Guantánamo Diary (32 page)

When the boat reached the coast,
■■■■■
and his colleague dragged me out and made me sit, crossing my legs. I was moaning from the unbearable pain.

“Uh.… Uh… ALLAH… ALLAH.… I told you not to fuck with us, didn’t I?” said Mr. X, mimicking me.
^*
I hoped I could stop moaning, because the gentleman kept mimicking me and blaspheming the Lord. However, the moaning was necessary so I could breathe. My feet were numb, for the chains stopped the blood circulation to my hands and my feet; I was happy for every kick I got so I could alter my position. “Do not move Motherfucker!” said
■■■■■
, but sometimes I couldn’t help changing position; it was worth the kick.

“We appreciate everybody who works with us, thanks gentlemen,” said
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
.
^†
I recognized his voice; although he was addressing his Arab guests, the message was addressed to me more than anybody. It was nighttime. My
blindfold didn’t keep me from feeling the bright lighting from some kind of high-watt projectors.

“We happy for zat. Maybe we take him to Egypt, he say everything,” said an Arab guy whose voice I had never heard, with a thick Egyptian accent. I could tell the guy was in his late twenties or early thirties based on his voice, his speech, and later on his actions. I could also tell that his English was both poor and decidedly mispronounced. Then I heard indistinct conversations here and there, after which the Egyptian and another guy approached. Now they’re talking directly to me in Arabic:

“What a coward! You guys ask for civil rights? Guess you get none,” said the Egyptian.

“Somebody like this coward takes us only one hour in Jordan to spit everything,” said the Jordanian. Obviously, he didn’t know that I had already spent eight months in Jordan and that no miracle took place.

“We take him to EEEgypt,” said the Egyptian, addressing
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
.

“Maybe later,” said
■■■■■■■■■
.

“How poor are these Americans! They really are spoiling these fuckers. But now we’re working with them,” said the Egyptian guy, now addressing me directly in Arabic. When I heard Egypt, and a new rendition, my heart was pounding. I hated the endless world tour I was forcibly taking. I seriously thought rendition to Egypt on the spot was possible, because I knew how irritated and desperate the Americans were when it came to my case. The government was and still is misled about my case.

“But you know we’re working with Americans in the field,” said the Egyptian. He was right: Yemeni detainees had told me that they were interrogated by
■■■■■■■■■■■
and Americans
at the same table when they were captured in Karachi and afterward transferred to a secret place on September 11, 2002.
^*

After all kinds of threats and degrading statements, I started to miss a lot of the trash talk between the Arabs and their American accomplices, and at one point I drowned in my thoughts. I felt ashamed that my people were being used for this horrible job by a government that claims to be the leader of the democratic free world, a government that preaches against dictatorship and “fights” for human rights and sends its children to die for that purpose: What a joke this government makes of its own people!

What would the dead average American think if he or she could see what his or her government is doing to someone who has done no crimes against anybody? As much as I was ashamed for the Arabic fellows, I knew that they definitely didn’t represent the average Arab. Arabic people are among the greatest on the planet, sensitive, emotional, loving, generous, sacrificial, religious, charitable, and light-hearted. No one deserves to be used for such a dirty job, no matter how poor he is. No, we are better than that! If people in the Arab world knew what was happening in this place, the hatred against the U.S. would be heavily watered, and the accusation that the U.S. is helping and working together with dictators in our countries would be cemented. I had a feeling, or rather a hope, that these people would not go unpunished for their crimes. The situation didn’t make me hate either Arabs or Americans; I just felt bad for the Arabs, and how poor we are!

All these thoughts were sliding through my head, and distracted me from hearing the nonsense conversations. After about forty minutes, I couldn’t really tell,
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
instructed the Arabic team to take over. The two guys grabbed me roughly, and since I couldn’t walk on my own, they dragged me on the tips of my toes to the boat. I must have been very near the water, because the trip to the boat was short. I don’t know, they either put me in another boat or in a different seat. This seat was both hard and straight.

“Move!”

“I can’t move!”

“Move, Fucker!” They gave this order knowing that I was too hurt to be able to move. After all I was bleeding from my mouth, my ankles, my wrists, and maybe my nose, I couldn’t tell for sure. But the team wanted to keep the factor of fear and terror maintained.

“Sit!” said the Egyptian guy, who did most of the talking while both were pulling me down until I hit the metal. The Egyptian sat on my right side, and the Jordanian on my left.

“What’s your fucking name?” asked the Egyptian.

