Thrown in Taliban Jail at 24 Weeks Pregnant— Our Last Reporting Trip to Afghanistan
**Names have been changed to protect the identities of our friends on-ground.
"Mohammad, we were detained by the Taliban."
I typed this message to our friend in Kandahar shortly after we were released from a Taliban jail on May 7th, earlier this year. He had been trying to message us all day because we were supposed to meet in the afternoon to discuss the next day's plans. But those messages went unread.
The Taliban picked us up outside our guesthouse just after 9 am. We weren't released until shortly after 6 pm. My phone sat in my bag in the car because it never made it inside the jail.
Nobody -- that we knew of at the time -- had any idea we were detained.
We were in Afghanistan for the third time in three years – this time to cover a story for VICE and another for Al Jazeera. Once we found out I was pregnant in Sri Lanka, Matt immediately had reservations about us going. But I wanted to finish researching for and writing a final series of stories in Herat, Bamyan, and the south before giving birth to Miya.
I knew when we flew in that it wouldn't be the Afghanistan we knew from before. Our closest friends – the people we trusted and cared for – had left for France and Spain after the takeover in 2021.
Before flying to Kabul for what would probably be the last time in a long time, Matt and I went to see an Obgyn in Doha – Dr.Iqbal. She was my favourite doctor throughout the pregnancy – blunt and witty but incredibly kind and thorough.
As soon as we entered her office, she eyed Matt in his Afghan clothing -- a full-body tunic called a shalwar kameez-- with suspicion. "Why are you wearing that," the doctor asked. Matt explained that we had been kicked out of the post office earlier that day for wearing shorts. It was the holy month of Ramadan, and the Qataris had added additional clothing and public behaviour rules. He didn't want to take a chance at us losing this appointment. She laughed.
She thought we were insane for going to Afghanistan and Pakistan during my second trimester. "I really don't think this is a good idea. The infrastructure…is not so good. Maybe you should stay here in Doha – I can deliver her." She encouraged us numerous times to change our minds.
Matt stared at me with pleading eyes while also agreeing with what the doctor was saying. He had already dealt with pleas from his parents, who repeatedly asked us why we were being so stupid. I reassured her that we would be fine. We would finish the stories in a few weeks and leave.
I knew everyone was going to think I was selfish. Nobody would fully understand why I needed to finish this round of reporting. But I knew that I had spent a good chunk of my life in a career I despised, and journalism became a magnetic joy for me when I realized that I could somewhat succeed in it.
I was going to put reporting internationally on hold for a while, but not before I finished these stories first. One day, hopefully, Miya would understand.
Admittedly the following few weeks turned into a few goose chases. Story idea after story idea fell apart because of complications from the Taliban and the difficulty of travelling overland through rural Afghanistan.
Matt and I agreed that I couldn’t sit in a bumpy car for twenty hours to Badakhshan, Kunduz, or Kunar just to chase a lead. Ramadan was also complicating the trip. New ideas did surface, but we both started to feel the weight and pressure of finishing our research as quickly as possible.
It was a beautiful, blue-skied morning the day we were detained. I remember the sun was out in full force. I took a walk around the gardens of our guesthouse and felt the heat of the desert sun scorching through my black abaya.
We were supposed to head to the Kandahar branch of the Ministry of Culture to obtain approval to be in the area as foreign journalists. Since we arrived on a Friday -- the Islamic day off -- after a long drive from Herat, the office was closed, and the senior officer told us to collect the permit on Saturday morning instead. So, we decided to take the morning to explore before meeting up with Mohammad in the afternoon.
But, when we left the gate of our hotel, a pick-up truck with armed Taliban cut in front of our car. They told us to follow them.
I had a lot on my mind with story planning and routing out the next few days, so I didn't think much of the entire interaction. I zoned out for some time while thinking through what I needed to do that day. Sometimes, that kind of naivete in these situations helps. Thinking back to our one interaction with the cartel in Mexico – I just assumed they were the police, and that prevented me from losing it. The same thing happened here.
