Sadly, however, I did not see hope.
I wanted so much to reach out to Wallakah, to give him a hug. But I did not want to disrespect the soldiers around me. I owed them my life. In that moment I didn’t think they would understand.
I have regretted my inaction ever since.
The look between Wallakah and me felt like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. I broke away and focused on the floor to search for my shoes. Between the darkness and my shock about
what was happening, I had trouble finding them. Finally I slipped them on and was escorted through the opening. The blanket was gone.
Several soldiers were moving about on the veranda. All wore night-vision goggles and carried weapons. The two soldiers with me steered me toward the outside wall just outside the room. “Stand right there,” one of them said in a respectful tone. “Don’t move around too much. Wait right here.”
This is amazing
, I thought.
How did these guys figure this out and find me?
I couldn’t believe it.
I heard a radio crackle and a voice say that a helicopter was twelve minutes away. A minute later, a soldier said, “We’re going to have you stand inside the room again and wait for a little bit.”
A shard of fear sliced through me.
“There were five of them and four guns between them,” I said. “Did you guys get all the guns?”
“Yes,” the soldier answered. “Everything’s been taken care of.”
He took my left arm and guided me back toward the room. “When we go in,” he said, “don’t look around.”
I didn’t. Not at first. The soldier escorted me to the corner directly across from the entrance. I stood facing that corner for about five minutes and tried to wrap my mind around what had just happened.
I was safe. I was free. It didn’t seem real.
When the soldier came to retrieve me, curiosity took over. I took a quick peek at the room as we walked out. The first thing I saw was Senior Mullah’s body on the ground, blood oozing out of him in a dark pool.
The second thing I saw was Wallakah. He also was on the ground, a pool of blood beside him. Clearly he was dead. Had he made a last, desperate attempt to grab his gun? Had he tried to escape?
It didn’t matter now. They all were dead.
I felt an overwhelming wave of sadness. These guys had put themselves in this position, of course. They’d aligned with the Taliban and aided or participated in a kidnapping. If not for this rescue, it was likely I’d be the one lying on the ground beside a pool of blood.
But I’d shared life with these men over the last four days. In one of the lowest moments of my life, some had even showed me unexpected compassion. I’d connected with them—Wallakah in particular.
Not so long before, I’d thought of staying in touch with these guys. I’d hoped I could influence them, demonstrate another way of life, help them see there were other choices they could make. Whether it had been realistic or not, that dream was now shattered.
When I was escorted outside, one soldier stood directly in front of me while another was right behind me. Another group attended to a comrade lying on a gurney. The fallen soldier had bandages wrapped around his head. The soldier behind me was mumbling something under his breath.
“What are you doing?” asked the man ahead of me.
“Praying for Nic,” the soldier in back of me said. “Praying that he’ll be okay.”
I realized that the injury to the soldier on the gurney was serious. I learned later that he was a U.S. Navy SEAL, chief special warfare operator, a recipient of the Bronze Star and Purple Heart. He had the dangerous assignment of being the first man to enter our room that night. Wallakah, lying on the floor, had had just enough time to raise his Kalashnikov and get off one shot.
The bullet struck the SEAL in the forehead.
For the second time in as many minutes, I felt a terrible heaviness. This man had just taken the lead in rescuing me. Here in front of me
was the cost of his service. He was a hero, and now he was fighting for his life. This wasn’t the movies. It was real.
The same two SEALs stayed right next to me, protecting me with their bodies. They escorted me to the side of the house and told me to cover my face, though I couldn’t figure out why. A few minutes later a large military helicopter roared into view. It landed in the yard in front of us, its spinning rotors making a steady
bom-bom-bom-bom
sound and kicking up debris. What felt like thousands of little rocks began pelting my body. I pulled my hood tighter over my face and forehead, which had been partly exposed. Now I understood why the SEALs had asked me to cover my face.
We ran to and up a ramp in the back of the helicopter. “You can sit there,” one SEAL yelled over the sound of the engine and rotors, pointing to a bench along the inside wall.
