A Rope and a Prayer (3 page)

“Ghazni is too far,” I tell Tahir. “I only want to do a Taliban interview in Kabul.”

We part ways and Tahir tells me he will contact another Taliban commander who he believes is in Kabul. He promises to call me later that night. I leave with a sense of dread. I have long viewed journalists who interview the Taliban as reckless. Yet I find myself contemplating doing something I have resisted for years.

I was imprisoned for ten days in 1995 while covering the war in Bosnia for
The Christian Science Monitor
. Serb officials arrested me after I discovered the mass graves of Muslim men executed in the Serb-controlled part of Bosnia around the town of Srebrenica. I was freed after my family, friends, and editors put intense pressure on American officials to force the Serbs to release me. War crimes investigators later found that more than 8,000 Muslim men had been executed around the town. My detention in Bosnia was excruciating for my family, and I promised them I would never put them through such an ordeal again. And two months ago, before I left for Afghanistan, I took a momentous step. I married my girlfriend, Kristen Mulvihill.

Kristen is a photo editor at a women’s magazine as well as a painter. Her sunny disposition, determination to see the positive side of everything, and fierce love have created a tranquility in my life. My two years with her in New York left me feeling gradually more at peace and at home. At thirty-nine and forty-one, respectively, Kristen and I are eager to focus more on our personal lives and start a family. To the delight of my ever-patient mother, we married in a small wooden chapel in Maine, a state both of us adore and where we each spent time while growing up. I see our marriage and the book as long-delayed positive steps that will take me away from reporting in war zones and allow me to move into a more stable form of journalism and life.

I am also extremely close to my family. My mother is the most iron willed and loving person I know. She successfully raised four children while having a career as a fashion industry executive. She and my father are divorced but he is dogged, successful, and determined as well. He has built an independent insurance practice and a rich life for himself in Maine, where he loves hiking in the woods, running marathons, and exploring spirituality. My stepparents, Andrea and George, have brought joy to my parents and me for more than two decades.

My older brother, Lee, is president of a small aviation consulting firm and the rock of our family who hides his emotions beneath a calm exterior. My younger sister, Laura, has soared in recent years, thriving professionally in the human resources field, marrying, and becoming the mother of two children. And my younger brother, Erik, has happily shifted from being a police officer and paramedic to a business operations manager for a helicopter ambulance company. He has also become one of my closest friends. After driving across the country together three years ago, we talk by phone once or twice a week. My stepbrothers, Joel and Dan, have become dear friends with whom I share an avid love for Boston sports teams. I have a tremendous amount to return to.

 

 

My cell phone rings at dusk as I am about to begin an interview. Tahir says the Taliban commander he knows in Kabul despises Americans and refuses to meet me, but Abu Tayyeb is willing to be interviewed tomorrow morning in neighboring Logar Province. We can meet him after a one-hour drive on paved roads in a village near an American military base, he says. Abu Tayyeb needs an immediate answer, he adds. The Taliban have ordered local cell phone companies to shut off service after dark to prevent people from reporting their movements to Afghan and American forces. I ask Tahir if he thinks it is safe. The danger, Tahir says, will be thieves abducting us during the drive itself.

“Nothing is 100 percent,” he tells me. “You only die once.”

I feel my stomach churn. My mind races. My trips to Afghanistan and Pakistan have become an increasing source of tension with Kristen, who has asked me to be gone no longer than three weeks. A few days ago, I extended the trip to four weeks after landing an interview with Afghanistan’s president, Hamid Karzai. I called my father and stepmother and canceled a weekend trip Kristen and I had planned to make with them to his college.

Going to Logar seems safer than Ghazni. If I do the Taliban interview, I can return home with a sense that I have done everything I can to understand the country, get the story, and write the best book possible. The interview is just outside Kabul, I tell myself. I would not be going into the tribal areas of Pakistan, as the kidnapped American and British journalists did. This is safer.

“Yes,” I say to Tahir. “Tell him yes.”

