Iran - Iran: Hijacked

In October of 1980, I was 23 and a beginning war correspondent. I was returning from my first trip to Iran, where Iraq had just launched what was to be a long, deadly war of attrition. I went to the front, but my film was developed and the best shots confiscated by Iranian censors. I was left with useless shots of people, smiling soldiers and not much else. After I checked in with SIPA, my photo agency in Paris, I was told to try the other side-Iraq. On my way, I decided to cover the military maneuvers of the Turkish army near Diyarbakir in the southeast of Turkey. First, I would stop in at Ankara to get my visa for Iraq.

Our Turkish Airlines Boeing 727 takes off as scheduled around 5:30 p.m. for its 35-minute-long flight. But one hour later we still have not landed. The other passengers and I start feeling uneasy. I wonder if the wheels of the plane are blocked. Suddenly, the voice of the pilot breaks through the tension: "Ladies and gentlemen, we might be obliged to land in Diyarbakir. Otherwise, we will head toward Iran. I now give the microphone to a Muslim brother." Instantly, the entire plane knows we have been hijacked.

Yilmaz Yalciner, the leader of the hijackers, carries on with his statement, given in the most imperative intonation:

"Islam takes over the plane. Long live the Divine Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini.... Shariat, the unique sure way to bring happiness to the entire human race, is the name of our mission. We are changing the route of this plane so as to go to Tehran, the cradle of the Islamic Revolution. Then, my three Muslim brothers and I will proceed to Afghanistan, where we will fight alongside the brothers who are leading the jihad [Holy War] against the Russian atheists. For this reason, I am now going to pass around the hat. Whatever you give, make sure to give with your heart."

The passengers, in a state of shock after this announcement, search their pockets for some money. The collection begins. The passengers, afraid of the reprisals, give as much as they can to the militant who is passing a bag. Yilmaz Yalciner counts the money and gets back to the microphone: "Eighty-nine Turkish Lira [US$100]," he says, "it's really too little for people like you, but thanks anyway. Don't forget that we are going to fight with this money against the atheist Soviets."

For the passengers, the unbearable wait starts.

Nobody moves anymore; there is little to talk about, and everyone knows the gravity of the situation. All of us are probably thinking the same thing-fanatics are unpredictable. All we can do is wait anxiously for their next move. Once more, the voice of the hijacker breaks the heavy silence: "All women onboard must cover their hair-it is a rule of Islam. And Islam only constrains you to do good things." The 28 female passengers quickly cover their hair with whatever is available, including the white cotton cloth of the headrests of their seats. Some women, short of anything looking like a chador, shroud themselves under their husband's jackets.

Being a photojournalist first and a terrified passenger second, I pull out my camera and start taking photos. I am more concerned about running out of film since I do not know how long the ordeal will last. I find myself elated that I am at the center of what will be an international story, but scared out of my wits that the usual laissez passer accorded to the press will not be observed by the Muslim fanatics. The hijackers seem just as terrified as the passengers but apparently find comfort in carrying out this simpleminded and dangerous act.

At first, I photograph the passengers clandestinely, but this is not the story. Then I have an idea. I inform my friend Osman, a radio journalist, sitting next to me about my intentions to talk to the hijackers and ask their permission to take photos of the whole event. He quickly dismisses the idea as insane and advises me to adopt a low profile instead, so as not to attract their attention.

My hunch is that the hijackers are Iranian. I figure that if I show them the recent stamps in my passport and some of the recent Iranian photos I have with me they might allow me to document the hijacking. I head toward the first-class compartment where three of the militants have gathered, and tell them I am a journalist and ask permission to take photos. One of them, Omer Yorulmaz (I learned his name later), calmly tells me to wait and he will check with the leader in the cockpit. In the meantime, I go back to my seat to get my cameras. He comes out and tells me I can enter. I am elated.

As I quickly take photos of the crowded cockpit, I notice the contrast between the tense but efficient crew, and the theatrical laughter of the hijacker (Yilmaz Yalciner) as he holds a gun close to the right temple of someone sitting behind the pilot. I am even more elated with the fact that this is the first time a hijacking has ever been photographed in the air.

