When you’re locked up in a country whose legal systems are corrupt and judicial independence is a myth, you’re at the mercy of people with far more power than you. One of your only hopes is that someone, somewhere can use their influence to help you.
Not long after I’d been taken to Sakran, some friends put Norine in contact with Mustafa, a Turkish businessman who offered to help. He explained that his lawyer knew both my prosecutor and the judge who had sent me to the prison, and he felt very confident that working with his lawyer he could get the case dismissed and me on a plane home. All we needed to do was pay $35,000 to cover the lawyer’s fees.
It was a lot of money—money that we didn’t have in our bank account but would have to borrow from friends and family. Norine did her research. Mustafa knew people in the US and he’d been attending the National Prayer Breakfast for years. If he was operating at the level he said he was, then it seemed to Norine that he wouldn’t want to damage his relationships in the US over what had to be a small amount to him.
So she decided to do it. She could only get together $25,000. Norine wired it, but within a few days she grew uneasy. Mustafa claimed that the money hadn’t arrived. When she put in an official request for the wire to be recalled, the bank replied that the money had been deposited and the account owner refused to return the funds. Mustafa had scammed us.
I knew from Emin that this kind of thing was happening to others, as unscrupulous people took advantage of others in distress. This was back when Norine’s requests for visits were not being approved, so she had to make the decision on her own. I was not upset so much about the loss—I was angry at the person who manipulated and cheated my wife. But she was doing everything she could to get me out. This payment was out of love for me.
MY VISITS WITH NORINE became more frequent. I couldn’t know ahead of time if she had received permission, so I would wait anxiously near the door as the guard called out through the slot the names for the first group. If my name wasn’t called, I’d wait for the second group and hope. Although fifty minutes were allotted for each cell, coming and going to the visiting area shaved off fifteen minutes. The door would clang open and the first group of ten prisoners would walk out and line up in single file. After taking our shoes off we would be frisked and then follow a guard in single file through several security doors. I would lunge for the cubicle where Norine was waiting and place my hand opposite hers—separated by thick glass—and Norine would pray for me. “I bless you in the name of the Lord. I speak hope to you.”
She would ask God ahead of time for something to pray and speak over me each week, and then literally lift her head high as she approached the prison gate with a deliberate mindset: I am a daughter of the King, and I am here to see a son of the King.
I was afraid of being forgotten. I also worried that people would stop praying, move on to the next crisis, but every week Norine told me news of new places. “Iranians are praying. In China a million brochures were printed about you. The German Evangelical Alliance just had a day of fasting and prayer for you. Christians in Spain, Korea, Madagascar, Hungary, Mexico, and Lebanon are praying. I can’t keep track of all the countries. Our friend Leyla has been skipping all desserts on Sundays and you know how much she loves sweets. And David is continuing to fast from coffee until you are released.”
I did not feel worthy of all this prayer. How could Chinese and Iranians be praying for me when they had so many of their own in prison? I knew brothers and sisters I had never met were fighting for me, and I was deeply grateful for it.
ENCOURAGEMENT ON THE DIPLOMATIC FRONT came soon. We had been hoping that the new administration would actively work on our behalf. In February Norine heard that Vice President Mike Pence and Secretary of State Rex Tillerson both talked with their Turkish counterparts about me. Seventy-eight senators and members of Congress had joined the bipartisan effort to urge Ankara to release me. Knowing that people at the highest levels were now advocating for me was a significant boost.
The question was whether Turkey would respond well. When Secretary of State John Kerry had talked about me to his Turkish counterpart he was rebuffed, and when a senator raised my case with the Turkish ambassador to the US, he had turned his back on him and walked away without a word. This hard attitude had been evident even in the way our consular officials were treated when they visited me at Sakran.
ANOTHER ANSWER TO PRAYER came in a more roundabout way. Somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody reached an aide to the Turkish prime minister. One day Norine received a phone call from Adnan Bey, one of the prison directors.
“When is your next visit with your husband? You can bring some books.” He had acted very dismissively before, so this was a change.
