Kidnapped by the Taliban (5 page)
If this is the future of Afghanistan
, I thought,
this is a place worth investing in.
Following the debate tournament, I spent a day of planning at the Kabul team house with Rafiq and three days with one of our teams in a northeastern province. While there, I taught a session on holistic health and enjoyed time with the directors of our leadership institute.
I returned to Kabul on December 4. By six the next morning Rafiq, Farzad, and I were on the highway. By nine we were pulling into the compound of the Pul-i-assim Community Center. More than twenty mothers and their children from neighboring villages had already gathered inside the lobby and outside the medical clinic. Some had walked thirty minutes to be there. Others had walked for five hours.
I began by checking in with the local doctor and his patients. Later I listened in on Miriam’s talk about nutrition. It was here that the earnest, young mother with three children caught my eye and reminded me how important our work truly was.
By midmorning Rafiq and I were ready for a break. We walked beyond the clinic compound, taking in the austere beauty of our surroundings—to the southeast, layer upon layer of brown, rolling hills dotted by occasional clumps of green and yellow vegetation; to the south, a lush valley, including plantations filled with apricot trees and wheat and rice fields.
Suddenly I spied, across the valley, a handful of men walking our way. They were probably a half hour’s distance. Two of them carried long objects that could certainly have been weapons. Earlier that morning local police had informed us of Taliban movements on the other side of the valley and advised us to proceed cautiously. We planned then to complete our work that day and return to Kabul before nightfall. I was not especially concerned. I trusted the people around me and the safety protocols we followed.
I was curious, however, about these men. I turned to Rafiq: “What do you think those guys are doing?”
“Maybe they are some Taliban and mujahideen coming to the village to ask for
Zakah
.”
The villagers were double-minded about the Taliban. Some viewed them as pure devotees of fundamental Muslim law. They even revered the insurgents. Others were less enthusiastic. The Taliban sometimes came into their villages and asked for
Zakah
—in Islamic tradition, the practice of giving from what Allah has already provided to others in “need.” Of course the people gave food and money to these armed warriors even though they had very little to feed their own families. I couldn’t help feeling that most donated out of a sense of intimidation and fear rather than genuine support for the Taliban cause. To me, it appeared to be more about extortion than faith.
I was offended by the idea of young men who intentionally chose the path of insurgency asking for alms. It was an injustice. When, I wondered, would this practice end in communities like this? Morning Star had been working here for seven years. The insurgency hadn’t stopped. The Taliban influence continued.
I was too upset by these thoughts to continue my conversation with Rafiq. As we walked silently back to the community center, I glanced at the village schoolhouse that sat adjacent to the compound. In the previous three years insurgents had targeted both the school and the community center in attacks from neighboring mountains. On several occasions rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs) had hit the community center, shattering windows. Once, a rocket hit the side of the water tower situated on top of the health clinic. I’d been told that the insurgents wanted the school shut down, citing the usual justifications that
girls did not need to be educated and a few hours a week of schooling was enough for boys.
I returned to the clinic feeling discouraged, but I’d already dismissed thoughts of the men across the valley. I trusted that we were taking adequate precautions. A personal encounter with the Taliban was the last thing on my mind.
Later that morning the local police chief invited Rafiq, Farzad, the local doctor, and me to lunch. No matter how poor or remote the village, meals in Afghanistan are always an elaborate affair. This day was no exception. At the chief’s home we sat cross-legged on long cushions. On the floor in front of us lay a leather mat spread as a tablecloth. A young boy approached with a steel bowl. The bowl was placed in front of each person to catch water poured onto our outstretched hands. The routine continued until everyone seated had finished washing his hands. Given the ever-present dust in this country, the practice made perfect sense and added to the sense of hospitality that Afghans are famous for.
To my surprise, more young boys appeared, each walking in from the front door and carrying sumptuous servings: pilau rice, mutton and chicken, celery shoots, onions, and tomatoes. Everything was delicious.
Immediately after lunch our hosts served tea and pomegranates. As I cracked open and tasted my pomegranate, I realized that my skill in handling this fruit was lacking. My shirt was soon covered with red stains. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought I’d just emerged from a complicated surgery. The marks on my shirt looked exactly like blood.
Once we finished eating, we talked for a few more minutes, then
climbed into the Hilux for the drive back to the community center. I understood very little Pashto, and not everything was translated for me, but I gathered that part of the conversation was about security. Only months later did I learn about some of the questions raised at this time: Should we wait for an escort before driving back? Should we wait for approval from the district police chief?
At the time, Rafiq did tell me that the village police chief said, “Why don’t you spend the night?” It was customary in Afghanistan to invite guests to stay for the next meal and then spend the night, so I didn’t place any extra meaning behind his request. I didn’t connect it to concerns over our safety. Rafiq and I politely turned down his invitation. The others decided it was safe for my colleagues and me to begin our journey back up the mountain road to Kabul.
At about two thirty we dropped off the chief and local doctor at the community center, said our good-byes, and headed out of the village. Rafiq drove faster than usual.
I still felt frustrated over my earlier conversation with Rafiq about the Taliban practice of intimidating the villagers and asking them to give up their precious resources. When talk in the pickup turned again to the insurgents, I said, “Man, if these guys want so badly to be involved in the community, maybe we should just give them the community center and let them handle it.”
I didn’t mean it. I knew that Taliban fundamentalism had taken what was a stable and prosperous nation in the 1960s and 70s back to medieval times. I certainly didn’t wish for the Taliban to control the people in the villages even more. I was simply angry at the situation.
Rafiq and Farzad were silent.
It was only a few minutes later that my anger at these unseen extremists turned to shock over confronting them in person. As men
holding AK-47s forced me to march up the hill toward more armed insurgents, one question pounded in my mind like a sledgehammer. It was a question I was afraid to answer.
