I wondered how I would cope under such an existence. Of course, you don’t cope: you exist. I was touched by the people of Kama because they were so kind and generous in heart and spirit. It was quite obvious to me that they feared little and, although they were praying for a peaceful outcome, they were still prepared to fight to preserve their independence.
Although burka-clad Afghan women give the impression of servility, the women from Kama were strong, spirited and resilient. One woman, who had the most amazing almond-shaped, hazel eyes and magnificent cheekbones, gently mocked me when she asked if I had any children and I said ‘one’.
Putting her hands on a fine pair of child-bearing hips she mocked: ‘Only one? Ha! You British and American women can only produce one or two children but I can have fifteen, and when you run out of your boy soldiers to send to war we will have many replacements. Our children are born with guns in their hands. They are fighters and will die fighting. It is part of our life and our struggle. If I have to fight I will and so will she,’ she said, pointing her long, bony fingers at an old woman whose tiny, crumpled frame and toothless smile radiated great wisdom.
I was told she was a hundred years old and that she had seen many wars. She shouted something at me and everyone laughed. She had said of course she would fight the American soldiers and said no one could conquer the Afghan people. I was then reminded of a famous saying, which goes, ‘Anyone can rent an Afghani but no one can own one.’
By this time the woman with the hazel eyes had taken centre stage and through the young translator she said, ‘We heard about what happened in New York and we are sorry so many innocent people died. I hope the Americans think twice before trying to bomb us but whatever happens we are not afraid.’
I am sure she, like the others, was quite genuine in her sentiments, but I doubt that they could really comprehend the full scale of the disaster that unfolded before every television viewer in the world. Of course, TV is banned in Afghanistan and news in these forgotten parts is usually by word of mouth or radio.
As a result, not many would have seen the horrific images that have left many of us emotionally scarred for life.
Most Afghan people lucky enough to have a roof over their heads can imagine a single-storey building because there are lots of those in the country, but, when you ask them to try to think in terms of a hundred storeys upwards, their imagination is challenged.
Most of the adult men had drifted off but the young translator continued to talk and he admitted sadly, ‘There is nothing for me here and we are all very poor. It is difficult to escape from this poverty and follow my ambitions. Very few of us can afford to have ambitions.’
His last line stung me. Everyone needs an ambition, something to drive them along. Why can’t the Taliban ease off and let these people breathe? Perhaps the movement started off with the best of intentions, but it had somehow lost its way.
The women had truly striking features and I suddenly realised that, until this moment, I did not know what Afghan women looked like and what lay beneath the burka. I think they were as fascinated with me as I was with them. When I removed the burka I noticed black stains from some of the hair dye that had not been as effective as it might have been under better conditions. The baking heat, the closeness of the burka and my sweat had forced the colour to run from my hair, which felt and looked like straw. Thankfully, my scarf covered up most of that.
The woman who saw herself as an invincible baby machine yanked me to my feet and pulled me outside to have some food. Their generosity is overwhelming and, although they have little, what little they have they wanted me to share.
I had missed the rice, stew and bread, which was eaten with skilful fingers, so she threw me a succulent corn on the cob and roared with laughter because I squealed and dropped it, it was so hot. Once again she made a mocking gesture and told the onlookers that women from the West were soft. I could tell that by her gestures.
She then picked up the cob from the dusty ground and pulled out a rag and proceeded to clean the cob before handing it back to me. I knew that refusal to eat a second time would offend the hospitality so I happily munched on the corn, served with butter.
After that I was given a piece of sugar cane to chew, which was quite refreshing. I watched others eating it, too, and was relieved when they spat out the dry pulp, which I was attempting to swallow. I felt very humbled by their generosity and kindness.
A girl aged about twelve began to crank out some water from the pump in the barren yard to wash all of the battered, metal plates and pans. I noticed a neighbour from an adjoining home peering over the wall, probably to see what all the noise was about. There was a lot of loud banter, giggling and laughter – all the sort of things the Taliban don’t like. I was fearful when I saw her and when she saw me she couldn’t stop staring and I felt a shiver go down my spine.
Just then one of the young men came out into the yard with my camera and began taking pictures – another big no-no. Jan asked if I still wanted to stay overnight and I said that we should really go.
I would have liked to stay and I was enjoying the freedom of not wearing that bloody stifling garment, but my instincts were telling me to get the hell out of there. I still hadn’t been able to remonstrate with my guides and could not wait to get them on their own to give them a piece of my mind!
The six of us set off from the village through a three-foot-high exit, which I assumed must be some sort of escape route for occasions when you might want to avoid the neighbours or unwelcome visitors. We headed back for the dirt track to wait for the taxi. It came along about forty minutes later. I don’t know how the driver knew we would be standing there, unless he just happened to be driving by. Jan and his uncle crossed the road to speak to someone they knew, but not before I had been tapped on the shoulder and told, ‘Sit!’
Going down to the ground was no easier this time, and once again I crashed unceremoniously bottom first. While I was sitting there I noticed a big brown creature weaving in and out of the cornfield on the opposite side of the road. I’m not sure what it was but it looked like some sort of otter to me. It was about the size of a cat with a fat, long, trailing tale.