“M-O-O-H-H-M-M-EE-D-D-O-O-O-U!” I answered. Technically I couldn’t speak because of the swollen lips and hurting mouth. You could tell I was completely scared. Usually I wouldn’t talk if somebody starts to hurt me. In Jordan, when the interrogator smashed me in the face, I refused to talk, ignoring all his threats. This was a milestone in my interrogation history. You can tell I was hurt like never before; it wasn’t me anymore, and I would never be the same as before. A thick line was drawn between my past and my future with the first hit
■■■■■
delivered to me.

“He is like a kid!” said the Egyptian accurately, addressing his Jordanian colleague. I felt warm between them both, though
not for long. With the cooperation of the Americans, a long torture trip was being prepared.

I couldn’t sit straight in the chair. They put me in a kind of thick jacket which fastened me to the seat. It was a good feeling. However, there was a destroying drawback to it: my chest was so tightened that I couldn’t breathe properly. Plus, the air circulation was worse than the first trip. I didn’t know why, exactly, but something was definitely going wrong.

“I c.… a… a… n’t br… e… a… the!”

“Suck the air!” said the Egyptian wryly. I was literally suffocating inside the bag around my head. All my pleas and my begging for some free air ended in a cul-de-sac.

I heard indistinct conversations in English, I think it was
■■■■■
and his colleague, and probably
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
. Whoever it was, they were supplying the Arab team with torture materials during the 3 or 4 hour trip. The order went as follows: They stuffed the air between my clothes and me with ice-cubes from my neck to my ankles, and whenever the ice melted, they put in new, hard ice cubes. Moreover, every once in a while, one of the guards smashed me, most of the time in the face. The ice served both for the pain and for wiping out the bruises I had from that afternoon. Everything seemed to be perfectly prepared. People from cold regions might not understand the extent of the pain when ice-cubes get stuck on your body. Historically, kings during medieval and pre-medieval times used this method to let the victim slowly die. The other method, of hitting the victim while blindfolded in inconsistent intervals, was used by the Nazis during World War II. There is nothing more terrorizing than making somebody expect a smash every single heartbeat.

“I am from Hasi Matruh, where are you from?” said the Egyptian, addressing his Jordanian colleague. He was speaking
as if nothing was happening. You could tell he was used to torturing people.

“I am from the south” answered the Jordanian. I tried to keep my prayers in my heart. I could hardly remember a prayer, but I did know I needed the Lord’s help, as I always do, and in that direction went my prayers. Whenever I was conscious, I drowned in my thoughts. I finally had gotten used to the routine, ice-cubes until melted, smashing. But what would it be like if I landed in Egypt after about twenty-five hours of torture? What would the interrogation there look like?
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
an
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
described his unlucky trip from Pakistan to Egypt to me; so far everything I was experiencing, like the ice-cubes and smashing, was consistent with
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
story. So I expected electric shocks in the pool. How much power can my body, especially my heart, handle? I know something about electricity and its devastating, irreversible damage: I saw
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collapsing in the blocks a couple of times every week with blood gushing out of his nose until it soaked his clothes.
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was a Martial art trainer and athletically built.

I was constructing the whole interrogation over and over, their questions, my answers. But what if they don’t believe me? No, they would believe me, because they understand the recipe of terrorism more than the Americans, and have more experience. The cultural barrier between the Christian and the Muslim world still irritates the approach of Americans to the whole issue considerably; Americans tend to widen the circle of involvement to catch the largest possible numbers of Muslims. They always speak about the Big Conspiracy against the U.S. I personally had been interrogated about people
who just practiced the basics of the religion and sympathized with Islamic movements; I was asked to provide every detail about Islamic movements, no matter how moderate. That’s amazing in a country like the U.S., where Christian terrorist organizations such as Nazis and White Supremacists have the freedom to express themselves and recruit people openly and nobody can bother them. But as a Muslim, if you sympathize with the political views of an Islamic organization you’re in big trouble. Even attending the same mosque as a suspect is big trouble. I mean this fact is clear for everybody who understands the ABCs of American policy toward so-called Islamic Terrorism.

The Arabo-American party was over, and the Arabs turned me over once more to the same U.S. Team. They dragged me out of the boat and threw me, I would say, in the same truck as the one that afternoon. We were obviously riding on a dirt road.

“Do not move!” said
■■■■■
, but I didn’t recognize any words anymore. I don’t think that anybody beat me, but I was not conscious. When the truck stopped,
■■■■■
and his strong associate towed me from the truck, and dragged me over some steps. The cool air of the room hit me, and boom, they threw me face down on the metal floor of my new home.

