The new man looked almost like a character out of a movie. He was stocky and clean shaven, with close-cropped black hair. He wore an American-style military camouflage uniform. His eyes were ringed in black with what looked like eyeliner but what was probably
surma
, an ore that some rural Afghans ground into powder and applied around the eyes. It was thought to improve vision as well as ward off evil.
What most grabbed the attention of the Taliban, however, was the stranger’s light brown combat boots. They were tall, sturdy looking, and practically new. I could tell the others were impressed with this man and, especially, with his footwear. As the evening wore on, I heard the word
boots
several times as they talked and stole glances at him.
By this point my mouth felt drier than the southern region’s Registan Desert. When a kettle of water was passed around, I drank almost half of it. Water had never tasted so good.
A round of tea soon followed, which also helped quench my thirst. I couldn’t follow the conversation around me, of course, so I stayed quiet and observed. After previous hikes I’d noticed Hopeless rubbing the bottom of his foot, apparently to relieve pain. Now he sat in the corner, again rubbing his foot. I saw it had a peculiar, ball-like shape, and I wondered if an accident had left his foot deformed.
With the sun nearly down, the room had rapidly grown dark. The slender man carried in a lit kerosene lamp and placed it on the ground near the entrance. Then he began bringing us dinner. Our meal was lamb, rice, and naan, all served by the man who lived here. Though I never saw other members of the household, someone in one of the other rooms must have been preparing our food.
The room had been warm enough when we entered, but now I noticed a chill from the openings in the walls. After we finished dinner, our host began carrying rocks into the room and using them to plug the ventilation holes. I couldn’t help wondering if one of the bigger stones might fall on someone’s head during the night. Considering all the dangers I’d survived so far, it would be ironic if I was seriously injured during my sleep by a poorly secured rock.
Our host passed out two heavy blankets to each of us, almost a luxury in these parts. He also took a blanket and, with Wallakah’s help, draped it over a thin rope that was fastened above the entryway. The blanket was dark brown with thick, black horizontal lines running across it. They reminded me of a tiger’s stripes.
As soon as Hopeless received his blankets, he retreated to a spot in the far corner of the room, near the Kalashnikovs, and lay down. Soon after, I thought I heard him snore.
The slender man, meanwhile, brought out a kettle and a tray with six or seven glasses on it in preparation for another round of tea. I was exhausted and full from dinner, however. I decided to follow the example Hopeless had set.
“Thank you, no, but thank you,” I said, rejecting the tea that was offered to me a minute later. “I am really satisfied.” I suddenly realized I’d responded in English, but neither our host nor his other guest showed any reaction. Perhaps they believed I was practicing my English.
“Thank you, thank you,” Wallakah said, imitating my words and smiling, revealing his crooked teeth. I returned his smile. He’d done that before during the last few days. I could tell he wasn’t making fun of me. He was just so gregarious, always talking. It was his way of practicing a little English himself while connecting with me.
While the others conversed and drank their tea in a circle, I spread one of my blankets on the dirt floor near Hopeless and prepared to sleep. Wallakah’s friendliness was still on my mind. I had the fleeting thought that if I got out of this, I could give him my long johns. In this harsh land he could make better use of them than I.
Soon tea was over, and our host and his mujahideen guest left us. The others got on their knees for
namaz
. Senior Mullah led Wallakah, Ahmed, and Junior Mullah in the prayer chants.
I didn’t join them. Instead, I lay down, using my two head scarves as my new pillow and pulling the second blanket over my body. I turned away from Hopeless and the assault rifles in the corner. I didn’t want to look at them. Instead, I faced the others and adjusted my hood to avoid breathing in dust from the blanket. I was just too tired to do anything more. Since Hopeless was already sleeping, I didn’t feel too bad about it.
As I watched the others pray, I wondered what had been going through Hopeless’s head this evening. I’d seen the uncertainty on his face. Was he contemplating his suicide mission? Did he skip
namaz
because he was tired or because he no longer cared? He and I had something in common—both of us were facing the strong possibility that our lives were about to end.
