Days of Fear (5 page)

 

Something must have triggered this reaction on the part of the Taliban. I thought about it over and over again during my captivity. It was something I tried to talk about with Ajmal during our long sleepless nights wrapped in the darkness of our cells, whispering words of concern, reproach, courage, and disappointment as we grew steadily angrier at the absurd situation in which we found ourselves, victims of an unforeseen and unforeseeable abduction. Ajmal would shake his head and apologize: “There has been a misunderstanding,” he would say. An error, a misunderstanding. Then, to conclude, with an air of surprise: “I don't understand. The policy of the Taliban has changed all of a sudden. They've never had a problem with journalists. Now they consider us enemies.”

 

 

 

 

I
'm perspiring heavily. Sweat mixed with blood is dripping from my hair onto my face. I try to get a sense of how many and how serious my head injuries are. I can't use my hands, as they're still tied. I ask my captors for help. They look at me in silence and make gestures meant to calm me. They laugh and then become serious all of a sudden. They glance quickly at one another and exchange little guttural noises. Two motorbikes are arriving with four more Taliban on them. Ajmal and Sayed are taken away and thrown back into the Corolla that brought them here. It's not Sayed's car, which has vanished, perhaps hidden somewhere: someone might see it, note the license plate, and alert the police or the Afghan army.

Then they pull me up as well. I cast a final glance in the direction of my two collaborators and tell them in English to stay calm, everything will work out. I'm sure we're heading to our appointment. We'll soon be able to conduct the interview we've been waiting for and put an end to this rather theatrical situation, which, in my opinion, could really have been avoided. I remain composed. The worst is over. For now, they're not going to kill us. The commander must have called, convinced them of their error, and demanded our release. We are the journalists he was expecting.

They put the blindfold back on. I draw in as much air as I can and hold my breath. But I don't protest. I don't want to get hit with a rifle butt again. I obey their orders and they show me respect. This is the first rule we've been able to establish. We all accept it. They push me over to a motorcycle and put a large black plastic bag over my head. The driver of the bike shifts into first. Though my hands are still bound I grab hold of the small rear rack—two pieces of metal. The ride doesn't last long: a few minutes over small hills, a long descent down a dirt track. It is not the same road that Ajmal, Sayed, and I had been on earlier.

I again think of escaping. I imagine the scene: I leap off the bike, then slide, roll, injure myself, free my hands, pull the hood off, and run like mad. I ask myself where I would hide, but above all where I would go, who I could ask for help. It is an impossible endeavor. I would not be capable of such a thing. I'm no soldier. And what's more, I am surprised, confu­sed, but I have nothing to deny, no secrets to protect. I am in the right. Taking flight across this desert would be seen as suspicious, an admission of guilt, the proof that I am indeed a spy. The punishment would be immediate and terrible, perhaps death itself: a blast from a Kalashnikov in the back. The idea alone is enough to paralyze me. Better to stay put, I think, avoid any rash gestures. Better to find a solution to what I still think is a huge, absurd misunderstanding.

 

A house built out of straw and mud bricks. They send us in one at a time. They take off my black hood and blindfold but leave my hands tied. On the dirt floor there are covers, quilts, and a few cushions. There are fifteen or so people inside, the young men who arrested us and a few new faces, soldiers, dressed in the same uniform. They're young, delicate, and serene, the looks on their faces hard but also possessed, at times, of a certain sweetness. I read curiosity in their eyes. I sense that they still have a few doubts. They believe we're spies, me in particular, but perhaps a slight suspicion that we may be telling the truth has taken hold in their minds.

Our fate is hanging by a thread, subject to an order, a clarification, a decision. Ajmal and Sayed, their heads still hooded, are put in a corner. They speak occasionally. Their voices are calm one minute, hysterical the next. I ask that they be untied, or at least that they be permitted to see. Their faces must be uncovered, I say, as if I were giving the orders. I insist that a degree of dignity and respect for universal rules be maintained. There are unwritten agreements that cannot be violated, those pertaining to basic human rights. I speak and ask that my words be clearly translated into Pashto. For the first time I use the word “prisoners.”

