Afghanistan - Afghanistan, March, 1983: In the Lion's Lair

An expedition into war-torn Afghanistan has developed in Paris. Three French doctors from Médecins sans Frontières decide to go to the Panshir Valley headquarters of the Afghan resistance. In addition to myself, two other journalists will join us: Philippe Flandrin, a Frenchman, and the Iranian-born photographer Reza Deghati. Deghati wants to go to east Kabul to meet the monarchists of leader Mahaze Melli. Flandrin will continue to Baktia outside Kabul to locate the Hezbe-Islami and their leaders, Yunus Khales and Abdul Haq.

We fly to Peshawar to meet the mujahedin organization. The Hezbe-Islami propose to bring us into Panshir, but we prefer to trust the people from Jemiaate-Islami, because this time they control the Panshir region. The leader of this organization is Muchai Barzali. The trek will cover about 450 kilometers and is expected to last one month.

The three doctors will bring in food and medicine, and the guerrillas will provide protection. We wait until March for the snow to start melting. We will climb the 4500-meter-high mountain of Hindi Kuch. On the other side, we are expecting jeeps to be waiting to provide us with transit to Peshawar. But after the long, grueling trek, we will find no jeeps.

The trip begins on March 10, 1983. We dress like Afghans because we are crossing tribal country. I bring along three cameras. Flat-footed and out of shape, I am always behind. Our convoy moves at night to avoid the Russian helicopters. Despite our stealth and our altitude, the group is often attacked by Soviet gunships. I have brought along some dry fruit to supplement the meager rice rations. As our food supply dwindles, I discover there is nothing in the countryside with which to replenish our supplies. Once in a while, we come across a small tea shop in the villages.

In my fatigue and hunger, I make the mistake of taking a leak while standing up. An Afghan spots me and the alarm goes out. Muslims always squat to urinate. The group decides that I'm a Russian spy and that I am to be shot. Our bodyguards come to my rescue and argue that Turkish Muslims always stand to piss, and that I am a true Muslim. The argument rages on; our explanation finally prevails. It is a close call. One of our convoy is not so lucky. A young man is shot to death in the backyard of a village house because the hairs on his arms are not pointing in the correct direction. If he had been cleaning himself five times a day in preparation for prayer, the hairs on his arms would have been pointing toward his hands. The sentence is passed by the leader of our column, and he is shot out of sight of the others.

It is frigid in the mountains. Sometimes we have to cross ice-cold rivers fully clothed. I am amazed that I do not freeze to death. I am starving. I dream of greasy hamburgers and crisp french fries.

On the last leg of the journey to the Panshir Valley, we ride in a truck. The truck hits a land mine and rolls over, launching a piece of a metallic ladder into my jaw and knocking out three of my teeth. I lose a lot of blood, but managed to survive solely because of the doctors.

We finally reach the Panshir Valley and set up a makeshift hospital. Wounded rebels are carried in, some from two to three days away. There is no anesthetic; bullet wounds are washed out with tea. During Ramadan, a Muslim fast lasting 40 days, the Afghans would not give blood, so I and the doctors give blood, depending on the blood type necessary.

The man named Massoud, "The Lion of Panshir," is the reason for our trip. The rebel leader has asked for medical help and the doctors come at great personal risk. Massoud and I became friends. Massoud was educated in the Lycée Istiqlal (a French high school) in Kabul. Now a resistance leader, he was considered to be very clever and was always on the move. He needed medical help because his men were dying slow, agonizing deaths from gunshot and shrapnel wounds. The doctor Gilles will accompany us. We take the injured back to Pakistan in a convoy. Since I am the least injured member of the group, I will be the leader. As a token of the rebels' appreciation, I am given a horse. I use it to help transport the wounded. When we arrive back in Pakistan, we are detained because we carry no identification papers. Finally, we are permitted entry.

I traveled back to Afghanistan two more times to cover the mujahedin. Gilles returned to Paris, and shortly afterwards committed suicide.