Yvonne Ridley and the Taliban
To her colleagues she was a tough, hard-living but fair-minded reporter who followed a story wherever it took her.
But YVONNE RIDLEY was also a single mother with a young daughter. That part of her life she kept under careful lock and key.
Few knew, or let alone realised, it was the wellspring that motivated her, that drove her to join that select bank of journalists who work on the cutting edge of their profession – the war zones of this world.
She was the first woman reporter into Afghanistan – the prelude of President George Bush’s War On Terrorism.
She was captured by the fanatical Taliban.
Her editors in London, the Foreign Office, the intelligence agencies already working undercover in Afghanistan: no one knew where she was.
Speculation grew that she would be executed – a victim of the murderous ways of the Taliban – whose denigration of women matched only their overall hatred of the West.
But her captors had reckoned without Yvonne Ridley. Her inner strength sustained her for those ten days she was held prisoner.
She became a shining example of journalism at its best.
Here she tells the core of that story.
PRISONER OF THE TALIBAN
by Yvonne Ridley <http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1861054955/gordonthomasi-20>
The woman was sitting there with her younger daughter and I motioned to take her picture, and she agreed. I got a beautiful portrait shot and then I turned around and took several landscape shots, capturing this chaotic scene of traders, smugglers, refugees and tribesmen swarming around the hills at Daur Baba.
Jan led me to the donkey and I was taken to a platform and climbed on to the animal. One of my trouser legs rode up and I revealed an ankle, which was thankfully covered by my dad’s socks. I was busy rearranging my clothes and burka when the damned donkey shot forward as if to bolt. The English Northern expression ‘flaming Nora!’ spilled involuntarily from my mouth as I bellowed my first public words in two days.
It was not Pushtu and several people looked in my direction although clearly did not understand that I had just cursed in English. What had attracted their attention was a noisy woman in a burka. Afghan women are not meant to be noisy. They are meant to be servile and quiet.
Most people had returned to what had been occupying their minds before I had cried out, and, as I tried to regain some composure, I leaned forward to grab the rein. The movement caused my camera to move into full view and a Taliban soldier shouted out at me and gestured for me to get off the donkey.
I will never forget the look on the face of the soldier. Not because he was about to arrest me and probably kill me but because he had the most amazing emerald-green eyes I have ever seen. Bizarre as it may seem, I was totally captivated by his breathtaking features, albeit momentarily.
He wrenched me off the donkey and motioned for me to remove the camera. I quickly obeyed and he grabbed it from me, then shouted something at the donkey’s owner, who pointed in the direction of Jan’s uncle. He marched over to him and asked him some questions and hit him heavily across the face with the back of his hand, causing his nose to bleed.
Jan went to his uncle’s defence and tried to reason with the Talib, who was shouting and screaming. Within seconds a crowd of up to two hundred men had gathered around and in their eagerness to find out what was going on. I was pushed further and further back.
I deliberated for a few minutes and thought to myself: I can turn around and walk towards the border because they are more interested in the guides. I will be able to tag along with others, and because I’m wearing the burka, I’m still invisible. It was a hard call to make and in the end I couldn’t leave the two guides behind.
I watched as the wife calmly disappeared with the younger daughter and I forced my way back into the crowd and asked the soldier for my camera back. The soldier with the green eyes looked incredulous. He had obviously forgotten about me and here I was speaking to him in a strange tongue. By this time more Taliban men were at the scene and they gasped, as they could see that I was a Western woman.
The crowd began to jostle me and a flame-haired Talib grabbed me and the camera and took me to a car. As the car drove away from the Pakistan border I became numb with fear and my whole body seemed to switch off. Maybe it was a defence mechanism, but I remained totally calm on the outside. Inside, the adrenaline was shooting round my system and I could hear my heart thumping as I tried to work out the best course of action.
My train of thought was shattered by semi-automatic gunfire, which ripped through the air. Our car had become part of a convoy and was being led by a lorry load of young soldiers screaming triumphantly, ‘Amreeka spy, Amreeka spy!’ Oh, great, I thought, they think I’m a bloody American. Well I needed that like I needed a hole in the head.
Just then I felt a very sharp nip on my arm. It was the Afghan guide. He was waving and crossing his hands and putting his hand to his mouth. I got the message instantly and if he had taken any notice of me from the beginning he would have known what the plan was in the event of our arrest: ‘We are all on a need-to-know basis and I don’t need to know your names,’ I had told them through Pasha. ‘The less I know about you the better, in the unlikely event we are caught.’
