‘You must be joking,’ I said. ‘I am not going in there. I am going home on a Red Crescent plane. I am not going into that cell. I don’t do squalor: I am a British journalist and you cannot treat me like this. When I get home I will write about you – and you.’ And I jabbed my finger at each one of them.
Warming to the theme, I continued: ‘I demand to be put in a hotel. My newspaper will pay for it. Do you think I’m crazy? You are a set of lying bastards. You told me I was going home.’
For two men who said they didn’t speak English they understood my tirade very well. The intelligence officer, who looked delighted to see me starting to crack after all his nasty mind games, said, ‘This is Afghanistan. You have broken our laws. You have entered our country illegally. You will stay here.’
I was very frightened and very angry, which is so dangerous a combination for anyone to cope with that I continued screaming at the top of my head: ‘I am not staying here. Don’t you understand? I am civilised, I am British, you cannot do this to me.’
Just then another cell door opened and six women in Afghan dress peered outside to see what all the fuss was about. One woman, who had dark hair and glasses, asked, ‘Are you from the Red Cross?’
I looked around and, still angry, snapped back, ‘Of course I’m not, but I am bloody cross and, and— You speak English.’ I stopped in mid-flow and was surprised.
The woman replied, ‘Yes, I’m Australian, these two are American and the other three are German.’ Happily for the Talibs, and probably for me, I had been distracted and suddenly the recognition flashed across my face as I said, ‘Oh, my God! You’re the Christians. But I was told you were all living in hotel rooms and had television, videos and computers.’
My remark brought laughter and giggles and they said they were humanitarian aid workers for the German-based Shelter Now International charity and that they and their two male colleagues were facing trial, charged with converting Muslims to Christianity. I asked them if they spoke Pushtu and they all did, which I thought was really impressive. I begged them to tell the two Talibs that I was not going to stay here and that they had better book me into a hotel or suffer the consequences.
Kathe, one of the German women, looked at me as though I were mad, and probably repeated my sentences, but very much toned down. The two men had a conversation with the girls and the Australian, Diana (which in her case was pronounced ‘Deanna’, I was to be told), said, ‘You’re better off staying with us tonight and we’ll sort something out for you in the morning. Don’t worry.’
I barked some insults at the two men before I went inside the cell, which was about 7 metres by 5 metres – or 23 feet by 16. I sat down and cried and then asked if anyone minded if I smoked. They all did! Huh, so much for Christian understanding. I said I would have a ciggy later and we sat and talked.
I realised that I had not been in the company of women for about seven days, or in that of anyone who spoke English fluently. It was actually a great comfort and a joy to find these women. I told them I was so angry that I had finally cracked up in front of those bastards and I told them my tale.
They were appalled that I had been held in the company of men only for nearly a week and said it flew in the face of the Taliban edicts. I told them I had been on hunger strike for the best part of a week and Diana said that some of them had fasted for twenty days.
Her use of the words ‘fast’ and ‘twenty days’ made me feel unworthy, so I declared that I would have a dirty protest and not wash until I was released.
‘No, you will not,’ Diana laughed. ‘She’s doing that already, and having one stinky person in a confined place is enough!’ she remonstrated, indicating Heather, one of the Americans. She made her point firmly but in a pleasant enough way, and I realised she was seen as the leader of the little group.
They were about to start one of their evening meetings, so I decided to nip out into the courtyard for a smoke. As I looked towards the heavens I watched the stars and tried to see if I could spot the satellite again, but I couldn’t. I had three cigarettes, one after another, and cursed the men from Jalalabad. They had all waved me off saying I was like a sister and yet they must have known that I was going to end up here.
They had lied and lied and lied and when I was becoming resilient to their promises of freedom the bastards had caught me out again. Just then a melodic sound wafted from the prison cell and it was the girls, singing really beautiful songs. How weird is this! I thought as I stood in the courtyard of Kabul Prison. It’s surreal.