Moments later another group of SEALs appeared. They carried the gurney that held Nic. These men gently loaded him into the helicopter. In seconds we were airborne. The deadly scene below us quickly receded from view.
In the cramped quarters of the helicopter, I watched Nic’s teammates pump air into his lungs as they tried to resuscitate him. I knew he wasn’t doing well. I hoped and prayed he would live. I wanted to thank him personally for what he’d done. I had lived on the brink of death for days and now had seen it up close. I didn’t want to see any more.
I leaned against the side of the helicopter and took a long, slow breath. Unbelievably, my ordeal was over. The helicopter flew on into the Afghan night, carrying me farther and farther away from a nightmare and back toward the world I knew and loved.
1:30
A.M
., S
UNDAY
, D
ECEMBER
9
A
FGHANISTAN
M
ILITARY
B
ASE
WHEN OUR HELICOPTER LANDED AT A MILITARY AIR BASE, I was greeted warmly by Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Hansen of the U.S. Army and Technical Sergeant John Sprague of the U.S. Air Force, both in camouflage uniforms. They put their arms around me and helped me down the ramp.
“How are you doing?” Colonel Hansen asked. “Are you able to walk to the truck over there?”
“I’m totally fine, thank you,” I said. At almost the same moment that I stepped off the helicopter, a team of SEALs rushed by with its wounded comrade and the gurney. “Can you please keep me up to date on the man who was hurt?” I asked, watching them leave. I was definitely worried about his condition.
“We’ll definitely do that,” Colonel Hansen said. We got into a military truck and sped away.
“Dr. Joseph, I want you to be aware of how this is going to work,” the colonel said as another soldier drove. “Your reintegration process is going to take four to five months. You’ll need to spend a few weeks
with us. Then you’ll have two or three weeks in a neutral setting. Then we’ll need to track you with counseling and care for another two or three months when you’re back in the States.”
That sounded complicated to me. I just wanted to go home. Of course, I was still in shock and probably not in the best shape to decide what I needed right then.
“Colonel, I know you’re intending all of this for my good,” I said. “Given what I’ve been through these last four days, all I want is to get back to my family.”
Colonel Hansen studied me for a moment. “Let’s go through the first two or three days and assess the situation at that point,” he said.
“That sounds fine to me.”
I was escorted to a base medical clinic, where a doctor examined me. Other than some soreness in my side from the Butcher’s rifle blow, I felt fine, and I was given a clean bill of health.
As I walked out of the medical clinic office, I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror. At least, I thought it was me. The dirty, hairy image reflected back looked more like a yeti than anyone I recognized.
The colonel and sergeant walked me across the base. “Has anyone contacted my family?” I asked.
“Your safe return has already been communicated,” the colonel said. “You will definitely have the chance to call them after we get you to your room and you get a little rest.”
I didn’t protest. I realize now I was a bit disoriented. I really couldn’t believe it was all over.
The two officers took me to a cabin, where two sergeants stood guard. Inside were three small rooms. My hosts showed me one of the rooms. It was basic soldier’s quarters, with a bunk bed, desk, and closet.
To me, it looked like luxury. “This is yours for you to just rest,” the colonel said. “If you need anything—food, drink, TV—just ask a sergeant.”
I wasn’t ready to rest yet, though. After five days of wearing the same outfit and sleeping on dirt, I wanted a long, hot shower and a change of clothes. One of the sergeants walked me to a large bathroom that had been locked and set aside just for me.
For the first time since I’d been abducted, I was truly alone. It was a strange feeling. I approached the mirror over the sink and examined myself.
Wow!
I thought.
I look terrible
.
My face was covered with dust. My hair stuck out at crazy angles. I had a scraggly beard. My eyes had dark rings around them. It was hard to believe I’d been in captivity for only four days. Based on my appearance, you’d have thought it was four months.
More disturbing was the reflected image of my
salwar kameez
. I still recognized a few of the pomegranate stains from my meal at the police chief’s house in Pul-i-assim on Wednesday, which seemed a lifetime ago. But much of these were covered by another dark-red substance. I had been splattered with blood.
