My 10 days in Taleban H*ll Hole (Entire Article

Very long. This is Yvonne Ridley’s exclusive report to the London Sunday Express. She is very English, is excellent at inflating her self-worth, and I bet she was paid by the word. Otherwise, not a bad read. Yvonne had contact with the Christian Aid Society workers.

Yvonne Ridley, 43, a reporter for London’s Sunday Express, was captured by the Taleban as she crossed the border illegally from Pakistan and entered Afghanistan disguised as an Afghan woman without a passport. She was arrested as a suspected spy but was released on the first day of the US bombing campaign.

My plan to go into Afghanistan has been finalized and I am waiting in room 109 at the Crowne Plaza, Islamabad, for my contact to arrive. The famine-hit country I’m about to enter has not known peace for 22 years, and soon the bombs will start dropping. Yet the people themselves have no voice in all this.

Obviously I’m nervous, but the thought of interviewing some of them overrides all else. I only hope I can do justice to their stories. I am disguised in pastel orange trousers, a turquoise top and an oat-colored shawl which covers most of my head. My hair is gelled back with a black dye and my hands are stained a darker shade.

At 8 p.m. our group moves off in two cars into the darkness for a rendezvous at a safe house in Pakistan’s North West Frontier Province. As we arrive, a woman in her 60s quietly ushers us inside. Suddenly she hugs and kisses me. As she cannot speak a word of English, I have no idea what is going through her mind. But her warmth calms my nerves. I am taken through her sparsely furnished living room into a bedroom to find my sleeping companions — eight women and children huddled together in the draining heat below a whirring fan.

It feels as though I have stepped back 10 centuries into a world I had only ever read about in the Bible as a schoolgirl. While they sleep on shallow bed frames with no blankets, I am given the luxury of a single bed with a rock-hard pillow. Amazingly, I manage a few hours’ sleep, somehow comforted by being so close to other people.

Woken at 5 a.m., we drive along a winding road toward the border, in the shadow of the Hindu Kush mountains. By night the road is the haunt of bandits and highwaymen but as dawn breaks it becomes safe for adventurous travelers. There’s no turning back now but I am confident the plan to walk through this Khyber Pass border control will work because soldiers there don’t notice women, especially those who wear the traditional, all enveloping blue burqa — my second disguise. In the unlikely event of being stopped by the Taleban border soldiers, who are armed with semi-automatics and Kalashnikovs, my group has a well-rehearsed cover story. I am a deaf mute called Shameem who is traveling with her husband to a village on the outskirts of Jalalabad to visit his sick mother.

As I cross the dividing line between the two countries, a sense of dread mixed with excitement overwhelms me. I want to tell somebody about my apprehension but I am now an Afghan woman in a world of silence and opening my mouth could cost me my life. I can’t believe the change in attitude by the men once I put on the all-enveloping burqa. From being seen as a Western woman in charge of the operation, I am invisible and insignificant. I am directed to the rear seat of a saloon car with another burqa-clad woman. We pull up near a border restaurant and the men get out to go and eat while the women are left behind. I am absolutely livid but unable to remonstrate with anyone otherwise my cover as a servile woman will be blown.

In the harsh sunshine and stifling heat, I feel I am hyperventilating. The burqa is like an ever-tightening vice around my head and the facial grille is horribly claustrophobic. My temper, like the temperature, is on its way to boiling point as we are left to slowly cook in the car. At Torkham we disembark and make our way toward the Taleban border control. My heart is in my mouth but as it turns out I don’t even rate a first glance. I am as good as invisible.

Welcome to Afghanistan. The area is bustling with fruit stalls interspersed with lock-ups selling motor oils and car accessories. A line of yellow and white cabs wait for passengers and ragged children offer services from shoe-shine to car cleaning. There are a few refugee types but there seem to be more people arriving than leaving and they are nearly all strong, determined young men who stride purposely into Torkham wanting to fight for the Taleban. The taxi ride is not without incident. Two punctures in five minutes do not bode well. It is hardly surprising, given the condition of the roads, which are like dirt tracks in a rock quarry.

The dramatic Hindu Kush mountains give way to flat plains stretching out before us, where spindly corn and sugar cane grow. There is no sign of the Scud missile launchers which are supposed to be pointed at Pakistan. In fact there is no sign of military activity, which seems strange for a country about to come under attack from the world’s most sophisticated war machine.

Fifty exhausting kilometers later, we reach Jalalabad. Armed Taleban soldiers stand at every street corner, but life looks strangely normal. In the bustling marketplace, stalls of pomegranates and fat apples are laid out. Swarms of flies circle the odd bit of meat. There are few women. Men lounge about sipping coffee and sugary green tea, and chew a green tobacco-like substance that I assume is khat, which they spit out indiscriminately with disgusting throaty sounds. I am told to sit on my hunkers and stay still. On my roadside perch I am invisible as long as I remain in my protective blue silk cloak. Once again I feel abandoned, gasping for air and helpless. I dare not utter a sound.

We take another taxi ride on a three-wheeled, gaily painted motorized rickshaw. The town seems to be full of pharmacies and motor accessory shops. Clothes shops are non-existent — possibly something to do with the Taleban leadership’s latest edict: women are forbidden to buy new clothes. Then we take a yellow and white taxi into the countryside north of Jalalabad. Somewhere around here is one of Osama Bin Laden’s base camps but my vision is severely impaired by the dreaded burqa. For all I know the world’s most wanted man might be nearby. The countryside is green and fresh, nothing like one’s image of drought-hit Afghanistan.

