SEVERAL HOURS WENT BY before the maltese government responded to the hijackers’ threat.
It was a strange feeling to realize that the hijackers couldn’t care less about our individual lives. They didn’t see us as people with feelings, hopes, dreams, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, daughters, and sons. They didn’t care who we were or why we were on the plane. They didn’t care that I loved the Arab people and Arab children. None of that mattered.
When we looked into the hijackers’ cold eyes, we saw reflected back an image of ourselves as hated objects, “things” to be used for their own purposes. To the hijackers, we were cattle to be sacrificed in the name of some obscure cause. They tried to strip away our very humanity.
I’d always seen people as individuals. The idea that others could see and treat me as an object—a political symbol—was completely alien to me. It was also terrifying to realize that my dignity and value as a human being mattered nothing to the people who held my life in their hands.
I was absolutely certain that if I lived through this ordeal, I would never forget the pain and hatred I saw in those eyes.
Throughout the hijacking, there was a lot of back and forth negotiating between the hijackers and the Maltese government. Most of it took place in the cockpit, out of sight. As passengers, we knew that our fate depended on the skill of those who were dealing with the two remaining hijackers. I hoped to God that they were good at their jobs.
The United States government sent a crisis negotiation team from Sigonella Air Base in Italy to Malta, carrying a planeload of counter-terrorism equipment to help defuse the crisis. The equipment included eavesdropping devices that could allow Maltese and Egyptian officials to pinpoint the exact location of the hijackers inside the plane. President Reagan had also dispatched Delta Force, the U.S. Army’s crack counter-terrorist unit, to Malta for a possible rescue effort. This elite group of U.S. troops was on its way.
The two hijackers waited several tense hours for Malta to respond to their threat. They seemed very agitated as they waited.
The hijacker who seemed to be in charge kept going into the cockpit, returning nervously, then going back in.
The hijacker exchanged some words with one of the flight attendants. Acting as an interpreter, the attendant asked if any Greek women were on board.
A voice from somewhere said, “How about a Greek baby?”
There was no response from the two hijackers.
More time passed before the hijackers received Malta’s reply to their threat: There would be no agreement until all hostages were released.
The hijackers yelled out an Israeli woman’s name—Tamar Artzi—then took her up to the front and opened the door. We all thought Tamar was being released—like the Filipino and Egyptian women who had been released earlier. Tamar did too. She got up from her seat willingly.
As she was descending the stairs, however, the straight-haired hijacker pointed his pistol at her and shot her in the back of the head. The awful sound that broke our hearts and confirmed our worst fears was followed by the sickening and unmistakable sound of a body thumping down the stairway.
“They’ve shot her!” someone gasped.
There was a collective gasp and the sound of wailing. A woman in the back screamed something in a language I didn’t understand. A hijacker yelled something back.
My God, how can this be happening! I had been sure they were going to let Tamar go or maybe threaten her to convince the Maltese government that they were serious.
Then came another shock. Tamar was alive! Alfons DeLaet, the Belgian man sitting next to Scarlett, saw her move on the tarmac. Play dead, I thought to myself. Why isn’t she playing dead?
The hijacker who was acting as executioner saw her move too. When he did, he stood at the top of the metal staircase and shot directly at Tamar’s quivering body. He fired again, and again, and again—until she didn’t move anymore.
Words can’t describe the horror we felt.
Five minutes later, the hijackers forced one of the EgyptAir security guards to call for the second Israeli passenger on board. There was no reply. Again, he asked for the other Israeli to come forward. There was still no answer.
At gunpoint, the security guard was forced to sort through the passports in the briefcase and pick out the green Israeli document.
The guard opened the passport and stared at Nitzan Mendelson’s picture. The hijackers grabbed the passport out of his hand and quickly scanned the rows of seats until they found her.
“Another passenger is being prepared for execution,” Captain Galal told helpless officials assembled in the Luqa Airport’s control tower. “I demand fuel,” he said. “I do not want more bloodshed. I am responsible for the safety of the passengers and crew. I hold you responsible for any more killings.”
Nitzan screamed and resisted every step of the way as the two hijackers dragged her to the front door and put the gun to her head.
“He is killing another one,” Captain Galal said desperately.
Two loud gunshots rang out. The hijackers wanted to make sure each of their victims died. Following the gun blasts, we heard the same dreadful sound of a body thumping down the staircase.
There was more shouting, soft whimpering, and crying among the surviving passengers—then an eerie quiet.