Suddenly, Yalciner commands me to stop. I realize his smile is a natural schoolboy's reaction to the camera and not indicative of the tension in the cockpit. Ignoring me, he resumes his negotiations with the pilot. I am being watched carefully by another hijacker. The pilot, Ilhan Akdeniz, is trying to convince Yalciner once and for all: "It is impossible," he says, "to violate Iran's airspace. There is a war going on! They are going to shoot us down with missiles! They won't want to know whether we've been hijacked."

Yalciner's answer surprises everyone, "Don't worry, the Muslim world knows me very well. Khomeini knows me too. Stop worrying-we'll make it to Tehran."

The pilot explains there would not be enough fuel. He asks if the plane can land in Diyarbakir to refuel. The hijackers, convinced, agree. That issue resolved, the lead hijacker seems to relax and resume his casual demeanor.

He turns toward me and tells me abruptly, "I am not a mean terrorist. I am a good terrorist. So you're a journalist? So am I, and the three brothers, too," he explains. "You can take more pictures of me, you know, but I must admit, I don't know how to pose," he adds before bursting out laughing.

They are all working for a banned publication called Shariat. Hence, the name of the "mission" they are undertaking. They are religious terrorists belonging to the "Akincilar group" (independent Sunni Muslims linked with the National Salvation Party).

I resume taking pictures of the scene, and of the passengers. The passengers still have no idea what fate has in store for them. These hijackers appear unusually calm. They are obviously fanatics to the point of candidness; they seem to be absolutely confident that they are going to get to Tehran. But I can feel their tension. I lie to them pretending I understand their motivation and want to provide them oodles of publicity. They are quite willing to talk. I ask them how they managed to smuggle their guns onto the Boeing in spite of the tight security control. Yalciner pulls out a book, which he opens to show me that it had been hollowed to make room for a pistol. He laughs heartily about the clever trick he has played on the security guards. Another shows me an attaché case filled with Turkish lires so that they can survive in their new country, Iran. It is hard to tell whether I am in the presence of childish stupidity or enormous confidence.

We make small talk until the plane lands at Diyarbakir. The passengers don't know what city or country they are landing in. Most passengers know that bad things start to happen once hijacked planes touch down.

I become self-conscious realizing that I am the only one who does not seem afraid. The passengers look at me with hatred and fear. Am I a hijacker? The confusion makes them suspicious. I find myself in a no man's land between the passengers and the terrorists. Because of my decision to document this criminal act, the terrorists have made me part of their drama. By not intervening against the hijackers, I have become a co-conspirator in the minds of the passengers. The camera has given me a special passport.

The hijackers also treat the cowering passengers differently. The burning light in the hijackers' eyes looks nothing but ominous.

We wait on the ground. The stewardesses attend to the people quietly and efficiently. The air in the plane is hot and stale. There is no more water or food. The plane feels like a tomb or a submarine that had sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Outside our plastic windows the ground crews, the vehicles and the world seem a thousand miles away. Time is irrelevant.

It is not hard to figure out what is going through the minds of the 148 people aboard. The hijackers are also getting tense, and I sense it is time to stop taking pictures.

It is now 8:30 p.m. We have only been on the plane for three hours, but no one aboard would forget this day. Given the time for reflection, I remember why I am going to Diyarbakir in the first place. I realize that the hijackers have made a fatal mistake: They have landed in the center of a major military base and smack in the middle of preparations for showy military maneuvers. I was supposed to cover the strength and power of the Turkish Army. I was about to be center stage. To make matters worse, the Turkish and European press are there in full force. Faced with the tedious coverage of a nonevent, they were delighted to be at the scene of a hijacking. The worst part is that the new hard-liner president of Turkey himself, Kevan Evren, is at the airport and has taken charge of the event. He declares, "No concessions."

The negotiations between the hijackers and the Airport Authority are going on with no apparent progress. The hijackers make a concession-they will free the women and the children. But it really doesn't matter what they agree to, since their fate is being decided for them in the smoke-filled meeting rooms inside the airport.

At 10 p.m., 19 Celik Kuvvet (Steel Force) commandos take off from Ankara and Adana. Their planes land at Diyarbakir at 11 p.m. At midnight the airport is blacked out and the plane is by itself on the tarmac. The fear aboard is palpable.

It is now Tuesday. We have lived another day. At 1 a.m., electronic listening devices are installed on the body of the plane to locate the hijackers. Four more hours are necessary to prepare the rescue operation. Inside the grounded plane the passengers are aware of, and can see, nothing.

