On August 25, the day after I found out about the new charges against me, I didn’t read any Scripture. I didn’t touch the guitar or lift even one foot in dance. I was hit hard. I had been picking myself up over the last few weeks, but this news had slammed me down again, and there was such a heaviness hanging over me that I spent the entire day in bed. I could not get past the thought that I could spend the rest of my days in prison. Even as I’d been taken to the video booth there had been a part of me that wondered whether I was about to be released. This crash was brutal. I wondered when—if ever—God would say, “Enough!” And yet I knew that I had to get up again.
There was more news that came out the day after the court appearance. It was late in the afternoon and Ramazan was watching TV when I heard a report on a new government announcement. “Decree 694, Article 74, gives the President authority to exchange or return prisoners to their home countries if it is in the interest of Turkey.”
Instantly I knew that this related to me, and I understood why the judge had been in such a rush to issue these new charges. By increasing my possible sentence from the original fifteen years to three life sentences plus a further twenty years, they were trying to raise the stakes. And if the US was in any doubt, the decree made it clear that it was perfectly possible for President Erdogan to grant my release, as long as he got something worthwhile in return. But there was no hurry for him—he same day they also decreed that prisoners could now be held without trial for seven years.
I once read that even one minute of horror—of intense fear—leaves the body exhausted. It is true. In the aftermath of the new charges I felt shattered. I struggled beneath the weight of what felt like a death sentence. By the third day, I forced myself to start to dance and pick up the guitar and worship, but in the long afternoons I’d be close to panic and despair. I would read my Bible, meditate, and pray, but at any point dread could pounce.
When I read that people were praying or that some were even looking at me as a role model I felt encouraged to press on. A dear friend had written to remind me to live for eternity. He mentioned the great cloud of witnesses that has gone on before me, but what caught my attention more was that a great number are also coming behind me. This impressed on me the need to be a good example, and so I would refocus, decide to persevere, and even though I felt alone, I would declare, “I am not alone.” This was my daily roller coaster. I would get knocked down, but I was not staying down as long as I had in the past.
FROM THIS VERY DARK TIME came one of my most important victories.
It was in the afternoon one day early in September, a couple of weeks after my court appearance. I was walking round and round in the courtyard, overwhelmed by the idea of my years stretching out in lonely silence as I wasted away. I opened my mouth to pray, to pour out my feelings, but instead of accusation or complaint, something entirely different came out.
You are worthy, worthy of my all.
I started to sing these words, over and over. In my heartache I was declaring that Jesus was worthy of whatever I may suffer, and as I did more words came:
But my heart faints, drowned in sorrow, overwhelmed
Make me like you, Cross-bearer, persevering, faithful to the end.
I bared my heart to Jesus. I knew that I’d come so close to giving up on so many different occasions. I desperately needed him to transform me so that I could end my race like he did.
When I stopped singing, the song carried on, growing within me with new verses. For a couple of days I carried it around with me before eventually writing it down and adding some chords on the guitar. This was my heartsong, a love song to God from the deepest part of me.
I’d passed so much of my time in Sakran in a fog of panic, but in Buca I was able to think back with a little more clarity on my journey so far. I remembered a very low point when I said to God, “Whatever things you have planned for me, however you want to use me, I give it up. I don’t care if I have no reward in heaven. Just take me back to my family. I can’t handle this anymore.” But these lyrics showed how much had changed in me:
I want to be found worthy to stand before you on that day
With no regrets from cowardice, things left undone
To hear you say, “Well done, my faithful friend, now enter your reward”
Jesus, my Joy, you are the prize I’m running for
I did not want to get to heaven and have regrets about the choices I’d made on earth. I could picture standing before Jesus and him showing me things that he had wanted to accomplish through me, but that I missed out on. I had no doubt I could still be a coward. But I was determined that my emotions would not have the final word. I was declaring with my will that I wanted to embrace whatever assignments God had for me—even prison, if necessary.
From then on, I sang my song to God every day.
As the year anniversary of my arrest approached, the diplomatic efforts seemed to be going in circles. Norine had heard that President Trump had spoken with Erdogan, arguing for my release. When Erdogan had repeated the charges against me about being a terrorist and spy, Trump’s response was vehement and forceful: “Cut the BS. We know it’s not true.”
Within weeks of my new charges and the announcement of Decree 694, Erdogan was publicly offering to swap me for Fethullah Gulen. They had been asking the US to extradite him. “Give Gulen to us,” he said in a televised speech to police officers at the end of September. “Then we will try Brunson and give him to you.”
