Days of Fear (3 page)

I spend this morning, like every morning, reading. It distracts and relaxes me, carrying me away to far-off lands. I read continually: books on Afghanistan, on Central Asia. I've brought with me all the works of Ahmed Rashid, the Pakistani journalist who introduced me to the world of the Qur'anic students. I reread what he wrote about the Taliban during their offensive.
The Great Game
by Peter Hopkirk—the story of the perennial struggle between England and Russia for control of a country that offered them nothing. Philip Roth's most recent literary effort. And my old and worn edition of
The Plague
, which accompanies me like a lucky charm on every trip I make. Albert Camus is the only writer capable of conveying the real atmosphere of the places he describes, even down to their smells.

The front desk calls: Ajmal has arrived. He's waiting in the lobby of the Serena. From the window I see and smell nothing but city traffic. Everything is covered in dust that rises from streets stripped of their asphalt, covered in dirt that will turn to mud with the first rains, lined with drainage ditches carrying waste from the houses.

Sewer stench filters into my room and forces me to spray deodorant all over, even on the air conditioner outlet.

The Serena is a sumptuous hotel in the Oriental style with large rooms that are almost always being used for conventions, meetings of various kinds, and summits between the Afghan army, ISAF forces, and NATO. There are two restaurants: the classic bistro, with meals arranged circularly inside warmed aluminum containers, suitable for quick snacks and the big brunches held every Friday, the day of rest in Muslim countries; and a Japanese restaurant that even manages to put sushi—a rarity in a landlocked country hemmed in by mountains—on its menu a couple of times a week. The hotel is a kind of bunker. The cement barricades serve to remind everyone of this fact, especially the dappled crowds hanging about beyond them, or circulating in the central bazaar: merchants, artisans, beggars, mutilated and crippled victims of the anti-personnel mines.

Ajmal and I order tea in a small private room in the back of the hotel. We discuss the details of our journey southwards, into the Taliban stronghold. He says everything is ready, the interview has been arranged.

That evening I reach him on his cell phone at the new home he shares with his young wife and ask him for more information: the name of the commander we'll be interviewing and the faction to which he belongs. Ajmal's answers are vague. It isn't clear if he wants to protect his sources or needs time to nail down the final details. I trust him, exactly as I have trusted him in the five years that we've known one another, during which our work together has always gone off without a hitch, without any blunders or setbacks.

We meet again the following day and go to purchase our tickets. Then, we make a quick visit to the Italian military base, Camp Invicta, thirty kilometers south of Kabul. Finally, we go to the market to get my
shalwar kameez
, a traditional outfit comprised of loose trousers under a long tunic open along the sides.

I don't sport this dress to camouflage myself, but out of respect for local customs. When one is a guest in another's house it is considered polite to wear a
shalwar
. Ajmal himself has requested I do so. I choose an electric blue cap called a
pakol
that matches my
patu
, a long shawl one wears either over the shoulder or wound around one's head like a turban.

 

On Saturday, March 3, we get up early. The small twin-engine plane connecting Kabul to Kandahar leaves at eleven, but it's best to get to the international airfield two hours early. Ajmal's younger brother takes us there. Aimal has the same wide face as Ajmal and their older brother, Lehmar, the only two members of the family I have met. They seem to have been cast with the same mold, nearly clones. I leave my bags full of clothes in Ajmal's care and I take charge of the equipment: the GPS, the BGAN antenna—a device that opens like a book and allows you to make a broadband internet connection anywhere—my PC, the small video camera that my colleagues at
La Repubblica
entrusted to me. My report on the Taliban is a big opportunity for everyone. Even the images I've started to collect while in Kabul might be useful as fresh material for stories on Afghanistan.

It has snowed overnight, and this morning the flakes are still coming down, getting heavier all the time. I am starting to fear that the flight may be cancelled. This kind of thing happens all the time in Kabul, particularly during the winter, when it can sometimes snow for five days straight. We take cover in a small bar located outside the airport: a large room with a sheet-metal roof where travelers, crowding together to keep warm, wait for their flights while sipping tea and eating scrambled eggs and meat and tomato croquettes.

