Mohamedou Ould Slahi

Mohamedow Slahi

Mohamedou Ould Slahi is a Mauritanian who was detained at Guantanamo Bay from 2002 until released on October 17, 2016 without ever being charged for a crime. Slahi completed his memoir, Guantánamo Diary, in 2005. The government declassified it in 2015, and the heavily redacted document was published and became an international best seller. The memoir detailed the hardships Slahi was subjected to while imprisoned, including isolation, beatings, temperature extremes, and sexual abuse. Mustafa Balik, the main character of this story, is fictional,as are the events that take place. However, they are inspired by  the events described in Guantánamo Diary.

Senate Committee Torture Report

     The Committee Study of the Central Intelligence Agency's Detention and Interrogation Program is a report that was compiled by a bipartisan committee on the Central Intelligence Agency’s use of “enhanced interrogation techniques” on prisoners during the War on Terror between 2001 and 2006. The full 6,000-page report remains classified, but an executive summary consisting of key findings was released in 2014. The report concluded that, “ The CIA's use of its enhanced interrogation techniques was not an effective means of acquiring intelligence or gaining cooperation from detainees,” and, “The interrogations of CIA detainees were brutal and far worse than the CIA represented to policymakers and others,” as well as other claims condoning the CIA’s deceptiveness and lack of transparency. The full report summary can be found below.

 

https://www.amnestyusa.org/pdfs/sscistudy1.pdf

Los Angeles Airport

Millennium LAX Bombing Plot

 

 An Algerian citizen living in Montreal, Canada named Ahmed Ressam was arrested by U.S. Customs and Border Protection officers at Port Angeles, Washington on December 14, 1999. Custom officials found a large cache of powerful explosives and timing devices hidden in the trunk of his rented car. After interrogation, Ressam confessed to planning to bomb the Los Angeles International Airport on New Year’s Eve. This was one of several attacks planned on or around January 1st, 2000. Others included a large team in Jordan unsuccessfully planning to bomb several Christian and tourist sites, the hijacking of an Indian Airlines flight en route from Nepal to India, and a failed attempt to bomb the USS The Sullivans in Yemen with an explosives-laden boat. The arrest of Ressam launched an FBI investigation across the country, making dozens of arrests and using religious profiling to place hundreds of Muslim Americans under surveillance.

Sleep Deprivation

 

24 Hours:

 Cognitive impairment similar to someone with a blood-alcohol content of 0.1 percent; judgment, memory, decision making, hand-eye coordination deteriorate

 

36 Hours:

 Inflammatory markers enter the bloodstream, which can eventually lead to high blood pressure and cardiovascular disease. Loss of motivation, severe lapses in memory and concentration

 

48 Hours:

 Body begins to shut down for “microsleeps” resulting in episodes similar to blackouts. The person is unaware of the episodes occurring and can fall asleep regardless of the activity they’re currently doing.

 

72 Hours:

 Concentration, motivation, perception extremely deteriorated. Simple conversations become very difficult and audio and visual hallucinations can occur.

 

 

“Sleep deprivation involved keeping detainees awake for up to 180 hours, usually standing or in stress positions, at times with their hands shackled above their heads. At least five detainees experienced disturbing hallucinations during prolonged sleep deprivation and, in at least two of those cases, the CIA nonetheless continued the sleep deprivation.”

-Page 3 of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence’s Committee Study of the CIA’s Detention and Interrogation Program (Senate Torture Report).

 

 

Mosque in Montreal

This mosque in Montreal is one of the CIA’s ties that link Mohamedou Slahi to terrorist activity. The Al Sunnah Al Nabawiah Mosque was among nine houses of prayer considered by the U.S. to be places of al Qaeda recruitment. Slahi attended this mosque for about a month when he lived in Montreal. It is alleged that while in Canada, Slahi and the Millennium bomber Ahmed Ressam met. Slahi was questioned about Ressam in late December 1999, about two years before he was captured and detained by the U.S. government. No evidence has been released that supports these allegations.

