Colonel Gerald M. Paulson, M.D., U.S.A. Army (ret.), July 23, 2009.
The international, philanthropic medical organization, Doctors Without Borders, provides medical assistance to nations in need across the globe, without regard to political affiliation, race, gender, religion, or socio-economic standing. Some of the main focal points are to bring medical treatment, medical pharmaceuticals, and medical technologies to peoples in dire need. It is to the high ideals of this humanitarian organization that I have pledged my services for the next two years.
Upon my earlier honorable discharge from the United States Army, I returned to civilian life in Raleigh, North Carolina, with my wife Marie and my two daughters, Sandra and Melody. With the advantages of receiving my full military pension, supplemented by my wife’s earnings as a substitute teacher, I helped to establish my family’s educational and vocational pursuits. My eldest daughter, Sandra, is the leading female vocalist in a rock band, which specializes in Christian and traditional pop rock music. Melody has chosen to pursue a career in financial planning, and is enrolled at the University of North Carolina. Before I committed to Doctors Without Borders, I took a personal assessment of my beliefs, goals, ideals, and values, in the context of my Christian faith. The international organization’s mission statement fit well with my own personal mission statement. Despite the time away from my family, my wife and children gave me their reserved approval; however, they demanded regular contact throughout my assignment.
On July 23, 2009, I took a connecting flight from Raleigh to New York City, and then transferred to a chartered plane which flew from JFK International to Islamabad, Pakistan, via layovers in London, England, and Cairo, Egypt. Upon my arrival to Islamabad, I was introduced to my medical team members which included a German nurse, an Italian physician, and an Indian physician. Additionally, a Pakistani guide would lead us through the populated regions of the foothills of the Himalayas mountain range. We were briefed on our mission by a senior official of Doctors Without Borders, Mr. Sanjay Nair, M.D.
“Welcome, welcome, to Doctors Without Borders at our headquarters in Islamabad. I trust you have met one another during the lengthy registration process. The briefing I will be giving is more fully explained in the information packets which you have received. The purpose of this mission is to provide medical assistance to the indigenous people who reside in the mountainous terrain of the foothills of the Himalayas. Are there any questions?”
“Dr. Nair, will our medical mission be compromised by the on-going warfare between Pakistani and Indian security forces?” Bruno Capriati, M.D., had just voiced the fear that every team member had.
“Dr. Capriati, and all team members, while there is a risk that the armed conflict could impede our mission, and even endanger our team, I believe that our organization benefits from its acceptance and goodwill. These factors enable us to keep functioning regardless of any political strife. Any other questions along this line of thought?”
From my research, it appeared that Dr. Nair was well aware of the organization’s policy of downplaying any inherent risks with entering warzones. It would have been counter-productive to scare off the medical professionals the organization was recruiting.
“Dr. Nair, how advisable is it to carry or wear jewelry, or other valuables, out in the field?” I had heard that larceny was a problem with some of the individuals we were being sent to serve. In fact, there were reports of roving gangs of bandits.
“Dr. Paulson, I strongly suggest that you safe-keep all precious valuables. Perhaps getting a local safe-deposit box is the answer.” This time, Dr. Nair spoke candidly of the dangers which would accompany our travels among the native people.
“The last topic of discussion for today, is the protocol that will be used in the unlikely event that one or more team members is captured and taken hostage by adversarial forces. I will note that it is the set policy of Doctors Without Borders, for all team members to be unarmed with guns, rifles, or explosives. We are specifically called to promote the messages of goodwill, hope, and peace. Any member who is caught breaking this policy will be expelled from the organization, immediately!” Dr. Nair was slightly livid.
“Dr. Nair, as a woman, I am particularly interested in knowing how all team members will be protected. Also, what procedure will be used to secure the freedom of a member turned captive or hostage.” Greta Zeiss, R.N., was an older nurse, and could not be faulted in her concern for personal safety.
“Our organization has the cooperation of every host nation, which includes its armed security forces, executive and judicial branches, and local residents who use our services. We are also protected by international laws, rules, regulations, policies, and guidelines.” Dr. Nair appeared comfortable with his answer.
