After my usual curry and fried eggs, I went to the hotel’s business centre and sent the following email to Jim Murray.
Well, I am now fully prepared for my adventure, or as ready as I will ever be. If this comes off then I know there will be pats on the back and if it doesn’t I will be called reckless and stupid.
Nothing is safe in this world – as thousands of New Yorkers discovered on September 11. However, there are no Western journalists in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan and we need to get a picture of what is happening inside, even if it is just a snapshot.
I am being very positive and have a strong self-preservation instinct. There are several people who are also risking their lives, so I am not alone. My guide is called Muskeen and he is from the tribal areas on the Northwest Frontier.
We are taking an old, traditional route through the Hindu Kush mountains by four-wheel drive which avoids the Pak border posts. From there we will walk about 10km and then go on horseback to the outskirts of Jalalabad where Bin Laden has a base … tho we will be giving that a wide berth. After an overnight stay somewhere we will then head back and I shall file on Friday afternoon.
I have taken every precaution possible. My hair is dyed and so is my skin. I am wearing secondhand, traditional Afghan clothes and shoes. Muskeen will tell people he is going to get his old mother out of the country.
His wife (me) is dumb. We will be armed with semi automatics and will also be accompanied at certain points with armed escorts. Any identification will be left with Pasha at the border.
I was going to write letters to family etc. but that is being negative. I will file on Friday and will contact you as soon as is humanly possible. Can someone stand by to send $2000 dollars once this is all over. That is the fee we have agreed. Those involved know that not a penny will be received until my safe return to Islamabad.
There are some con men in Peshawar who are charging hacks $1200 to take them to the border so they can put a toe in Afghanistan, but this is a nonsense. If we do bump in to anyone during our travels hopefully it will be the boys from Hereford [the SAS] because I’m not sure what will happen if we encounter some men from Fort Taliban!
Looking forward to filing a good feature and hard news story. Love to all.
I then called David Smith, who was in Quetta working for the Daily Express. He asked me what I was doing for the Sunday and I said, ‘Don’t even ask. Careless talk costs bylines.’
He replied, ‘I can guess what it is. Is this an idea of Murray’s?’
I laughed and said, ‘No. In fact I know he’s having second thoughts about the project but this one’s all mine.’
David had gone to Quetta because a refugee crisis of gigantic proportions was beginning to unfold in the south. He said tempers were rising and tension was so high that the hotel most of the journalists were staying in was being protected by armed guards. I thought: If this is what it’s like now, what on earth is going to happen when they drop bombs? I told him to be careful and said I would call him towards the end of the week.
Tim Shipman had asked me to keep an eye on David, a close pal of his, because it was his first major assignment, but he didn’t need any help. Even if he was nervous on the inside, he oozed confidence and had already found himself an excellent guide.
I hung around the hotel for a while and sent a text message to my man in Whitehall. He said I was mad and urged caution, so I then fired off an email saying I didn’t want a lecture: I wanted encouragement. His reply was more positive. I then put in a call in to my friend Paul Beaver, the military adviser, and left a message asking him to call me because I wanted to run an idea past him.
Pasha called to say he would pick me up in the evening and that he was getting his car serviced. I asked him if everything was on course and if everyone was OK about what they had to do and he replied, ‘Fine, everyone is fine.’
I went back into the business centre and began reading up on the Taliban.
It soon became obvious to me, after I had checked out a few websites, that the Taliban’s aim was to create one of the most fundamentalist Islamic regimes in the world. They certainly didn’t sound like fun people and the death penalty seemed to be enforced for the slightest misdemeanour.
Anything associated with jollity appears to be banned unless activities carry a religious theme. So there’s no television, no music, no movies; whistling is out, along with dancing, singing, clapping and cheering. Now I am an avid Newcastle United supporter and I just couldn’t get through ninety minutes at St James’s Park without a lot of the above. It comes naturally, yet it could cost you your life in Afghanistan. It’s OK, though, to chant Allahu akbar (God is great).
I continued to look down the banned list, which included no smoking, no pork, no recycling the Qur’an, no paper bags (because it might be a recycled Qur’an, I kid you not), no kite flying, no converting from Islam and absolutely no photography!
Hmm. Well, I was still going to take my little Nikon camera with me just in case. It was the only piece of equipment I was taking in.
As I continued my search on the Internet, which is also banned, I discovered that some laws applied to men only. There were even rules about beards. Designer stubble and clean-shaven faces would not be tolerated by the Taliban, who insisted that beards had to be long enough for them to protrude from a fist clasped at the point of the chin.
Men who didn’t have long enough beards were sent to prison until their facial hair grew to the required length. Men must keep their heads covered at all times and those boys who didn’t do the same were denied schooling.
And the laws covering women were ten times as long – funny, that. There’s no working outside the home, except in limited circumstances such as medicine and female prisons; no leaving home without a body-covering burka, or without being accompanied by a male relative; no trading or buying in shops where there are men behind the counter.
Education is also denied to women, although I understand that there are many brave females who do run underground schools to educate fellow females.
There were more ridiculous rules, such as the one that says women must not reveal their ankles, and there were some horrendous rules forbidding women to be seen by male doctors.
