Skip to main content

Barbed Wires and Tall Walls

Fiction

“Imagine a future, 10 years from now or 20 years from now, when the United States of America is still holding people who have been charged with no crime, on a piece of land that is not part of our country.  Is that who we are?  Is that something that our founders foresaw?”

Saleem Syed’s ears stood up.  Could the President of America have really said that? 

The TV was broadcasting Barack Obama’s speech on national security.  Saleem’s hand moved impulsively to his mobile phone. 

“Can you arrange for me a visit to Guantanamo Bay?”

“Tough, boy, but I can try.  What gives you the idea, however?”  It was the editor-publisher of the weekly for which Saleem had been working as a journalist for years.  

In a couple of days’ time his editor-publisher got him the permission to visit Gitmo, as Guantanamo is known among people closely associated with it.  T&C applied, of course.

Surrounded by the sea where the steep hills did not reach, the prison camp stood like Dracula’s fort  silhouetted against the sinking sun as Saleem watched it from John Paul Jones Hill. 

“We’ll draw lots to decide which prisoner you can interview personally,” said the Commander of the Joint Task Force – Guantanamo.  Only carefully selected names will be in the draw, knew Saleem.  T&C applied everywhere.

The lot fell on Abdul, an Afghan.

“War is in our blood,” said Abdul.  “When we didn’t fight with Russians or the Americans, we fought with the neighbouring tribe.”

Abdul said that he was a warrior whom the neighbouring tribes loved to hate.  So they got him into Guantanamo.

“The American helicopters would drop leaflets every once in a while in the tribal areas,” said Abdul, “offering $5000 per terrorist caught.  Five thousand dollars is a huge lot of money for any Afghan, you know.  I was sold for that sum.”

There was a sign of the Al Qaeda on Abdul’s Casio F-91W watch.  That was enough proof for the CIA which decided that Abdul was a terrorist.

“Are you a terrorist?” asked Saleem.

“Who can be worse terrorists than America?” asked Abdul in return.  “They fuck everyone in the world.  If they cannot do it literally, they do it in the name of democracy.  Or in the name of economic liberalisation.”  Disdain foamed in his mouth and he swallowed it.  “Allah has given each people their own land to live in the way they deem best.  Why does America walk with an erect cock on all those lands pretending that fucking is America’s birthright and sole obligation to the world?  There have been prisoners from 48 countries here, you know.  How did 48 countries become enemies of America? ”

“Are you a terrorist?” asked Saleem again.

“I want America to leave us alone.  Is that terrorism?”

“Were you ever part of any terrorist attack anywhere?”  Saleem changed his question.

“No,” said Abdul after looking into Saleem’s eyes for a while.  “I’m not a terrorist and never wanted to be one.”  He said that he was just another Afghan who worked in his field during the day and spent time with his family in the night.  Yes, he did fight occasionally with some fellow or the other from another tribe.  That too was part of the harsh life in the desert.

“What will you do if you are set free from here?”

“I want to see my daughter.  She is eleven years old now.   I haven’t ever seen her.  She was born the night I was arrested.  I was taking my wife to hospital for the delivery.  I was arrested on the way.  And the scare made my wife deliver the baby in the van itself, before reaching the hospital.  I want to meet her, my daughter.  I want to love...”

He broke off.

“You are a journalist and you know how much of what people say may be true,” said the military officer who escorted Saleem out of the prison camp.  “Look,” said the officer.  He was pointing at the wall opposite a prison cell.  The wall carried many stains which looked like shallow dollops of filth.  “Faeces and urine.  They mix it and throw it at the guards passing by.”

“I want to love...”  Abdul’s words distracted Saleem away from the faeces and urine.   

The sun was sinking into the Caribbean Sea as Saleem walked out of the cage of barbed wires and tall walls. 



PS. This story was inspired by a report, “The Week Goes Inside Gitmo,” in The Week [October 27, 2013].

Comments

  1. I had read articles in a few magazines regarding the inhumane approach of the American millitary men with prisoners in the detention centers. Most heart rendering and awe strinking presentation of this brutishness was seen by me the movie 'New York'. The extent of misery cannot be expressed.. It was simply snatchng away one's identity and right to be treated as human. This one is again a heart touching note on the inhumanity, the so called first world country bears. I respect your idea and feelings regarding the issue.... and this one's an artpiece.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Gitmo is a symbol, Namrata. A symbol of the power that America wields over the world. It's not just military power, not brutish power alone, it's also an economic power. America controls the world.

      Delete
  2. That's collateral damage for all kinds of war. Extremely sad but is very real. Although it might be very tempting to see this is as the reflection of a people but Obama got elected on his anti-Gitmo plank but 5 years hence, nothing. Nothing at all.
    It's funny to think how readily America has internalized Mao's adage into it's foreign policy - 'Power flows through the barrel of the gun'. The difference being, while China is overt about it, US is pretty covert.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Of course, not every American supports Guantanamo, or for that matter, many of America's foreign policies. But we judge the country by what it does officially rather than what the people want personally.