Am I about to die?
*
Multiple Taliban groups claimed responsibility for the killings.
3:50
P.M
., W
EDNESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
5
M
OUNTAIN
R
ANGE
E
AST OF
K
ABUL
, A
FGHANISTAN
MY HEART WAS HEAVY AS I TRIED TO KEEP MY BALANCE ON the steep and winding mountain trail. With my hands tied behind me, it wasn’t easy.
Rafiq, Farzad, and I, along with our four Taliban captors, had been hiking single file up the mountain for twenty minutes. The men I’d spotted above us when we began the hike had just joined us. Now we were outnumbered seven to three. Each kidnapper carried a Kalashnikov. Whenever my gait slowed too much for the liking of the captor behind me, I felt the barrel of his weapon nudge me in the back.
The weather did not match the desperation I felt. It was a sunny day, a comfortable fifty-plus degrees. The terrain, however, was desolate—dusty and rocky, the predominant colors gray and brown. I saw no trees, only a few green
shamshoby
shrubs attempting to add life to our sparse surroundings. The mountains loomed over us, stretching to the horizon in an uneven and endless pattern.
I noticed up ahead, to the left of our trail, a break in the bleakness
around us—a pool of water, nearly three feet in diameter. Rafiq, in front of me, called out in Pashto, “Could we have a drink?”
The kidnapper who’d driven the commandeered Hilux, apparently the group’s leader, raised his hand. Everyone stopped. Our hands were untied—thankfully, they remained untied for the rest of our captivity.
A gunman motioned us toward the pool.
Rafiq and Farzad, along with some of our captors, cupped their hands in the cool water and drank. My medical background made me more cautious, however. I did not want to be hiking and dealing with diarrhea from an unwelcome parasite. I chose not to drink, a decision I would come to regret.
After another few minutes of hiking, we stopped again. This time the leader demanded that I hand over my backpack. He had a knife tucked into his waistband. I couldn’t see the blade, but from the size of the curved hilt, it must have been huge. Only later did I learn that this man had participated in multiple kidnappings and beheaded many of his captives. His nickname was the “Butcher.”
After rifling through my backpack during our initial confrontation, our captors had returned it to me for the hike. Now they wanted a closer look. My heart sank when the Butcher pulled out my passport. Though I had no need to bring it to the clinic, I’d forgotten to take it out before leaving Kabul that morning. My hopes of being mistaken for a traveler from India were gone. There was no hiding the prominent
United States of America
typed next to my photo.
The Butcher held out my passport to another captor, saying what must have been something like, “Look, American.” The man next to him examined the passport closely.
To my surprise, however, my captors seemed even more intrigued by a booklet of family pictures. Cilicia had put together a mini album
of photos after a recent visit with my father and given it to me for the trip. Now the kidnappers looked closely at each image and through Rafiq’s translation asked me about them: “Is this your wife? Are these your children? Who is this man?”
Their intense interest could be at least partly explained by Afghan culture. Pashtuns are the largest ethnic group in the country, comprising roughly 40 percent of its people.
1
They are fiercely loyal to family and tribe. They think of themselves primarily not as Muslims or Afghans but as members and representatives of their extended families and the people who make up their tribe. In Afghanistan, to understand another’s family is to understand that person at the core.
The gunmen had already taken my cell phone during their first search. Now, after also removing my passport, the Butcher returned the backpack to me. It was time to move on.
One of my original captors—the tall one who sat with the leader in the Hilux—had not joined in the latest examination of my backpack. As we walked, he pointed to Rafiq and asked me, “Is he the
ferengi
[foreigner]?”
Clearly these men had been looking specifically for me, the American. Someone had alerted them about our visit to the village.
“Nay, nay,” I said in answer to the question about Rafiq. “Jalalabad
wallah
[That guy’s from the Jalalabad area].”
If there had been any remaining confusion among the kidnappers about which of us didn’t belong here, it was erased now.
A half hour later, we reached a plateau at the highest peak in the area. From there we could see miles of hills and looked down into one brown valley after another.
I wasn’t enjoying the scenery, however. I strained to spy a compound or hut, anything that might signify the presence of human life. I was crestfallen when I realized there was nothing out there. We were alone in the middle of nowhere.
Is this it? Are they going to shoot us now and roll our bodies down this hill?
Our captors, instead, spread out a blanket, sat down, and produced a loaf of naan, the local bread. Apparently it was time for a snack break.
The Butcher motioned for Rafiq, Farzad, and me to sit also. He offered each of us a piece of naan. Since the three of us were still full from the feast at the police chief’s house, however, we all politely declined. As our kidnappers continued to talk, I wondered if they were deciding when and where to dispose of us.
Then it was time for
namaz
, or prayer. Two of our captors took off their headscarves and laid them on the ground. Then four of them dropped to their knees, all apparently facing Mecca, and began the Muslim ritual of bowing, chanting, and praying.
Anger surged through me.
How can they pray to Allah when they are holding hostages at gunpoint just a few feet away? If Allah is merciful and just, as the Koran says, how is this action merciful and just?
Their passion for their spiritual beliefs was clear, but I struggled to see how it connected to a life-giving faith. It seemed to me that these men were more willing to take life than give it. They believed that killing others was their only path to salvation. I felt it was an example of traditionalism, a dead faith of the living, rather than tradition, a living faith passed on by one’s ancestors.
And yet my own faith and upbringing demanded that I not judge these men. I knew nothing about their backgrounds, nothing about
the experiences that had led them to this point. As tempted as I was to give in to anger and even hate, I sensed in that moment that I needed to adopt a different attitude.