Cosmetics, of course, were banned, along with laughter, and a woman had to speak in hushed tones lest a stranger should hear her voice. There was no wearing high heels, or anything that makes sound when you’re walking. The only sensible ban I saw was for white socks, but that should count for both sexes!
However, the reason for the white-sock ban is also ludicrous. White socks are regarded as a sexual lure. White is also regarded as sacred, because the Taliban flag is a simple white sheet.
Well, I thought, I am really going to have to watch myself over the border because I could probably break most of those rules within ten minutes. No wonder it is considered an oppressive regime in the West, because all the stories about the Taliban describe their subjugation of women and ethnic minorities.
I went to another website to find out how the Taliban were formed and where they came from. According to one research document, which has largely been accepted by many authors, the Taliban were recognised as a distinct group in 1993, although they didn’t rise to prominence until the following year. The Taliban were formed by Mullah Muhammad Omar Akhund, a religious scholar who was 43 years old at the time.
He united a group of around thirty to fifty religious students (the name ‘Taliban’ means ‘student’) in a village near the city of Kandahar. According to a report in Asiaweek the first Taliban were Afghan youths from refugee camps and madrasas or religious schools in Pakistan’s Pashtun belt, which incorporates the Northwest Frontier and Baluchistan. Most of the soldiers came from southern clans of the Pashtun subtribe of Durrani.
Omar’s original group were said to be ‘united in their anger over the lawlessness into which the Mujahideen [or mujahedin] rule had sunk’, said Asiaweek. The lawlessness referred to daily extortion at highwa
y tolls, where robbery and rape were everyday occurrences. In July 1994, a Kandahar military leader raped and killed three women, which caused outrage in the city.
Justice from Omar and his Taliban was swift. The leader was executed and his men offered their services to Omar. It was a defining moment for the Taliban, which grew from strength to strength.
Well, I could see that they had started off with the best of intentions but, somehow, I think they have lost their way. Anyway, I didn’t intend on meeting or chatting to any Talibs: it was the ordinary Afghans who were my target. I just hoped that I wasn’t sussed, because I was aware that if I was discovered, my life would be at great risk. That was fairly obvious.
If I had any doubts about that it was reinforced that evening with Mullah Omar introduced a new ruling that any Afghans giving information to foreigners would be executed. I got the impression he sits down and thinks of new rules every day.
I was feeling hungry, so I went down and headed straight for the hotel buffet, which was fabulous. I really pigged out that night and went back twice. ‘I don’t know where my next meal is coming from,’ I joked with the restaurant manager, who invited me back for more. I was so stuffed I could barely move. I was joined by a Pakistan-born UN doctor, whom I had met earlier in the week. He was a charming man. He told me he had been evacuated from Kabul and he was worried about the offices, hospital and equipment left behind. His main concern was for the people.
I took him into my confidence and told him what I was up to. He was very positive and said I should be well protected by the burka. I explained I had dyed my hair, which was why I was wearing my red Ferrari baseball cap during dinner. I arranged to see him for lunch on Sunday, and we planned to drive out into the countryside so that I could enjoy my visit to Pakistan and could regale him with tales from my adventure. I was looking forward to that.
Having returned to my room, I switched off CNN, because I had overdosed on this phoney war. It was so boring, so many experts predicting what is going to happen – and, of course, as we all know, war is an unpredictable business. However, the one thing everyone was predicting was a humanitarian disaster of spectacular proportions, but the West just seemed to be sweeping this little warning from the aid agencies under the carpet.
I decided to zap through the other television channels, but I have to say, unless you speak Urdu, Hindi or Arabic, the television in Islamabad is dire. My mind immediately switched to Daisy as I saw Sabrina, the Teenage Witch with squiggly subtitles. It is her favourite programme but it was so funny to watch the American actors being voiced over by someone speaking Urdu.
Minutes later I pressed the zapper again and I gave a double-take. There was a version of Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? in Arabic with Saudi’s version of Chris Tarrant and a woman contestant wearing a traditional black outfit revealing only her eyes. I don’t know how much money was at stake, but she appeared to be doing very well. Go for it, girl!
I called the office and Jim was seeing the managing editor, Alex Bannister. ‘Something to do with your journey and insurance,’ said one of my fellow reporters, Keith Perry, a former colleague from my days on the News of the World. This industry is so small. We had already thrashed out the plans with the editor and Jim earlier on so I said the only way to communicate with me would be by text message.
Talk of insurance made me feel nervous, so I switched off my phone. What if Bannister throws a wobbly and says I’m not covered and I can’t go? I asked myself. I’m mentally prepared for this now, I reasoned; I am psyched up, I can’t pull out now.
Then I switched the phone back on and text-messaged my nieces, Victoria and Hollie, to say I had tried to call their Nana but she was engaged. I said I was going to have an early night and I would call her tomorrow. I don’t like misleading people but I just couldn’t deal with being a barefaced liar to my mother. She has very sharp antennae, anyway, and she would detect something in my voice. That woman knows me better than me – and it’s frightening.