We wait for three hours. The snow is still falling at noon, when an airline employee responsible for ingress into the airport bursts into the room and announces that the flight for Kandahar has been cancelled. We go back to the hotel. I'm disap­pointed. There will be more difficulties, I think, further obstacles. Ajmal reassures me. He says that the flight will leave to­morrow, that it's only a short delay. I'm worried about our appointment and afraid that the interview is about to evaporate into thin air. “The Taliban sure aren't going to wait until it stops snowing,” I remark. “Perhaps we should give up.” My interpreter doesn't reply. His gaze, however, is troubled. I shut myself away in the hotel and ask him if we can meet later in the afternoon.

Ajmal arrives on time, like always, and we drink tea. We talk about his latest jobs and he tells me about a voyage he made to Kunar, in the east. “Al-Qaeda's men,” he says, “the famous Arab-Afghans, are dug in over there. They're hiding in a part of the country that I had no idea even existed: an exceptional area, both for the strategic advantages it offers and for its natural beauty: an impenetrable forest that covers the entire side of a mountain. To get there you have to walk for eight hours—serious trekking, you have to be fit. I did it, but it was tough. My companion was forced to give up.” I ask him who his companion was and he utters the same name I have heard many times during our telephone conversations over the past few months. “Claudio Franco, my friend the freelance re­porter. He's Italian but he lives in London. We went together to Kunar,” he explains, his eyes shining with pride and satisfaction. “They even shot at us,” he adds. “A rocket. Lucky for us it missed. It hit a rocky outcrop behind us, right as we were heading into a curve.”

I am dumbstruck. The Mujahedeen's reaction was over the top, to say the least, and I can't understand why. But Ajmal, still smiling, says that Afghanistan is precisely this: one giant civil war that drags on forever. He adds that it was a mistake on their part. The rebels—that's what they call them—are always suspicious. He tells me that he stayed in the area after finding someone to take his friend back to Kabul. “I wandered around on foot for seven days straight,” he recalls. “But in the end I made contact with them again. I explained exactly who I was and what I was doing there. At that point they apologized and agreed to meet me. They consider themselves at war: it's understandable that they react instinctively like that.” Naturally, he didn't meet any al-Qaeda terrorists. “They stay deep in the forest, near their training camp. I met with an emissary midway, in a mountain cabin, where I slept for a while as I waited for nightfall, the only time I could move.”

His stories fascinate me and at the same time they scare me. I am convinced that Ajmal does indeed have good contacts, but I distrust the indecisive, wavering behavior of the insurgents. I'm puzzled by it. I tell him so, and we discuss the question at length. The situation in Afghanistan has degenerated much more that I had imagined. My interpreter listens to my opinions, considers the ifs, ands, and buts aloud, and recites every detail of our journey and the arrangements he's made, listing the names of the sources and the various spokesmen whom he has contacted about the interview.

He demonstrates a deep knowledge of the area we're heading to and of the power relationships between the various Taliban factions. His experience comforts me. He has prepared the meeting with the Taliban military commander down to the smallest detail. He now tells me the name of the interviewee: Mullah Dadullah, emerging leader and commander of Helmand Province. We fix an appointment for the following day and say goodbye.

I wake at dawn and go downstairs to breakfast. Through the window I see that it is still snowing. I shake my head. I'm angry. The flight for Kandahar will be cancelled again. When I call Ajmal, he's still sleeping. He had a bad night, he says. His wife slipped while taking a shower and injured her face and head. Ajmal had to take her to the hospital, where they gave her stitches. He's worried but he's not about to pull out of the trip. The flight, he says, has been confirmed. He called the head of the control tower directly.

I go back to my room and put on my traditional attire for the first time. It fits to a tee, and I feel perfectly at ease. Ajmal arrives, comes straight up to my room, and after a few minutes we leave. In the corridor, some Italian colleagues ask where I'm going. I don't give them any clear answers, hinting at the south. They don't comment, but their interpreter tries to get a few details out of Ajmal. Later he tells me, with a touch of pride, that he didn't succumb to the pressure. Getting the better of your rivals is part of our trade.

We squeeze into a car driven by Ajmal's brother, Munir, and return along the same route we took yesterday. The snow is no longer falling so heavily, the sky looks as if it might open up and far away I see the sun peeking over a thick cloud bank. We may well get off the ground: first Kandahar, then Lashkar Gah. I have a telephone appointment with Giovanni Porzio, a colleague who works for the Italian periodical
Panorama
, with whom I have shared other delicate assignments, the last of which was in So­malia. He says he'll join me; he's still in Herat but he's about to get on the road back.