      Delete
  3. Let these words open the eyes at least a few of this blogging community .the world will find isolate them in a day .thank you .jk

    ReplyDelete
  4. This is a touching story!
    How many such Abduls are languishing!
    I hope all changes soon.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Changes come too slowly, Indrani. And in some cases, they never come. International politics is one such place: only power games. And a lot of innocent people suffer.

      Delete
  5. Lovely piece of work... Yes, it is sad to see the power US holds over the rest of the world... There might be many worse off than Abdul for all we know.. Rather sad state of affairs...

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks, seets. I'm sure I have portrayed a much less bleak world that it actually is at Guantanamo.

      Delete
  6. i have read much about the bay....all i can say is Allah help them set them free .
    Good work :)

    ReplyDelete
  7. Every time I read something like this and I hate human race. Unfortunately, we are without humanity. :(

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. True, Pankti, our humanity is being eroded relentlessly... we can't afford to be human anymore!

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

From a Teacher’s Diary

Henry B Adams, American historian and writer, is believed to have said that “one never knows where a teacher’s influence ends.” As a teacher, I have always striven to keep that maxim in mind while dealing with students. Even if I couldn’t wield any positive influence, I never wished to leave a scar on the psyche of any student of mine. Best of intentions notwithstanding, we make human errors and there may be students who were not quite happy with me especially since I never possessed even the lightest shade of diplomacy. Tactless though I was, I have been fortunate, as a teacher, to have a lot of good memories returning with affection from former students. Let me share the most recent experience. A former student’s WhatsApp message yesterday carried two PDF attachments. One was the dissertation she wrote for her graduation. The other was a screenshot of the Acknowledgement. “A special mention goes to Mr Tomichan Matheikal, my English teacher in higher secondary school, whose moti...

Waiting for the Mahatma

Book Review I read this book purely by chance. R K Narayan is not a writer whom I would choose for any reason whatever. He is too simple, simplistic. I was at school on Saturday last and I suddenly found myself without anything to do though I was on duty. Some duties are like that: like a traffic policeman’s duty on a road without any traffic! So I went up to the school library and picked up a book which looked clean. It happened to be Waiting for the Mahatma by R K Narayan. A small book of 200 pages which I almost finished reading on the same day. The novel was originally published in 1955, written probably as a tribute to Mahatma Gandhi and India’s struggle for independence. The edition that I read is a later reprint by Penguin Classics. Twenty-year-old Sriram is the protagonist though Gandhi towers above everybody else in the novel just as he did in India of the independence-struggle years. Sriram who lives with his grandmother inherits significant wealth when he turns 20. Hi...

Ram, Anandhi, and Co

Book Review Title: Ram C/o Anandhi Author: Akhil P Dharmajan Translator: Haritha C K Publisher: HarperCollins India, 2025 Pages: 303 T he author tells us in his prefatory note that “this (is) a cinematic novel.” Don’t read it as literary work but imagine it as a movie. That is exactly how this novel feels like: an action-packed thriller. The story revolves around Ram, a young man who lands in Chennai for joining a diploma course in film making, and Anandhi, receptionist of Ram’s college. Then there are their friends: Vetri and his half-sister Reshma, and Malli who is a transgender. An old woman, who is called Paatti (grandmother) by everyone and is the owner of the house where three of the characters live, has an enviably thrilling role in the plot.   In one of the first chapters, Ram and Anandhi lock horns over a trifle. That leads to some farcical action which agitates Paatti’s bees which in turn fly around stinging everyone. Malli, the aruvani (transgender), s...

The Pope and a Prostitute

I started reading the autobiography of Pope Francis a few days back as mentioned in an earlier post that was inspired by chapter 2 of the book. I’m reading the book slowly, taking my own sweet time, because I want to savour every line of this book which carries so much superhuman tenderness. The book ennobles the reader. The fifth chapter describes a few people of his barrio that the Pope knew as a young man. Two of them are young “girls” who worked as prostitutes. “But these were high-class,” the Pope adds. “They made their appointments by telephone, arranged to be collected by automobile.” La Ciche and La Porota – that’s what they were called. “Years went by,” the Pope writes, “and one day when I was now auxiliary bishop of Buenos Aires, the telephone rang in the bishop’s palace. It was la Porota who was looking for me.” Pope Francis was meeting her after many years. “Hey, don’t you remember me? I heard they’ve made you a bishop.” She was a river in full flow, says the Pope....

War is Stupid: Pope Francis

Image by Google Gemini I am reading Pope Franci’s autobiography, Hope . Some of his views on war and justice as expressed in the first pages [I’ve read only two chapters so far] accentuate the difference of this Pope from his predecessors. Many of his views are radical. I knew that Pope Francis was different from the other Popes, but hadn’t expected so much. The title of chapter 2 is taken from Psalm 120 : Too Long Do Live Among Those Who Hate Peace . The psalm was sung by Jewish pilgrims travelling to Jerusalem for religious festivals. It expresses a longing for deliverance from deceitful and hostile enemies. It is a prayer for divine justice. Justice is what Pope Francis seeks in the contemporary world too in chapter 2 of his autobiography. “Each day the world seems more elitist,” he writes, “and each day crueler, toward those who have been cast out and abandoned. Developing countries continue to be drained of their finest natural and human resources for the benefit of a few pr...