Days of Fear (13 page)

I'm surprised by the fact that they play at all. During the Taliban regime, in addition to prohibitions on every kind of distraction—TV, cinema, books, music, all considered symbols of western perdition—the leaders even went so far as to prohibit kites, which until then had constituted the real national pastime. Now I watch these Taliban playing football in front of Maulvi, who observes them with satisfaction, and commandant Haji Lalai, who shouts, eggs them on, shares their enthusiasm, smiles, and hugs them, these boys who are heading straight into the heart of the jihad. His sudden displays of tenderness make him seem like a protective father. They organize a mini-tournament and ask me to referee, the only role I can perform given that my ankles are in chains.

They follow my instructions and abide by every one of my calls. When I ask them why they are allowed to play soccer when every other form of amusement is strictly forbidden, they reply as one voice: “But this is football!”

 

We are in need of a signal, of something that creates pressure around the negotiating table. In the afternoon of March 15 Maulvi bursts into a cell and orders Ajmal to translate his words. He looks hard at the interpreter, whose face contorts and hints at a repressed sob. My heart is in my throat. “You have to make an appeal,” Ajmal says in a weak voice. “There are only two days left, then they kill us.” I stand up, take the satellite telephone from the mullah, and put it to my ear. I realize that there is no one on the other end of the line—evidently I am to record my appeal. I'm apprehensive, my voice is grave, dramatic: “You must do everything possible, you have to accept the Taliban's conditions. We have only two days left. I repeat: two days remaining before they assassinate us.”

Our captivity has taken a turn. Time is running out. Everyone, first and foremost the Taliban themselves, want to end a game that is becoming too difficult, too exhausting. The Taliban need to get their fighters to the front, they can no longer afford to keep them assigned to our imprisonment. Two hours after the telephone call a young man arrives at the house. His name is Luthar and he introduces himself as an aspiring journalist. It isn't at all clear who he really is. They have given him the job of managing relations with the media. He holds a video camera as he leads me from the room to a field behind the two central buildings. We make a short video, the second. The camera zooms in on my face and I address the Italian government and the parliament. I take a few minutes to think about what I will say and decide to address my message directly to prime minister Romano Prodi.

Behind me, the Taliban fighters stand in a circle, their rifles and machine guns leveled at me, their faces covered by the ends of their turbans. The scene is powerful, threatening. We are hit by gusts of wind full of dust and sand that accentuate the already dramatic atmosphere. After little more than an hour, the cameraman asks me to make a third video. My appeal this time is even more intense. I address the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Massimo D'Alema. I'm increasingly alarmed at this turn of events. I don't understand why they're asking for so many videos in quick succession. They demand a fourth video. The atmosphere is extremely tense. This video will be sent to the editor-in-chief of
La Repubblica
, Ezio Mauro, to the Journalists' Association, and to the National Press Foundation. I implore my colleagues to do something. I say that it's is not just a matter of saving our lives, but a question of freedom of the press and accurate information. I ask them to do everything possible to obtain our liberation. The Taliban do not prompt me in any way; I am the arbiter of my own fate.

 

I speak in English, then in Italian. The cameraman nods. He doesn't look particularly satisfied but he says the videos are fine and that they will be sent, but he doesn't mention where or to whom. I imagine they are destined for TV, but it also occurs to me that they might be sent to the government, to those people involved in the negotiations. I return to my cell and as they close the door behind me, anguish and tension overwhelm me. Again, I feel as if I am suffocating.

 

Friday morning, March 16. Haji Lalai returns. He's calm. He invites Ajmal and me to share breakfast with the others. We discuss various subjects. I listen, reply when questioned, but I am more worried than ever. I reproach myself for the openness I conceded my jailors. I must continue to distrust them. I cannot delude myself into thinking that we're on the verge of a breakthrough, that we will soon be freed. I play around, talk, distract myself, but I have a knife pointed at my throat. I feel that I'm about to collapse. My body and mind are about to give.