I was relieved to get in the taxi and couldn’t wait to get over into Pakistan. I was cutting my visit short because I felt nervous about what had happened in the village although I had better material than I expected. The original idea was for Muskeen to be my eyes and ears in Jalalabad and after two days we would return to Pakistan and he would tell Pasha everything he heard and saw and Pasha would tell me. I would add in the colour I saw and then we would be able to present a good, all-round feature.
I wonder whether readers really appreciate the work that is done behind the scenes to bring fresh news to their breakfast tables. Quite often the story behind the story is far more entertaining than the one that gets into the paper.
The journey on that road was hellish as we were being thrown around in the car. The younger of the two girls started crying and the other one had nodded off, although how she managed to sleep I don’t know.
I wanted to go to the toilet and wished I had asked back at the village.
I tried to memorise each image I saw as we headed to Torkham, because I was convinced I would never be coming back to this country again. Yes, the people were nice – in fact they were bloody lovely – but the country itself did nothing for me.
When we finally arrived in Torkham, the sun had gone down. I’m not sure what the time was because I had left my watch in the hotel safe. I had taken nothing of value with me, no money, no earrings, no jewellery and certainly not my passport. The last thing I wanted was to get kidnapped by some feuding tribal gang who might steal my passport or use me as some sort of bargaining chip.
If the Taliban capture me, I told myself, I will most likely be executed but, then again, if they want to hear my story first I can tell them there is a copy of my passport on the bloody visa application at the Islamabad embassy. It was an irrele
vant argument, anyway, because there we were in Torkham, a stone’s throw away from the border.
Suddenly Jan directed me to a side of the road, tapped me on the shoulder and ordered in a hushed tone, ‘Sit!’ I complied, smug in the knowledge that that bastard was going to get such a mouthful once I got over the border. I might even start a burn-the-burka campaign just as women had burned their bras in the sixties.
I squatted with my female companion and her two little girls. We were hunched and balancing on our toes while resting our bottoms on our heels, four little maids in a row. After half an hour the two guides came back, stony-faced and silent. We got up and some words were said to the woman. Our party turned around and headed for a saloon-type bar that did not serve alcohol.
There were loads of people milling around, looking and sounding agitated, but I could not make out what was going on. I was concentrating hard, trying to focus from behind my veiled eyes in the pitch black. The six of us entered a carpeted room. There were no windows, no fan and no ventilation.
That was it! I wrenched up my burka and said to Jan, ‘Right, you’d better tell me what’s going on. This is my bloody operation, my job, I am directing you two and when I tell you to bloody jump you ask me how high. If you want to see a single rupee from me you’d better start showing me some respect. Now tell him,’ I said waving my finger at the pair of them.
Jan relayed the conversation on. I can tell he did so faithfully, because the other bloke was stony-faced and kept giving me black, thunderous looks. He then said something back and there seemed to be a heated exchange.
Jan turned round and said, ‘You must lower your voice or people will suspect you. We have a problem. Pakistan has closed the border and we don’t know when it will open again. Even though we have travel papers we cannot get through, so we will have to use an alternative route. We will take one of the smugglers’ routes out tomorrow and we will be in Pakistan by the afternoon. In the meantime, we have hired this hotel room.’
I was shaking with rage and feared both for my safety and for that of everyone else. Quaking, I muttered, ‘Why am I just hearing about this now? Why did you not raise the alarm sooner. I do not accept this. We have to split up and go different ways because it’s obvious to me that if the Taliban aren’t looking for us yet they will be by the morning. Someone in the village will have betrayed us.’
Jan looked concerned because he could see I was scared. ‘No, don’t worry. No one from the village will betray us. We have to stick together. You cannot leave on your own because women do not wander round at this time of night alone, or at any other time.’
My reply was swift: ‘These are stressful times and any one person in that village might tell the Taliban, to ingratiate themselves with the regime. If they are looking for us they will be looking for two men, two women and two children. What I suggest we do is split up and leave the family. You and I can head off together. We will all be safer that way.’
He then turned to the guide and had another conversation with him. There was another heated exchange and then the two left the room. I couldn’t believe it. They were gone for more than an hour and there was nothing I could do. Despite everything I had said about directing this operation, they had just naffed off and totally ignored me. I sat cross-legged in the corner, with the burka lifted into a cowl position on my head.
I looked at the woman and the two children. I guessed that she was probably no older than thirty at a push, but the hard life of an Afghan woman had taken its toll on her face. She was a good-looking woman, though, and she had the kindest smile, one that radiated warmth and understanding. God knows what she was doing with the plonker, but then again they say love is blind – look at the cock-ups I’ve made in my life!
About an hour later the heroes returned with some food. I declined to eat any and remembered I needed to go to the toilet. I hadn’t been all day. I asked Jan where they were and he directed me outside and across a road and pointed in the inky blackness. I couldn’t see a thing, and then I realised he expected me to climb down a ravine in the darkness to have a pee.
Quite how I got the strength I don’t know, but I maintained total bladder control and refused to go. There are snakes and scorpions in Afghanistan, and other poisonous things, and I wasn’t going to take my chances.
