Suddenly, the silence was shattered by huge flashes streaming across the sky followed by tracers, anti-aircraft fire and the deafening sounds of cruise missiles hitting their targets. You can hear cruise missiles twenty miles away but these were landing within half a mile of the prison and the impact shook and rattled the windows.
I leaped off the bed and pressed my face against the windows. It was about 9 p.m. and I could see all the lights from homes on the hill: it looked so alpine and Christmassy in the dark. Without warning, we were all plunged into darkness and then eight Taliban soldiers came crashing into my room. Their actions startled me more than anything else because normally they would have knocked.
Several dived under my bed and began pulling out rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs). Christ, I thought. I’ve been puffing away like Fag Ash Lil less than a metre away from a bloody big stockpile of weapons. I was furious and asked them what they thought they were doing.
One who bothered to answer was laughing and pointing to the sky saying, ‘Amreeka! Amreeka! Atch, atch, atch, atch, atch!’ This gung-ho nonsense irritated me, so I pointed out that Kalashnikovs and RPGs were not going to knock a bloody B-52 bomber out of the sky. As they ran off with their weapons I shouted, ‘You may as well use bows and arrows!’
Just then the prison governor came in and motioned me to be calm and not to worry. I wasn’t worried for myself, but I was worried about the aid workers downstairs, in particular Heather. If she freaked out over the drone attack on the Saturday then this would really send her over the edge. I asked him to take me downstairs, but he refused.
He then left and I could have sneaked out but there was no way I was going to wander around with a bunch of wild-eyed Talibs looking for a target to fire at. You know, the fog of war and all that. So I went back to my perch and watched the bombing, which lasted about forty minutes. There were obviously two targets and I reckoned one was near the airport, where there was some sort of military training camp, and the other seemed to be a mile in the other direction.
What was totally weird was the night sky, because the only colours that were thrown up were in silver, white and shades of grey. It was all monochrome. But what was really frustrating was that the only Western journalist in Kabul to see the start of the Western bombing had no means of filing the story!
There I was with a bird’s-eye view and I couldn’t ring the newsdesk and tell them about the awesome sight I was witnessing. I didn’t even know whether I would ever be around to describe the intermittent jets of fire going up into the air, one after the other, and other flashes coming up.
At first I felt very relieved and then I remembered the obnoxious Mr Afghani, a.k.a. the Smiling Assassin, who punched the air when he heard that the Talibs had shot down a spy plane. So in his honour I started to sing ‘Rule Britannia’ at the top of my voice.
I felt the adrenaline pumping through my body and I actually felt relieved that the bombing had started. It may seem very self-obsessed and self-centred, and in my defence I have to say prison does that to you, but I had had a nagging feeling that they might be holding back the bombing because of me and the aid workers.
My thoughts suddenly rushed to my family and the agony they would be going through when George Bush announced to the world that the bombing had started.
The Taliban soldiers returned and knocked on my door. As I opened it they filed in looking very subdued as they put the RPGs under my bed.
10
RETURN TO ISLAMABAD
On the morning of Monday 8 October, I was up at around 5.30 and decided to have a shower and wash my hair. I walked into the toilet and wanted to throw up – it was disgusting. It was a flush loo, but it was filthy. I made a mental note to inspect all toilets in future before agreeing to move.
I decided against the shower. I just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. I returned to my bedroom and brushed my teeth in there. I was told to be ready by 6 a.m. and there was a knock on the door. Excited, I went to answer it, but it was only someone with a piece of bread for breakfast and some green tea.
I wondered how the girls were after the bombing. I had told my fellow inmates that, while it may sound terrifying, they were quite safe, because all the targets would be terrorist targets. I remember telling Heather that the smart missiles have got such a degree of accuracy that, if they wanted to take out a tree in the next garden, they could do it without harming us.
