The Press

Terry Waite Campaigner for justice

Campaigner for justice

- Words: Andrea Vance Image: Tim Whittaker

Terry Waite is dreadful with dates. The exact day he was kidnapped by Islamic fundamenta­lists in Lebanon escapes him. As does the time of his release, five years later, when he emerged from captivity, bone-thin and blinking into the glare of sunlight and camera flash-bulbs.

Nor does he recall when he first visited New Zealand: ‘‘Many years ago. I just can’t remember.’’

He was accompanyi­ng his boss, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Runcie. Their trips are chronicled (without reference to the calendar) in his affectiona­te travelogue, Travels with a Primate, which is reissued this month. It recounts how they were served generous amounts of wine ahead of dinner with Dunedin’s mayor, Cliff ‘‘Skipper’’ Skeggs. A nervous cook became too soused to prepare the meal, and the mayor was desperatel­y defrosting bags of peas in the kitchen while trying to keep his distinguis­hed guests refreshed.

Waite has returned to New Zealand for the last eight years, escaping the chilly English winter, to spend summer months in Hawke’s Bay. He’s finished two books here: a comic novel, The Voyage of a Golden Handshake, and Out of

the Silence, a book of poetry.

This year, inspiratio­n took him on a different path. Bent over a long kitchen table at a rented lodge on the outskirts of Havelock North, Waite wrote six children’s books over the last few weeks. He’s now looking for an illustrato­r and publisher for the adventures of Monty the Mouse.

‘‘I’ve tried to get away from the type of story, which is so common these days, full of witches, wizards and hob-gobllins – there are plenty of those stories around,’’ he says. ‘‘I want to write stories to encourage the children to read. But, more particular­ly, to develop their imaginatio­n.’’

Imaginatio­n is invaluable to Waite. He had nothing to read while held in Lebanese cellars and outhouses, so he passed the time in his own head, recalling favourite books or working through mathematic­al equations. ‘‘I discovered this in captivity: if you cannot have a lively, inner conversati­on with yourself, if you cannot develop your imaginatio­n, then you are bereft.’’

We share sandwiches, coffee and cake under the shade of grape vines, in his sunny garden. It’s a scene impossibly far from the 1763 days he spent in captivity, chained to a radiator or stapled to walls. He was blindfolde­d, beaten on the sensitive soles of his feet, and subjected to the horror of a mock execution.

He was seized by Islamic Jihad on January 20, 1987, as he tried to negotiate the release of four hostages: journalist­s John McCarthy and Terry Anderson, writer Brian Keenan, and American scholar Thomas Sutherland, now dead. The group have remained friends.

During the protracted Lebanese civil war, 108 foreigners were kidnapped by groups affiliated with Hizbollah. Eight died.

Waite was Runcie’s diplomatic envoy and had negotiated successful­ly with Idi Amin in Uganda, Muammar Gaddafi in Libya, in Sudan, and Iran. His efforts had freed 10 hostages. The father-of-four says he knew the risks in going to Lebanon.

‘‘I expected, almost, that something would go wrong. You take your own responsibi­lity for that. If you are going to meet desperate people you can never be sure that they are not going to kill or capture you. If you are not prepared to take the risk, don’t do it.’’

He’s no ‘‘walking saint’’ and says his decision to go to Beirut wasn’t without selfish impulses. ‘‘I don’t think anybody ever does something for people for purely altruistic motives.

‘‘I was offered to go and see [a hostage] who was ill, about to die. I thought: ‘if that man dies and I haven’t the courage to go and see him, I am going to have to live with my conscience for the rest of my life’. You see? There is a personal motive: it is not pure altrusim.’’

Waite’s haunting book, Taken on Trust, details the horror of his incarcerat­ion. He was allowed one bathroom break a day and on one trip discovered a handgun, left by a careless previous visitor. But his deep faith means he eschews violence, so he returned the gun to his captors, spending a further four years in captivity. For most of those, his family believed him dead, until Keenan was freed in 1990.

Waite was finally released on November 18, 1991. The jubilation soon turned into a political scandal – and the criticism still cuts deep.

Maverick American soldier Colonel Oliver North was exposed for delivering arms to Iran in return for payment to Nicaraguan rebels and the release of American hostages, known as the IranContra affair. North was Waite’s main contact in the White House and he become unfairly embroiled in the backlash.

‘‘It was untrue, I knew North, but I knew absolutely nothing about it [the arms dealing].

‘‘I had spent five years convincing my captors that I had no knowledge. So to come out and be accused again in the media was actually . . .’’ he trails off. ‘‘I was very vulnerable, more vulnerable than I am now. To spend five years, and have survived and now come back and face it all again, well, I just had to stop reading about it.

‘‘It is not believed today. These things happen. But I do know what it is like to be pilloried.’’

Still, Waite did not retreat to a quiet life, to rediscover the little pleasures of which he was deprived. In the 20 years since his release, he has worked ceaselessl­y for humanitari­an causes. He founded Hostage Internatio­nal, a charity to help captives and their families. ‘‘At any one time there are about 2000 hostages across the world,’’ he explains.

He also spearheade­d Emmaus, a network of 30 communitie­s which offer shelter and work to the homeless in the UK. And he devotes much of his time to the plight of prisoners.

It is on that theme that he will deliver a lecture in the Royal Wanganui Opera House today. He wants more rehabilita­tion and reintegrat­ion within the criminal justice system. ‘‘I know what it is like, I’ve had five years’ solitary myself.

‘‘I have always had an interest in people who live on the margins, who find life tough. My own father [Tom] was a victim of the Depression in the 1920s. He was very clever, but he had to leave high school and leave home – and was homeless for a while.

‘‘One knew that, and the scars that he bore across life as a result of being homeless and uncared for, and not wanted. That then stimulates you to say, well, you know, I really would like to do something for people who find themselves in that position.’’

Waite has been studying the scourge of gangs in New Zealand prisons – and sees comparison­s with the terrorist organisati­ons he’s dealt with.

‘‘Many of the young people that join are products of one-parent families, or failed at school and have never got into any reasonable occupation. Never had much esteem, and so when they join a gang, for the first time in their life they enjoy a degree of security, of support, they are given recognitio­n they’ve never . . . it fulfils certain psychologi­cal needs. They are there, and they are caught.’’

He illustrate­s his point with a shocking story from his time in Lebanon. ‘‘The guard on duty was given money to buy food for the hostages. He had pocketed half, and spent half on food. So, when [the militants] discovered this, they took the guard outside and they shot him. They killed him, because they said if you betray us in small matters, big matters will follow.

‘‘The point being, once they are in, they are in. And it is often very difficult for them to get out, even though they might grow to a greater point of maturity.’’

Waite is neither angry nor bitter about his time as a hostage: he returned to Beirut in 2012 to publicly forgive Hizbollah leaders.

At nearly 80, he’s widely read, inquisitiv­e, and an enchanting raconteur, with a sonorous Cheshire accent and a deep chuckle. He is endlessly patient with those who are curious about his ordeal. As a result, he’s formed deep and lasting friendship­s with those who are inquisitiv­e. His PA, Jenny, now a dear friend, sought him out after hearing him speak on a cruise ship. He recently befriended his local doctor, after a check-up.

‘‘I don’t get sick of talking about it, no. I realise that people are interested and it is probably worth talking about if they are getting some inspiratio­n and help.

‘‘When I go into prisons, for example, I have immediate rapport with prisoners because I know what it is like to be locked up. It has opened doors, you see, personal doors as well as institutio­nal doors, which I am grateful for. It is very good that that has happened.’’

‘‘If you are not prepared to take the risk, don’t do it.’’

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