 

 

 

 

T
he presence of the Taliban cameraman Luthar comforts me. I try to consider him a colleague, to create a kind of tacit solidarity. He may be capable of understanding my position, the importance of the interview we wanted to do, and the error, at least in terms of their image across the world, that the Taliban are making by holding us captive. I concentrate on his professional sensibilities and insist. He speaks a few words of English, I can talk to him directly and ask him for a more precise picture of what is happening. The videos he shot, the dramatic message—two days left before they kill us—that I left by telephone, clash with the serene atmosphere of only three days earlier. “Has something gone wrong?” I ask. “They can't agree? What are the latest requests? Withdrawal of the troops, prisoner exchange?” The storm of questions overwhelms Luthar and he will only reply vaguely. He wants to be frank but cannot discuss things that are being decided elsewhere, he says. I'm certain that even he is only following orders that come from the Taliban leadership. Our case is in the hands of the Supreme Shura, led by Mullah Omar, the Commander of the Faithful.

Luthar speaks frequently with Ajmal. Both their faces are serious; my interpreter listens and nods resignedly. I ask Ajmal to translate, I try to follow their conversation mainly through the expressions on the face of my interpreter.

 

Commandant Haji Lalai is sitting on a large bedspread in the center of the courtyard. With him are his lieutenant, Ali Ahmad, Mullah Maulvi, and the boys who act as our jailors. We are once again called outside and invited to join the group. Today we will eat together. Only Sayed is missing. It's been a day since he disappeared. They've brought me two packets of cigarettes and a sack of oranges, which I expressly asked for: I was feeling a desperate need for vitamins. Oranges are a rarity in Helmand Province, their cultivation is largely confined to northern Afghanistan and finding them here must have proved difficult. There are a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste in the shopping basket. Finally, after ten days, I can brush my teeth. I do so twice, three times. I look at myself in a little hand mirror that the commandant himself pulls out of his pocket. I have bags under my eyes, my wrinkles have grown more pronounced, they've become furrows that line my hollow, tormented face.

 

Haji Lalai also has a gift for me: an MP3 player. On it, there are one hundred and fourteen suras from the Qur'an, in Arabic. The translation of each sura is displayed on the device's small screen. The commandant hands it to me, encourages me to use it and to follow the translation on the display. I listen to it for a few minutes: it distracts me and helps me to relax. I notice that our curious warders are fascinated by the gift, which they consider a rare privilege.

We eat the same old potatoes with beans, scooping them up with pieces of bread. My stomach is clamped shut and I'm unable to swallow a thing. I take a few more bites then turn to the oranges, which I savor. I take advantage of this luxury, for I doubt I will have any more. There are two oranges per person, and they're distributed to everyone. We eat, we drink some water and then tea, talking all the while about our lives. Maulvi presses me on the criteria adopted by our justice system and on the nature of our sexual relations with our partners. The argument revolves around simple, almost schematic, principles. There is much interest on the part of the Taliban—they desperately want to understand the social norms in the West.

Haji Lalai listens carefully. The boys, respectfully seated at a distance from the group's three leaders, remain silent, their heads hung low. The mullah asks me what the punishment is for murder in my culture. I explain that we have a penal and a civil code, that taking the life of another person is considered very grave, both ethically and morally. Maulvi insists: “But what kind of punishment does your religion reserve for such a crime?” I try to make a distinction, explaining that there are so-called mortal sins for which we must answer before God. I add, however, that in our existence here on earth murderers are subject to man's justice. There is first a trial, then a sentence, and both are based on codes that dictate a certain number of years in prison for the crime of homicide. We are against capital punishment, I add. And there are extenuating circumstances, specific situations. I conclude by saying that in our society forgiveness has an important role, even in the sentencing of a criminal, even one who has committed homicide.