They are soldiers, people who are accustomed to orders and discipline, while we are prisoners, but above all journalists. I categorically deny the accusation of being a spy. And my tenacity impresses them. The tension relaxes all of a sudden. My words, translated by Ajmal and perfectly understood by the young soldiers, have had some effect. They look at each other and nod. They take the hoods off my two collaborators and lean their Kalashnikovs and machine guns against a wall in the corner of the room. Finally we manage to converse in a manner that is more relaxed. I talk a mile a minute, more than anyone else. Ajmal has trouble keeping up but he manages to translate my questions and their answers. The Taliban tell me not to worry, they're merely verifying our position. The “investigations” are already underway. There are rules that must be adhered to. They need time. We must be patient. Soon they'll know who we really are.

 

A door has been left open and, through it, I can see that we are being held in a kind of farm. There are high walls enclosing the building we're in, a garden, a farmyard, a few other structures with adjoining yards. I can also see the owner of all this: an old farmer who walks with difficulty, leaning on a stick. His beard is long and white, his tunic, too, is white. He looks friendly, definitely not part of the group. I smile at him, trying to solicit his support, hoping that he, at least, will believe that I am telling the truth.

The farmer enters our room and leaves a tray with glasses and tea on the floor. He hands out candy and cubes of colored sugar. I greet him in Arabic with the classic phrase, “Salam aleik,” peace be with you. I consider it important to show them that I am polite and attentive to good manners. I am polite even when asking if I can smoke a cigarette. They will always allow me to indulge this vice, which for them is forbidden. Maybe because they consider me a kafir, an infidel. Or maybe because they're struck by my courteous ways. Good manners are important, even in extreme situations like this.

The farmer shoots me a serious look. His face is not cruel or evil. He has the air of a wise old man. He leaves the room in si­lence, without intervening. The young men are talking loudly, joking, asking questions, satisfying their curiosity. They keep us tied up but they allow me to explain some technical features of the devices and equipment they've sequestered. They've taken everything: coat, keys, wallet, papers, pens, notepads, watch, and shoes. They've taken all these things from me almost without my realizing it. I'm practically naked. They've searched my companions, too, and confiscated every last object. The Taliban are fascinated above all by my video camera. It's new, very professional, and very alluring. The one who appears to be the boss pulls it out of its case and turns it on, but cannot go any further: he doesn't know how it works. I stand up with my hands tied, turn my back on them and go over to the video camera. I move awkwardly and it's not easy to keep my balance. Smiling, I make a suggestion: untie me and I'll show you how it works. This is the camera I was planning to use for the interview. They agree. When all is said and done, I represent no real threat. I am their enemy, but not a dangerous one. What's more, I have a beard that is long and white. I deserve respect, I tell them. I am “an old man” and they are young enough to be my children, of which I have two, one twenty, the other twenty-four.
They
have always shown me respect.

When they finally untie my hands, I breathe deeply. I look over at Ajmal and Sayed. The interpreter holds his head low, avoiding my eyes. The driver's eyes, on the other hand, are wide open, he's staring at me, shaking his head as if apologizing. This snag has embittered him, as has the attitude of these people. He must have contacted them dozens of times, and though his previous interactions were by telephone, he wasn't expecting such treatment. When all is said and done, they are Afghans, like him. He is not afraid, but his eyes betray stupor, embarrassment, and shame. He speaks non-stop. I don't know what he is saying; Ajmal doesn't translate. He remains silent. I can only hope to intuit the meaning of the conversation through the facial expressions of my interpreter.

In our two weeks together we will be forced to observe almost absolute silence. I will speak rarely, always careful to avoid even the slightest contradiction. I will only say what is necessary and always in the simplest and most direct terms. I learn to control myself, to know what to say and what not to say, to remain silent and answer only when I am interrogated, to argue and provoke when it is the moment to do so, to ask questions and to listen. Dialogue continues to be important for me. I try to study the situation, identify who exactly was behind our capture, who is giving the orders. It is a strategy that has only one objective: to stay alive, to resist to the very end of the nightmare.

 

Three hours already. I no longer have my watch but I ask our captors the time and manage to keep track of the passing hours. The soldiers wear identical digital military-style watches on their wrists that are obviously part of the uniform. They were probably bought in bulk, not in Afghanistan, more likely in Pakistan, as they are modern and sophisticated. We drink more tea. With Ajmal's help we talk about anything and everything: religion, family, loved ones.

