Commander Ali is under the pickup working on the damaged tire, which is flat again. The air compressor has added to the damage, for now the Toyota’s battery is dead. We’re on foot, isolated, in the middle of the desert. I raise my eyes to the sky, smile and think about my father. He passed away last summer, but now, like any self-respecting sailor, he is rendering difficult the lives of those who have wronged me. He has released sand storms, made it so we get stuck in the sand, punctured three tires and now he’s left the pickup with a dead battery, immobilized.
But the Taliban have friends and supporters everywhere. They are overlords of the territories they control; they police the districts, arrest people, issue sentences and apply them in public according to the dictates of the Shariah. In addition, they mediate conflicts and contrasts on social questions and matters concerning private interests. The inhabitants accept this role and they help the Taliban in difficult moments. All it takes is a telephone call and within an hour a tractor shows up with a local farmer at the wheel.
I stay where I am, lying under the blanket, completely hidden from sight. The farmer makes a couple of maneuvers, yelling in a husky voice that I will hear again when we reach our next prison, the seventh. After a few fits and starts, the pickup roars to life.
We’re off again, heading north across stretches of virgin desert. We climb a group of hills and from the top of one we observe a farm—two large houses and a barn in the midst of a vast opium-poppy plantation. There are a few cows grazing in a field and a flock of sheep in a corral. We coast down a long steep slope, once or twice the pickup nearly flips, and finally come to a standstill in front of the doors to the barn. The soldiers get down, stand around in a circle and make a lot of hubbub—they don’t want us to be seen by this small community. As soon as I get down from the cargo bed they order me to cover my face with a green shawl that I will keep with me for the remainder of my captivity.
I enter a room with a dirt floor, four thick walls made of clay and straw, no windows, and a hole in the roof to let air in. The Taliban pick up a large straw mat, green with white embroidering, and roll it out on the floor. We sit down along the wall, transforming the barn into a living room where we will eat and sleep together. I crouch down in the corner furthest from the door, well hidden. I don’t say a word or exchange greetings; I am impassive even in the face of remarks, laughter, and curiosity that concern me directly. Inevitably, I attract the attention of the farmer and his children, both the older ones and the youngest ones, who run back and forth between the farmhouses and the barn with trays full of tea, sweets, and bread soaked in camel’s milk.
The farmer is obliging, he asks about the war and the battles in the north, on the frontline. It seems his sympathies are with the Taliban. But Ajmal, in one of the rare moments when he seems relaxed and less closed within himself, explains that the farmer is actually afraid. “These people don’t play around,” he says. “They showed up and told him, without mincing words: ‘We’re going to stop here tonight, this room has been requisitioned; prepare something for us to eat.’” The farmer had no choice but to obey. In their eyes, he is meek, resigned to his role, and perhaps this is why they allow me to reply to the questions he repeatedly puts to me. Again, after a long respite, I hear the word “spy”: it’s an explanation, a justification our jailors no longer believe, but it still works on those who must show us hospitality.
We spend the rest of the afternoon inside the barn. Most of the Taliban sleep, others kill time cleaning their weapons. They do so with skill and dexterity: they pull apart their Kalashnikovs piece by piece, shine each with an oil-soaked rag, cleaning away dust, sand and other impurities with a tuft of wool tied to a piece of string; they recalibrate their sights, polish the old chipped butts with a different type of oil. They do not have many tools. They pass around rags and dusters without a word, engrossed in this job which they consider extremely important, treating their weapons with affection, as if they really were their partners for life. They sleep with their weapons, covering them at night with blankets and sleeping bags.