There was more gunfire and the excited rabble then began chanting that phrase so favoured by young Muslims during Peshawar demonstrations: ‘Osama zindabad, Osama zindabad!’ they crowed, which means long life to Mr bin Laden. What about long life to Yvonne Ridley? No bloody chance. The car stopped and Jan was removed. I didn’t think I would ever see him again. Another man got in the car and sat next to me. I don’t think he was a Taliban soldier and he wasn’t wearing one of those heavy turbans – which, by the way, I think we might see reflected on the fashion catwalks of Europe for 2002.
So, fashion tip aside, I had the Afghan guide on one side and this oily creature on the other. The Afghan continued to nip me hard and twist my skin. I had already got the message and if he continued I swore I’d throttle him if it was the last thing I did. The car stopped again and Jan was returned to the vehicle. He looked OK. It was a pleasant surprise that he was back in our company. Sadly, his return meant that I was squeezed next to this other man, who had begun to touch me.
At first I thought it was an accident, but then I realised he was trying to grope me. I hoped he would stop although at that moment I thought it was the least of my problems. The Afghan squeezed and nipped my skin hard, and then I snapped. I had to get a message through that I would keep my mouth shut. So I bellowed, ‘Does anyone in this car understand English?’ Of course there was silence, so I continued: ‘I don’t know what the hell is going on. I don’t know who these two men are but I am a British subject and if I don’t get my camera back there will be serious trouble.’
At least Jan would be able to tell the Afghan so he would stop hurting me. The creep on my right pulled at my burka and off it came, revealing black-blonde, matted, strawlike hair. I had no make-up on. My complexion is normally a milky white with splodges of freckles and I have blue eyes. The creep gave me a comb and I tried to comb my hair, which had been flattened and ruined from two days underneath that burka. At least it was off now, which was a relief. Even Pollyanna would have approved of that positive note in these critical circumstances. I was wearing some pale-orange trousers and a matching orange, floral dress with three big flowers stuck on the front. The waistline dipped in modestly, then the skirt sprang out like a lampshade. It was a horrendous outfit and I looked like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
The front-seat passenger with the flame hair kept looking round at me and at first he seemed to be eyeing me up and down. Christ, I am probably going to be raped or gang-raped, I thought. Suddenly the driver was ordered to stop and I was removed from the car by the Talib, who placed me on some high ground. He then disappeared and within minutes another crowd had gathered around and all I could see was a mass of angry and curious faces. They were shouting and screaming and jabbering in an excited fashion. Looking back I suppose I was a bit of light entertainment that had been brought into their mundane existence.
At that time, though, I had gone cold with fear. And my mouth had gone as dry as a carpet. I looked down and I saw blood-red nail polish staring up at me. My shoes had gone and so had my socks, although I don’t remember when or how. I hoped no one would notice my infidel-coloured toes because I knew varnish was on the banned list. I looked back at the crowd and said to myself: This is it. It’s the end. I am going to be stoned to death. Please, God, let the first stone knock me unconscious and make me strong enough so I don’t plead for my life. I wondered how much pain I could take and prayed that whatever happened I would die quickly. I then pondered what would happen to my body, and whether it would be sent home. I wondered whether my parents would have to identify it or whether Daisy would ever be told how I died. Would anyone be told? I asked myself.
The crowd moved in closer and I wanted to close my eyes but I felt maybe I could stare them out or perhaps someone might connect with me and pity me and try to stop the stoning. I looked at the ground and there was enough ammunition to keep the intifada (the Palestinian uprising against Israel in the West Bank and Gaza Strip) going for another decade. Just then I caught the Taliban soldier in the corner of my eye flagging down a passing car. A woman in a burka was asked to get out and he pointed in my direction. The two began walking towards me but by this time the crowd were chanting. I thought chanting was banned. The woman spun me around and started to search me in a very rough manner.
I’ve never been so relieved in my life. What joy! I said to myself. They think I’ve got a weapon or something secret on me. And then my relief turned to anger. I swung around at the crowd and went to lift up my dress in defiance as if to say: Go on, then, take a look. Not even a stick of dynamite. It was a gesture that provoked outrage, shock and anger and earned me a well-deserved slap across my face. The vulgar act caused the crowd of men to gasp and then turn in the other direction and run. It was a bizarre sight and made me remember the Carry On Up the Khyber film, in which kilted soldiers lift their skirts up to frighten off the natives. It was highly inappropriate behaviour and consequently the woman in the burka lifted her arms and hit me. I don’t know who was more in shock, she or I – or even the flame-haired soldier.