In the days that followed, additional information was provided by Dr. Nair and other people connected with Doctors Without Borders. Finally, before the end of our third week in Islamabad, we were equipped with our medical supplies, medical equipment, identification papers and passes, communication equipment, food supplies, and transportation. Two all-terrain Jeeps were provided. I took the advice of Dr. Nair and reserved a safe-deposit box at the Bank Alfalah Limited, in downtown Islamabad. There I placed three of my most precious personal belongings: My gold wedding band, my gold cross, and my diamond-encrusted Rolex watch, which was given to me by both my wife and mother for my retirement. I replaced my watch with an inexpensive Casio digital watch, which I purchased at a kiosk.
Every few days, I would communicate with my wife, Marie, and my two daughters on Skype. On my last day in the capital of Pakistan, I again contacted Marie.
“Hi Baby! Tomorrow, we’ll be driving through the countryside on our way to the foothills.” She looked as beautiful to me now, as she did on our wedding day. It has a lot to do with the sense of completion, which comes when you are totally in love.
“Sweetheart, I love seeing you and talking to you. But, will you be able to keep up the contact in the field?”
“Yes, there are computers, satellite equipment, electrical generators, and spare fuel. How are Sandra and Melody?”
“Honey, they miss you! Sandra wrote a new song about you, it’s called, ’20 to Life’ and it relates to your time with the U.S. Army, and now, with Doctors Without Borders. You know how you’re always defending and helping people!”
“That’s really clever, Babe! Is it a good song?” I always thought that Sandra picked up her best creative genes from both me and her mother. I was always good at creative writing, while Marie excelled in music.
“Hon, she said that she’d record it to CD, and play it for you on a special occasion.”
“Great, Baby! I love you always! Tell Sandra and Melody that I love them, and that I’ll be in contact by the middle of next week.”
The need for medical assistance was acute in a country like Pakistan, where efforts to modernize and deliver a higher quality of care, were often met with resistance and a lack of appropriate funding. Our mission to help the poor, isolated, and indigenous people of the foothill regions of the Himalayas, would challenge us to the fullest extent of our capabilities. Additionally, it was understood that our medical team would be made available to treat practically all needy people, regardless of their political or religious affiliations. Prior to our departure from Islamabad, a representative from the U.S. State Department warned our team about sporadic fighting between Pakistani and Indian security forces, and between rival villagers. The reports put a somber tone on our humanitarian mission.
The drive through the streets of Islamabad reminded me of pre-war Baghdad, Iraq, where I was stationed near the start of my military career. From the blend of old and new architecture, to the avenues dotted with vendors, to the occasional donkey or camel in the road, the capital city of this Muslim nation bore the markings of an ancient world, reaching out to embrace the new. The drive to the base of the Himalayas would take approximately seventeen hours. Riding with me in the second Jeep, was Mishra Watamull, M.D., a graduate of Stanford University’s Medical School, though he lived and practiced in Bombay, India. Dr. Watamull was fluent in several of the local dialects, in addition to his native Hindi, and English.
“Dr. Watamull, I’m so glad that a medical professional of your qualifications has decided to contribute his abilities and talent to such an honorable cause.” At the time, my comment to Mishra Watamull appeared fully appropriate.
“Dr. Paulson, or may I call you Gerald?”
“Certainly!”
“The migratory patterns of various groups of people in the Himalayan border between Pakistan and India, has forced aid workers to acquire the ability to converse in many different dialects. Also, since it is important to keep tract of the movement of these people, the ability of an aid worker to ingrain himself or herself to a particular group becomes necessary. Gerald, as you may recall, I’ve been designated as the statistician of the medical team.”
“Mishra, I’m just glad that we’ll be able to communicate with the people.”
Our Pakistani guide, Sai Huda, might well have been a mind-reader, since he seemed to anticipate every anxious moment we had during our long road-trip. Sai stopped our two vehicle caravan at every rest-stop, meal-break, and sleep-over that the team needed. At one of our later stops, Dr. Capriati asked him.
“Sai, when do you think we’ll arrive at the first village?”
“Dr. Capriati, my guess is that we’ll arrive at our first destination around 1:00 p.m. There is a gypsy camp at the end of the major highway, near the base of the mountain range. While gypsies originated from northern India, there are many gypsy groups which are native to Pakistan. Nearly ten million Pakistani gypsies are treated with great prejudice.”