Shortly before dawn, beneath a light drizzle that almost seems like mist, the little iron door is thrown open and the big boss comes in. He is followed by another man. Everyone jumps to their feet, they salute him with great deference, their arms and hands tense, their eyes lowered, muttering the standard, ritual greetings. The leader looks at me, smiles, and introduces himself. He tells me his name is Haji Lalai, and that he is military commander of the Taliban in the central districts of Helmand Province. He has been wanting to see me for days. He conducted the investigation on me and discovered that I am a journalist. He is the puppet master, the man who holds the strings to this kidnapping. His presence, not to mention his refined manners, his way of speaking, and his knowledge of English, confirm that the management of our arrest has been entrusted to a higher level in the chain of command. Definitive proof of this comes the following day, when the entire group of soldiers vanishes, destined for places where battles are raging and we are joined by a group of boys who are less battle-ready, virtually untrained in the use of weapons, but more expert in interrogation techniques and the handling of prisoners.
Haji Lalai, whom I will call commandant, as they do in Pashto, immediately inquires as to my condition. He takes a close look at my injury and apologizes for the treatment I received at the hands of his men. He implores me to be patient; we will be his guests for another fifteen or twenty days. “Guests,” he calls us! His approach is subtle, acute, always well-mannered and in keeping with the rules of good form. He is an intelligent man with a long, slightly oval face. His black beard is carefully trimmed and combed. His glasses, with yellowish lenses, correct his myopia and protect his eyes from the sun. He is tall, lean, broad-shouldered. His hands are well cared for. He dresses elegantly in a light brown shalwar and always wears one of two turbans, one white, the other black and gray. Far from having lived his whole life in Afghanistan, the commandant has traveled the world. He has many sophisticated gadgets, often the most recent models. He uses a satellite telephone equipped with an earpiece, which he listens to while stretched out on his side, wearing a smile that reveals a row of perfect, white teeth.
It is time for prayers, which will be recited by one and all on the shawls and mats that cover the floor of the barn. Haji Lalai officiates over the prayer, naturally: he is the commandant. His gestures are measured and precise, with carefully calculated pauses. The rite lasts longer this time, above all the part dedicated to personal invocations.
We drink some more tea, talk for a while, and then go to bed. The room is full. I can’t sleep. The presence of the big boss troubles me. I don’t trust his flattery and overweening consideration. I feel that our captivity has reached a delicate phase but I can’t identify the direction it is likely to take. The Taliban take turns sleeping and standing watch. During the night I see the watch change several times. Each time it happens in complete silence, which is broken only once, when one of the boys sleeping in the middle of this makeshift dormitory cries out, no doubt dreaming of clashes and battles. “Allah Akbar,” he shouts over and over again, his voice strange and fearsome. His fervor shocks me: even in their dreams these boys think of martyrdom.
THE MYSTERY OF THE VIDEO
We are mere hostages to be bartered. I need a shot of faith and I grasp desperately at those fifteen, twenty days at the end of which Haji Lalai suggested our imprisonment would be over. I pass myself off as someone well acquainted with the mechanisms of kidnappings and negotiations. I ask Haji Lalai his age, a factor that has a considerable bearing on tribal relationships. He says he’s twenty-eight, twenty-nine in June. I congratulate him on his rank, on the fact that he is in charge of military operations in such a vast province; but I add that he is young, very young. I tell him I’m fifty-two and suggest that, in keeping with tradition and rules of good etiquette, I have every right to feel I deserve respect. I expect, above all, a conversation of a different tenor, based on more so
phisticated reasoning, on contestations more fitting to a meeting between a man who has hundreds of soldiers under his command, and a journalist whose destiny is in play. I complain, object to the trap that has been laid for me, and ask for news about the much vaunted Taliban leader who we were supposed to interview and who has supposedly been thrown in jail.
The commandant listens but gives me no clear answers. He persists, without much conviction, in citing the accusation that has been leveled at us since the very start: we entered illegally into territories controlled by the Qur’anic student movement. I ask myself whether Ajmal contacted the right person. By now, I’m beginning to doubt everything, and I feel very much alone.
On the following day, March 12, a Monday, the big boss takes a cell phone—the latest model equipped with a small video camera—turns it on, points it at my face, and with some difficulty begins to film me. Then he examines the images he’s recorded, turns it off, and slips it back into a pocket of the vest he is wearing under his green military coat. He picks up a bag that is lying in the corner. Inside there is a Sony video camera. He turns it on, but now his difficulties are even greater. I explain the main functions, notice that a small built-in flash is on, and suggest that he turn it off to improve the quality of the light and color.
