In the Presence of My Enemies (31 page)

Whenever he saw me upset or crying these days, he tried to patch me up by saying, “There’s a negotiation! There’s a negotiation!”

I wanted to reply bluntly, “No, Sabaya, there isn’t. You’ve said that dozens of times now, and it’s never produced anything.” But I held my tongue.

18

Ransomed!

(Late March–April 2002)

If you’re ever tempted to go camping in a swamp of mangrove trees—don’t. Mangroves are fairly short tropical trees with much of their root system
above
the ground, forming a picturesque tangle of limbs that eventually converge into a trunk some three feet or more into the air. They flourish only in places with abundant water.

A mangrove swamp is a great place to hide, if a person doesn’t mind the smell of rotting leaves and the dampness. We spent two nights in one just before Easter and about went crazy. When we got out of our hammock, our feet sank two inches into the goo.

Of course, I must admit it was a tiny improvement over the previous week, when we’d lived in bunkers the Abu Sayyaf had dug into a steep hilltop. With no more than five feet of headroom, we crouched in the darkness, forbidden to go outside for fear of discovery. Martin and I had to share a bunker with Musab and Ediborah, which meant I couldn’t communicate openly with my husband. Martin seemed more depressed here than at any other time.

At least in the mangrove swamp, we could see the sun through the trees.

Being close to the ocean meant we weren’t far from civilian fishing activity. In the Philippines, a common (although illegal) way to catch fish is simply to throw a stick of dynamite into the water. When it explodes, the dead fish float to the surface, where the fishermen can collect them and take them to market. It’s not exactly friendly to the environment, but it works.

Whenever we heard a big
ba-boom!
I cringed in fear of an incoming AFP mortar. The others calmly listened a few seconds, analyzing the sound, and then declared: “Fish bomb.” In other words, no problem.

Another
ba-boom!
I held my breath and then someone else announced: “Fish bomb.” I never did learn to tell the difference.

March 14–19

FBI director Robert Mueller visits his Manila staff to review their efforts and to encourage action.

One evening, the guys who had gone out for budget came running back with news. Their excitement was obvious, even though we couldn’t understand their dialect. Everyone quickly began packing up to mobile. My immediate thought was that soldiers had found us again. We began packing, too.

Then Martin looked at me and said, “You know, I don’t think this is a soldier thing. People are too pleased about all this.”

We hiked out of the swamp and came to where Sabaya and Musab had gone for a meeting. They had us sit down. Then they spoke.

“Someone has paid a ransom for you—15 million pesos [$330,000]. So this is really, really great.”

At last! Our hopes had finally been realized. We’d be going home!

We both held our breath for the next line.

“But—we are going to ask for 30 million pesos more.” They had always said they wanted a million dollars for Martin, and they were sticking to that figure.

I remembered, just a day or two before, hearing Sabaya on the phone telling someone in town, “Take anything they offer, because we are ready to get this over with.” But now I studied their faces and could just see the hardness settling in.

“Please, please do not do that,” I pleaded with Sabaya. “Take the money and let this be over!”

“No, no—the person who paid this ransom said that if we require more, they’ll come up with it. This won’t be a problem.”

I thought to myself,
Well, okay, if that’s true, go ahead and ask for the rest.
Meanwhile, all the Abu Sayyaf guys were celebrating. “The money’s been paid, the money’s been paid! You’re going to get out of here!
Allah akbar!”

“Okay, we’re going to leave this island now,” Sabaya said. We began an hour’s walk toward the sandy beach, where we sat waiting for a boat while the captors kept several cell phones going.

Mosquitoes were everywhere, of course. I had a tiny bit of Off! in my backpack, but I didn’t want to get it out for fear that the zipper would refuse to close again, as it often did. So we just sat there getting bitten.

In time, someone said, “The boat’s here. Move up close to the shore.” We heard the engine sound drawing near.

A spy plane was also circling overhead during all this. We had come to ignore them, however, because they had been circling for months, and nothing ever happened. “Why don’t they do something useful with those things and spray for mosquitoes?” Martin said ruefully.

