The man knelt down and watched me, thinking I was asleep. I locked my eyes and felt his presence there for quite a while. He then lay down on the mattress beside me and shook me gently. I sat up and looked at him and then huge tears just rolled silently down my cheeks.
Although my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness I could see only a black outline of a Talib, but he could see me from the moonlight. He raised his arm and I flinched in fear. I pleaded: ‘Please God, no.’ He stopped, then moved the back of his hand towards my face and gently wiped away the tears. He stood up and said something softly in Pushtu and left.
The next morning Hamid, the civilian translator, came to see me before breakfast and said, ‘A man came to me today and he said he was very concerned that your sleep was disturbed.’ I told Hamid I had slept very well and did not know what he was talking about. He tried again: ‘This man is very concerned that your sleep was disturbed and that you may have been upset.’
I began to realise that whoever had come into my room was in serious trouble and they needed to know whether I was going to complain. I replied, ‘No, I was not disturbed last night. Maybe I had a bad dream and if I did it is now gone and forgotten.’
He looked at me strangely and went off to deliver the good news to whoever had come into my room. I certainly did not feel in a position to complain because in their cockeyed world the Taliban would probably rule that it was my fault in the first place.
Secondly, the man could see I was distressed and had had the decency to walk away. I can think of a few Western men who’ve really got to be bawled and shouted at before they will finally take ‘no’ for an answer.
Abdullah came in later and pointed to a lock on the inside of the door and through sign language told me I must use this to deter any would-be nocturnal visitors with less than savoury motives.
Once again Hamid, who learned to speak his English in Pakistan, said my decision not to eat was causing consternation. The director arrived, and, although I got the distinct impression he didn’t need the services of Hamid, he spoke through him nonetheless. He explained that he could not get me a telephone because the communication systems were so bad that calls could not be made without a satellite telephone.
If they had given me access to a telephone I could have filed my feature about the beautiful people who welcomed me into their homes at Kama village, and given descriptions of life around Jalalabad market. It was a Saturday and it should have been the busiest day of the week for me. I wondered whether news had filtered out yet that I was in the hands of the Taliban.
Two men from Taliban intelligence arrived to interview me. I once again apologised for any problems my capture may have caused them and they seemed to appreciate this gesture. What they could not get their heads around was why someone, even a journalist, would want to go into their country when so many others were trying to get out.
Through Hamid, I tried to explain my business and I told them that about three thousand other media people from newspapers, radio and television were sitting in Pakistan wanting to know what was happening over the border. Clearly they did not understand or even comprehend the media, and once again I asked to use the telephone. This was declined and I exploded.
‘If you don’t give me the telephone my mother will be distressed. I am sitting in a nice air-conditioned room, in civilised company with access to a flush toilet and a shower and I want to tell her how well you are looking after me.
‘She probably doesn’t even know I’m here. I will tell her I have a small problem which I am sorting out and she will accept that. Otherwise my newspaper will write big headlines and stories about you. Have you any idea what people in the West think about you people?
They listened impassively as Hamid translated me words. I then added, ‘My mother will think I am hanging by my ankles from this ceiling, completely naked, while you are whipping me.’ Hamid blushed, hesitated and then spat out the last sentence. They arched their eyebrows and looked at each other and left.
Yes! I thought. I will have a telephone soon. How wrong I was. Even though I was sticking by my hunger strike, food was still brought to me. That night Hamid and Abdullah came in with my food and began eating in front of me. I puffed away on the cigarettes they had given me and drank green tea which was refreshing.
Suddenly a huge explosion ripped through the air and, although I was sitting in a cross legged position, I think I must have leaped about three feet. Hamid sniggered and Abdullah could hardly contain himself with laughter. It was around 5 p.m. and Abdullah grabbed his gun and shouted ‘Amreeka, Amreeka’ and made the sound of a firing gun. He was gone in an instant and I tried to brace myself because maybe this was the start of the American retaliation.
About fifteen minutes later, Abdullah returned and looked crestfallen. He explained to Hamid that the explosion had been caused by someone standing on a landmine. I asked what had happened to the unfortunate person and Abdullah looked at me in a puzzled way and shrugged his shoulders.
Two hours later I heard rapid machine-gun fire but realised it was all in one direction. Maybe I was near some sort of training camp.
I tried to get some rest that night and I had no more male visitors. I had also taken Abdullah’s advice and locked the door from the inside. I still could not work out in what sort of place I was staying. I could tell there was some sort of hospital attached, because I had seen a few walking wounded. I was also told it was a prison. And then, of course, to add to my confusion, there was the presence of military and intelligence people.
On the Sunday morning – 30 September – at 9.30, two Afghan men were brought to my room. I was told they were two journalists from Kabul and I was very curious about them because I knew that all Western media had been kicked out. However, I welcomed them and invited them to sit down.
This was quite exciting for me, because I think most journalists have a special bond wherever they work in the world. I had hoped these two might have agreed to sneak out some messages for me. Hamid told me to explain my story to the two men and he would translate.