Pasha arrived at the hotel for around 8 p.m. and we drove off to a house on the outskirts of the capital, where I was introduced to his delightful wife, two sons and a host of relatives. They didn’t speak good English but I pointed out that their English was better than my Urdu.
Pasha said it was necessary for me to change into a traditional Pakistani outfit because we were going right into the tribal area and he didn’t want any curious neighbours seeing a Western woman in the area, otherwise it could cause problems for me.
So his wife gave me my first disguise to wear. I went into a room and changed into pastel orange trousers, a turquoise top and an oat-coloured shawl, which covered most of my head. In addition to dying my hair, I had also gelled it back and applied a dark stain on my hands and arms.
Pasha’s wife gave me a big hug and he said, ‘My wife is very worried about you, madam. She wishes you well and so do all the family.’ I turned to thank them and then we jumped in his car.
We met up with Muskeen, my guide, and he did the driving. I have to say his driving scared me and I wondered if I was going to get out of the car alive, never mind get into Afghanistan.
We were stopped several times on the main road to Peshawar by police who made a half-hearted attempt to search the car. My disguise seemed to satisfy them but they were after something else. Money. Apparently the police are so poorly paid that they enforce their own unofficial road tolls.
Muskeen offered one policeman some rupees but he remonstrated with Muskeen and a row developed. Heated words were exchanged and Muskeen grabbed the money back and made a fast getaway. All the men burst out laughing and Pasha explained that the policeman had become greedy and wanted more money. ‘Now he has even lost the money he was given in the first place,’ Pasha said, laughing.
I started puffing away on my cigarettes – something else that is ‘Talibanned’, I mused to myself. I kept having to unbutton my yashmak, or veil, so I could smoke.
Smoking is one of the few pleasures in my life and one thing I enjoyed about being in Pakistan is that it’s still OK to smoke like a trooper. It would be easier taking crack cocaine than trying to smoke a Benson & Hedges in London. I work in a nonsmoking office, but I refuse point blank to go outside and join the other smokers. I like to relax and have a fag, not shiver outside as passing motorists sneer. Most black cabs have no-smoking signs and, although it is not illegal, you feel morally obliged not to light up. By the time I leave Ludgate House and dash to Stamford’s Wine Bar I’m gasping.
Of course that is something else Mum and Dad hate. I remember when I first smoked a cigarette in front of my dad. I thought he was going to blow a fuse. It was a family gathering and my late Auntie Florence, who enjoyed a cigarette herself, was there. I thought this was as good an opportunity as any to light up, but as soon as my father spotted me he bellowed, ‘Put that cigarette out, you hussy.’ Well, I never saw Auntie Florence move as fast as she did to stub out her cigarette. Dad’s brother, Uncle Tom, turned round and looked at his stunned wife and then looked at me and burst out laughing. Everyone else joined in when they realised Dad had been shouting at me, and of course he had to smile as well. It totally diffused the situation and I carried on smoking.
On the journey towards the Northwest Frontier, we met up with two other men who were apparently going over the border as well. I said to Pasha that I wanted to keep everything simple and he told me not to worry. He introduced me to an English-speaking man called Jan, but I said I didn’t want to know any names, as we would keep this on a need-to-know basis.
After midnight we reached a village and drove down a backstreet. A horrible dog was barking. The dogs in Pakistan look lean, mean and downright nasty. I admit I was scared. Thankfully, after much banging, a light went on and the door was opened by a woman in her sixties.
She quietly and gently ushered us inside and she gave me a big hug and a big kiss. These people are so warm-hearted and kind. It is very humbling, and, even though she couldn’t speak English, I felt she
communicated very well with me.
The men sat outside and talked on camp beds underneath a large moon and a clear night sky. They were smoking and drinking tea and I wanted to join them, but I was ushered into a bedroom, where at least eight other women and a load of children were fast asleep.
A whirring fan was overhead, trying to whisk up some coolness in the stifling heat. The picture immediately reminded me of my favourite wildlife film on the engaging meerkat family. I’m a big fan of meerkats and just love the way they all pull together for what has to be a remarkable display of teamwork. And at the end of the day they are so affectionate that they all cuddle up together.
I was shown to a single bed and had the dubious luxury of a rock-hard pillow. I catnapped for a couple of hours with my surrogate family. When I woke up I was disorientated for a few seconds, then remembered where I was – well, vaguely. I was in someone’s house somewhere in the Frontier region.
I looked around and everyone was still fast asleep, and I smiled as a remembered the meerkats again. Daisy would have been very relaxed: she is such a tactile little creature herself. It doesn’t matter where we stay, or how many beds or bedrooms there are, she always creeps into mine.
On our first night in Venice, I remember, she jumped into my bed and I said, ‘How long are you going to keep this up, sneaking into Mummy’s bed?’ She laughed sheepishly and said, ‘Probably until I’m thirty.’ I just rolled my eyes and cuddled her.
By about five o’clock on the morning of Thursday 27 September we were driving towards the border, somewhere in the shadow of that great rampart of mountains known as the Hindu Kush. Muskeen explained to me, through Pasha, that this particular road was frequented by bandits and highwaymen and was not safe to use until daybreak.
In the Hands of the Taliban Page 9