I emphasize the idea of a separation between religious and civil institutions. Maulvi is engrossed. He weighs my words and finally replies: “Things are different here. Religion is the State. Our laws are all written in the Qur'an. If a man kills another man, the family of the latter can, indeed must, execute the killer. If they are unable to do so, we take care of it. We go and get him, and we execute him publicly, in the square, before the eyes of everyone. This house,” he adds, making a sweeping gesture that encompasses the entire property, “be­longed to a murderer. Now it is at our disposal and at the disposal of all who have need of it. Solidarity is very important to us. We help the weak, the infirm, the elderly, widows, the worst off.

“The same thing happens when a man steals,” Maulvi continues. “His right hand is amputated. If he is caught in the act of stealing he loses his left foot as well. It serves as a warning. Around here there are no thieves or murderers. People circulate late into the night, the stores can stay open, the houses have no need of alarms or guards. We live happily, serenely. We feel protected.”

“Is there no such thing as a pardon,” I ask. “Is the idea of forgiveness precluded?” Haji Lalai replies: “These things exist. But they are entrusted to the relatives of the deceased or the victim of a theft. If they invoke clemency, the guilty party is safe. He is free. But we make certain he commits no more crimes.”

Maulvi still has a lot of questions. He asks how we make love, when, and how we behave toward our partners when they are menstruating. If we wash, how many times, before or after intercourse. I respond matter-of-factly, avoiding anything that will offend their sensibilities. Western society, in their eyes, is depraved. Their questions are not the fruit of mere idle curiosity but a search for confirmation. My arguments in favor of the West hinge on the question of freedom of choice, a privilege that our world has earned with sweat and blood, with thousands of battles both won and lost; the price has been suffering and division.

But what really torments the Taliban is AIDS. They consider it a threat and combat it with extremely rigid rules of behavior. Sex must only be engaged in with one's partner. Anyone who violates the rule of monogamy will be stoned. “This is the only way to avoid disease,” says the mullah. “Where you're from, the rules are unclear, they are open to interpretation. There is a lack of certainty. That's why you are surrounded by murderers, thieves, betrayers; it's also why couples in the west fall to pieces over the most minor difficulty. People do not feel safe.” Haji Lalai sighs: “And for these reasons, you are doomed to eternal darkness.” There is silence. We reflect on a debate in which the two sides are unable find points in common, points of contact. The differences are exacerbated by fundamentalism and fanaticism, which allow no room for debate. Their certainty is a pillar that holds up an entire social and civil structure. Any doubt, even the smallest one, would bring everything crashing down around them.

 

There are a dozen or so oranges left. We share them in an atmosphere that grows increasingly relaxed. One piece of orange peel is thrown, then others; there is laughter, friendly jibes, jokes, then a small battle erupts. Before long, the courtyard is covered in what is left of the fruit. I have neither the strength nor the desire to participate in these festivities. Our lives hang by a thread—it's not our party. As the last pieces of peel fly, the satellite telephones begin ringing again. I stand up and am immediately invited to remain where I am. I don't catch what is said on the telephone.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a figure approaching. I turn with a start—my heart is in my throat again. It's Sayed. Sayed, who disappeared almost twenty-four hours ago, is back. He has been shut inside the commandant's pickup all this time. I observe him: his steps are short, the chains are still around his ankles, his hands are tied behind his back, a large white strip of fabric covers his forehead, exactly like those the Taliban fighters wear. His face is swollen, his white
shalwar
stained with dirt and dark patches that could be dried blood. I am relieved: they have beaten him, tortured him, but he is still alive. I stand there with my mouth open and my mind overrun by thousands of thoughts.

None of the soldiers so much as even looks at him. His presence is normal, just as his disappearance was. But what surprises me most in that moment is my recollection of a reply one of the boys, the most mature, the best prepared both physically and militarily, gave me when I asked him about Sayed. He had mimed chains being broken and a homecoming of sorts. “Home,” he said. “Home, free.” Seeing the driver walking towards me, unsteadily, his hands behind his back, after being blindfolded, then shut up in a cell alone, fills me with joy but at the same time it infuriates me. They have been playing games with us again. They continue to tell us countless lies. They are lying when they tell us that we will soon be free and that we'll return home; they are lying when they tell us to be patient. They want us well-behaved, well-fed, healthy. That way, they can kill us at a more opportune moment, perhaps before a video camera, thus immortalizing their crime and disseminating it as a warning. I think of Ajmal and I realize that he's right: he's Afghan, he knows these people. He has learned one lesson the hard way: these people must never be trusted. Never.