Finally what I had known for a long time was out in the open. While the Turkish government had been insisting publicly that I was just another terrorist going through a normal judicial process, behind the scenes they had been making demands from a long and impossible “ask list.” We heard that at one point President Trump had said, “Ask me for something I can give you.” The Turks had come close to an agreement many times but kept changing their minds. Now the truth became plain for everyone to see: I was being held only at the whim of President Erdogan.
Hearing my case raised by Erdogan like this did not make me feel confident. It was clear that I was a political hostage, and I lost count of the number of times that Ramazan or Nejat would call up from downstairs and tell me that some journalist or other was talking about me again. At first I’d go watch or listen in, but soon I gave up taking much notice of it altogether.
The stress of the case had started to show on Suna. She had worked hard for us all along, but her name was starting to show up in the media. The reality of Turkey in 2017 was that lawyers were being thrown in prison if they defended the wrong person. We understood completely when she stepped away from my case in September.
When Norine started the search for a new lawyer, she discovered just how politically untouchable I had become. A few offered to take me on but only if we paid astronomical fees. Thankfully, after a few weeks we found a new lawyer. Cem was an Armenian Christian based in Istanbul, and he was recommended as the kind of bold, strong lawyer who would fight for us.
Besides the pressure of finding a new lawyer, I was concerned that my own government might tire of working on my case and move on to something else. Back in July, CeCe had told us there was unprecedented interest and effort by Congress and the administration to free me. I was aware that President Trump was continuing to raise my case in conversations with Erdogan, and my release was part of a wider discussion with Turkey about a number of issues, including Syria. But weeks went by and there was very little sign of progress. The Turks were immovable. How long would my government keep up their efforts? And there were always whispers in my mind that they might start to believe the accusations about me and quietly back off.
On October 5, when two members of USCIRF (the United States Commission on International Religious Freedom) visited me along with a US consular official, I got some much needed reassurance. Kristina Arriaga and Sandra Jolley were two firebrands who seemed genuinely shocked when I asked the consul if they believed I was innocent. Kristina looked me in the eye. “Of course you’re not guilty,” she said emphatically while tears wet my face.
ONE MORNING, Ramazan announced that he had submitted a request to have our photograph taken, and the guards would be here soon. When they showed up we followed them out to the courtyard and lined up together for a picture of the three of us. I then asked the guard to take an individual shot of me.
I stood against the courtyard wall.
The guard eyed me suspiciously. “What’s that you’re holding?”
It was a small cross that a Chinese Christian had given to me before my arrest. I was holding it so that it fell over my hand, which was covering my heart.
“You can’t take a picture with a cross. No religious symbols allowed.”
“Please,” I said. “Take the picture. Your supervisor can delete it if he wants, but please take it.”
I have no idea why he gave in, but he did. And in that bleak courtyard I felt something that I had not experienced in the whole year that I had been held hostage. Happiness. I wasn’t carefree and I wasn’t about to burst out in laughter. But somewhere inside me, quiet but strong, I was happy. I was declaring who I was, proudly holding a cross that reminded me of all my fellow Christians who had been persecuted for their faith. I embraced my identity.
I belonged to Jesus Christ.
I was Andrew of the cross.
If you look, you can see it in my eyes.
I HAD REALLY WANTED THAT PICTURE for Norine and our kids. I wanted this to be how they saw me. And on our next visit, the guard passed it on to Norine.
Those visits were so important for me. The encouragement I received in that one hour had to last me for the next 167 hours. Toward the end of our visit I would always ask the same question: “Do you believe I will come out?”
“I do,” she’d say. “I just don’t know when.”
This was always followed by: “Why do you think I’ll come out?” I knew what her answer would be, but needed to hear it anyway.
“For two reasons. Andrew, think of all the words about our future that God gave us before this started. They can’t all be wrong. I believe you have a future outside of prison. And second, God has raised up a huge movement of prayer, and he is going to answer it. He just hasn’t done it yet. People are still praying. In places like Vanuatu in the South Pacific, Indonesia, Senegal, Bolivia . . . It’s absolutely supernatural. God is waking some up in the middle of the night to pray for you . . . Just hold on!”
And finally, I could not resist asking: “Do you think it will be a long time?”
I had felt so alone through my imprisonment, and I still did. But more and more I was aware that there were many believers around the world joining me in my cell each day. I had several dozen pictures from Brazil of groups praying for me in churches and home groups and in children’s Sunday school classes. I was so grateful for the family of God.
I TRIED NOT TO BE TOO MOVED by the ups and downs of political developments, but they did affect me emotionally because I knew that any new difficulty between the two countries made my situation harder.
When Erdogan had been in Washington for the summit, some members of his security team had assaulted protesters on the street outside the Turkish embassy in DC. Arrests had followed and the whole thing threatened to become yet another thorn in the relationship.
