I look at Aleef and ask him, worried: “Americans? Americans?” He shakes his head and says there’s nothing to worry about. He glances in the direction of the suspicious dot one more time, and then begins to sing at the top of his voice. A song I will hear often during our days of captivity. Our warders themselves will shout it, it will play on the Taliban’s car stereos; soldiers will pass around a cassette with the same song on it. There is no musical accompaniment, only sweet words, sung by young voices that are almost feminine. No fanfare, but rhythmic slogans, battle songs. A repetitive dirge burgeoning with melancholy. These songs are the hymns of the Qur’anic student movement. They tell stories of battles, conflicts, but also of a better world, a world that is more just, in which everybody lives safely and in peace, purged of thieves, hypocrites, and murderers. But also without women, progress, culture, books, music, dancing, cinema, and television. A world anchored to the past, to the age of Mohammed Himself. A great calm oasis without history, without emotions, and without feelings, founded on the doctrines of the Qur’an, the book that Allah bequeathed to the earth and in doing so eclipsed the other two volumes belonging to the great monotheistic religions.
I will speak often about the future Islamic utopia with these young men, who, however young, are conscious that their deaths await them around the next bend in the road. They remind me of a pack of wild dogs: strong, tight, mad, ferocious, curious, cunning, decisive. But above all, happy, convinced that they are in the right, ready to sacrifice themselves, to martyr themselves so that they may attain truth, make the great leap to paradise, the only real goal of an existence that is disfigured, limited, and totally closed to the world.
The mountains that I saw on the horizon a while back now form a range marking the end of the desert. We slow down and travel along trails that have been cut into the mountains by the motorbikes and pickups of drug and arms smugglers. Ajmal explains that this is a border zone. He thinks he recognizes some features, but he’s not sure. We must be close to the Pakistan border. The mountains close around us, we are in a narrow gorge that finally opens onto a plain punctuated by large rocks and brushwood.
Commander Ali told us that he was taking us to the Movement’s most important hideout, the “main base.” But he lied. There is no base camp. In time I will learn how deceitful the religious students are. They will tell us a mountain of lies. And somehow I don’t believe they do so just to keep us in the dark: my sense is that it’s part of their nature.
At the bottom of this valley protected by high peaks there are two buildings made of mud and straw. They are enclosed by a perimeter wall with two entrances, one to the east, and one to the west. Perhaps these buildings are habitually used by the Taliban, though there are no traces of a training camp or anything else of that nature. The militants need to hide, particularly from spying eyes overhead. During the night especially, but also by day, I hear the rumble of spy planes. This incessant surveillance agitates our captors and explains why they make us move hideouts a total of fifteen times in two weeks, sometimes twice a day.
Right now, this sound reassures me. It makes me feel that I have not been abandoned, that finally, after a long silence, the alarm has been raised. But it’s only conjecture. There’s nothing that really confirms my hypothesis. I am inside a bubble, and here only the desert silence is audible. The remote surveillance of these zones is standard procedure. Using drones, the English, with the help of the Americans, observe and record every movement on every inch of ground in this part of the country. We are perfectly visible. We stay inside all afternoon. The floor of these rectangular edifices is made of earth: there are four holes for windows and an entrance without a door.
The tension has eased. Now begins a kind of interrogation that will last nearly a week. No torture, not for now. The Taliban will take turns talking to each of us, one at a time, asking us who we are, what kind of life we lead, what we think of Afghanistan, of the war. What are our ideals, our projects, our dreams? It is not mere curiosity but part of the “investigation” ordered by the leaders of the group. Every dialogue will be dominated by a recurring theme: religion.
Commander Ali is sitting in front of us. He turns first to me, the foreign journalist. They are more curious about me than about the others. He begins to talk to me about Islam. He apologizes repeatedly for the head injury that his men inflicted on me and explains that things like that don’t happen often, that their prisoners are not usually treated in that way. References to Guantánamo, to the military base in Bagram, are frequent: “They are not inclined to show prisoners the same attention there. Our brothers are tortured.” He encourages us to consider ourselves guests rather than detainees. It doesn’t take much—a quick glance in the direction of the Kalashnikovs pointed at us, or at the miserable state in which we find ourselves—to glean the truth. But he insists, he orders his men to free our hands and begins firing questions at us.