Tahir tells me he will call me later to set a departure time. As a precaution, I ask him for the number of a European journalist who has already interviewed Abu Tayyeb twice with Tahir. In the fall of 2007, the reporter spent two days filming Abu Tayyeb and his men as they trained. In the summer of 2008, the journalist spent an evening with them and filmed an attack on a police post. I call the reporter and they say we should talk in person. We agree to meet at a restaurant later that night.

Privately, I am still not sure I will go. I am having dinner with two close friends, an experienced journalist and a veteran aid worker who have both worked in Afghanistan for years. I plan to ask them if the interview is a crazy idea. I hurriedly finish the interview and meet the journalist and aid worker at a new Italian restaurant frequented by foreigners. Concrete blast walls separate it from the rest of Kabul. When I describe the opportunity to interview a Taliban commander, the aid worker immediately opposes it.

“You just got married,” she says.

“But this is what we do,” the reporter interjects.

Then the reporter expresses their own reservations. The journalist says she has never felt the need to interview the Taliban in person and prefers phone conversations. She recommends that Tahir and I hire a driver to serve as a lookout and end the meeting after no more than an hour.

“I know how you drag out interviews,” the reporter says, teasing me.

I leave dinner early to meet the European journalist at L’Atmosphère, a well-known French restaurant in Kabul that caters to Westerners. As I enter I notice that it recently installed a reinforced door to stop suicide bombers. The reporter, who I have never met before, says deciding to go to the interview is my responsibility. I agree and say I know the risk. They point out that as an American I am more vulnerable than a European. But they also believe that Abu Tayyeb will not kidnap us, and that his objective is to use the media to get across the Taliban’s message.

“I think it is a good chance,” they say.

I drive home with an Afghan journalist I regularly work with in Kabul. I ask him about the interview. He tells me not to make the trip. There are many criminals, he says, on the road to Logar.

Back at the
Times
bureau, the power is out, a daily occurrence in Kabul seven years after the American invasion. I had planned to look up other recent interviews with the Taliban but now have no Internet access. I had also wanted to study maps of Logar. All of my colleagues are asleep.

I go up to my bedroom and wrestle with the decision. I put my video camera, a blank notebook, and my passport on the desk. The European journalist has recommended I bring identification to prove who I am. Otherwise, the Taliban will think I am a spy. They said a passport was best. The Taliban see press accreditations from the American government, U.S. military, or NATO as proof of spying.

I tell myself not to be a coward, that the interview is a risk worth taking. Many other journalists have done the same thing. In 2007, at the last minute I had canceled a drive to Kandahar for safety reasons and been embarrassed by it. If we can make it to Abu Tayyeb, I think, we will be safe.

I text Tahir and tell him to pick me up at 7 A.M. tomorrow morning.

As I lie in bed, I call Kristen, as I do every night. I am convinced that if I tell her about the interview she will demand that I not go and I will silently resent her for curtailing my professional life. I also know that if my new wife asks me to cancel the interview, I will abide by her wishes.

I decide not to mention my plans. I am sparing her worry, I tell myself, and sparing the relationship from conflict. I decide I will tell her about the interview after I return to New York.

I have trouble sleeping. My mind drifts to my captivity in Bosnia. I know this is an enormous risk. If anything goes wrong, the results will be catastrophic.

 

 

The next morning, November 10, Tahir arrives fifteen minutes early. The earlier we are on the road, he says, the better our chances of safety. I again tell myself not to be a coward and that other journalists have taken this same risk. I hurriedly put on a pair of boxer shorts my wife gave me on Valentine’s Day followed by running shorts my sister gave me for my birthday. I dress in Afghan clothes so I will not be spotted as a foreigner during the drive. The boxers are emblazoned with dozens of “I love you” logos. I hope they will bring us good luck.

I leave two notes behind. The first is for one of my colleagues in the bureau. It lists Abu Tayyeb’s name, describes the location of the meeting, and instructs them to call the American Embassy if we do not return by midafternoon. The other is to Kristen if something goes wrong. The note is rushed but I hope that Kristen will never see it.

I walk outside and meet Tahir and Asad Mangal, a friend who Tahir has hired to work as a driver and lookout for the day. Asad is friendly and appears to be in his late twenties. It is a gray, cloudy morning. As we drive away, Tahir suggests that we pray for a safe journey. We do.