Wolf in a Sheepskin Laura Wilson My name is Mustafa Balik. I am a prisoner in Guantanamo Bay. I am innocent. The masked guard forces open the door of my cell, sending it clattering against the wall. “Get up! Interrogation!” he shouts at me. His rough hands wrap a blindfold around my eyes and I feel his hands move to my emaciated upper arms. The next thing I know, I am being pitched into empty space in what must be the hallway. I wouldn’t know, honestly. The walls of my cells are too thick, and in the eternity I’ve been held captive, I haven’t heard a single soul. They want me to believe I am alone, that I am at the mercy of the guards and my interrogators, but I am smarter than they are. I notice the things they do not want me to see. Guards carry multiple trays of food when they drop off mine in the evening. The sounds of boots stomping past failed to overpower the softer sounds of feet being drug The room is bright, too bright. The lights sear through my blindfold and stand in stark contrast with the frigid room. It must be near freezing and I am shaking uncontrollably. The masked guard brought me here, shackled my hands to the floor and forced me to stand in a stooped position. My bad back aches from many hours in this same position. He struck me once in the face in an unnaturally casual way before stomping his heavy boots to one corner. Tasting blood in my mouth, I hang my head and listen to water drip from a leaky pipe somewhere in the room. I wait. Another set of boots enters the room and halts before me. The blindfold is wrenched off and I crane my neck to glimpse the newcomer’s face. It is the man I’ve been told to call Captain Jones. He places a well-rehearsed wry smile on his pale, hardened face before striking me hard in the stomach. My breath abandons me all at once, leaving me gasping for air. In the beginning, it was all I could do not to fall to the floor, but I discovered the steep consequences for breaking the order to stand. Now, I allow the depression to seep into my bones. I feel almost nothing. “Goooood morning, motherfucker! Ready to cooperate today?” Jones barks at me, the cadence of his words mockingly cheerful. Between gasps, I manage to speak. “I’ve already told you the truth!” I retort, knowing the uselessness of my words. He spits on the ground near my feet. “Suit yourself.” He turns to the guard in the corner and nods before turning on his heel and marching out of the room. I slump forward, exhausted by the weight of resistance. My life was good before I was taken from my family six years ago. I had a stable job, a college education, a wife, and traveled to many places. I don’t know what I did to deserve such treatment from the people who preach defense of basic rights and freedoms. If such sentiments are so precious to the US, why then, am I being imprisoned with no reason? Why then am I being deprived of my right to practice my religion? Why then am I being abused if I have done nothing? I am left alone in the freezing room with nothing but thin cloths and slippers that don’t cover my feet. Despite the impressive creativity of my captors’ methods, my days here have taken on a certain sort of routine. I begin with Jones in the morning, then an unnamed woman interrogator in the afternoon, and finally Mr. X during the night. Jones, woman, Mr. X, like clockwork. These people dream up new and different ways to prolong my agony every day. Jones prefers the frigid room and the forced stooped stance. The female specializes in humiliation, sexual abuse, and, most frequently, hanging me by my hands for hours. Mr. X, on the other hand, simply plays the US national anthem over and over at an absurd volume, the sound pounding into my eardrums. The thing about 24-hour torture is after a while, nothing can be worse than what you’ve already endured. Jones’ shift ends and the female interrogator enters. She too, asks if I am feeling talkative today and I answer no. I try to keep my dignity and strength but I can feel it wearing thin. My bones have become brittle, my skin dry and cracked, my hair matted, and my spirit battered. The interrogator decides on hanging me by my hands. So it goes for the next 8 hours. By the time Mr. X enters the room, I am tired. I will talk to him. I think wearily. He is the most familiar with my case. Perhaps one more denial will convince him. “So, what will it be today?” Mr. X asks in a soft, deadly, voice. “I’ve already told you everything I know, what else could I possibly tell you to prove I’m innocent?” I plead, my throat barely able to convey my words. Mr. X tilts his head, then looks me up and down for a long second. Reaching into a folder, he pulls out a document and starts thumbing through it. “We know you were involved in the Millennium Plot and 9/11.” “But I wasn’t! Your information is wrong, I was in Turkey in-” “Now now, don’t lie to me” Mr. X’s interruption is quiet but forceful, dripping with all the venom of a dangerous snake. “We know where you were, and the people you were involved with.” “Yes, I was in Canada, but I left in 1999! From there I moved back to Turkey with-” “Do you know this man?” He holds up a large picture of a man from the mosque I attended in Canada. “No,” I answer fervently. How could I possibly answer any other way? If I had said yes, he would have immediately drawn an evil link between us that would have cemented my guilt in his mind. Not that the cement wasn’t already dry. I had already learned the danger of answering “I don’t know” to their questions. They see it as an immediate sign that you are trying to hide something. “Then why does he say he knows you? This man says you helped facilitate both attacks. That you have worked together before. Tell me the truth!” “I am telling you the truth! I have been interrogated about the same things for six years,” I locked eyes with him and continued, “You keep trying to pin guilt on me when there is no evidence. Is this American justice?” “You don’t have the right to ask questions,” he snaps at me, breaking eye contact. “You are here, and we have intelligence that has you connected to very important people. You can cooperate, or you can die here.” “What evidence? Tell me what evidence and I will try my best to explain to you.” “Before you were in Canada, you recruited for al Qaeda in Turkey. You sent people to countries where they could be trained and deployed in their forces. When you came to Canada, you facilitated the Millennium Plot with the members of the mosque you attended. And when you returned to Turkey, you continued recruitment as well as working undercover in a computer company. We