The biggest thing we were all afraid of was the reaction of the people of Kabul to the bombing, because if they wanted revenge on America and Britain they knew which prison the Westerners were being held in. Anyway, there was nothing that night.
My mind soon returned to my own situation, and I walked on to the landing, where a few Talibs were standing talking to the prison governor. I shouted at him and threw open my arms saying, ‘Well? Where’s my car? Where’s my driver? This is more bullshit. If you want a war, I’ll give you a war. Look what’s happened to Slobodan Milosovic: he’s behind bars. This will happen to you and I will write about and identify every single one of you to a war-crimes tribunal.’
With that I retreated back in to my room and I slammed the door, bolting it on the inside. I was furious that once again I had been conned and once again the Talibs were playing more mind games.
Of course, looking back now, I think I must have been cracking up, because I certainly was not in a position to threaten these people with anything. I’d laughed at them the night before about using bows and arrows, but I didn’t even have a pea shooter.
I remember returning to the rickety bed, looking back under it, and seeing all the RPGs. In some ways I thought this was a good sign because, if they thought I was some sort of GI Jane or Special Forces woman, they would never have left me with such weapons. Bearing in mind my gaffes with guns, could you imagine the damage I could cause with an RPG? I’d probably blow off my foot or my head.
I decided to keep myself occupied with the book given to me by the girls. They were right: I did get engrossed, but, because I had been in such a hurry to read it the previous day, when I reached the final chapter I was wondering how I was going to keep myself occupied, since it was obvious that I wasn’t going anywhere.
I went for a cigarette from the box of two hundred the aid workers had bought me, which, considering they are all nonsmokers, I thought was jolly decent. To my utter dismay, I noticed I had only one match left and I obviously didn’t feel like going back, cap in hand, to my captors to ask them for more.
There was only one thing for it: I lit the cigarette and chain-smoked until I felt sick. I must have smoked about seven cigarettes on the trot after I finished the book. I paced up and down the room and started singing ‘Rule Britannia’ again, simply because I’d remembered last year’s Last Night at the Proms and I’d missed this year’s event because I was over here.
Then I started belting out the National Anthem in defiant tones. I’ve never been able to sing and I was so upset and angry that not only was I way off tune but I was shaky. The soldiers outside probably thought: Now we know why singing is banned.
They no doubt thought I’d lost the plot and when I ventured near the window I looked down and caught the eyes of a smiling soldier looking up. He moved away from a dusty old car and there on the window in a handwritten scrawl through the dust were the words: ‘Yu [sic] are walking from Kabul’. I smiled but I did not believe him.
I moved away again and when I returned he had written more words telling me I was going home and that he was saying goodbye and that he would miss me. I was surprised at this because I did not think we had met, but it is possible he was one of the many soldiers I entertained with my courtyard yoga and with my spectacular rows with the authorities.
I got out my pen and on a cigarette packet I wrote, ‘Thank you for your kind words. I hope I am leaving and if I am then I wish you all well for the future.’ I dropped the cardboard through a hole in the window and he picked it up and walked away very happy.
I wond
er if Mullah Omar had a rule banning that sort of contact. Probably. He had just come out with a corker while I was inside. Women were no longer allowed to go on picnics unless a tent was erected where they could eat out of sight of men. Crazy.
By about 9.15 a.m. the jolly man from the Foreign Ministry knocked on the door and asked me to open it. I told him I didn’t trust him and that he could go to hell. ‘You are all liars and I’m not falling for your tricks again,’ I blasted. He insisted the car had arrived and I could go, but I still didn’t believe him.
In the end the knocking became more frantic and so I decided to open the door. As the bolt slipped, the blue wooden door was flung wide open and about five people barged into my room, insisted I sit down and told me that a car was waiting to take me to the border.
The prison governor handed me a beautiful, thick, black velvet dress with red and gold veil and said it was a traditional Afghan outfit. He asked me to put it on before I left. I was moved by the gift, especially because I had made this man’s life a complete misery, but I said I feared I might ruin it on the six-hour journey to the border.