Suddenly some mud-caked brick walls loom from nowhere to reveal a typical Afghan village. I venture in with my hosts and there is much excitement as relatives and friends exchange hugs and kisses. I am shown to a long mattress. Exhausted, I drift off to sleep. About an hour later I am gently nudged by a young man who speaks broken English. I am shocked and disorientated because I am supposed to be a deaf mute. Frightened, I realize my cover has been blown but am assured that my secret visit will remain so. We talk about the crisis and soon some 30 men, women and children gather to listen. I explain that for a journalist it is important to find out how they feel, their hopes and fears. They seem kind and generous people, but it rapidly emerges that they have little fear and are prepared to fight for their independence.

A woman with almond-shaped eyes and magnificent cheekbones gently mocks me when I say I have one child. “Only one? Ha! You British and American women can only produce one or two children but I can have 15 and when you run out of soldiers to send to war we will have many replacements. “Our children are born with guns in their hands. They are fighters and will die fighting. It is part of our life and our struggle. If I have to fight, I will — and so will she,” she says, pointing her long, bony fingers at a tiny old woman with a toothless smile whose lined face tells a story of hardship and courage.

“She is over 100 years old and has seen it all before. If the American soldiers come here, I hold no hope for them. We heard about what happened in New York and we are sorry so many innocent people died. I hope the Americans think twice before trying to bomb us but we are not afraid.”

News in these forgotten parts travels by word of mouth, since television has been banned by the Taleban, along with singing, dancing and music. Feeling more confident, I lift my burqa off my face and a young girl begins to furiously fan me to cool me down since by now I must resemble a cooked lobster. One young man says: “I want to study medicine but the schools have been closed down. There is nothing for me here. It is difficult to escape from this poverty and follow my ambitions. Very few of us can afford to have ambitions.” Pointing to a young woman, he says: “She was training to be a doctor when education was suddenly withdrawn from the women.”

I ask if I can take photographs but fear flashes across their faces. Photographs are also banned by the Taleban. The woman who sees herself as a baby machine pulls me outside to have some food. Their generosity is overwhelming and although they have little, they want to share it. I missed the rice, stew and bread which is eaten with skillful fingers, so she hands me a succulent cob of corn and sniggers when I drop it because it is so hot. A few of the other women titter gently as though I am a feeble, soft Westerner. In the company of these women, they are right. A child of about 12 cranks out some cold water from a hand pump in the barren yard with its straw-roofed sun shield. She washes a pile of battered metal plates and pans.

Soon it is time to go and we leave by a tiny exit, no higher than three feet tall, at the rear of the village wall. It is obviously designed for a quick exit. Back on the dirt track we wait for another taxi to take us back to Torkham. Just a few more hours and I’ll be back in Pakistan. But in Torkham fate deals us a severe blow. The border has been shut down by Pakistan and we are forced to take a room for the night. Fearful that the Taleban may have been tipped off about my presence, I suggest that the party splits up, but this is scornfully rejected. The sky is soon black and I am told to stay inside. Women do not wander out at night in Afghanistan. The room is in a type of tavern, although alcohol is banned. There are no windows, no ventilation. The focal point is a magnificent Afghan carpet and nothing else. I try to sleep but a sickening fear keeps me awake.

Unable to sleep, I leave the Spartan room exhausted at about 5 a.m. The stars shine brightly. Another taxi takes us toward the border on a horribly stony track. Emerging bruised and battered after the journey from hell I walk up a narrow pass in cheap plastic shoes which are part of my Afghan attire. The hard plastic cuts angrily into my feet and a blister on my right heel bursts. The pain is unbearable but like everyone else using the illegal routes through Pakistan’s porous border I have to keep going.

When we reach Dour Baba there are quite a few people milling around, mainly men. Camels and trains of donkeys wait to carry goods, chattels and people over the border. I cannot see many refugees heading toward Pakistan and assume that many have gone south toward Quetta. I am told we are “as good as safe” in this area and less than a 20-minute donkey ride away from Pakistan. I heave a huge sigh of relief that I am safe and another that I will be carried by donkey on the final leg of the journey. I am taken to the donkey and climb a platform to sit on its back. Something makes the donkey try and bolt and I shout out. The expression “Flaming Nora!” spills involuntarily from my lips as I bellow my first public words. It is not Pushtu and several people are looking at me. As I try to regain composure I lean forward to grab a rein and my camera drops from behind my shoulder into full view.

I will never forget the look on the face of the Taleban man who sees the camera. He has the most amazing emerald green eyes I have ever seen and even though the game is up I am momentarily captivated by his breathtaking features. I hope he walks away. No chance. He explodes with anger and I am pulled off the donkey, my camera ripped from me. Within minutes an angry crowd of people gathers. This is a nightmare situation and I am relieved to be bundled into a car because I am feeling extremely vulnerable and exposed. I can hear triumphal chanting of “Amreeca spy, Amreeca spy” and “Osama Zindabad” as we drive off. The front seat passenger waves a huge flag bearing Osama Bin Laden’s name from the passenger window. No one in the car speaks English so I give up trying to make myself understood. A man sitting next to me yanks the burqa off my head to reveal my tatty, matted hair.

