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FIVE YEARS OF MY LIFE -- AN INNOCENT MAN IN GUANTANAMO |
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Chapter 10: GUANTANAMO BAY, CAMP 4 IT WAS A REAL PRIVILEGE. I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I HAD DONE to deserve a transfer to Camp 4, but I had long since stopped asking about the whys and wherefores of Guantanamo. In Camp 4, or so we had heard, there were no cages. The prisoners lived together, and the food rations were bigger. The guards used to say you had to be on your best behavior to get to Camp 4. It was considered the best camp in Guantanamo. Many prisoners, whole groups of them, had been released in the meantime-the Pakistanis, for example, and some of the Afghans. Almost all of them had been transferred to Camp 4 before they were set free. But there was no standard procedure. Sometimes in Camps 1 and 2, I had seen guards bringing civilian clothing-jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt and denim jacket-to prisoners in their cages. A short time later, those prisoners were always gone. There was, we discovered, a way out of here after all. Baher Azmy had confirmed that the prisoners had been released and were living in their home countries. Many of them were put straight back into prison by their own governments. The Americans had made this a condition for their release, our lawyers told us. In early 2006, a group of Saudis was allowed to go, but the Red Cross had warned them while they were still in Guantanamo that they were going straight to jail in Saudi Arabia. Our lawyers informed us about who had really been freed and who hadn't. Maybe some day, I thought, I would be sent to a German or Turkish prison. Camp 4 was a dump. The cells were empty metal ship containers with only a metal slot in the door for sunlight and air. Space was cramped since each cell housed up to ten prisoners. The air was stale, and the ceiling light stayed on through the night. The generators hummed constantly just like Camps 1 and 2. It was like being in a ten-man oven. During the day, the concrete floor got so hot you had to wear flip-flops to avoid burning the soles of your feet. I couldn't believe this was the best camp in Guantanamo. 1£ there had been an air-conditioning unit, you could have made yourself somewhat comfortable there, but comfort wasn't the point. Without some sort of cooling system, we could have died in there so they installed a large rotating ceiling fan. But during the day, when the space was hottest, they turned the thing off. At night, when things began to cool down, they switched it back on-to make it more difficult for us to go to sleep. They only turned on the fan during the day when a helicopter arrived with a camera team. Camp 4 was the one journalists and photographers were allowed to visit. We were allowed out more often for exercise. The prison "courtyard" was a corridor three feet wide by sixty feet long, running between the barbed-wire-protected containers. Several times a day, two cells -- twenty prisoners in total -- were allowed out for an hour. We spent the rest of the time in our cells under the never-blinking eyes of the surveillance cameras. Once a week we were searched. We were herded into the cell and several IRF teams, perhaps two dozen soldiers in all, would arrive with machine guns and take up position outside the fencing. Two by two, we would be led to the washroom, where they frisked us. The other prisoners were kept confined within one of Camp 4's five containers while this was going on. We were also inspected twice a week by groups of journalists. They never visited our containers, of course. Instead, we were led to a kind of playground with soccer goals, basketball hoops, and a volleyball net. Sometimes there were brand- new soccer balls, volleyballs, and basketballs lying around. Normally we weren't allowed on the grounds, only when journalists were visiting. As soon as the reporters left, the guards collected the balls. "Hurricane warning," they'd say, and take us back to the containers. One time, I got up close enough to a group of journalists to make out what their guide was telling them. "Every block and every prisoner," he said, "is allowed two hours of soccer, volleyball or basketball per day." *** We did get more to eat in Camp 4 than in either Camp 1 or 2. We even got a glass of milk every morning. Because I was taking in more calories, I was able to work out more often. It was the same kind of food as before -- a couple of bitter- tasting potatoes, cold vegetables, undercooked rice -- but there was more of it. And we were allowed to share it amongst ourselves, which happened all the time because prisoners were constantly coming down with stomach ailments and couldn't eat. Often, when we were let out for exercise, there was a cat at the fence. I called it 007 because it was so clever. As soon as it saw one of the guards, it ran away. It could tell the difference between the prisoners' clothing and the soldiers' uniforms. I used to save half of my milk for the cat. I already knew several people in Camp 