In the Presence of My Enemies (42 page)

He also had a bit of welcome advice for Jeff, Mindy, and Zach. “Do you kids know how you can be a success?” he asked with all seriousness.

They shook their heads, waiting for him to answer.

He cracked a smile as he replied, “Obey your mother!” We all laughed together.

“Thank you so much for everything you tried to do for Martin and me,” I said.

“Well, you’re quite welcome,” he said. “And there’s something you can do for me. Pray for me every day, because I really need it. If a person working in this office doesn’t realize his need for God’s wisdom, he just really doesn’t understand what’s going on.”

The same welcoming spirit was evident in the spring of 2009, after a change of administration, when the new attorney general, Eric Holder, designated me for a Special Courage Award as part of National Crime Victims’ Rights Week. The Justice Department attorney who first called me explained that I would need to spend three days in Washington for all the observances.

I knew him well from past meetings, so I forthrightly said, “You know, actually I’m booked to speak in California that following weekend, which is the opposite direction. So I’m sorry. I guess I can’t make it.”

There was a long silence on the phone. “Um, Gracia . . .” he said, “when the attorney general of the United States wants to give a person an award, that person finds a way to show up!”

Oh. I promptly changed my plans. I soon learned that nine others would be honored along with me. All the rest were people or groups who work
on behalf of
crime victims, including a rape crisis center in Boston and a group of six people in North Carolina who go after the well-hidden financial accounts and properties of criminals (usually offshore) so they can redistribute the money to victims. How had I landed in such an auspicious group? Jeffrey Taylor, former interim U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia, had read my book and put my name into the pot.

Amid nice meals and courtesy calls on senators and representatives, the first of two formal events took place—a candlelight ceremony at the U.S. Chamber of Commerce Hall of Flags that was open to the public. A large number of crime victims from the Washington area attended, along with several FBI agents who had worked on our captivity situation. Eric Holder gave a speech that night, followed by the lighting of candles and some musical numbers performed by a children’s choral group. It was very touching.

The next day, a “by invitation only” awards ceremony was held at the impressive Andrew W. Mellon Auditorium on Constitution Avenue. One by one the honorees were called forward, each of them being introduced by a short video. Mine had been created by a West Coast producer who had flown all the way to Wichita to make it. Just ninety seconds of film, but it was very touching.

I was the last person to be named. When I came onto the stage following the video, Eric Holder pointed his finger right at me and said, “You are the reason we’re having this ceremony. It’s people like you who make all of our work worthwhile.” People stood and applauded as he handed me a beautifully crafted plaque that read:

SPECIAL COURAGE AWARD

presented to

GRACIA BURNHAM

for Demonstrating Extraordinary Courage and Heroism

I felt a little awkward getting a Courage Award because I’m not especially courageous. It would have made more sense if it were simply a Survivor Award. But I received it with gratitude nevertheless.

Back to the Philippines

Travel to Washington was a mere puddle jump compared to the trip the State Department asked me to make in the summer of 2004. “Gracia, the Philippine government is getting ready to put eight of the Abu Sayyaf on trial. They need your testimony to strengthen their case in court. Will you go to Manila?”

I drew a long breath. “Well, I’ve always said I would do anything you guys ask. But will it be safe? I mean, I’m not interested in a one-way trip there, you know? I must come home to my children again.”

“Absolutely,” came the reply. “We will protect you at every turn. You’ll stay inside the American embassy compound. We’ll have security with you around the clock.”

When I told the kids what was developing, they, of course, wanted to go along. “Mom, we got ripped out of the Philippines in a matter of hours when you and Dad were captured. We never got to say good-bye to our friends or anything. Can we please go with you this time?” they begged.

I aired their request with the State Department and was promptly turned down. They said taking care of me would be a big enough challenge.