The jolly ministry man said, ‘I was concerned for you and I came round last night to reassure you after the bombing, but when I arrived you were asleep.’
I replied, ‘What bombing? Oh that. I thought it was a farewell fireworks party from the Taliban.’ He looked at me, and then paid me a great compliment. ‘Ridley, you are a man. You are a great game player. Come, now – it’s time to go.’
For the first time I smiled warmly at him and apologised for my bad behaviour. I turned to the prison governor and thanked him for the dress and said that, however difficult I’d been, he must not take it personally. I insisted not all English women were as badly behaved as I was. He looked me up and down and then his stony face relaxed into a warm smile and his deep brown eyes crinkled.
With that I left, and bemused Taliban soldiers watched with interest as ‘Ridley the man-woman’ was led to a waiting Space Cruiser vehicle. I didn’t see anyone else and we headed for the Foreign Ministry, where a diplomatic official waited to escort me to the border.
The Smiling Assassin came over to me and, while I had been kind to everyone else, I could not stand this man and maintained an expressionless face as he said, ‘I hope you will not write bad things about us when you return to England. It was the intelligence people who gave you a bad time, not the Foreign Ministry.’ I ignored him and for once he stopped smiling. That was quite a strong moral victory for me.
The diplomat who joined us could not speak English very well, so we were going to have a largely silent journey. We had to go to his house because he had for-gotten his passport – and the irony of that one was not lost on any of us, despite our communication difficulties.
He lived in a block of flats in a nice area of town obviously used by Kabul’s élite and it did not escape my notice that there were a few TV satellite aerials around this place. I was also told that the ruling class made sure their children, including daughters, received a good education in superior schools in Pakistan. Typical!
As we headed through Kabul in the daylight what I saw was a tale of two cities. One part was bombed to hell and badly scarred, and huge parts were derelict from previous wars over the years. The other revealed elegant tree-lined avenues where embassies stood empty. The Chinese flag flew high over one magnificent building.
I looked for plumes of smoke from the night before, but the whole city was just bombed out. It was so depressing. Kabul has been bombed so many times that the reaction from the locals is a bit like someone in Manchester saying, ‘Oh, it’s raining again.’ In fact they would probably be more excited by rain. Kabul was like a ghost town – those who needed to get out had gone.
The scenery as we headed out of the city was dramatic, and driving through the Kabul Gorge was even more breathtaking for me than the Khyber Pass. I have to admit my nerve started to go on occasions as we threaded our way on minute mountain roads. Ravines and slopes were littered with vehicles that hadn’t made it.
As we passed through the gorge and through huge tunnels carved into the rock I thought about the six-hour journey ahead and contemplated the rubble and debris that lay in store. At each checkpoint we passed, the diplomat waved a paper signed by Mullah Omar declaring that Yvonne Ridley was to be released on humanitarian grounds.
One group of Talibs were not happy, especially since they’d just had the hell bombed out of them the night before. They asked everyone to get out of the vehicle, but an argument ensued with the driver, who grabbed the precious piece of paper and drove off. I was frightened but relieved that he had had taken the initiative.
Halfway through our journey, we stopped at a single-storey building and, while the soldiers went in one way, I was directed in another. I thought it must be a toilet and I dashed in to find several women sitting with their children eating on an oilcloth on the floor. I asked them where the toilet was. Although they didn’t seem to understand me, they pointed at a curtain. Relieved, I dashed through the curtain and came to an abrupt halt.
Two rows of about twenty men had been eating but they stopped and looked up at me. Thank God I hadn’t lifted my dress up when I dashed in or I might have cleared the place, I thought to myself. I saw our party and they beckoned me over to sit with them and eat.