First it was only Turkish books, but within a short time English books were allowed as well. This was a lifesaver—a Bible, Christian books, novels, some history. Now I had something that helped me fill the long hours. I told Norine that one day in prison was like ten outside—hey went by so very slowly. And it was a great comfort to have a Bible, even just to hold it in my hands.
MY NEW ROUTINE now included walking as soon as the courtyard was unlocked in the morning, trying to nap in the afternoon, and letter writing and reading at night. One afternoon I had an unusual dream. I saw my name written on a sheet of paper. Next to my name was the number sixty-eight. In the dream itself I suddenly understood that this was the number of days until my release. Then I woke up. I counted forward. Sixty-eight days takes me to May 22. Could this be possible? I let it sit in the back of my mind.
In all my hurt and disappointment, I had not stopped talking to God. I had accused him of deceiving me, but I had asked forgiveness. Every day I spent hours and hours talking to God—when I paced outside in the courtyard, when I lay on my bed trying to pass the time, at night when I tried to go to sleep, when I woke throughout the night. And I began to think that God was talking back.
Because I really needed Norine to be with me in Turkey she could not campaign for my release in person in the States. But when she heard that Rex Tillerson, the new secretary of state, was coming to Ankara and would talk with President Erdogan, she tried very hard to get a meeting with him. That week I kept asking God to arrange this for Norine. Several times the thought came to me: He will meet with Norine. Because you are on my agenda, I will put you on his agenda. When I saw her at our next Monday visit, I told her what I thought I was hearing. Norine had asked for a meeting through Senator James Lankford and Phil Kosnett, the chargé d’affaires at the embassy, but on Tuesday both came back with the same answer: there will be no meeting. She was told there was no point in going to Ankara.
But Norine went anyway, because of what I had told her. She waited. Back at Sakran I was lying on my bed, praying, begging God to come through with this meeting. If it did not happen, it meant that I really was not hearing from God. At 4:00 p.m. the thought flashed in my mind, It’s done. What? What’s done? Had Tillerson left? Is it all over? The next day my lawyer brought word from Norine. At 4:00 p.m. she had received a call telling her to come meet Tillerson at his hotel.
God had put me on Tillerson’s agenda. He was speaking to me!
NORINE MET WITH SECRETARY TILLERSON on a Thursday, and I met with my lawyer, Suna, on Friday. She and Norine had stopped by the prosecutor’s office that morning and for the first time ever, Suna looked upbeat. She was even smiling.
“Secretary Tillerson brought you up with President Erdogan, who said he was aware of your case. And—listen to this, Andrew—Erdogan told Tillerson that an indictment is about to be handed down. The prosecutor said that he is wrapping everything up in the next two weeks. He is telling the police they have one week to submit whatever evidence they have gathered, and whatever they don’t have, too bad, it’ll be too late. He said he would then evaluate whatever the police presented. If there is nothing there, he will drop the case, and you will be released.”
I let her words settle, drinking them in. For the first time in months I could feel hope rise inside of me.
A COUPLE OF WEEKS PASSED. Nothing happened. Norine went back to the prosecutor, but he was evasive.
Suna returned to see me. She was no longer smiling.
“I don’t want you to get your hopes up anymore, Andrew.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, Suna.”
“The prosecutor has been walking it back, saying that there’s a video of you that’s evidence.”
“What video? Evidence of what?”
“I don’t know. Your files are sealed.”
I was frustrated. And I was worried too. Something had changed at the top again, and I was fairly sure there was a political calculation in keeping me. Turkey was about to hold a referendum on Erdogan, switching to a presidential system that would give him by law the power that he had already taken in practice. At best, my case would be on hold while the referendum took place.
FOLLOWING ERDOGAN’S TRIUMPH in the April referendum, President Trump invited him to come to Washington for a summit on May 16. The news from the presummit meetings was good. Based on information she was receiving, CeCe, our attorney at the ACLJ, had even suggested to Norine that a June wedding for our daughter Jacqueline looked possible. I could be walking her down the aisle soon.
