This is the third and concluding part of experts from British journalist Yvonne Ridley’s Afghan diary. The Sunday Express reporter was freed by the ruling Taleban on Oct. 8, a day after the start of US-led military strikes. Ridley, 43, was seized near the northeast city of Jalalabad on Sept. 28, dressed in a traditional burqa but without any papers. She was caught after her camera was spotted when her donkey tried to bolt, a short way from the border with Pakistan after spending two days in Afgahnistan. Yesterday we published her entry for Oct. 6 in which she described the beginning of the bombing campaign against Aghanistan.
KABUL
Sunday, Oct. 7
The deputy foreign minister, a small, round, jolly-looking man, comes to tell me I will be out soon. I am dismissive but he tells me not worry. "I’m no worried," I shout. "I’m angry. Your words are dust. I trust no one after being betrayed about my journey to Kabul," I shout.
We are in the courtyard and the prison governor looks on in disgust. The aid workers tell me he’s a really nice person but I cannot afford to let my guard slip with anyone. I go over to my blanket and do my yoga. The sun is overhead and the heat is blistering. I am in agony but I need all observers to think I am strong and am not at all concerned about my surroundings.
One of the aid workers offers me a Ken Follett novel called Code To Zero but I don’t want to start reading a long novel so Margrit gives me a book of short stories by Jeffrey Archer. I laugh and say: "He’s in prison and I bet his living conditions are much better than mine."
Prison life is Spartan. The women supplement their prison diet by making a daily shopping list for fresh food and provisions. Their cooking smells delicious but I am still on hunger strike. At least I no longer have eating pangs.
I feel very fragile today. I was kept awake all last night by the screaming of a baby in the end cell. I think it is malnourished. I’m told the two Afghan women with the child were locked up for allowing strange men in their home who wanted to buy carpets from them. The Foreign Ministry man tells me a cell full of junk will be cleared out for me so I can have some privacy. "You might think our prisons are primitive but this is Afghanistan. We have been at war for 22 years. We know you have experienced similar conditions in Iraq," he says with a twinkle in his eye, thinking he has some vital information. Lord knows what he is talking about because I have never been to Iraq.
I know little of what is happening outside except that my newspaper has arranged a series of meetings with the Afghan ambassador in Islamabad and that, according to the prison governor, Tony Blair is on my case. I am overwhelmed: I’m really not that important. Then I am shown a Pakistani newspaper which says I am a member of the Special Forces. I shout to the women: "Oh, we’re OK girls. I’m in the SAS and I’ll get you out tonight by the inflatable helicopter I’ve buried in the courtyard." I want to ring the journalist’s neck. I feel he has signed my death warrant.
The cell has been cleaned out but it looks disgusting. The concrete floor has a huge hole and as I walk in I see some sort of rodent dive into it. My biggest fear is that I will be locked up, so I surreptitiously damage the lock so it doesn’t work.
It is midday so it’s time for me to do my Amazonian stretching exercises and yoga. I bet I look utterly ridiculous. The Taleban guards look on from a distance, fascinated. They probably think I am mad.
The jolly man from the Foreign Ministry arrives and agrees my new cell is inadequate. He apologizes that I’ve been kept cooped up with the aid workers and there seems to be a softening of attitude. I am told to get my things because I am being moved to a comfortable room in the Taleban sleeping quarters.
There’s no time to say good-bye to the women, although one gives me the Ken Follett novel. My new room is above the women’s prison and has huge barred windows overlooking Kabul hill and the city.
There is a single, hospital-style bed and a locked metal cupboard. It is dusk and I switch on the lights to read the book. Within minutes I am gripped — but then suddenly the silence is shattered by huge flashes streaming across the sky.
The thud and the boom make my whole body shudder. Most are distant but one drops very close with an explosion that seems to pierces my eardrums. From my bedroom window I am watching America launch its strike back against terror.
I realize Kabul is being bombed but there is nothing I can do about it. So I go and sit on the bed. Just then the door bursts open and seven to eight Taleban men come running in, which I know is unusual because normally they would knock as they are always respectful. They scramble underneath the bed and pull out a load of rocket-propelled grenades and go into another cupboard to get out ammunition. They also had Kalashnikovs.
I ask them what they think they are doing and they yell "Amreeca, Amreeca," which is their word for Americans. I start laughing and say: "if you think you’re going to hit a B51 bomber with one of those, you may as well go out with a bow and arrow." The prison governor comes in and says don’t worry. But I’m no worried; I know I’m safe.
From the window I can see the anti-aircraft position on top of the hill and spectacular shots raining over the city. All the lights have gone out — either it is deliberate or the electricity has been knocked out. Standing on the window sill, I can see that there are two main targets, one near the airport and another closer by. The windows are shaking with the sound — deep shudders — and you can feel these bombs land. It is quite awesome. I see intermittent jets of fire rising into the air, one after another, and other flashes coming up. Maybe they are beams from the ground to try and illuminate the planes. I suddenly feel extremely happy and patriotic and start singing Rule Britannia at the top of my voice. I feel the adrenaline pumping; thank God something’s happened. That was the reason we journalists were all out here, we were waiting for it.
