In the Presence of My Enemies (15 page)

The morning heat grew as the hours slowly passed. We were not allowed to leave the room; this had become our quarters twenty-four hours a day, unless we needed to go outside “for the call of nature,” as Solaiman enjoyed phrasing it. He had learned the euphemism from an American acquaintance somewhere. He could be gracious toward us when he wanted to, although he harbored a smoldering resentment of the West—the fountain of all vice, self-indulgence, immorality, and coarseness, in his view. He did appreciate his Levi’s, however.

Chatter drifted up through the floor from the leaders’ council that was meeting underneath the house. There was something about negotiations
,
which sounded hopeful. As I listened more closely, I realized that Sabaya—the flamboyant spokesman for the group to the outside world—was talking with someone on the sat-phone. But it was clear the discussion was not going well.

“No, we don’t want Castillo to negotiate with us!” Sabaya snapped. “Who is he, anyway? We don’t know him, and we don’t trust him. We want Malaysia to come in and mediate this problem. That worked fine last time, with the people from Sipadan. You need to appoint someone from there.”

(William Castillo, we learned later, was an appointee of President Arroyo; he had already offended Sabaya by being abrasive the first time they talked. So things started off on the wrong foot.)

I listened quietly, thinking to myself,
If President Arroyo is smart, she’ll get a new negotiator. The personal chemistry has to be good if there’s going to be any hope of compromise.
Another hour or so passed. I wondered, as I had done every day multiple times, what was happening with our three children. Had the mission flown them out of the country and back to the States yet? Who had told them in the beginning that Dad and Mom had been captured? Did they handle it sensitively? Were Jeff and Mindy and Zach falling apart by now? Jeff, fourteen, would try to be the strong older brother. But Mindy was only eleven, and Zach just ten. This was so awful. . . .

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Sabaya on the sat-phone again—this time with the president herself. “Madam President, it does not seem that you are getting the picture. We have three Americans. We need a million dollars for Martin. If we get that, we’ll let him go free, and his companion, too.”

Whatever she said in reply unleashed a forceful rebuttal. Before long, Sabaya was almost shouting. “You want our unconditional surrender—what are you, crazy? If your generals think they can follow us into the mountains and finish us off, they are out of their minds!”

Then in the heat of it all, Sabaya stormed, “If you don’t let Malaysia in here to mediate within seventy-two hours, we’re going to kill one of the whites!”

Martin and I looked at each other in shock. Was this a death sentence for one of us? Was he really serious? The only “whites”—according to Sabaya’s definition—were the two of us and Guillermo. (He had, in fact, been naturalized as a full American citizen only twelve days before his capture. But as far as the Abu Sayyaf was concerned, he was Yankee all the way.)

I looked over at Francis, who by now was sitting in a corner. I raised my eyebrows as if to ask,
Did I hear correctly?
He looked back at me but didn’t nod.

When the phone call ended, I moved over beside Francis.

“Did I hear them say they’re going to kill one of the whites?” I whispered.

Francis nodded slowly and confirmed, “Yes, that’s what you heard,” turning then to stare at the floor. There wasn’t anything left to say. We both knew that when the Abu Sayyaf used the word “kill,” they weren’t just talking about a bullet to the chest. They were talking about their trademark procedure, of which they were very proud: beheading with a
bolo
knife, the Philippine equivalent of a machete.

I rehearsed what I might say if they came and started to take Martin away. I would tell them, “Take me, not Martin. My kids need a father. I’m a mere woman—the family can do without me.” I knew that my captors didn’t value me as highly as they did Martin, so I thought I might be able to convince them to take me in his place. On the other hand, the pragmatic side of my brain jumped in to say,
Calm down, Gracia. Surely Sabaya is bluffing. Think about it: His whole strategy depends on keeping you alive. You’re too valuable to sacrifice.

Martin seemed to agree with this thought. “They need us to bargain with,” he said quietly. “If they kill us, what will they have left?”