Someone gave a flashlight signal from the shore, and a small boat called a
banca,
maybe twenty or twenty-five feet long, pulled up. We began wading out to meet it in chest-deep water. We awkwardly pulled ourselves aboard and sat down. The Abu Sayyaf began loading their guns and bazookas on board, then climbed in themselves. Soon the boat was full, and more people kept coming.

I turned to Musab. “There are too many people on here; it’s going to sink,” I said. “You’ve got to get some of them off.”

He looked at me like I was crazy.

But in fact, the boat began to take on water. People tried to bail with their hands. I got a little bowl out of my backpack to help. Even Akmad was bailing with his hands from his
malong
stretcher as he said over and over, “No panic! No panic! No panic!” When they saw we were sinking, a number of guys disembarked.

The spy plane kept circling above.
If they can’t see us now, they really are useless,
I thought to myself.

Finally, with some fifteen of us on board, the boat took off toward the bright lights of Zamboanga. This little, out-of-the-way island of Basilan had been our abode for ten months. Now at last, we were finally making headway toward freedom. I was so grateful. The open breeze was freeing for me, after so much hiding in foliage.

Several weeks earlier, I had gotten frustrated with praying for release; it just wasn’t happening no matter how I prayed. So I had said, somewhat childishly, “Okay, I’m going to pray for something else: a hamburger!” I even told Martin what I was doing and said, “The only way for us to get a hamburger is to get out of here, right? Maybe God will answer that prayer instead!”

Now in the boat, Musab looked at me with a big smile and said, “We’re going for your release!”

“Tonight? Will we be released tonight?”

“Oh, no, no. Maybe a week. Maybe two weeks. Maybe a few days.”

My heart plunged. So this was not going to be our big moment after all.
Here we go again,
I thought.
Why did I let myself expect anything more?
It seemed that we were being toyed with once again.

* * *

We rode the waves all night. Poor Ediborah, who didn’t swim, was terrified. Martin just held on to her hand and said, “We’re going to be fine; we’re going to be fine.”

The Abu Sayyaf were not about to venture directly into Zamboanga City, of course, with its AFP Southern Command headquarters and all the other security forces. They stayed in the shadows and worked with intermediaries.

By morning we had landed at what they called Island 11. A war between two tribes fighting over a water source was underway. The AFP generally stays out of such conflicts. Hence the Abu Sayyaf assumed we would be safe.

Most of the civilians had fled the island, leaving many abandoned houses for us to occupy. The available water was very sulfuric, and Martin and I both got sick right away. Diarrhea raged, and we vomited as well. Yet we weren’t allowed outside, Sabaya said.

Well, that simply would not work, given our condition. So they moved us to a different house that had a bigger room. They put up a big tarp divider to keep us hidden from any visitors. Martin pried up a piece of the floor in order to make a place for our wastes. It was totally gross.

We found a big box of the absent homeowner’s clothing that, I am sorry to admit, we basically stole to turn into rags and use as toilet paper. Occasionally the captors brought us water for washing.

Meanwhile, of course, money was still flowing freely—our ransom money. (After my return to America, I read various reports that the ransom money had been diverted and never reached our captors. Not true.) Every night a boat came from the mainland with supplies. Every captor had been given 10,000 pesos ($200) to spend as he wished.

Ayub, probably eighteen years old, spent a tenth of his wad on cookies! He had huge sacks of Bingo cookies and sat down for a feast.

Lukman spent a lot of his money on clothes, especially a few classy motorcycle shirts. A handsome fellow, his long, straight hair was quite striking.

One evening late, after the supply boat had come and gone, the room began to fill with the most wonderful smell as Martin and I sat behind the tarp. We peeked around the corner, and there was Assad with a big tub of hot fried chicken! He looked up at us, grinned—and tossed us a thigh, like he would toss something to a dog!

“Oh, thank you, Assad!” we cried.

“I’m spending my money!” he said with glee.

He also bought a tape player and some music, which was supposedly “forbidden.” When scolded for this by another captor, Assad told the fellow off and said, “Leave me alone—it’s good Muslim music.”