Reza Zarrab and Hakan Atilla, Turkish citizens, were also due to go on trial in the US soon in a case of helping Iran evade sanctions. Almost certainly this would cause serious embarrassment to the Turkish government.
In October, the US government announced that it was ceasing to issue visas to Turkish citizens after Turkey arrested a second US consulate local employee. This move actually presented an unusual opportunity for my situation also to be resolved before visas resumed. It was the first time the US was moving beyond diplomatic talk regarding the unlawful arrests. We watched and waited. But visas were resumed before the new year. Nothing had changed.
AND SO TIME PASSED.
As Christmas drew near I told Norine: “If I’m still here at Christmas I’ll thank Jesus for coming to this earth. If I’m still here at New Year’s, I will thank him for bringing me through this year. If I’m still here on my birthday, I will thank him for the life that he gave me.”
Our daughter graduated from university and Norine could only cry, watching the livestream.
I spent another Christmas in prison. Norine sent me a nice, soft scarf, something to keep me warm in the cold, but also something visible that would remind me of her love. She told me, “Feel my arms around your neck each time you wear it.”
In January I turned fifty.
Norine’s father died, but she didn’t go to the funeral because she was afraid she would not be allowed back in to Turkey.
And every day brought the same struggle until I reached a place where I was willing to embrace God’s assignment for me.
IN EARLY FEBRUARY 2018, Norine told me she would be going to Ankara to meet with Wess Mitchell, assistant secretary of state. The relationship between Turkey and the US had been going from bad to worse over my whole imprisonment. An official told us, “If someone wanted to write a movie script about the relations they couldn’t make it any worse.” Norine especially kept her eye on the relationship because even though not one of these issues had anything to do with us, they all affected our situation. Tillerson was returning to Ankara to meet with Erdogan and to work to put things right. They met for three and a half hours.
When Norine visited next the news was encouraging. “I was told that the meeting went well, that this is good for the relations between the countries and could lead to good developments for you. They think your situation could be resolved soon. And the day after the meeting they released a German journalist who had been held for a year. He was indicted and released pending trial, and they let him leave the country the same day. Maybe this is how they’ll do it with you, my love.”
A State Department official suggested to Norine that she ask contacts in Congress to hold off on sanctions they were going to introduce against Turkey. Things looked positive right now, and sanctions could backfire. Norine followed this recommendation.
We were both cautiously optimistic, but in the run-up to Tillerson’s visit, Karakaya had come to the prison to interrogate me. I’d asked him to drop the charges—after all, we both knew I was innocent. But he puffed his cheeks and waved my request away. “Certainly not,” he said. “We have over forty binders of information on you.” Forty binders? He had to be bluffing, but even so it bothered me. And the timing was significant. What had set Karakaya in motion? It was political signaling by the Turkish government ahead of Tillerson’s visit. It could be good . . . or bad.
THE HOPE THAT I’D BEEN FEELING took a blow a few weeks later when Tillerson was let go. It would take time for his replacement to be confirmed, and the road map that had already been agreed on might possibly change. I felt like I had been returned to the same place as when I was first arrested and everything was on hold before the inauguration.
But Tillerson’s departure wasn’t the only thing to worry about. Amid the hope that somehow, finally, this was all going to come to an end, Norine heard something that made her angry but not surprised. Someone who had gotten close to the Turkish government summarized Erdogan’s position on my case as “Why should we let him go when we have the Americans bending over backwards.” It seemed that any goodwill gestures the US made, Erdogan assumed to be a surrender to his hardline stance. He just pocketed them and demanded more.
BEFORE LONG the media started repeating rumors that I would be indicted. While we were eating supper on March 13, Nejat noticed that the scrolling news feed at the bottom of the screen said my indictment had been submitted with a request for life in prison. My eyes were glued to the TV when the news anchor came on and, after listing my alleged crimes, confirmed that the prosecutor was demanding life in prison. My appetite was gone, and I just stood outside in the courtyard until the guards locked us in for the night. I went upstairs and read my psalm. “The LoRD is on my side; I will not fear. What can man do to me?” I knew what the right answer was, but I was afraid. A life sentence will do that to you.
After this shock things went quiet. A couple of days later, Cem, my new lawyer, asked the prosecutor face-to-face if he had submitted an indictment. Karakaya’s answer was a flat-out “No,” until he paused and then dissembled a bit, muttering something along the lines of, “Well, maybe I sent a little something in.” At the same time the embassy had sent a spokesperson to Izmir, because they thought there might be some movement leading to my release. I was in the dark about all of this until the morning of March 19, when a guard pushed a thick stack of papers through the metal slot in our door. “Sign this,” he ordered. “This is your indictment.”
They could have dropped my case. They could have sent me home. But they didn’t.
I was going on trial.