The small plane lifts off at precisely 11:30, Sunday, March 4. It's a two-hour flight. The seats are all full. The plane will stop briefly in Kandahar and then continue to Na­ranj, in Nimroz province, the extreme southwest of the country. We are flying towards the land of Mullah Omar, the su­preme leader, “Amir ul-Momineen,” the commander of the faithful. We are heading straight to the front in the Taliban war against the forces of the coalition.

 

 

 

 

I
n my readings, Kandahar is always referred to as the city of orange groves. Acres and acres of them spread over an arid plain watered via an irrigation system that was the pride of Afghanistan. The reality is completely different from what I expected. It was the Taliban, as the Pakistani writer-journalist Ahmed Rashid reminds us in his splendid book, who destroyed the orange groves. It may have been out of anger. Or out of negligence. Or it may have been retaliation against the local farmers who opposed the Shariah. During their relentless advance in Afghanistan the Taliban behaved in a similar fashion around Kabul, essentially destroying one of the largest wine-growing areas in the country.

All that remains of the orange groves are a few withered bushes. It's hotter than in Kabul, where, despite the approach of spring, the temperatures are still bracing. The light is strong; the colors are vibrant, yellow and orange dominate. The air is suffocating. There is less dust and less pollution here, but everything around us seems suspended, immobile. American soldiers oversee our arrival.

The terminal is in good shape, almost new, and freshly painted in light blue and white, the national colors. A sign—Kandahar International Airport—bestows a dignified moniker on the edifice. I try to imagine huge jumbos landing on the single runway cut into the desert and unloading droves of passengers still dazed by their long trip. But it's pure fantasy. There's one flight a week, and often it flies straight through to Naranj without stopping. Outside we have to walk down a road full of potholes and rocks to reach Sayed Agha, our driver, who is waiting for us with his brand-new white Toyota Corolla outside the perimeter wall.

 

I don't know Sayed—Ajmal introduces him as his friend. He is considered the best driver in Helmand Province, a real professional. He comes from a small town near Lashkar Gah and his family is one of the most powerful in the area—a large tribe of influential people, three hundred of them bound by close ties—something that comes in handy if you want to move freely in this land of unwritten but inexorable laws. Furthermore, Sayed is Pashtun, which helps more than a little, for Pashtuns represent the majority here and in Afghanistan as a whole.

Tall, plump, brown haired, lighter skinned than my interpreter, Sayed has a round, open face framed by a closely trim­med black beard. He will open his hazel eyes wide during our rare conversations, which amount to little more than gestures (he speaks no English, and I do not know Pashto). He seems like a good kid, though perhaps a little naïve. His body emits a pleasant odor, giving the impression that he washes frequently, as do the majority of Afghans fortunate enough to have been educated. He attends to every particular of his person with great care, which makes him come off as seeming a little vain: nails clipped, traditional white attire, brown wingtips. Sayed is twenty-eight and already the father of four, with a fifth on the way. Ajmal is a bit envious. He, too, would like a big family but he's decided to postpone fatherhood until he gets back on his feet economically, after having paid for his brother's exile in Belgium and his sumptuous wedding. Sayed is a great believer in good form. He feels responsible for what we are doing and the success of our mission. He moves in fits and starts, rather nervously, but nevertheless manages to transmit calm.

I sit down heavily in the back seat, wrap my head in the turban and follow my two guides' orders: “Never speak, not even at roadblocks when the police ask you questions. We mustn't stick out.” Ajmal and Sayed talk and talk, they smile often, they're satisfied, almost excited, about this new job, which promises to increase their standing with the Taliban and open up new contacts among their ranks. I occasionally ask for explanations, trying to get a conversation going. Ajmal translates almost everything with great patience.

 

In a little more than thirty minutes we're in Kandahar. The Afghan National police and army control the access roads to the city, manning roadblocks with concrete barriers and heavy-gauge machine guns protected by sandbags. The soldiers seem nervous. It's obvious they're on the alert for attacks or ambushes. The city, as opposed to the surrounding districts, is firmly in the hands of Hamid Karzai's government. On the streets the traffic is light; there are many buses that operate as collective taxis, and swarms of motorized rickshaws. Pakistan is close. You can feel it. Quetta, considered the center of Taliban activity over the border, is less than eighty kilometers away. We pull into a parking lot protected by high walls and iron grating that belongs to the Continental Hotel, the only safe hotel in the city, a few steps away from the governor's offices. Ten or so rooms, a common room that doubles as a dining room, two shared bathrooms, the reception run by the owner himself, Amanullah.

