An Excellent Read

[BarakzaiAbdali]

If you were looking for links to Zaeef's text My Life With The Taliban, as published by Columbia Univ Press here you go:

http://www.kalamullah.com/Books/Life...%20Taliban.pdf

All with any links to Kandahar, the introductions are heart wrenching. The first chapters of his youth are extremely troubling and sad as well.

What has generally been said about Zaeef, whatever you may think of his affiliations, is that he spoke truth even against himself.

Many issues, including the ISI are addressed herein.

This will serve as an invaluable source of information for decades to come regarding this phase of Afghanistan's history.

[Amir al Ghaznavi]

khan saheb you just came through big time

[BarakzaiAbdali]

This is one of the single most important passages from the book:


Quote from Zaeef: My Life with the Taliban

"They were not in the mood for pleasantries: “We know that you are
aware of what will happen in the near future”, General Mahmud said,
“and we also know that you believe that Pakistan will join the international
community and America against Afghanistan. Maybe you think
that this would be an action against Islam and neighbourly principles.
Maybe that’s why you are suspicious and didn’t want to come to the
central office. We have come today to tell you two things: firstly, we
have received reports that you are planning to assassinate President
Musharraf. Any plan for an assassination will fail and I must strongly
advise you to immediately cease work on these plans, if indeed they

exist. Secondly, we both know that an attack on Afghanistan from the United States of America seems more and more likely. We want to assure you that you will not be alone in this jihad against America. We will be with you”.

I listened to them patiently and when they had finished spoke to
them calmly. “If someone plans to assassinate Musharraf”, I said,
“then that’s an internal affair of Pakistan and none of my business. I
for one have neither the possibilities nor the facilities to assassinate
him”. In a sarcastic tone I said that they should not involve the Emirate in such plans of theirs.

“Secondly”, I said, “if America is going to attack Afghanistan, then
you know better than me from which airports and territories it will
attack us. We will see later how many Afghans will be martyred in this war. But, General, you will be responsible for the bloodshed and the killing when you cooperate with America, in this world and the next. You will be Afghanistan’s enemy number one”.

I was still in the middle of my sentence when General Jailani cut me
off and started screaming. But even though he was already upset I continued talking, turning towards Mahmud. “Wait, General!” I said.

“You speak of jihad while the Americans are stationed in your airbases and flying through your airspace, even attacking Afghanistan based on your intelligence reports. You should be ashamed even to utter the word jihad. Have you no fear of God that you talk to me of jihad?

Why do you want Afghans to fight the

jihad? Why don’t you start it in your own country? Is jihad only an obligation for Afghans? General!

Please don’t speak to me about supporting something you are actually against!” I had become emotional and had talked myself into a rage.

When I looked at General Mahmud, tears were running down his face.

Jailani was crying out loud, with his arms around my neck like a
woman. I was puzzled by their reaction. A few moments later they
excused themselves and left.

Pakistan was sending out mixed signals."

[BarakzaiAbdali]

khan saheb you just came through big time

That passage above, Ghaznavi, is astounding.... Zaeef is so very confused by their reaction... General Mahmud's (Pakistani ISI I believe).... Because these men, these Afghans (Zaeef and Co) were so very straight forward and much more honest, they could not even fathom the intrigue that could take place.

The reason why Mahmud and his side kick were crying like dogs was because they knew that everything Zaeef was saying was correct... If these guys were going to claim Islam and being from a staunchly Muslim state, they had to walk the walk. They were going allow Afghanistan to fight the jihad from the front line while they fought a background war of subterfuge.

Zaeef called them out on it,

To this day, it seems Zaeef didnt get their messed up internal dialogue, hence his comment about not getting their reaction.

[R3SISTANC3]

from the book,

There are many Afghans who have been imprisoned for the past five
or six years in Pakistani intelligence prisons. There are many more
who have been imprisoned for the past two or three years, with no
future and no hope. Their relatives cannot find out what has happened
to them, they cannot ascertain what the charges are, or what lies in
store for them. They cannot even find out whether their son, brother
or father is imprisoned, or whether they are sick or in good health.
They have no connection to the outside world at all, not through the
Red Cross, not by letters, not by telephone or video.

They remain in their cells as dead men, waiting for the Day of
Judgement.