So off I flew to the Philippines accompanied by four FBI agents, one of whom would later act as my double. The minute we landed, they took me off the plane through a side exit so we would avoid the crowd at the end of the Jetway. But that didn’t fool the Filipino media. You would have thought I was Jessica Simpson by the way they chased us through the streets those next few days.
Mrs. Burnham is back!
It was absolutely nuts.

Even inside the compound, I had to be escorted by armed guards from one building to the next. I did get to greet some of the NBI people (National Bureau of Investigation, the Filipino counterpart to the FBI) who had worked hard on my case. I met two guys who had delivered the ransom money to a warehouse. I thanked them for their courage. It was an honor to spend time with them.

The first two days were consumed with a trio of Filipino prosecutors and two U.S. attorneys. I knew them well because they had helped me get ready for my grand jury testimony in Washington. They all worked together, preparing me for court. I wanted to do a good job. But I was apprehensive. What if, when I actually saw the Abu Sayyaf in court, I fell apart? I prayed for steadiness when that moment came.

The morning of the trial arrived; it would be held in a small courtroom inside the prison where the men were being held. The media, of course, were breathless with anticipation, waiting at the embassy gates for my transit at nine o’clock. A big convoy was assembled and went zooming down the boulevard—but what the reporters didn’t know was that I was not in the main SUV. It was my FBI double, acting as a decoy. In fact, it was she who showed up on the evening news across Manila that night instead of me!

In fact, I had been transported at five o’clock that morning, unnoticed, from the embassy to the prison and had already come in through a back entrance.

When I entered the courtroom, I immediately recognized the faces of Bro, Ustedz Khayr, Bas Ismael, Daud, Jandul, and Umbran. I saw that the men had been assigned an interpreter, since the proceedings would be in English. My pulse quickened as I thought about their possible fate—the death penalty. This was a terribly serious day in their lives.

Fortunately for me, I didn’t have to face them during testimony. In a Filipino court, the witness faces the judge, not the accused. The prosecutors walked me through a number of facts about my experience in the jungle. Eventually, however, I was asked to turn and look down the line of defendants, telling their names, the first time I saw them, the last time I saw them, what their job was in the Abu Sayyaf, and anything else I knew.

In two of the eight cases, I had to say, “Your Honor, he looks familiar, but I’m not sure enough to declare that he was with us. So I’d better not guess.” The other six I knew right away. I began spelling out the details one by one.

As I spoke, their faces were not hateful toward me. In fact, Ustedz, whose English was quite good, sat there on the end of the row nodding his head! Whatever I said, he was signaling,
Yes, she’s right about that
. Why didn’t his attorney whisper in his ear to clam up? He was only incriminating himself, and nobody was helping him.

Finally, it was time for cross-examination. The judge announced that the defense attorneys could now question the witness.

The first query for me: “Mrs. Burnham, we understand that you say that during your captivity there was collusion between the Philippine military and the Abu Sayyaf. Is that true?”

The two American attorneys, who had sat quietly up to this point, jumped to their feet. “Objection, Your Honor!” they shouted. “The question is completely irrelevant to this proceeding.”

“Objection sustained,” the judge replied. “You do not have to answer that question. Counsel, please proceed with the rest of your cross-examination.”

The two defense attorneys hesitated. Finally, one of them said, “No further questions, Your Honor.”

What? I had come all this way, I had nailed their clients with all kinds of detail, and they had nothing else to ask me? This was going to be easier than I thought!

The judge was furious. “You have known for three weeks that Mrs. Burnham was coming here! And you have nothing to ask her? I am now calling a fifteen-minute recess so you can prepare some relevant questions!” Down came the gavel.

You would have thought the two men would have huddled to start writing notes. But no—one of them promptly headed out of the room to the prison gate so he could talk to the media. The other attorney, meanwhile, rushed to his car to retrieve his copy of
In the Presence of My Enemies
so I could autograph it for his wife. “She will kill me if I come home tonight without your signature!” he said enthusiastically.