About three or four minutes into my tale, I noticed that they were not taking notes or tape-recording the interview. I became instantly suspicious and could smell a rat – or even two, like the two sitting opposite me. I accused them of being impostors, or, even worse, journalists who would write only what the Taliban told them to.
I remember being very angry and I must have been gaining in confidence because I felt as though they had abused my hospitality and I ordered them out of my room. Hamid said the men were extremely important and I had to show respect, but I stood up and folded my arms and stared out of the window overlooking a beautiful garden. Just what Hamid made of me I don’t know, but I think he felt uncomfortable translating for me, especially when I was in a bad mood.
After lunch that day, which had again remained uneaten, three men arrived to interrogate me. One was introduced to me as the head of intelligence. He was a very imposing-looking man with a magnificent, bushy black beard and rosy cheeks.
Most beards I saw were a bit scrawny but this one had a life all of its own. His pupils looked almost black and sharklike and I felt quite wary about this man. He looked scary, and I bet he was.
The three told Hamid they wanted to know how I had got into the country and who had helped me. They asked about the two men who were arrested at the time I was. We then went over the other questions from the previous day.
I told them that the two men had nothing to do with me and were mere fleas in the grand scheme of life. I asked why the Taliban had arrested them. They looked very irritated as though I were insulting their intelligence. The one with the bushy beard could barely conceal his irritation and I was really expecting thumbscrews or some other awful device to emerge.
Then I said that journalists were bound by a code of conduct that forbids them ever to discuss contacts or sources of information. I also reasoned that they of all people should understand because they were honour-bound to p
rotect their guests.
The allusion to Osama bin Laden and his status as a guest of the Taliban was ignored. They couldn’t even look me in the face and would stare blankly at some other spot on the ceiling. I discovered later that in Afghan culture this was a sign of respect. Hamid, on the other hand, barked several times at me, ‘Look at me when I am talking to you.’ He tried to get angry and aggressive but it made me laugh because I felt he was playing out of character.
Later that day a doctor arrived to give me a health check. Of course my imagination was working overtime and I thought they wanted to give me a clean bill of health before they began the torture. Anyway, this wizened little man came in and took my blood pressure. He went through the process several times and I remarked, ‘Yes, yes, yes. I know. I have high blood pressure.’
Hamid gave him the gist of the conversation although I thought he understood very well in the first place. In broken English the doctor told me there was nothing wrong with my blood pressure and that it was normal. I have had high blood pressure for several years and told him so quite bluntly.
He took my blood pressure again and showed me. ‘My goodness,’ I declared. ‘It is normal. You see, three days with the Taliban and I am fine. There you are, I’m very happy.’ He then said something to Hamid who interrupted: ‘He says you must eat or you will die.’
Abdullah came into my room with a radio and Hamid said that if I tuned in to the BBC I would hear about myself. ‘You are a very high lady. You are famous. Everyone is talking about you.’ The pair of them seemed to be very excited and, I as I was trying to move through the channels, I heard a soccer report that revealed that Manchester United were getting a three-nil trouncing from Tottenham.
I was so excited at hearing an English voice that I dropped the radio and I lost the station. Some more food was brought into my room but I refused to eat it and told Hamid that I would never eat again unless I spoke to my mother.
During my captivity, I managed to keep a list of dates and some brief notes, ingenuously written on the inside of a toothpaste carton. Looking back at this secret diary, which prompts me to relive the experience in my mind, I am amazed at my treatment. The entry for that particular Sunday read:
‘I am given a radio to listen to the BBC World Service and am asked if there is anything else I need.’
That day’s entry continues:
Hamid says everyone is very bothered that I’m not eating and asks if there’s something wrong with the food, if I have a special diet or would I prefer hotel food. They constantly refer to me as their guest and say they are sad if I am sad. I can’t believe it. The Taliban are trying to kill me with their kindness.
These people are in many ways like the Gurkhas. They are mild-mannered, gentle and considerate yet when it comes to fighting they are among the most fearsome warriors in the world. I wish everyone knew how I am being treated because then I could perhaps relax. I bet people think I’m being tortured, beaten and sexually abused. Instead I am being treated with kindness and respect. It is unbelievable.
Damn. I’ve somehow managed to break the radio so I still don’t know if the world knows of my plight. I did hear a bulletin about eight Christians who have been locked up in Kabul for trying to convert Muslims to their faith.
There was to be more questioning, of course. Perhaps I should let my diary tell some of the story again …
Monday, October 1
The questioning goes on for hours and is very repetitive. The atmosphere is tense and I feel quite nervous. This time I am interviewed by a slim, stern scholastic-looking man and a heavy man with a red beard, and both are intimidating. Their expressions are grim as once again I try to explain why I crossed the border. Hamid is relaying my answers to them, although again I get the impression they already understand what I am saying.
Just as I feel we are now making some progress Hamid asks again for me to explain ‘exactly’ why I ‘sneaked’ into Afghanistan.
I throw my arms into the air with exasperation and say loudly, ‘Because I wanted to join the Taliban.’ It was a stupid thing to say and probably the sort of comment that could get me shot and within a nanosecond of the remark spilling from my lips.
