The Pakistani government's injustice and betra.yal towards the Afghan Muslim ambassador, Mullah Abdul Salam Zaeef:

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 as he tightened 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 stood there 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 with the intent to commit such a vile act? I had never mistreated him or given him cause for grief. At first, I thought he might be playing a practical joke on me, but the expression on his face showed he was serious. 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 to 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.” My words, however, failed to convince him.

Resigned, I prepared myself, still filled with hope that he would come to his senses and show 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 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. I was at home with my family, still trying to secure the release of prisoners from Dostum and the Northern Alliance. The events in the north consumed me, and I was desperately trying to find a safe way home for our remaining fighters and 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 learn about their situation and whereabouts?

I was turning these questions over in my mind when, all of a sudden, my guard appeared and informed me that Pakistani officials were at the gate, asking to see me. It was eight o’clock at night, an unusual time for meetings at my home. I went to the smaller guest room, where three men were waiting. They introduced themselves when I entered: one was a Pashtun named Gulzar, while the other two spoke Urdu. After exchanging greetings, we sat down, and I served tea, waiting to hear why they had come so late.

The Pashtun man seemed angry. His face was dark and intimidating, his lips swollen, and his nose and belly large. He looked as if he had been dragged out of hell itself. He showed little respect for me or my home, behaving 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 harm. I replied that I knew America was a superpower, the only one in the world, but 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.”

Realizing the discussion had taken a turn for the worse, I calmed myself and said they could do as they wished. “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 informed me that I would be interviewed and questioned for ten days after arriving in Peshawar. The Americans were conducting an investigation, after which I would be released and allowed to return home. At the time, I held a ten-month visa for Pakistan, along with an official letter sent to the Pakistani government and foreign ministry recognizing my status as a representative of the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan in Pakistan until the situation in Afghanistan was resolved.

Despite all my documents—the protection I should have had under international law, and even a letter from the United Nations stating 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, guards were posted, and journalists who were present 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 through the garden and into the street. If it hadn’t happened to me, it would be hard to imagine that Pakistani soldiers—trained to defend Islam—would turn on their Muslim brothers, even when no crime had been committed. No law justified their actions, 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 honor 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 thick, dark night, it struck me that there was no one who could rescue me, no one to prevent them from doing whatever they wanted.

I was put into one of their cars. Even then, I couldn’t comprehend the treatment I was being subjected to. After all, I was a brother of the same faith, which should have at least meant something to their rhetoric of religious piety. It was a hard realization for me, especially when the men who took me dared to utter the name of the Holy Qur’an or discuss the idea of jihad amongst themselves. They squeezed me into the middle of the back seat, with men who appeared to be ISI officers sitting on either side of me. They did not carry any visible weapons, but our car was part of a three-car convoy, packed with armed men, racing to Peshawar.

The driver played 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 I could conduct the morning prayer, but they told me to wait until we arrived. I kept asking, but they didn’t care about prayer and ignored my requests.

A part of the book: "My life with the Taliban"