An older man sticks his head through an opening in one of the walls, a kind of large window. Like the others, he is dressed in military fatigues, his black turban carefully wound around his head and a small cap on top holding it firm. They address him as Commandant. So, this is the man in charge of the group that captured us. Short, plump, skittish, he has a look on his face that is open and curious. They jump to their feet. He vanishes and then reappears through the main door, bending over as he enters. He looks at me, my driver, my interpreter, and then back at me. He studies the injury on my head, the blood that has run down over my face and stained my shirt and pants. He grimaces as he moves nearer. He's concerned and apologizes on behalf of his men saying it was an unfortunate accident, that this is what happens when one rebels. He says: “You resisted arrest. Our rules and regulations impose a reaction. When one is under arrest, one must obey.” After a brief pause, he continues: “In your country don't the police use handcuffs when they arrest someone?” I explain that there's a difference: handcuffs are only used in exceptional cases. Where I'm from, the police must be very careful because the arrestee has certain rights and assurances. I say these words with a smile on my face that is partly genuine and partly redolent of sarcasm and reproach. I tell him, with Ajmal's help, what I have told the others an infinite number of times. “We're here for an interview that we arranged with a military commander.” I look at Ajmal. “He knows the name.” I press Ajmal. “Right? Tell him what the man's name is?”

Ajmal remains silent. I'm surprised. I can't understand why he's doing this. I feel I can no longer count on him or on Sayed. Perhaps they're too scared. Once more, I try to shed light on the situation. “We're journalists, I'm Italian, you have my passport, you can easily verify that what I'm telling you is the truth. We came here in peace to record the Taliban's position on this war and to ask them about the strategies they intend to employ for the future of Afghanistan.” I leave Ajmal enough time to translate.

The commander listens attentively, without interrupting. When Ajmal has finished, I add: “This does not strike me as the most appropriate way to greet people who are professionals, who came to the south to see and to recount what is really happening. You stopped me, arrested me, tied me up and beat me. I was threatened at gunpoint. We came here in peace,” I repeat. “Armed only with pens, notepads, and video cameras. Where is the commander whom we were supposed to interview?” The man cuts me off. “He's under arrest,” he says. “At this moment, he is sitting in a prison cell in one of our jails. We will deal with him later. He doesn't exist, he's gone, finished.”

 

I have no idea whether this is some banal excuse or the truth—if the latter, it has the potential to bring the world crashing down around me. It's over, I think, we're in it up to our necks. We've been caught in a trap, perhaps one that was laid months ago, planned around a table somewhere. Or maybe it was ordered hastily after someone signaled our presence in exchange for a few dollars. I recall the boy with the green eyes, Sayed's contact: he disappeared during the first frenzied moments of our arrest.

The commander shakes his head, he lifts off my turban and grimaces again—the wound on my head must be serious. He again apologizes and orders his men to get some bandages. I understand from his gestures that my wounds need attention, that I risk developing an infection. He consults with his men and then says: “We arrested you because you entered Taliban territory illegally. We're convinced that you are English spies. You say you're journalists. We must verify some things, and it will take time. If we discover that you are spies we will kill you immediately. If, on the other hand, you really are journalists, we'll ask to exchange you for some of our comrades in prison.” I stiffen. I understand now that they have indeed arrested us. I react as a journalist. “But the interview,” I ask. “Is it still possible to do the interview? With you, Commander,” I suggest. “We could interview you.”

I discover that I am no longer afraid. On the contrary, the commander's visit, the chance to speak with a higher-ranking officer, has reassured me. I feel somehow less vulnerable. I am once again a simple reporter who has become the victim of a misunderstanding or a trivial mix-up. Maybe someone tried to be clever and is now paying the price for having overstepped his authority without permission from the local command. I glance reproachfully at my two collaborators and shake my head. I invite Sayed and Ajmal to clarify everything, decisively and definitively, to put a stop once and for all to this mechanism that I still refuse to accept. At first, they reply in monosyllables, then the driver launches into a long and complex discourse. I don't know if what he says is the explanation I requested or an attempt to attenuate the tension that is beginning to mount once more. Ajmal is categorical with me. “They say we're spies. Asking, clarifying, protesting, it's all useless. They always respond in the same way: we're spies.”