It was this idea that led us not to say anything to Guillermo, who hadn’t heard the conversation below and therefore had missed the threat. We figured there was no need to raise undue alarm. But Martin and I both looked down at our watches to calculate the time when the seventy-two hours would expire: 3:15 on Sunday afternoon. That evening we quietly prayed together that God would somehow keep us safe and set us free.

9

Left Behind

(Rest of June 2001)

Friday and Saturday came and went without incident. We did very little other than sit in that hot little hut, talking and sharing stories. To relieve the boredom, Chito came up with brainteasers for us. One was about a river with three missionaries on one side and three headhunters on the other. A small boat was available, but it would carry only two people at a time. The goal was to get all of the missionaries across the river without their ever being outnumbered and thus put at risk.

We worked at the puzzle for hours, using little stones and a piece of wood as markers. I think we eventually even came up with a solution, although I can’t remember what it is now. We told stories about ourselves, our families, our jobs. We summarized books we had read. When it was my turn, I told parts of the life of Christ. Then Martin went on and related the story of a missionary like us whose name was Paul. He talked about the places Paul went, the people he met, and the things he accomplished. We told “hostage stories” from the Bible, such as the account of the little servant girl from Israel who introduced the Syrian general Naaman to the one true God. We told the Queen Esther story—another person who didn’t choose to be in the situation in which she found herself.

Others talked about what they hoped to do if they ever got released. Joel wanted to be a fireman, maybe even in the United States. Fe wanted to go to college and learn about computers. Angie and I talked about the entertainment sites of Branson, Missouri. I told her Martin and I had honeymooned there and promised that when she came to visit me in the States, we’d take a trip to Silver Dollar City! We tried to comprehend the motivations of the Abu Sayyaf, and various opinions flowed back and forth.

At other times, my mind was pretty much consumed with the immediate trial of daily living. I struggled just to keep myself together.
Okay, I have to go to the bathroom, but I don’t want to go out there in front of eighty men. Maybe I can wait a while longer. . . .

Martin spent a lot of time with Guillermo those two days. He had already let us know he wasn’t religious—“I really don’t ‘practice’ ” was his way of putting it. He was more preoccupied with wrapping up his divorce back home so he could marry Fe. But under the conditions, he had grown close to Martin and respected him as a friend.

“You know, Guillermo, we need to be ready for whatever comes,” Martin said to him. He explained that all of us have done things that are wrong and that God, who is holy, considers these things to be sin. He told Guillermo that we can’t save ourselves and that without God’s mercy, we all face eternal death. This was one of several conversations Martin had had with him about the need for Christ’s forgiveness and freedom from the captivity of sin.

Guillermo listened quietly. When darkness came, after the two of them had been handcuffed together once again, Guillermo said to Martin, “Thank you for all the things you’ve been telling me. You’ve really helped me a lot.”

Sunday finally arrived. Sabaya’s deadline passed without incident, amid a flurry of sat-phone conversations. Apparently, the government had agreed to some of the Abu Sayyaf’s negotiation details. We didn’t know the specifics, but we all breathed a little easier.

The next morning, which was Monday, some of the “boys” returned with a delivery of food. I looked down from our room toward the ground outside and was excited to see a pumpkin! We hadn’t had vegetables for so long. There was also a goat or two tied up that would be cooked. My mouth began to water and I could almost taste the deliciousness to come.

Cooking fires were lit, and the preparation began. Just as they were getting ready to begin cooking the meat, gunfire erupted, as it had the previous weekend. This house wasn’t a safe place after all. For the fourth time in less than two weeks, we’d been found by the AFP.

The Abu Sayyaf immediately began blasting back with their M16s, spraying bullets in every direction. Meanwhile, we hostages scrambled down the rickety ladder, clutching hastily gathered belongings in our hands. We huddled together under the house, wondering if these would be our final minutes on earth.

June 10

An all-family prayer meeting is held at Paul and Oreta Burnham’s home.