have people linking you to 9/11 as well as the rest of these events and you look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t responsible. Your actions led to the deaths of 3,000 Americans and you have the audacity to lie to me? I will ensure you will die 3,000 times to repay the lives you have taken from my country.” Throughout this entire tirade, Mr. X’s voice remained quiet, but became razor sharp “You are wrong,” I responded, softly but firmly. “I was in those places, yes, but I did not plot against America. I have never even been to your country. I don’t wish any of you ill.” “Just keep saying that. We know your sorry little ass is guilty and soon, you’ll just have to face what you’ve done.” With that, he looks to the guard in the corner. “Return him.” I am dragged back to my cell, blindfolded. What did I ever do to be caught up in all this? I think of my wife and family. I have not been able to receive or send letters and it’s been so long since I’ve heard their voices. When will I be able to return to them? If Mr. X continues to deny my innocence, how will I ever get home? In the following days, any semblance of a routine vanishes. I’m put on a water diet, forced to drink gallons upon gallons of water each day with no food. What is left of my body withers. I do not know who I am anymore. I remember a book series, from my old life. The Harry Potter series. I now truly understand the horrors of Azkaban. My very soul is being sucked away and my dreams of release wrenched away. I am forbidden to pray outwardly but I pray every day in my heart for Allah to save me from this wretched place. I did nothing to deserve this. I cannot stand this much longer. I am deprived of sleep for the next week. Every hour, at random intervals, the guards bang on my cell or force me to clean every inch of it in an impossibly short period. I am always scrubbing the floor, the walls, the toilet. The skin on my hands cracks wide open. In this fury, this whirlwind, I cannot stop my mind from scrambling over the accusations brought against me. Yes, I joined al Qaeda, but that was back when their conflict was not with Americans, but with the Soviets. I only volunteered to help my brothers in Afghanistan. As soon as their purpose soured, I withdrew into Turkey. Several of my relatives stayed but I didn’t keep in touch with them! Seeds of doubt worm germinate deep in my mind but I keep pushing on. Yes, I gave advice to a friend who wanted to find an al Qaeda training base, but again, that was back when their purpose was for the good of our Muslim brothers. In Canada, yes, I attended the mosque where the Millennium plotters also attended and I even spoke to them but never in an evil way! I returned to Turkey and have lived peacefully! Captain Jones’ voice bounces around in my head as if he were in the room; “Liar. Liar. Liar!” Another week in my cell. I find myself longing for human interaction, even with my interrogators. “Think of me as a friend, Mustafa. All we want to do is prevent any more killing. Tell us what you know…. give us names, places…” Mr. X’s voice slithers from the corner of my cell, but when I raise my head from the floor, there’s nothing but the same white walls. I close my eyes and try to sleep. A guard slams his club on the bars. I scramble to my feet, swaying slightly as blood rushes from my head. The guard examines me and wrinkles his nose. It’s been two weeks since I’ve been allowed to wash myself, and I feel filthy in the eyes of God and men. The woman’s shrieking voice sends pain lancing through my temples, “Filthy pig! Disgusting, filthy scum!” Blinking away the pain, my eyes refocus just as the guard leaves my view. Another week. Or maybe a day, or hour. I don’t know. I’m so hungry. I lay on my side, trying to avoid the lights that beam down on me at all times. They’re far too bright, and they won’t let me sleep. Sometimes voices radiate down from them, at first it was Jones’ voice but lately it’s been my wife’s, and sometimes my cousins’. They never have much of anything to say. They just keep asking me why I’m here. Those seeds of doubt that were sown so many weeks ago sprout into fruition as I consider their question. What have I done to deserve this hell? If I was the good man, the good Muslim I kept telling myself I was, why am I lying here, broken and forsaken? As I lay, cringing in the unforgiving light, a thought occurs to me. A horrible, horrible thought. What if I have been influencing all these people to join the current, evil al Qaeda? What if I just wasn’t aware of the effect of my words? Am I still innocent? This is why the interrogators are so persistent! They know the true impact of my words. Perhaps I am guilty. In desperation, I call out to God, a Du'a al-mas'alah, saying, “O God, forgive me my sins and have mercy on me, deliver me from this horrible place!” My words ring in the vacuum of noise that is my world, and I wait. An hour passes, and another, and ten more after that, with not a sound but for the voices of my kin asking, “Why? Why? Why?" With that, my last shred of hope gave way. It’s true, then. I am a murderer. I think. Allah will not spare me for this. I am truly a wolf in a sheep’s skin. My mind swirls and in my sleep-deprived state, I cannot think anymore. I drag myself to the bars of my cell and hit them with my palm. The pain rattles throughout my body but I can no longer feel it. A guard appears. “What the fuck do you want now?” he shouts angrily. “Interrogator, sir.” He kicks the bars with his heavy boots, causing me to fall to the floor. Then without another look, he turns on his heel and marches out. Once again in the frigid room, my hands are chained to the floor and I stoop in the painful position. Mr. Jones’ heavy shoes thud into the room. “I helped to facilitate the Millennium Plot. When I was in Turkey, I recruited for al Qaeda. I worked with my relatives still in al Qaeda to plan the 9/11 attack,” I sigh and my head droops. Mr. Jones’ boots appear in my downcast vision and his hand tilts my chin up almost tenderly. He examines my face and says, “There now, doesn’t that feel good to finally tell the truth?” Darkness starts to impede the edges of my vision. The voice of my interrogator grows distant. “You will tell me everything you know, starting from the beginning.” His face blurs and I try to blink but once my eyes close, I cannot open them again. My hands and legs shake and I fall to the floor in a heap. My hands grow cold. I feel my heart stutter once. My name was Mustafa Balik. Twice. I was a prisoner in Guantanamo Bay. Thrice I am guilty. Until it falls still.

