I watched his facial expressions as this was translated to him, and it went from grim to grimmer. He barked back some sort of response before walking off. Everyone looked uncomfortable and I asked Dayna what he had said. She looked very upset, and finally she whispered, ‘He said you can die, then.’ I laughed and told her not to be concerned – but, to tell you the truth, I felt a lump come to my throat, so I walked out and had a cigarette.
Later we talked about our situation and Heather mentioned a Canadian man who had volunteered to exchange places with her. She said she didn’t know who he was but it was a nice gesture. The remark triggered off another memory from my time in Jalalabad, when I was told that the Taliban wanted to use me for a hostage exchange with someone who was being held in London.
I had brought it up during a day of interrogation the previous week. It was a strange day and so much was happening that I could not put all my thoughts down on the little piece of cardboard box that held my toothpaste tube and also doubled as my diary.
A man had interrupted the interrogation. My interrogators had all made to stand when he’d stuck his head around the door. Then he had shaken everyone’s hand. It turned out that he was the military commander of the Taliban forces. Anyway, shortly after the interruption, I said I had heard they might want to swap me. They looked uncomfortable as I said, ‘You know, you’ll just humiliate yourself if you ask for an exchange. Ever since Margaret Thatcher, my government has refused to enter into bargaining or negotiations to swap hostages. Don’t even think about it.’
Then one said, ‘What about your government now?’
I rolled my eyes and said, ‘Do you know how happy Tony Blair is that you’ve locked me up? He’ll just be sad that you haven’t got more journalists inside.’
I think they were surprised by my response, or annoyed that I had dismissed the idea; or maybe they had already ‘humiliated’ themselves. I don’t know and I suppose I never will.
My short reverie was interrupted by Heather’s laughter, as she said she would love to be swapped rather than stay another day here. I had to admit that they had had a really long stint and I was full of admiration for their strength.
After the morning fiasco of having to get ready – it takes about two hours just to wash and dress without mod cons – Kathe and Silke were sitting outside in the courtyard reading and Diana was in another corner. Margrit was lying down and Dayna was reading on her bed. I think Heather was talking to the prison warden. Just then we heard anti-aircraft fire ripping through the sky and I leaped up from a rug I’d been sitting on. There were all sorts of heavy-artillery noises and Heather just lost it and started running around, screaming in Pushtu for the prison governor and the two male aid workers.
I hadn’t a clue what the hell was going on but I knew that she was panicking and such actions could affect us all. Frightened that we would be locked in a cell I grabbed hold of her and said, ‘Shut up and listen to me, Heather. This could be help on the way, and the last thing we need is for you to be running around like a blue-arsed fly. You have to get a grip and I will help you.’ But she just pushed me away and continued running around.
I went over to Diana and begged her to do something because we all had to stick together. This could the start of a Special Forces operation and, if they were going to get us out, we would have no more than twenty seconds. She said Heather was fragile and she could not control her when she panicked.
The prison governor arrived and then he called for the two men. The Aussie bloke, Peter, was telling Heather to calm down but she said she wanted us all to go in a bunker, and that was the last place I wanted to be. He tried to calm her and said it was just an air-raid practice. Now, while I’m all for trying to keep the peace, I don’t believe in blatant lies. ‘I’m sorry, mate, you don’t just whack off a load of surface-to-air missiles for nothing.’ Nope, we were not going to get along at all. It turned out that the Americans had sent up two of their drones, or unmanned spy planes, over Kabul.
Thankfully, it all calmed down and the two men went back to their cells. Later I told Heather she must not panic again because none of us wanted to be put in a bunker. The others agreed and I think she was hacked off, but her behaviour had concerned me.
I was convinced the SAS would come and get us out and I told her this, but she was horrified at the idea. I told her that, if she insisted on hiding in a bunker when the bombing started for real, she might find herself on her own, and I could see that that disturbed her. After all, she was just 24 years old and it was a great load for her to deal with. However, I am not that brave a person and I didn’t relish having my life jeopardised by someone having a panic attack.
Thankfully, there was some cheer just around the corner when post arrived for Heather and Dayna. Heather said triumphantly that her father had written to her and told her not to worry, and that America would hold off its military campaign until she was safe and sound. This exasperated me and I told her so. She became very defensive and said her father, who was staying in the American Embassy, would not lie to her. I replied, ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t, and nor would you want him to. However, I cannot think that Colin Powell will take your father into his confidence and tell him when the bombing’s going to start, especially when he knows that he’s writing to you in a Taliban prison.’
I was sorry to be the bearer of bad news but, as I say, I was being realistic, and prison is not a place for pipe dreams. Anyway the mail did cheer up her and Dayna, and I think Kathe got a letter that had her very excited, because the German girls got hardly any mail. It all had to be translated into English and I guess that was too much for the Taliban to deal with.
Silke didn’t receive any post and it had a very bad effect on her because she was already feeling down. She went out of her cell and shed a few tears. This unnerved me because Silke was very strong and normally in control. She got it out of her system and remained in the courtyard for a while. I think her tears had affected the prison governor, who had delivered the letters, because it was totally out of character for her. I suppose he was an old softy, really, but I wasn’t going to cut him any slack.
