Blood, tears, terror and tragedy
behind the lines
The News, Nov 27, 2001 The Independent
By Robert Fisk who is the only Western journalist in Taliban-held
KANDAHAR: "You'll never get through," the Taliban
man shouted at me. "The Northern Alliance are shooting into Takhta-Pul and
the Americans are bombing the centre of the town." "Impossible,"
Takhta-Pul is only 24 miles away, a few minutes ride from the
Afghan border town of Spin Boldak. But then a refugee with a cracked face and
white hair matting the brow below his brown turban he looked 70 but said he was
only 36 stumbled up to us.
"The Americans just destroyed our homes," he cried.
"I saw my house disappear. It was a big plane that spat smoke and soaked
the ground with fire." For a man who couldn't read and had never left
Kandahar province in all his life, it was a chilling enough description of the
Spectre, the American "bumble bee" aircraft that picks off militiamen
and civilians with equal ferocity. And down the tree-lined road came hundreds
more refugees old women with dark faces and babies carried in the arms of young
women in burqas and boys with tears on their faces all telling the same stories.
Mulla Abdul Rahman slumped down beside me, passed his hand
over the sweat on his face and told me how his brother a fighter in the same
town had just escaped. "There was a plane that shot rockets out of its
side," he said, shaking his head. "It almost killed my brother today.
It hit many people." So this is what it's like to be on the losing side in
the American-Afghan bloodbath.
Everywhere it was the same story of desperation and terror and
courage. An American F-18 soared above us as a middle-aged man approached me
with angry eyes. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he screamed.
"Sheikh Osama is an excuse to do this to the Islamic people." I
pleaded with yet another Taliban fighter a 35-year-old man with five children
called Jamaldan to honour his government's promise to get me to Kandahar. He
looked at me pityingly. "How can I get you there," he asked,
"when we can hardly protect ourselves?"
The implications are astonishing. The road from the Iranian
border town of Zabul to Kandahar has been cut by Afghan gunmen and US special
forces. The Americans were bombing civilian traffic and the Taliban on the road
to Spin Boldak, and Northern Alliance troops were firing across the highway.
Takhta-Pul was under fire from American guns and besieged by
the Alliance. Kandahar was being surrounded. No wonder I found the local Taliban
commander, the thoughtful and intelligent Mulla Haqqani, preparing to cross the
Pakistani border to Quetta for "medical reasons".
Kandahar may not be the Taliban Stalingrad not yet but tragedy
was the word that came to mind. Out of a dust-storm came a woman in a grey
shawl. "I lost my daughter two days ago," she wailed. "The
Americans bombed our home in Kandahar and the roof fell on her."
Amid the chaos and shouting, I did what reporters do. Out came
my notebook and pen. Name? "Muzlifa." Age? "She was two." I
turn away. "Then there was my other daughter." She nods when I ask if
this girl died too. "At the same moment. Her name was Farigha. She was
three." I turn away. "There wasn't much left of my son." Notebook
out for the third time. "When the roof hit him, he was turned to meat and
all I could see were bones. His name was Sherif. He was a year and a half
They came out of a blizzard of sand, these people, each with
their story of blood. Shukria Gul told her story more calmly. Beneath her burqa,
she sounded like a teenager. "My husband Mazjid was a labourer. We have two
children, our daughter Rahima and our son Talib. Five days ago, the Americans
hit a munitions dump in Kandahar and the bullets came through our house. My
husband was killed. He was 25."
At the Akhtar Trust refugee camp, I found Dr Ismael Moussa,
just up from Karachi, a doctor of theology dispensing Religion along with money
for widows. "The Americans have created an evil for themselves," he
said. "And it will pay for this. The Almighty Lord allows a respite to an
oppressor, enough rope to hang itself, until He seizes him and never lets
Seizing, it seems, was also on the mind of the Foreign Office,
earnestly warning reporters that Taliban invitations to Kandahar were a trap to
kidnap foreign journalists. Given the politeness of even the most desperate
Taliban yesterday, this may fit into the "interesting-if-true" file.
Dr Moussa suggested a more disturbing reason: the desire to
prevent foreign correspondents witnessing in Kandahar the kind of war crimes
committed by Britain's friends in the Northern Alliance at the fall of
Mazar-i-Sharif. As for Mulla Najibullah, the Taliban's only foreign ministry
representative this side of Kandahar, he looked tired and deeply depressed,
admitting he had left Spin Boldak the previous night and had not slept since.
But Kandahar was calm, he claimed. The Taliban's Islamic elders continued to
Later, he admitted that all Taliban men had been ordered to
leave Spin Boldak on Saturday night for fear that Alliance gunmen would invade
the camps disguised as refugees. "Only God Almighty has allowed the Muslims
to continue to fight the great armed might of the United States," he added.
If he had looked out the window, he would have seen the
contrails of the bomber streams heading for Kandahar. It was an eerie
phenomenon. Taliban men rifles over their shoulders stared into the sun, up high
into the burning light through which four white columns of smoke burnt from jet
engines across the sky. I stood behind them and wondered at the battle I had
watched for 20 years: a swaying host of eighth-century black turbans and, just
behind them, the contrails of a B-52 heading in from Diego Garcia. God against