Timeline
Wolf in a Sheepskin Laura Wilson My name is Mustafa Balik. I am a prisoner in Guantanamo Bay. I am innocent. The masked guard forces open the door of my cell, sending it clattering against the wall. “Get up! Interrogation!” he shouts at me. His rough hands wrap a blindfold around my eyes and I feel his hands move to my emaciated upper arms. The next thing I know, I am being pitched into empty space in what must be the hallway. I wouldn’t know, honestly. The walls of my cells are too thick, and in the eternity I’ve been held captive, I haven’t heard a single soul. They want me to believe I am alone, that I am at the mercy of the guards and my interrogators, but I am smarter than they are. I notice the things they do not want me to see. Guards carry multiple trays of food when they drop off mine in the evening. The sounds of boots stomping past failed to overpower the softer sounds of feet being drug The room is bright, too bright. The lights sear through my blindfold and stand in stark contrast with the frigid room. It must be near freezing and I am shaking uncontrollably. The masked guard brought me here, shackled my hands to the floor and forced me to stand in a stooped position. My bad back aches from many hours in this same position. He struck me once in the face in an unnaturally casual way before stomping his heavy boots to one corner. Tasting blood in my mouth, I hang my head and listen to water drip from a leaky pipe somewhere in the room. I wait. Another set of boots enters the room and halts before me. The blindfold is wrenched off and I crane my neck to glimpse the newcomer’s face. It is the man I’ve been told to call Captain Jones. He places a well-rehearsed wry smile on his pale, hardened face before striking me hard in the stomach. My breath abandons me all at once, leaving me gasping for air. In the beginning, it was all I could do not to fall to the floor, but I discovered the steep consequences for breaking the order to stand. Now, I allow the depression to seep into my bones. I feel almost nothing. “Goooood morning, motherfucker! Ready to cooperate today?” Jones barks at me, the cadence of his words mockingly cheerful. Between gasps, I manage to speak. “I’ve already told you the truth!” I retort, knowing the uselessness of my words. He spits on the ground near my feet. “Suit yourself.” He turns to the guard in the corner and nods before turning on his heel and marching out of the room. I slump forward, exhausted by the weight of resistance. My life was good before I was taken from my family six years ago. I had a stable job, a college education, a wife, and traveled to many places. I don’t know what I did to deserve such treatment from the people who preach defense of basic rights and freedoms. If such sentiments are so precious to the US, why then, am I being imprisoned with no reason? Why then am I being deprived of my right to practice my religion? Why then am I being abused if I have done nothing? I am left alone in the freezing room with nothing but thin cloths and slippers that don’t cover my feet. Despite the impressive creativity of my captors’ methods, my days here have taken on a certain sort of routine. I begin with Jones in the morning, then an unnamed woman interrogator in the afternoon, and finally Mr. X during the night. Jones, woman, Mr. X, like clockwork. These people dream up new and different ways to prolong my agony every day. Jones prefers the frigid room and the forced stooped stance. The female specializes in humiliation, sexual abuse, and, most frequently, hanging me by my hands for hours. Mr. X, on the other hand, simply plays the US national anthem over and over at an absurd volume, the sound pounding into my eardrums. The thing about 24-hour torture is after a while, nothing can be worse than what you’ve already endured. Jones’ shift ends and the female interrogator enters. She too, asks if I am feeling talkative today and I answer no. I try to keep my dignity and strength but I can feel it wearing thin. My bones have become brittle, my skin dry and cracked, my hair matted, and my spirit battered. The interrogator decides on hanging me by my hands. So it goes for the next 8 hours. By the time Mr. X enters the room, I am tired. I will talk to him. I think wearily. He is the most familiar