Later in the day two men from the Foreign Ministry arrived with the grim-looking prison governor and announced that I was now the guest of the Foreign Ministry, and that I no longer had anything to do with the intelligence department. I was relieved because it meant all this dangerous talk of spying and special forces might be over.
I had just finished my second session of yoga for the day, which I had taken to doing during the midday sun and around 4 p.m. because I wanted the Taliban to think that I was either an amazingly strong woman or barking mad. Either way, I think they found the whole display disturbing, and had been huddled in the corner until I opened my eyes.
After breaking the good news to me, they then said they needed to ask me a few questions and it would probably take no more than a couple of hours. I went ballistic, refused to cooperate and told them they could all go to hell. As I launched into my second offensive I had my hands on my hips and I was tapping my foot. One of the men, called Mr Afghani, whom I always referred to as the Smiling Assassin, said those fateful words that I had heard so many times in Jalalabad: ‘But you are our guest and we want you to be happy.’
I screamed at him, ‘I am not your bloody guest: I am a prisoner. I cannot walk out of this place. Countries are often judged on the quality of their prisons and this place is a squalid hell hole, which makes you primitive, cruel people. You disgust me.’
His associate said defensively, ‘But what do you expect? This is Afghanistan. We have been at war for twenty-two years and our prisons are not a great priority. You have been bad and came into our country uninvited.’
I waved him down dismissively and told them again to go to hell and get out of my sight. With that I walked up to them, spat at their feet and returned to the cell. The girls were gobsmacked by what they saw and heard and urged caution. I have to admit that this time I felt I had gone too far and
I became deeply afraid. As I stood there I could feel myself quaking and I wanted to be sick. My stomach felt as though it contained a thousand butterflies.
Heather, who was quite friendly with the prison staff, walked over and one of the women warders stood in the doorway glaring at me. ‘They say you might get beaten or flogged if you speak to important people like that. I just thought I ought to warn you.’ Of course at this point most sane people would have just shut up but I must have been insane because I replied, ‘If I am beaten and I feel pain then I will be happy because I will know I am still alive.’
Such strong, brave words. Which B movie did they come from? I wondered. The reality was quite different. I was even more afraid and still shaking inside as I waited to be hauled off and beaten with a hose – a common occurrence for the local prison population.
About twenty minutes later, the rickety gate went and I heard male voices. Heather dashed back into the cell in a panic and said that the Smiling Assassin had returned with the other man. I felt my legs wobble and I tried to brace myself as I heard their voices approach the cell door.
Three of the girls threw themselves to the floor and grabbed hold of me desperately praying for God to give me strength, and begged him to help me so I wouldn’t feel any pain from torture. I know they meant well but I felt as though I were trapped in a scene from Monty Python’s The Life of Brian. The power of prayer had helped me in Jalalabad, and I’m not sure whether God was there for me again, but, to everyone’s amazement, Mr Afghani had a satellite phone in his hands and not a piece of electric flex. He told everyone that they could telephone their relatives. They were so excited and, one after another, chatted away. It was especially emotional for the German girls and Diana, because they had not spoken to anyone since they were arrested. It was just the sort of fillip Silke needed as well.
I, of course, was excluded and Kathe, bless her, asked Mr Afghani if I could also speak to my parents. ‘She cannot call anyone. She is uncooperative and bad. Did you know she spat at us?’ Although I was sad not to speak to my family I was still very happy for the women. They deserved a break.
Bad news or news of bad tempers travels fast in Afghanistan, and the next day the deputy foreign minister, a small, round, jolly-looking man, came to see me to tell me that I would be out soon. I was quite dismissive but he told me not worry. ‘I’m not worried: I’m just bloody angry,’ I told him. ‘Your words are dust and I can trust no one after being so badly betrayed about my journey to Kabul. The intelligence people lied and lied, and now I’m here. This is a hell hole.’ I was shouting by now. ‘What sort of people are you?’
We were in the courtyard and the prison governor looked over in disgust. I returned to my blanket and continued my yoga. The sun was overhead and the heat was blistering. As I sat down I waved at him and said, ‘You can go now.’
I was very puzzled and mentally exhausted. It seemed as though I could be as rude and abusive as I wanted but I couldn’t get a reaction from them other than a smile and the usual bollocks about being their guest. It was really tiring being Mrs Angry all the time and I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up this act. I am not an aggressive, rude person by nature, either, so it was also difficult to play out of character all the time.
Heather offered me the Ken Follett novel, Code to Zero, to read. ‘We’ve all read it and it’s fantastic,’ she enthused. ‘I promise you won’t be able to put it down.’ I declined because I felt that, if I was going to read a lengthy book, it would mean that I had accepted that I was going to be here for a long while.
Margrit said I could read her book when she wasn’t using it. It was a series of short stories, so I could dip in and out as the mood took me. I looked at it and started laughing at the irony of it all. The book was a compilation by that disgraced political rogue Jeffrey Archer. I told the girls he was in prison but I bet he didn’t have to hand-crank his water every morning.