All those years ago, when I was a boy watching a documentary, I’d been so impressed by the Japanese doctor who’d served the people in rural China and ultimately given his life for them. It had crystallized
my thinking, become part of my philosophy, without me even realizing it. The concept resonated with my soul then and still did now: if you truly believe in something, you should have the courage to live it out—and if necessary, even die for it.
It was my faith that gave me the strength to say this. I had tried to live in a way that served others and was pleasing to God. On that first long hike after our capture, I had made peace with him. If he was deciding that my time on this earth was done, I could and would accept that. I was in his hands.
Yet I wasn’t giving up on this life. Somehow, I thought, I needed to convince the Taliban that I was their friend, that I didn’t mean any harm to them, that they should release me. I didn’t agree with most of their choices or their violent lifestyle, but I could still choose to love and connect with them as human beings. But how would I communicate any of this to them?
How in the world am I going to convince them to spare my life?
I went to sleep with many questions and no answers, yet trusting God with whatever would happen next.
At nearly the same moment back home, Cilicia was in our kitchen, serving a second helping of Saturday morning pancakes to our children. Asha, Jaron, Tobi, and Eshaan in his high chair were all in pajamas and gathered around our long dark-maple table. The day before, Asha and Jaron had finished school for the year. Today was the start of their Christmas vacation, but their minds were on something else.
“Mama, how is Papa doing?” Jaron asked, syrup dripping from his chin.
“When is he coming home?” Tobi asked.
Cilicia, about to drop a pancake from the spatula in her hand onto Jaron’s plate, paused. Her hand wavered.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “The government is trying to help Papa.”
“What is the government trying to do?” Asha asked.
Cilicia turned the spatula over. The pancake fell gently onto Jaron’s plate. “They’re doing something,” she said. “But we don’t know the details. We just need to pray that everything goes smoothly.”
She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t. She needed to be strong in front of the kids.
Please, God
, Cilicia prayed silently.
Please do let it all go smoothly.
12:20
A.M
., S
UNDAY
, D
ECEMBER
9
SOMETHING WOKE ME UP.
The room was pitch dark. I heard the faint snoring of Hopeless, about a foot away from me on the floor, and the steady breathing of my other captors. Otherwise, it was deadly still. It felt like the middle of the night.
My nose was running, so I reached into my pocket for the wellused handkerchief I’d been carrying around the last four days. In Afghan culture, blowing your nose is offensive. It’s good manners to excuse yourself and find a private place for such behavior. Sometimes, of course, that isn’t an option. I’ve been in the middle of a lecture on hygiene techniques to rural Afghans when my nose starts to run. When that happens, I turn my back so no one can see me make a quick wipe.
This time I quietly rubbed my nose with my handkerchief. I tried to move as little as possible so I wouldn’t wake anyone.
The only problem was that now
I
was fully awake. For the next five minutes I listened to the peaceful sounds of the Taliban at rest. Once again I mentally ran through the desperate plan I was hatching.
All I needed to do was find a way to communicate with my captors, convince them to let me go, stop for food and water at small towns along the way to Kabul, make my way into the city, find a way to get some money, and then pass that on to my kidnappers.
Right. It wasn’t much of a plan. But it was all I had.
My thoughts were interrupted by the noise of a dog barking, followed by the bleating of a pair of sheep. Apparently our host’s livestock were restless.
I heard someone in the room stir. Senior Mullah said something and was answered by Wallakah. From the sound of their voices, I could tell they were near the room’s entrance, probably lying just three or four feet from the opening. I was about ten feet from the entryway. The others still seemed to be asleep—Hopeless on my right, Junior Mullah on my left, and Ahmed by my feet.
Senior Mullah and Wallakah exchanged more whispered words. Then I realized that Wallakah was slipping under the blanket that covered the entrance and stepping outside. Was something going on?
