Free Kidnapped by the Taliban by Dilip Joseph

who’d been tied up with a rope and attached to the back of a military truck. As the truck sped ahead, the man was dragged along behind it, his body jerking and bouncing in the dusty street.
    Of course I felt compassion for the people depicted in these scenes. I was not so naïve as to believe that NATO forces were without fault or that they always treated their prisoners well. At the same time, I realized that these images were designed to manipulate emotions—in this case, ours. It felt like propaganda. Later I even wondered if some of the scenes might have been staged.
    At the time, though, I felt Haqqani was signaling what was about to happen to us. It was a kind of psychological torture with the physical torture to follow.
    Haqqani had a collection of these video clips on his phone, none longer than a minute in length. When we’d cycled through them all, they started again, playing in an endless loop. Judging by the darkintensity in Haqqani’s eyes, it was clear there would be no rest on this night. We were expected to sit and watch as he held the phone up, the distressing images flickering a few inches from our faces.
    This went on for an hour, then another. Ahmed eventually closed his eyes and fell asleep.
    I desperately wanted the videos to stop. If Haqqani was trying to break us down emotionally, it was working, at least on me. I almost wished he’d move on to the physical torture just so I wouldn’t have to endure the continuing displays of suffering and torment. More than once I tried to look away, but each time Haqqani’s glare was enough to indicate this wasn’t an option.
    Finally, about three grueling hours after the videos started, Haqqani abruptly puts down the phone.
    “You see how your people treat us?” he says to me through Rafiq’s translation, anger in his voice. “We’re not treating you this way, are we? We don’t treat people like that.”
    “You guys have been good,” I say. “Thank you. You’ve been treating me well.”
    My answer isn’t enough to calm down Haqqani. Soon he launches into an animated speech as he stares at me. Rafiq tries to translate, but Haqqani doesn’t wait for his words to be communicated. He keeps talking, almost shouting.
    “Are you going to follow our demands? How quickly are you going to follow them?” are two phrases Rafiq is able to pass on. Then, a few minutes later, comes the threat that was never far from my mind: “We’re going to kill you.”
    It seems to me that Haqqani is in tough-guy mode, that he is deliberately trying to intimidate and provoke me. And to some degree he is succeeding—certainly my thoughts and emotions are in turmoil. ButI don’t want this Taliban leader to know it. I’ve already determined that I do not want to react to my kidnappers with fear or with hatred. I don’t want to play their game. So I nod as Haqqani rants, but otherwise I say and show him nothing.
    Even so, his words have left their mark. The yo-yo of my emotions have hit another trough.
    It’s no longer a matter of whether or not they’re going to kill me. It’s just a matter of how and when.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    WHATEVER THIS IS
    2:30 P.M ., W EDNESDAY
    C OLORADO S PRINGS , C OLORADO
    DANIEL, MY BOSS, DRUMMED HIS FINGERS ON A TABLETOP. HE was uneasy. If I had known what he was facing, I would not have envied him.
    He sat in a windowless room at the headquarters of Compassion International, where Cilicia worked. Joining him at the table were a Compassion vice president and chaplain, as well as Lars, Morning Star’s executive director, and Anne, Daniel’s wife.
    I hate to do this , Daniel thought. I hate for Cilicia to hear the news I’m going to bring her. But I have to do it.
    At about the same time another staff member at Compassion entered my wife’s second-floor office and asked her to stop what she was doing and come with her. The woman escorted Cilicia to the room where everyone was waiting.
    Daniel watched the alarm grow on Cilicia’s face when