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 second part of excerpts from her Afghan diary (The Work).
In her Oct. 1 entry Ridley described how she felt so isolated and spent hours staring out of the window, into the beautiful gardens surrounding the place where she was kept. She even thought of sneaking out in the middle of the night.
JALALABAD
Tuesday, Oct. 2
More questions! They ask me about all my male relatives and the male line of the Ridley family. I can’t remember my grandfather’s name on my dad’s side but they won’t believe it. I tell them I’m single because I don’t think the Taleban will be able to get their heads around the fact that I’m a single mother.
After the questions Hamid returns to my room at 3 p.m. and says I am in serious trouble because Daisy has appeared in the media to order the Taleban leaders to hand over her mummy. He accuses me of lying during questions by saying I am single. I ask him if he understands the concept of divorce and that Daisy’s father and I are no longer together. He leaves the room but looks very unhappy.
It is now 7 p.m. and I have been virtually ignored all day. There’s growing tension in the air and I think I must be doomed. No one can look me in the face when they come to bring and take back the food. I’m confused and very, very scared. Something is in the air. It’s becoming obvious to me now that I am not going home. I wonder if they are going to kill me? I have to do something because I am now becoming very paranoid. There’s an old, rusty razor blade in the bathroom. Maybe I should take it and hide it in my soap. If I am going to die I want to decide on the method myself. But how can they be so nice to me if they are going to kill me? I’ve just slipped out of my room and knocked on the director’s door opposite. I’ve woken up a grumpy man who dismisses me with a look of contempt and a wave of the hand. I’ve never seen him before but he gives me the creeps. I’ve told him I need to speak with the director.
What a night it has been. After my visit to the director’s room Mounir and Hamid come rushing in to see me, saying they’d heard I had requested a doctor. Their faces are full of concern and I say I am OK but need to talk to the director, not the doctor. I tell Hamid that it has become obvious to me that I am not going to leave Afghanistan and that I need a lawyer to sort out my final will and testament. He looks at me strangely and then leaves the room. Half an hour later the director comes in to see me with Hamid to ask what I want. I tell him about the lawyer request and say it’s a basic human right he can’t refuse me.
JALALABAD
Wednesday, Oct. 3
I am given new clothes, which is a great relief. When I was captured, apart from the all-enveloping burqa, I was wearing a traditional Afghan dress and it was horrid. A mixture of polyester and crimplene, it consisted of plain orange trousers and a floral-patterned orange dress. It had a peplum hem and three big flowers on the bodice and the skirt stuck out like a lampshade. There is still no news from the outside and I wonder what is happening. I’ve been told that President Bush has had talks with Taleban leader Mullah Muhammad Omar, and Osama Bin Laden has quit the country, but I can’t believe it. I hope it’s true.
Once again I’m given the silent treatment and I am scared. For some reason I have a great fear of being sent to Kabul. I sing happy birthday to Daisy. She is nine today and I wonder if I will ever see her again. I remember my last conversation with her when I told her that whenever she needed me she just had to shut her eyes and I would be there for her mentally. I feel weepy and very, very sad. Nothing is in my control. Absent-mindedly, I start fidgeting with a string of beads on the new cream and brown outfit bought for me by my captors. Suddenly I have a piece of string and three little baubles in my hand. I look down. I’m not sure what prompts me but I say the Lord’s Prayer and ask for help. Suddenly the fear slowly drains from my body and I feel incredibly strong. It is a deeply spiritual moment although those who don’t know me will probably roll their eyes heavenward.
From that moment on I decide I am going to be the prisoner from hell. I withdraw all cooperation and refuse to answer any more questions. At 7 p.m. I’m told I am going home tomorrow and will be flying out with the group of aid workers who have been charged with trying to convert Muslims to Christianity. My spirits are lifted and I thank God for answering my prayers.
KABUL
Thursday, Oct. 4
I am up at 5.30 a.m. to prepare for my journey to Kabul airport in an hour’s time. I’m excited and agree to eat a piece of bread, which makes everyone very happy. They all seem happy that I am happy. I want to say good-bye to the director before leaving the Jalalabad headquarters of what turns out to be the Taleban’s intelligence division but am told he’s in Kabul waiting for me.
