Читать книгу The Meadow: Kashmir 1995 – Where the Terror Began - Adrian Levy - Страница 18

Sitting on the riverbank, her journal open on her lap, Jane Schelly glanced up at the two Kashmiri guides squatting by the stove. Vegetables and rice again, she thought, her heart sinking. Bashir and Sultan were squabbling. Something was wrong. This was their last night together, and if she was honest, she was looking forward to saying goodbye. She was grateful for all the humping of kit, the cooking and the renditions of Kashmiri love songs, and even the convoluted accounts of local lore and the circular stories that started but never ended. However, there had been a subtle but significant shift in relations earlier in the day as a result of the argument over the ‘snow-blocked’ pass. ‘I now realised that I no longer trusted them,’ Jane recalled. That was the nub of it. Or maybe it was just her tooth, which continued to ache. ‘Note to self: call the dentist when we get back,’ she remembered thinking as she watched Bashir lecturing Sultan on the best way to dice onions.

She shivered in the coolness of the dusk and thought about going to the tent to get an extra layer of clothing, but her feet were throbbing from the long day’s trek. It was just past 5 p.m. on 4 July, and the sun had already sunk behind the ridgeline, leaving the campsite several degrees colder than when they had arrived. Instead, she wrapped her fleece more tightly around herself and went back to her journal, to finish describing the aborted attempt to cross the Sonarmas Pass.

Then, an indeterminate flickering drew her eye. Struggling to focus in the fading light, she thought she saw a group of figures approaching. They appeared from a clump of pine trees. Had they been spying on her, watching the camp, she wondered. She didn’t have time to think about it now, as they were heading straight for her, walking and then trotting. It was the antelope and the lion, a moment of precognition.

Trying not to stare, Jane estimated that there were a dozen of them, dressed in an assortment of long robes and shawls, like medieval warriors. Some wore dark indigo turbans, others flat woollen caps, and their hair and beards were long, their skin dark and unwashed. As they drew closer she saw that some were wearing military-style green-and-khaki tactical vests. For a moment she thought they might be mountain police, but although she and Don had passed the occasional army patrol, she had never seen men like this. She looked about, but there was no one else around, just her, Don, Bashir and Sultan. She glanced over at Don, still down at the river. He had seen the strangers too, and nodded down at his soapy hands as if to say, ‘Let’s not draw attention to ourselves.’ Don would work this out, she reassured herself.

As the men neared, Jane saw they were stained by sweat and dirt, as if they had been out in the wilds for many days. Beneath their shawls they carried rifles and coils of ammunition. Were they some kind of irregulars, a part-time government unit deployed in the mountains? One of them called out to Sultan, who looked up, utensils clattering to the ground as the man barked questions in what Sultan recognised as Pashto-accented Urdu, his language and tone instantly marking him out to any local Kashmiri as a foreign mujahid from the Afghan borders. Sultan tentatively answered, ‘Angresi,’ the Urdu word used for all foreigners, regardless of where they come from. The armed men moved closer, and motioned for Don and Jane to go over to their tent. Jane stared hard at the one who seemed to be the leader, but he remained emotionless, almost aloof, his face swathed in a rough indigo-coloured scarf. She looked over at Sultan and Bashir. Had she been right to doubt them, she wondered. ‘Have we been set up?’ she asked herself. The gunman gesticulated with his rifle. They were to be silent. Jane did her best to remain calm, although a rage was rising within her. Was this the reason Bashir and Sultan had been so eager to come to the Lower Camp, because they were accessories in this robbery or whatever it was? As she watched the men quiz the guides further, she thought about her money and travellers’ cheques that were lying inside the tent along with Don’s camera. She needed to get in there and conceal everything.

Bashir came running over. ‘Passports,’ he urged, sweating, and with a panicked look in his eyes. ‘Who are they?’ Don muttered under his breath. Bashir didn’t reply. Seeing the foreigners hesitate, the leader’s eyes settled on Jane and Don. ‘Just give me, please,’ Bashir insisted, thrusting out his hand. ‘He seemed genuinely afraid,’ Jane recalled. As she retrieved the passports from their tent, she considered pushing their cash inside one of the sleeping bags, but decided against it. She sat back down, and saw an itinerant gujjar stroll into the camp, carrying a basket of flat lavash bread, an incongruous moment of normality given the events of the past few minutes. Seeing the armed party a few seconds too late, the gujjar was unable to beat a retreat. He flinched as one of them beckoned him over, then grabbed a handful of lavash and stuffed it roughly into his vest. ‘This will be a test,’ thought Jane. When the gunman reached inside his kurta and produced some money to pay, she felt relieved. He was not a robber after all. But what did that make him?

After studying the passports, most of the armed group, including the leader, broke away, heading off up the Meadow, leaving behind only two sentries. Two guards and four prisoners. She and Don had not exchanged anything more than meaningful glances about what was happening, but she knew he was thinking the same thing as her. Could they overpower them? But the men were heavily armed, and even if they could escape, it would not be without serious injury. It wasn’t worth it.