I listened intently but heard nothing. Wallakah returned less than a minute later and had another quiet chat with Senior Mullah. Their voices were neutral. It seemed Wallakah was just being his usual diligent self and apparently hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual. I thought I heard him settle down again to sleep.
For the next few minutes I also tried to fall asleep. I wondered what had gotten the animals excited. Probably just another animal. Or maybe the wind. I again listened to the night—nothing.
I might have started to doze. I wasn’t fully asleep, but I wasn’t alert either.
The last thing I expected was for the world to explode.
Crack!
The gunshot was incredibly loud.
My eyes opened wide, my adrenaline suddenly spiking.
Fast movements in the room. Narrow beams of green light shooting this way and that. Multiple unfamiliar voices.
“Everyone put your hands in the air!”
“Everybody stand up! Stand up!”
“Put your hands where we can see them!”
What’s going on? Wait a second. These guys are speaking English. They must be troops here for me!
Both Hopeless, on my right, and Junior Mullah, on my left, rolled toward me and on top of me, covering my body. At nearly the same instant Wallakah scrambled over and sat on my feet. Only my head was exposed.
I was amazed. Wallakah, gun in hand, could easily have shot me as the Commander had instructed on Friday night. Instead, these guys were protecting me.
“Stand up!”
“Stand up
now
!”
The voices around me were loud, tense, insistent. It seemed everyone in the room was shouting, soldiers and Taliban alike. I didn’t know if the Taliban understood the command to stand, if the soldiers were gesturing “up” or if they were grabbing each of my captors and forcing them to their feet. But all the Taliban, except for Hopeless, quickly stood, and Hopeless rolled back off of me. I suspect Wallakah dropped his weapon at this point.
“Is Dilip Joseph here? Dilip Joseph?”
I had to swallow to make my voice work. From the ground I said, “Yes, I’m right here.”
Immediately one of the soldiers lay on top of me, covering me
with his body. At the same moment another soldier standing near my leg shouted at Hopeless, “Are you good or bad? Good or bad?”
When Hopeless didn’t reply, this soldier yelled to me, “Is anybody else with you? What about your two friends?” I could barely hear him over everyone’s voices.
“They were taken away earlier,” I said. “I have no idea where they are.”
“So are the rest of these guys good or bad?” the soldier shouted.
Hopeless spoke up then. I didn’t know if he understood the soldier’s words and tried to reply in English or if he was saying something else, but what came out was “Goo! Goo! Goo!”
“No, he’s bad,” I said. “He’s bad.”
Are these guys going to be taken to prison? Will they be killed? I hope not.
“Are you hurt anywhere?” the soldier on top of me asked. “Are you ambulatory? Can you walk?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I said. “I can walk. I’m not hurting anywhere.”
A strange, muffled noise filled the room:
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Oh, man! Did Hopeless reach for his gun? My captors are being shot!
“Have you been fed enough?” the man on top of me asked. “Are you tired? Did they abuse you?”
Pop! Pop!
Ah, this isn’t what I expected. I can’t believe this is how it’s ending.
“Did they abuse you?”
Pop! Pop!
Man, life is ending all around me.
“You’re going to be okay,” the same soldier said. “We’re going to get you out of here.”
The soldier got off of me and helped me to my feet. He and another soldier sandwiched me between their shoulders and moved me toward the exit.
“Wait, guys,” I said. “Give me a second to find my shoes.”
They stopped. I turned.
I sensed, more than actually saw, bodies on the floor as my gaze immediately went to the figure that still breathed. He sat in an almost fetal posture, knees up with arms wrapped tightly around them, his chin resting on one knee.
Wallakah.
We were just three feet apart. He appeared unhurt.
Our eyes locked.
When Wallakah and the others first abducted me, I was certain I was about to die. I couldn’t believe it. I felt shocked and desperate. At the same time, though, I still felt hope for my future—if not in this life, then in the afterlife.
Now, in the eyes of the young man who was my kidnapper and who had also, in a strange way, become almost a friend, I saw many of the same emotions. Shock. Desperation. Disbelief that he might be about to die.