I returned to my cell and we talked a while longer. I told the women that my game plan was to be the prisoner from hell and as abusive as I possibly could be. As much as I loved their company I would also insist on having my own cell because I didn’t want any of my bad behaviour impacting on them.
They told me the anger would subside and I just said I could not afford to let it because I could not conform. ‘If I conform then it means I am accepting my surroundings, and I don’t want to become institutionalised,’ I reasoned, probably sounding completely insane.
Diana looked at me and nodded, but I think she’d either experienced it or heard it all before. She asked me where I was from originally and I said near Newcastle. She said she had a friend called Doreen who was a midwife in County Durham.
‘Don’t worry, when I get out of here I will track her down and get her to send you a letter,’ I said. I half caught myself and then added, ‘That’s assuming I am going to get out of this place.’ I then remembered I needed the toilet and I was shown to a squatty potty.
‘Try not to put loo roll down it because it blocks the drains,’ Diana warned me. ‘We use a plastic bag to deposit the paper – unless it’s too bad.’ That was it. I had no flush toilet and, although this one was clean, I felt I just couldn’t sink any lower.
When I returned to my cell I lay down in my clothes and pulled a quilt over me. There’s no such thing as nightclothes over there. You sleep in what you wear during the day. I never saw any towels, either. In Jalalabad I’d had to dry myself with a plain sheet after showering.
Abdullah would guard the door to the bathroom and the men would have to wait patiently while I showered and used the toilet. Both were in a disgusting state, and I never saw any bleach or cleaning fluids. I didn’t want to clear up after that lot, either. I thought: They don’t want women working? Well I’m damned if I’m going to get on my hands and knees and scrub this place out for them.
I silently cried myself to sleep that night, still feeling angry and betrayed by those men in Jalalabad. They had lied to me and must have laughed behind my back as I walked out of the intelligence headquarters. I resolved to become more awkward than ever and be the Queen Bitch from Hell. The Talibs had gone too far.
I remember thinking that it could be – and probably would be – a risky game plan, but if I accepted my situation I could end up in that squalid hell hole for many years to come.
9
BOMBS OVER KABUL
My first full day in Kabul Prison started off very badly. I opened my eyes and in the dim light I saw a wooden ceiling with beams and thought for a moment that I was in a ski lodge or log cabin. I was quite disorientated and thought I must have had a bad dream and that I was actually on holiday with Daisy.
As I sat up my back creaked and I looked around and saw the three German girls lying fast asleep on their floor mattresses and behind me the other three women in their bunk beds. No, it hadn’t been a dream: I was actually in a living nightmare.
And I was in Kabul Prison.
I sat up and tried to think about my surroundings. It was now Friday 5 October, exactly seven days after my ill-fated donkey ride. The first person to stir was one of the German women, Kathe (whose surname, I would later discover, was Jelinek), and she asked me if I wanted a shower. Oh, joy! I thought. She saw the look on my face and said, ‘Well, er, we call it a shower. Follow me and I’ll explain.’
I was led out to the courtyard, where
she showed me how to crank out the water from what turned out to be an old zinc bucket. Naïvely, I remarked, ‘And it comes out hot, does it?’ She began laughing at me but not in a nasty way, and I realised the answer immediately.
So I heaved my cold bucket of water across the courtyard and she took me to some shelves just beside our cell door and pointed to a heating element that was plugged into the power supply. This whole arrangement would have been condemned as unsafe in any other country.
Half an hour later I heaved the bucket down the corridor and into the toilet area. I went back and got my soap and toothbrush, and the Chinese toothpaste I’d also been given at my other place. I stripped to my flip-flops and began to wash myself, and I just stopped in time to remember the razor blade I had slipped into the soap. What a bloody stupid place to hide it, I thought.
I shuddered as I thought about the damage I could have done to myself with that thing! As I dug it back out, I reflected that I was probably more of a danger to myself than the Talibs were. I dried myself with a small blue hand towel the girls had given me.