March 25

The Philippine military turns down an Abu Sayyaf offer to release a hostage in exchange for a temporary cease-fire and medical care for one of its commanders.

Soon the Abu Sayyaf came to realize that this island was not as safe as they had thought. The AFP might not be there, but the tribal war was just as dangerous. Word quickly got around that the Abu Sayyaf had arrived, and nighttime skirmishes flared up.

The first time, we had to leave our stuff behind and run out of the house for a while. Through the darkness we ran to the only cement structure on the island, where Martin and I slept on the floor in the far corner. No blanket, no
malong,
nothing to fold up as a pillow. That was a long night, especially with the gunfire continuing. Just before dawn, they sneaked us back to our house.

The next time hostilities broke loose, we began packing immediately. Someone came running into our room. “Get your things! We’re going!” And soon we were loaded back onto another
banca.

We were surprised to see a woman already on the boat when we got on. We were even more surprised when we learned it was Musab’s first wife. Where had she come from? I had no idea. I didn’t get a good look at her, because it was dark, and she was covered in black except for her face. She did have a baby girl with her.

In the middle of the night, we pulled up to a little Muslim fishing village near Zamboanga. They sneaked us under the houses built on stilts over the water and then hauled us onto a plank sidewalk with a number of boards missing. We had to walk very carefully. I was barefoot, not wanting to lose my boots in the water.

When we got to a house, Ediborah was put into a room with us, while Musab and his wife were in another room.

Soon the Muslim call to prayer began ringing out across the village. It was mournful but also beautiful in a sense. When the sun came up, someone was dispatched to find breakfast. Oh, my! We had
banana-cue
—ripe banana pieces rolled in brown sugar and fried in oil. We had deep-fried doughnuts! We had ripe mangoes. What a feast! We were glad the Abu Sayyaf had lots of money again. The money hadn’t gained our freedom, but at least it was improving our diet.

Even so, Musab couldn’t bring himself to divide up the twelve doughnuts equitably. Martin and I received one each, while Musab kept the others.

Previously, when we had gone without adequate food for a time and then got relief, we tended to wolf things down too quickly. Food would get stuck in our esophagus, and we’d gag. We’d almost forgotten how to swallow.

This time we ate very slowly and chewed each bit a lot. I tried to make each mouthful last for forty chews, so my throat could swallow easily.

At lunchtime, there was fried chicken with rice! We had gravy for the rice, and some fruit salad.

For a snack that afternoon, we got
halo-halo,
which is crushed ice with sweetened condensed milk that has been mixed with fruit, sweet corn, and even garbanzo beans. It tasted so good!

The group called civilians to bring us freshly cooked fish. Twice a day, someone brought hot tea with sugar in it, as well as rice. We really enjoyed it.

Omar had brought his wife along on this journey, and during the day, she decided to go shopping. When she stopped by our sweltering little room to get Ediborah’s list of items, however, she made a mistake. She had a friend with her, whom she carelessly allowed to follow her into the room, thus exposing the presence of us two Americans. The captors became irate, and Omar’s wife got a royal chewing out. She turned as white as a Filipina can turn.

For supper, they bought a hunk of beef, which was prepared over a small kerosene cookstove the Abu Sayyaf had bought. Again, we feasted.

Toward evening, Sabaya asked us, “Is there anything you’d like to have?”

“Well, Gracia’s been praying for a hamburger,” Martin offered.

“Hey, I’ll send my guy to Jollibee [the Philippine counterpart to McDonald’s].”

Sure enough, around nine o’clock, some hamburgers arrived with French fries and Cokes. We shared one with Ediborah—but that got her in trouble with Musab. After all, Jollibee hamburgers might have pork in them.

“You realize we’re going to have to move now,” Musab announced, “because a civilian saw you.” Everyone began packing up, and guides from the local area were called to assist. I was swathed with
malong
s so as not to be identified.

Just before we left, something happened that simply broke my heart. Our group was still carrying along the injured young Akmad, who by now was growling and screaming a lot of the time. We could tell he was slowly losing his mind.