I want to help: anything to hasten everyone to the negotiating table. I have to get out of this as soon as possible. I still see freedom as a possibility; I’m no longer thinking only about the risk of being killed. I’m counting on the value we have as hostages, on the fact that these people need to keep us alive: we are their ace in the hole, to be played in exchange for concrete gains. So much effort, so many sacrifices, so many men reassigned from military operations to our arrest and detention: all this cannot be in vain. They cannot afford to have their prisoners die. It would be stupid, in addition to being counterproductive. I talk to Ajmal about this as we assess tactics and strategies and analyze our adversaries’ moves. Prisoner of his own diffidence, troubled by the idea of revealing too many details about himself, my interpreter will opt for a different road from mine: silence. Over the entire course of our captivity, he will feel that his life is at risk.
Ajmal displays this same diffidence even now, as he takes note of the things that the commandant wants each of us to mention during the video they are about to make. Name, surname, father’s and mother’s names, place and date of birth; and, finally, an appeal to the Italian and Afghan governments that they meet our kidnappers’ demands.
Haji Lalai carefully prepares the scene: my wound has been dressed with a large piece of cotton wool, which is by now affixed to the patch of dry blood beneath it; he places the green shawl on my head so that it’s not visible. He sits me in front of the main door of the barn, where my face is lit by a ray of morning sunshine. I don’t understand the meaning of the message. The commandant made Ajmal list a series of requests. We discussed them and I discouraged him from the start: pulling Italian troops out of Afghanistan is impossible, Romano Prodi has already excluded it; as far as Guantánamo goes, my government cannot interfere because, like the vast majority of the nations that have signed the UN charter, it considers Guantánamo an illegal prison; there’s not much hope for the Bagram military base either, given that it is run by the Americans under the guidance of the Afghan government. Our soldiers in Afghanistan, I explained, have a precise role: they’re on a peacekeeping mission and cannot open fire unless under attack, and even then only if certain conditions are present. They are obliged to maintain public order and offer support to the civilian population. Their mission carries a precise caveat with it, I conclude.
Haji Lalai understands the word “caveat” very well. At the sound of it, he nods. “We’ll ask for a prisoner exchange,” he says without adding anything further.
I read the list transcribed into English by Ajmal but I recite it with little or no conviction. I believe I only have to transmit the visual proof that I am still alive. The name Antaya confirmed whose hands I’m in. This video will demonstrate that they have not yet killed me. They ask me to send a second message, addressed to my family. My performance is better. I try to convey serenity with a slight whiff of irony that will not escape the attention of my children.
Then it’s Ajmal’s turn. He reads the same list but he is more visibly anguished as he does so; his face betrays the sum total of his anxiety. Perhaps he understands better than I who we have before us.
The mystery begins a few hours later when, closed once more in our cell, I manage to hear the BBC news in English thanks to a small transistor radio given to the second group of jailors. The radio’s across the room, but I can decipher what is said: my video has arrived. The newsreader reports on my appearance and my words, adding that I speak in a voice that is calm and relaxed. There is a further comment: “The tone adopted by the Afghan journalist and interpreter is much more dramatic, his face is anguished and tense.”
I’m convinced, and I will remain so right up to the day of my release, that the commandant made both videos public. I will be proven wrong.
Everyone is awake when I open my eyes on the morning of our ninth day of imprisonment. I have kept track of the days: it’s Tuesday, March 13. My wrists are still in chains, but the tiger balm has done me good and eased the pain. I leave the barn with Sayed and Ajmal. Our feet are chained, we walk with small steps, rocking side to side a little like ducks. Our captors are gathered around a large fire lit by the farmer. They talk loudly, yell excitedly, as joyful as ever.
