Kidnapped by the Taliban by Dilip Joseph Page B

their aims hardly seemed life-giving. I imagined that new converts would live not a life of peace but one of continuing aggression and terrorism. I was a doctor, trying to better equip people to deal with their medicalissues. How did kidnapping or killing me foster anything that could be called peace?
    After the boy left, Hopeless removed the checkered scarf that was wrapped like a turban around his head and spread it out on the trail. Haqqani placed the boy’s water kettle in the middle and motioned for us to sit around it on the edge of the scarf. At least, it appeared, I would not die hungry.
    The three Taliban sat opposite Rafiq, Farzad, and me so we faced one another in a tight circle. Hopeless then removed the cloth that covered a still-warm loaf of naan, tore off a chunk, and passed it on. Each of us in turn tore off a piece.
    After a couple minutes of chewing, Hopeless looks at me and says via Rafiq’s translation, “Isn’t this the best naan you’ve ever tasted? This naan is even better than what’s served in the best restaurants in Kabul.”
    I sense that Hopeless isn’t just making conversation. There is almost a challenge in his voice.
    “Oh, this is so good,” I say. “Thank you very much.”
    It was good, and I was genuinely grateful to stop and eat after so much walking. I also did not want to disagree or say anything that might offend these men.
    It was strange to be sitting so close to Taliban warriors in these remote mountains and having an almost-cordial conversation. There was no talk of violence or of how we might be killed. Our captors talked instead about their life in the mountains. It was almost as if a group of old and new friends had gathered to share a meal.
    My experience has shown me that hospitality is important to ushumans. We will go to great lengths to make our guests feel welcome. When I was growing up in India—perhaps the same age as the boy who had carried the naan—my parents and I went to visit a family whose father was dying of a chronic illness. The family had little; they barely could keep their roof together. While some of her children greeted us at the door, the family’s mother dashed out a back door. Understanding what was happening, my parents rushed in and tried to stop the mother, but they were too late.
    The mother returned a few minutes later with a package of biscuits she’d purchased. Though she clearly could not afford to do so, this poor woman felt a strong obligation to treat us well.
    Hospitality is equally important, if not more so, in Afghan culture—even, it seemed, among the Taliban. Nearly all Taliban are ethnic Pashtuns. The Pashtun people adhere to a code of conduct known as Pashtunwali . According to the code, it is a matter of honor to take care of one’s guests. Custom dictates that even an enemy, if he comes to your door and asks for refuge, must be protected as if he is a member of the family. An Afghan proverb states, “Honor the guest, O son. Even though he be an infidel, open the door.”
    Rafiq, Farzad, and I now benefited from this practice. Though we were prisoners and though I, as an American, represented the “enemy,” they still were expected to sit down and break bread with us. It was a bit of comfort at a time when any positive sign was welcome. When no one was looking, I stuffed a piece of naan into my pocket. If I survived this ordeal, I wanted a token to remember this moment, a small piece of evidence that I had been treated well.
    The naan helped fill my stomach, but I was desperately thirsty. Had I known we would be hiking for so long, I certainly would have made an effort at our first stop to screen out any nasty parasites anddrunk heartily from the pool. While we ate, I eagerly kept my eye on the boy’s water kettle.
    Soon each of the three Taliban picked up the kettle in turn and took a long gulp from the wide opening on top. When Ahmed offered it to me, I gratefully and carefully lifted the kettle above my head and