Some of the passengers closed their eyes. Others gently rocked back and forth in their seats. I heard a woman two rows back softly saying her prayers.
I couldn’t watch or listen anymore. It was too horrible. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears whenever it was someone’s turn to die. I had to block it out.
After shooting the two Israeli women, the two hijackers forced the security guards to help identify the American passengers. The three of us were Patrick Scott Baker, 28, of White Salmon, Washington; Scarlett Marie Rogencamp, 38, of Oceanside, California; and myself.
As the two helpers approached each one of us, the hijacker at the back of the plane pointed a gun at us and signaled us to stand up. The helpers then walked us to the front of the plane and tied our hands behind our backs with neckties.
“I’m sorry,” I heard the reluctant accomplice whisper in Patrick’s ear.
We stepped past the body of the hijacker killed in the midair gun battle which had been laid over some seats.
They shoved Patrick in the aisle seat. Then, because I had been sitting behind Patrick, they pushed me toward the middle seat.
I was going to take the middle seat, but something inside me said, Take the window seat. I didn’t understand. Why the window seat? Though it made no sense, I listened.
Patrick was in the aisle seat, Scarlett in the middle, and I sat by the window. During the next few hours the three of us waited on death row. Patrick, Scarlett, and I became close to each other in a way few people ever do. It was a short, but very intense period in our lives. We didn’t say much, but I felt a deep, deep connection with their spirits. It’s too bad, I thought, but it often takes a shared tragedy to really share our hearts with others.
Scarlett was a tall, beautiful woman with striking red hair. She told me she was from California and had been living in Athens for the last year. She was visiting Cairo on vacation, planning to see the Pyramids and other historic sites. Scarlett was a fairly quiet and reserved woman. I liked her. She reminded me of my sister Gloria with her sense of vulnerability mixed with strength.
Patrick was someone I really identified with. He was a tall, thin, energetic young man with a dapper, dark mustache. A real live wire. Patrick was out to see the world and pursue his passion for photography. I could tell he’d be lots of fun, that I’d enjoy knowing him under different circumstances.
I was glad when Patrick offered some comic relief after the three of us were seated. “I’m Patrick Baker,” he said, introducing himself. “So, where are you ladies from?”
“What a thing to say at a time like this!” Scarlett said.
I laughed, grateful for the opportunity to release some of my nervous tension.
Scarlett was terrified, as was I, but she let more of her feelings show. I could sense her deep, deep despair. She didn’t say much. At one point, she complained that her hands were tied too tightly. She wanted the hijackers to untie the rope so it wouldn’t hurt so much.
They don’t give a darn about whether your hands hurt, I thought to myself. I worried that Scarlett was drawing too much attention to herself. “Work with it a little bit,” I advised. “Maybe if you play with it a little bit, you’ll loosen it up.”
My hands were tight, but they weren’t hurting like Scarlett’s. The way I saw it, they had to be tight for the hijackers to do what they were doing.
Scarlett continued to cry softly. I wanted to cry, too, but I just couldn’t. I felt numb inside. I was in a state of shock. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have a choice about whether I lived or died. There were other firsts.
I saw a gun used in a gruesome murder. I saw a grenade. I saw a dead body and was, eventually, forced to sit across the aisle from it. My hands were tied behind my back and I was told, “Do this—and if you don’t, you’re going to be killed.” We waited for them to come and get us. We just waited.
They came for Patrick first. One of the EgyptAir security guards who was forced to help the two hijackers approached Patrick and lifted him up out of his seat. The helper walked Patrick to the front door of the aircraft and out onto the platform. At that point, a hijacker stepped forward and pressed his gun to Patrick’s head.
There was a loud Bang! followed by the sound of Patrick’s body thumping down the staircase.
Again, I closed my eyes and turned away, trying desperately to deny the awful reality of the scene. Since I was in the front, I could see and hear everything.
The procedure was always the same. Every fifteen minutes, the hijackers’ helper came to lift us out of our seats and walk us down the aisle to the front door of the plane. Then the executioner placed his .38 caliber revolver to our head and squeezed the trigger. After he shot us, he pushed us twenty-five feet down the metal steps to the tarmac.
After Patrick was shot, Scarlett and I were alone. Who would be next?
Every few minutes, the executioner came out of the cockpit to the passenger section to check on his prey. He seemed like a crazy person to me. I could see in his eyes that something was wrong with him. He stationed himself at the front of the plane and, once when I looked up, he was staring coldly back at me.