Our convoy continued on the hellish journey back to Jalalabad and the creep continued to grope me. My patience finally snapped and I shouted, ‘Stop it!’ I then dug him sharply in the ribs and he yelped. The front-seat passenger witnessed half of what had happened and ordered the driver to stop the car. A heated exchange followed between the passenger and the creep and within thirty seconds he had been ejected from the car. Our journey continued along with the gunfire and the chanting, which was very unnerving.
As we reached Jalalabad, I was paraded around every street-corner checkpoint and shown off like some kind of trophy. I wound my window down and asked if anyone spoke English and the response was no. A little boy, probably Daisy’s age, grimaced and stared at me through the window. He had a mop of curly, wild hair and brown eyes with a pale, olive skin. He looked really cute and I smiled at him. He cocked his head sideways and, lifting a dirty little finger, he drew it across his neck. Charming! I’ve never really liked little boys and this one was a complete stinker.
As we pulled away for the next checkpoint the driver gave a throaty cough and spat out the heavily chewed lump of ghat he’d had in his mouth. Wrapped in his phlegm, the whole pile landed on my face and, as it slid down, I retched before using the burka to wipe myself. We stopped at another checkpoint and a man gave me some paper and a pen and I quickly scribbled Jim Murray’s work telephone number on it and begged the man to ring. He couldn’t speak a word of English and I think what he was after was my signature. It was probably going to be the last time I put pen to paper, I thought to myself.
The shock was starting to wear off and the full horror of what lay in store started to dawn on me. I think my eyes became quite moist and this man put his arm through the car door and gripped my wrist in a firm but harmless way. He kept saying ‘OK’ and I think he was trying to reassure me. I smiled at him and he smiled back. Looking back, I realise that it must have been quite a memorable moment for the men of Jalalabad, who saw only the faces of their mothers, wives or sisters. There, sitting in the back of this car, was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman from the West who was not wearing a burka. If I had still been undercover, no one would have bothered me.
The car pulled off and we eventually headed through the gates of the Taliban intelligence headquarters. The three of us and the little girl were taken into a plain, but clean, air conditioned room with bathroom facilities and left on our own while the door was locked. I motioned to Jan to say nothing in case it was bugged. The Afghan had finally got the message: I was not going to say or do anything to betray them. About half an hour later we were ushered out and into another room with a single, hospital-style bed. I gestured to the jailer that I couldn’t be left in a room with two strange men whom I didn’t know. It was a situation that was not allowed in the Taliban regime and I tried to use it to my advantage.
It worked and I was put back in the original room on my own. My personal jailer, who could not speak a word of English, motioned to me that he was going to lock the door from the outside and that if I wanted anything I would have to knock. Like many Taliban soldiers, he was quite striking to look at and had a magnificent, wild main of thick curly hair under his bronze-coloured turban, which was wrapped around an extravagantly covered tribal cap. The cap told me that he came from the Kondoz region in the northeast, and is supposed to contain more than two thousand different colours. I sat down on one of the red mattresses and tried to assess my situation and my chances of survival, and I have to say that things did not look that good. I wondered what the time was and thought Jim would be at the newsdesk now waiting for my call. I felt really sick and scared and wondered whether the world would ever find out that I was being held by the Taliban. I wondered what had happened to my camera and remembered that a commission from Nikon Owner, the magazine of the Nikon Owners’ Club International, had just gone down the tubes.
It is funny how trivia seems to come to the surface in really serious and heavy situations. I was worrying about what was on the film and wondered whether they could identify any of the villagers from Kama. All sorts of crazy thoughts were racing through my mind, and I realised I still had my hands wrapped round the burka. Just then I heard what was to become a familiar sound: the lock rattling and the key turning. It was the director of intelligence, a cool, elegant man whose face betrayed no emotion of any kind. His eyes were cold and my imagination began to run riot. I wondered whether he carried out his own torture or was one of those who would cast the first stone. There was something very enigmatic about him. He asked me to write down some personal details and I informed him that I was a British journalist. He remained unimpressed and I got the feeling if I said I was a messenger sent by the Queen of England he would still have hung on to his deadpan expression. After he left I felt quite pleased with myself because I had managed to hang on to his pen. All I needed was some paper or other writing material and I would be back in business as a journalist.
It was Friday afternoon, 28 September, a day that will live with me for the rest of my life, and I don’t think many of my family, friends or colleagues will forget it, either. I wondered when Jim would sound the alarm and did not envy him the task of breaking the news to my mum and dad. He was after all the bloke, in Mum’s eyes, who had sent her baby daughter off to Islamabad. In many ways I was in the best place and at least my sense of humour was intact.