It began to drizzle, and in an unexpected act of compassion the men gestured for Jane and Don to put on some warmer clothes. Sit down, they motioned. Jane and Don sat and watched as the strangers unravelled their turbans and laid them out on the ground along with their weapons. Then they stooped to wash their hands in the river before prostrating themselves in prayer.

Paul Wells and Cath Moseley were waiting for dinner at the Upper Camp. Cath felt more content than at any time since they had reached India, and this was the kind of environment that suited Paul: up high in the wilds. He took snaps of their camp, black-and-white images showing the party’s three tents lined up in a row; Julie and Keith, Paul and Cath, with Bart Imler between them. In one shot, Keith Mangan, who had just got back from Tar Sar, can be seen rummaging around in his tent while Julie looks on, dressed in her warm sweatpants, hand on hip as if slightly irritated by the mess he is making. Exhausted, cold and footsore, Keith had come back elated at the end of the afternoon, saying that the scenery had been stunning, and while he was up there he had heard about a breathtaking high-altitude campsite at Sekhwas. Julie knew what he was getting at. ‘No way,’ she said, her feet still aching.

At around 6.30 p.m., just as they were getting ready to join the others for food, Julie turned to see a group of strangers approaching their camp. Wearing robes and turbans, they were dragging Julie and Keith’s guide Bashir with them. Clearly terrified, Bashir called out that the gunmen wanted to see everyone’s passports and that they had to obey their orders. Who were these men, Keith asked, but there was no reply. ‘They had guns,’ said Julie. ‘We were surrounded.’ Everyone handed their passports over, then, following mimed instructions, sat down in a semi-circle. Gripping Keith’s hand, Julie was filled with a burning sense of dread as one of the armed men used his rifle to prod through their tent. He moved on, eventually finding Bart Imler, who had spent the day wrapped up in his sleeping bag, still complaining of sickness and a headache. What was wrong with him, the gunman asked via Bashir. Bashir said he had altitude sickness. What nationality was he? ‘Canadian,’ the sick man croaked, trying to sound as feeble as he could. The gunman threw a strip of pills at him and barked, ‘Take these,’ before walking away. They clearly wanted the tourists alive.

It was almost dark, but the newcomers seemed in no hurry. Whatever this was, Julie sensed, it wasn’t an impulsive bushwhacking. Possible scenarios flashed through her mind: the women raped, the men lying with their throats slit. All the time she could hear dogs yelping in some distant gujjar encampment. How could they sound the alarm? She held on to Keith. Perhaps these strangers were forest rangers, she thought weakly. Just then, one of the younger ones, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, gestured with a knife at Julie and Cath. She froze, but Bashir explained, ‘They want you to dress properly.’ T-shirts and running shorts were inappropriate, the boy had said. Julie and Cath fumed, but went off to get changed. Then everyone was ordered over to the two dhokas, where more gunmen were guarding a group of Kashmiri schoolboys who had arrived noisily in the Meadow that afternoon. Julie had watched them setting up their tents on the other side of the river, joking and larking about. Whatever she and her friends had got themselves into, these local boys were in it too, she thought. Somehow, that reassured her.

But as the minutes ticked by while the leader established everyone’s nationality, turning the previously immaculate campsite into a tip, Julie felt as if the blood were draining from her body. She couldn’t breathe: it felt like the period of intense discomfort that is the precursor to full-blown panic. ‘I am going to die,’ she recalled thinking. ‘This is a firing squad.’ Would they end up digging their own graves, she wondered. Keith squeezed her hand. At least they would die together. But no shots were fired, and the gunmen remained calm. They ordered the Westerners to sit down, handed back the women’s passports and began rifling through all the tents again, stripping them of valuables. So it was just a robbery. Then two of the armed men marched off up the hill towards the tent belonging to a Western trekker no one had talked to: John Childs.

He was sleeping when they reached him. ‘That day, my fourth day of trekking, I had been to the highest elevation and had got altitude sickness. I was flat out. The first thing I knew about what was going on outside was when I woke to find a man pointing a gun into my tent. He told me to get up, and outside I saw another gunman.’ When John shouted at the man to get out, a gun was shoved in his face. He instantly recognised it as a Kalashnikov. As he scrambled outside he grabbed his passport, and was ordered to hand it over. He felt the weight of his money pouch beneath his shirt. It was filled with all his cash and credit cards. ‘They’re not getting that as well,’ he thought to himself as one of the gunmen led him down the hillside, still hazy from his sleep. Ahead of him he saw a large group of long-haired mujahideen-type figures guarding a handful of seated Westerners. He glanced back to see if there was any way of escaping up the hill, and caught sight of the second militant searching his tent for valuables. Had they staked out the woods too? ‘I saw him take my Canon camera with my social security number etched on it. He stole my sunglasses, too. I was furious.’ Could he make a run for it? If not now, then when?

John sat down beside the other foreigners, and took in his captors. ‘I could see that they were armed to the teeth with knives, semi-automatics and handguns. From that moment on I knew this was very bad news, whichever way I looked at it. Some of them were just kids, but the older ones had Kalashnikovs that looked like they had seen some battles. They were very nervous about the Indian Army coming into the camp, apart from the one who was evidently the leader. He did all the talking. He kept things calm. He carried himself with authority. He had a bearing that told me he was serious about this operation, whatever it was, a stillness of having experienced real fear and survived it.’

