Miles To Go Before I Sleep (6 page)

At first, there was reason for hope. The hijackers released two wounded flight attendants and eleven women—three Egyptians and eight members of a Filipino dance troupe.

Again, the hijackers demanded extra fuel. But the Maltese government remained steadfast in its refusal to provide any fuel unless
all
passengers were released.

In response, the terrorists threatened to kill one hostage every fifteen minutes until Malta agreed to their terms. They'd start with the Israelis and Americans and work their way through the Canadians and Europeans. They had our passports so they knew who we were.

What if something happens to us and my friends don't get all the food I bought with their money?
I thought to myself. Then I remembered the glass bottles in my suitcase.
I hope they don't break.

SEVERAL HOURS WENT BY before the maltese government responded to the hijackers' threat.

It was a strange feeling to realize that the hijackers couldn't care less about our individual lives. They didn't see us as people with feelings, hopes, dreams, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, daughters, and sons. They didn't care who we were or why we were on the plane. They didn't care that I loved the Arab people and Arab children. None of that mattered.

When we looked into the hijackers' cold eyes, we saw reflected back an image of ourselves as hated objects, “things” to be used for their own purposes. To the hijackers, we were cattle to be sacrificed in the name of some obscure cause. They tried to strip away our very humanity.

I'd always seen people as individuals. The idea that others could see and treat me as an object—a political symbol—was completely alien to me. It was also terrifying to realize that my dignity and value as a human being mattered nothing to the people who held my life in their hands.

I was absolutely certain that if I lived through this ordeal, I would never forget the pain and hatred I saw in those eyes.

Throughout the hijacking, there was a lot of back and forth negotiating between the hijackers and the Maltese government. Most of it took place in the cockpit, out of sight. As passengers, we knew that our fate depended on the skill of those who were dealing with the two remaining hijackers. I hoped to God that they were good at their jobs.

The United States government sent a crisis negotiation team from Sigonella Air Base in Italy to Malta, carrying a planeload of counter-terrorism equipment to help defuse the crisis. The equipment included eavesdropping devices that could allow Maltese and Egyptian officials to pinpoint the exact location of the hijackers inside the plane. President Reagan had also dispatched Delta Force, the U.S. Army's crack counter-terrorist unit, to Malta for a possible rescue effort. This elite group of U.S. troops was on its way.

The two hijackers waited several tense hours for Malta to respond to their threat. They seemed very agitated as they waited.

The hijacker who seemed to be in charge kept going into the cockpit, returning nervously, then going back in.

The hijacker exchanged some words with one of the flight attendants. Acting as an interpreter, the attendant asked if any Greek women were on board.

A voice from somewhere said, “How about a Greek baby?”

There was no response from the two hijackers.

More time passed before the hijackers received Malta's reply to their threat: There would be no agreement until all hostages were released.

The hijackers yelled out an Israeli woman's name—Tamar Artzi—then took her up to the front and opened the door. We all thought Tamar was being released—like the Filipino and Egyptian women who had been released earlier. Tamar did too. She got up from her seat willingly.

As she was descending the stairs, however, the straight-haired hijacker pointed his pistol at her and shot her in the back of the head. The awful sound that broke our hearts and confirmed our worst fears was followed by the sickening and unmistakable sound of a body thumping down the stairway.

“They've shot her!” someone gasped.

There was a collective gasp and the sound of wailing. A woman in the back screamed something in a language I didn't understand. A hijacker yelled something back.

My God, how can this be happening!
I had been sure they were going to let Tamar go or maybe threaten her to convince the Maltese government that they were serious.

Then came another shock. Tamar was alive! Alfons DeLaet, the Belgian man sitting next to Scarlett, saw her move on the tarmac.
Play dead
, I thought to myself.
Why isn't she playing dead?

The hijacker who was acting as executioner saw her move too. When he did, he stood at the top of the metal staircase and shot directly at Tamar's quivering body. He fired again, and again, and again—until she didn't move anymore.

Words can't describe the horror we felt.

Five minutes later, the hijackers forced one of the EgyptAir security guards to call for the second Israeli passenger on board. There was no reply. Again, he asked for the other Israeli to come forward. There was still no answer.

At gunpoint, the security guard was forced to sort through the passports in the briefcase and pick out the green Israeli document.

