lazy to do it. She had always looked good and smelled good. Her English had been excellent, I said, which was such a help in keeping us informed.

The family members were somber, of course, still grieving their loss. I did the best I could to comfort their hearts.

Of course, I was not about to leave the Philippines without a visit with my dear friends Angie and Fe. The girls had been waiting their turn for hours. They finally came walking through the door, cautiously at first, and then we fell into each other’s arms for long, long hugs.

They looked so good! Beautiful haircuts, makeup, clothes that fit—we laughed about that. No more baggy clothes to hide our figures!

Buddy and Divine (Angie’s brother-in-law and sister) were there, too. They told me about the injuries they’d sustained as we were escaping from the Lamitan hospital and about their recovery. Angie and Fe got down on their knees beside my chair and we talked and talked. They told me someone had spotted Hurayra in the Zamboanga passport office, probably trying to head for Malaysia. That sharp-eyed person had tried to chase Hurayra but had lost him in the crowded street.

How good it was to see these girls I had come to love dearly, now smiling, talking, and rebuilding their lives. They had been through so much! We were survivors, and we celebrated until Ted announced that their time was up. He was afraid I was wearing down. But by now, I didn’t want to be protected—I wanted to keep talking to my friends.

Later that evening, my sister Mary and her husband, Lance, arrived. What a thrill! She just came marching in and took over in her usual Mary way. She sat me down on the bed and then pulled out my wedding ring! She had ended up with it and hadn’t yet given it to Mindy, in hope that I would someday be released. Mary had been saving it for me. I put it on as we sat there . . . my most prized possession!

Mary and I went through some of my stuff in the closet and figured out what I needed. The nurses had gone out to the market to buy some baggy pants that would fit over the fat dressing on my wound so I’d have something to wear home.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked.

“Well, how would you like to shave my legs? It’s only been about four months now!”

“Sure!” So we headed for the bathtub. What a riot. As I recall, Mary, Cheryl, and two nurses all tried to help.

Mary was eager to update me on her pregnancy, now four months along. She told me she had been using my situation as a wonderful excuse. “Whenever I don’t want to clean house or do the dishes, I tell Lance, ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that—my sister is a hostage!’ ”

We talked late into the night as we packed up for the flight the next morning.

* * *

When we got to the airport early that Monday, the ambassador was there to greet me. Soon it was time for me to face the reporters.

I pulled out my notes, as Ted and Gary had advised, and made my statement.

Good morning. Martin and I had so many dear friends here in the Philippines. You know who you are. Our friends in Malaybalay, in Brookes Point, in Darapida [our barrio in Aritao], in Manila—we love you so very much, and we thank you for the precious memories that you gave us during our fifteen years here. Martin loved this country with all his heart.