May God save these prisoners from the Pakistani jails. For the relatives, life is hard, but it is much worse for the prisoners themselves.
Their time in prison is a tragedy. They are stripped of all dignity. When
the Pakistani ISI comes to arrest somebody, they raid his house just
like the Americans do in Afghanistan. They turn the whole house
upside down. They tie up the rest of the family members and put black
sacks on their heads. Sometimes they even arrest other members of the
family, or even guests that just happen to be there. They curse the prisoners all the way to the detention centres. They treat them in an inhumane and un-Islamic way.

During interrogation, they are tortured and often deprived of sleep.
They can only go to the toilet once every 24 hours. They are not
allowed to speak to each other. They can only communicate by gesture.
If they are caught talking to each other, they face severe punishment.
One prisoner told me his story: “When I was arrested by Pakistani
spies”, he said, “they took me to a very frightening place. It was a
small, narrow room, and everything—ceiling, floor, walls, door—was
painted black. You could not tell the difference between night and day.
Only when they were taking us to the interrogation room did we see a
small lamp switched on.

“That was it. The first time they took me to that room, I became
short of breath, my blood pressure skyrocketed. I felt as if I had been
thrown into a grave. I screamed and shouted, but was cursed in
response. After shouting for a while, a soft voice touched my ears,
speaking. ‘Hey, new prisoner. You won’t find anybody to be kind to
you even if you scream until the morning. So better to wait instead of
screaming and shouting. Ask God for help.’ I calmed down a little bit
after that.

“When Pakistani soldiers came to my cell and turned on the light, I
realized how black the walls and ceiling were. It was very frightening.
I had never seen such a place. There were pegs on the walls and they
would tie the prisoners to them. The pegs had rings, two rings for the
hands and two for the feet. There was a fifth ring as well that they
used to tie the prisoners’ necks with a rope. When they tortured the
prisoners, their blood stained the walls. When I looked at the Pakistani
soldiers, wearing their black clothes and black hats, the only thing I
could see were their evil eyes moving. Then I fainted. They woke me
up and put a black sack on my head, then took me to another place. I
could only hear the voice of the interrogators there, speaking English
with an American accent. One of them would ask me questions and the
other would translate his questions and translate my answers back.
“This continued for a month. Once a week I was interrogated by the
Americans, and two or three times I was interrogated by the Pakistani
officers. Then the situation changed. I was thrown into another small
room with three other Afghan prisoners. The new cell had a light and
we had a chance to go to the bathroom twice every 24 hours”.
This prisoner, who spent a year and three months in that secret
prison, never heard from his family the whole time. They did not know
where he was.

“When the Pakistani intelligence officers and the American interrogators understood that I was just an ordinary Afghan, not connected
to any political party, and that I had no information about Al Qaeda
or the Taliban, they decided to release me. They came to me in the
middle of the night, handcuffed me and shackled my legs, put a black
sack over my head, and threw me in a car. After a three-hour drive
they stopped somewhere and in complete silence they took me out of
the car, threw me on the ground, released the handcuffs and removed
the sack from my head. It was very cold. The Pakistani soldiers told
me: ‘You are free now, but you have to do two things. First, you
should not move for fifteen minutes, until we get far away. Second,
you should never tell anyone what happened to you. If you do, then
you will face worse consequences than this. You should know that you
will never be safe from us”.

Many others have had much worse experiences. Those who were
handed over to the Americans or to the Afghan government after
imprisonment and interrogation by Pakistanis would be as happy as if
they had been freed.

I asked many prisoners this question: what is the difference between
Pakistani jails and Afghan or American jails? The answer was always
the same: Afghan and American prisons were much better than the
Pakistani ones.

Men like Sayyed Mohammad Akbar Agha, Doctor Yasar, Mufti
Abdul Hakim, and hundreds of other prisoners became disabled due to
the beatings and the torture inflicted on them during their imprisonment.
Some of them cannot work any more on account of their injuries.



May Allah SWT deal with these murtadeen justly.

[R3SISTANC3]

from the book,

One morning, a young man wanted to see me and I invited him to
my office. He was a young Pashtun from the NWFP.

I invited him to take a seat, but he told me that his wife was with him and that she too wanted to speak with me. I agreed, and a few minutes later he brought her in, covered by her burqa.

