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April 3, 2002 Outside Kabul, Afghanistan Driving through the wreckage of the Shomali Plain at the end of the day, traveling toward Kabul, the car moves into great white shafts of sunlight blasting through a rift between two mountains, the last energetic burst of a sun on the way down. A few minutes later, orange, purple, pink--all the colors that are sorely lacking in the city--scroll across the sky, above the snow-capped mountains south of the city. The day had been dangerous, and frightening. A CNN staffer is missing. He went to the airport at 4 p.m. to catch the UN flight to Islamabad, Pakistan. The flight was cancelled, and he hasn't been heard from since. CNN stopped by the hotel earlier in the evening, looking for him. He was Czech, a technician. He has disappeared, along with his bags. The hope is that he found himself a different flight, hopped on and didn't think to tell anyone where he was going. The fear is that he has been kidnapped, possibly by Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, who is said to be in The market for a western journalist, a captive bargaining chip, as a piece of political capital. Gulbeddin is the same man who destroyed half of Kabul, the same who told his men to throw acid in the faces of women who didn't cover their faces. It's hard to imagine such a man advertising the fact that he's looking for a captive--wouldn't he just abduct one like anyone else? But with the war being fought by B-52s and A-10 Warthogs, the fear is that the desperados will start picking off soft targets. Gulbeddin was exiled in Tehran until a month ago, when he was squeezed out, supposedly due to American pressure arising from reports that he had been preaching jihad against the American infidels. Robert says Gulbeddin is now in Jalalabad, where he is rabble rousing. Patrick has heard he's in Herat, on the border with Iran. "I ran into a spook in Khost," Patrick tells me. "American?" "No." "British?" "No." "A non-American and non-British spook?" "That's right." "What did he say?" "He told me they found concentrations of al Qaeda in Ghowar, and that that's where the fighting is going to start back up." "That doesn't make any sense. Ghowar is in the middle of the country. Anyone with any sense is going to be hiding in Pakistan, or in the mountains in the east." "That's what he said." "Did he say when?" "No." At this point, I share some intelligence that I picked up at Bagram. "I was talking to a PAO [public affairs officer] at Bagram, and I was trying to get a sense of when the next offensive is going to start, and you know how the PAOs talk in code?" "Right." "Well the PAO said, 'I don't think I'll be telling you any secrets if I told you that Spring has sprung in Afghanistan, and the sap is starting to rise, and young men start wanting to kill each other.'" "Well that's really helpful," Patrick said. "But it fits the general sense we've been getting that the offensive will start in mid-April." "For what that's worth." What's any of this worth? Shooting the military-strategy shit soothes the nerves. I ask Robert, since he's a know-it-all, where I can find a flak jacket. When I was at Bagram, I asked a PAO if I could borrow one from the U.S. military. First she said that it wouldn't be possible, and then she said I might be able to if I went out on a short trip to the field, but that I should try to find my own, and that the best way to find one would be to ask my fellow journalists. Thus Robert. "Just go to Rabat. You can get anything in Rabat--Kalashnikovs, RPGs; they've even got tanks. I was there in January, and they had just gone underground with the stuff--literally. They dug a big hole, drove the tank in, and covered it over with dirt." "Right, but I'm just looking for a flak jacket." A guy who works for the Washington Times said he was shot three times in the back with bullets from an AK-47 when he was in Kashmir. He said the bullets just shredded the Kevlar, cracked the ceramic plate underneath, and punctured the skin-but that was all, and he's alive and still writing for the Washington Times. A jacket sounds like a good idea. "They've got everything. Just drive up to the Afghan gate, make a left, and take a right at the first crossroads. There's a bazaar over a bridge. Just ask anyone." That was last night. I slept through until morning, and I lounged in bed until half past seven. Sleep deprivation is a part of arriving, and sleeping well is a sign of acclimating to life in Afghanistan. A journalist from Quebec arrived two days ago and has barely slept since. John and Faheem wait for me outside at the appointed time, eight a.m. sharp. John, my driver, is 32, and Faheem, my translator, is 19. They are brothers. "German military base," is my command. John punches his white Land Rover into gear. I am very happy to have John working for me. John is the oldest of seven; he is slight, with tan skin and sly, knowing eyes. Faheem is the youngest of seven; he has prominent ears, a long, round nose and heavy eyelids. Faheem acts the part of the youngest child. For one, he speaks English, which is a mark of the younger generation here. Also, he is petulant; sometimes I have to force him to translate against his will, when he doesn't think it's important, and he gets upset that I won't settle for paraphrase and demand precision. John always wears traditional Muslim attire-a salwar kameez, a prayer cap, and the traditional black and white scarf that he throws around his shoulder. John wears a beard, and knows very little English at all--"good," "oh my God" and "problem" are about the extent of his English