“Do not move, I told you not to fuck with me, Motherfucker!” said
■■■■■
, his voice trailing off. He was obviously tired. He left right away with a promise of more actions, and so did the Arab team.

A short time after my arrival, I felt somebody taking
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off my head. Removing these things was both painful and relieving, painful because they had started to penetrate my skin and stick, leaving scars, and relieving
because I started to breathe normally and the pressure around my head went away. When the blindfold was taken off I saw a
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
. I figured he was a Doctor, but why the heck is he hiding behind a mask, and why is he U.S. Army, when the Navy is in charge of the medical care of detainees?

“If you fuckin’ move, I’m gonna hurt you!” I was wondering how could I possibly move, and what possible damage I could do. I was in chains, and every inch in my body was hurting. That is not a Doctor, that is a human butcher!

When the young man checked on me, he realized he needed more stuff. He left and soon came back with some medical gear. I glimpsed his watch: it was about 1:30 a.m., which meant about eight hours since I was kidnapped from
■■■■■■■■
Camp. The Doctor started to wash the blood off my face with a soaked bandage. After that, he put me on a mattress—the only item in the stark cell—with the help of the guards.

“Do not move,” said the guard who was standing over me. The Doctor wrapped many elastic belts around my chest and ribs. After that, they made me sit. “If you try to bite me, I’m gonna fuckin’ hurt you!” said the Doctor while stuffing me with a whole bunch of tablets. I didn’t respond; they were moving me around like an object. Sometime later they took off the chains, and later still one of the guards threw a thin, small, worn-out blanket onto me through the bin hole, and that was everything I would have in the room. No soap, no toothbrush, no iso mat, no Koran, nothing.

I tried to sleep, but I was kidding myself; my body was conspiring against me. It took some time until the medications started to work, then I trailed off, and only woke up when one of the guards hit my cell violently with his boot.

“Get up, piece of shit!” The Doctor once more gave me a bunch of medication and checked on my ribs. “Done with the motherfucker,” he said, showing me his back as he headed toward the door. I was so shocked seeing a Doctor act like that, because I knew that at least fifty percent of medical treatment is psychological. I was like, This is an evil place, since my only solace is this bastard Doctor.
^*

I soon was knocked out. To be honest I can report very little about the next couple of weeks because I was not in the right state of mind. I was lying on my bed the whole time, and I was not able to realize my surroundings. I tried to find out the
Kibla
, the direction of Mecca, but there was no clue.

B
ack in
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
the
Kibla
was indicated with an arrow in every cell. Even the call to prayer could be heard five times a day in
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
.
^*
The U.S. has always repeated that the war is not against the Islamic religion—which is very prudent because it is strategically impossible to fight against a religion as big as Islam—and back there the U.S. was showing the rest of the world how religious freedom ought to be maintained.

But in the secret camps, the war against the Islamic religion was more than obvious. Not only was there no sign to Mecca, but the ritual prayers were also forbidden. Reciting the Koran was forbidden. Possessing the Koran was forbidden. Fasting was forbidden. Practically any Islamic-related ritual was strictly forbidden. I am not talking here about hearsay; I am talking about something I experienced myself. I don’t believe that the average American is paying taxes to wage war against Islam, but I do believe that there are people in the government who have a big problem with the Islamic religion.

For the first couple of weeks after my “Birthday Party” I had no clue about time, whether it was day or night, let alone the time of day. I could only pray in my heart lying down, because I could not stand straight or bend. When I woke up from my semi-coma, I tried to make out the difference between day and night. In fact it was a relatively easy job: I used to look down the toilet, and when the drain was very bright to lightish dark, that was the daytime in my life. I succeeded in illegally stealing some prayers, but
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
busted me.

“He’s praying!”
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
. “Come on!” They put on their masks. “Stop praying.” I don’t recall whether I finished my prayer sitting, or if I finished at all. As a punishment
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
forbade me to use the bathroom for some time.

As soon as the assessing doctor reported that I was relieved from my pain, it was time to hit again before the injuries healed, following the motto “Strike While the Iron’s Hot.” When I heard the melee behind the door, and recognized the voices of both
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
and his Egyptian colleague, I drowned in sweat, got dizzy, and my feet failed to carry me.
^*
My heart pounded so hard that I thought it was going to choke me and fly off through my mouth. Indistinct conversations involving
■■■■■■■■■■■
and the guards took place.

“
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
, let mee geet him,” said the Egyptian guy in his stretched-out English to
■■■■■■■■■■■
. “I wish
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
let me in to have a little conversation with you,” said the Egyptian in Arabic, addressing me.

