Days of Fear

by Daniele Mastrogiacomo

  I again think of escaping. I imagine the scene: I leap off the bike, then slide, roll, injure myself, free my hands, pull the hood off, and run like mad. I ask myself where I would hide, but above all where I would go, who I could ask for help. It is an impossible endeavor. I would not be capable of such a thing. I’m no soldier. And what’s more, I am surprised, confu­sed, but I have nothing to deny, no secrets to protect. I am in the right. Taking flight across this desert would be seen as suspicious, an admission of guilt, the proof that I am indeed a spy. The punishment would be immediate and terrible, perhaps death itself: a blast from a Kalashnikov in the back. The idea alone is enough to paralyze me. Better to stay put, I think, avoid any rash gestures. Better to find a solution to what I still think is a huge, absurd misunderstanding.

  A house built out of straw and mud bricks. They send us in one at a time. They take off my black hood and blindfold but leave my hands tied. On the dirt floor there are covers, quilts, and a few cushions. There are fifteen or so people inside, the young men who arrested us and a few new faces, soldiers, dressed in the same uniform. They’re young, delicate, and serene, the looks on their faces hard but also possessed, at times, of a certain sweetness. I read curiosity in their eyes. I sense that they still have a few doubts. They believe we’re spies, me in particular, but perhaps a slight suspicion that we may be telling the truth has taken hold in their minds.

  Our fate is hanging by a thread, subject to an order, a clarification, a decision. Ajmal and Sayed, their heads still hooded, are put in a corner. They speak occasionally. Their voices are calm one minute, hysterical the next. I ask that they be untied, or at least that they be permitted to see. Their faces must be uncovered, I say, as if I were giving the orders. I insist that a degree of dignity and respect for universal rules be maintained. There are unwritten agreements that cannot be violated, those pertaining to basic human rights. I speak and ask that my words be clearly translated into Pashto. For the first time I use the word “prisoners.”

  They are soldiers, people who are accustomed to orders and discipline, while we are prisoners, but above all journalists. I categorically deny the accusation of being a spy. And my tenacity impresses them. The tension relaxes all of a sudden. My words, translated by Ajmal and perfectly understood by the young soldiers, have had some effect. They look at each other and nod. They take the hoods off my two collaborators and lean their Kalashnikovs and machine guns against a wall in the corner of the room. Finally we manage to converse in a manner that is more relaxed. I talk a mile a minute, more than anyone else. Ajmal has trouble keeping up but he manages to translate my questions and their answers. The Taliban tell me not to worry, they’re merely verifying our position. The “investigations” are already underway. There are rules that must be adhered to. They need time. We must be patient. Soon they’ll know who we really are.

  A door has been left open and, through it, I can see that we are being held in a kind of farm. There are high walls enclosing the building we’re in, a garden, a farmyard, a few other structures with adjoining yards. I can also see the owner of all this: an old farmer who walks with difficulty, leaning on a stick. His beard is long and white, his tunic, too, is white. He looks friendly, definitely not part of the group. I smile at him, trying to solicit his support, hoping that he, at least, will believe that I am telling the truth.

  The farmer enters our room and leaves a tray with glasses and tea on the floor. He hands out candy and cubes of colored sugar. I greet him in Arabic with the classic phrase, “Salam aleik,” peace be with you. I consider it important to show them that I am polite and attentive to good manners. I am polite even when asking if I can smoke a cigarette. They will always allow me to indulge this vice, which for them is forbidden. Maybe because they consider me a kafir, an infidel. Or maybe because they’re struck by my courteous ways. Good manners are important, even in extreme situations like this.