The car stops and I am pulled out and taken to some high ground. As I look around another crowd gathers and there is a sea of angry faces shouting and screaming as if baying for blood. I am now cold with fear and my mouth is chokingly dry. My shoes are no longer on my feet. This is it. It’s the end. I am going to be stoned to death. I pray the first stone will knock me unconscious. I wonder if I will start crying or pleading for my life. I wonder how much pain I can take and pray it will be over quickly. I’ve never felt so numb. What will happen to my body? Oh God, please help me.

Just then one of the passengers flags down a passing car and asks a woman to step out. He speaks to her and points to me, and the pair of them walk in my direction. The crowd is still chanting and starting to close in. The woman looks at me and begins, very roughly, to search me. A wave of relief washes over me as I realize my captors want to know if I am concealing a weapon. I angrily swing round toward the crowd and make as if to rip off my dress. They scatter in shock and disgust and the woman in the burqa slaps me across the face for acting in a vulgar manner, I fancy. Once again our ever-growing convoy heads off led by a truckload of armed young men who continue to shout and wave flags fanatically. They fire their Kalashnikovs into the air, which is unnerving.

I am paraded around Jalalabad as though I am a trophy. Funny to think I had wandered around freely the day before without attracting a second glance, thanks to the burqa. I and two others are brought to some sort of headquarters and I am placed in a room which contains nothing apart from a beautifully woven Afghan rug and four red mattresses and cushions. My jailer motions to me that he is going to lock the door from the outside and if I want anything I have to knock. Like many Taleban soldiers he is striking and sports a magnificent wild mane of thick, curly hair under his heavy turban. I am frightened and wonder if the outside world will ever find out I am captive. The director of this place visits me and I write down some personal details and tell him I am a British journalist. He is unimpressed and leaves but I manage to hang on to the pen to keep this diary, which I write on the inside of a toothpaste box.

I am introduced to a young Afghan translator who learned English in Pakistan. He is pleasant enough and tells me my decision not to eat is causing great concern. The director comes in and asks why I am not eating. I get the feeling he can speak English but chooses to use a translator called Hamid instead. I say that I can’t eat until I speak with my mother and the Sunday Express to let them know I have been arrested but am otherwise OK.

He seems unmoved but also explains that the communication systems are poor and calls cannot be made to the outside world without a satellite phone. It’s a quiet day although two men from Taleban intelligence have interviewed me. I’ve already apologized for any problems I may have caused and they seem happy about that but they cannot understand why a journalist would be remotely interested in Afghanistan. I’ve told them there are around 3,000 journalists from newspapers, radio and TV in Pakistan and every single one of them wants to find out what is going on in Afghanistan. I wonder if anyone knows yet that I have been caught. Even though I am still not eating they’ve brought in more food.

Suddenly, at around 5 p.m., there is a huge explosion, and much to the amusement of Mounir, I jump. He laughs and grabs for his gun, shouting “Amreeca” and pretending to shoot down planes. Within a flash he is gone and I brace myself for more explosions, but nothing happens. Mounir returns about 15 minutes later looking crest-fallen and explains to me through Hamid that the explosion was caused by a land mine. The fact that someone probably stepped on it, with disastrous consequences, is immaterial. Two hours later I hear semi-automatic fire and believe I must be near some sort of military training camp.

Two Afghan men are brought into my room at 9.30 a.m. and are introduced as journalists from Kabul. I welcome them and am hopeful I might be able to sneak a message to my mother. How wrong I am. Hamid asks me to explain my story and I begin to tell the men when I notice neither has a notebook or pen. I smell a rat and so ask them both to leave, accusing them of being impostors or, even worse, biased journalists under the influence of the Taleban.

After lunch, again uneaten, Hamid arrives with three men who want to question me. He says one is the head of intelligence, a very imposing-looking man with a magnificent black beard and rosy cheeks. His pupils look almost black and shark-like and I feel very wary. They want to know how I got into the country and who assisted me and what part was played by the two men they detained on the same day as me. We go over and over the same questions but we don’t really make any progress and I can tell they are becoming irritated. Time after time I tell them that the two men they have lifted have nothing to do with me and they should be released if they are being held in connection with my case.

Once again I tell them that as part of my professional code of conduct I could never discuss sources or contacts, so I cannot reveal who helped me to enter their country — but the two men they have arrested were nothing to do with it. I reasoned that they of all people should understand my decision to protect my contacts because my reasons are very similar to their need to protect their guests. I’m not sure if the oblique reference to Osama Bin Laden works. They are expressionless as I plead for their understanding on the issue. A doctor has arrived to give me a health check — my Taleban hosts are concerned because I’m not eating. I can’t believe it, my blood pressure is down to normal and he says I’m fine but must start eating again or die. Charming! Oh how I wish I could let everyone know I’m OK. I want Mam to know I have access to a flush toilet and a shower and my room is air-conditioned. I am given a radio to listen to the BBC World Service and am asked if there is anything else I need. Hamid says everyone is bothered that I’m not eating and asks if there’s something wrong with the food, if I have a special diet or would prefer hotel food. They constantly refer to me as their guest and say they are sad if I am sad. I can’t believe it. The Taleban — trying to kill me with kindness. These people are in many ways like the Gurkhas — mild-mannered, gentle and considerate. Yet when it comes to fighting they are among the most fearsome warriors in the world. I wish everyone at home knew how I am being treated. I bet people think I’m being tortured, beaten and sexually abused. Damn. I’ve somehow managed to break the radio so I still don’t know if the world knows of my plight. But I did hear a bulletin about the eight aid workers who have been locked up in Kabul since August for trying to convert Muslims to Christianity.