“Stand back now; let me see him alone,”
■■■■■■■■■■■
said. I was shaking, listening to the bargaining between the Americans and the Egyptians about who was going to get me. I looked like somebody who was going through an autopsy while still alive and helpless.

“You are going to cooperate, whether you choose to or not. You can choose between the civilized way, which I personally prefer, or the other way,” said
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when the guards dragged me out of my cell to him. In the background the Egyptian guy was barking and threatening me with all kinds of painful revenge.

“I am cooperating,” I said in a weak voice. It had been a while since I had talked the last time, and my mouth was not used to talking anymore. My muscles were very sore. I was scared beyond belief. The Halloween-masked
■■■■■■■■■■
was literally stuck on me, moving around and ready to strike at an eye’s wink.

“No, quit denying. We are not interested in your denials. Don’t fuck with me,”
■■■■■■■■■■■
said.

“I’m not.”

“I am going to appoint some interrogators to question you. You know some of them, and some you don’t.”

“OK!” I said. The conversation was closed.
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
ordered the guards to put me back in my cell, and he disappeared.

Then nothing short of a “miracle” happened:
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
made it to the “far faraway secret place.”

“You’ve been causing me so much trouble—nah, well, in Paris it wasn’t that bad but in Mauritania the weather was terrible. I sat at the table across from
■■■■■■■
, and when I asked him, ‘Who recruited you for al Qaeda?’ His answer was you. And the same with
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
.
■■■■■■■■■
are working with us now. You know, you are a part of an organization which the free world wants to wipe out of the face of the earth,” said
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
.

I was listening carefully, and wondering, Free world? I was saying to myself, Do I really have to listen to this crap?
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
was accompanied by the same
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
had brought about two months ago to molest me sexually.
^*

“You know, in jail the one who talks first wins. You lost and
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
won. He said everything about you,”
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
. “The good thing is, we don’t have to dirty our hands with you; we have Israelis and Egyptians doing the job for us,”
■■■
continued, while taunting me sexually by touching me everywhere. I neither talked nor showed any resistance. I was sitting there like a stone.
^†

“Why is he shaking so much?” asked the
■■■■■■■
.

“I don’t know,”
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
answered.

“But his hands are sweating like crazy!”

“If I were him, the same would be happening to me,” said
■■■■■■■■
. “You think this place is like
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
, where you survived every attempt
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
, but you won’t survive here if you keep playing games with us,” he said.

“Like what?” I wondered.

“Like your trip to Slovenia. You only told me about it because you knew I knew about it. Now: are you going to cooperate with us?” he asked.

“I
was
cooperating,” I said.

“No, you weren’t, and guess what? I am going to write in my report that you’re full of shit, and other people are going to take care of you. The Egyptian is very interested in you!”

Meanwhile the
■■■■■■■
stopped molesting me since I showed no resistance. “What’s wrong with him?”
■■■■
wondered once more.

“I don’t know. But maybe he is too relaxed in this place. We should maybe take away some of his sleep,” said
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
. I’ve never seen a human being as emotionless as he was. He spoke about keeping me from sleeping without a single change in his voice, face, or composure. I mean, regardless of our religion or race, we human beings always feel more or less
bad for somebody who is suffering. I personally can never help breaking into tears when I read a sad story or watch a sad movie. I have no problem admitting this. Some people may say that I am a weak person; well, then, let me be!

“You should ask
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
to forgive you the lies, and start everything over,” said the
■■■■■■■
. I didn’t say anything. “Start small. Give us a piece of information you never said before!”
■■■■
continued. I had no response to that malicious, nonsense suggestion either.

“Your mom is an old lady. I don’t know how long she can withstand the conditions in the detention facility,”
■■■■■■■■■
said. I knew that he was talking out of his tail. But I also knew that the government was ready to take any measures to pry information out of me, even if it would take injury to my family members, especially when you know that the
■■■■■■■■■■■■■
government is cooperating blindly with the U.S. I mean the U.S. government has more power over
■■■■■■■■■■■■
than over U.S. nationals, that’s how far the cooperation goes. A U.S. citizen cannot be arrested without due process of law, but
■■■■■■■■■■■■
can—and by the U.S. government!
^*
I always said to my interrogators, “Let’s say I am criminal. Is an American criminal holier than a non-American?” And most of them had no answer. But I am sure that Americans are not much luckier. I’ve heard of many of them getting persecuted and wrongly arrested, especially Muslims and Arabs, in the name of the War Against Terror. Americans, non-Americans: it is as the German proverb puts it, Heute die! Morgen du! Today Them, Tomorrow You!

