Yvonne Ridley, 43, a reporter for London’s Sunday Express, was captured by the Taleban as she crossed the border illegally from Pakistan and entered Afghanistan disguised as an Afghan woman without a passport. She was arrested as a suspected spy but was released on the first day of the US bombing campaign. This is the first part of excerpts from her Afghan diary (The Work).
ISLAMABAD
Wednesday, Sept. 26
My plan to go into Afghanistan has been finalized and I am waiting in room 109 at the Crowne Plaza, Islamabad, for my contact to arrive. The famine-hit country I’m about to enter has not known peace for 22 years, and soon the bombs will start dropping. Yet the people themselves have no voice in all this.
Obviously I’m nervous, but the thought of interviewing some of them overrides all else. I only hope I can do justice to their stories. I am disguised in pastel orange trousers, a turquoise top and an oat-colored shawl which covers most of my head. My hair is gelled back with a black dye and my hands are stained a darker shade.
At 8 p.m. our group moves off in two cars into the darkness for a rendezvous at a safe house in Pakistan’s North West Frontier Province. As we arrive, a woman in her 60s quietly ushers us inside. Suddenly she hugs and kisses me. As she cannot speak a word of English, I have no idea what is going through her mind. But her warmth calms my nerves. I am taken through her sparsely furnished living room into a bedroom to find my sleeping companions — eight women and children huddled together in the draining heat below a whirring fan.
It feels as though I have stepped back 10 centuries into a world I had only ever read about in the Bible as a schoolgirl. While they sleep on shallow bed frames with no blankets, I am given the luxury of a single bed with a rock-hard pillow. Amazingly, I manage a few hours’ sleep, somehow comforted by being so close to other people.
TORKHAM TO JALALABAD Thursday Sept. 27
Woken at 5 a.m., we drive along a winding road toward the border, in the shadow of the Hindu Kush mountains. By night the road is the haunt of bandits and highwaymen but as dawn breaks it becomes safe for adventurous travelers. There’s no turning back now but I am confident the plan to walk through this Khyber Pass border control will work because soldiers there don’t notice women, especially those who wear the traditional, all enveloping blue burqa — my second disguise. In the unlikely event of being stopped by the Taleban border soldiers, who are armed with semi-automatics and Kalashnikovs, my group has a well-rehearsed cover story. I am a deaf mute called Shameem who is traveling with her husband to a village on the outskirts of Jalalabad to visit his sick mother.
As I cross the dividing line between the two countries, a sense of dread mixed with excitement overwhelms me. I want to tell somebody about my apprehension but I am now an Afghan woman in a world of silence and opening my mouth could cost me my life. I can’t believe the change in attitude by the men once I put on the all-enveloping burqa. From being seen as a Western woman in charge of the operation, I am invisible and insignificant. I am directed to the rear seat of a saloon car with another burqa-clad woman. We pull up near a border restaurant and the men get out to go and eat while the women are left behind. I am absolutely livid but unable to remonstrate with anyone otherwise my cover as a servile woman will be blown.
In the harsh sunshine and stifling heat, I feel I am hyperventilating. The burqa is like an ever-tightening vice around my head and the facial grille is horribly claustrophobic. My temper, like the temperature, is on its way to boiling point as we are left to slowly cook in the car. At Torkham we disembark and make our way toward the Taleban border control. My heart is in my mouth but as it turns out I don’t even rate a first glance. I am as good as invisible.
Welcome to Afghanistan. The area is bustling with fruit stalls interspersed with lock-ups selling motor oils and car accessories. A line of yellow and white cabs wait for passengers and ragged children offer services from shoe-shine to car cleaning. There are a few refugee types but there seem to be more people arriving than leaving and they are nearly all strong, determined young men who stride purposely into Torkham wanting to fight for the Taleban. The taxi ride is not without incident. Two punctures in five minutes do not bode well. It is hardly surprising, given the condition of the roads, which are like dirt tracks in a rock quarry.
The dramatic Hindu Kush mountains give way to flat plains stretching out before us, where spindly corn and sugar cane grow. There is no sign of the Scud missile launchers which are supposed to be pointed at Pakistan. In fact there is no sign of military activity, which seems strange for a country about to come under attack from the world’s most sophisticated war machine.
Fifty exhausting kilometers later, we reach Jalalabad. Armed Taleban soldiers stand at every street corner, but life looks strangely normal. In the bustling marketplace, stalls of pomegranates and fat apples are laid out. Swarms of flies circle the odd bit of meat. There are few women. Men lounge about sipping coffee and sugary green tea, and chew a green tobacco-like substance that I assume is khat, which they spit out indiscriminately with disgusting throaty sounds. I am told to sit on my hunkers and stay still. On my roadside perch I am invisible as long as I remain in my protective blue silk cloak. Once again I feel abandoned, gasping for air and helpless. I dare not utter a sound.
