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is?”
    Ajmal remains silent. I’m surprised. I can’t understand why he’s doing this. I feel I can no longer count on him or on Sayed. Perhaps they’re too scared. Once more, I try to shed light on the situation. “We’re journalists, I’m Italian, you have my passport, you can easily verify that what I’m telling you is the truth. We came here in peace to record the Taliban’s position on this war and to ask them about the strategies they intend to employ for the future of Afghanistan.” I leave Ajmal enough time to translate.
    The commander listens attentively, without interrupting. When Ajmal has finished, I add: “This does not strike me as the most appropriate way to greet people who are professionals, who came to the south to see and to recount what is really happening. You stopped me, arrested me, tied me up and beat me. I was threatened at gunpoint. We came here in peace,” I repeat. “Armed only with pens, notepads, and video cameras. Where is the commander whom we were supposed to interview?” The man cuts me off. “He’s under arrest,” he says. “At this moment, he is sitting in a prison cell in one of our jails. We will deal with him later. He doesn’t exist, he’s gone, finished.”
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    I have no idea whether this is some banal excuse or the truth—if the latter, it has the potential to bring the world crashing down around me. It’s over, I think, we’re in it up to our necks. We’ve been caught in a trap, perhaps one that was laid months ago, planned around a table somewhere. Or maybe it was ordered hastily after someone signaled our presence in exchange for a few dollars. I recall the boy with the green eyes, Sayed’s contact: he disappeared during the first frenzied moments of our arrest.
    The commander shakes his head, he lifts off my turban and grimaces again—the wound on my head must be serious. He again apologizes and orders his men to get some bandages. I understand from his gestures that my wounds need attention, that I risk developing an infection. He consults with his men and then says: “We arrested you because you entered Taliban territory illegally. We’re convinced that you are English spies. You say you’re journalists. We must verify some things, and it will take time. If we discover that you are spies we will kill you immediately. If, on the other hand, you really are journalists, we’ll ask to exchange you for some of our comrades in prison.” I stiffen. I understand now that they have indeed arrested us. I react as a journalist. “But the interview,” I ask. “Is it still possible to do the interview? With you, Commander,” I suggest. “We could interview you.”
    I discover that I am no longer afraid. On the contrary, the commander’s visit, the chance to speak with a higher-ranking officer, has reassured me. I feel somehow less vulnerable. I am once again a simple reporter who has become the victim of a misunderstanding or a trivial mix-up. Maybe someone tried to be clever and is now paying the price for having overstepped his authority without permission from the local command. I glance reproachfully at my two collaborators and shake my head. I invite Sayed and Ajmal to clarify everything, decisively and definitively, to put a stop once and for all to this mechanism that I still refuse to accept. At first, they reply in monosyllables, then the driver launches into a long and complex discourse. I don’t know if what he says is the explanation I requested or an attempt to attenuate the tension that is beginning to mount once more. Ajmal is categorical with me. “They say we’re spies. Asking, clarifying, protesting, it’s all useless. They always respond in the same way: we’re spies.”
    I wait another hour. The boys come and go. There are always three of them with us. They watch over us but the mood is again