Date: Mon, 26 Nov 2001 05:44:35 +0000 (GMT)
From: =?iso-8859-1?q?pierre=20guyotat?= <pierreguyotat-AT-yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: PLC: Re: evil


26 November 2001 05:41 GMT By Robert Fisk, the only
Western journalist in
 Taliban-held Kandahar province
 26 November 2001
 "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," I said. 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. Mullah 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 Mullah 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 old.'' 
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 go.''

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 Mullah 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 stay there. 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
 technology. 

 

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