It was a relief to take off those clothes and step into the shower. The water was cleansing in more ways than one. I felt as if I were scraping away a terrible burden that had attached itself to my body. All the worry and tension and fear that had clung to me for the past few days mixed with the soap and water on the shower floor and washed down the drain.
It felt so good.
By the time I’d changed into a fresh T-shirt, sweatpants, and military jacket provided by my new hosts, I felt at least a bit more like
my old self. Back at my cabin I tried to rest on the bed. But my mind wouldn’t relax.
What
, I wondered,
do I do now? Will they let me call Cilicia and the kids? What about my sister, my uncle, my dad? Are Rafiq and Farzad safe? What’s next?
At about four thirty, Colonel Hansen and Sergeant Sprague returned to the cabin and said I was welcome to call my family if I was ready to do that. Of course I was ready! They advised me to keep this first call brief.
I soon understood why. Alone in my room, phone in hand, I waited for what seemed an eternity for the connection to go through to Colorado Springs. It was five in the afternoon on Saturday there.
“Hello?” It was Cilicia’s voice.
“Hi, honey. It’s me. I just want you to know . . . that I’m okay.”
That was all either of us could manage. We both started crying.
It didn’t matter. Words weren’t important at that point. Just hearing each other’s voices and connecting again—knowing that we would see each other again—was all we needed.
I called my sister, also keeping that call short to give her a chance to recover from the emotional roller coaster she’d been through. She said she would contact my father, who’d been traveling and had only heard about the kidnapping the day before. Then I connected with Roy, who passed on the wonderful news that Rafiq and Farzad were both well and out of harm’s way.
It was only later that I heard the details of the amazing story of Rafiq and Farzad’s journey to safety. Both tribal influence and the efforts of family played important roles in their survival.
Rafiq was part of the Khugiani tribe, born and raised in an area called the White Mountains, not far from where we had all hiked. When his extended family, including six uncles, nephews, and other close relatives, heard about the kidnapping—as did members of the villages where Rafiq worked—all were outraged. They learned who some of the kidnappers were and went to their family homes, demanding our release. Some found out who was behind the abduction and called the Commander directly to insist that we be freed. Though I didn’t know it at the time, I had witnessed some of these calls.
It turned out that the Taliban had lied to us about the Hilux full of armed men. They weren’t Taliban from Pakistan trying to take us away, but members of Rafiq’s family intending to liberate us. When I heard this, I finally understood why our captors had been in such a hurry to get away.
The last time I’d seen my friends, they were hiking down the mountain with the Commander, his assistant, and the black-outfitted Urdu guy. Rafiq’s legs stiffened, and he had trouble keeping up with the others. He fell to the end of the line, though one of the Taliban stayed within visual range.
After they were off the mountain, another man suddenly appeared on the trail and ran toward Rafiq. He recognized Rafiq from his work in the villages. “Who are these men you’re with?” the man asked. “What is happening here?”
Rafiq had been told by the Taliban to say nothing. Fearing for his life, he said, “I cannot answer you.” The man ran off.
Rafiq eventually caught up with the other Taliban. They’d been joined by at least two other Taliban from Pakistan. When they rounded a bend in the trail, they were opposed by a group of about ten villagers. The villagers had been alerted by the man on the trail and were angry.
“We hear in the news that three doctors were kidnapped,” one villager said. “Where is the other? You want to kill them, sell them? What is your plan?”
“No, that’s wrong,” the Commander said. He made up a story about helping these two “shepherds” look for their lost animals.
An argument ensued. More villagers kept arriving. Some carried stones. Soon the crowd swelled to as many as seventy people.
The Commander tried to lead Rafiq, Farzad, and the rest of the group past the villagers. They made it about a hundred yards before they were stopped again. This time, pushing and shoving led to a fight between the villagers and the Taliban. The Taliban didn’t raise their guns, perhaps because there were too many villagers to subdue. The fight broke up after a few minutes. No one was seriously injured, though someone smashed the glasses of an older Talib from Pakistan.