4. Abid, the Algerian from Germany, was there, as well as Musa, one of five Bosnians in Guantanamo. r had met Musa in Camp 1, and he had been my neighbor in solitary confinement during my one-man hunger strike. Musa told me how the Bosnians had wound up in Guantanamo. Three of them were Arabs who had lived for years in Bosnia-Herzegovina, and they had all been arrested after September 11. The investigations had dragged on, before the case went to trial. At the hearing, the judge said that there was no evidence against them and that they were free to go. But when they tried to leave, a policeman told them to use the back door, where a masked commando of Americans was waiting for them. They were dragged into a car, taken to the airport, and flown to Cuba. Their families were waiting for them in front of the courthouse. Secretly, I would work out with Musa and arm-wrestle with the Afghans in Camp 4. I usually won, but they were really good. They had all grown up in the mountains so they were used to carrying things around on their backs, and hiking up and down hills had made them very strong. In the washroom, I would practice karate moves or do sit-ups with Musa sitting on my shoulders. In the beginning, two cameras scanned the room, but we'd broken one of them and we could work out in a comer of the room out of view of the other. Once I lost my balance while doing a karate kick and slid into view. I was sent to Romeo for a month. It was very hot because by then all the cell walls had been replaced with Plexiglas. When I was caught working out a second time, I was sent to Romeo again and then transferred, as further punishment, back to Camp 1. I actually felt lucky about this after learning that there had been another incident involving the Koran in Camp 4. Some of the prisoners said a Koran had been torn up and thrown to the ground during a weekly search. There'd been a fight between the prisoners and the IRF teams in the container, and the prisoners in the other containers had heard what was going on. Several hundred soldiers stormed the camp, firing rubber bullets from M-16s at the prisoners. Anyone outside the container got seriously injured. Once everyone outside had been shackled up, the soldiers opened a container containing a group of Afghan prisoners. The IRF teams sprayed tear gas and the soldiers fired rubber bullets, waiting for a moment before storming in. That was a mistake. The Afghans had torn the fan from the ceiling and had sharpened the rotor blades, using one blade to hone the next. The blades were like swords, and many of the soldiers suffered serious gashes. Prisoners had also tried to strangle their captors with cables from the ceiling-fan unit. The prisoners in Camp 1 said the Afghans had fought until they could no longer stand from exhaustion. None of the soldiers were killed, but one prisoner said he saw a lot of blood on the floor. Camp 4 was completely evacuated, and a short time later there were casualties. I was sleeping in my block in Camp 1 when, suddenly, a large group of soldiers came and woke us up, telling us to hand over our blankets, mattresses, and all our clothes. We knew something big had happened. This next night news came from Bravo. Three people died, a prisoner yelled. The following night we got their names. One of them was Yasser Talal al Zahrani from Saudi Arabia. In late 2003, I had been in the same block as Yasser. He was the same age as me, a good-looking, friendly guy. Yasser had a nice voice and knew the Koran by heart so for a while he led our prayers. He was always optimistic, constantly repeating that we would be released in the near future. Sometimes, when he knew I was nearby, he would send his greetings. He usually wanted to know if I was still secretly working out or whether I had given up. Tell him I'm never giving up, I would answer. I was very sad to hear Yasser was dead. I didn't know the other two people; one was a Saudi and the other was from Yemen. The guards said all three of them had committed suicide. Hung themselves. *** Several weeks later I got some new neighbors, who had been in Block Alpha the night Yasser and the other two men died. They had spoken to Yasser that day. They said that dinner had come early that evening and that everyone in the block suddenly got tired and had fallen asleep -- even though it was never quiet in the block at that hour, even when the guards left us in peace. There was always someone who couldn't fall asleep, who wanted to pray or who kept waking up throughout the night. The metal shutters in front of the windows had also been closed from the outside, Yasser's last neighbor told us, as if a storm were approaching. He said he had been woken up in the middle of the night by a loud bang and had seen the IRF team enter Yasser's cage. He didn't think twice about this and went back to sleep. A short time later, everyone was woken up by the guards, who made them hand over their mattresses, sheets, and clothes. Medics were already carrying Yasser out of his cage on a stretcher. The prisoners saw a piece of sheet in Yasser's mouth, and other pieces of sheet binding