In the Presence of My Enemies (4 page)

“Missionaries? Did you know Charles Walton?” he asked. We did. Charles was an SIL (Wycliffe Bible) translator who had been taken hostage on the island of Mindanao some ten years earlier. He eventually got out alive, but not before spending weeks in a cramped cage up off the ground.

“Yes, we know him,” Martin replied. “He’s a friend; he works for an organization much like ours.”

“Well, some of us were there,” Solaiman answered, with a touch of mystery.

Then he returned to our case with this ominous announcement: “Yours will be a political ransom. We will make demands, and we will deal with you last.”

Uh-oh,
I thought to myself.
We’re going to be in this a long time.
I immediately thought of the promise I had made to the kids: “Dad and I will be on Palawan for just a week, and then we’ll be back home again.” I felt sick at heart, trying to imagine how they would feel when they learned what had happened to us. I leaned toward Martin and murmured, “How long did they hold those Sipadan people?” referring to a group of twenty-one tourists captured the year before from a resort in Malaysia.

“I can’t remember. Three, four months?”

I tried to guess in my mind what “a long time” would actually be. Six weeks? I tentatively set my hopes on two months at the very outside.
Worst-case scenario, we’ll spend the summer with these guys and be out by the time the kids go back to school,
I told myself.

Meanwhile, the other hostages were already busy figuring out how much money they could raise. It seemed that everybody knew this was the name of the game. Muslim advancement may have been the announced overall goal, but cash was the necessary fuel. The bargaining was in full swing.

“Maybe my family could come up with one million [pesos, or $20,000],” said one person.

A more middle-class fellow said, “We might be able to raise 250,000 [$5,000].”

Solaiman kept writing down the amounts. (We learned later that this was the first time he had been allowed to handle these negotiations, and Sabaya was not happy with how it had gone. “You don’t let them set the amounts,” he told Solaiman. “You just look at them, size them up, and tell them how much to pay. If they have a Chinese last name, that means they’re wealthy, so—10 million pesos [$200,000], end of discussion.”)

After Solaiman worked through the list, the conversation ended. The engine roared, and we moved on.

At one point that afternoon, Solaiman said to Martin, “You know, people think we’re a third-rate, primitive group out here. Actually, we’re very modern, high-tech. See our satellite phone? See our GPS? We know what we’re doing!”

(I couldn’t help smiling, however, at the fact that somehow the Global Positioning System device hadn’t helped them very much in finding our resort. We had pieced together their conversations enough to know that on their trip to Dos Palmas, they had gotten lost and had had to ask a fisherman for directions. Obviously they didn’t know how to use their GPS!)

I kept scanning the horizon for land. None appeared. Everywhere I looked, I saw open sea. I now know that the nearest islands of any size were more than three hundred miles to the southeast. It was probably better for me not to know that at the time.

After a full day of bouncing across the water, we were terribly sore. At sundown, we came up to a larger fishing boat. Here, another ten to twenty Abu Sayyaf, plus the fishing crew, were waiting. We joined them. We were relieved to get off the speedboat. At least we would be able to stand up without being jarred onto the floor. We hoped this move would be more comfortable for us.

May 27

Paul and Oreta Burnham ask New Tribes Mission personnel in Manila to evacuate the children to their home in Rose Hill, per Martin and Gracia’s standing instruction.

A bamboo “lead” no more than five inches wide was laid down from the speedboat up to the fishing boat, and I realized I was going to have to walk across maybe eight feet of open water to get there. It scared me to death.
I can’t do this!
I thought.

The water below swelled gently as I stared at the bamboo. When it was my turn, I admitted I had no choice. I began to crawl across the void on my hands and knees, praying that I would not fall.

Martin came right behind me, and by the time we all piled aboard, there were close to sixty people—again, a far greater load than this seventy-five-foot craft was ever meant to carry.

The boat had an inboard engine and outriggers—bamboo poles lashed together to make extensions off the sides. The pilot wheel was inside a small cabin in the middle of the deck. Down in the hold were large tunas packed in ice, fish the crew had caught before being hijacked by the Abu Sayyaf a few moments earlier.