The guard opened the passport and stared at Nitzan Mendelson's picture. The hijackers grabbed the passport out of his hand and quickly scanned the rows of seats until they found her.

“Another passenger is being prepared for execution,” Captain Galal told helpless officials assembled in the Luqa Airport's control tower. “I demand fuel,” he said. “I do not want more bloodshed. I am responsible for the safety of the passengers and crew. I hold you responsible for any more killings.”

Nitzan screamed and resisted every step of the way as the two hijackers dragged her to the front door and put the gun to her head.

“He is killing another one,” Captain Galal said desperately.

Two loud gunshots rang out. The hijackers wanted to make sure each of their victims died. Following the gun blasts, we heard the same dreadful sound of a body thumping down the staircase.

There was more shouting, soft whimpering, and crying among the surviving passengers—then an eerie quiet.

Some of the passengers closed their eyes. Others gently rocked back and forth in their seats. I heard a woman two rows back softly saying her prayers.

I couldn't watch or listen anymore. It was too horrible. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears whenever it was someone's turn to die. I had to block it out.

After shooting the two Israeli women, the two hijackers forced the security guards to help identify the American passengers. The three of us were Patrick Scott Baker, 28, of White Salmon, Washington; Scarlett Marie Rogencamp, 38, of Oceanside, California; and myself.

As the two helpers approached each one of us, the hijacker at the back of the plane pointed a gun at us and signaled us to stand up. The helpers then walked us to the front of the plane and tied our hands behind our backs with neckties.

“I'm sorry,” I heard the reluctant accomplice whisper in Patrick's ear.

We stepped past the body of the hijacker killed in the midair gun battle which had been laid over some seats.

They shoved Patrick in the aisle seat. Then, because I had been sitting behind Patrick, they pushed me toward the middle seat.

I was going to take the middle seat, but something inside me said,
Take the window seat.
I didn't understand. Why the window seat? Though it made no sense, I listened.

Patrick was in the aisle seat, Scarlett in the middle, and I sat by the window. During the next few hours the three of us waited on death row. Patrick, Scarlett, and I became close to each other in a way few people ever do. It was a short, but very intense period in our lives. We didn't say much, but I felt a deep, deep connection with their spirits.
It's too bad
, I thought,
but it often takes a shared tragedy to really share our hearts with others.

Scarlett was a tall, beautiful woman with striking red hair. She told me she was from California and had been living in Athens for the last year. She was visiting Cairo on vacation, planning to see the Pyramids and other historic sites. Scarlett was a fairly quiet and reserved woman. I liked her. She reminded me of my sister Gloria with her sense of vulnerability mixed with strength.

Patrick was someone I really identified with. He was a tall, thin, energetic young man with a dapper, dark mustache. A real live wire. Patrick was out to see the world and pursue his passion for photography. I could tell he'd be lots of fun, that I'd enjoy knowing him under different circumstances.

I was glad when Patrick offered some comic relief after the three of us were seated. “I'm Patrick Baker,” he said, introducing himself. “So, where are you ladies from?”

“What a thing to say at a time like this!” Scarlett said.

I laughed, grateful for the opportunity to release some of my nervous tension.

Scarlett was terrified, as was I, but she let more of her feelings show. I could sense her deep, deep despair. She didn't say much. At one point, she complained that her hands were tied too tightly. She wanted the hijackers to untie the rope so it wouldn't hurt so much.

They don't give a darn about whether your hands hurt
, I thought to myself. I worried that Scarlett was drawing too much attention to herself. “Work with it a little bit,” I advised. “Maybe if you play with it a little bit, you'll loosen it up.”

My hands were tight, but they weren't hurting like Scarlett's. The way I saw it, they had to be tight for the hijackers to do what they were doing.

Scarlett continued to cry softly. I wanted to cry, too, but I just couldn't. I felt numb inside. I was in a state of shock. For the first time in my life, I didn't have a choice about whether I lived or died. There were other firsts.

I saw a gun used in a gruesome murder. I saw a grenade. I saw a dead body and was, eventually, forced to sit across the aisle from it. My hands were tied behind my back and I was told, “Do this—and if you don't, you're going to be killed.” We waited for them to come and get us. We just waited.