I don’t hide anything from him. I tell him that I was born in Karachi, in Pakistan, that I even have a Muslim second name, Amir, like that of Mullah Omar, their supreme guide. They will never use this name in my presence. I will always be Daniele to them, for the name Amir represents a sacred title, one that Mullah Omar gave himself in 1996 at the Mosque of the Sacred Cloak in Kandahar, not far from the Mausoleum named after the nation’s founder, Ahmad Shah Durrani. The Mullah made a gesture of great symbolic importance that year. To legitimize his role as leader, a charge he had received from God himself, he removed the cloak of Mohammed from where it was housed and exhibited it before a teeming crowd of Taliban.
FLOGGING IN THE NAME OF ALLAH
I repeat the name Amir, slightly mangling the pronunciation. Commandant Ali does not correct me. He makes no reference to the great spiritual leader. So I do: “The Mullah Omar!” I merely want to show him that I know whereof I speak, that I know about his past, the legends associated with him, and his flight by motorcycle during the coalition’s military offensive in 2001. Though the last detail made many westerners grin at the time, it was considered normal around here—the motorcycle is still the most common means of transport used by the Taliban.
Ali unwinds his black turban. His hair is short, almost shaven, and quite a contrast to his long, black, wiry beard, which he strokes whenever he gets nervous. It appears I have pressed one of his buttons; he is visibly flustered, he strokes his beard. There won’t be any more direct references to Mullah Omar. Only once, near the end of our captivity, on the eve of my release, Mullah Dadullah, the man we were supposed to interview from the start and the true architect of our abduction, will speak of “Amir ul-Momineen,” the Commander of the Faithful.
Ali returns to the subject of Islam and explains that I have a decision to make. The fact that, in theory at least, I am half Muslim and half agnostic should facilitate my conversion. All the preconditions exist for me to become a good Muslim. As he is telling me this, his excitement mounts; his large, open face glows in the setting sun’s red rays.
Ajmal sits down beside me. Sayed keeps his distance, listening but not participating in the conversation. I imagine he’s thinking about what has happened to us, maybe deciding what to do.
I am prudent in replying to the commander. It’s a choice that should be pondered at length, I say, perhaps after studying the Koran and reading other books on Islam. I have read many, but not enough to consider myself an expert. “It would be frivolous,” I object. Ali agrees, but he becomes more and more fervent. Two other Taliban draw near. They calmly sit cross-legged on the straw mat that also serves as a mattress and join in the conversation. Ajmal seems relaxed. In addition to translating questions and answers he provides insight into the strategies adopted by our captors. Trust and mistrust will be constant companions for the entire length of our captivity; bitter disappointment will alternate with moments of unexpected hope. I will learn how to weigh every move, every gesture, and how to ascertain the hidden meanings of details that could otherwise be misleading.
The Taliban are
well trained in interrogation techniques; they are adept at administering the right doses of kindness and aloofness, affability and violence. They are skilled, very skilled. But they are also very sensitive to religious questions. Their enthusiasm for conversations about God and the divine laws that determine our lives and form our souls is not always a calculated means to an end. These young men live for Allah; they consider him the center of their very existence.
Ali does not loosen his grip. He is tenacious. I smile, trying to make things difficult for him, and ask whether he thinks it is right that my conversion should happen at this precise moment, in this place far removed from the world, and above all that it should happen while I am in captivity. He’s fired up. He is convinced that my willingness to discuss the matter is the first sign that I may eventually yield, and moving closer, he persists. “For him,” Ajmal explains, his expression dubious and his voice flat and emotionless, “it would represent an enormous success. He says it would bring him honor. His bosses, the helder, the ones that want to see us, would be willing to let us go, maybe. It would be a fitting price to pay for our freedom.” I have a sudden inspiration. “Commander, would you let me go if I became a Muslim?” Ali nods several times, and adds, “However, if you’re sure of this decision, you must take the first step, an essential one for us Muslims.” “What step is that?” I ask, curious. Ali skirts around the subject, he’s a little embarrassed. He asks Ajmal to inquire as to whether I am circumcised. I answer no, I am not circumcised. The commander is disappointed but indicates that there is no real problem: the matter can be resolved. He says it is, however, an indispensable step in my conversion.