I was still anxious, but when Norine told me that I’d been put on the agenda for the summit—that Presidents Trump and Erdogan themselves would be talking about me—I let myself begin to hope.
Surely this would do it. It would cost Erdogan nothing to release me as a gesture of goodwill, since he knew that I was innocent.
Between the news of the summit and the memory of my dream that pointed to May 22 as the date of my release, I took a step of faith. I was not sure, I was very anxious, but I sent home my winter clothes and packed my belongings, dividing up what I would take from what I would leave behind in prison.
THE SIGNS WERE GOOD, but a couple of things that highlighted the cynicism of the Turkish government made me uneasy.
On the weekend of May 1—a holiday weekend—the prosecutor asked Norine for the passcode to my phone. They had taken my phone on October 7, and now, eight months later, had finally decided to examine it. They were fishing for something—anything—before they went to the US. And in the presummit meetings Mevlut Cavusoglu, the foreign minister, had told the US delegation, “We were going to let Brunson go two weeks ago, but he said he wanted to stay.” This was absurd. I had written numerous times asking to return to the US. My lawyer rushed to have me sign a statement saying that I expressly wanted to leave Turkey. But there had been enough bumps in the road already to know that no exit was going to be smooth.
THE DAY OF THE SUMMIT my cellmates were glued to the TV as events in Washington were covered. I couldn’t watch. I spent the day fasting and praying desperately. That night I could hear the commentary as President Erdogan shook hands with President Trump in the Oval Office. The summit began.
It lasted all of twenty-three minutes.
I lay on my bunk and wept. How could I have been brought up if they had so little time together? Everything told me that whatever opportunity there had been for me to be released had just been dashed.
I SPENT THE NEXT MORNING pacing in the courtyard, hoping that somehow there had been a conversation about me between the two leaders.
A few hours in it happened. Some of my cellmates started yelling my name. “Get in here, Andrew. They’re talking about you on TV!”
The commentators were telling how President Trump hadn’t just brought me up once, but had asked for me three times during their short conversation.
“This is really astounding,” said one. “All the big issues they have to discuss and this is the thing that Trump chooses to bring up three times? Who is this priest, anyway?” The other news channels were telling the same story.
Some of my cellmates congratulated me. “Andrew, your president asked for you. It won’t be long now. Maybe tomorrow, or at most a few weeks while they find a way to let you go without losing face.”
I wasn’t just astounded. I was delighted. It was one thing for President Trump to bring me up at all in such a short meeting. But three times? I couldn’t have asked for more.
Months ago I had mused to Norine, “If two presidents end up talking about me, it will be a miracle.” It is very difficult to get to the US president. And if you can get to him, will he show interest? And if he shows interest, will he remember later? And if he does remember, will he do anything about it? They had talked about me. Here was my miracle. For a few moments I let myself wonder how long it would take before I was home.
But one news host had a different take. He made his own suggestion for how to deal with me.
“You know what I would say if I were writing a newspaper headline? I’d say, ‘Give us the Imam and take the priest.’”
I could feel the ground starting to slip beneath my feet. The Imam was Fethullah Gulen, enemy number one in Turkey, and the man Erdogan was blaming for masterminding the failed coup attempt. He was living in Pennsylvania, and Erdogan wanted him sent back.
THE NEXT DAY I was in the courtyard pacing when I heard a yell. “Andrew, you are on TV again.”
The foreign minister was talking about me on a national news channel. He didn’t just look serious, he looked angry. “The priest Brunson is a terrorist,” Cavusoglu spat. “He is linked to FETO. He is also linked to the PKK. We have given his file to the Americans with all the evidence against him. This case will continue as a judicial matter.”
I was crushed. One of the top government officials—Erdogan’s messenger—was publicly declaring that I was guilty of being a terrorist. No court in Turkey would ever let me go now.
A few hours later the newspapers were delivered. I didn’t want to look, but I knew I had to. One headline covered the entire front page:
Give Us the Imam—Take the Priest.
The mouth of hell had opened.