There's even Internet access. Ajmal and Sayed spend the whole afternoon together talking in their room. I get online to check the news. There's been an attack in Jalalabad, in the eastern reaches of the country, about six hundred kilometers from Kandahar. There are reports of a firefight that turned into a massacre. American troops are suspected of having reacted excessively, firing indiscriminately into the crowd. Rubbernecks had gathered around the site of the explosion, which injured only one soldier, and maybe some of them threw a few stones, maybe someone pulled out a rifle. In these situations anything can happen—all it takes is one wrong move for all hell to break loose. Though it is not clear what, something went wrong there. The American commanders are avoiding official announcements, trying to buy some time, they're not able to reconstruct the dynamics of the massacre, which, in the meantime, has provoked fresh controversy and protests even on the part of the Afghan police. I call the newspaper and tell them I'm in Kandahar. I suggest we run a piece on these events, which have brought tempers to the boiling point. They're even talking about it in the hotel. Someone points out in stilted English that it's always civilians who end up in the middle. I listen, nod, and avoid comment. I get a call from Radio Capital, a radio station affiliated with
La Repubblica
, and I participate in a brief on-air segment in which I describe what I have seen in Kandahar, the people, the place, and the atmosphere.

Then I call Luisella, my wife. I have called her every day, at least twice a day, since we got married. She's concerned, but I don't want her to worry. She has never tried to stop me from leaving on an assignment; she's always been supportive, even when her heart was in her throat. I write a piece for the paper and fall asleep immediately, overwhelmed by exhaustion and tension. I wake after about an hour. Fear, an irrational, instinctive fear, assails me. I think of my children, Michele and Alice. When I'm in Rome we speak to each other rarely, but now I want to call them, hear their voices, know what they're doing. During the call, I avoid conveying my anxiety.

I want to distract myself, to placate the anguish that is growing inside me for no apparent reason. My two collaborators are in their room, talking amiably, their bedcovers wrapped around their shoulders, sipping their umpteenth cup of yellow tea sweetened with candies. Their serenity is contagious, and I manage to calm down. “Let's go take a ride around town,” says Ajmal. It's dark outside. They maintain that this is best time for a tour: people are out on the streets and there is no danger. It could be interesting but I'm not really up to it, tomorrow we'll be leaving very early, it'd be better to rest now and go to bed early. We eat chicken and rice for dinner and drink tea. Beer, wine, and liquor are against the law. You can find them, occasionally, only in a few places in Kabul. But they're still prohibited substances, symbols of the spiritual and moral decadence of the West.

 

Monday, March 5. The big day. The day of the interview. Today we leave for Lashkar Gah, sixty kilometers away. The road is in perfect condition, like those I traveled on in and around Kandahar. This particular is not lost on me: here, in the deep south, an area overrun by Taliban, the national government is on top of things, providing infrastructure to the cities and the districts. There is not a single piece of paper or plastic on the ground, everything is clean, tidy, the complete opposite of the chaos that reigns over Kabul. Ajmal tells me that it's all thanks to the new governor, whose predecessor was killed by a car bomb while leaving his office.

We rise early. The hotel is buzzing with activity; everyone, it seems, is already awake. I watch the other guests as we eat breakfast wondering whether or not they know who we are. I'm always afraid that Afghan intelligence is following us. I feel like I'm caught in a vise: I have to hide from the official authorities and protect myself in my meeting with their enemies, the Taliban. Both are skilled and thorough, and I find myself treading a thin, constantly shifting line between the two.

There's no time to go to the bathroom or to smoke a cigarette. Sayed is in his Corolla with the doors open and the motor running. We're leaving. Now. While I'm paying the bill for our hotel, Hamid, the waiter, makes a subtle sign of farewell. Our eyes meet. He smiles. In the car, I cover my head with my turban, trying to wind it around myself like the Afghans do but without success. I look foolish, awkward. It takes several attempts before I get it right. Ajmal and Sayed watch me in the rearview mirror. They smile, amused by my outfit. But they actually appreciate my efforts, and they know that the men we are going to meet will appreciate them, too. Sayed is more talkative today. I attempt to get an idea of the timing of the interview and where it will be held. He has no idea. We'll see when we get there. The meeting will probably take place in a house; out in the open it would be too dangerous.

