Guantánamo Diary. Mohamedou Ould Slahi

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СКАЧАТЬ a bag was put over my head to blindfold me. The gate was opened, and I was roughly pushed and thrown over the back of another detainee in a row. Although I was physically hurt, I was solaced when I felt the warmth of another human being in front of me suffering the same. The solace increased when Ibrahim was thrown over my back. Many detainees didn’t exactly understand what the guards wanted from them, and so got hurt worse. I felt lucky to have been blindfolded, for one, because I missed a lot bad things that were happening around me, and for two, because the blindfold helped me in my daydreaming about better circumstances. Thank ALLAH, I have the ability to ignore my surroundings and daydream about anything I want.

      We were supposed to be very close to each other. Breathing was very hard. We were 34 detainees, all of whom were Arab except for one Afghani and one from the Maldives.⁸ When we were put in a row, we were tied together with a rope around our upper arms. The rope was so tight that the circulation stopped, numbing my whole arm.

      We were ordered to stand up, and were pulled to a place where the “processing” continued. I hated it because Ibrahim kept stepping on my chain, which hurt badly. I tried my best not to step on the chain of the man in front of me. Thank God the trip was short: somewhere in the same building we were set down next to each other on long benches. I had the feeling that the benches made a circle.

      The party started with dressing the passengers. I got a headset that prevented me from hearing. It gave me such a painful headache; the set was so tight that I had the top of my ears bleeding for a couple of days. My hands were now tied to my waist in the front, and connected with a chain all the way to my feet. They connected my wrists with a six-inch hard plastic piece, and made me wear thick mittens. It was funny, I tried to find a way to free my fingers, but the guards hit my hands to stop moving them. We grew tired; people started to moan. Every once in a while one of the guards took out one of my ear plugs and whispered a discouraging phrase:

      “You know, you didn’t make any mistake: your mom and dad made the mistake when they produced you.”

      “You gonna enjoy the ride to the Caribbean paradise. . . .” I didn’t answer any provocation, pretending not to understand what he said. Other detainees told me about having been subject to such humiliation, too, but they were luckier; they understood no English.

      My flipflops were taken away, and I got some made-in-China tennis shoes. Over my eyes they put really ugly, thick, blindfolding glasses, which were tied around my head and over my ears. They were similar to swimming goggles. To get an idea about the pain, put some old goggles around your hand and tie them tight, and stay that way for a couple of hours; I am sure you will remove them. Now imagine that you have those same goggles tied around your head for more than forty hours. To seal the dressing, a sticky pad was placed behind my ear.

      Sometime during the processing we got a cavity search, to the laughter and comments of the guards. I hated that day when I started to learn my miserable English vocabulary. In such situations you’re just better off if you don’t understand English. The majority of the detainees wouldn’t speak about the cavity searches we were subject to, and they would get angry when you started to talk about them. I personally wasn’t ashamed; I think the people who did these searches without good reason should be ashamed of themselves.

      I grew sick, tired, frustrated, hungry, nauseous, and all other bad adjectives in the dictionary. I am sure I wasn’t the only one. We got new plastic bracelets carrying a number. My number turned out to be 760, and my next, with ISN 761, was Ibrahim. You could say my group was the 700 series.⁹

      Ibrahim used the bathroom a couple of times, but I tried not to use it. I finally went in the afternoon, maybe around 2 p.m.

      “Do you like music?” the guard who was escorting me there asked when we were alone.

      “Yes, I do!”

      “What kind?”

      “Good music!”

      “Rock and Roll? Country?” I wasn’t really familiar with these types he mentioned. Every once in a while I used to listen to German radio with different kinds of Western music, but I couldn’t tell which one was which.

      “Any good music,” I replied. The good conversation paid off in the form that he took my blindfold off so that I could take care of my business. It was very tricky, since I had chains all around my body. The guard placed me gently back on the bench, and for the next couple of hours waiting was the order. We were deprived from the right of performing our daily prayers for the next forty-eight hours.

      Around four p.m., the transport to the airport started. By then, I was a “living dead.” My legs weren’t able to carry me anymore; for the time to come, the guards had to drag me all the way from Bagram to GTMO.

      We were loaded in a truck that brought us to the airport. It took five to ten minutes to get there. I was happy for every move, just to have the opportunity to alter my body, for my back was killing me. We were crowded in the truck shoulder-to-shoulder and thigh-to-thigh. Unluckily I was placed facing the back of the vehicle, which I really hate because it gives me nausea. The vehicle was equipped with hard benches so that the detainees sat back to back and the guards sat at the very end shouting, “No talking!” I have no idea how many people were in the truck; all I know is that one detainee sat on my right, and one on my left, and another against my back. It is always good to feel the warmth of your co-detainees, somehow it’s solacing.

      The arrival at the airport was obvious because of the whining of the engines, which easily went through the earplugs. The truck backed up until it touched the plane. The guards started to shout loudly in a language I could not differentiate. I started to hear human bodies hitting the floor. Two guards grabbed a detainee and threw him toward two other guards on the plane, shouting “Code”; the receiving guards shouted back confirming receipt of the package. When my turn came, two guards grabbed me by the hands and feet and threw me toward the reception team. I don’t remember whether I hit the floor or was caught by the other guards. I had started to lose feeling and it would have made no difference anyway.

      Another team inside the plane dragged me and fastened me on a small and straight seat. The belt was so tight I could not breathe. The air conditioning hit me, and one of the MPs was shouting, “Do not move, Do not talk,” while locking my feet to the floor. I didn’t know how to say “tight” in English. I was calling, “MP, MP, belt . . .” Nobody came to help me. I almost got smothered. I had a mask over my mouth and my nose, plus the bag covering my head and my face, not to mention the tight belt around my stomach: breathing was impossible. I kept saying, “MP, Sir, I cannot breathe! . . . MP, SIR, please.” But it seemed like my pleas for help got lost in a vast desert.

      After a couple minutes, Ibrahim was dropped beside me on my right. I wasn’t sure it was him, but he told me later he felt my presence beside him. Every once in a while, if one of the guards adjusted my goggles, I saw a little. I saw the cockpit, which was in front of me. I saw the green camo-uniforms of the escorting guards. I saw the ghosts of my fellow detainees on my left and my right. “Mister, please, my belt . . . hurt . . . ,” I called. When the shoutings of the guards faded away, I knew that the detainees were all on board. “Mister, please . . . belt. . . .”

      A guard responded, but he not only didn’t help me, he tightened the belt even more around my abdomen.

      Now I couldn’t endure the pain; I felt I was going to die. I couldn’t help asking for help louder. “Mister, I cannot breathe . . .” One of the soldiers came and untightened the belt, not very comfortably but better than nothing.

      “It’s still tight . . .” I had learned the word when he asked me, “Is it tight?”

      “That’s СКАЧАТЬ