“Run!” came the order. We dashed up the hill, trying to get away from the advancing troops. I gasped for breath but could not stop; I had to keep going as fast as I could. As I ran through the jungle, I heard an unfamiliar sound. First there was a
thump!
Then a few seconds later, we heard a
shwoo woo woo
overhead. A short while later, I heard the same
thump!
But this time, the sound was followed by an explosion very close to where we were running. As we ducked down to avoid the blast, I realized what we were hearing: incoming artillery. Martin and I looked at each other in disbelief. “What in the world?” he exclaimed. “They’re shooting artillery at us! They have to know the hostages are here—what’s all this heavy firepower about?”

If this was the AFP’s method for rescuing hostages, we were in deeper trouble than we had thought. The Abu Sayyaf had always wanted us to stay out of sight whenever soldiers were near, and now we quickly came to agree with them.

Martin turned to me and said, somewhat sarcastically, “These must be the most accurate artillerymen in the world; they think they can fire from ten miles away and kill Abu Sayyaf but avoid us?”

Once we got far enough away from the gunfire, we were finally able to slow to a walk. But we still needed to keep moving since we had no idea if the AFP was following us or not. Our hike that day was neither short nor easy; we had to make our own trails through the thick underbrush, uphill and downhill, until we were exhausted. We didn’t stop until evening. It was dark when we finally got to a high place that the captors felt was safe. There we settled down for the night.

The Abu Sayyaf were clearly upset. Their threat hadn’t worked. They’d hoped to get an acceptable negotiator on the scene—and instead, they were on the receiving end of bullets. The leaders huddled in agitated discussion.

Now what would they do? we wondered. As we looked around for a level place on the ground to sleep, a captor named Haija moved Martin over to a small tree. He didn’t speak much English, but he made it clear that Martin should sit down on the ground and extend his arms around the tree, so that he could then snap on the handcuffs. “You’ll sleep here,” he announced. With his arms wrapped around the tree, Martin obviously couldn’t lie down.

Once again, I spoke before I could stop myself. I turned to Mang Ben and said, “It’s going to be very hard for him to sleep this way.”

Mang Ben looked me straight in the eye.
“I—don’t—care,”
he spat. I bit my tongue as I turned to my husband and said, “I promise I’ll be right here, Martin. I’m not going to leave you.”

Guillermo, who had been cuffed to Martin every night up to this point, was given a new restraint as well. They tied his hands behind his back with a rope and then said, “You come with us. Someone wants to see you.”

Guillermo had removed his shirt earlier that evening in order to cool off. Now, as he was being led away, he tossed the pink pullover to me. Kicking his backpack in my direction, he said, “Take care of my stuff till I get back, okay?”

Oh, my goodness,
I thought as I picked up the backpack.
This definitely does not sound good. Are they going to . . . ?
I didn’t want to finish the sentence.

I feverishly racked my brain for a less frightening explanation.
Maybe his ransom has come through, and they just want to talk to him about a release,
I thought to myself, trying to put the best face on what was occurring.

About five minutes later, we heard scuffling and shouts from down the hill.

“I wonder what that was,” I said to Martin, straining to hear more.

“Hmmm, I’m not sure.”

“Maybe a civilian found our camp or something,” I ventured. It was a lame guess, to be sure, and we both fell into an uneasy silence. Martin figured out a way to recline, while I huddled up against him in the cold. We prayed together, and as always, our thoughts turned to our kids. We tried to think what they might be doing at that moment. Monday night in the Philippines would be Monday morning in the United States; they were probably sleeping in, since it was summertime.

As our conversation slowed, I began to doze off and on but kept jerking awake, looking for Guillermo to come walking back into camp to claim his stuff. I finally used his backpack as a makeshift pillow, and in time, Martin and I both fell asleep.

The next morning, Guillermo was nowhere to be seen. We didn’t want to ask, but his fiancée, Fe, couldn’t hide her concern. “Where is Guillermo?” she demanded of the captors.

“He went with a striking force during the night,” one of the men told her. As we looked around, that made some sense; there were perhaps twenty Abu Sayyaf missing from the group as well, and it was not uncommon for these groups to raid villages and raise havoc during the night. Maybe they had forced Guillermo to join them.