  The farmer shoots me a serious look. His face is not cruel or evil. He has the air of a wise old man. He leaves the room in si­lence, without intervening. The young men are talking loudly, joking, asking questions, satisfying their curiosity. They keep us tied up but they allow me to explain some technical features of the devices and equipment they’ve sequestered. They’ve taken everything: coat, keys, wallet, papers, pens, notepads, watch, and shoes. They’ve taken all these things from me almost without my realizing it. I’m practically naked. They’ve searched my companions, too, and confiscated every last object. The Taliban are fascinated above all by my video camera. It’s new, very professional, and very alluring. The one who appears to be the boss pulls it out of its case and turns it on, but cannot go any further: he doesn’t know how it works. I stand up with my hands tied, turn my back on them and go over to the video camera. I move awkwardly and it’s not easy to keep my balance. Smiling, I make a suggestion: untie me and I’ll show you how it works. This is the camera I was planning to use for the interview. They agree. When all is said and done, I represent no real threat. I am their enemy, but not a dangerous one. What’s more, I have a beard that is long and white. I deserve respect, I tell them. I am “an old man” and they are young enough to be my children, of which I have two, one twenty, the other twenty-four. They have always shown me respect.

  When they finally untie my hands, I breathe deeply. I look over at Ajmal and Sayed. The interpreter holds his head low, avoiding my eyes. The driver’s eyes, on the other hand, are wide open, he’s staring at me, shaking his head as if apologizing. This snag has embittered him, as has the attitude of these people. He must have contacted them dozens of times, and though his previous interactions were by telephone, he wasn’t expecting such treatment. When all is said and done, they are Afghans, like him. He is not afraid, but his eyes betray stupor, embarrassment, and shame. He speaks non-stop. I don’t know what he is saying; Ajmal doesn’t translate. He remains silent. I can only hope to intuit the meaning of the conversation through the facial expressions of my interpreter.

  In our two weeks together we will be forced to observe almost absolute silence. I will speak rarely, always careful to avoid even the slightest contradiction. I will only say what is necessary and always in the simplest and most direct terms. I learn to control myself, to know what to say and what not to say, to remain silent and answer only when I am interrogated, to argue and provoke when it is the moment to do so, to ask questions and to listen. Dialogue continues to be important for me. I try to study the situation, identify who exactly was behind our capture, who is giving the orders. It is a strategy that has only one objective: to stay alive, to resist to the very end of the nightmare.

  Three hours already. I no longer have my watch but I ask our captors the time and manage to keep track of the passing hours. The soldiers wear identical digital military-style watches on their wrists that are obviously part of the uniform. They were probably bought in bulk, not in Afghanistan, more likely in Pakistan, as they are modern and sophisticated. We drink more tea. With Ajmal’s help we talk about anything and everything: religion, family, loved ones.

  An older man sticks his head through an opening in one of the walls, a kind of large window. Like the others, he is dressed in military fatigues, his black turban carefully wound around his head and a small cap on top holding it firm. They address him as Commandant. So, this is the man in charge of the group that captured us. Short, plump, skittish, he has a look on his face that is open and curious. They jump to their feet. He vanishes and then reappears through the main door, bending over as he enters. He looks at me, my driver, my interpreter, and then back at me. He studies the injury on my head, the blood that has run down over my face and stained my shirt and pants. He grimaces as he moves nearer. He’s concerned and apologizes on behalf of his men saying it was an unfortunate accident, that this is what happens when one rebels. He says: “You resisted arrest. Our rules and regulations impose a reaction. When one is under arrest, one must obey.” After a brief pause, he continues: “In your country don’t the police u
se handcuffs when they arrest someone?” I explain that there’s a difference: handcuffs are only used in exceptional cases. Where I’m from, the police must be very careful because the arrestee has certain rights and assurances. I say these words with a smile on my face that is partly genuine and partly redolent of sarcasm and reproach. I tell him, with Ajmal’s help, what I have told the others an infinite number of times. “We’re here for an interview that we arranged with a military commander.” I look at Ajmal. “He knows the name.” I press Ajmal. “Right? Tell him what the man’s name is?”

  Ajmal remains silent. I’m surprised. I can’t understand why he’s doing this. I feel I can no longer count on him or on Sayed. Perhaps they’re too scared. Once more, I try to shed light on the situation. “We’re journalists, I’m Italian, you have my passport, you can easily verify that what I’m telling you is the truth. We came here in peace to record the Taliban’s position on this war and to ask them about the strategies they intend to employ for the future of Afghanistan.” I leave Ajmal enough time to translate.