We pulled into the parking lot of a gated compound surrounded by barbed wire. We were at the Ministry of Intelligence. Two other journalists were also detained. They were speaking to a bunch of men in the parking lot. I stayed in the car for a while with our friend and Afghan uncle – Abdul.
As a woman, I generally never receive a glance from the Taliban in any situation unless I am not supposed to be there --i.e. the men's side of a mosque. They just pretend I don't exist.
Matt and our friends Safi, Manan, and Brett also spoke with the men outside the building. After a few minutes, they started moving toward the entrance of the building. Apparently, the Chief of the Intelligence Department wanted us to “have tea” with him. Abdul said we had to follow. He told me to leave everything in the car, including my phone. If I knew what would happen next, I would have sent a message to Mohammad.
We were led into a medium-lit room with a desk, a few chairs, and a couch. A man with a turban and glasses sat behind the desk. In soft tones, he spoke to Safi and Manan for a bit in Pashto.
The conversation seemed neutral, but I found out later he was passive-aggressive and threatening to both Safi and Manan. He was particularly aggressive in what he said to Safi because Safi is Hazara and spoke only basic Pashto.
They made no effort to hide their racism and contempt. In his notebook, he simply referred to Safi and Abdul as “Persian speakers” after scoffing at the “Hazara” written on both their ID cards.
Another heavily built man stood next to Manan, glaring at us. Neither Taliban looked at me once. As far as they were concerned, I was Matt's property.
The man behind the desk took a pen and a pile of what appeared to be used paper and started writing. He asked for our details. He refused to acknowledge me and asked Matt to speak on my behalf, even though Matt had to ask me for answers right in front of them. Whatever I dictated out loud, Matt dictated the same.
The entire situation was ridiculous. I get that religious and cultural differences exist, but the hatred for and ignorance toward women was sometimes too much.
At one point, he asked for our father's and grandfather's names. I blanked out on my grandfather's name because all I have ever called him is Yeh Yeh. I gave the first Caucasian-sounding name I could think of, William – named for my eldest Uncle – but his name is actually Huang Zhenying.
In the moment, we were nervous, but we thought afterward that we could have said anything. I could have said my dad's name was Ding, and my grandfather's name was Dong, and nothing would have registered with these men.
At some point, the paperwork was done. There was a bit more chit-chat in Pashto, and then Matt and the others in our group were asked to turn over their phones. The man behind the desk collected the phones into a plastic bag, grinned, and said “welcome.”
For some reason, it still didn't register with me that we were being arrested until we were taken down a hallway that led to an upstairs.
All I remember next was saying to Brett – "see you later?" as Matt and I were led into a cell. Brett was behind me, but I didn't see what had happened to the others. There was no pat-down or even any other women around. I could have hidden my phone in my bra, and they would have never suspected otherwise.
The cell was a small room with red carpeting and one window with bars looking out into the parking lot. The door had a window slot that opened and closed, just like in the movies.
I sat down crossed-legged against the right side of the wall away from the door. Looking at the wall with more scrutiny, I recoiled slightly. There were dried blood stains splattered everywhere. I wondered how many prisoners were beaten and interrogated in this very room. There was a Quran and a small, torn notebook on the floor. I wish I could read Pashto because whoever was there before us had written a few sentences on some of the pages.
Half an hour later, a man brought in a thin mattress. My heart dropped as he also brought in blankets and one bar of soap. I looked at Matt and wondered how long we would be in here.
Matt started pacing and freaking out a little bit. "Fuck this – I wish we never came here," he kept on repeating over and over. I saw him look out the window desperately. He mumbled to himself for a while, and for the first few hours, he wouldn't stop pacing.
I felt horrible because I had pushed for us to finish these stories. I had come to a place with a government that tortures local journalists, beats women, and refuses to allow little girls to go to public school. I had come to the place where our friends had left in disarray and couldn't return to be with the family they had left behind. I felt guilty that I brought my unborn daughter here and could potentially put her at risk. I worried about our friends – Safi, Abdul, Manan, and Brett. I had no idea where they were and if they were being tortured or interrogated.
I thought through all my selfish decisions. But at that moment, there was nothing I could do. At least Matt and I were still together in the same cell.