There are a few false starts as usual and I’m told to wait until noon. I am reassured that if I miss the plane there will be one the next day and not to worry. Minutes before noon Hamid knocks on the door and says someone has come to see me. I think he says he is a moulanah and I can tell by the expression on his face all is not well. A tall, slender cleric enters the room and, counting his worry beads in a calculated fashion, he asks me what is my religion and what do I think of Islam. My mouth goes dry as I tell him I am a Christian but he wants to know what sort, so I reply "Protestant". He smiles in such a sinister way I feel I am being led into a trap. I continue that I think Islam is a fascinating religion and admire the way its followers hold such great passions and belief. I add that I will look into the religion further on my return to London.
He smiles again and asks if I want to convert there and then. I thank him but say I can’t make such an important decision while I am in such turmoil and confusion. He responds with another smile and gets up to leave. Minutes later Hamid returns and says my transport is waiting. I nervously step outside and he tells me to put on my burqa. I plead with him to be spared the burqa and a senior Taleban official nods it is OK. Instead he throws a sheet at me and tells me to cover myself. As I walk outside there are around 40 men forming a sort of guard of honor. I smile at all of them and thank them as I walk past to the front seat of a pick-up truck with two armed Taleban guards and the scholastic-looking intelligence officer. It is a deeply emotional moment but I manage to hold back my tears until we drive off, and then they flow down my cheeks. I am going home at last. The journey to Kabul is hellish and takes more than six hours. I see beautiful green plains, rivers and reservoirs, magnificent mountains and literally hundreds of foxholes and caves.
I realize that President Bush’s threat to "smoke them out" is highly unrealistic and futile. The landscape changes to barren wastelands of rubble and scorched earth. We stop several times for the men to pray and carry out their toilet needs. No one bothers to ask if I need a break — women in Afghanistan obviously don’t pee, I think to myself. The road is largely rubble with deep, spine-jarring potholes. Children sit by the dusty roadside and try to fill in the potholes with their bare hands and trowels in the hope of earning a few Afghani notes. There are several villages of single-story, mud-lined brick buildings. The scenes remind me of those illustrated in the children’s Bible given to me when I was 10.
Other villages are completely empty and look half bombed and deserted. I feel as though I am traveling in the sixth century.
We arrive in Kabul and it is night-time. I can’t see the airport and suddenly we swing into a prison. I am shocked and horrified. I am taken in through a small entrance and a cell door is opened where two Afghan women and a crying baby are sitting. Angrily I turn around and scream that I have been lied to. Meanwhile those arrested with me are taken to the male wing of the jail. I refuse to go inside the cell and call the scholastic-looking man and the prison governor liars and bastards. I demand to be put in a hotel overnight and generally become abusive. Just then another cell door opens and six women come outside to ask what is wrong.
It rapidly emerges they can speak English and then it dawns on me who they are. "You are the aid workers," I exclaim. "But I thought you were being kept in a hotel with television, video and many comforts." They laugh and I rapidly explain my dilemma. They offer me a bed for the night in their already tiny, cramped cell and I am grateful to be in English-speaking company and, more importantly female company. I have not seen a woman for many days and they are all strong, intelligent and witty. I am humbled by their strength and inner peace. I silently cry myself to sleep still feeling angry and betrayed and wonder what hope I have left. More determined than ever I promise to become the bitch from hell. It’s a risky game plan but I am afraid if I accept my situation I could end up in this squalid hole for many years to come.
KABUL
Friday, Oct. 5
I wake up feeling disorientated. In the dim light I am staring at a wooden ceiling with rounded wooden beams. For a moment I wonder what I’m doing in a log cabin then the harsh realities of life in a Kabul prison hits me. I talk to the women — two Americans, Heather and Dayna; feisty Australian Diana; and three Germans — Kati, Silke and Margarit. I pulled out my belongings and one of the girls exclaims: "Why on earth did they buy you a wedding dress?"