The questioning goes on for hours and is repetitive. The atmosphere is tense and I feel nervous. This time I am interviewed by a scholastic-looking man and a heavy man with a red beard, and both are intimidating. Their expressions are grim as once again I try to explain why I crossed the border. Hamid is relaying my answers to them, although again I get the impression they already understand what I am saying. Just as I feel we’re making some progress Hamid asks again for me to explain “exactly” why I “sneaked” into Afghanistan. I throw my arms into the air with exasperation and exclaim: “Because I wanted to join the Taleban!”

It is a stupid thing to say and probably the sort of comment that could get you shot, and within a nanosecond I regret it. My inquisitors have, until this moment, fixed their gaze on the wall behind me. Hamid nervously begins to repeat the remark in his native Pushtu when the two men start to shake. Their shoulders begin to move and they burst out laughing to reveal a sense of humor one wouldn’t normally associate with the Taleban. I am relieved to know my inquisitors have a sense of humor. Five minutes later it is my turn to laugh when they accuse me of being a secret American agent. “If I am America’s secret weapon then God help America,” I retort, pointing out that a secret agent would have had lots of James Bond gadgets — unlike me, who entered only with a camera. They ask me what pictures I have taken and I say I have little recollection but perhaps they should develop the film. It dawns on me that someone has either opened the camera and ruined the film or, because photography is banned in Afghanistan, there is nowhere to process the film.

There are more of the same questions and my patience snaps. I tell them I cannot answer any more questions and that I have cooperated fully with them. I say again I am sorry for causing them hassle at a time when their minds should be fully concentrated elsewhere. I admit coming into the country without a passport and visa and there’s nothing more to add. I can see they’re irritated but feel the meeting ends on an upbeat note, and they say I should be allowed home in one or two days. I’m happy although I’d been promised the “one or two days” release several times before.

I am relaxing on one of the mattresses when I hear a noise outside. I look out and there’s one of the so-called Afghan journalists with what looks like a satellite phone. He says he’s staying overnight as a guest and wants to help me. He asks for my mother’s telephone number and says he will pass on a message to her. I refuse because she might be more concerned if she hears a strange man on the phone saying I am fine. I beg and plead to use the telephone but he refuses. I then draw the curtains because Mounir comes into my room to see if I need anything. After he leaves I scribble a note to my mother saying I am fine and that Nana (my late grandmother) is watching over me. I send my love to everyone and say to tell Dad I am being brave. I add that I hope Daisy remains at her boarding school where her life will not be disrupted. The note is harmless but it contains things that I know will ease her pain.

I go back to the window and push the note through a hole in the mosquito net. He happily takes it and I indicate that if the note gets through then I will give him a real story to tell. I hope he is genuine but you never know. I just wish I could speak to my mother and find out how Daisy is. It is her birthday on Wednesday and she will be expecting a card and a present. I wish I knew what was happening in the outside world and if the bombing has started yet. I feel so isolated.

I am spending hours staring out of the window, into the beautiful gardens surrounding this place. I don’t believe it’s a police station. There’s a stream which winds round the garden and glistens in the sunlight.

I wish the SAS would rescue me because I reckon they must be somewhere in the country. I wonder if I could escape. They’ve let me keep the burqa. Maybe I can sneak out in the middle of the night. Too risky, but if it becomes dangerous for me here I might have no option.

More questions! They ask me about all my male relatives and the male line of the Ridley family. I can’t remember my grandfather’s name on my dad’s side but they won’t believe it. I tell them I’m single because I don’t think the Taleban will be able to get their heads around the fact that I’m a single mother.

After the questions Hamid returns to my room at 3 p.m. and says I am in serious trouble because Daisy has appeared in the media to order the Taleban leaders to hand over her mummy. He accuses me of lying during questions by saying I am single. I ask him if he understands the concept of divorce and that Daisy’s father and I are no longer together. He leaves the room but looks very unhappy.

It is now 7 p.m. and I have been virtually ignored all day. There’s growing tension in the air and I think I must be doomed. No one can look me in the face when they come to bring and take back the food. I’m confused and very, very scared. Something is in the air. It’s becoming obvious to me now that I am not going home. I wonder if they are going to kill me? I have to do something because I am now becoming very paranoid. There’s an old, rusty razor blade in the bathroom. Maybe I should take it and hide it in my soap. If I am going to die I want to decide on the method myself. But how can they be so nice to me if they are going to kill me? I’ve just slipped out of my room and knocked on the director’s door opposite. I’ve woken up a grumpy man who dismisses me with a look of contempt and a wave of the hand. I’ve never seen him before but he gives me the creeps. I’ve told him I need to speak with the director.

What a night it has been. After my visit to the director’s room Mounir and Hamid come rushing in to see me, saying they’d heard I had requested a doctor. Their faces are full of concern and I say I am OK but need to talk to the director, not the doctor. I tell Hamid that it has become obvious to me that I am not going to leave Afghanistan and that I need a lawyer to sort out my final will and testament. He looks at me strangely and then leaves the room. Half an hour later the director comes in to see me with Hamid to ask what I want. I tell him about the lawyer request and say it’s a basic human right he can’t refuse me.