We take another taxi ride on a three-wheeled, gaily painted motorized rickshaw. The town seems to be full of pharmacies and motor accessory shops. Clothes shops are non-existent — possibly something to do with the Taleban leadership’s latest edict: women are forbidden to buy new clothes. Then we take a yellow and white taxi into the countryside north of Jalalabad. Somewhere around here is one of Osama Bin Laden’s base camps but my vision is severely impaired by the dreaded burqa. For all I know the world’s most wanted man might be nearby. The countryside is green and fresh, nothing like one’s image of drought-hit Afghanistan.
Suddenly some mud-caked brick walls loom from nowhere to reveal a typical Afghan village. I venture in with my hosts and there is much excitement as relatives and friends exchange hugs and kisses. I am shown to a long mattress. Exhausted, I drift off to sleep. About an hour later I am gently nudged by a young man who speaks broken English. I am shocked and disorientated because I am supposed to be a deaf mute. Frightened, I realize my cover has been blown but am assured that my secret visit will remain so. We talk about the crisis and soon some 30 men, women and children gather to listen. I explain that for a journalist it is important to find out how they feel, their hopes and fears. They seem kind and generous people, but it rapidly emerges that they have little fear and are prepared to fight for their independence.
A woman with almond-shaped eyes and magnificent cheekbones gently mocks me when I say I have one child. “Only one? Ha! You British and American women can only produce one or two children but I can have 15 and when you run out of soldiers to send to war we will have many replacements. “Our children are born with guns in their hands. They are fighters and will die fighting. It is part of our life and our struggle. If I have to fight, I will — and so will she,” she says, pointing her long, bony fingers at a tiny old woman with a toothless smile whose lined face tells a story of hardship and courage.
“She is over 100 years old and has seen it all before. If the American soldiers come here, I hold no hope for them. We heard about what happened in New York and we are sorry so many innocent people died. I hope the Americans think twice before trying to bomb us but we are not afraid.”
News in these forgotten parts travels by word of mouth, since television has been banned by the Taleban, along with singing, dancing and music. Feeling more confident, I lift my burqa off my face and a young girl begins to furiously fan me to cool me down since by now I must resemble a cooked lobster. One young man says: “I want to study medicine but the schools have been closed down. There is nothing for me here. It is difficult to escape from this poverty and follow my ambitions. Very few of us can afford to have ambitions.” Pointing to a young woman, he says: “She was training to be a doctor when education was suddenly withdrawn from the women.”
I ask if I can take photographs but fear flashes across their faces. Photographs are also banned by the Taleban. The woman who sees herself as a baby machine pulls me outside to have some food. Their generosity is overwhelming and although they have little, they want to share it. I missed the rice, stew and bread which is eaten with skillful fingers, so she hands me a succulent cob of corn and sniggers when I drop it because it is so hot. A few of the other women titter gently as though I am a feeble, soft Westerner. In the company of these women, they are right. A child of about 12 cranks out some cold water from a hand pump in the barren yard with its straw-roofed sun shield. She washes a pile of battered metal plates and pans.
Soon it is time to go and we leave by a tiny exit, no higher than three feet tall, at the rear of the village wall. It is obviously designed for a quick exit. Back on the dirt track we wait for another taxi to take us back to Torkham. Just a few more hours and I’ll be back in Pakistan. But in Torkham fate deals us a severe blow. The border has been shut down by Pakistan and we are forced to take a room for the night. Fearful that the Taleban may have been tipped off about my presence, I suggest that the party splits up, but this is scornfully rejected. The sky is soon black and I am told to stay inside. Women do not wander out at night in Afghanistan. The room is in a type of tavern, although alcohol is banned. There are no windows, no ventilation. The focal point is a magnificent Afghan carpet and nothing else. I try to sleep but a sickening fear keeps me awake.
DOUR BABA
Friday Sept. 28
Unable to sleep, I leave the Spartan room exhausted at about 5 a.m. The stars shine brightly. Another taxi takes us toward the border on a horribly stony track. Emerging bruised and battered after the journey from hell I walk up a narrow pass in cheap plastic shoes which are part of my Afghan attire. The hard plastic cuts angrily into my feet and a blister on my right heel bursts. The pain is unbearable but like everyone else using the illegal routes through Pakistan’s porous border I have to keep going.