I call Kristen. It is roughly 11 P.M. in New York. I am nervous and she can sense it. When she asks me what I’m doing, I panic and respond that I am going to an interview at a ministry in Kabul. I am saving her from worrying, I again tell myself, and allowing her to sleep. I do, in fact, have an interview at a ministry, but it is scheduled for later that day—after the one-hour Taliban interview. Then I will fly to Islamabad in the late afternoon for a week of reporting there. I tell her I will call her after I arrive in Pakistan.

“I love you,” I say.

“I love you too,” she replies.

Clad in Afghan clothes and seated in the back of the car, I cover my face with a scarf to prevent thieves from recognizing me as a foreigner. In the car, I get Abu Tayyeb’s cell phone number from Tahir and send it to my colleague in the bureau in a text message. I tell them to call him if they do not hear from me by early afternoon. If something goes wrong during the drive, Abu Tayyeb and his men will rescue us. Under Afghan tradition, guests are treated with extraordinary honor. If a guest is threatened, it is the host’s duty to shelter and protect him.

During the hour-long drive, I delete all the military, intelligence, and government numbers from my cell phone as a precaution. I worry that the Taliban may check the phone and grow suspicious. I fantasize about the relief I will feel as we drive back to Kabul. After the interview, I will have completed the most dangerous portion of the reporting needed for the book. I will have done everything I could. I will be able to start a new life with Kristen.

We arrive at the meeting point in a town where farmers and donkeys meander down the road. But none of Abu Tayyeb’s men are here. Tahir calls Abu Tayyeb, who says an American military operation is going on that morning and he had to change the meeting point. He asks what kind of car we are driving, instructs us to drive down the road another mile, and meet his men there. Asad accelerates down the road. About thirty seconds later, our car swerves to the right and abruptly comes to a halt.

I look up. Two bearded Afghan men carrying Kalashnikov assault rifles run toward us shouting commands in Pashto, the local language. Behind them, a car is blocking the road. The gunmen open the front doors of our car, point their rifles at Tahir and Asad, and order them to get in the backseat with me.

One of the gunmen gets behind the wheel of our car and drives down the road. The other sits in the front passenger seat and trains his rifle on us. Tahir shouts at the men in Pashto. I recognize the words “journalists” and “Abu Tayyeb” and nothing else. The man in the front passenger seat shouts something back and waves his gun menacingly. He is small, with dark hair and a short beard. He seems nervous and belligerent.

I hope there has been some kind of mistake. I hope the gunmen will call Abu Tayyeb. He will vouch for us and quickly order our release, a scenario that played out with the American journalist who ventured to Ghazni.

Instead, our car hurtles down the road, following a yellow station wagon with more armed men in it. The gunman in the passenger seat shouts more commands. Tahir tells me they want our cell phones and other possessions. “If they find we have a hidden phone,” Tahir says, “they’ll kill us.”

“Tell them we’re journalists,” I say. “Tell them we’re here to interview Abu Tayyeb.”

Tahir translates what I say, and the driver—a bearish, bearded figure—starts laughing. “Who is Abu Tayyeb? I don’t know any Abu Tayyeb,” he says. “I am the commander here.”

The first hints of panic creep into my mind, but I try to rationalize what is happening. The gunmen could be thieves or members of another Taliban faction. I know that what Americans call the Taliban is really a loose alliance of local commanders who often operate independently of one another. “Taliban”—Pashto for “students”—is a label of convenience that disenfranchised villagers, hardened Islamists, and criminals all use.

In an ominous sign, we turn left off the main asphalt road onto a dirt track. If we somehow overpower the gunmen in our car, the men in the station wagon will shoot us. I don’t want to get Asad and Tahir killed. My imprisonment in Bosnia ended safely after ten days. I am hoping our luck is as good here. One of the gunmen says something and Tahir turns to me. “They want to know your nationality,” Tahir says. I hesitate and wonder whether I should say I am Canadian. Being an American is disastrous, but lying is worse. If the gunmen search me, they will discover my passport. If I say I’m Canadian and they later find out I’m American, I will instantly be declared a spy.