I am given new clothes, which is a great relief. When I was captured, apart from the all-enveloping burqa, I was wearing a traditional Afghan dress and it was horrid. A mixture of polyester and crimplene, it consisted of plain orange trousers and a floral-patterned orange dress. It had a peplum hem and three big flowers on the bodice and the skirt stuck out like a lampshade.

There is still no news from the outside and I wonder what is happening. I’ve been told that President Bush has had talks with Taleban leader Mullah Muhammad Omar, and Osama Bin Laden has quit the country, but I can’t believe it. I hope it’s true.

Once again I’m given the silent treatment and I am scared. For some reason I have a great fear of being sent to Kabul. I sing happy birthday to Daisy. She is nine today and I wonder if I will ever see her again. I remember my last conversation with her when I told her that whenever she needed me she just had to shut her eyes and I would be there for her mentally. I feel weepy and very, very sad. Nothing is in my control. Absent-mindedly, I start fidgeting with a string of beads on the new cream and brown outfit bought for me by my captors. Suddenly I have a piece of string and three little baubles in my hand. I look down. I’m not sure what prompts me but I say the Lord’s Prayer and ask for help. Suddenly the fear slowly drains from my body and I feel incredibly strong. It is a deeply spiritual moment although those who don’t know me will probably roll their eyes heavenward.

From that moment on I decide I am going to be the prisoner from hell. I withdraw all cooperation and refuse to answer any more questions. At 7 p.m. I’m told I am going home tomorrow and will be flying out with the group of aid workers who have been charged with trying to convert Muslims to Christianity. My spirits are lifted and I thank God for answering my prayers.

I am up at 5.30 a.m. to prepare for my journey to Kabul airport in an hour’s time. I’m excited and agree to eat a piece of bread, which makes everyone very happy. They all seem happy that I am happy. I want to say good-bye to the director before leaving the Jalalabad headquarters of what turns out to be the Taleban’s intelligence division but am told he’s in Kabul waiting for me.

There are a few false starts as usual and I’m told to wait until noon. I am reassured that if I miss the plane there will be one the next day and not to worry. Minutes before noon Hamid knocks on the door and says someone has come to see me. I think he says he is a moulanah and I can tell by the expression on his face all is not well. A tall, slender cleric enters the room and, counting his worry beads in a calculated fashion, he asks me what is my religion and what do I think of Islam. My mouth goes dry as I tell him I am a Christian but he wants to know what sort, so I reply "Protestant". He smiles in such a sinister way I feel I am being led into a trap. I continue that I think Islam is a fascinating religion and admire the way its followers hold such great passions and belief. I add that I will look into the religion further on my return to London.

He smiles again and asks if I want to convert there and then. I thank him but say I can’t make such an important decision while I am in such turmoil and confusion. He responds with another smile and gets up to leave. Minutes later Hamid returns and says my transport is waiting. I nervously step outside and he tells me to put on my burqa. I plead with him to be spared the burqa and a senior Taleban official nods it is OK. Instead he throws a sheet at me and tells me to cover myself. As I walk outside there are around 40 men forming a sort of guard of honor. I smile at all of them and thank them as I walk past to the front seat of a pick-up truck with two armed Taleban guards and the scholastic-looking intelligence officer. It is a deeply emotional moment but I manage to hold back my tears until we drive off, and then they flow down my cheeks. I am going home at last. The journey to Kabul is hellish and takes more than six hours. I see beautiful green plains, rivers and reservoirs, magnificent mountains and literally hundreds of foxholes and caves.

I realize that President Bush’s threat to "smoke them out" is highly unrealistic and futile. The landscape changes to barren wastelands of rubble and scorched earth. We stop several times for the men to pray and carry out their toilet needs. No one bothers to ask if I need a break — women in Afghanistan obviously don’t pee, I think to myself. The road is largely rubble with deep, spine-jarring potholes. Children sit by the dusty roadside and try to fill in the potholes with their bare hands and trowels in the hope of earning a few Afghani notes. There are several villages of single-story, mud-lined brick buildings. The scenes remind me of those illustrated in the children’s Bible given to me when I was 10.

Other villages are completely empty and look half bombed and deserted. I feel as though I am traveling in the sixth century.

We arrive in Kabul and it is night-time. I can’t see the airport and suddenly we swing into a prison. I am shocked and horrified. I am taken in through a small entrance and a cell door is opened where two Afghan women and a crying baby are sitting. Angrily I turn around and scream that I have been lied to. Meanwhile those arrested with me are taken to the male wing of the jail. I refuse to go inside the cell and call the scholastic-looking man and the prison governor liars and bastards. I demand to be put in a hotel overnight and generally become abusive. Just then another cell door opens and six women come outside to ask what is wrong.

It rapidly emerges they can speak English and then it dawns on me who they are. "You are the aid workers," I exclaim. "But I thought you were being kept in a hotel with television, video and many comforts." They laugh and I rapidly explain my dilemma. They offer me a bed for the night in their already tiny, cramped cell and I am grateful to be in English-speaking company and, more importantly female company. I have not seen a woman for many days and they are all strong, intelligent and witty. I am humbled by their strength and inner peace. I silently cry myself to sleep still feeling angry and betrayed and wonder what hope I have left. More determined than ever I promise to become the bitch from hell. It’s a risky game plan but I am afraid if I accept my situation I could end up in this squalid hole for many years to come.