his arms and legs. There was more sheet around his neck, like a noose. The Americans said he had hung himself. But we didn't think that could be true. He would have had to attach the noose to the sharp metal lattices with his hands and feet tied and with no chair to stand on. That was nearly impossible. There had been suicide attempts after the other incidents involving the Koran, but none of them had been successful, and the attempts were discovered immediately. Once I talked to Yasser about the idea of attempting suicide, but he had rejected it. He said our faith prohibited suicide. It seemed highly unlikely that the guards would have failed to catch him in time. They barely let us out of their sight for a minute. Yasser would have needed several minutes to tie himself up like that and several more to actually die. It seemed suspicious when the Americans said that when they cut him down he had already been dead for a considerable time. The guards claimed he had covered the walls of his cage so that he hadn't seen him do it. But what was he supposed to have used to cover the cage? The same sheets with which he had allegedly hung himself? And what about the rule prohibiting us from hanging anything on the walls of our cells? It seemed too much of a coincidence that the other two dead men had hung themselves at exactly the same time in exactly the same way in the same block, while all the other inmates had been sleeping like babies. When the guards were patrolling the corridors, it never took long before other guards came to ensure we were following the rules. The guards never took a break since they, too, were kept under surveillance to ensure they were carrying out their duties. Where had they been that night? And what about the sharpshooters in the watchtowers? Hadn't they noticed anything? The other Saudi who had allegedly hung himself had been told a few days earlier that he was going to be released. Overjoyed, he had told everyone about it. In fact, a short time after the alleged suicides, a group of Saudis was sent home. This man didn't seem to have much of a reason for killing himself. No, we prisoners unanimously agreed, the men had been killed. Maybe they had been beaten to death and then strung up, or perhaps they had been strangled. The question was: Why? I had a theory. It could have been that the soldiers in Guantanamo were afraid of being sent to Iraq. Some of them spoke openly about not wanting to go over there. Maybe some of the guards and other soldiers thought that if prisoners died in Guantanamo, it would create trouble for the Bush government, and they wouldn't have to take part in the war. A lot of Guantanamo prisoners believed in this theory. The generals paid very close attention to make sure that no prisoners died. The soldiers were allowed to torment us, put us in the coolers, deprive us of air, and chop off our fingers -- as long as they didn't kill us. That was the big difference between Kandahar and Guantanamo, as we'd learned during the first hunger strikes in Camp X-Ray. They didn't want us to die. Perhaps, the deaths of prisoners were being used against President Bush. It seemed like a suspicious coincidence that several weeks before, three prisoners had been poisoned. One evening, out of the blue, the guards had brought us baklava. They told us that the unusual gift was to celebrate the imminent release of a number of prisoners. Almost everyone ate it, but I was suspicious. The next morning one of the prisoners couldn't get up. I had seen him fall sleep right after dinner, and when we knelt down for our morning prayers, he was lying in his cage, not moving. We noticed that there was white froth around his mouth and saw the medics take him away. A short time later we heard that two others had also been removed from their cells in a similar state. A few days later, rumors began to circulate that all three had been poisoned. When the prisoners returned to their cells, they tried to tell us they had attempted suicide by taking pills. We didn't believe them. What sort of pills would they have taken, and how would they have gotten them? No one had any pills, and we were searched, orally as well, three times a day in Camp 1. When prisoners got sick and received medicine from the Americans, they were always searched with special care. We were convinced that during the interrogations the Americans had forced the prisoners to tell lies. But who had poisoned the men? The guards prepared our food, and they were the ones who had given us the baklava. In retrospect, we figured that they had tried to poison the three men for the same reasons that they had killed the other three prisoners a few weeks later. The poison didn't work so they made sure the job was done right the second time around. That was my theory anyway. Other prisoners had different ideas. But we all agreed that the suicide story was fake. After the prisoners' deaths, Camp 1 was evacuated and completely sealed off. A short while later, Camp 4 was reopened. I was one of the first prisoners transferred back there. After the riots earlier that year, only two f the