When we reach Dour Baba there are quite a few people milling around, mainly men. Camels and trains of donkeys wait to carry goods, chattels and people over the border. I cannot see many refugees heading toward Pakistan and assume that many have gone south toward Quetta. I am told we are “as good as safe” in this area and less than a 20-minute donkey ride away from Pakistan. I heave a huge sigh of relief that I am safe and another that I will be carried by donkey on the final leg of the journey. I am taken to the donkey and climb a platform to sit on its back. Something makes the donkey try and bolt and I shout out. The expression “Flaming Nora!” spills involuntarily from my lips as I bellow my first public words. It is not Pushtu and several people are looking at me. As I try to regain composure I lean forward to grab a rein and my camera drops from behind my shoulder into full view.
I will never forget the look on the face of the Taleban man who sees the camera. He has the most amazing emerald green eyes I have ever seen and even though the game is up I am momentarily captivated by his breathtaking features. I hope he walks away. No chance. He explodes with anger and I am pulled off the donkey, my camera ripped from me. Within minutes an angry crowd of people gathers. This is a nightmare situation and I am relieved to be bundled into a car because I am feeling extremely vulnerable and exposed. I can hear triumphal chanting of “Amreeca spy, Amreeca spy” and “Osama Zindabad” as we drive off. The front seat passenger waves a huge flag bearing Osama Bin Laden’s name from the passenger window. No one in the car speaks English so I give up trying to make myself understood. A man sitting next to me yanks the burqa off my head to reveal my tatty, matted hair.
The car stops and I am pulled out and taken to some high ground. As I look around another crowd gathers and there is a sea of angry faces shouting and screaming as if baying for blood. I am now cold with fear and my mouth is chokingly dry. My shoes are no longer on my feet. This is it. It’s the end. I am going to be stoned to death. I pray the first stone will knock me unconscious. I wonder if I will start crying or pleading for my life. I wonder how much pain I can take and pray it will be over quickly. I’ve never felt so numb. What will happen to my body? Oh God, please help me.
Just then one of the passengers flags down a passing car and asks a woman to step out. He speaks to her and points to me, and the pair of them walk in my direction. The crowd is still chanting and starting to close in. The woman looks at me and begins, very roughly, to search me. A wave of relief washes over me as I realize my captors want to know if I am concealing a weapon. I angrily swing round toward the crowd and make as if to rip off my dress. They scatter in shock and disgust and the woman in the burqa slaps me across the face for acting in a vulgar manner, I fancy. Once again our ever-growing convoy heads off led by a truckload of armed young men who continue to shout and wave flags fanatically. They fire their Kalashnikovs into the air, which is unnerving.
I am paraded around Jalalabad as though I am a trophy. Funny to think I had wandered around freely the day before without attracting a second glance, thanks to the burqa. I and two others are brought to some sort of headquarters and I am placed in a room which contains nothing apart from a beautifully woven Afghan rug and four red mattresses and cushions. My jailer motions to me that he is going to lock the door from the outside and if I want anything I have to knock. Like many Taleban soldiers he is striking and sports a magnificent wild mane of thick, curly hair under his heavy turban. I am frightened and wonder if the outside world will ever find out I am captive. The director of this place visits me and I write down some personal details and tell him I am a British journalist. He is unimpressed and leaves but I manage to hang on to the pen to keep this diary, which I write on the inside of a toothpaste box.
JALALABAD
Saturday Sept. 29
I am introduced to a young Afghan translator who learned English in Pakistan. He is pleasant enough and tells me my decision not to eat is causing great concern. The director comes in and asks why I am not eating. I get the feeling he can speak English but chooses to use a translator called Hamid instead. I say that I can’t eat until I speak with my mother and the Sunday Express to let them know I have been arrested but am otherwise OK.
He seems unmoved but also explains that the communication systems are poor and calls cannot be made to the outside world without a satellite phone. It’s a quiet day although two men from Taleban intelligence have interviewed me. I’ve already apologized for any problems I may have caused and they seem happy about that but they cannot understand why a journalist would be remotely interested in Afghanistan. I’ve told them there are around 3,000 journalists from newspapers, radio and TV in Pakistan and every single one of them wants to find out what is going on in Afghanistan. I wonder if anyone knows yet that I have been caught. Even though I am still not eating they’ve brought in more food.
Suddenly, at around 5 p.m., there is a huge explosion, and much to the amusement of Mounir, I jump. He laughs and grabs for his gun, shouting “Amreeca” and pretending to shoot down planes. Within a flash he is gone and I brace myself for more explosions, but nothing happens. Mounir returns about 15 minutes later looking crest-fallen and explains to me through Hamid that the explosion was caused by a land mine. The fact that someone probably stepped on it, with disastrous consequences, is immaterial. Two hours later I hear semi-automatic fire and believe I must be near some sort of military training camp.