vocabulary. John is a devout Muslim. He prays; he gets down on his knees, touches his forehead to the ground and prays to Allah. All of these things inspire confidence in him, especially in case I find myself in a situation where I must beg for my life at the hands of Islamic militants. Also, John has good instincts. He was a soldier. He is careful and cautious. With him driving, I never feel like my life will end in a stupid car wreck. The German military compound is situated on the far outskirts of the city. Factories once ringed the road. They're still there, but they're shattered. Everything in this city is wrecked. The front lines shifted all over town, and the entire city got shot up with bullets ranging from 9 millimeters up to 105 millimeters, and rockets and bombs scaling upward from there. The ruination is spectacular and ubiquitous. I wait at the front gate of the German base and take in the scenery: a coil of concertina wire on the road, a trench, another row of wire, a wall topped with barbed wire, and on the far side of the wall, a crude trap made of wooden planks and a cross hatching of razor wire. I note the exquisite ugliness of defensive fortifications; the scene looks like a World War I battlefield--all trenches and wire and sandbags, with a fine dusting of dirt. Light brown afghan soil decorates the trucks, the soldiers' uniforms, and the bunkers. Grass grows in the trench between coils of wire. Springtime in no man's land. Everywhere, sandbag bunkers. One bunker, right at the gate, incorporates a broad iron shovel from a bulldozer, which faces the likely direction of incoming rounds. The bunker has its own barbed-wire perimeter, a sandbag roof, and square sandbag windows for shooting out of. Twenty feet in, there's another bunker, this one with no roof, but with a German soldier standing behind a heavy machine gun with a fluted muzzle. It's early in the morning, and he's yawning. Completing the kill zone is a third bunker, this one small, like a child's playhouse, with a tapered roof. There are more bunkers--on the roof, on the ground floor of a building, in a tower; all have gun placements. In case of a siege, these battle stations will be gunning hot metal. I'm here to attend the weekly German press briefing, which, according to Robert, is occasionally useful. Two teenage soldiers escort me in. They wear smartly cocked red berets. The German rifles are fancy, with the basic elements--stock, sight, clip, and grip--rearranged to look almost space aged. The weapons are equipped with plastic see-through clips so the shooter can see at a glance how many rounds are left. The pressroom is on the ground floor of a stocky, worn out concrete building. There is no press briefing. There is nothing to report, and no reporters to report it. Except me, the news is: Nothing happened. A soldier, Fritz, pours orange juice and points out the German area of responsibility on a map of Kabul. The Germans are part of ISAF, and they patrol the streets of Kabul after curfew. If I like, I am invited to go out on patrol with them. ISAF cars have been taking fire in west Kabul, so if I decide to go out, I'll need a flak jacket. On the way back into town, John and Faheem stop in at Jodah, a neighborhood in the east of Kabul. Jodah sits directly below a hillside, which is picturesque, but unfortunate in times of fighting. Rockets rained down on Jodah, and the neighborhood is in ruins. A broad boulevard is shattered. Every once in a while a building has been left standing. On the side of the road, I spot a shotgun shack, literally. Shells stacked on shelves. There are bandoliers hanging from nails on the roof. Tassels. Guns--a Russian knock-off shotgun. One hundred and forty thousand Afghanis or $22 for a rifle. A 12-gauge gun from Pakistan. For 600,000 Afghanis. One 12-guage bullet for 1,500 to 3,000. On the right, a stadium. Pennants ring the top. "Is that the notorious stadium?" I ask Faheem. "It is." "Did you go there?" "Many times." "What did you see?" "Soccer, boxing, wrestling, judo." "I mean, did you see the executions?" "Yes. Many times. The Taliban forced us to go. They closed all the stores and brought people to see punishment. No one wanted to come. Do you want to go?" he asks. John deposits us in front. The stadium is painted yellow. We walk through a concrete tunnel. On the grass, a judo club is practicing; on the far side, a game of soccer is being played. There is no sign of the executions and dismemberments. The place is full of people selling, playing, sitting, talking, free and open under a clear and sunny sky. There is a picture of Ahmed Shah Massoud, with a quote: "The country that in one century defeated two superpowers will never tolerate pressure from any foreign countries." We have a seat in the bleachers. "Okay, Faheem. What did you see?" "That is where they did the killing. There." Faheem points to the center of the field, where a man sits at a desk. The grass in the area is worn away to a patch of brown dirt. "How did they do it?" "With a gun. They tied their hands behind their back and shot them in the back of the head." "What were the people killed for?" "Bad crimes. Worse than stealing." "Like killing?" "Like killing." "What happened to thieves?" "They would cut the hand. Or the foot." "With what?" "With a knife." "Any anesthesia?" "No. They would put them in a truck and take them to the hospital." "Did they scream?" "Horrible. Horrible screams." Faheem answers in a quiet voice. He seems uncomfortable remembering these things. "Did people make noise--in the crowd-when the people were executed?" "No. Silence. No one was able to speak. Some people would