At the time, it was probably around 35 degrees outside, and the room wasn't much better. The heat aggravated what came out of the bathroom by the front door – a pungent stench of urine and fecal matter.
The same man who brought a mattress brought a plate of pale-looking mutton and rice and what appeared to be half a used bottle of water. I wanted to throw up. I laid down on the dirty mattress, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.
When I woke up, Matt still wasn't talking to me. I broke down because I wasn't sure how long we would be there. It could be a day. It could be weeks. It could be months. I needed him to talk to me, even if it was about nothing. But I knew he was feeling the weight and anxiety of our decisions.
He explained that he couldn't just talk about pleasantries. "You're six months pregnant, and I don't know what to do," he said in frustration.
He was worried no one knew where we were, and we could be detained for who knows how long. The Taliban could keep us in there for as long as they wanted. In truth, I had dreams early on in our relationship that this would happen to us. I dreamed we would one day be detained reporting in some area, but I never imagined we would be together in the same cell.
The crying and heat made me dehydrated. I clutched my hand over my stomach, said sorry to Miya inside, and drank from the used bottle. I only hoped that it was indeed bottled water. Despite my better judgment, I went to use the squat hole. There was even more blood spatter in the bathroom — and just the sight of blood on the wall made me feel light-headed.
I wondered when they would drag us away individually for interrogation. What exactly would happen next?
Hours went by. Matt and I fought with each other. We stared at each other blankly. At moments, we silently cried together. Despite the tension and anxiety, I was glad he was there with me. I would have gone insane if I was by myself.
For one moment, we heard a group of men sing an upbeat chorus. I would later find out they were prisoners, singing about how their Eid was ruined because they were locked away in jail. I wondered how many of those men below and beside us were actually innocent.
We were somewhat conscious of time because of the prayer calls. The mid-day and afternoon prayer calls rang throughout our cell. We knew we would be there overnight if the sun started to come down and the sunset prayer call came.
Matt tried a couple of times to call for the man outside who brought us the mattress and food. After some time, he finally came. Matt heard a voice in the cell next door and realized that the rest of our group was together in the adjacent cell.
Safi and Matt talked to the man for a while. We discovered that he used to be a Taliban sniper on the front lines against the Americans. He was a prisoner in Bagram for 12 years and was released shortly before the fall of the Republic last year.
Matt stressed I was pregnant and needed care, and it would be better to send me at least back to the guesthouse. The man, fearful that something could actually happen to us, said he would try to contact someone higher up.
We waited a couple more hours, thinking we were staying overnight. Suddenly, our cell door opened, and we were released. We were reunited with everyone in the adjacent cell. It turns out the owner of our guest house had noticed that we hadn't returned. Through business contacts, he was connected to the Governor of Kandahar’s office. He made some calls insisting on help to find and release us.
Apparently, we were detained because the Intelligence Department did not know why we were in Kandahar. They were in a power struggle with the Cultural Office, which handles foreigners’ registration. Upon leaving, everyone — barring myself — received a “stamp of freedom” on their arm. The Taliban refused still to even look at me.
My friend Mohammad replied immediately upon receiving my message – "I'm so sorry you were detained." He had been detained many times before. He told me if he had known, he would have found a way to get us out earlier.
That night, we booked an earlier flight out. Our research was, for the most part, done, and we could head to another country.
For years, I had loved being in Afghanistan, being with our friends, and trying to highlight issues. It was a place I wanted to go back to often. But this time, following the takeover, I felt remiss to say that I could keep on returning with the Taliban in power. I couldn't – for our friends who left – especially those who were journalists – and for the baby in my stomach who needed to be in safety.
Afghanistan is still a sacred place to me – for many reasons. It is a place I want Miya to learn about one day. Is it a place I would take her? Yes, when she is older and when the Taliban is out of power. I want her to see the kite runners in Kabul, the beautiful mountains of Bamyan, and to meet the kind-hearted people who made me fall in love with the country in the first place.
I hope for the day we can return when the time is right.
And, just to close the loop – I never got sick from the water in the jail, and Miya came out fine.
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