I was angry. The second day of trial had been such a farce that I didn’t feel any motivation to prepare for the third. Was there even any point in making a defense? I was fed up with the Turkish government and its public posturing, putting on a righteous front, and insisting that their judiciary was independent when behind the scenes they had been haggling for me like a trader in a bazaar. Even my next trial date was political, pushing my case off until after the election that Erdogan had just called, so that he could look strong by standing up to the US. There would be media there, as well as representatives from the US, and it seemed to me that the third trial date was a good opportunity to hit back and call it what it was: a kangaroo court.
Then again, maybe I’d refuse to go at all. If I withdrew completely I would not have to sit through any more of the charade. But if I didn’t show up, how else would I get the truth on the record?
My bad mood following the second day of trial was lifted by two special visits. The first was a wonderful surprise visit from my son Blaise. He was standing off to the side as I walked in to meet Norine, and even as I hugged him it took me a few moments to get my head around the fact that he was actually there in person with me. My open visit just happened to coincide with Father’s Day.
The second visit was also unexpected.
Visits never happened at the weekend, but one Saturday I was taken into the room where I had met with Blaise and Jacqueline almost a year earlier—the one with the padded walls that allowed them to record the audio more accurately—and introduced to Senator Shaheen and Senator Lindsey Graham.
They’d met with Erdogan the day before and Senator Shaheen had told him that the US knew that the witnesses testifying against me were lying. Erdogan acknowledged to Senator Shaheen that there were indeed problems with the witnesses, and even suggested that the main secret witness might himself be a Gulenist who was leading officials astray on my case. By reframing this as a Gulenist plot he was backtracking, showing signs that he was looking for a way out of the corner he had boxed himself into. Erdogan was softer and more relaxed than they expected and agreed to their request to visit me. “He would not have met with us to talk about this, or given permission for us to see you, if there wasn’t thought of some movement on your case,” said Senator Graham. Very soon after this meeting Norine received word that the two presidents had talked, and Erdogan again admitted that there was a problem with the credibility of the witnesses.
There was another reason for their visit. They had a message for me.
“You are a hostage,” said Senator Graham. “The US will not make deals for hostages. We are going to get you out of here, but it has to be in the right way. You have to be patient. So hang on, Andrew.”
I told them both that I understood. I knew that most mission organizations have a policy that they won’t pay ransoms, because if they did it would put a target on the backs of all their workers. I agreed with the policy, and I did not want my release to put anyone else at risk. But it was still hard to hear.
But I also understood this was a message to Erdogan. There was no doubt at all that our conversation was being recorded. I knew it, and the senators knew it as well. The message would be reported back to Erdogan: the US would not trade for me.
When our time was almost up, I remembered that Senator Graham was a good friend of Senator John McCain, who was undergoing treatment for cancer at the time. “My uncle was a POW in Vietnam,” I said. “He was held in the same prison as Senator McCain. I’ve always admired the way McCain was willing to remain there to avoid becoming a propaganda coup. That took a lot of courage.”
AS THE THIRD TRIAL DATE APPROACHED, relations between the US and Turkey appeared to be improving. With the US scaling down operations in Syria, the news was full of reports about the proposal to hand over patrols in the Syrian town of Manbij to Turkish forces. The plan was for three months of joint patrols followed by a full handover, but I knew that my case was part of the agreement and the handover was conditional. This was a significant carrot for Turkey, which was desperate to get access to Manbij and flush out the Kurdish troops living there. From time to time the Turkish media announced that the joint patrols had begun, which demoralized me. But every time that happened Norine would remind me at our next visit not to believe everything I saw on TV.
There were other reasons to be optimistic as well. CeCe had made sure that the State Department knew the facts about my case. So when Secretary Pompeo met with his Turkish counterpart after my second trial day and was told “there is nothing we can do,” he called the foreign minister on it.
“But you do have the power to intervene,” said Secretary Pompeo, referring him to Decree 694, Article 74 from the previous summer. “The President has the power to return prisoners to their home countries.” This silenced the foreign minister. After this he did not make the same excuse again, although people under him continued to.