We sat down on the deck while the captors quickly began their evening prayers. As the chants washed over the boat, I felt my mind slipping into a fog.
I can’t believe this is happening.
When they finished with their prayers, we ate some rice and tuna, which helped a bit. But again, there was no place for the women to go to the bathroom. Again, we were forced to use a corner. Angie, Fe, and some of the other women were distraught and crying.

“Do you think people know yet that we’ve been captured?” I asked Martin as the darkness grew around us.

“It’s hard to tell,” he said. “But don’t worry, Gracia. We’re gonna be okay.” His optimism was contagious.

A song I’d heard the previous week began to run through my head. “Martin, I heard this song while you were away. Try to sleep and I’ll sing it to you.” I began to quietly repeat the melody:

Be strong, be strong, be strong in the Lord,

And be of good courage for he is your guide.

Be strong, be strong, be strong in the Lord,

And rejoice for the victory is yours.
1

“
Mmmm, that’s a good song,” Martin murmured when I finished. “Thank you, honey.”

Nobody really stretched out to sleep that first night; we all just sat up and dozed, leaning on one another from time to time. It turned cold, as ocean breezes began to replace the heat of the day. Solaiman’s earlier promise to get Martin a shirt had produced nothing, so Francis gave him a sleeveless one to wear. We huddled together for warmth.

Sleep was fitful. I remember waking once to find that my head had fallen down to the deck, and somebody’s foot was on my hair. I jerked it loose.

* * *

The next morning was Monday—Memorial Day in the States, but hardly a holiday for us. When the sun came up, we explored the boat to see what we had missed in the twilight before. Someone made a “CR” for us—a platform out on the bamboo outrigger with a tarp curtain around it. Getting out there was still tricky, but there was a rope to hold, and at least we could go in the ocean rather than on the boat’s floor.

People got busy on the satellite phone, calling their relatives in Manila and elsewhere to arrange ransom payments. Impassioned discussions ensued. Reggie showed his connections right away, getting a government official to call Sabaya back and say, “I know this guy, and he’s a good guy. Let him out, since you owe me a favor, remember?” They agreed on an amount of money to be transferred, and Reggie’s release was promised.

By this time, Guillermo was definitely showing signs of stress. He was on a lot of medication due to a recent nervous breakdown, he explained, adding something about being overwhelmed by a messy divorce that wasn’t yet finalized. Now we could see him going through withdrawal. His body quivered from time to time, and his voice was shaky.

This boat was certainly slower than the speedboat had been. “Where are we headed?” one of the hostages asked.

The answer from the Abu Sayyaf was vague: “We’ll just see. . . .”

I was painfully aware that I wasn’t dressed properly for the Muslim standard. Of course, they hadn’t given me time back in the room to do anything better. Other women were still in their pajamas. I sat there feeling embarrassed that, in their minds, I was just another typical “loose” American woman in my shorts and T-shirt. I began asking the Lord to protect me.

Sometime that morning Fe gave me a long piece of lace for a
terong
(head covering), and someone else threw me a
malong.
Although my bare arms were still showing, I was at least somewhat more presentable to Muslim eyes.

Solaiman wanted us to know that we were in an atmosphere of high morals. “Would we ever lie to you? No. Would we ever steal from you? No. Would we ever touch the women? Never. The Koran forbids these things.” He began to rhapsodize about how great it is when Allah is the ruler and the Koran is the guidebook—as in Afghanistan, their cherished model. “Afghanistan will show the world how great the truly Islamic state can be. You know, in Islam, if you’re a thief, they cut off your hand. That’s how things ought to be.”

I thought to myself,
Wait a minute—didn’t you guys just steal Martin’s wedding ring?!

May 27

Lynn Burggraf, New Tribes missionary and close family friend, is assigned to break the bad news to the Burnham children—Jeff, Mindy, and Zach.