It was very hard to start a conversation with
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
;
even the guards hated him. Today I couldn’t get anywhere with him; I just couldn’t find a handrail in the train of his speech. And as to the other
■■■■■■■■■■
was only sent to harass me sexually, but I was at a stage where I had no feeling
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
. Thus,
■■■
mission was dead before it was born.

“You know how it looks when you feel our wrath,”
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
said, and left me with many other threats including sleep deprivation and starvation, which I believed to be true and serious. The guards put me roughly back in my cell.

Over the next several days, I almost lost my mind. Their recipe for me went like this: I must be kidnapped from
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
and put in a secret place. I must be made to believe I was on a far, faraway island. I must be informed by
■■■■■■■■■■■■■
that my mom was captured and put in a special facility.

In the secret place, the physical and psychological suffering must be at their highest extremes. I must not know the difference between day and night. I couldn’t tell a thing about days going by or time passing; my time consisted of a crazy darkness all the time. My diet times were deliberately messed up. I was starved for long periods and then given food but not given time to eat.

“You have three minutes: Eat!” a guard would yell at me, and then after about half a minute he would grab the plate. “You’re done!” And then it was the opposite extreme: I was given too much food and a guard came into my cell and forced me to eat all of it. When I said “I need water” because the food got stuck in my throat, he punished me by making me drink two 25-ounce water bottles.

“I can’t drink,” I said when my abdomen felt as if it was going to explode. But
■■■■■■■■■■
screamed and threatened me,
pushing me against the wall and raising his hand to hit me. I figured drinking would be better, and drank until I vomited.

All the guards were masked with Halloween-like masks, and so were the Medics, and the guards were briefed that I was a high-level, smart-beyond-belief terrorist.

“You know who you are?” said
■■■■■■■■■■■
friend. “You’re a terrorist who helped kill 3,000 people!”

“Indeed I am!” I answered. I realized it was futile to discuss my case with a guard, especially when he knew nothing about me. The guards were all very hostile. They cursed, shouted, and constantly put me through rough Military-like basic training. “Get up,” “Walk to the bin hole.” “Stop!” “Grab the shit!” “Eat.” “You got two minutes!” “You’re done!” “Give the shit back!” “Drink!” “You better drink the whole water bottle!” “Hurry up!” “Sit down!” “Don’t sit down unless I say it!” “Search the piece of shit!” Most of the guards rarely attacked me physically, but
■■■■■■■■
hit me once until I fell face-down on the floor, and whenever he and his associate grabbed me they held me very tight and made me run in the heavy chains: “Move!”

No sleep was allowed. In order to enforce this, I was given 25-ounce water bottles in intervals of one to two hours, depending on the mood of the guards, 24 hours a day. The consequences were devastating. I couldn’t close my eyes for ten minutes because I was sitting most of the time on the bathroom. Later on, after the tension was relieved, I asked one of the guards, “Why the water diet? Why don’t you just make me stay awake by standing up, like in
■■■■■■■■■■■■■
?”

“Psychologically it’s devastating to make somebody stay awake on his own, without ordering him,” said
■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■
. “Believe me, you haven’t seen anything. We have put detainees naked under the shower for days, eating, pissing, and
shitting in the shower!” he continued. Other guards told me about other torture methods that I wasn’t really eager to know about.

I was allowed to say three sentences: “Yes, sir!” “Need my interrogator!” and “Need the medics.” Every once in a while the whole guard team stormed my cell, dragged me out, put me facing the wall, and threw out whatever was in my cell, shouting and cursing in order to humiliate me. It wasn’t much: I was deprived from all comfort items that a detainee needs except for a mattress and a small, thin, worn-out blanket. For the first weeks I also had no shower, no laundry, no brushing. I almost developed bugs. I hated my smell.

No sleep. Water diet. Every move behind my door made me stand up in a military-like position with my heart pounding like boiling water. My appetite was non-existent. I was waiting every minute on the next session of torture. I hoped I would die and go to heaven; no matter how sinful I am, these people can never be more merciful than God. Ultimately we all are going to face the Lord and beg for his mercy, admitting our weaknesses and our sinfulness. I could hardly remember any prayers, all I could say was, “Please, God, relieve my pain…”

I started to hallucinate and hear voices as clear as crystal. I heard my family in a casual familial conversation that I couldn’t join. I heard Koran readings in a heavenly voice.
^*
I
heard music from my country. Later on the guards used these hallucinations and started talking with funny voices through the plumbing, encouraging me to hurt the guards and plot an escape. But I wasn’t misled by them, even though I played along.