ON THE DAY OF THE HEARING, I sat in my usual seat, dwarfed by the dais and the jumbotron video screens, and listened to the first witness, Levent, lie about me. I knew him, and I knew that all his lies came from bitterness because he had not been given a position of leadership in our church. And when it was my turn to stand before the judges and deliver my response, I knew exactly what I wanted to say.
Throughout the weeks leading up to the third trial date I had decided that I would use it as an opportunity to share my faith. Although I couldn’t control what others did, and there was no point in trying to establish logic or reason in the court, I could at least choose what I would say and how I would say it. I wanted to take a stand as a representative of Jesus Christ, without apology or shame.
I stood in front of the microphone and listened to my opening words echo around the hall. “The most important thing in my life is my faith.” I had decided that even though I was in court, I was going to preach.
Jesus told his disciples to go into all the world and proclaim the good news of salvation to everyone and make disciples. This is why I came to Turkey—to proclaim this.
There is only one way to God: Jesus.
There is only one way to have our sins forgiven: Jesus.
There is only one way to gain eternal life: Jesus.
There is only one Savior: Jesus.
I want this to echo in all of Turkey.
Many lies have been said about me in the media—that I am a FETO terrorist, a member of the PKK terror group, a CIA agent. But what I would like people to know about me is this: for the last twenty-five years I have declared Jesus as Savior! For twenty-three years I did it by choice, and the last two years I have been forced to do it from prison, but my message is the same.
The Bible says to forgive one another “as God in Christ forgave you.” And in another place it says, “Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse.” And so, I forgive those who have wronged me, who have caused me harm, who have lied about me, who have borne false witness against me. I forgive each and every witness. I forgive Levent.
I went on to name each witness, one by one. I wanted to state that I forgive Erdogan, Cavusoglu, and the others who were really keeping me there—because I did. But I could not say that in court. I ended with these words: “I will hold no hatred against them in my heart, and I leave them to God. May God have mercy.”
As soon as I finished, the judge quickly called the next two witnesses. There were more lies said about me, but I stayed calm, glad that I’d made my statement and looking forward to the time when we would be allowed to call our first witness.
We had a lineup of strong witnesses who could completely expose and discredit the ones against me, but so far the judge was only allowing one to testify. Even so, I thought Deniz was an important witness because as the president of our church board he was actually legally responsible for everything that went on there.
Deniz took his seat to the side of the dais and listened carefully to Cem describe the accusations that various witnesses had made against me. He described PKK flags, sermons in support of Gulen, secret meetings, and hidden agendas to divide up the country.
“None of this happened,” said Deniz calmly but emphatically. “I never saw anything like what you describe.”
When it was the judge’s turn to interrogate Deniz, he waved his hand and said he had no questions. The prosecutor also had nothing to ask, so it went back to the judge.
The judge stared at Cem. “If this is how the rest of your witnesses are going to testify then there’s no reason for us to listen to them. If there is a murder and someone witnesses it, we want to hear from him. We don’t need to talk to all the people who didn’t see it. Your witness says he hasn’t seen any of the things the other witnesses have, so of what use is he? Why should we listen to him?”
I was disgusted. This was completely illogical. I wanted to stand up and shout, but Cem motioned me to let it go for now.
As soon as Deniz was dismissed, one of the junior judges leaned over and said something to the main judge. He looked instantly alert and immediately started running through the usual procedural items that always came at the end of the trial, though I had no idea why. Cem was looking puzzled too, and the whole room was alive with energy.
The judge asked me what my request was regarding continuing imprisonment, which was usually one of the final pieces of business in the trial day. I stood up and pleaded, “Please, Your Honor, I have waited two and a half months for this trial session. I would like to make my defense and respond to the witnesses.”
He shook his head. “Send it in writing or give it to your lawyer. I need to know what your request is now, we’re finishing for the day.” He was moving quickly to shut things down but I was intent on making one more statement. Risking his anger, I plunged in quickly.