containers were in use; each one housed six or seven of us. In my container I met the old Afghan man and his son from Camp X-Ray again. The father's name was Haji Zad. He was ninety-six years old, and he had just been reunited with his son for the first time in four years. Our cells were searched daily, and our food rations were reduced. It was hard for me to look at the old man because I felt so sorry for him. *** On two occasions in 2005 and 2006, the so-called Administrative Review Board took another look at my case. I refused to take part in the hearings, and there was nothing they could do about it. If they had beaten me or used pepper spray, I wouldn't have able to talk anyway. The tribunal went ahead in my absence. On both occasions, the escort team took me to the courtroom to hear the verdict being read out. "The defendant was captured in Tora Bora in Afghanistan where he was leading a group of Taliban guerillas. He is considered an enemy combatant and will be kept in Guantanamo." There were no more appeals. "For five years," I protested, "you've known that I was arrested in Pakistan. What's this about?" "That's what we've concluded from the evidence," said the head of the tribunal. All my protests were in vain. Soon after the verdict, I was brought to an interrogation room and chained to the floor. But no one came to ask me any questions. Hours later, two soldiers appeared and placed a telephone on the table. "You'll be getting a call," they told me. That made me curious. I didn't know who the caller would be. An interrogator? My lawyer? Maybe the judge? More hours passed. What was going on here? Suddenly the phone rang. But no one came to help me. I couldn't pick up the receiver with my hands and feet shackled, but the telephone kept ringing. I threw myself to the floor and tried to drag the table toward me with my feet. Kicking one of the table legs, I managed to dislodge the receiver and knock it down to the floor. I squirmed to get my head as close as possible to the handset. I could just hear a voice on the other end of the line. "Hello? Hello?" "Yes ..." "It's me, Baher. You're going to be released!" "I know. How are you doing?" "Murat, are you listening? You're going to be released." "I know," I said. "They're playing a nasty trick on you. How is your daughter doing?" "No, it's true. You're really going to be set free." "Fine, if you say so. Remember how they called you a year ago and said I was already on my way to Turkey? You and my whole family flew over there to meet me. What did they say this time? Did they tell you when I was flying out?" ''I'm not allowed to say ... just hold on!" We said good-bye. Baher hung up, and I lay there on the floor listening to the dial tone. I'd witnessed this trick once before. Prisoners would be brought to a plane, and they'd get in, having been told they were being flown home. Then they would be taken back to their cages. It was a way of breaking them psychologically. About a week after the phone call, the escort team called my number in Camp 4. I was out alone in the yard getting some exercise when they threw a package of clothes over the fence. It landed on the gravel. "Put these things on!" I opened the package and examined what was inside: jeans, sneakers, a white T-shirt, and a denim jacket. I put them on. Was I really going to be released? I went back to the container and said goodbye to the Afghans. I said that, if Allah was willing, I was now going to be set free. I told them to say goodbye to everyone for me. Then I took my leave. I wished the old man was being released instead of me. I didn't know where I was being taken. It could be Germany, Turkey, or back to Camp 1. Most likely, I was heading for a German or Turkish jail. It was difficult to say goodbye to the other prisoners. They were staying behind and would continue to be tortured. Just before I was supposed to be released, an officer held a document and a pen under my nose. "Sign this piece of paper," he said, "saying that you were detained in Guantanamo Bay because you are linked to Al Qaeda and the Taliban. Or you are never going home." After five years of imprisonment I was supposed to admit being a member of al Qaeda and the Taliban. Otherwise I wouldn't be sent home. After all the years, the interrogations, the torments, and the deaths, I was supposed to sign something affirming my guilt and exonerating them. Was this another one of their tricks? I didn't sign anything. *** They shackled me, put on the goggles, the soundproof headphones, and the gas mask, and led me into a hermetically sealed bus. We drove on board a ship and then back onto land. The door opened, and they briefly removed the goggles and the mask to inspect my hair and my beard. It was dark. Airplane motors were already running. The soldiers formed a semicircle around me before leading me up the loading ramp into the belly of the plane and shackling me to a seat in the middle of the cargo hold. I counted fifteen guards on board. Then they put my goggles and mask back on. I was the only prisoner on the plane.
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