A saga de David Rohde
Emad Hajjaj (Jordânia)
David Rohde, o jornalista do New York Times que foi raptado juntamente com um repórter local, Tahir Ludin, e o motorista, Asadullah Mangal, pelos Taliban e conseguido fugir ao fim de sete meses de cativeiro, escreveu a sua saga no New York Times em cinco capítulos. No primeiro capítulo escreve:
[…] Over those months, I came to a simple realization. After seven years of reporting in the region, I did not fully understand how extreme many of the Taliban had become. Before the kidnapping, I viewed the organization as a form of “Al Qaeda lite,” a religiously motivated movement primarily focused on controlling Afghanistan.
Living side by side with the Haqqanis’ followers, I learned that the goal of the hard-line Taliban was far more ambitious. Contact with foreign militants in the tribal areas appeared to have deeply affected many young Taliban fighters. They wanted to create a fundamentalist Islamic emirate with Al Qaeda that spanned the Muslim world.
Alex Falco, «Juventud Rebelde»
Num aspecto mais curioso, na terceira parte, Rhodes escreve sobre a monotonia do seu cativeiro e da vida à sua volta; uma das formas de quebrar a monotonia e a tensão era a música. Descobre-se aqui o gosto dos seus captores por canções de amor e que o tema ocidental favorito destes é “She Loves You” dos Beatles:
[…] They searched for ways to break the monotony. After dinner on many winter nights, my guards sang Pashto songs for hours. My voice and Pashto pronunciation were terrible, but our guards urged me to sing along. The ballads varied. On some evenings, I found myself reluctantly singing Taliban songs that declared that “you have atomic bombs, but we have suicide bombers.”
On other nights, at my guards’ urging, I switched to American tunes. In a halting, off-key voice, I sang Frank Sinatra’s version of “New York, New York” and described it as the story of a villager who tries to succeed in the city and support his family. I sang Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” and described it as a portrayal of the struggles of average Americans.
I realized that my guards, too, might have needed a break from our grim existence. But I felt like a performing monkey when they told me to sing for visiting commanders. I knew they were simply laughing at me.
I intentionally avoided American love songs, trying to dispel their belief that all Americans were hedonists. Despite my efforts, romantic songs — whatever their language — were the guards’ favorites.
The Beatles song “She Loves You,” which popped into my head soon after I received my wife’s letter from the Red Cross, was the most popular.