between Christianity and Islam. In fact, we do share a number of the same personages, such as Adam, Abraham, Moses, and David—they termed them all “prophets.” When they found out that our youngest son was named Zachary, their faces lit up: “Oh yes, Zacarias!” they said, and congratulated us for naming our child for one of their prophets. They even began calling Martin by the name “Abu Zacarias” (father of Zachary).
One of the captors was named Zacarias as well—the short, stocky one who had ransacked our room. He had a unique personality and really liked to make people laugh, especially with his fractured English. Sometimes he excitedly combined phrases into fanciful sayings, like, when it started to rain, “The rain is coming and the people are running!” Everybody just stared at him and then cracked up.
On Tuesday afternoon, our third day in captivity, the sat-phone batteries went dead. This greatly upset Sabaya and the others. How would they keep making their pronouncements to the outside world? Soon Martin and Chito came to their rescue by showing them how to line up six D-cell batteries and pack them together securely enough to recharge the sat-phone battery.
“You know, you guys really ought to think about getting a solar panel,” Martin suggested. “That way you wouldn’t be so dependent on these batteries that run down.” They thought that was a great idea and promptly called one of their buddies on land to order one.
Watching all this, I said to Martin, “Maybe you ought to keep your bright ideas to yourself, you know? You’re going to become so indispensable to this group they’ll never let us go!” On the other hand, it was to our advantage for them to continue communicating. So maybe Martin’s advice served our purposes after all.
Somewhere along the line—perhaps in appreciation?—they finally got Martin a white T-shirt with sleeves, so he wouldn’t be so cold at night. I tried to help out by sharing part of my malong with him.
One other provision came along: a few toothbrushes for the group. Martin and I were glad to get one to share between us. It was our only possession besides the clothes on our backs. No toothpaste, however.
Letty, the Chinese-Filipino businesswoman, was a middle-aged person of means. I could tell she was very worried for the safety of her young daughter and niece; she almost never took her eyes off them.
She moved over by me one afternoon with a second concern. “I’ve started my monthly period,” she whispered, self-consciousness written all over her face. “What am I going to do?!”
I looked around the boat in vain. “Uh . . . I don’t know what to tell you,” I replied, hopelessly. I walked around a bit, trying to think what I would do if it were me.
Then I came up with an idea—a bad one, to be sure. But at this point, I was scavenging for any option. “Over there on the floor of the engine room, there’s some cardboard. Maybe we could soften it up somehow if we cut it up in pieces and played with it awhile. . . .”
“Oh, no, no, that won’t work,” she said, and went off to search the boat.
Not too many minutes later she came back with cardboard in her hand and began to rip it up quietly. The rest of us ladies silently joined in the effort, kneading it with our hands to smooth out the rough edges.
(I don’t know why I didn’t think to mention Rizza’s stash of extra clothes! That would have been a much better answer.)
Pretty soon a little knot of girls began to laugh uproariously at something. What in the world could be funny? I went over to check them out, and they were dreaming up commercials for this new kind of feminine hygiene product—ideas on how to package it, how to advertise, sales slogans to use—it was hilarious. As I watched these girls giggling, I thought to myself, Isn’t it amazing how the human mind can find humor in even the darkest situations?
Sssssst! Sssssst! Sssssst! The Abu Sayyaf began to
One of the captors was named Zacarias as well—the short, stocky one who had ransacked our room. He had a unique personality and really liked to make people laugh, especially with his fractured English. Sometimes he excitedly combined phrases into fanciful sayings, like, when it started to rain, “The rain is coming and the people are running!” Everybody just stared at him and then cracked up.
On Tuesday afternoon, our third day in captivity, the sat-phone batteries went dead. This greatly upset Sabaya and the others. How would they keep making their pronouncements to the outside world? Soon Martin and Chito came to their rescue by showing them how to line up six D-cell batteries and pack them together securely enough to recharge the sat-phone battery.
“You know, you guys really ought to think about getting a solar panel,” Martin suggested. “That way you wouldn’t be so dependent on these batteries that run down.” They thought that was a great idea and promptly called one of their buddies on land to order one.
Watching all this, I said to Martin, “Maybe you ought to keep your bright ideas to yourself, you know? You’re going to become so indispensable to this group they’ll never let us go!” On the other hand, it was to our advantage for them to continue communicating. So maybe Martin’s advice served our purposes after all.
Somewhere along the line—perhaps in appreciation?—they finally got Martin a white T-shirt with sleeves, so he wouldn’t be so cold at night. I tried to help out by sharing part of my malong with him.
One other provision came along: a few toothbrushes for the group. Martin and I were glad to get one to share between us. It was our only possession besides the clothes on our backs. No toothpaste, however.
Letty, the Chinese-Filipino businesswoman, was a middle-aged person of means. I could tell she was very worried for the safety of her young daughter and niece; she almost never took her eyes off them.
She moved over by me one afternoon with a second concern. “I’ve started my monthly period,” she whispered, self-consciousness written all over her face. “What am I going to do?!”
I looked around the boat in vain. “Uh . . . I don’t know what to tell you,” I replied, hopelessly. I walked around a bit, trying to think what I would do if it were me.
Then I came up with an idea—a bad one, to be sure. But at this point, I was scavenging for any option. “Over there on the floor of the engine room, there’s some cardboard. Maybe we could soften it up somehow if we cut it up in pieces and played with it awhile. . . .”
“Oh, no, no, that won’t work,” she said, and went off to search the boat.
Not too many minutes later she came back with cardboard in her hand and began to rip it up quietly. The rest of us ladies silently joined in the effort, kneading it with our hands to smooth out the rough edges.
(I don’t know why I didn’t think to mention Rizza’s stash of extra clothes! That would have been a much better answer.)
Pretty soon a little knot of girls began to laugh uproariously at something. What in the world could be funny? I went over to check them out, and they were dreaming up commercials for this new kind of feminine hygiene product—ideas on how to package it, how to advertise, sales slogans to use—it was hilarious. As I watched these girls giggling, I thought to myself, Isn’t it amazing how the human mind can find humor in even the darkest situations?
Sssssst! Sssssst! Sssssst! The Abu Sayyaf began to
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