The commandant invites me over with a wave of his hand. He offers me a piece of bread and a cup of boiling-hot tea mixed with camel’s milk, and suggests I warm myself up. “How are you?” he asks and translates his question into Pashto, which he wants to teach me: “Shan gai?” I nod and say: “Well, more or less.” But my look betrays my state of mind: I’m downcast, in no mood for friendly chats. Our detention is weighing on me and worrying me.
They’ve prayed already, at a distance from the barn, behind a little palm grove. We’re ready to go. The journey today, they tell me, will be a long one. I pray to God with all my might—I need Him to fill me with energy and faith. There are twenty-five of us now, traveling in two twin Toyota pickups—same color, same stripes along the body. I notice that the rear fender of the one that Haji Lalai is driving, which arrived here carrying six men, is damaged: part of the metal bumper which protects the rear end is missing. It has no license plate, the left taillight doesn’t work. The fighters who have been watching over us until now pile into the old pickup. The only ones who stay with us are Tariq and Mahmud, the Taliban who mocks me by calling me Tony Blair.
The commandant gets into the driver’s seat and heads off at full speed in the direction of a ribbon of desert stretching out to the north. We are finally comfortable—chained as always, but with enough space to stretch out our legs, which are padded by blankets as the pickup hurtles over bumps and potholes. Haji Lalai is an expert driver, he skillfully avoids the humps and small sand dunes. Yet it feels as if there’s competition between the two drivers. At the wheel of the other truck is Commander Ali, the small round Taliban, the madman who brought us here. The rivality is accompanied by shouts, jokes, and shrieks whenever a wild animal crosses our path. The running joke, which always gets a laugh, involves the word “ush,” which in Pashto means camel. We cross paths with entire herds, sometimes numbering in the dozens. They wander free in the midst of this enormous desert dotted with small marshes and clusters of rugged shrubs. The word for camel is inevitably linked to the name of the American president. “Ush-Bush, Ush-Bush,” they cry, and every holler is followed by loud and violent spitting. During Ramadan, every Muslim must free himself of saliva to avoid swallowing, but for the Taliban it is a habit that is repeated continually and accompanied by a guttural noise that I will no longer be able to stand by the end of my captivity. Every time I hear it coming, I turn aside, above all when they indulge this practice in the courtyards of our crude prisons.
We pick
up speed, we veer west and cut across the desert trails. In the distance, towards the horizon, emerges the profile of a large black mountain standing alone in the midst of a rocky plain. While we are driving, Mahmud draws Ajmal out on a question that interests him greatly. He asks Ajmal what the girls are like in Kabul, if he meets up with them often, if he makes love with them. He wants to know if there are really movie theatres in Kabul now, and if people watch television. He needs to compare the Kabul that he knew during the reign of the Taliban with today’s Kabul.
Tariq is sitting next to me. He looks steadily at the horizon in front of us and then begins to recite a sura from the Qur’an. He knows it by heart, in Arabic. The performance lasts for at least fifteen minutes—he takes only short pauses during which he breathes in deeply. When he has finished, he leans down, bringing his mouth close to my chest, and exhales. He looks at me and explains: “When you hear these verses from the Qur’an, know that they are expressions of friendship and solidarity. I breathe all of Allah’s energy into you to protect you from enemies and danger. It will help you, I’m sure of this. You will return home, you will see your wife and your children again. One day we will meet again. Your presence here is a sign, but He,” Tariq continues, pointing at the heavens, “He has decided that you must tell the world of your experiences here.”
In spite of myself, I am moved. I want to believe that Tariq is sincere. Ferocious and determined in battle, but otherwise capable of humanity. He hands me a strange candy wrapped in gauze to be placed under my top lip: a less potent version of the green powder the soldiers use and tuck safely away in their little silver containers. It does not have the effect of a drug on me. Instead, my mouth is infused with a strong taste of anisette. I feel strangely reassured, but perhaps it is only the power of suggestion. In any case, almost to immunize myself against Tariq’s influence, or at least try to, I repeat that this is what always happens during detentions: among kidnappers there is always one who plays the role of the “bad guy” and another who acts the “good guy.” It is imperative that I not forget this.
Days of Fear Page 10