Impossible Odds

complained of being held for months with no word on negotiations.
    At least our people are talking, I thought. Maybe that thought activated Murphy’s Law—Abdi walked in from the outskirts of the camp, where he had been pacing and screaming into his phone. He was in such a foul temper that when Poul asked to “use the toilet” (walk to a nearby bush), Abdi pointed to a large, heavy blanket and demanded Poul use it to cover up while doing his business. It was a ridiculous demand in the heavy heat of the day, good for nothing more than yet another petty humiliation. I suppose part of his screaming phone conversations regarded their growing fear that we were being monitored from airplanes. Couldn’t these guys understand how much a search mission like that would cost? The planes? The pilots? The fuel?
    To hell with it, I thought. I was tired of trying to argue away Abdi’s paranoia.
    Poul grudgingly did as he was told, but while he was gone Abdi picked up a large stick and began chopping at bushes with it, knocking down branches and banging it on the ground as if testing it for strength. He did it with more grace than a primate posturing for an adversary, but for the same reason and effect.
    When Poul returned, Abdi’s intentions became clear when he lifted the stick and attacked Poul with it, beating him to the ground. I felt my terror level spike.
    “Where is big money?” Abdi shouted, swinging the stick like a bat. “Where is big money?” Smack. “Where is big money?” Smack. “Where is big money?”
    “It’s not our fault!” Poul cried, uselessly trying to reason with a stoned, raging speed freak. “We don’t control Mohammed!”
    “F**k Mohammed! He lie! Small money! Small money!”
    He swung the stick against Poul’s outstretched arms and hands. Poul cried out for him to stop, and I sobbed in frustration and outrage. Abdi noticed my distress, but as usual, my tears generated no sympathy and only provoked him further. He stomped over to me waving the stick.
    “You up! Up! Up! Hijab! Walk!”
    This amounted to an order from Abdi to stand up, cover my head with the hijab, and start walking out into the open desert. I started off without giving him any trouble, but even so Poul got whacked into following along with us. Abdi was in such a rage he couldn’t seem to stop himself from continuing to assail Poul. His rage moved past any attempt to persuade Poul of anything and simply became therapy for Abdi’s personal turmoil.
    The instant lesson for me was that the specter of violent execution never gets better. We can adjust and inure ourselves to many hardships and challenges in this world, but the prospect of being murdered by a hateful enemy does not mellow over time. I had no clever lines to toss out, no movie-star cool to sneer at my captor, and I felt no sense of magical protection.
    I knew there were centuries of human history packed with tales of faithful people who were killed in the midst of praying for release, and who found release only in death. Something told me not to bother to pray for cosmic magic. I just focused on praying for my own strength. I didn’t doubt that if I allowed fear to overcome me, Abdi’s rage would go over the tipping point. It was plain to me that when he looked at me now, he was starting to see red ink where dollar signs used to be.
    We walked along with Abdi screaming into my face like a particularly energetic drill sergeant. “I am guerilla warrior! You f**k with me? You f**k with me? Where is big money?”
    I forced my voice into a dead calm. “We don’t control the money, Abdi. We don’t even know Mohammed.”
    “F**k Mohammed! He give small money! Small money!”
    “I’m sorry about that, Abdi, but—”
    “Where is big money?”
    “I don’t know! You have to listen to me, Abdi! I don’t know! Poul doesn’t know! You hit us, we still don’t know!”
    He stopped us and forced us to the ground under a large bush, then squatted in front of me close enough to bathe me in his body odor and halitosis. He glared into my eyes and then used his fingertip to slowly and deliberately write the number 18 in the sand.
    “I get eighteen million in seven days— seven days, Jesses—or I cut off your head!”
    There are times when frustration is more painful than terror. With any form of fear, the message running through the body is simple: run or fight. Frustration occurs when you can’t run, can’t fight, and can’t stop the torment. It not only