My inquisitors have, until this moment, fixed their gaze to the wall behind me. Hamid nervously begins to repeat the remark in his native Pushtu when the two men start to shake. Their shoulders begin to move and they burst out laughing to reveal a sense of humour one wouldn’t normally associate with the fearsome Taliban.
It came as a happy relief to learn that my inquisitors had a sense of humour. Five minutes later, though, it was my turn to laugh when they accused me of being a secret American agent. ‘If I am America’s secret weapon, then God help America,’ I retorted. Then I pointed out that I was sure a secret agent would have had lots of James Bond gadgets, whereas I had entered with only a Nikon camera.
They asked me what pictures I had taken and I said I had little recollection, but perhaps they should develop the film. It dawned on me that perhaps someone had opened the camera and ruined the film or, because photography is banned in Afghanistan, there would be nowhere to process it.
There were more of the same questions and my patience snapped. I told them I could not answer any more, that I had cooperated fully with them, that, once again, I was sorry for causing them hassle at a time when their minds should be fully concentrated elsewhere.
I had admitted coming into the country without a passport and visa and there was nothing more to add. I could see they were irritated but I felt the meeting ended on a fairly upbeat note and they said I should be allowed home in one or two days. ‘I am happy,’ I wrote in my diary, ‘although I have been promised the “one or two days” release several times before.’
As I was relaxing on one of the red mattresses that I used as a bed, I heard a noise from outside. I looked out of the window and there was one of the so-called Afghan journalists with what looked like a satellite phone. He said he was staying overnight as a guest and he wanted to help me. He asked me for my mother’s telephone number and said he would pass on a message to her. I refused because I said she might be more concerned if she heard a strange man on the phone saying I was fine.
I begged and pleaded to use the telephone but he refused. I then drew the curtains because Abdullah came into my room to see if I needed anything and reminded me to lock the inside of my door. He had agreed earlier not to lock my door from the outside because I had complained that maybe I needed to use the bathroom during the night. After he left I scribbled down a note to my mother saying I was fine and telling her that Nana (my late grandmother) was watching over me.
I sent my love to everyone and said to tell Dad I was being brave. I added that I hoped Daisy would remain at her boarding school, where her life would not be disrupted. The note was harmless but it contained things that I knew would ease her pain. I went back to the window and pushed the note through a hole in the outside mosquito net. The man with the satellite phone happily took it and I indicated that, if the note got through, then I would give him a real story to tell.
I hope he is genuine [I wrote] but you never know. I just wish I could speak to my mother and find out how Daisy is. It is her birthday on Wednesday and she will be expecting a card and a present. I wish I knew what was happening in the outside world and if the bombing has started yet. I feel so isolated and I wonder if anyone out there, other than my family, really cares about my situation.
I wish the mosquitoes would leave me alone. My ankles, face and wrists are covered in bites. I am so itchy I could peel my skin. I’ve hunted high and low and just can’t find the damned things. Got really bored today and now know that the room is about seven yards long by five yards, and the fan given to me yesterday turns seven times in a minute, 420 times and hour and …
Yvonne, get a life. I wonder if I’m cracking up. I feel sort of normal but this is not a normal situation. I wonder what is happening at work, if I still have a job. They must know by know my l
ittle venture failed miserably. I just wish they knew how close I came to getting out.
I am spending hours staring out of the window, into the beautiful gardens surrounding this place. I don’t believe it’s a police station but it’s not a military place, either. There’s a beautiful little stream which winds round the garden and glistens in the sunlight. I wish the SAS would rescue me because I reckon they must be somewhere in the country. I wonder if they’ve been told of my situation and are practising getting me out.
I wonder if I could escape. They’ve let me keep the burka. Maybe I could sneak out in the middle of the night. Too risky, but if it becomes dangerous for me here I might have no option. God what a mess.
What a mess indeed!
8
PRAYERS, POMEGRANATES AND PRISON
The following day the mood of the questioning took a different swing and for some reason the Talibs became more interested in the male members of my family. They asked me for my grandfather’s name on my father’s side and I couldn’t remember. They were astounded and obviously thought it most disrespectful. ‘But he died long before I was born,’ I protested.
The direction of the questioning had also changed and they seemed to be looking at some sort of file and checking for references. I was completely perplexed and quite scared because I couldn’t fathom what information the Taliban could have on me. I had never been to this country in my life until the previous week.
They asked me if I had ever visited Iran and I shook my head. What a bizarre question, I thought. I had wanted to visit Iran, and I had wanted to go last year with Daisy, but I was told the regime would not tolerate single mothers and it would be too dangerous because I could end up being stoned by Islamic fundamentalists.
It was the Tuesday, 2 October, and there were three or four questioning me this time. It was quite disorientating. After they left Hamid returned and I began to wonder if he wasn’t an intelligence officer as well. He didn’t have the turban and his beard was a bit sparse but sometimes he really scared me.
In the Hands of the Taliban Page 13