It was to be my first proper meal since my arrival in the country and I have to say the food tasted delicious, even though the place was swarming with flies. I later referred to it as ‘the Restaurant of a Thousand Flies’ when I told friends at home. It’s funny how just one bluebottle can drive me to distraction as I chase it around the house, but here they were all over the place and I didn’t bat an eyelid as I sat with the diplomat, the driver and two armed Taliban guards. We ate in silence and then, when we left, the men went off to pray.
I still needed to use the toilet and I remember seeing this pristine-looking shower and washroom nearby, which had been erected by the Canadian government. Why, I’m not sure, but I was jolly grateful for the hygienic facilities available. The caretaker came over to me in a very excited manner when he saw me try to get into the female section, only to find the door locked.
He had the key and was delighted to welcome me into his sparkling new toilets. I was equally delighted and dashed in. When I emerged I gave him an approving smile and he said, ‘English journalist’ and nodded. I’m not sure whether the guards told him or not.
Along the way, we passed caravan trains with camels and goatherds. I thought: Where are these people going to? The caravan people were absolutely beautiful and startling to look at. So diverse: very strong faces, wild manes of hair and emerald eyes, deep-hazel eyes, deep-brown eyes.
The country in parts is totally barren and bleak and it looks like the last place on God’s earth. The landscape is lunar but it was just like that when I was taken to Kabul. I really couldn’t see any evidence of bombing on my journey.
As we drove through Jalalabad people came up to our vehicle and shouted, ‘English journalist’. It appeared that I had become a celebrity in the city where I had been paraded more than a week earlier.
The diplomat began laughing and said in faltering English, ‘You are famous in these parts. Everyone knows your face.’ As we headed towards Torkham we overtook a Datsun pickup truck, in which two armed men were sitting idly at the rear. They had their legs dangling lazily over the tailgate, hugging their Kalashnikovs and enjoying the last of the sunshine.
My eyes met with one of the men and I had to give a double take. This world is so small that it is frightening. There, sitting in the back was the green-eyed man who had brought my adventure to an abrupt end after the unforgettable incident with the unpredictable donkey.
He also looked at me in disbelief and the recognition was instant. The truck overtook us several times as Emerald Eyes shouted at the driver and asked where he was taking me. I momentarily feared that he was going to capture me again so I could go through the hell of it all, but he sta
rted laughing and seemed happy and content that I was going home.
They followed us for the next few miles and shouted to passers-by pointing to my vehicle. These people are amazing. No grudges, no signs of hostility, yet, only hours earlier, Britain and America had bombed the hell out of them.
As we arrived at the border dusk was approaching and we sat in front of the huge iron double gate that separated me from my freedom and the outside world. There was tension in the air and the armed guards kept people away from me.
I quietly willed the gate to open but instead I had to sit through the longest 38 minutes of my life. There had been rioting on the border some hours earlier in which three people had been killed, and there were fears that some Afghans might become hostile if they saw I was being returned less than 24 hours after the US and the Brits had blasted their country.
The Taliban soldiers were nervous, too, and eventually they got out of the vehicle and called for some reinforcements from nearby soldiers. I wondered whether this was another trick and then I was told that I couldn’t be handed over because there was no one there from the British Embassy. I was devastated, and suspected it was another mind game being played on me.
The young diplomat who had returned could see the fear in my face and so, despite his orders to release me only into British hands, he took the decision to free me and for that I will be for ever in his debt. The double gate slowly opened and the car lurched forward five yards. ‘You can go,’ he said with a smile. I was numb.
As I stepped out I was suddenly hit by the glare of television lights shining into my face. I could not see a thing and was momentarily dazzled. A voice shouted out, ‘How did the Taliban treat you?’ All the memories and mind games of the last ten days flowed through my head and I replied, ‘With courtesy and respect.’
I wanted to collapse and cry but I was mindful that my parents and even Daisy might be watching the television. I thought of my family and friends watching and I thought of all my mates at work watching. I just didn’t want to cause anyone any more anguish and pain.
In the Hands of the Taliban Page 17