What’s the point? I thought to myself. We’re not going anywhere.
Whenever I heard the sound of the door opening, my head went down. I didn’t want to look at the hijacker.
“He keeps looking at me,” Scarlett said frantically. “Every time he comes out, he’s looking right at me.”
“Don’t look at him,” I said. “Just keep your head down. Whatever you do, don’t look at him.”
“It’s those eyes,” Scarlett said, sobbing, “those eyes.”
“Don’t look at him,” I repeated, firmly. “Don’t make eye contact.”
My strategy was to avoid eye contact with the hijackers at all times. Whenever one of them looked at me, I turned away. I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself. I wanted to be as invisible as I could be.
I leaned my head up against the window and prayed. I didn’t know what else to do.
Faith was an important part of my home life growing up. My parents, my two sisters, Gloria and Mary, and I regularly attended a Catholic church. My Roman Catholic upbringing gave me a strong faith and belief in a loving God. I learned that our souls never die, that we all go somewhere after death. I also learned that we can ask other people to pray for us. I learned about angels and that we can call on angels to comfort and protect us.
My parents taught me that life was a gift, that I shouldn’t misuse it. Maybe that’s why, as a child, I was always talking to people and making new friends. Life was so precious to me that I wanted to enjoy it with others.
At one point, Scarlett nudged over to me. “What are you doing?” she asked through her tears.
“I’m praying,” I said.
“Would you say some prayers for me?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Would you say the ‘Hail Mary’?” she asked.
I hadn’t said it in years, but I remembered every word.
Scarlett and I squeezed our bodies together. Our hands were tied, so we couldn’t hold each other. Our faces were right next to each other. I was close enough to hear her slow, regular breathing.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women, and
Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners,
Now and at the hour of our death,
Amen.
There were tears in both our eyes as we sat huddled together. It’s impossible to communicate the feelings we both had in those precious moments we spent preparing to die. Scarlett would be the last person to see me alive. And I would be the last person to see Scarlett alive. A few hours ago, we were perfect strangers. Now the bond between us was strong and deep.
I said the prayer again.
Then I said the “Lord’s Prayer” to myself:
Our Father Who Art in Heaven
Hallowed Be Thy Name
Thy Kingdom Come
Thy Will Be Done
On Earth as it is in Heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil
For Thine is the kingdom
And the power, and the glory forever.
Amen.
After praying, I continued to steel myself, determined not to give in to the hijacker’s terror and intimidation. I wanted to comfort Scarlett more, but I didn’t dare. If I let myself become emotionally involved, I might break down. I leaned my head up against the window again and just sat there and waited.
Be strong. Don’t break down. Don’t show your fear or weakness. Be aware.
A few minutes later, the hijacker who was shooting everyone came toward us, waving my passport. I assumed I was next.
Instead, they took Scarlett.
It was about 5 or 6 A.M. when the two hijackers lifted Scarlett out of her seat and walked her a few paces to the front door. The straight-haired man with the gun hummed and sang as he pressed the revolver to her head.
He fired a single shot at point-blank range and Scarlett died instantly. As her body went limp, he pushed her out the door, and her body thumped down the metal staircase onto the tarmac.
I was next. There were tears in my eyes. I looked at my wedding ring and prayed that, by some miracle, I’d see Scott again.
For some reason I’ll never know, there was an unexpected pause in the shootings. I kept looking out the window for some sign of hope.
There wasn’t much to see. Captain Galal had pulled the plane onto a deserted stretch of Luqa Airport, to reduce the risk to other passengers and airport personnel.
In the haze, I could barely make out a few big military trucks with tarps on top in the distance. These dark trucks looked like military vehicles I’d seen in the movies. I hoped to see someone step out of one of these trucks and silently mouth the reassuring words, “Everything’s going to be okay.” Or I wanted to see a small troop of men with guns slithering on the ground, out of the hijackers’ sight.
But I didn’t see a soul. The trucks looked deserted.
I was totally alone now, with no one to comfort or distract me from my agony. I’m going to die, I thought, and neither Scott nor my students will ever know what happened to me. I’ll never get to say good-bye.
I looked across the aisle and saw the dead hijacker’s body lying over some seats. The hijacker’s helper came over and scrunched the hijacker’s legs into his body. I could tell that rigor mortis had already set in by the effort it took to bend the stiffened limbs and the loud cracking sound it made. The helper looked over to me and smiled, as if to say, “Can you believe his legs just did that?”