  The commander listens attentively, without interrupting. When Ajmal has finished, I add: “This does not strike me as the most appropriate way to greet people who are professionals, who came to the south to see and to recount what is really happening. You stopped me, arrested me, tied me up and beat me. I was threatened at gunpoint. We came here in peace,” I repeat. “Armed only with pens, notepads, and video cameras. Where is the commander whom we were supposed to interview?” The man cuts me off. “He’s under arrest,” he says. “At this moment, he is sitting in a prison cell in one of our jails. We will deal with him later. He doesn’t exist, he’s gone, finished.”

  I have no idea whether this is some banal excuse or the truth—if the latter, it has the potential to bring the world crashing down around me. It’s over, I think, we’re in it up to our necks. We’ve been caught in a trap, perhaps one that was laid months ago, planned around a table somewhere. Or maybe it was ordered hastily after someone signaled our presence in exchange for a few dollars. I recall the boy with the green eyes, Sayed’s contact: he disappeared during the first frenzied moments of our arrest.

  The commander shakes his head, he lifts off my turban and grimaces again—the wound on my head must be serious. He again apologizes and orders his men to get some bandages. I understand from his gestures that my wounds need attention, that I risk developing an infection. He consults with his men and then says: “We arrested you because you entered Taliban territory illegally. We’re convinced that you are English spies. You say you’re journalists. We must verify some things, and it will take time. If we discover that you are spies we will kill you immediately. If, on the other hand, you really are journalists, we’ll ask to exchange you for some of our comrades in prison.” I stiffen. I understand now that they have indeed arrested us. I react as a journalist. “But the interview,” I ask. “Is it still possible to do the interview? With you, Commander,” I suggest. “We could interview you.”

  I discover that I am no longer afraid. On the contrary, the commander’s visit, the chance to speak with a higher-ranking officer, has reassured me. I feel somehow less vulnerable. I am once again a simple reporter who has become the victim of a misunderstanding or a trivial mix-up. Maybe someone tried to be clever and is now paying the price for having overstepped his authority without permission from the local command. I glance reproachfully at my two collaborators and shake my head. I invite Sayed and Ajmal to clarify everything, decisively and definitively, to put a stop once and for all to this mechanism that I still refuse to accept. At first, they reply in monosyllables, then the driver launches into a long and complex discourse. I don’t know if what he says is the explanation I requested or an attempt to attenuate the tension that is beginning to mount once more. Ajmal is categorical with me. “They say we’re spies. Asking, clarifying, protesting, it’s all useless. They always respond in the same way: we’re spies.”

  I wait another hour. The boys come and go. There are always three of them with us. They watch over us but the mood is again relaxed. The sun is setting and the light is weaker now. My arms have been behind my back all this time and they ache. The fabric is cutting into my wrists. They order me to stand up and they put the blindfold back over my eyes. I repeat that I can’t breathe with my eyes covered. Three of them lift me up and pull me, my feet dragging, outside. I only have socks on my feet. They laugh and talk amongst themselves, they seem to be discussing my situation with great mirth. They make me walk along a small path between grass and stones. There are puddles of muddy water, patches of wet earth, then sand, earth again, tufts of plants and grass. My heart is beating hard. I’m terrified. I ask where they’re taking me. I ask thousands of questions, one after the other. I’m afraid they’re going to kill me. A single shot to the back of the head, my body abandoned in a ditch, eyes blindfolded, hands tied. A lifeless bundle without form, dried blood around the bullet hole. I think of Enzo Baldoni, the Italian journalist who was kidnapped and assassinated in cold blood in Iraq before any negotiations could get started.