At 5 a.m., the commandos split into two groups. One group silently cuts open the rear door, while the front group creates a minor diversion near the cockpit. The commandos burst through the back of the plane, yelling, "Lie down, everybody," followed by a shoot-out. The sound of the firefight in the small enclosed space is deafening.

The passenger I photographed in the cockpit is wounded and later dies in the hospital. I duck under my seat, afraid that my camera might be mistaken for a gun. I regret not taking pictures, but realistically I know I would be killed instantly.

Crowded below the seat, I have just enough time to hide some film in my underwear and to give some rolls to Osman, the radio journalist sitting next to me. The three surviving hijackers surrender quite easily as if all was in good fun.

The passengers are asked to lie down on the tarmac and later we will be driven to army barracks. I am pointed out by some of the passengers as one of the hijackers. In fact, the news wire reports include me in the list of hijackers arrested in the assault. I am taken into custody for interrogation.

After some minutes, most of the passengers are freed and brought to the barracks. Five passengers and I are kept behind. The three hijackers are taken away in a truck. Then the police throw the six of us in a second truck, which follows the first one. My cameras have been confiscated. I still feel confident that the whole situation will soon be clarified.

There are six of us crammed into the same jail cell. We are tired, dirty and thirsty from the 12-hour ordeal. Two engineers, one Italian and two Turkish customs officers who usually control the passports on board, Osman, the radio-journalist, and myself are detained. The police suspect the customs officers of complicity. They want to confirm the identities of the foreign engineers. Osman is detained because he is a journalist, and I, because I am a suspected terrorist. The hijackers are put in another cell not far from ours.

My interrogation is a lot tougher than I anticipated. I am bullied by the policemen when they discover that I work for SIPA Press (SIPA means donkey in Turkish). When I tell them that I was born in Siirt, they realize that I am a Kurd. They find my story hard to believe-that I would simply ask permission to take photos because it is my job. They do not believe I am only a journalist, and I am sent back to my cell. During the entire night, we can't sleep very much, as we are disturbed by the comings and goings of our jailkeepers accompanying the hijackers to their interrogations. We can hear a lot of their yells. We are very uneasy about all this. We can also hear the news on a radio set. I gather that everybody believes I am the fifth terrorist and I therefore should not expect any mercy.

The next day, Osman is freed and I have time to give him some more film to take to SIPA. I am left alone in the cell. Later on, the terrorists and I are sent to another jail well known as a torture center for prisoners captured by the military.

Luckily, this time my interrogation is shorter. I am told I will be released because they checked my identity and they understand I have told the truth. It seems also that some people (journalists and politicians) have vouched for me. Never underestimate the usefulness of political contacts.

I am very surprised and elated when I am finally released. I rush back to SIPA's headquarters in Istanbul, just in time to learn that only a handful of my photos have been published in Turkey as well as around the world. Most of them had been lost due to Osman's mishandling of the developing process. But there were more rolls of film that I had hidden under the aircraft seats that had still not been recovered.

1985: Hijacking No. 2

Five years later (1985) I was involved in another hijacking. This time I am not inside the plane, flight 847 a TWA Boeing 727, but on the tarmac in Beirut.

The plane is coming from Athens, Greece, and going to Rome, Italy. Two Shiite Lebanese order the pilot to divert the flight to Beirut. Other hijackers join them at Beirut. They demand the discharge of more than 700 Shiite prisoners and others detained in Israel. One passenger, a Navy hardhat diver (not a U.S. Navy SEAL as some people believe) is killed by Mohammed Ali Hamadei. Between June 14 and 26, 111 passengers are released, as well as five crewmen. The 36 other passengers and three other crewmen are detained until June 30. The plane is prevented from leaving Beirut by the Lebanese authorities.

So it becomes a long wait with pictures few and far between.

The hijacking is a comic opera. The hijackers are able to roam about outside the plane and even go back home to sleep at night, thanks to the complicity of the AMAL militia. I am a little wiser, tougher, and cynical. I decide to leave the dull, monotony of the airport and cover the more saleable action in town. I negotiate a deal with one of the hijackers for him to cover the event from inside the plane. The hijacker agrees and I give him an automatic camera. The reward for my ingenuity is that I am run over by an armored vehicle, which crushes one of my legs. I assume the hijacker showed up with the film to get his payment, but he didn't know that I was in the hospital with an injured leg. So I could not get the photos. C'est la guerre.