As he waited in silence for their captors to explain their next move, John ran over the past twelve hours in his head. Something came to him. That morning, Dasheer, his guide, the only Kashmiri he had grown fond of (although Dasheer had not seen any evidence of it), had urged him several times to break camp and move back down to Pahalgam a night early. ‘At the time I thought he was trying to con me, get back to his family early, take a day’s money for a trek that would now not happen, and we argued. “This is bullshit,” I told him. This was my holiday, and I wanted all of the nights camping I’d paid for. But then it suddenly became clear to me. Did all the locals know that something was going down? The jungle drums, that kind of thing. I’m utterly convinced that Dasheer tried to save me by getting me out of the Meadow, but I’d been too stupid and arrogant to listen.’ John had read about crimes like these in Colombia or Ecuador. ‘But this kind of thing only happened to someone else.’

With all the foreigners corralled beside the river, the leader turned his attention to the Kashmiri schoolboys, who, clearly of no use to him, were marched into the larger of the two dhokas, followed by all the other Kashmiris on the campsite, except for Julie’s guide Bashir. ‘We could see the schoolboys being pushed into the hut, no one saying a word, like a silent movie,’ recalled Julie. After a brief scuffle to secure the door, the leader began barking questions in rudimentary English at the foreigners, helped by Bashir. ‘Are any of you in the army? Do you work for your governments? Are you married?’ What were the right answers, Julie thought, panicking. Were there any? Did religion matter? Who was fighting whom? Everything she knew about Kashmir had left her mind as soon as they had been surrounded. She struggled to recall what the local troubles were about. Was there a way of answering that would safeguard their lives? They were not cut out for this. John Childs, who had still not looked up at the others, muttered a prayer under his breath.

All the time the leader thumbed the passports: British … American … Canadian.

A decision was made. The leader pointed his gun: ‘You, you and you.’ Paul Wells, Keith Mangan and John Childs stood up. ‘This is it,’ John thought as he was led back up to his tent to retrieve his walking boots and padded trekking jacket. ‘You complete idiot. Why the hell didn’t you just turn around and go home at the first sign of trouble? Now you’re going to die. You’re going to be shot in this hellhole and you’re never going to see your girls or your parents again.’

The women froze. Where were the men being taken, Julie demanded of Bashir as the gunmen searched the camp for a last few possessions to steal, including their travellers’ cheques. The leader answered for him. The group’s commander was waiting in Aru to question them, he said. ‘Israeli spies are operating in the valley. Your husbands are now suspects. Bring some warm clothes.’ Spies? It sounded too ridiculous to be true. As the gunmen started to move away, Keith was still frantically searching for his jacket in their tent. They were not prepared to wait a moment longer, Bashir said. Julie took off her jacket and pushed it into Keith’s arms. ‘Take mine,’ she said, looking her husband in the eyes as he was pulled away. Then she locked eyes with the teenage gunman. ‘Leave him alone, he’s just an electrician from Teesside,’ she wanted to scream in his face.

‘No harm will come to your men,’ the leader said, as Julie and Cath began to cry. ‘After their passports are checked, they will return in the morning.’ Cath and Julie watched Paul, Keith and the silent John (whose name they still did not know) being frog-marched down the Meadow and into the dark. ‘I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye,’ Julie said. ‘They just took off down the river, the ten armed men, and our three.’

Julie and Cath huddled in silence as the rain drizzled. ‘I don’t think they’re coming back,’ Cath said finally. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Julie, fighting back her tears, ‘they are coming back.’ Outwardly confident, inwardly she was falling to pieces. ‘I wanted to believe they would come back,’ she recalled. Saying it out loud might make it come true. ‘“They will bring them back; of course they will bring them back,” I was saying to myself, while all the time what you’re really thinking is, “I bet they don’t.”’

It was almost 8 p.m. by the time Jane and Don saw the armed party returning from the Upper Camp. They had been gone for more than two hours, and now they seemed to have other foreigners with them. As the party got closer, Jane recognised Keith. She caught his eye and he acknowledged her, but his previously happy-go-lucky face was now sober and worried. She did not recognise Paul Wells, with his straggly ponytail and goatee, or John Childs, a gaunt-looking man who refused to make eye contact with anyone, his face swivelled to the ground. Childs, she recalled, as she rewound this moment over and over again in her mind, was the one who most struck her. He looked a wreck. He would vividly remember the episode too. ‘My mind was absolutely clear. I knew what was going down. I understood at that instant that we were being marched to our deaths. I knew that I would never get out of this unless I took drastic action. I felt, instinctively, that I could trust no one, and that the only way to save myself was to take matters into my own hands. What everyone else deduced was not my concern.’

Seconds later, before Jane could take in what was happening, one of the gunmen came over. Her guide Bashir translated. ‘He says that Don must dress warmly. He is going to Aru with the others. There is a senior commander waiting to question them about being Israeli spies.’ Jane’s head whirled with questions. ‘For the love of Pete, we had no idea what this was all about,’ she recalled, searching for meaning in the eyes of Don’s captors.