  It’s over, I say to myself. I find myself praying. My entire life passes before me as if it were a film. My children, my wife, my mother, the newspaper, the sea, my sailboat, my father, and my siblings. There’s no time, I need to see more. The film is running fast, in black and white, the frenzied images pile up. It’s over, goodbye to this crazy, unpredictable world that I so desperately love and so violently hate. Goodbye to everyone. My hour has come. I raise my eyes, still blindfolded, to the sky and ask for God’s help and His pardon. I ask that He protect my children. I am no longer afraid. I’m ready. Then, suddenly, I feel that they’re not going to kill me. I’m certain of it. I don’t know why. My instincts tell me so. I want to believe it. Maybe my death is too absurd an eventuality for me to imagine, or perhaps I’m too important for our captors. I’m convinced that they’re not going to do it. Not yet, not now. My legs are trembling as we move left. They push my head down and shove me into the trunk of the Corolla. I squirm. I’ve learned to try to keep my wrists apart when they tie me up so the knots will give a little. But this time the knots are too tight.

  The blindfold slips down over my nose and mouth. I can see some light, now, but I can’t breathe. I’m going to suffocate to death. I cry out a dozen times, “Please! Please!” I want them to stop, to take the blindfold off me. My breathing is shallower, faster; the blindfold over my nose and mouth begins to grow damp. My mouth and throat are dry. I make a desperate attempt to get hold of a stray piece of fabric with my teeth and pull it off my nose and then my mouth. It is a long, arduous procedure. I try to control my breathing as if I were underwater. I’m convinced I’m going to die. I tell myself that it would be a damned stupid way to die, but I also remind myself that many, many hostages have died like this.

  I’m lying on my back, my knees on my chest. I turn over with difficulty and manage to loosen the knots and free my hands. I search for the cable and open the trunk. Fresh air. Finally. Twice, three times, I am tossed from one side of the trunk to the other as the car drives over particularly rough patches. It’s torture. I have been taken prisoner by a group of Taliban. I do not know them, nor do I know what their intentions are; I’m alone, left completely to my own devices; I have no contact with the outside world; I am obliged to do everything these young soldiers want me to do, follow orders issued by people far away from here. Death could come at any mo­ment. It is a constant, an obsession that envelops me for fifteen days and fifteen nights with a force, a power that again and again has me gasping for air. I will have to learn to control my panic attacks in order to maintain a modicum of psychological and physical well-being for my increasingly weak and beleaguered body. I calm myself down now, willfully imposing self-control and serenity. I think about yoga, something that will often help me during times of panic over the course of my captivity.

  The cable in the trunk snaps. I can no longer even flirt with the idea of escaping. There will be no interv
iew, no meeting. There is no misunderstanding. They have arrested me. I am their prisoner. I even break out laughing, frantic but happy that I’m still not dead. Maybe, I think, we’ll make it. We can resist. The country, my country, will not abandon us. My newspaper will sustain us. My friends, colleagues, brothers will help us. I’m certain of this. I have to worry about one thing and one thing only: staying alive.

  I’m still shut inside the trunk. I don’t move, my head hurts now, my blood is throbbing around my wound. I feel that the blood has clotted, it’s no longer gushing out, which is something. But I’m worried: blows like that can provoke internal bleeding.

  Half an hour later the Corolla stops. I hear the doors opening, then closing. I understand that they are coming around to open the trunk, that there’s going to be some kind of ex­change. I hope—yes, for a second I delude myself—I hope that they’re going to free us, that the nightmare is over. Pats on the back, more apologies, smiles, maybe a bit of roughing up, but then off we go, freedom awaits. Just one final warning: get out of Taliban territory and never show your faces here again. Naked, stripped bare, robbed of everything, scared, but alive. And free.

  But that’s not what happens. Though they continue to call it an arrest, this is an abduction. They are convinced they’ve captured some spies and we remain totally under their control. Or perhaps they already know who we are. They may have identified the newspaper I work for and now they realize they’ve hit the big time. A big fish caught in their net. Foreign. Italian. Journalist. Excellent merchandise to barter with, to trade for goods, or, even better, for money. The trunk won’t open. The cable hangs loose above my head. They go at it in two, then in three. With their hands, their fists, then their guns. I hear one of them snap a clip into his gun. A sharp, metallic, unmistakable sound paralyzes me with fear. I scream that it’s broken, that I’m not responsible for it not opening, that they need to use the key. Somehow, I make myself understood. They open the trunk and cool, fresh air gusts in. I can breathe again.