JALALABAD
Sunday Sept. 30
Two Afghan men are brought into my room at 9.30 a.m. and are introduced as journalists from Kabul. I welcome them and am hopeful I might be able to sneak a message to my mother. How wrong I am. Hamid asks me to explain my story and I begin to tell the men when I notice neither has a notebook or pen. I smell a rat and so ask them both to leave, accusing them of being impostors or, even worse, biased journalists under the influence of the Taleban.
After lunch, again uneaten, Hamid arrives with three men who want to question me. He says one is the head of intelligence, a very imposing-looking man with a magnificent black beard and rosy cheeks. His pupils look almost black and shark-like and I feel very wary. They want to know how I got into the country and who assisted me and what part was played by the two men they detained on the same day as me. We go over and over the same questions but we don’t really make any progress and I can tell they are becoming irritated. Time after time I tell them that the two men they have lifted have nothing to do with me and they should be released if they are being held in connection with my case.
Once again I tell them that as part of my professional code of conduct I could never discuss sources or contacts, so I cannot reveal who helped me to enter their country — but the two men they have arrested were nothing to do with it. I reasoned that they of all people should understand my decision to protect my contacts because my reasons are very similar to their need to protect their guests. I’m not sure if the oblique reference to Osama Bin Laden works. They are expressionless as I plead for their understanding on the issue. A doctor has arrived to give me a health check — my Taleban hosts are concerned because I’m not eating. I can’t believe it, my blood pressure is down to normal and he says I’m fine but must start eating again or die. Charming! Oh how I wish I could let everyone know I’m OK. I want Mam to know I have access to a flush toilet and a shower and my room is air-conditioned. I am given a radio to listen to the BBC World Service and am asked if there is anything else I need. Hamid says everyone is bothered that I’m not eating and asks if there’s something wrong with the food, if I have a special diet or would 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 Taleban — trying to kill me with kindness. These people are in many ways like the Gurkhas — mild-mannered, gentle and considerate. Yet when it comes to fighting they are among the most fearsome warriors in the world. I wish everyone at home knew how I am being treated. I bet people think I’m being tortured, beaten and sexually abused. Damn. I’ve somehow managed to break the radio so I still don’t know if the world knows of my plight. But I did hear a bulletin about the eight aid workers who have been locked up in Kabul since August for trying to convert Muslims to Christianity.
JALALABAD
Monday, Oct. 1
The questioning goes on for hours and is repetitive. The atmosphere is tense and I feel nervous. This time I am interviewed by a 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’re 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 exclaim: “Because I wanted to join the Taleban!”
It is a stupid thing to say and probably the sort of comment that could get you shot, and within a nanosecond I regret it. My inquisitors have, until this moment, fixed their gaze on 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 humor one wouldn’t normally associate with the Taleban. I am relieved to know my inquisitors have a sense of humor. Five minutes later it is my turn to laugh when they accuse me of being a secret American agent. “If I am America’s secret weapon then God help America,” I retort, pointing out that a secret agent would have had lots of James Bond gadgets — unlike me, who entered only with a camera. They ask me what pictures I have taken and I say I have little recollection but perhaps they should develop the film. It dawns on me that someone has either opened the camera and ruined the film or, because photography is banned in Afghanistan, there is nowhere to process the film.
There are more of the same questions and my patience snaps. I tell them I cannot answer any more questions and that I have cooperated fully with them. I say again I am sorry for causing them hassle at a time when their minds should be fully concentrated elsewhere. I admit coming into the country without a passport and visa and there’s nothing more to add. I can see they’re irritated but feel the meeting ends on an upbeat note, and they say I should be allowed home in one or two days. I’m happy although I’d been promised the “one or two days” release several times before.
I am relaxing on one of the mattresses when I hear a noise outside. I look out and there’s one of the so-called Afghan journalists with what looks like a satellite phone. He says he’s staying overnight as a guest and wants to help me. He asks for my mother’s telephone number and says he will pass on a message to her. I refuse because she might be more concerned if she hears a strange man on the phone saying I am fine. I beg and plead to use the telephone but he refuses. I then draw the curtains because Mounir comes into my room to see if I need anything. After he leaves I scribble a note to my mother saying I am fine and that Nana (my late grandmother) is watching over me. I send my love to everyone and say to tell Dad I am being brave. I add that I hope Daisy remains at her boarding school where her life will not be disrupted. The note is harmless but it contains things that I know will ease her pain.
I go back to the window and push the note through a hole in the mosquito net. He happily takes it and I indicate that if the note gets through then I will give him a real story to tell. I hope he is genuine 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.
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. There’s a 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 I could escape. They’ve let me keep the burqa. Maybe I can sneak out in the middle of the night. Too risky, but if it becomes dangerous for me here I might have no option.
(to be continued)
— This exclusive interview was given by the Sunday Express of the United Kingdom. Arab News has exclusive rights to publish this in the Kingdom.