The rest of the women, two Americans Heather Mercer and Dayna Curry, the feisty Australian Diana, whose surname is Thomas, and the two remaining Germans, Silke Durrkopf and Margrit Stebner, were beginning to stir. I pulled out my belongings and one of them exclaimed, ‘Why on earth did they buy you a wedding dress?’ I looked at the white chiffon and gold dress and laughed. I told them the story about the cleric asking me if I wanted to convert to Islam and I joked that maybe they had a husband lined up for me. If that was the case, I added, then some poor man in this damned country has had a very lucky escape.
They were shocked and amused when I told them I’d been there and done that three times – and God help Husband Number Four! There was a sort of gallows humour here similar to what I had encountered in Jalalabad and it was useful therapy for all of us.
I told them about my game plan to become the world’s most difficult prisoner and they urged caution – but my mind was set.
Diana is a qualified nurse and I showed her some nasty rashes I had acquired since my captivity. She thought I had scabies, bed bugs, fleas or a heat rash. Poor Kathe had had lice from the previous prison they had been kept in, which sounded horrendous. They had had to deal with all those itchy things as well as mice, rats and bloody scorpions. The last of that lot would have freaked me out.
To my consternation they told me that the women there were regularly flogged with electric flex for no apparent reason, but that they had not personally been abused. They also said the prison staff at this particular establishment were relatively nice and harmless.
Thankfully, on closer inspection, Diana said she thought I’d suffered a heat rash from my bra. I then said I had not been to the toilet properly since I had arrived in Afghanistan and asked her if she had anything for constipation among the medical supplies they seemed to have stored in one cupboard.
‘Well if you’ve been on hunger strike all this time you’ve probably got nothing inside your system,’ she said.
However, I pointed out that, before I had set off on my project, I had stuffed myself like a pig at the hotel’s buffet. I then recalled what I had said to the restaurant manager: that I didn’t know where my next meal was coming from. I had only been joking but it took on a different resonance now.
Diana offered the choice between some fizzy laxative drink given to them by American Embassy officials and suppositories. Hmm, the decisions you have to make when you’re in prison! In the end I decided to go for the suppository because I could control that, whereas laxatives – well, you just never know. And, if I was hauled off for another long interrogation, my system might decide to go into overdrive at the most inconvenient time.
Margrit said I couldn’t possibly wander round dressed like a bride, so she gave me a pair of navy-blue trousers and matching top, which fitted quite well. I went and changed and got out the zinc bucket and began to wash my knickers, bra and brown and cream outfit using a pumice stone. It was a bit of a novelty at first, but I knew that I would soon tire of doing this day in and day out if it were part of everyday life.
I hung up my clothes on the washing line, which stretched across the courtyard. I was told by Kathe to cover up my knickers because she said it was deemed offensive to the Taliban soldiers who kept a constant close scrutiny on the courtyard and our actions when we ventured into it. ‘Stuff ’em!’ I replied, and so I started as I meant to go on.
The women were expecting their lawyer that day and began to write letters for him to take to the outside world. Heartened, I wrote a note to my news editor Jim Murray hoping the Pakistani lawyer would pass it on. The last line read, ‘Jim, this is a hell hole. Please help.’ I hated sounding desperate and I didn’t want to upset people at work more than I had to; but, hell, it was a desperate situation and I was desperate and it was a hell hole. I felt like scrawling in huge capital letters ‘GET ME OUT!’
Sadly, the lawyer turned out to be a real jobsworth and refused to hand on the message. His legal sidekick said he was amazed to see me in Kabul because they were told I was in Jalalabad, and they were going to drop in and see me. ‘Forget it,’ I snarled. ‘I want a top London lawyer and not that bloody jobsworth.’
He looked really offended and no doubt passed the message on to the lawyer, who by this time had gone into the cell for a conference with the six women and their two male colleagues. Georg Taubmann and Peter Bunch, a German and an Australian, were in another section of the prison but had been allowed round to this section for the legal conference.