About nine hours had passed since we left Athens, and some people raised their hands and asked for permission to use the toilet. The hijacker in the back of the plane, the one with the glasses, signaled to people, one at a time, to get up and go. I had to go to the bathroom so badly, but I didn’t dare raise my hand. I still didn’t want to draw any attention to myself…. I didn’t want the hijackers to know anything more about me than they already did.
Minutes stretched into hours as I continued waiting to die. I knew there would be little or no warning when the time came. Each breath might be my last.
At one point, the hijackers allowed food to be distributed among the passengers. A heavyset woman with long dark hair, the chief flight attendant on the plane, walked up and down the aisle passing out deli sandwiches wrapped in clear plastic. Many of us hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours and were famished.
The flight attendant tossed a deli sandwich on the seat next to me, where Scarlett had been sitting.
“I can’t eat that,” I said.
I couldn’t pick it up because my hands were tied behind my back.
The flight attendant didn’t hear me and just kept walking.
Another flight attendant, much younger, saw the sandwich sitting on the seat. She came over to me and said, “Would you like to eat?”
“Yes,” I said.
She picked up the sandwich and fed it to me in little bites. The younger flight attendant had dark hair and was very pretty. She looked Egyptian.
“Are you thirsty?” she asked me.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Would you like some water?”
“That sounds good.”
She went and filled a cup with some water and held it up to my mouth so I could drink.
As I waited my turn to die, I reflected on the meaning and direction my life had taken. This was no idle exercise. It was time to be totally honest with myself.
Did I like the life I had been leading?
Continuing to review my life, I felt that the answer was yes. I was especially proud of all the work I’d done to free my spirit in the previous two years. After years of self-doubt and second-guessing myself, I had acted on my lifelong dream of living in a foreign country.
In February 1984, I’d finally gotten up the nerve to attend a job fair in New York City for teachers interested in working overseas.
I sure seemed to be in the right place at the right time. Many schools at the job fair were just starting special education programs and were looking to hire someone with my background in education and diagnostics. Everything was working out better than I could have ever hoped or planned.
A few weeks after flying back to Houston, the job offers started rolling in. Eventually, I accepted a position with the American School in Stavanger, Norway. In August 1984, my long-postponed dreams were coming true: I was going to live overseas and in a place where it snowed.
I remember talking with my dad out in the garage after my bags were all packed. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Dad asked.
I said, “Yeah, Dad, this is what I really want to do. I have to do this. I have to go out and see the world. It’s what I have been dreaming about. I don’t know what I’m after, but I have to do it.”
He saw the excitement and commitment in my eyes. “I know how you feel,” he said. “When I joined the navy after high school, I loved traveling around and seeing all those places. Sometimes, I wish I’d had a chance to travel more.”
My dad is a man of few words, but I knew he’d just given me his blessing.
Once I made the decision to follow my dream of going overseas, I experienced a major personal growth spurt. I started erasing some of the old tapes from childhood that had been blocking me from doing the things I really wanted to do. For the first time in my life, I was deciding what was right for me. I wasn’t letting others’ opinions and beliefs about who I was control me.
Living in Norway was the first time I’d ever really lived away from home for an extended period. I’d set up the school’s first special education program. I’d gone hiking in the fjords near Oslo, cross-country skiing near Stavanger, and spent Christmas break downhill skiing on the slopes of Innsbruck, Austria.
The world was opening up to me and I was drinking it all in.
I felt stronger and more mature after braving the hardships of daily life in Cairo. I’d also gone through a lot of changes in the past few months: I’d started a new job, adjusted to a new country and culture, gotten married, and made new friends. Making it in a country so different from my own did wonders for my confidence and self-esteem. I was growing a lot and had lots to be thankful for: a new husband, a great job, students I really loved, and the chance to travel.
Then I suddenly recalled the two Greek men who had forced their way to the head of the line at the Athens airport. At the time, I was really burned up about it. But from my new vantage point, it all seemed so trivial. What was the big deal? I could have chosen to let it bounce off me instead of getting mad. How pointless it is to get mad about things we can’t control….
I thought about other ways that I’d let little things get in the way of really experiencing life. Before the hijacking, I’d been just as caught up in looking good and worrying about other people’s opinions of me as anyone else. I’d defined success as having a good job, a nice house, and a relationship with a man.
I realized that none of these were bad to want, but that there was so much more to life than trudging off to work every morning, wearing the right clothes, and driving the right car. I realized how pointless it was to let others’ opinions determine how I lived my life.