After I was arrested I was able to meet with my mother and she said to me, “From the time of Jesus until now, Jesus’s disciples have suffered for his sake. There is a long line going all the way back—a line that stretches two thousand years. My son, it is now your turn to stand in that line.” I am innocent of all these charges brought against me. But I know why I am really here: For the sake of Jesus Christ I have been given the privilege not only of believing in him, but also of suffering for his sake. I was appointed to proclaim Jesus’s death and resurrection. This is the reason why I am suffering. But I am not ashamed.
Jesus said, “Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”
The judge interrupted impatiently. “Are you almost done?”
“One more minute, please!” I continued:
I have been given an assignment—to be imprisoned for the sake of Jesus. This is a very difficult thing, to be separated from my children, separated from my wife. It has been twenty-two months now. But I bear this assignment, for the sake of Jesus. And I declare—
Blessed am I, because for the sake of Jesus many people have wronged me, have persecuted me, and I am now suffering.
Blessed am I, because I have been forcibly separated from my wife and children.
Blessed am I, because every kind of lie has been told about me, because all kinds of slander has been said about me.
Blessed am I, because I am in prison.
I am kept in prison by force, I do not want to be there. But I choose willingly to suffer for the sake of Jesus, and by suffering for his sake I hope to display for everyone his incomparable worth.
And I want Turkey to know—it is for his sake that I am here.
I sat down. I felt defiant. The Turkish government had set out to crush me, to trash my ministry and break my faith and intimidate other Christians from speaking out. I knew there was still a lot they could do to hurt me. But at that moment I was holding my head high. It was a holy defiance. Was this what David felt when he went against Goliath?
The judge frowned. “You’re going back to prison. Next court date in three months.”
And with that, the hall erupted with noise as a soldier on each side of me locked his arms with mine and steered me out.
THE NIGHT BEFORE the third trial date the chargé d’affaires had told Norine, “If this doesn’t do it, I don’t know what will.” Whatever he had expected, it hadn’t worked. He left the trial looking shocked and went to make phone calls.
By God’s grace the next day was Thursday, my weekly visiting day. Norine and I were both discouraged that the next hearing was so far out. She sounded particularly weighed down by it all, although she did have some good news. “President Trump tweeted about you. He said you’d been held hostage for far too long and that you’d done nothing wrong.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Calling me a hostage publicly makes it clear that the government believes in my innocence.” It also meant that the US did not accept the judicial procedure as legitimate.
By the time of our biweekly phone call the next day, Norine had some more news for me. “They had a deal. There was a plane waiting for you. The Turks backed out.” Norine went on, “Senator Graham called me. He said that two days ago it was looking good, yesterday not so good. But we should give it a week and see what happens.”
I was encouraged by the news, but there had been deals in the past, and I was still in prison.
That weekend I read something in my Bible that struck me and resonated in my mind for days.
It was a passage telling what happened the night that Jesus was arrested. Peter pulled out his sword to save Jesus, but Jesus told him to put his sword away. “Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?”
Late on Tuesday evening, six days after the third trial date, I sat on my bed and wrote to Norine.
This sentence keeps resonating in my mind as I go through the daily—sometimes hourly—struggle of submitting myself—beyond that, of intentionally embracing—whatever God’s plans are that have allowed for ongoing imprisonment. “Shall I not drink the cup?” I want to “drink the cup” faithfully, to the dregs. But then I also say, “Lord, I’ve been drinking this cup for close to two years. How much longer?” But, may I be faithful to the end. May I be willing to drink the cup—continue drinking it . . . How could I do otherwise? At my best I am at that point. And then I quail with fear, I don’t want to go on day after day. And yet, I want to be an obedient son.
The next morning I read through the letter again, sealed it, and handed it to the guard who came for roll call. A little over a year earlier I had arrived at Buca a broken man. But God had been rebuilding me.
That afternoon I was in the courtyard when I heard someone calling for me at the metal serving hatch in the cell door. I walked over, knelt down, and looked up to see the prison director. That was unusual.
“Andrew, what’s your address here in Izmir?”
“What do you want it for?”
“You’ll see.”
I told him.
A few minutes later it was Nejat’s turn to call my name. “Uh, Andrew? You really need to come and see what’s on the TV.”
“Why?”
“Just come here, Andrew. Now!”