I marched back and Jan whispered for me to slow down and get behind him. I kept forgetting I was supposed to be an Afghan. I huddled in a corner and was bitten several times by mosquitoes on my hands, the only bit of skin exposed. The night passed so slowly. I tried to sleep but a sickening fear kept me awake. I wondered what everyone at work would be doing and whether anyone was that concerned about my little sojourn into Afghanistan. My last text message was from Keith Perry and it had read: JIM SAYS BE CAREFUL AS WE DON’T WANT TO LOSE YOU! LUV KEITH.
Pasha had my phone and I wondered whether my mother had called yet or even whether she had realised things were going pear-shaped over here. Of course I would have to tell Joyce where I had been and what I was up to because she reads the paper every Sunday and she would soon find out. She’ll probably just roll her eyes heavenwards, I thought, and be thankful she didn’t know I was in until I was out. Then she’ll say to me, ‘You’ve got that bairn to think about. What’s going to happen to her if something happens to you? Your dad and I are too old to look after Daisy.’
I had actually thought about it earlier this year and had taken out a special insurance to ensure that Daisy’s private education will continue until she reaches eighteen. I’m not a morose person, but I am practical.
My thoughts then drifted towards the next week and I thought I would try to go to Kandahar, but I would not be taking the two guides I was using for this trip. They were undisciplined and downright bloody rude. They’d obviously never heard of the saying, ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.’
Maybe Muskeen would agree to go this time or Pasha would have to find me somebody else. If it didn’t look likely then I supposed that I could follow the original plan and try to get into one of the terrorist training camps in Kashmir.
Of course, the war could have started and by then there would be loads of copy to write. There were all sorts of ideas raging around in my head and I sighed and huffed and puffed in this sweaty room. I don’t know how they could have called it a hotel because there was no room service, no bathroom and no toilet facilities.
At around 5 a.m. our party stirred and we went outside towards another taxi. We then drove off towards the Hindu Kush mountain range. There were no roads, just well-worn routes, and the driver went as far as he could in his saloon car. We got out and a stony-covered mountain pass lay ahead.
The two guides went off to pray and I motioned to the woman that I needed to go to the toilet. I hadn’t been for 24 hours and I was fit to burst. She pointed over to some rocks and I set about the complicated procedure of trying to undo garments and trousers and knickers while still wearing the burka.
Relief was swift and I started to relax and wind down a bit more. I looked up at the sky and saw a shooting star, so made a wish. It was an easy wish: ‘Get me out of here!’ And then I watched the star, waiting for it to begin to vaporise, but it didn’t. I lifted up my burka and pushed it back over my forehead and watched it closely.
Oh, my God! I thought to myself. It’s a bloody satellite capturing a snapshot of life down here and now there’ll be an image of me having a pee! Some of these satellites can create an image to one metre! Mind you, I was wearing my burka, so I could be anybody. I wondered whether it was a military satellite or a commercial one. But it didn’t matter: it was definitely a satellite of some sort and not a star.
I pulled the burka back over my face, stood up and then turned around to walk towards the woman – and went flat on my face. I’d been too busy watching the satellite that I had forgotten to fasten my trousers and they had dropped to my ankles.
Having hoisted myself back up, I tied my trousers. When I crossed over the road the woman had her bur
ka lifted above her face and she was laughing. It was silent laughter, but it was laughter all the same, and, although I’d made a complete prat of myself, I was glad I was able to bring laughter to her face.
A few minutes later my eyes were welling up in tears. We started to climb up the narrow pass and the hard plastic shoes I was wearing began to cut angrily into my skin like jagged teeth. A blister, which had developed nicely on my right heel, burst and the pain was searing.
I’m sure I was not alone in suffering from the climb, but everyone using the route was silent and uncomplaining. There must be around four hundred illegal routes through Pakistan’s porous 1,400-mile-long border.
As the sun emerged I noticed that the magnificent slopes of the Hindu Kush mountains were teaming with fit, agile tribesmen who come and go through the border with the greatest of ease. With the grace of gazelles they climbed almost sheer slopes, looking down on the rest of us mere mortals with disdain.
When we reached Daur Baba, there were quite a few men milling around and very few women. Camels and trains of donkeys lined up to carry smuggled goods, chattels and people over the border. I looked out for refugees but could see only a handful. I wondered what had happened to the tens of thousands who had turned up at Torkham some days earlier. I think quite a few may have gone south towards Quetta.
Once again, Jan tapped me on the shoulder and I went down to squat. He smiled one of his kind smiles and I could almost forgive him for the previous day. He whispered to me, ‘Yvonne, you are now safe. You can lift your burka, although try to keep your face covered. If you want to take any pictures you can. I was so sorry for you last night. You were suffering so much from the heat but it is nearly all over. We are less than twenty minutes from the Pakistan border and you will ride over on a donkey.’
I gave a huge sigh of relief because I don’t think I could have taken another step in those shoes that I had been given the day before. I remained squatting and gently lifted up my burka and enjoyed a cooling breeze on my face.
In the Hands of the Taliban Page 11