I wake up feeling disorientated. In the dim light I am staring at a wooden ceiling with rounded wooden beams. For a moment I wonder what I’m doing in a log cabin then the harsh realities of life in a Kabul prison hits me. I talk to the women — two Americans, Heather and Dayna; feisty Australian Diana; and three Germans — Kati, Silke and Margarit. I pulled out my belongings and one of the girls exclaims: "Why on earth did they buy you a wedding dress?"

I look at the white chiffon and gold dress and laugh. I told them the story about the cleric asking me if I wanted to convert to Islam and I joke that maybe they had a husband lined up for me. They are shocked and amused when I tell them I’ve been there and done that three times and God help husband No. 4. It’s a sort of gallows humor but it all helps. I tell them about my game plan to become the world’s most difficult prisoner and they urge caution but my mind is set. Kati asks me if I want to shower and I am delighted that there is one until they tell me it is a euphemism for a bucket of cold water which I can heat up using a small element. She takes me outside and I crank a hand pump for several minutes until water splashes out into the zinc bucket. I then go to the toilet which is a ceramic squatty potty. A delicate, gravity-defying balancing act is required. Thankfully the aid workers have spent money on disinfectant. and made the place cleaner and more hygienic. One of the girls gives me fresh clothes and I wash my brown and cream outfit and underwear using cold water and a pumice stone. I hang them outside on the washing line.

The women are expecting their lawyer that day and begin to write letters for him to take to the outside world. Heartened, I write a note to my news editor, Jim Murray, hoping the Pakistan lawyer will pass it on.

"Jim, this is a hell hole. Please help," is my last line. But the lawyer turns out to be a real jobsworth and refuses to handle the message. The women are also told to remove any reference to me in their mail. It’s as if I don’t exist.

The aid workers believe America will not bomb Afghanistan but I tell them the harsh reality. "It is not a case of if but when. But don’t worry, these smart missiles are accurate to within inches. We will be safe."

I am still on hunger strike though the women refer to it as fasting and again I am humbled when one says she fasted for 20 days with no result. I then volunteer to go on a dirty protest and not wash until I am released. "Don’t you dare," says Diana. "One of us is doing that already and the smell is unbearable, we can’t have someone else joining in."

Another dawn breaks and the scholastic man arrives telling me not to worry, I’ll be leaving soon. The prison governor asks for my name to complete my registration and I refuse to answer. He says without my registration I will not be eligible for any food and I tell him I’m on hunger strike anyway.

The women, who speak Pushtu, translate for me. The governor says something and walks off. There is silence so I ask Dayna what he said. She looks upset and finally replies: "He said you can die then". I laugh.

I’d heard in Jalalabad that the Taleban wanted to use me as a hostage to exchange with a Taleban man held in London. "I’m not sure if it’s true," I say, "but I told them my government would never enter into such negotiations, so forget it."

Later, two men from the Foreign Ministry arrive with the governor and announce that I am now their guest and I no longer have anything to do with the intelligence department. I am relieved. At least all this dangerous talk about spying will now be dropped. But then they say they want to spend another two hours questioning me. I go ballistic and say they can all go to hell.

My hands are on my hip and I am tapping my foot as one of the men, Mr. Afghani, who I refer to as the Smiling Assassin, repeats that I am a guest. I scream I am not a guest, I am a prisoner. I say that countries are often judged on the quality of their prisons and this is a squalid hell-hole. I walk past them and spit on the ground and return to the tiny cell occupied by the aid workers.

The Afghans are gobsmacked. I fear I’ve gone too far. A female warder says I will be beaten for being so rude but this makes me more angry. "If I feel pain then I know I am still alive," I bark. Such strong, brave words. The reality is quite different. I am shaking inside as I wait to be hauled off and beaten with a hose — a common occurrence for the local prison population.

The Smiling Assassin returns with another man and I brace myself as I hear them approach the cell door. To everyone’s amazement he has a satellite phone in his hands and tells the women that they can all telephone their relatives. They are so excited, and one after another they chat away, making their first ever emotional calls since their incarceration two months earlier. Only I am excluded. "She cannot call anyone. She is uncooperative and bad. Did you know she spat at us?" one man tells my cellmates. Although I am sad not to speak to my family, I am still very happy for the women. They deserve a break because they are such nice people.

Earlier in the day we heard rapid air fire and bomb-like sounds. That night we learn that two American spy planes, called Drones, had entered into Afghan airspace over Kabul and one had been shot down. The Smiling Assassin punches the air with joy and I feel like smacking him across the face. I suddenly feel very patriotic and proud to be British and part of the allies.

The deputy foreign minister, a small, round, jolly-looking man, comes to tell me I will be out soon. I am dismissive but he tells me not worry. "I’m no worried," I shout. "I’m angry. Your words are dust. I trust no one after being betrayed about my journey to Kabul," I shout.

We are in the courtyard and the prison governor looks on in disgust. The aid workers tell me he’s a really nice person but I cannot afford to let my guard slip with anyone. I go over to my blanket and do my yoga. The sun is overhead and the heat is blistering. I am in agony but I need all observers to think I am strong and am not at all concerned about my surroundings.

One of the aid workers offers me a Ken Follett novel called Code To Zero but I don’t want to start reading a long novel so Margrit gives me a book of short stories by Jeffrey Archer. I laugh and say: "He’s in prison and I bet his living conditions are much better than mine."

Prison life is Spartan. The women supplement their prison diet by making a daily shopping list for fresh food and provisions. Their cooking smells delicious but I am still on hunger strike. At least I no longer have eating pangs.