I was upset. Even though these Abu Sayyaf had committed horrific crimes, they at least deserved a decent defense. They were getting no help whatsoever. My goodness,
I
could have done a better job for them. It would have been simple to say, “Okay, Mrs. Burnham, how many languages do you speak?”

Answer: “One.”

“And what is that language?”

“English.”

“Throughout your captivity, did the Abu Sayyaf converse with each other in English?”

“No, not really.”

“Then wouldn’t it be possible that you misunderstood a lot of what was going on in the camp day after day? How can you say such-and-such happened when the only natural English speakers in the group were you and your husband?”

They could have put a serious dent in my testimony. But they didn’t think of that.

They could also have tried to say that the defendants were forced to join the movement through detention of their wives and children. I couldn’t have made a very strong case against that; in fact, it was often true. In other cases, I knew defendants had said things such as “The Abu Sayyaf came through my village, and I was ‘sacrificed.’” What that meant was that their village had been invaded by several dozen fearsome warriors toting M16s and saying, “We need three recruits from this village—or else.” To forestall widespread killing, raping, and pillaging, the village elders would offer up young men as recruits. It happened all the time.

I studied the court-appointed translators. They did virtually nothing. I knew these defendants didn’t know enough English to catch half of what was going on.

I looked around for a court reporter, taking notes for the official record of the trial. I couldn’t see anyone. But I did notice a little camera aimed at the witness stand. Perhaps this was their form of documentation.

The trial, as I said, was supposed to be closed to the media and the public. The little gallery seating area remained empty. But that night on the TV news, there was footage of the proceedings! Apparently someone on the inside had quickly leaked it to the media.

We sat watching back at the embassy. One attorney told reporters in all seriousness, “Mrs. Burnham has completely exonerated the Philippine military from any wrongdoing during her captivity.” I had said nothing of the sort, either pro or con.

Soon I was back on the plane to America. I had done what my government had asked me to do, and the officials seemed pleased with my work. I kept waiting, of course, for news of a verdict and what the sentences would be.

Delay after delay kept occurring, however. A while later, the Philippine death penalty was eliminated by presidential decree, which gave me some comfort. At least men would not die based on my testimony. Still the legal machinations dragged on, and the men languished behind bars.

Eventually, a couple of them, including Bro, were killed in a jailbreak. It would not be until December 2007 that the rest would be found guilty and sentenced to life in prison.

Sentimental Journey

As soon I got home in the summer of 2004, the kids, of course, wanted to know every detail. Their desire to go back themselves grew stronger. After all, they were as invested in the Philippines as I was; we said our family had now declared “a little jihad” in our home—on our knees. Whenever we read in the newspaper about the Abu Sayyaf taking more hostages or blowing up a building, we prayed that they would have the chance just once to hear the gospel of Jesus Christ in an understandable manner, so they could make an informed choice.

Mindy even began begging to transfer to Faith Academy, the MK school in Manila from which Martin had graduated. I didn’t immediately veto the idea.

But I knew from experience that if we went publicly, the Filipino media would completely spoil our trip. I began making quiet plans for a getaway that Christmas. I didn’t tell New Tribes Mission what I was doing, and I didn’t tell the American FBI because I knew they would want to accompany us. I didn’t even tell my family. I just went ahead and bought tickets. I notified one New Tribes couple in Manila and asked them to pick us up at a certain time—and not to tell anyone!

The first leg of our trip took us to Chicago’s O’Hare airport, where we would go into cover-up mode. I noticed Jeff wearing a sports T-shirt that said “FCA” (Fellowship of Christian Athletes) on the front and “Burnham” on the back. Oops! “Jeff, you’ve got to change your shirt,” I ordered. I then retreated to a restroom myself to put on an outrageously long blonde Farrah Fawcett wig that my assistant, Lynette, had found for me to wear. When I came out again and said to the kids, “Okay, let’s head for the gate now,” their heads snapped around in shock—they didn’t recognize me.