Free Days of Fear by Daniele Mastrogiacomo

met in the farmer’s house; his lieutenant, a kid with long ruffled hair in a white turban; finally, a third man, older, with a dark gray turban, clearly an officer. He’s on a satellite telephone.
    A pair of strong arms helps me walk and lifts me into the cargo bed, where I find Ajmal and Sayed. They make room for me. We sit with our back to the passenger cab, leaning up against four large plastic tanks fastened to the cab itself. Sitting like this, our backs will be slightly cushioned when the truck lurches and bounces during our moves.
    We huddle in together as best we can, legs crossed, our feet under the pile of covers and mattresses, our hands tied tight behind our backs. Our arms hurt, there is not enough room. But we make do, soldiers and prisoners alike. We’re all in the same boat. We feel the same discomfort and the same pain, and we try to put up with it. I will have to get used to the difficulties, the distress, the hunger, thirst, cold, and heat. This is no longer a simple interview. This is the jihad.
    The commander, a small plump man whose name I will later learn is Ali, shifts into first and steps on the gas. We’re heading south. The pickup takes off like a bat out of hell. The eight cylinders roar, the turbo comes to life with a deafening snarl. The soldiers stare at us, and when the pickup jumps and jolts the barrels of their weapons draw dangerously near our chests. Four soldiers are sitting up front in the cab, their backs to the cargo bed and us; another four are sitting on the side with their legs dangling off the truck. The heavy machine guns are leaning against the steel frame of the cargo bed, barrels pointing outwards, ready for action. In the middle, there are four more Taliban. I can’t figure out how they can even fit in—we squeeze together, wriggle for more room, huddle up against one another.
    Strangely, I feel almost protected, safe. Now, I fear the others, too: the police, the Afghan army, and the English soldiers stationed in the area. I’m afraid that anyone who finds himself on our tracks might decide to attack. We’re hostages, and as such, in addition to being merchandise to be exchanged, we could also serve, if necessary, as excellent shields for our kidnappers. I lower my head. My hands are tied behind my back and there’s no way I can reach the edges of the quilt that covers us and pull it up over my chest. The Taliban to my left takes care of it for me. His name is Aleef, one of the few who will tell me his name and with whom I will repeatedly attempt to converse. My wound is throbbing and I feel like I might be running a temperature. Every bump, every jolt, every sudden deceleration makes me feel like my brain is knocking against my cranium. I only hope that nothing serious has happened internally, that there is no risk of hemorrhage. We’re in the middle of the desert, there are no doctors around, we don’t even have any medical supplies with us.
    The getaway is a rally over sand dunes, hillocks, rocks, tufts of grass and wild shrubs. The pickup leaps and lurches and shakes. We complain, cry out in pain, yelp, and curse. The fabric tied around our wrists makes our forearms swell. We are not following any road or trail, we’re driving over virgin terrain to avoid encounters that could prove dangerous for everyone. The pickup accelerates. The race is getting faster by the mi­nute. I don’t know where we’re heading, how long this trip will last, how it will end. But I’m still alive and that is something.
    I observe my two companions. Their heads are hanging. Every jolt sends waves of pain through them, too, especially when in the darkness that surrounds us, Commander Ali doesn’t see the small sand dunes in our path. When this happens, the pickup stops dead, the front wheels sink into the sand, the rear wheels lift off the ground, and a cloud of dust mixed with small stones and uprooted tufts of grass rises and