She said “hello” very politely. Although I could not see her face, I could tell by her voice that she was in tears.

“Ambassador”, she said. “I have many possessions in my house that I
could offer for God’s work. But I have heard from the mullahs that the
best charity you can give are your most precious possessions. The jewellery that my father and my husband gave me for my wedding is my
most beloved possession. I want to offer this gold necklace for God’s
work. I am giving it directly into your hands, so that you can bear witness to this act of charity on the Day of Judgment. You are now
responsible for spending this on the mujahedeen”
.
She handed me a beautiful golden necklace. Her husband unfastened
his gold Rolex watch and put it on top of the necklace. I was so
touched by the sacrifice of this Pashtun sister that I could barely speak.
I kept their donation separate from the other donations, and gave it to
mujahedeen whom I considered the most trustworthy. I knew that I
would be required to bear witness on Judgment Day. I often think
about the next world, and I know that if I am faithful to God then
everything will be easy for me. May Allah grant that I meet this Pashtun sister and her husband in paradise. Ameen.

Another day, when I was on the way to the office in my car, I saw a
young man and woman waving to me. I told my driver to stop and
rolled down my window to ask them what they wanted. “This is the
third day that we have tried to visit you”, the young man said. “We
come and we wait in front of your office. But there are too many people and we cannot get in”.

I told them to come in. The moment they arrived, the woman started
crying. Then her husband started crying, too. There was so much sorrow that I also began to cry. My heart was so heavy that all I needed
was an excuse. We cried a lot.

“The Pakistani government and Musharraf have made a stain that
can never be washed from Pakistan’s name”, the man said. “He has
destroyed the brotherhood that we built with the Afghans during the
Soviet jihad, when we helped the mujahedeen and hosted Afghan refugees. I do not know how I, as a Pakistani, can even look into your eyes
now. We apologise. It was not our decision. We are Muslims”.

They told me that they lived in Lahore and had sold all of their possessions. His wife had sold all of her jewellery. “We have 250,000 rupees,” the man said. “This is why we are here. We want to give it to
you. It is all we can afford”.

Then his wife spoke up. “I have a ten-year-old daughter, and I had
ordered her custom-made earrings from a goldsmith. When I was selling my jewellery, I forgot about them. But when we were heading here
to you, I saw the gold glinting in her ears. So I took them, and I have
brought them to offer them to you for God’s work”. I insisted that
they take back their child’s earrings; I really tried. But the woman
demurred, and with that they left.

[abassinafghan]

@R3SISTANC3

allah tallah will give them what they deserve when they die .

let us be the tools of kismat to give them what they deserve in this world

[R3SISTANC3]

from the book,

To this very day I remember a dream that haunted me a few days before I was arrested at my home in Islamabad. In this dream, my elder brother came to me with a knife in his hand. His face was filled with rage all the while he fastened his grip around the knife’s handle, moving closer. He stopped in front of me, so close that I could feel his breath on my face, and said in a cold voice, “My brother! I have come here to behead you with this knife”.

He was standing in front of me with his sleeves rolled up. I was shocked, unable to believe what I had just heard. How could my own brother—my own blood—come to me hoping to commit this vile act? I had never mistreated him or given him cause for grief. I thought he could have been playing a practical joke on me, but I saw in his face that he had every intention to do what he had just said. In my dream, I thought to myself: “If this is what will bring him happiness, then I should let him have his way without a struggle, especially if I fail to reason with him”. So I spoke with him, “Brother! I have never done you wrong, nor have I brought harm or grief to you. But you still want to take such unlawful revenge on me now”. But my words failed to convince him.

So I prepared myself, still filled with hope that he would come to his senses and show me mercy. I lay down on the floor and my brother took the knife to my neck, as a slaughterer does, and cruelly beheaded me with a swift motion.

This was the dream I had only days before the Pakistani security forces surrounded my house. Only then did I start to understand the dream of my brother’s betrayal.

It was the second day of the New Year; Pakistan had just celebrated the beginning of 2002, and I was at home with my family. I was still trying to secure the release of the prisoners from Dostum and the Northern Alliance. The events in the north made me forget everything else that was happening, and I was desperately trying to find a safe way home for our remaining fighters, along with their wounded. The situation kept me deep in thought. How would our brothers make it home? What would happen to those captured by Dostum? How could I find a safe way out for them? How could I find out about their situation and where they were?