I am guessing this won’t just be Kabul, it will be all over. For a reporter it’s very frustrating — like a photographer having the most brilliant image in front of him and no film in his camera.
When everything calms down, people’s imagination will no doubt be far worse than the reality. As soon as Bush gets on TV and says "This morning at x-hundred hours we bombed," my family will be so worried. I would give anything just to have a phone to say, "I’m fine."
I never once thought America would hold up military action for one individual — after all, 6,000 died there. But when, after about 45 minutes the bombing stops, the thing I fear the most is a crowd gathering to look for a target and choosing the English journalist. I wait and listen but there are no fanatical outbursts, car bombs or crowds chanting.
The Taleban men come back and put the RPGs under my bed. They seem subdued. they want to shoot something down and have a fight. Like any army, they are trained for this moment and so I guess they are deflated — they are quite helpless and can’t do anything. After I go to sleep, the Foreign Ministry comes round to assure me I am safe but I am blissfully oblivious.
KABUL
Monday, Oct. 8
At 5.3 a.m. I am furiously reading the last few chapters of the Follett novel because it is so gripping. I am excited and ready to leave. Breakfast arrives in the form of green tea and a long piece of lattice bread which tastes like a naan. To show willing I chew at a few pieces.
By 8.00 a.m. I wander out to ask why I haven’t left the prison. I am told to be patient. "More lies," I shout.
I return to my room and lock the door from the inside. I grab a cigarette but I only have one match left. Damn! I light up and chain-smoke six more. I start singing Rule Britannia again. My voice is so shaky, the soldiers outside probably think their leaders are justified in banning singing if everyone sounds like me. I don’t want them to think they have worn me down.
There’s a knock at the door and the jolly man pleads with me to unlock it because my car has arrived but I remain unmoved. Eventually curiosity gets the better for me and I open the door to see the stony-faced prison governor, the jolly man and a few other figures.
They barge in and urge me to sit down on one of the cushions. The prison governor hands me a beautiful thick black velvet dress and says it is a traditional Afghan outfit and would I put it on before I left. The jolly man says: "I came round last night to reassure you after the bombing, but you were asleep."
I reply, "Oh, that. I thought it was a farewell fireworks party from the Taleban." He looks at me and then pays 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 smile warmly at him and apologize for my bad behavior. I turn to the prison governor and thank him for the dress and say however bad I’ve been, he must not take it personally. He looks me up and down and then his stony face relaxes into a warm smile.
Taleban soldiers watch as "Ridley the man woman" is led to a waiting space cruiser. A diplomatic official is to escort me to the border.
As we head through Kabul in the daylight I see two cities. One section is bombed to hell, badly scarred and huge parts are derelict from previous air raids over the years. The other reveals elegant tree-lined avenues where embassies stand empty. The Chinese flag flew high over one magnificent building.
We drive through the winding Kabul gorge, though huge tunnels carved into the rock, on another six-hour journey over rubble and debris. We stop at a restaurant and I have my first meal since going on hunger strike with the diplomat, the driver and two armed guards. We eat in silence.
As we drive through Jalalabad, people come up to the vehicle and shout: "English journalist!" The diplomat is laughing and says: "You are famous in these parts. Everyone knows your face."
As we head toward Torkham we overtake a Datsun pick-up truck where two armed men sit idly in the rear. My eyes meet with one of the men. I cannot believe it — it is the green-eyed man who brought my adventure to an abrupt end.
He looks at me in disbelief and the recognition is instant. The truck overtakes us again and they are shouting at the driver, asking where he is going. I am momentarily fearful they will want to capture their trophy gain but they laugh and seem happy when he says Torkham.
They follow us for the next few miles, shouting to passers-by. These people are amazing. No grudges, no signs of hostility, yet the allies bombed the hell out of them just a few hours earlier.
As we arrive at the border it is dark and we sit at the huge iron double gates that separate me from my freedom and the outside world. There is a tension in the air and the armed guards keep people away.
I quietly will the gates to open and sit through the longest 30 minutes of my life, fearing there has been yet another last-minute hitch. Suddenly the gates open and the car drives five yards.
I step out and television lights shine into my face. I cannot see a thing, as I am momentarily dazzled. A voice shouts out: "How did the Taleban treat you?" All the memories and mind games of the past 10 days flow through my head and I reply: "With courtesy and respect."
I am trying to keep strong, mindful that my parents, family and friends will be watching. I don’t want to cause them more anguish by breaking down in tears. I cannot punch the air with jubilation or really smile ... there are others left behind, far more deserving than me, and that makes me feel sad.
(Concluded)
— This exclusive interview was given by the Sunday Express of the United Kingdom. Arab News has exclusive right to publish this in the Kingdom.