"I wrote it so that it would stand as a testimony of God’s love that triumphed over pain and evil. This book is the fruit that has come forth from our distress and I penned it as an encouragement for people from all walks of life, race and religion. It is also aimed to be a form of biblio-therapy for those who have suffered or are suffering. I envision that it will stimulate constructive discussions about sensitive topics. I believe there is a message for every person in 558 DAYS" - Yolande Korkie.
About 36 hours into the kidnapping, Pierre and I were separated. He did not know where they were taking me, I did not know what they would do with him. We did not know if we would ever see each other again...
It was to be the longest night of my life; and the end was not in sight. The Toyota protested continuance and we sat in the brooding silence. An argument broke loose in the confinements of the car and accusations spewed out from the volcano of irritated operatives. Charged words went flying around; a sentence from their storm struck me.
“… at two o’clock …”
What would happen at two? What was the time now? There was no display lights flashing anymore; the engine was dead and I tried to recall the last time I registered the time. The impatient driver turned the ignition nervously.
Click, click came the lifeless reply.
I had a knot in my stomach and felt the precious minutes ticking onwards to this two o’clock deadline. Pierre, had he been with us, would have known how to fix the problem. Although not a mechanic, his capable hands and practical, common-sense attitude to life had been a lifesaver more times than I could recall. Soon into our marriage I discovered that Pierre had every intention of introducing me into the practicalities of vehicles. His motto was: “If you want to drive, girly, you must at least know how to change a tyre, check the oil and …” The list of vehicle ailments seemed endless. Being in love made me a willing student; and farm life made me an experienced student.
What would Pierre have done now, I asked myself? Check the battery, of course! But I was unsure if Ansar al-Shariah operatives would appreciate a woman giving advice about the mechanics of cars. Whatever. I had nothing to lose, and besides, I wasn’t planning on sitting out here in the wilderness all night. Their inefficiency was not going to derail my appointment with the Emir – maybe that was what would happen at two? So I hoped. I leaned forward to offer my opinion.
“Afw … a …” but the words dried on my lips as a searing pain shot up my spine.
South Africans are outside people. And Pierre and I were outside people. BK (before kidnapping) we thrived on outside: nature, walks, farming, cycling, pretty much everything you could think of to do ‘under the sun’. About two months into this nightmare, we were fading from lack of natural light. So Pierre approached the unapproachable guard once again. He asked and pleaded for just 5 minutes in the sun. We would be satisfied. We promised we wouldn’t run away. Finally his nagging paid off and our wishes were granted. We could go out – for 15 minutes...
[caption id="attachment_8709" align="aligncenter" width="620"] Yolande's journals and songbook[/caption]
A knock on the metal door indicated that time was up. It had ended almost before it had started. They had locked us out and into the mini–courtyard, with sentries posted behind the walls – just in case we decided to attempt a climb-over escape. The wall surrounding us was a mere two metres high, crum-bling, cracked and invitingly open on top. No barbed fences or any other barriers were visible.
“This is ridiculous,” we mouthed, while eyeing the obvious freedom with drooling hearts: “We can easily get over this.” But we didn’t try; not even once. Did we think about it? Yes, every day. The 15 minutes had run out and they slid the latch open, which was conveniently situated on their side. Disappointed that the time had gone by so quickly and blinded by the bright rays of light, we fingered our way back through the rooms.
“Shoes,” someone reminded us; we were not to walk over the places they prayed with shoes on. Pierre tripped over some-thing or somebody and almost bumped me off my feet. I was walking in front of him and was not, according to Grumpy Goliath (a nick name for one of the guards), allowed to look back. Even though the light had blinded our eyes, being outside had in some mysterious way recharged our emotional and spiritual batteries, like solar panels would catch up the sunlight and transform it into energy.