I was turning these questions over in my mind when all of a sudden my guard appeared and told me that Pakistani officials were at the gate asking to see me. It was eight o’clock at night, a highly unusual time for meetings to take place at my home. I went to the smaller guest room. Three men were in the room. They introduced themselves when I entered: one was a Pashtun called Gulzar; the two others spoke Urdu. After exchanging greetings we sat down together and I served tea while I waited to hear why they had come at such a late hour. The Pashtun man seemed angry; his face was black and intimidating, his lips swollen, and his nose and belly were large. He looked as if he had been dragged out of hell itself. He showed little respect for me or my home, and behaved rudely.

He said, “Your Excellency, you are no longer an Excellency! America is a superpower, did you not know that? No one can defeat it, nor can they negotiate with it. America wants to question you and we are here to hand you over to the USA”.

Pakistan wanted to save itself from any harm. I replied by saying that I knew that America was a superpower, the only one in the world, but that the world had rules and restrictions.

“On account of those laws”, I said, “be they Islamic or not, how can you deliver me to the United States? I have yet to hear of a constitution that gives you the right to do so. You can give me an ultimatum to leave your country, but you can’t arrest me”.

The man from hell replied abruptly. “Neither Islam nor any other rules or laws have any bearing on the current situation. Only our profit and Pakistan are important right now”.

I realized than that the discussion had taken a turn for the worse. I calmed myself and said that they could do as they wish. “I am at your mercy. I have no shelter here, and Almighty Allah will judge when the final day comes”.

They ordered me to stay at my house until midnight, at which time I would be transferred to Peshawar. Their men surrounded my house, leaving no way for me or my family to leave.

The officials had told me that I would be interviewed and questioned for ten days after I arrived in Peshawar. The Americans were carrying out an investigation, after which I would be released and could return home. At that time I held a ten-month visa for Pakistan. I had an official letter which had been sent to the Pakistani government and the foreign ministry to recognize my status as a representative of the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan in Pakistan, until such time as the difficult situation in Afghanistan would be resolved.

Despite all my documents—the protection I should have had under international law, even the letter from the United Nations stated that “the bearer of this letter should not be harmed due to his status of representation”—three vehicles pulled up at my door at midnight. All the roads were blocked and guards posted. Even journalists who were there at the time were denied access. I wasn’t allowed to speak to them to let people know what had taken place. They ordered me to leave my house. My children were crying as I walked out through the garden into the street.

If it hadn’t happened to me, it would be hard to imagine that the Pakistani soldiers—trained to defend Islam—would turn on their Mus-lim brothers even when they had committed no crime. In fact, no law offered justification for what they were doing, but American pressure, the anger of its people and the hope of a lucky break turned them against us. I find it difficult to understand how they could abandon their honour and self-respect; how they could turn against the word of the Holy Qur’an and its customs of bravery and hospitality; how they could ignore international laws and even the humblest notions of brotherhood and sympathy.

As I walked into the street and out into the thick dark night, it struck me that there was no one who could rescue me, nobody to prevent them from doing whatever they wanted.

I was put in one of their cars. Even at this point, I was still unable to comprehend this treatment that the Pakistani government was subjecting me to. After all, I was a brother of the same faith, which should at the very least have meant something to their rhetoric of religious piety.

It was a hard realisation for me, especially when the men who took me dared to utter the name of the holy Qur’an or discuss what the idea of jihad meant amongst themselves. They squeezed me into the middle of the back seat. Men who appeared to be ISI officers sat on either side of me. They did not carry any weapons that I could see, but our car was in the middle of a three-car convoy that raced to Peshawar. The other cars were packed with armed men. The driver put on a tape of a female Urdu singer for the entire journey; it was clear that the sole purpose of the music was to irritate me.

On the way to Peshawar I asked them to stop the car so that I could conduct the morning prayer, but they told me to wait until we arrived in Peshawar. I kept on asking them, but they didn’t care about prayer and ignored my requests.