 

And the murder, the crude execution, comes an hour later. Luthar arrives riding a black motorbike. He's a little nervous as he explains that we have to make one more video. Yet another. The same story: an appeal, a strong one, to the Italian and Afghan government: there must be no more obstacles to the negotiations. We're on the move again. Commandant Haji Lalai has driven off in his pickup but he will return. We climb up into the back of a new pickup, another Toyota, but not one of the powerful turbo V8s. We settle down as best we can, our hands tied tight behind our backs with lengths of fabric, our ankles in chains. We look Sayed in the face for the first time after his return. He is desperate to talk. He mutters a few words that are obliterated by the roar of the pickup, but communicates above all with his eyes.

Our nine jailors are with us, together with two kids we've never seen before. The Taliban armed with the video camera is also on board. They're all hugging Kalashnikovs and heavy machine guns. We wait for at least half an hour in the middle of a poppy field: the opium poppies look like wild chicory with their pink, purple, red, and yellow petals opening atop a hard bulb at the end of a long stalk. In two weeks the bulb will be sliced open using a special knife with three blades, and overnight a white milky paste that turns dark when it comes into contact with the air will emerge. The following day it will be harvested with a small spatula and placed inside a container that the harvester keeps on a string around his neck. At the end of the day's harvest he will be disoriented due to the extremely strong odor of the opium paste. The work is well paid, they tell me: three hundred dollars for two weeks' work. All males from the ages of eight to sixty, including Taliban, are permitted to work the poppy fields. I look out aimlessly over the acres of cultivated farmland, oblivious of what awaits us.

 

The heat is oppressive and the wait is long. I shift positions in the cargo bed trying to get comfortable but our jailors order me to stay still, hidden under my yellow turban and the green shawl. Luthar, the cameraman, steps down from the cab and in English tells me that the video will be shot in a cooler location. We start moving again. We plough down more paths, cross small bridges, turn onto a side road, wind around a small dyke made of sand, and finally reach a deserted stretch of land on the banks of the Helmand River. I will never forget this place. I will return on other occasions, the last time with Ajmal, right before my release. It will appear often in my nightmares.

 

The truck stops. The river is on our right. The soldiers spread out over the dunes and along the banks of the river to make sure that no one comes near. The commandant's pickup arrives. Haji Lalai hints at a greeting with a slight movement of his hand. Sayed is about two meters away from me. His hazel eyes are wide open. He wants to tell me something. Using small gestures I ask him if they beat him. He nods. A lot. I imagine how and where. But he looks calm now. He's convinced that soon we will be free. He adds: “You and Ajmal to Kabul and then Italy, Europe. I here, I stay in Lashkar Gah.” I feel a surge of emotion, and I console him. I tell him that he, too, after this terrible experience, will be able to leave Afghanistan. I promise him that I will do everything I can to get him a visa. “You too,” I add. “Kabul and then Italy.” We are still sitting, our hands tied behind out backs. Sayed, however, manages to draw near. He looks at me, his eyes imploring: “Car, car. I need a new car for my job.”

His Corolla vanished following the initial ambush. Sayed's chief concern in this moment is how to maintain his wife and four children, with another on the way. He cannot afford the luxury of being unemployed. I am profoundly moved: in these tense moments, in which death is so near you can feel it, Sayed is thinking about work. Despite the violence and the likely torture he suffered during the twenty-four hours he was absent, the driver still has the strength to plan a future for himself and his loved ones. He is serene, and his serenity calms me, too. He must have understood something that I haven't, that I can't possibly understand. I don't speak Pashto.