I looked around the room, which had an air-conditioning unit, to see what I could find. I found a coffee-table book, which had been given to someone as a farewell gift because it had loads of signatures inside from well-wishers. I got the feeling it had belonged – or had even perhaps been presented – to someone in Britain or America who was making a new life out in Afghanistan. It was called Caravans to Tatary and was written by a French couple called Roland and Sabria Michaud. The book was first published in 1978 and was about the Michauds themselves, who had obviously travelled across Afghanistan taking some stunning pictures and dramatic snapshots of Afghan life.
I wondered about the original owner of the book and pondered on why it had been left behind. Whatever the reason, I was glad because it kept me occupied me for a short while. If I didn’t keep active my mind would start to drift towards Taliban punishments, including stoning and beheading. Anyone who has watched Saira Shah’s shocking television documentary, Beneath the Veil, would know how evil this regime can be. I think she hid a camera beneath her burka and sneaked into the country to expose the brutality of the Taliban towards women. She secretly filmed some public executions at football pitches. I wondered whether she would film mine.
As I sat there twiddling my thumbs I got a whiff of something really smelly – and realised it was me. I hadn’t had a bath for more than two days and I had been wearing a dress and trousers made of nylon, Crimplene and polyester. I was smelly and sweaty, and my hair was plastered to my head. The jailer, whose name, I was to discover, was Abdullah Mounir, returned with some food and I refused to eat it. I hadn’t eaten for about two days but with all the anger, excitement, tension and fear the last thing on my mind was food. Abdullah spoke no English but using my hands I made it clear I would not eat unless I spoke to my mum on the telephone.
The director, who could understand bits of English, returned and asked why I was not eating. He was joined by three other Taliban people and a young man called Hamid, who was to be the translator. I said, arms folded, ‘I will not eat anything until I can speak to my mother and I certainly cannot eat your food as a prisoner. I will eat with the Taliban only as their guest.’ They looked at me and I thought: Ridley, where the hell did that pompous twaddle come from? They obviously thought the same, because they walked out and left me with no food and no phone. I looked out of the window, which was covered in mosquito netting, and contemplated my future. I had no more visitors and went to sleep, or tried to.
During the early hours of the morning I heard the door open and the hair on the back of my neck began to prickle, but I did not stir. I was curled in a foetal position and by squinting I could see the outline of a man standing at the door. The door then closed and everything was pitch black. I was about to let out a sigh of relief when I released the man was in my room. I didn’t know whether I should scream, but I don’t think a noise would have come out, anyway, because my mouth was like sandpaper. 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 protect 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 little 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!
Afterword by Gordon Thomas
Yvonne survived. But her ordeal was not yet over when she returned to London. She became a victim of her jealous female colleagues who wrote spiteful pieces about why she, a mother of a small daughter, had risked the child’s future security by risking her own life?
The question was often vicious in the way it was put by desk-bound harridans.
Yvonne did not lower herself to respond. But I gladly do for her. No fellow journalist would have posed the question if it had been a man, a single father, who had gone into Afghanistan and been captured by the Taliban. The women journalists who picked on Yvonne did so because they saw her as an easy target to attack from the security of their ivory towers in Fleet Street. In doing so they disgraced themselves in their attempts to make cheap headlines.
I know Yvonne well. She is a fine reporter, a true person of courage. In the War Against Terrorism, she has been one of the few to sound a cautionary voice: to be aware not to judge the entire Moslem world by its fanatics; not to allow the excesses of Osama bin Laden to be the benchmark for retribution.
It has not been easy for her. That is why I would urge that her book, “Prisoner of the Taliban” <http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1861054955/gordonthomasi-20> (Robson Books, UK) should be read by anyone who cares about what is happening in the world today. Soon, if all goes well, her story will come to a cinema screen. It has all the qualities of high drama, as she has indicated in the excerpt you have just read.
Purchasing Info for "Prisoner of the Taliban" <http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1861054955/gordonthomasi-20>
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Books by Gordon Thomas:
Robert Maxwell: Israel's Superspy: The... <http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0786710780/gordonthomasi-20>
Gideon's Spies: The Secret History of <http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0312252846/gordonthomasi-20> the Mossad <http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0312252846/gordonthomasi-20>
Seeds of Fire: China And The Story.Behind The Attack on America <http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1893302547/gordonthomasi-20>
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