When we arrived in Peshawar I was taken to a lavishly-fitted office. A Pakistani flag stood on the desk, and a picture of Mohammad Ali Jinnah hung at the back of the room. A Pashtun man was sitting behind the desk. He got up, introduced himself and welcomed me. His head was shaved—seemingly his only feature of note—and he was of an average size and weight. He walked over to me and said that he was the head of the bureau. I was in the devil’s workshop, the regional head office of the ISI.

He told me I was a close friend—a guest—and one that they cared about a great deal. I wasn’t really sure what he meant, since it was pretty clear that I was dear to them only because they could get a good sum of money for me when they sold me. Their trade was people; just as with goats, the higher the price for the goat, the happier the owner. In the twenty-first century there aren’t many places left where you can still buy and sell people, but Pakistan remains a hub for this trade.

I prayed after dinner with the ISI officer, and then was brought to a holding-cell for detainees. The room was decent, with a gas heater, electricity and a toilet. I was given food and drink—even a copy of the holy Qur’an for recitation—as well as a notebook and pen. The guard posted at the door was very helpful, and he gave me whatever I requested during the night.

I wasn’t questioned or interviewed while being held in Peshawar. Only one man, who didn’t speak Pashtu and whose Urdu I couldn’t understand came every day to ask the same question over and over again: what is going to happen? My answer was the same each time he asked me. “Almighty God knows, and he will decide my fate. Everything that happens is bound to his will”.

All of the officials who visited me while I was detained in Peshawar treated me with respect. But none of them really spoke to me. They would look at me in silence but their faces spoke clearer than words could, humbled by pity and with tears gathering in their eyes.

Finally, after days in my cell, a man came, tears flowing down his cheeks. He fainted as his grief and shame overcame him. He was the last person I saw in that room. I never learnt his name, but soon after—perhaps four hours after he left—I was handed over to the Americans.

It was eleven o’clock at night and I was getting ready to go to bed when the door to my cell suddenly opened. A man (also with a shaved head) entered; he was polite and we exchanged greetings. He asked me whether I was aware of what was going to happen to me. When I said that I knew nothing, he said that I was being transferred, and that it would happen soon. So soon, in fact, that he recommended that I should prepare straight away by taking ablutions and by using the toilet. Without asking for any further details, I got up and took my ablutions.

Barely five minutes had passed when other men arrived with handcuffs and a piece of black cloth. They shackled my hands and the cloth was tied around my head covering my eyes. This was the first time in my life that I had been treated in this way. They searched my belongings and took the holy Qur’an, a digital recorder and some money I still had with me. As they led me out of the building, they kicked and pushed me into a car. None of them had said a word so far. We drove for almost an hour before they stopped the car. I could hear the sounds of the rotating blades of a helicopter nearby. I guessed that we were at an airport where I would be handed over to the Americans. Someone grabbed me and pulled an expensive watch that I was wearing from my wrist as the car drove closer to the helicopters. The car stopped again, but this time two people grabbed me on each side and took me out of the car. As they brought me towards the helicopter, one of the guards whispered into my ear. Khuda hafiz. Farewell. But the way he said it, it sounded like I was going on a fantastic journey.

Even before I reached the helicopter, I was suddenly attacked from all sides. People kicked me, shouted at me, and my clothes were cut with knives. They ripped the black cloth from my face and for the first time I could see where I was. Pakistani and American soldiers stood around me. Behind these soldiers, I could see military vehicles in the distance, one of which had a general’s number plate.

The Pakistani soldiers were all staring as the Americans hit me and tore the remaining clothes off from my body. Eventually I was completely naked, and the Pakistani soldiers—the defenders of the Holy Qur’an—shamelessly watched me with smiles on their faces, saluting this disgraceful action of the Americans. They held a handover ceremony with the Americans right in front of my eyes.

That moment is written in my memory like a stain on my soul. Even if Pakistan was unable to stand up to the godless Americans I would at least have expected them to insist that treatment like this would never take place under their eyes or on their own sovereign territory. I was still naked when a callous American soldier gripped my arm and dragged me onto the helicopter. They tied my hands and feet, sealed my mouth with duct tape and put a black cloth over my head. That was in turn taped to my neck, and then I was shackled to the floor of the helicopter.