I look at the white chiffon and gold dress and laugh. I told them the story about the cleric asking me if I wanted to convert to Islam and I joke that maybe they had a husband lined up for me. They are shocked and amused when I tell them I’ve been there and done that three times and God help husband No. 4. It’s a sort of gallows humor but it all helps. I tell them about my game plan to become the world’s most difficult prisoner and they urge caution but my mind is set. Kati asks me if I want to shower and I am delighted that there is one until they tell me it is a euphemism for a bucket of cold water which I can heat up using a small element. She takes me outside and I crank a hand pump for several minutes until water splashes out into the zinc bucket. I then go to the toilet which is a ceramic squatty potty. A delicate, gravity-defying balancing act is required. Thankfully the aid workers have spent money on disinfectant. and made the place cleaner and more hygienic. One of the girls gives me fresh clothes and I wash my brown and cream outfit and underwear using cold water and a pumice stone. I hang them outside on the washing line.
The women are expecting their lawyer that day and begin to write letters for him to take to the outside world. Heartened, I write a note to my news editor, Jim Murray, hoping the Pakistan lawyer will pass it on.
"Jim, this is a hell hole. Please help," is my last line. But the lawyer turns out to be a real jobsworth and refuses to handle the message. The women are also told to remove any reference to me in their mail. It’s as if I don’t exist.
The aid workers believe America will not bomb Afghanistan but I tell them the harsh reality. "It is not a case of if but when. But don’t worry, these smart missiles are accurate to within inches. We will be safe."
I am still on hunger strike though the women refer to it as fasting and again I am humbled when one says she fasted for 20 days with no result. I then volunteer to go on a dirty protest and not wash until I am released. "Don’t you dare," says Diana. "One of us is doing that already and the smell is unbearable, we can’t have someone else joining in."
KABUL
Saturday, Oct. 6
Another dawn breaks and the scholastic man arrives telling me not to worry, I’ll be leaving soon. The prison governor asks for my name to complete my registration and I refuse to answer. He says without my registration I will not be eligible for any food and I tell him I’m on hunger strike anyway.
The women, who speak Pushtu, translate for me. The governor says something and walks off. There is silence so I ask Dayna what he said. She looks upset and finally replies: "He said you can die then". I laugh.
I’d heard in Jalalabad that the Taleban wanted to use me as a hostage to exchange with a Taleban man held in London. "I’m not sure if it’s true," I say, "but I told them my government would never enter into such negotiations, so forget it."
Later, two men from the Foreign Ministry arrive with the governor and announce that I am now their guest and I no longer have anything to do with the intelligence department. I am relieved. At least all this dangerous talk about spying will now be dropped. But then they say they want to spend another two hours questioning me. I go ballistic and say they can all go to hell.
My hands are on my hip and I am tapping my foot as one of the men, Mr. Afghani, who I refer to as the Smiling Assassin, repeats that I am a guest. I scream I am not a guest, I am a prisoner. I say that countries are often judged on the quality of their prisons and this is a squalid hell-hole. I walk past them and spit on the ground and return to the tiny cell occupied by the aid workers.
The Afghans are gobsmacked. I fear I’ve gone too far. A female warder says I will be beaten for being so rude but this makes me more angry. "If I feel pain then I know I am still alive," I bark. Such strong, brave words. The reality is quite different. I am shaking inside as I wait to be hauled off and beaten with a hose — a common occurrence for the local prison population.
The Smiling Assassin returns with another man and I brace myself as I hear them approach the cell door. To everyone’s amazement he has a satellite phone in his hands and tells the women that they can all telephone their relatives. They are so excited, and one after another they chat away, making their first ever emotional calls since their incarceration two months earlier. Only I am excluded. "She cannot call anyone. She is uncooperative and bad. Did you know she spat at us?" one man tells my cellmates. Although I am sad not to speak to my family, I am still very happy for the women. They deserve a break because they are such nice people.
Earlier in the day we heard rapid air fire and bomb-like sounds. That night we learn that two American spy planes, called Drones, had entered into Afghan airspace over Kabul and one had been shot down. The Smiling Assassin punches the air with joy and I feel like smacking him across the face. I suddenly feel very patriotic and proud to be British and part of the allies.
(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.