I decided to spend my time walking around the courtyard making a mental note of its width and length. I then wandered around the diameter, surreptitiously kicking the wall and tapping it to find out if there were any hollows or weaknesses. Just then, Heather, who at 24 was the younger of the two Americans, came out of the cell looking visibly upset. She was in the courtyard and started to weep.
I left her alone because most times when you want to cry you want to be left alone. Just then Peter came out and gave her a stern talking to and told her to pull herself together. When will men ever learn that that is the last thing you say to a woman when she’s upset?
I felt duty-bound to interject at this point and said she should be allowed to cry and get it out of her system. She was bitterly disappointed because the lawyer had said he was returning to Pakistan and she felt he should stay with them in Kabul. Heather felt he might be afraid of the bombing.
The Aussie guy said this was a load of nonsense and there would be no bombing. Once again I intervened and said, ‘It is not a case of if but when the bombing starts. Of course there’s going to be bombing and you should prepare and brace yourself for it. There are three thousand journalists sitting on the Pakistan border and their editors haven’t sent them on the off chance.’
He looked at me as though I were mad, and then I pointed out that he’d been locked up for two or more months, whereas I had been in for only a week, and I had witnessed the military build-up. I am not normally a doom-monger but I am a realist, and I thought that the point of air strikes should be made very clear.
He obviously didn’t agree and walked away, disgruntled. I tried to comfort Heather and told her it was perfectly natural to want to cry, and reminded her of my ‘Tiny Tears’ performance the night before.
The prison governor then went into the legal meeting and, I later learned, he told everyone that if they had written about me in their letters they must rewrite them and remove all such references. I found this a wee bit disconcerting. Why should I be such a secret?
I walked in and asked if everything was OK but the aid workers looked subdued. The German man, Georg Taubmann, who was the director of the relief operation in Afghanistan, advised me to take things easy and told me I would get nowhere by being difficult and rude.
I immediately objected to this because I didn’t know him from Adam and I thought he was being patronising, so I replied, ‘You might be happy to accept
your life in here but I am not, and I am going to buck the system. If they’re going to keep me in here then I’ll make every day a living hell for them. If you’re not careful you’ll end up institutionalised or with that Stockholm Syndrome nonsense.’
I could see that the girls were not happy with the way in which I had spoken to him. He probably is a nice enough bloke, but he rubbed me up the wrong way, just as the Aussie chap had.
Heather came out to the courtyard and handed me a Pakistani newspaper from the lawyer, which said I was a member of the Special Forces and that it had been confirmed by the Taliban’s official spokesman. Serious as it was, I had to laugh. The two aid workers and the legal team left and the lawyer turned round and told me not to worry. I shouted to him, ‘Just get a message through to my newspaper because I need to get a decent lawyer out here and fast.’ He scowled but he had asked for it. And then I shouted, ‘By the way, I am not worried. Why should I be worried? I’m getting out of here.’
Since it was a Friday I knew I wasn’t going to get out of Kabul that day because, as the girls pointed out, it was the Muslims’ holy day and just about everything comes to a halt.
The following day I went into the courtyard and began to practise my yoga. The rickety gate opened and in walked the scholastic-looking intelligence officer from Jalalabad, who had also accompanied me on my journey here. He told me not to worry and that I would be leaving prison soon. I just snarled at him. I couldn’t trust any of them any more, not after all the mind games. He may have contributed to the tears I’d shed as I had slipped into fitful sleep on my first night at Kabul Prison, but I sure as hell was not going to let the bastard make me cry again.
The prison governor strolled over and asked me for my name to complete my registration, but I just ignored him and walked back into the cell. He followed me in and told the girls that, without my registration I would not be eligible to any food. I asked the girls to tell him in Pushtu that I was on hunger strike, and, anyway, if he didn’t know my name that was his fault and would he now clear off because his questions were annoying me.
In the Hands of the Taliban Page 15