FACING THE CHOP

Matthew Leeming visits an Afghan

death row and finds the inmates surprisingly cheerful

WALKING down the Panjshir Valley with my guide Tayub, I was followed by a long skein of children, fighting among themselves and asking for money. A man clutching a Kalashnikov was squatting unsteadily on the top of a wall and waved at us as we passed.

'This is prison. We kill many tourists here during the war,' said Tayub.

'What?'

'Tourists. Chechen and Saudi and Taleban tourists.'

'Ah, you mean terrorists.'

'No, tourists.'

Tayub said that during the war 2,000 Taleban tourists had been kept here and then shot when the Northern Alliance arrived in nearby Kabul and there was a sort of murderous saturnalia, a few days when old scores could be settled before the new regime got its feet under the desk. There were reports of a gruesome massacre at Mazar-i-Sharif and I wondered if something similar had happened here. It seems to be traditional when Kabul changes hands.

When the Taleban captured the city they found Najibullah, the communists' puppet, hiding in the UN compound. Like some members of the Tory party (whom they in many ways resembled) they thought that hanging was too good for him, so they castrated him and stuffed his genitals in his mouth before execution. You can buy pictures of this in Kabul.

The door opened and we joined a circle of men drinking tea in the prison courtyard, together with some small children who had skipped through the gate with us. A larger group remained outside shouting up at the guard. 'What are they saying?' I asked Tayub. 'They say that it is not fair that they are not allowed in, too.' One of the teadrinkers was the governor, and he said that his life was easier since the war because he had only six inmates, all murderers. 'And where are the Taleban prisoners now?' I asked. 'I don't know,' said the governor, vaguely. 'Gone home. To Pakistan.'

One of the circle was a rather nice-looking man who was patting the cropped head of a child. 'Look!' said Tayub, and pointed to the man's feet. They were joined by a short chain with a hinged circle of steel, now locked, round each ankle, his skin protected by a sort of par tial sock. 'Good afternoon,' he said to me politely. 'Good afternoon.' I replied and shook his hand. He said that he had been learning English. He said that he had killed someone in a fight. He shrugged. It was one of those things that happened in Afghanistan. He had been in jail three years and hoped to be let out soon, perhaps in an amnesty after the elections.

Outside the circle of tea-drinkers, on the other side of the yard, sat an alienatedlooking youth, alone. 'He is murderer, too,' said Tayub proudly, like an uncle pointing out the sights of London to a provincial nephew.

I went over to shake his hand, telling myself that I was Lord Longford, but in fact actuated by a tabloid prurience. 'Whom did he murder?' I asked. 'A woman,' said the First Murderer. He had detected a married woman in an adulterous affair and killed her. 'How many years will he get for that?' The First Murderer grinned and drew his finger across his neck.

'Good God,' I said. I wasn't as shocked as Oscar Wilde was in similar circumstances, but then I myself wasn't a prisoner. In fact, part of me was quite cheered by this. I'm not sure which part, but I think the bleedingheart-liberal part that saw it as a vindication of the rights of women, much needed in mediaeval Afghanistan. Another, theological, part of me wanted to ask him, 'What's the offence? Isn't that Islamic law? Will you go to Muslim heaven and frolic with virgins?'

'Can I interview him?' I asked. There was a brief conversation, which ended with the Second Murderer shuffling off into the communal cell, looking depressed. 'No,' said the First Murderer. 'Can I interview you, then?' He seemed pleased at the idea. He didn't get many opportunities to practise his English. He said that his name was Mirwais. We went into the communal cell. It was a large room and quite a lot of work had gone into its decoration. Blankets had been nailed to the floor and walls. The chains with the little socks were lying on the beds. The prisoners' belongings were in plastic bags hanging on nails on the wall. There was an area for boiling water, washing and making tea. I thought it was rather nice compared with the chat khanas I had been staying in — or my prep school. We sat on the floor. Mirwais started to tell me about the day that he was due to be executed.

'I was taken to the field outside the prison and the governor gave a gun to the brother of the man I killed who was to shoot me.'

'What were you thinking about?'

'I was praying to Allah: please, please save me. All the time I was thinking about Hereafter and Paradise.'

'And why weren't you shot? Was the governor just pulling your leg?'

'Because a man from my village came and said to the man with the gun. "I will give 600 lakhs of Afghanis [about $15] for blood money."' Another murderer came up. He was very young, had a narrow, beardless face and looked evil, like the feral children who are reputed to live on council estates in England. 'What did he do?' He killed his neighbour,' said Mirwais. 'I see. May I ask why?' The boy started to giggle. I noticed that his voice had only just broken. Mirwais translated: 'In my garden grew three fruit trees which belonged to me, but my neighbour, he said they belonged to him. He came to my house and said very bad words. So I went to his house and stabbed his wife.' Everyone seemed to think that this was hugely funny.

'Are you going to be executed?' Mirwais took up the story. 'The woman's family, they want him to be executed, but his father knows many commanders and he buys them.' We went back outside. On the far side of the building was a volleyball court cut into a slope and shaded by a mulberry tree. The net was supported on poles made out of aluminium shell-cases. The governor was standing by the net, apparently about to referee a game.

`Mirwais, ask him if anyone escapes.'

'No,' said the governor. 'You could not get out. The guards would shoot you.'

'I'd dig a tunnel.'

The governor laughed. 'And what would you do with the earth?'

There was a pause.

'I'd eat it,' I said. (They all hooted with laughter.) 'I'll bring you a spade the next time I come.'

As I went back to the gate, Mirwais asked me if I would like to spend the night in the cell with them. I was very touched but felt it might be rude to my hosts in the village, and so regretfully said no. But Mirwais made me promise to come back to see him again and I agreed to bring him a Persian–English dictionary from Kabul.

Matthew Leeming is talcing partie_s to Afghanistan in 2003 in association with the Afghan Ministry of Tourism. His book on Afghanistan, Altogether Elsewhere, will be published by Picador.