As I watched the digital display on my black Casio, the mid-day hour had long passed, and the time had already run past 1:00 p.m. I turned toward Dr. Mishra Watamull, and shook my head in mock displeasure. Where, I wondered, was the first gypsy camp? Mishra, who had taken over as driver, picked up the walkie-talkie to contact our guide Sai Huda. Sai never returned the call, but instead, drove the lead Jeep even faster along the unpaved mountain road. Suddenly, and without warning, five unmarked, grey pick-up trucks sped from their hide-aways in the nearby trees, and blocked the path of our two Jeeps. Our trucks screeched to a halt, and I prepared for the worst. More than one dozen heavily-armed, masked men pulled each of us from the Jeeps and took out solid black masks. To my complete amazement and horror, Dr. Watamull pulled a semi-automatic handgun from inside his heavy jacket, and began to fire his weapon very quickly. A couple of masked men went down under the hail of gunfire, but Dr. Watamull did not last long as the other men returned the fire. The last sight I had of my remaining team members, was seeing Greta Zeiss, Sai Huda, and Bruno Capriati being handcuffed and blind-folded. I was also handcuffed and blind-folded and driven away with my body slumped on the bed of a pick-up truck.
“Please, my name is Dr. Gerald Paulson, and I am a medical doctor with Doctors Without Borders. My bona-fides can be proven in Islamabad, at the Pakistani headquarters of this international, humanitarian organization.”
“WHAP!” I was struck hard in the face by the kidnapers, and not a word was spoken to me.
The journey was long, almost incredibly long, and I was given no water or food. After the passage of perhaps two days, we finally stopped. From under the mask, I could hear the whistling sound of the violent wind. The temperature was freezing and I shook uncontrollably. Two men lifted me out of the pick-up truck and shoved me forward. I landed on the floor.
“Where have I been taken to? What do you want with me? What have you done with the other members of my medical team?”
“AMERICAN PIG! CRACK!” I was hit so hard in the jaw that I thought I could have suffered a fracture.
My clothes, which seemed warm enough only days earlier, were like thin bed sheets covering my achingly cold body. When the hostage takers finally removed the handcuffs and black mask, I initially felt great relief; however, that feeling gave way to the fearful thought that captives and hostages who are permitted to see their keepers, are almost certainly scheduled to die. For then, the captors have no fear of being identified. Eventually, I was brought to a single jail cell, which was no more than a large crevice in a rock wall with a locked iron-bar gate. The entire encampment for the predators and their prey, rose high up from the foothills of the Himalayas, and was perfectly secluded from all prying eyes, natural or electronic.
As I constantly fought against the freezing chill to my body, I drifted back to a time of my past, when I was challenged to combat the cold by meditating and reserving all my energy. Only this was not basic training, it was worse. But mainly, I wondered why these armed men, or soldiers, wanted me? Or did they? Then it happened: They came for me.
“What is your name?”
“It’s Gerald M. Paulson, M.D. I am a medical doctor with Doctors Without Borders.”
“LIAR! CRACK!” These people had no regard for the Geneva Convention. If they kept this up, my jaw would break.
“I was on my way to a medical mission to assist the indigenous people of the Himalayan area between Pakistan and India.”
“THUMP! CRACK!” Two blows, to my stomach and to my left cheek. There’s blood in my mouth.
“Who are your contacts in this area?”
“Our medical assistance was arranged by our organizational headquarters in Islamabad, and was made with the help of the Pakistani government.”
“What information do you have on the inhabitants of this area?”
“Just what Doctors Without Borders collects in the course of their medical missions.” I wondered if the large and heavyset man would believe that I truly was only a volunteer physician.
“We are not fools, we are fully connected through the internet, and we have the means to interface with the United States’ databases. You are Colonel Gerald M. Paulson, M.D., U.S.A. Army (ret.). IS THIS TRUE?”
From what I can tell, my tormentor is Middle Eastern, perhaps Iranian or Syrian. His eyes are dead. He feels nothing. No pain. No guilt. He is a killer. I answer him.
“Yes, I am Colonel Gerald M. Paulson, M.D., U.S.A. Army (ret.). Why am I here?”
“You tell me! CRACK!” This time the bastard aimed high, and went for my eye socket.
