Our destination is on a high plain some 120 kilometers south of Kabul: a barren area that the native population calls simply "Dasht": desert. About ten minutes earlier we turned off the main road and now we are advancing with difficulty over sand and gravel. It is a bright, beautiful day. The sunlight is like mica glistening out of a steely blue sky. The car must be somewhere out in front of us: a white Toyota Corolla that is supposed to take us to our scheduled meeting. Our investigations are almost completed. We have been waiting for days for this moment to arrive. We shut off the motor. We wait. Four or five minutes pass. We stay perfectly still. The wind is whistling softly around our car, increasing our unease. Finally, we hear the sound of motors. It is not a car, however, but rather the rattling of motorcycles. Suddenly, before we can look around, they are standing before us: five Taliban with wide-eyed expressions. They seem to have come out of nowhere. They hold their Kalashnikovs against the windows, drag us out of the car and confiscate our cellphones. They tie our hands together on our backs with rags and they push us back into the car. As if paralyzed by the shock, we cannot make a sound. Only Nathan, the photographer, manages to say: "Now we're finished."
Kidnapped by the Taliban