I feel very fragile today. I was kept awake all last night by the screaming of a baby in the end cell. I think it is malnourished. I’m told the two Afghan women with the child were locked up for allowing strange men in their home who wanted to buy carpets from them. The Foreign Ministry man tells me a cell full of junk will be cleared out for me so I can have some privacy. "You might think our prisons are primitive but this is Afghanistan. We have been at war for 22 years. We know you have experienced similar conditions in Iraq," he says with a twinkle in his eye, thinking he has some vital information. Lord knows what he is talking about because I have never been to Iraq.

I know little of what is happening outside except that my newspaper has arranged a series of meetings with the Afghan ambassador in Islamabad and that, according to the prison governor, Tony Blair is on my case. I am overwhelmed: I’m really not that important. Then I am shown a Pakistani newspaper which says I am a member of the Special Forces. I shout to the women: "Oh, we’re OK girls. I’m in the SAS and I’ll get you out tonight by the inflatable helicopter I’ve buried in the courtyard." I want to ring the journalist’s neck. I feel he has signed my death warrant.

The cell has been cleaned out but it looks disgusting. The concrete floor has a huge hole and as I walk in I see some sort of rodent dive into it. My biggest fear is that I will be locked up, so I surreptitiously damage the lock so it doesn’t work.

It is midday so it’s time for me to do my Amazonian stretching exercises and yoga. I bet I look utterly ridiculous. The Taleban guards look on from a distance, fascinated. They probably think I am mad.

The jolly man from the Foreign Ministry arrives and agrees my new cell is inadequate. He apologizes that I’ve been kept cooped up with the aid workers and there seems to be a softening of attitude. I am told to get my things because I am being moved to a comfortable room in the Taleban sleeping quarters.

There’s no time to say good-bye to the women, although one gives me the Ken Follett novel. My new room is above the women’s prison and has huge barred windows overlooking Kabul hill and the city.

There is a single, hospital-style bed and a locked metal cupboard. It is dusk and I switch on the lights to read the book. Within minutes I am gripped — but then suddenly the silence is shattered by huge flashes streaming across the sky.

The thud and the boom make my whole body shudder. Most are distant but one drops very close with an explosion that seems to pierces my eardrums. From my bedroom window I am watching America launch its strike back against terror.

I realize Kabul is being bombed but there is nothing I can do about it. So I go and sit on the bed. Just then the door bursts open and seven to eight Taleban men come running in, which I know is unusual because normally they would knock as they are always respectful. They scramble underneath the bed and pull out a load of rocket-propelled grenades and go into another cupboard to get out ammunition. They also had Kalashnikovs.

I ask them what they think they are doing and they yell "Amreeca, Amreeca," which is their word for Americans. I start laughing and say: "if you think you’re going to hit a B51 bomber with one of those, you may as well go out with a bow and arrow." The prison governor comes in and says don’t worry. But I’m no worried; I know I’m safe.

From the window I can see the anti-aircraft position on top of the hill and spectacular shots raining over the city. All the lights have gone out — either it is deliberate or the electricity has been knocked out. Standing on the window sill, I can see that there are two main targets, one near the airport and another closer by. The windows are shaking with the sound — deep shudders — and you can feel these bombs land. It is quite awesome. I see intermittent jets of fire rising into the air, one after another, and other flashes coming up. Maybe they are beams from the ground to try and illuminate the planes. I suddenly feel extremely happy and patriotic and start singing Rule Britannia at the top of my voice. I feel the adrenaline pumping; thank God something’s happened. That was the reason we journalists were all out here, we were waiting for it.

I am guessing this won’t just be Kabul, it will be all over. For a reporter it’s very frustrating — like a photographer having the most brilliant image in front of him and no film in his camera.

When everything calms down, people’s imagination will no doubt be far worse than the reality. As soon as Bush gets on TV and says "This morning at x-hundred hours we bombed," my family will be so worried. I would give anything just to have a phone to say, "I’m fine."

I never once thought America would hold up military action for one individual — after all, 6,000 died there. But when, after about 45 minutes the bombing stops, the thing I fear the most is a crowd gathering to look for a target and choosing the English journalist. I wait and listen but there are no fanatical outbursts, car bombs or crowds chanting.

The Taleban men come back and put the RPGs under my bed. They seem subdued. they want to shoot something down and have a fight. Like any army, they are trained for this moment and so I guess they are deflated — they are quite helpless and can’t do anything. After I go to sleep, the Foreign Ministry comes round to assure me I am safe but I am blissfully oblivious.

At 5.3 a.m. I am furiously reading the last few chapters of the Follett novel because it is so gripping. I am excited and ready to leave. Breakfast arrives in the form of green tea and a long piece of lattice bread which tastes like a naan. To show willing I chew at a few pieces.

By 8.00 a.m. I wander out to ask why I haven’t left the prison. I am told to be patient. "More lies," I shout.

I return to my room and lock the door from the inside. I grab a cigarette but I only have one match left. Damn! I light up and chain-smoke six more. I start singing Rule Britannia again. My voice is so shaky, the soldiers outside probably think their leaders are justified in banning singing if everyone sounds like me. I don’t want them to think they have worn me down.

There’s a knock at the door and the jolly man pleads with me to unlock it because my car has arrived but I remain unmoved. Eventually curiosity gets the better for me and I open the door to see the stony-faced prison governor, the jolly man and a few other figures.