I believe he’s still testing my courage. He’s been laying a trap into which I have not fallen, I tell myself with a touch of pride. He wants to find out just how rooted my religious sentiments are. Freedom in exchange for circumcision. My demeanor is serious. “It can be done,” I conclude. “But I doubt your bosses, the helder, will agree.” Ali jumps to his feet. “I’ll call them immediately, let’s see what they say. In the meantime, I’ll look for a doctor. It’s a simple matter, clean and precise.” I shake my head, terrorized by the idea of being circumcised in a sheepfold, amidst fleas and mice, with an old rusty knife. I dampen his enthusiasm immediately: “If I must make this decision, I want to make it as a free man. Otherwise it would be a flippant and hypocritical act. In the Koran,” I continue, “the Prophet unconditionally condemns hypocrisy.”
The conversation moves on to other topics, from everyday life to politics. Ali dwells on the American bombings, which, he repeats often, “mainly kill defenseless civilians, women, and children.” I am in no condition to respond. Then he goes back to religion: only Muslims can hope to enter Paradise; the rest of the world, which lives in ignorance, is condemned to heresy and perdition, to nothingness after death. His is a desperate appeal to the great religious communities of the world to convert before it is too late, before the darkness of the apocalypse descends and the hour of the final audience with God strikes.
Before the sun disappears in the west prayers are said. I pray to my God as well, my hands joined, my gaze fixed before me, crouched in my corner, my anguish growing.
I fall asleep. A little later on, I wake with a start and lay staring at the ceiling. I realize for the thousandth time that this is not a bad dream. I’m not at home; I’m not in a hotel; I’m not in Kabul. I’m a prisoner of those same Taliban whom I wanted to interview. No matter how things turn out, my newspaper has its story, and somehow this fact consoles me. My reporter’s instincts have prevailed, and those same instincts are my best weapon of defense. Against myself and against my captors.
They wake us up during the night, a few hours before dawn on Wednesday, March 7. There are strange noises outside, agitated voices. I shake Ajmal and ask him if he can tell what’s happening and if there’s some kind of problem. Closed, by now, behind that tormented gaze of his, those eyes staring into space, virtually dumbstruck, he says he doesn’t have any idea. He too has heard the commotion. “Maybe,” he says, “they’re going to move us.” He’s right. He hears one of the child soldiers marshalling the others. The ochre-colored Toyota with blue and yellow panel stripes along its sides and Dubai plates is ready. We climb into the cargo bed. Our hands are tied in front of us, thank God. Our tortured faces and protests during the earlier moves must have had some effect on our kidnappers.
We drive for about ten kilometers, at a crawl, following tire tracks left by those who have traveled this same route before us. We enter a gorge and the truck stops at the top of a cliff, where it can be easily and well hidden behind rocks and bushes.
The cargo bed is reserved for us three. It is full of covers and blankets. We fall unconscious in no time. Meanwhile, the Taliban sort out guard duty, and those whose turn it is to watch over us take up positions on the outcrops surrounding our improvised jail, each brandishing a weapon. The others wrap their covers around themselves. They sleep hugging their rifles, with one eye open, like sphinxes.
My hands are still tied. I twist and turn nervously, unable to find a comfortable position. My whole body aches, though surprisingly I have no internal pain, and even my stomach, which has been ruined by ulcers and gastritis, seems to be holding up. We’ve been drinking well-water for two days, we warm ourselves with cups of yellow tea, and we eat potatoes; every now and again we tear flesh from the small bones of an animal they pass off as chicken. More likely they are wild birds caught wherever we stop. I’m afraid I’ll contract some kind of viral infection, but apparently the adrenalin produced by the constant tension has reinforced my immune system: over the entire fifteen days I will not have a single disturbance.