We are racing along a road full of buses, mule-drawn carts, new cars, and downright wrecks. We're stopped four times at roadblocks by the Afghan police. They peer hastily into the cabin to ascertain who we are. I don't move a muscle. The turban around my head hangs down to my shoulders. Only my eyes are visible. At the fourth and final roadblock we are told to wait. The police officer looks at me and says something in Pashto. Ajmal and Sayed reply, telling him that I'm a foreigner. That's all they say. Before letting us pass, the officer asks if we can take two other police officers with us. I don't know what Sayed says by way of an answer, but he refuses and I imagine he says we're in a hurry and that we're not heading in the same direction as our two would-be passengers.

Fifty kilometers further on, we turn left on a large sealed road. Our driver accelerates. He glances in the rearview mirror and tells me in a few words of English that last night there was an attack here: a Taliban unit took over a police checkpoint. “It happens all the time,” Ajmal adds. “The police circulate during the day. When night falls they pack up and retreat to the city.” The situation is unstable, says the interpreter. Ten of the thirteen districts in this province are in the hands of the Taliban. The famous “spring offensive” will begin here and the games are already underway. The jihadists intend to conquer the remaining three districts and they rarely pull punches. They attack, they shoot, and they kill. Around here, they prefer open conflict. No suicide bombers. Those kinds of actions are meant for the middle of the country and the north, to spread panic, to lay siege to the central government, to terrorize it. The driver pushes his Corolla up to maximum speed, saying that the road is dangerous, we could be stopped and robbed by bandits. Even during daylight hours, the snares are always waiting. There are no trees, walls, protection. On either side of the ribbon of sealed road, a desert of stone and sand.

I feel vulnerable, easy prey for every kind of thug, militant, or terrorist. I ask how I should behave; I shift positions nervously on the backseat, unable to find a comfortable one, my joints and muscles hurt. Especially my face muscles. They're pulled tight into a grimace that is supposed to be a timid smile. I always do the same thing when I'm nervous: I avoid any outward signs of the tempest raging within me.

 

We finally arrive in Lashkar Gah and I feel safe. My breathing returns to normal. Sayed knows where he's going. He turns and pulls into a street parallel to the one we were on, then into innumerable small lanes. He traces a wide arc and then stops, with the nose of his Corolla pointed at a brown gate. He sounds his horn several times. A kid about eighteen years old comes to open the gate for us. When we're through it, we stop and get out of the car. We're met by a man. He must be thirty, perhaps a little older. Ajmal introduces him as the director of the Afghan NGO that will host us for the next few hours, time enough for Sayed to meet his contact and to confirm the details of the interview. I prefer that he does it alone. Everything has to go off without a hitch. We're meeting the Taliban, and we don't want anything to irritate or worry them. We must also avoid any word of this making its way to the police. The police must know nothing.

There are roadblocks on the way in and out of the city, yet Lashkar Gah is full of Taliban. Not soldiers or militia, but men who sympathize and who consider themselves Pashtun, real Pashtun anchored to tradition. Ajmal can't stand them. “They're lunatics,” he says repeatedly. “They want our country to stay in the middle ages. They're completely out of touch,” he insists, barely containing his anger. “They're light years away from Afghanistan. They don't know anything, they're not aware of anything, they're ignorant. To us, education, knowledge, and culture are tools for life and for progress. They want to lock us away in this enormous prison and isolate us from the rest of humanity.”

 

I see more and more turbans, black, white, and dark gray ones. The colors of the Taliban. As it was in the past, so it is today. I don't see any weapons anywhere, though they are probably hidden somewhere within reach. I spend two hours in the headquarters of the NGO, pacing in and out of the director's room. It serves as his office, but it's also a kind of common room. We drink tea, always accompanied by candies. A woman appears, the first one I've seen in days. She pulls a packet of sweets out of the cupboard and lines the contents up on a tray, which she then offers us. I have cramps in my stomach. I prefer to smoke. I do so outside, out of respect for those who have to put up with a vice that I stubbornly refuse to give up. In the garden around the courtyard there is a man tending to the lawn. He stares at me silently. The woman comes out and signals me to come back inside, they're asking for me. Ajmal and the Afghan volunteer would prefer that I remain inside. We mustn't stick out. My presence might attract too much attention and arouse suspicion.