All this time I could neither shout nor breathe. When I tried to catch my breath or move a little to one side, I was kicked hard by a soldier. On board the helicopter, I stopped fearing the kicking and beating; I was sure that my soul would soon leave my body behind. I assured myself that I would soon die from the beatings. My wish, however, wasn’t granted.

The soldiers continued to shout at me, hit and kick me throughout the journey, until the helicopter finally landed. By then I had lost track of time. Only Allah knows the time I had spent between cars, helicopters and the place where I now found myself. I was glad when the helicopter landed, and allowed me to hope that the torment had come to an end, but a rough soldier took me and dragged me out of the helicopter. Outside, a number of soldiers beat and kicked me. They behaved like animals for what seemed like hours. Afterwards, the soldiers sat on top of me and proceeded to have a conversation, as if they were merely sitting on a park bench. I abandoned all hope; the ordeal had been long and I was convinced I would die soon.

Still I saw the faces of the Pakistani soldiers in my mind. What had we done to deserve such a punishment? How could our Muslim brothers betray us like this?

I lay curled up for two hours on the ground and then they dragged me to another helicopter. It appeared to be more modern than the last one. The guards tied me to a metal chair, and throughout the flight I was not touched. No one told me where I was being taken, and the helicopter landed some twenty minutes later. Again, the soldiers grabbed me and led me away. It seemed like a long way; I was still blind-folded, but I could hear that there were many people in the vicinity. They pulled me up to my feet and an interpreter told me to walk down the staircase in front of me. The stairs led inside and the noise of the people above slowly faded. There must have been six flights of stairs before we stopped and the black bag was pulled from my head. The duct tape was ripped off my face, and my hands were untied.



^this whole episode is incredible gave me goosebumps....

[R3SISTANC3]

That passage above, Ghaznavi, is astounding.... Zaeef is so very confused by their reaction... General Mahmud's (Pakistani ISI I believe).... Because these men, these Afghans (Zaeef and Co) were so very straight forward and much more honest, they could not even fathom the intrigue that could take place.

The reason why Mahmud and his side kick were crying like dogs was because they knew that everything Zaeef was saying was correct... If these guys were going to claim Islam and being from a staunchly Muslim state, they had to walk the walk. They were going allow Afghanistan to fight the jihad from the front line while they fought a background war of subterfuge.

Zaeef called them out on it,

To this day, it seems Zaeef didnt get their messed up internal dialogue, hence his comment about not getting their reaction.

They were crying because they realized that behind all the glitter and show as military men of a nuclear powered nation they were indeed eunuchs and a simple Talib, a religious student, Zaeef, saw right threw them.


Thank you for sharing the book..cant stop reading it.

[shehazadi]

such a sad book loved it.

[emkhan]

I was looking for this book in Pakistan. I could not find it in many book stores. Thanks to PF, I found it here.

[Soldat_Amir]

@R3SISTANC3

allah tallah will give them what they deserve when they die .

let us be the tools of kismat to give them what they deserve in this world

Why didnt Mullah Zaeef bring up the issue of Pakistan when he was enjoying his chai in Pakistan? He knew very well, that the Taliban are proxies of Pakistan.

[emkhan]

Soldat Amira, Don't pick random points, you better read the book.

[Amir al Ghaznavi]

Is there a Pashto or Urdu link of this book online, for my pops?

[Toramana]

Just before Mullah Zaeef was handed over to Americans, he enjoyed "rojai mathai" i.e., ifthar with the Choudris of Gujrat i.e., Choudri Shujaat Hussain etc.

It was Ramadan. As for I can remember, he nibbling on chicken legs, also gave out a statement about US attack on Afghanistan. Immediately, after few hours, we heard he has been arrested and handed over to US. So the chicken who was enjoying the chicken feast with his maters betraying his people met the same fate.

But this is normal for Akwanis particularly Pakistan-based Akhwanis. For example, if you would ask General Hamid Gul, Qazi Hussain Ahmad, etc. the leaders of Akhwan movement in Pakistan, they would call it a small sacrifice that must be given for the protection of the ideological state of Pakistan specifically and Mulim Ummah generally. They are telling people specially Pashtuns that if 10 millions Pashtuns are killed that is not a big sacrifice for the restoration of Arab/Islam glory and honour and securing Pakistan and its interests.