I wondered if he would get out before I did. Then we started talking about the Western hostages who had been held in Beirut – including Terry Waite, Terry Anderson and John McCarthy – and I thoroughly depressed myself when I remembered how long they were held in captivity. I told Heather that, by comparison, we were well off in Kabul Prison – and at least we could wander around.
However, prison life is still mundane and routine. It’s even more boring when you’re not eating. The women supplemented their basic prison diet of bread and rice by making a daily shopping list for fresh food and provisions, which they handed to a female prison warder. Like most foreign prisons, if you have the requisite money, arrangements can be made to buy in food from outside. Dayna had the cash and all the women took turns to cook. Although I was no longer having hunger pangs, and had stopped salivating at the thought of eating, I remember Silke cooking a meal one day and the aroma was beautiful. She also cut up fresh coriander leaves and the smell seemed to fill the air. If I close my eyes and concentrate I can still smell it.
That night I found it difficult to get to sleep because the baby in the end cell was forever screaming. I was told the two Afghan women with it were locked up because they had invited strange men into their home who wanted to buy an Afghan carpet from them.
Women in Afghanistan had no life under the Taliban regime. Mind you, their lives had not been that much better under the previous lot. It is so sad that women are totally overlooked in this country and have no other role in life than to have babies. Of course, we saw women defiantly showing their faces in public as the Taliban began to be routed during mid-November, but how the quality of their lives will shake down in the long term remains to be seen.
The man from the Foreign Ministry returned later in the day and told me that soon I would have my own cell. ‘We just want you to be happy, you are our guest,’ he said. I was about to protest again but he then hastily added, ‘We know you have experienced similar conditions in Iran, so we don’t know why you call us primitive.’ He had the sort of look on his face that said he’d just revealed or hinted at some great secret. Lord knows what he was talking about because I have never been to Iran in my life.
I had very little knowledge about what was happening outside Kabul Prison, other than that my newspaper was continuing to have a series of meetings with the Taliban ambassador in Islamabad. I wondered whether the Express chairman Richard Desmond was trying to organise an ‘at-home-with-bin-Laden’ exclusive called ‘My Cave’ for OK! magazine, which he also publishes.
The prison governor was talking to one of the girls and apparently he said, ‘I’ve got George Bush on my back over you girls and now Tony Blair is asking about that awful Englishwoman.’
I was overwhelmed because I really didn’t think that I was that important and hoped that there wasn’t too much of a fuss being made back home. Then I was shown a Pakistani newspaper that said I was a member of the Special Forces. I shouted to the women, ‘Oh, we’re OK, girls. I’m in the SAS and I’ll get you out tonight by the inflatable helicopter I’ve buried in the courtyard.’
It was just another example of the black humour that seemed to give me strength, but I was deeply concerned at the content of the article and wanted to wring the bloody journalist’s neck. I felt he had signed my death warrant. Somehow I just had to bury these rumours.
I had two secrets that could cost me my life. The Taliban would never understand why I had married an Israeli (Husband Number Three) – and to tell you the truth I couldn’t understand why I married him either. For that I should be flogged. The other was the fact that I had been in the Territorial Army.
We were told to stay in our cells because some men were coming round to clear out a cell for me and we must hide from them. This was all very tiring and I’d been here only a few days, but already I was beginning to feel like a third-class citizen because I was a woman.
I went to inspect the cell later and it looked disgusting. The concrete floor had a huge hole in the corner and I saw a rodent of some sort dive down it as I wandered in. There was
a big religious mural on the wall with lots of Arabic writing and windows overlooking the men’s prison.
I looked at the door. It was of solid metal with a lock and I had this sudden fear that I would be locked inside every time I was abusive, which could be 24 hours a day. I asked the girls if they had any superglue so I could damage the lock. In the end I managed to break it using a piece of stone and some dirt.
The jolly man from the Foreign Ministry arrived with the prison governor and he asked me what I thought of the cell. It told him it was inadequate and I wouldn’t put an animal in it, not even in Afghanistan. To my surprise he agreed and apologised for the ‘squalid’ and cramped conditions I had been forced to live in.
He told me to collect my belongings because he wanted me to move into a more comfortable room in the Taliban sleeping quarters. I was quite suspicious of this softening of attitude and wondered whether I was going somewhere awful to be tortured. He kept saying I would be released in the morning but I just replied, ‘Yes, yes. Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? Tomorrow, inshallah [if Allah wills]!’
I demanded to inspect the room first and was taken outside the courtyard and up some stairs, and was shown to a very spacious room, which looked right out to Kabul Hill. I have to say I was impressed but kept stony-faced and said it was adequate.
I went back to my old cell and said to Diana, ‘There’s a softening of attitude but I don’t know what’s going on. Maybe I am going home soon. Thank you for everything and God bless.’ Another of the girls pushed the Follett novel into my hand and I was whisked away.
It was Sunday evening and dusk had arrived, so I switched on the light in my room. The obligatory Afghan rug was the centrepiece with cushions surrounding it and a rickety little hospital bed in one corner. For once I decided not to poke around the room because I had started reading the novel and was immediately gripped.
In the Hands of the Taliban Page 16