As death drew near, a strange, unfamiliar feeling rushed through me: I felt a strong, surging desire to live. I wanted to see my students, spend more time getting to know Scott, and keep learning and growing. I felt grateful that at least I’d followed my heart for two years. But there was so much more I wanted to do! I wanted to see my hair turn gray. I wanted to live to see my grandchildren some day….
If only I had more time.
For the first twelve hours of the hijacking, I stayed keenly alert, devoting all my mental and physical energy to planning a possible escape. During the night, I managed to work my hands free of the tie that bound them.
If I’m going to be shot, I kept thinking, I hope it’s at night. Maybe I can crawl away in the dark. Or somehow knock the gun out of his hands and make a run down the stairs. But they had guns and grenades. Maybe there were more bad guys around the corner that I didn’t see—with more guns and grenades. And I was so tired….
I wanted to live so much, but it wasn’t under my control. I did the only thing I could think of. I prayed the “Lord’s Prayer” again.
One hour, then two hours went by. I kept praying.
Looking out the window, through the faint glare of headlights from the trucks surrounding our plane, I saw rain coming down in sheets. It was storming outside. Every now and then, lightning lit the sky.
Dear, God, I want to live. I put my life in Your hands.
All of a sudden, a bolt of lightning lit up the sky like I’d never seen before. Tears were pouring down my face as the rain poured down.
I suddenly knew I was going to be safe. I didn’t know whether I was going to live or die; I just knew I was going to be safe. A wonderful, warm sensation flooded my body—and I felt safe. Nobody could hurt me. The hijackers could do whatever they wanted to my body, but I’m going to still feel safe.
I smiled and said, “Thanks, God.” As I said this, I no longer heard the noise of the plane’s engines or children crying.
Whatever happens, happens, I thought. If I live, I’ll be okay and if I die, I’ll be okay. That’s what the safe feeling meant to me.
I’d never practiced meditation, but I entered that same calm, centered state of being. I turned all my worry and anxiety over to God. I stopped thinking about ways to escape. I let go of any attempt to control my destiny. I felt that either I was going to continue living on earth or I was moving on to another life. In either case, I was going to be all right.
I thanked God for my life, and I thanked God for the people that I got to share it with. I said good-bye to everyone in spirit—my parents, my friends, Scott, and my students.
More time passed. Soon, it was mid-morning. No one had been shot for at least four hours.
Maybe, just maybe, I’d be spared. I had prayed so hard. Maybe I was going to live. Maybe the hijackers negotiated an agreement to release us. A long break in the shootings gave me hope.
I briefly glanced behind me and saw the old Egyptian man I’d befriended early in the flight. “You’re going to make it,” he whispered.
“It’s not over yet,” I said quietly. “If you make it back to Cairo, go to the American School and get a message to my husband, Scott Pflug. Tell him I love him.”
It was about 10 A.M. on Sunday morning, Malta time, when the executioner and his helpers came marching down the aisle, straight to my seat. The endless hours of waiting were over.
I still felt calm and centered. I was actually feeling sorry for the hijackers, that they had to do something like this to get their message across—one that I didn’t even understand. I knew I was caught in the middle of something much bigger than me or the other passengers on the plane. And I was helpless to do anything about it.
My hands were still free, but I kept the tie wrapped around them. Again, I thought briefly about shoving the hijacker aside or kicking him in the groin and making a run for it down the staircase. But that thought disappeared quickly.
But it didn’t matter anymore. I felt such an odd safeness, a sense that I didn’t need to resist or control what was happening.
They picked me up out of my seat and walked me a few feet to the front of the plane. They positioned me so I was facing the door. I knew what was next.
Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do. That’s crazy. Who do I think I am?
One of the hijackers opened the door of the plane and I looked out onto the runway. The morning light stung my eyes. This was to be the last thing I’d ever see on earth.
The hijacker nudged me out onto the platform of the movable staircase pressed up against the plane. I felt the cold steel of a .38 caliber revolver dig into the back of my skull. I still felt safe.
In the control tower, Maltese officials heard our captain describe the chilling scene. “He is killing her now,” Captain Galal said. “Do something…. He is outside shooting her now…. I am the captain. You are wasting life; you are wasting life.”
The executioner squeezed the trigger. I felt an awful pressure in my ears, as my world exploded. I heard the hijackers speaking in Arabic. But it seemed to be coming from another world. I was leaving this one.
“He is killing her,” Captain Galal said. “He has killed her already, and in a few minutes he will kill another.”