“Your team member, Dr. Mishra Watamull. Why was he carrying a semi-automatic handgun?”
Great question. I had asked myself that question over one hundred times. Every team member knew that the policy of Doctors Without Borders is to completely prohibit the carrying and use of firearms and explosives. I had already concluded that Mishra Watamull might have been an intelligence agent, perhaps for the United States, or perhaps for India. Possibly, he was an agent for both governments. It seemed to make sense. He was born a foreign national, but trained in America. He was a medical doctor, a linguist, and a statistician. Plus, he showed skill in firing his weapon.
“I do not know why Dr. Watamull was carrying a gun.” I did not want to state what may have been obvious; perhaps then, I could avoid guilt by implication. For oftentimes one is known by the company he associates with.
“If you do not know, then you will guess the correct answer!” My tormentor picked up a heavy rod of iron and began hitting my knuckles, wrists, shins, and kneecaps. My skin broke and blood flowed. The freezing mountain air was the only thing that deadened the pain. When the guard got tired of trying to break me, he let me collapse in my cell.
When I finally awoke in my solitary cell, I was disoriented from the extreme stress of the dangerous situation, the lack of water and food, the pain and swelling from the beatings, the frigid temperature, and the absence of any identifying signs of the current time or day. From outside my cell, there was a rock-walled pathway which led to what I believed were other prison cells, or perhaps, to my captors’ quarters. I thought I had heard talking, crying, and screaming, but my mind seemed delusional. There were a few dim bulbs lighting the pathway, and so, my dark cell received a small amount of light. As I lay on the ground in a fetal position, I knew that my body had been broken. But my captors had not broken my mind and soul; my many years of medical and military training forced me to analyze the situation, and if possible, to formulate a plan of action.
My mind wanted to rebel, and I realized that I had to focus all of my mental energies to overcome the effects of my imprisonment. First, who were my abductors? Were they Pakistanis, Indians, terrorists, bandits, or some other shadowy group? What was the purpose for abducting the medical group? Was it for ransom, for political reasons, or for the purpose of hiding the secret operations of the group? Apparently, these people were anti-American; so therefore, did this make them an operation of the Taliban, Al-Qaeda, or some other ultra-nationalist group? Who knows of the medical group’s abduction? Doctors Without Borders, the Pakistani government, the U.S. State Department, or my family? What are the chances of securing my freedom? Will diplomacy work, or will armed recourse be required? As the hours and days of my imprisonment dragged on, and as I languished in my rock cage delirious from the lack of water and food, I suddenly sprang to life when the iron-gate to my cell was opened. I quickly looked, and was rewarded to see a wizened old man with a cup of water and a small tin plate of bread. He placed it near the gate and motioned me with his hands before leaving. I practically swallowed the food with the water.
If there was any regularity during my incarceration, it related to the interrogations and beatings I was subjected to, and to the water and food I was given. The former was sporadic at times, while the latter was given with greater regularity. The seconds, minutes, and hours, all blended together in a blurring of the days. How often I felt that I was simply lost in time. Then it happened. On a day without warning, the wizened old man spoke to me through the iron bars.
“They say that you’re a physician. A medical doctor from the U.S. Army.” His English was good, though heavily accented with a Middle Eastern influence.
“Who are you people, and why am I being held?” There was a great urgency in my voice.
“Please, just because I’ve chosen to speak with you, doesn’t make me your advocate.”
“Then why are you speaking to me?” Was he sent to elicit information from me?
“Before I answer your question, let me ask this: Is a person defined by what he now does, says, and thinks? Or, does the totality of his life’s actions, words, and thoughts correctly define him?” The old man was clearly not what he seemed.
“If I answer you correctly, then will you please tell me why I’m being held?”
“Agreed.”
“The correct answer depends on how the one who stands in judgment weighs each man. If the judge weighs every aspect of a man’s life, then the totality of his life will define him. Otherwise, if the judge weighs more heavily his current occupations of life, then his present will define him.” My years of informal study of the world’s religions and political systems had come in handy.
“Excellent! You do your profession great justice! You are being held because of fear.”
“Fear? The fear of what? Or, the fear of whom?” There was too much double-talk.
“I must go now, but I’ll leave you with this: The totality of my life will reveal that I also was charged with the preservation of life.” Then he left.