Taliban - In the Hands of the Taliban

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First published in Great Britain in 2001 by Robson Books,
An Imprint of Pavilion Books Group
1 Gower Street,
London WC1E 6HD

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www.pavilionbooks.com

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Copyright 2001 Yvonne Ridley
Express material Express Newspapers 2001

The right of Yvonne Ridley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Any opinions expressed in this book are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of the publisher or those of Express Newspapers.

First published as an eBook in 2014
ISBN 978 1 909396 70 8

Also avaliable as a Hardback
ISBN 1 86105 495 5

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the publishers.

There are so many people I wish to thank for enabling me to produce this book, which I dedicate to my wonderful daughter Daisy.

I want to thank my mother Joyce, father Allan and sisters Viv and Jill for their love and encouragement; SundayExpress Editor Martin Townsend for giving me the time off to write this book; News Editor Jim Murray and all the staff of the Sunday Express for their unstinting support Im sorry I put you through so much hell. Special thanks also to Richard Desmond for sending Editorial Director Paul Ashford and lawyer Salaya Hussain-Din to negotiate with the Taliban for my release. Thanks to Jeremy Robson and Joanne Brooks of Robson Books, for their editorial skills and also Andy Armitage. Of course the book could not have been written without my release so the Talibans one-eyed spiritual leader Mullah Muhammad Omar should be acknowledged along with Abdullah Mounir who protected me when I was held in Jalalabad. Peace and love to the Shelter Now people who kept me sane when I was held in Kabul. There are scores of others who I should also thank who worked behind the scenes to secure my release including James Hunt, Kevin Cahill, John Mappin, Ian Lynch, Julia Hartley Brewer, Helen Carter, Barbara Gunnell, Tracy McVeigh, Rebekah Wade, Anne Graham, Daoud Zaaroura, Joe Mills, Haji Saab, Lone Wolf and Malcolm X. Extra special thanks to my rock and friend Daphne Romney.

Tuesday 11 September should have been a really pleasant day for me. Although I started the day at the Sunday Express newsroom with six weeks worth of expenses forms to fill in, I was expecting to have a fairly relaxing time. Tuesdays are normally quite civilised days for Sunday newspaper journalists: a day to meet old and new contacts for lunch in the Ivy or Quaglinos followed by some pleasant wine in a local bar and then on to a Soho watering hole.

Unfortunately, however, this Tuesday I had to deal with those expenses forms, a feat that seems to require the mind of an accountant and the memory of an elephant. In the good old days no one questioned expenses or five-hour lunches, but, now that the accountants are steering the running of most national newspapers, things have changed. Pity, because some great stories can emerge during leisurely lunches with story providers.

On top of that I had also promised a good contact that I would visit him in prison following a grave miscarriage of justice. He had been wrongly convicted of perjury no, not Jeffrey Archer. Someone who really is innocent.

Ironically, considering my job as a reporter, I hate working to deadlines. Here I was, at the beginning of the week, with two must dos already. As a result, I was uncharacteristically grumpy and tutted my way through the paperwork. Leisurely lunch? Id be lucky if I had time to grab a cheese-and-pickle sandwich.

As I was determined not to be distracted, my head was bowed and I was ignoring the usual office banter, which can be quite lively. Various colleagues peeled off, leaving me virtually alone in the office.

Our news operation is part of a small enclave in the major newsroom that houses the Daily Express journalists, photographers, newsdesk people, subeditors, graphic artists and other folk who all work to get out the newspaper from an office block on Blackfriars Bridge (known affectionately as the grey Lubyanka).

Slowly, in the middle of this fairly unremarkable day, I became aware of people beginning to cluster in front of the TV sets that are strategically placed around the newsroom. I half turned and was shocked to see running pictures of the World Trade Centers north tower on fire.

It was nearly 2 p.m. and I immediately called my elder sister Viv at her flower shop in Newcastle to tell her to switch on the TV. We had been in New York three weeks earlier and she had refused to queue to go up the WTC because she was more interested in a florists on the ground floor.

I told her the pilot must have had a heart attack or something, and had lost control of the plane, causing it to crash into the WTC. It didnt occur to me that it could be anything else. Later, I cursed myself for not insisting on going up to the observatory.

Viv and I had both fallen in love with the Big Apple and had stayed at the Regent Hotel in Wall Street, where we were treating ourselves to well-earned, five-star, luxury Manhattan style. It was less than two hundred yards away from the WTC and the only five-star-rated hotel in the financial sector. The building was the original stock exchange and had reinvented itself several times since. Now a hotel, it boasts the biggest bath tubs in New York. Pity I just had my big sis to keep me company!

My sister and I had been staying in New York after visiting my eight-year-old daughter Daisy at her summer camp, which was about a two-hour drive away. Daisy was staying there for a total of six weeks. She was entertained every day, had constant care and did not have time to get bored this was much more fun for her than my hiring an au pair in the UK for the summer holidays. (God, why do I constantly feel the need to justify myself when it comes to Daisy, aged eight, going on 38? Shes a fantastic, well-balanced kid and we love each other. I would spend more time with her if I could but the harsh realities of being a single mum and a working journalist make life difficult. Catty remarks from other women certainly dont help, either.)

My memories of New York were in total contrast to the scene that was unfolding before me on TV. Viv was stunned as she listened to my running commentary. Then she hung up to call her husband, Bill Brown, because she knew he had work colleagues in the WTC.