I sleep for a few hours. When I open my eyes, the sky is pale blue. Little by little, the dawn light sketches the outline of the mountain peaks hanging over us. There’s a fire crackling a few meters away from the pickup truck, and the smell of burning wood wafts in our direction. Those Taliban who were not working the dawn shift wake one by one. Silently they pick up their water canteens and go looking for a secluded spot. Everyone moves mechanically—there is no more need of orders. Orders were given mostly for our benefit, but by now we know the rhythms, the rituals, what has to be done and when. I wrap myself in my shawl, the patu that I use as pillow, turban, tablecloth, and head covering, and with my hands still tied in front of me, I crouch down near the fire. I make sure to greet them, as I will do throughout. According to the reply I receive, I will know what to expect from the day.
The commander is avoiding me. The idea of my converting to Islam in exchange for our freedom appears to have come to nothing. I’m still waiting for an answer and, in theory, if he has spoken to his bosses as he purportedly intended to, I have one coming to me. The problem is the spy planes that are forever flying overhead. The Taliban are worried and distracted.
We keep moving south, into and out of gorges, over plains—the landscape is all the same. A brief stop, stretched out in the sand, in a tiny deserted village of mud and straw; time enough to draw water from a well and fill the water tanks, and then off again, slowly, watching the roads carefully, scanning the mountaintops, alert to the sound of the occasional motorcycle or car heading in the opposite direction. We never meet anyone on the road—anyone who drives a pickup here knows the area well enough to avoid the main route and opts for hidden trails that run parallel to ours.
We leave the pickup behind and continue on foot. They untie our hands because we have to climb a hill and we need our arms and hands. They keep us at gunpoint, but they know that we won’t try to run. For now. They’re especially worried about me. They consider me a rebel, a hothead, capable of some impulsive act. I have the impression they are following precise orders, and if one of us were to escape, they would not hesitate to kill him.
Two buildings in ruins appear at the top of the hill. Two adjoining rooms, the roof partially caved in, and a kind of small sunken pen full of rubbish, the remnants of others who have passed through here
before us: paper, plastic, pieces of cloth, an old sweater, fabric that would have once been part of turbans, shirts, and pants. With a stick, the one whom I have heard called Hassan, the oldest Taliban (he is probably about thirty years old, with a thin beard on a lean, hard face), pushes this graveyard of humanity in all its variety into a corner of our prison cell. He picks up an old straw mat worn to a thread and full of dust, spreads it on the stony dirt floor and barks, “Sit over there.” He points to the opposite side of the room where there are two openings in the wall that serve as windows, as far as possible from the entrance, which is low, tight as a small tunnel, and without a door.
I crawl into a corner of this hole and try to pluck up my courage. I keep my mind busy by forcing myself to focus on details, colors, sounds, the days of the week. But thoughts continue to bluster through my mind—like hurricanes, they shake me to the core and overwhelm me. I will suffer from frequent headaches. My head will feel full to the point where, more than once, I will feel that it is ready to explode. I don’t speak much, I lose myself in other worlds, other issues, and I almost always fall asleep sitting up. I usually do not remember my dreams. But since I’ve been in captivity, I recall them vividly. Dreams about all manner of things. My mother, my father, who died last summer, my wife, my children, the newspaper, my colleagues. They are not nightmares, but the situations are absurd, improbable. I feel like someone on the outside wants to talk to me, to transmit messages and thoughts. A kind of telepathy that travels thousands of kilometers to reach me in this forsaken place. It comforts me to think this might be true.
For thirty-six hours we remain where we are, almost comatose. I run through the days that mark off our captivity. It’s March 8. Aleef, the soldier who, to a certain degree, has become my reference point within the group, charges into the cell and asks Sayed to leave. He obeys and follows the Taliban out. Ajmal is still sleeping, or perhaps he is awake, but he keeps his eyes closed. I’m not worried about our friend; there has been no cause for tension, nothing of any particular relevance has occurred. Almost an hour passes and Sayed does not come back. Now I am concerned. I don’t know where he is, I have not heard a single cry, a single sound, not even the usual low murmur that reaches us from beyond our cell. I’m starting to think that they’ve gone, all of them, that they’ve let us go. Alone in the middle of the desert, but free.
Days of Fear Page 7