“In Islam, all the women are dressed properly, with nothing showing but their eyes. If a lady’s eyes are causing a scandal, even they will be covered. There are no enticements to sin, no Western movies, no drinking, no smoking, no drugs.”

Our captors’ greatest goal, it seemed, was to get to Afghanistan. What a utopia that would be, they said. But if that didn’t work out, they would settle for their second choice: to go to America and get a good job!

At some point that day, Sabaya asked Martin to get on the sat-phone and make a statement to Radyo Agong in Mindanao. This radio station, we eventually learned, was friendly to Abu Sayyaf interests and willing to air their messages when asked.

So Martin prepared to speak; the voice would be his, but the script came from Sabaya, of course:

I, Martin Burnham, along with my wife, Gracia, who have lived in the Philippines for fifteen years, members of New Tribes Mission, have been taken hostage by the Abu Sayyaf, the Janjalani group. . . .

Actually, Sabaya wanted him to say
Al-Harakatul Islamia,
which means “the Islamic Movement,” but Martin was afraid he would blow the pronunciation.

“Okay, then just call us ‘the Osama bin Laden group,’ ” Sabaya said.

Here in late May 2001, a full three months before September 11, that name meant nothing to me. Martin told me later that he had heard it once or twice.

“Can I just say ‘the Janjalani group,’ because I know that term, and I won’t get tripped up?” Martin asked, referring to the group’s founder, who had died in battle a couple of years before. Approval was granted. His speech continued:

We appeal to the American and Philippine governments to work to bring this situation to a peaceful end very soon.

As usual, Martin kept his cool, talking very calmly without notes. When he finished, he came over to me.

“You did a good job, honey,” I said. “You always do.”

Near the end of the day, Chito, who was full of life and spunk, decided to organize a “getting to know you” exercise for his fellow hostages. We all crowded into the wheelhouse and sat around on the floor or whatever else we could find. Going around the circle, each person gave his or her name and the person’s name to the left. Soon we all had one another’s names nailed down. We talked and even laughed together a bit, trying to make the best of the situation. We talked about our interests and other personal things.

Guillermo told us he’d been born in Peru but had immigrated as a teenager to the Los Angeles area, where he now had a small construction business. He had come to Dos Palmas on vacation the year before, which is when he had met Fe working in the gift shop. They had been in touch by e-mail ever since, and now they were engaged.

As we learned bits and pieces about each of the other hostages, we became more of a team, more willing to encourage one another and try to keep our spirits up.

By that evening, the “ecumenical” nature of the boat was in full evidence. The Muslims, of course, conducted their ritual of bowing down and praying as they faced west, toward Mecca. The Catholics got out their rosary beads. Finally, one of the hostages asked Martin to pray aloud for the benefit of the group.

May 28

Philippine president Gloria Arroyo appears on national television to declare “all-out war” on the Abu Sayyaf, telling them she will “finish what you have started.”

May 28

Martin’s sister, Cheryl Spicer, and her husband, Walt, drive seven hours north from Manila to Aritao to stay with the Burnham children.

“Lord, all of this doesn’t surprise you,” he began in a calming voice as we all bowed our heads. “You know where we are, even though we don’t. We know that people are worried about us. But you hold us in your hands. Give us the grace to go through this trial. We’re depending on you. Amen.”

A peace settled into my heart as I listened to my husband’s words. The same seemed to happen for the others. “Wow, you can really pray good!” they said. Martin laughed. For him, prayer was just his way of talking to God, sharing the thoughts of his heart.

By that night, we had generally figured out where we’d all like to sleep. The younger members of the Abu Sayyaf had already staked out the roof of the wheelhouse as theirs. Near the bow were places to hang hammocks, which were claimed by their comrades. A few others rigged up hammocks near the back. The fishing crew claimed their turf.

As for the hostages, we mostly stacked ourselves along the narrow sides of the deck, heads inward and feet hanging out over the ocean. A few others settled into a central well space in front of the wheelhouse. All together, we covered every inch of available space.