They barge in and urge me to sit down on one of the cushions. The prison governor hands me a beautiful thick black velvet dress and says it is a traditional Afghan outfit and would I put it on before I left. The jolly man says: "I came round last night to reassure you after the bombing, but you were asleep."

I reply, "Oh, that. I thought it was a farewell fireworks party from the Taleban." He looks at me and then pays me a great compliment. "Ridley, you are a man. You are a great game player. Come now, it’s time to go."

For the first time I smile warmly at him and apologize for my bad behavior. I turn to the prison governor and thank him for the dress and say however bad I’ve been, he must not take it personally. He looks me up and down and then his stony face relaxes into a warm smile.

Taleban soldiers watch as "Ridley the man woman" is led to a waiting space cruiser. A diplomatic official is to escort me to the border.

As we head through Kabul in the daylight I see two cities. One section is bombed to hell, badly scarred and huge parts are derelict from previous air raids over the years. The other reveals elegant tree-lined avenues where embassies stand empty. The Chinese flag flew high over one magnificent building.

We drive through the winding Kabul gorge, though huge tunnels carved into the rock, on another six-hour journey over rubble and debris. We stop at a restaurant and I have my first meal since going on hunger strike with the diplomat, the driver and two armed guards. We eat in silence.

As we drive through Jalalabad, people come up to the vehicle and shout: "English journalist!" The diplomat is laughing and says: "You are famous in these parts. Everyone knows your face."

As we head toward Torkham we overtake a Datsun pick-up truck where two armed men sit idly in the rear. My eyes meet with one of the men. I cannot believe it — it is the green-eyed man who brought my adventure to an abrupt end.

He looks at me in disbelief and the recognition is instant. The truck overtakes us again and they are shouting at the driver, asking where he is going. I am momentarily fearful they will want to capture their trophy gain but they laugh and seem happy when he says Torkham.

They follow us for the next few miles, shouting to passers-by. These people are amazing. No grudges, no signs of hostility, yet the allies bombed the hell out of them just a few hours earlier.

As we arrive at the border it is dark and we sit at the huge iron double gates that separate me from my freedom and the outside world. There is a tension in the air and the armed guards keep people away.

I quietly will the gates to open and sit through the longest 30 minutes of my life, fearing there has been yet another last-minute hitch. Suddenly the gates open and the car drives five yards.

I step out and television lights shine into my face. I cannot see a thing, as I am momentarily dazzled. A voice shouts out: "How did the Taleban treat you?" All the memories and mind games of the past 10 days flow through my head and I reply: "With courtesy and respect."

I am trying to keep strong, mindful that my parents, family and friends will be watching. I don’t want to cause them more anguish by breaking down in tears. I cannot punch the air with jubilation or really smile ... there are others left behind, far more deserving than me, and that makes me feel sad.

I find it very odd that while posing as deaf-mute she exclaimed "Flaming Nora" in public, and exposed her camera right in front of the Taliban when she was only "twenty minutes by donkey" from safety. I suppose it may sound a bit too cynical, but I am not at all convinced that she didn't get herself caught deliberately. Grandstanding journalists (and she sounds like a real corker), caught up in the "romance" of war, have been known to take very great and very dumb risks to make a story unforgettable.

With you, beckett. I think this woman is a nut. I can't believe, with the risks she took, that she yelled out in English and allowed her camera to swing out in full view of the Taliban, knowing they can kill a woman for far less. I just don't believe that part of the story.

Sorry, but she sounds like a ditz to me!

Yes, I'm almost glad she was caught (though I certainly want her and especially the other hostages free). She sounds like had she not been caught she would have been giving wild praise for the Taliban in her reports. I mean they catch her and her first thoughts are "I am momentarily captivated by his breathtaking features"...

Ah yes, the super secret B51 bomber! LOL

I am glad that she included so much detail of the Afghan countryside. Combined with the article Guide to the Perplexed on Afghanistan , a picture starts to emerge on the tribes. Yes, they are fierce fighters, but no more than our Confederate soldiers, most of whom were ordinary citizens, not professional soldiers.

I thought it interesting that a cleric gave her the opportunity to join Islam, peacefully. It may have been a while since she set foot in any church or synagogue.

I can't believe, with the risks she took, that she yelled out in English and allowed her camera to swing out in full view of the Taliban, knowing they can kill a woman for far less. I just don't believe that part of the story.

I've been to the North West Frontier Province. Very little of it 'rang true'. I think she's read too many trash romance novels and is trying to get as much mileage out of her experience as possible.

BTW, if she was wearing a burqua there is very little chance of exposing her camera short of throwing the stupid thing up over her head.

I can't believe, with the risks she took...allowed her camera to swing out...

Interesting addendum. I just saw Ridley on NBC's Dateline. Guess what? She left out a crucial detail of her capture by the Taliban. She never mentioned the camera. She never says that the Taliban saw a camera. To Dateline she implies instead that she was thrown from a donkey and made an exclamation in English which attracted attention. But the statement above reads: "I am taken to the donkey and climb a platform to sit on its back. Something makes the donkey try and bolt and I shout out." There is nothing here about getting thrown. She never says she actually sat on the donkey or that she actually hit the ground.

But even more perplexing, why didn't she mention the camera just now on Dateline? And why didn't she mention the two men who were arrested with her, men who she only barely mentions in the piece above? Those guys are probably still rotting in an Afghan jail while she embarks on a global self-promotional tour.

After seeing her on Dateline, I'm more convinced than ever that she deliberately got herself caught.

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