However, nothing could have prepared us for the shock of re-entering our room. If the cruel truth of our predicament had not entirely hit home yet, the moment of return was it. Dizzy from the bright light, breathless from the compounded heat inside, we stood in the middle of our room and said to one another: So this had really happened. It had not been a terrible night-mare. We were most definitely hostages.
I will never forget the evening of 1 January 2014… It was 220 days into our kidnapping. While the world was celebrating its New Year’s resolutions, Pierre and I were told we were finally going to be released. Together…
That night we hardly slept from excitement. For the first time ever, we allowed ourselves to visualise our homecoming and imagined Peter and Lize’s (our children) arms around us. With these pictures in our minds, we drifted in and out of sleep. Morning dawned and we waited. The sheikh had said within 24 hours we would be collected. We could be patient until nightfall, no problem. A move, we counselled ourselves, would most likely only take place under the cover of darkness. It was, as we had discovered, the time AQ (Al Qaeda) functioned best.
At dusk we washed and polished ourselves and Pierre shaved his week-old beard. His disastrous haircut had grown out, I thought, relieved, as I surveyed him in the flickering light bulb. Everybody would be able to recognise him, and how handsome and invigorated he suddenly looked to me. Expectantly, we waited through the night.
The morning of 3 January came. We were still there.
The morning of 4 January … still there. Snuggled against Pierre’s chest, I tried to calm my questioning heart. With every passing hour an awareness grew inside of me; one that bore no identification but stirred uneasiness inside my spirit. My ears drifted to the territory next door. They had been unnaturally quiet most of the day, but now there was some movement. Singer’s (a nick name we gave one of our guards) throaty cough signalled his return. I recalled thinking that it might be productive for us to check with him on the status of our release. But his whispering tone stopped me in my tracks.
I could not hear what he was saying.
Something was wrong. The replies from the guards confirmed my suspicions and sent me reeling. They started invoking the name of Allah over and over.
“No,” one of them retorted with agitation: “If they do this again, I will leave.”
If they do what? There was no time to ponder the sentence. A knock on the door indicated Singer’s request to enter. With my heart pounding in my throat, I ushered Pierre towards the door.
“Sit down,” he said: “There is problem.”
YOLANDE KORKIE:
About 36 hours into the kidnapping, Pierre and I were separated. He did not know where they were taking me, I did not know what they would do with him. We did not know if we would ever see each other again...
558 DAYS EXCERPT:
It was to be the longest night of my life; and the end was not in sight. The Toyota protested continuance and we sat in the brooding silence. An argument broke loose in the confinements of the car and accusations spewed out from the volcano of irritated operatives. Charged words went flying around; a sentence from their storm struck me.
“… at two o’clock …”
What would happen at two? What was the time now? There was no display lights flashing anymore; the engine was dead and I tried to recall the last time I registered the time. The impatient driver turned the ignition nervously.
Click, click came the lifeless reply.
I had a knot in my stomach and felt the precious minutes ticking onwards to this two o’clock deadline. Pierre, had he been with us, would have known how to fix the problem. Although not a mechanic, his capable hands and practical, common-sense attitude to life had been a lifesaver more times than I could recall. Soon into our marriage I discovered that Pierre had every intention of introducing me into the practicalities of vehicles. His motto was: “If you want to drive, girly, you must at least know how to change a tyre, check the oil and …” The list of vehicle ailments seemed endless. Being in love made me a willing student; and farm life made me an experienced student.
What would Pierre have done now, I asked myself? Check the battery, of course! But I was unsure if Ansar al-Shariah operatives would appreciate a woman giving advice about the mechanics of cars. Whatever. I had nothing to lose, and besides, I wasn’t planning on sitting out here in the wilderness all night. Their inefficiency was not going to derail my appointment with the Emir – maybe that was what would happen at two? So I hoped. I leaned forward to offer my opinion.
“Afw … a …” but the words dried on my lips as a searing pain shot up my spine.