cry." "The women?" "No. The men. Women were not allowed in the stadium." "Did they kill any women?" "They killed, I think three women. I saw them kill three women." "For what?" "For killing their husbands." "Did any of the people struggle?" "Why would they struggle? They know they are going to die. They just sit there and wait." "They killed them sitting down?" "Yes. They killed them sitting down." All throughout the stadium, people are using the space as it was intended to be used--kicking a ball, feigning a karate chop, selling candy. Faheem tells me that a woman snuck a camera into the stadium and videotaped an execution. She hid the camera under her burkha, at the risk of her life. He says the tape can be viewed on the Internet. "Why don't the people abandon the stadium, after everything that happened?" "The Afghan people love sport. Especially soccer." Their best player is Said Taher, a Hazara. "Okay, let's go to Bagram." The familiar trip through the minefields, the killing fields, the battlefields of the Shomali Plain. The place, I learn, was the front line between the Taliban and Ahmed Shah Massoud's Panjshir army for an entire year. Thus the mines, and the razed vineyards and the demolished homes. The ruined armor is mostly from the Russian occupation. "Make a left at the road. Here." At the verge of the Afghan gate, a dirt road I've never taken before. It leads into the villages, far from the rule of Kabul. I peek around a bend in the winding, rutted dirt. A thick creek runs alongside the road. Children stand and stare in front of houses made of mud. The further we drive, the further I feel from safety. Through Faheem, John briefs me--this is a dangerous place. These are dangerous people. They don't' think twice before they kill a person. Be very careful. At the first crossroad, we make a right and stop at a shack. John asks the man inside if there's a bazaar down this way. He says yes. John advises me that we shouldn't ask for the jacket at first, but that we should ask for Chari rifles--old-fashioned hunting rifles-so we can find out where the black market stuff is. Otherwise, we'll scare the guys away, since I'm the white man. The ruts in the road are deep as wading pools. The Land Rover rocks like a boat on the high seas, down, up, pitch and yaw. Finally, there is a village of mud houses. Stores sell cookies, wrapped in bright red foil. A bridge. "We're supposed to cross the bridge." Another village. A long, broad valley, fed by a broad, slow river. In the distance, villages. A C-130 passes by on takeoff. If something goes wrong, I'll be that close, but too far away, from safety. Into the village. An open bazaar of stores and stalls. Fish are being sold, caught in the river nearby. A man pours water over the dead fish to keep them fresh. Shoppers and sellers openly stare at the white Land Rover with the white guy riding shotgun. No weapons out in the open, thena shotgun shack, bandoliers hanging on pegs. I step out of the car. A crowd instantly forms around me. Faheem comes with me to translate. John hangs back, melts into the crowd so he can know what is being contemplated by the mob. A man separates from the crowd and stands with me and Faheem in front of the store. "Do you have any chari rifles?" "No." "No?" "No." "I have some in the village. But it's very far. We can go. It's not a problem." A pickup pulls down the road and stops. In back are six heavily armed soldiers. This squad belongs to the local commander. John opens our car door. The gun seller hesitates. Speaking Dari, John talks him into the car. We close the doors and a have a thin barrier between us and the crowd, which clings to the Land Rover as it rolls. People fall away as we ease into a left turn pull back onto the packed dirt road. The route dips through a stream, then winds through a small wood, with saplings pushing small hard buds. I turn to face the seller. The man's eyes are blue; he wears a turban. His teeth are widely paced and small. "Do you have flak jackets?" "No." "Bullet proof vests. For stopping bullets?" "No." John stops the car. He turns to me. He's nervous. "Do you want to go?" he asks. "Yes." "You want to go to the village?" "Yes, I do. Let's go." We continue. "The truck is behind us," says Faheem. The pickup full of militia has pulled onto the road. John asks me again. "Do you want to continue?" No one feels comfortable, including our passenger. It appears that we are being followed. As a potential western hostage, I represent a big payday to local soldiers, who probably haven't been paid in months. Things could go wrong. "No. Let's go back." John does a three-point turn on the small road, and pulls onto the grass edge to scrape by the pickup. I look ahead, not at the men with guns. There are three men in front, and six in back, bristling with weapons. I notice RPGs. John pulls back on the road, and back to the village. We deposit our charge back in the bazaar. John lectures me on the way to Kabul. "That was very dangerous. They were following us to rob us. They kill each other in these villages. They are simple people. They'll rob you and kill you. Kill you because they're afraid you'll go back to Kabul and say, 'This man robbed me.' It means nothing to them to kill a person." We drive. Back on the dirt road. "Do you think we're being followed?" "Maybe." "Can you drive any faster?" The rest of the trip is quiet. At the crossroads, a heavy machine gun is placed in a bunker that I hadn't noticed before. How I could have missed it? We pull back onto the main road, the tension and fear are finally cut, and I fall dead asleep. |
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