YOLANDE KORKIE:
South Africans are outside people. And Pierre and I were outside people. BK (before kidnapping) we thrived on outside: nature, walks, farming, cycling, pretty much everything you could think of to do ‘under the sun’. About two months into this nightmare, we were fading from lack of natural light. So Pierre approached the unapproachable guard once again. He asked and pleaded for just 5 minutes in the sun. We would be satisfied. We promised we wouldn’t run away. Finally his nagging paid off and our wishes were granted. We could go out – for 15 minutes...
[caption id="attachment_8709" align="aligncenter" width="620"] Yolande's journals and songbook[/caption]
558 DAYS EXCERPT:
A knock on the metal door indicated that time was up. It had ended almost before it had started. They had locked us out and into the mini–courtyard, with sentries posted behind the walls – just in case we decided to attempt a climb-over escape. The wall surrounding us was a mere two metres high, crum-bling, cracked and invitingly open on top. No barbed fences or any other barriers were visible.
“This is ridiculous,” we mouthed, while eyeing the obvious freedom with drooling hearts: “We can easily get over this.” But we didn’t try; not even once. Did we think about it? Yes, every day. The 15 minutes had run out and they slid the latch open, which was conveniently situated on their side. Disappointed that the time had gone by so quickly and blinded by the bright rays of light, we fingered our way back through the rooms.
“Shoes,” someone reminded us; we were not to walk over the places they prayed with shoes on. Pierre tripped over some-thing or somebody and almost bumped me off my feet. I was walking in front of him and was not, according to Grumpy Goliath (a nick name for one of the guards), allowed to look back. Even though the light had blinded our eyes, being outside had in some mysterious way recharged our emotional and spiritual batteries, like solar panels would catch up the sunlight and transform it into energy.
However, nothing could have prepared us for the shock of re-entering our room. If the cruel truth of our predicament had not entirely hit home yet, the moment of return was it. Dizzy from the bright light, breathless from the compounded heat inside, we stood in the middle of our room and said to one another: So this had really happened. It had not been a terrible night-mare. We were most definitely hostages.
YOLANDE KORKIE:
I will never forget the evening of 1 January 2014… It was 220 days into our kidnapping. While the world was celebrating its New Year’s resolutions, Pierre and I were told we were finally going to be released. Together…
558 DAYS EXCERPT:
That night we hardly slept from excitement. For the first time ever, we allowed ourselves to visualise our homecoming and imagined Peter and Lize’s (our children) arms around us. With these pictures in our minds, we drifted in and out of sleep. Morning dawned and we waited. The sheikh had said within 24 hours we would be collected. We could be patient until nightfall, no problem. A move, we counselled ourselves, would most likely only take place under the cover of darkness. It was, as we had discovered, the time AQ (Al Qaeda) functioned best.
At dusk we washed and polished ourselves and Pierre shaved his week-old beard. His disastrous haircut had grown out, I thought, relieved, as I surveyed him in the flickering light bulb. Everybody would be able to recognise him, and how handsome and invigorated he suddenly looked to me. Expectantly, we waited through the night.
The morning of 3 January came. We were still there.
The morning of 4 January … still there. Snuggled against Pierre’s chest, I tried to calm my questioning heart. With every passing hour an awareness grew inside of me; one that bore no identification but stirred uneasiness inside my spirit. My ears drifted to the territory next door. They had been unnaturally quiet most of the day, but now there was some movement. Singer’s (a nick name we gave one of our guards) throaty cough signalled his return. I recalled thinking that it might be productive for us to check with him on the status of our release. But his whispering tone stopped me in my tracks.
I could not hear what he was saying.
Something was wrong. The replies from the guards confirmed my suspicions and sent me reeling. They started invoking the name of Allah over and over.
“No,” one of them retorted with agitation: “If they do this again, I will leave.”
If they do what? There was no time to ponder the sentence. A knock on the door indicated Singer’s request to enter. With my heart pounding in my throat, I ushered Pierre towards the door.
“Sit down,” he said: “There is problem.”