with my case. Perhaps one more denial will convince him. “So, what will it be today?” Mr. X asks in a soft, deadly, voice. “I’ve already told you everything I know, what else could I possibly tell you to prove I’m innocent?” I plead, my throat barely able to convey my words. Mr. X tilts his head, then looks me up and down for a long second. Reaching into a folder, he pulls out a document and starts thumbing through it. “We know you were involved in the Millennium Plot and 9/11.” “But I wasn’t! Your information is wrong, I was in Turkey in-” “Now now, don’t lie to me” Mr. X’s interruption is quiet but forceful, dripping with all the venom of a dangerous snake. “We know where you were, and the people you were involved with.” “Yes, I was in Canada, but I left in 1999! From there I moved back to Turkey with-” “Do you know this man?” He holds up a large picture of a man from the mosque I attended in Canada. “No,” I answer fervently. How could I possibly answer any other way? If I had said yes, he would have immediately drawn an evil link between us that would have cemented my guilt in his mind. Not that the cement wasn’t already dry. I had already learned the danger of answering “I don’t know” to their questions. They see it as an immediate sign that you are trying to hide something. “Then why does he say he knows you? This man says you helped facilitate both attacks. That you have worked together before. Tell me the truth!” “I am telling you the truth! I have been interrogated about the same things for six years,” I locked eyes with him and continued, “You keep trying to pin guilt on me when there is no evidence. Is this American justice?” “You don’t have the right to ask questions,” he snaps at me, breaking eye contact. “You are here, and we have intelligence that has you connected to very important people. You can cooperate, or you can die here.” “What evidence? Tell me what evidence and I will try my best to explain to you.” “Before you were in Canada, you recruited for al Qaeda in Turkey. You sent people to countries where they could be trained and deployed in their forces. When you came to Canada, you facilitated the Millennium Plot with the members of the mosque you attended. And when you returned to Turkey, you continued recruitment as well as working undercover in a computer company. We have people linking you to 9/11 as well as the rest of these events and you look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t responsible. Your actions led to the deaths of 3,000 Americans and you have the audacity to lie to me? I will ensure you will die 3,000 times to repay the lives you have taken from my country.” Throughout this entire tirade, Mr. X’s voice remained quiet, but became razor sharp “You are wrong,” I responded, softly but firmly. “I was in those places, yes, but I did not plot against America. I have never even been to your country. I don’t wish any of you ill.” “Just keep saying that. We know your sorry little ass is guilty and soon, you’ll just have to face what you’ve done.” With that, he looks to the guard in the corner. “Return him.” I am dragged back to my cell, blindfolded. What did I ever do to be caught up in all this? I think of my wife and family. I have not been able to receive or send letters and it’s been so long since I’ve heard their voices. When will I be able to return to them? If Mr. X continues to deny my innocence, how will I ever get home? In the following days, any semblance of a routine vanishes. I’m put on a water diet, forced to drink gallons upon gallons of water each day with no food. What is left of my body withers. I do not know who I am anymore. I remember a book series, from my old life. The Harry Potter series. I now truly understand the horrors of Azkaban. My very soul is being sucked away and my dreams of release wrenched away. I am forbidden to pray outwardly but I pray every day in my heart for Allah to save me from this wretched place. I did nothing to deserve this. I cannot stand this much longer. I am deprived of sleep for the next week. Every hour, at random intervals, the guards bang on my cell or force me to clean every inch of it in an impossibly short period. I am always scrubbing the floor, the walls, the toilet. The skin on my hands cracks wide open. In this fury, this whirlwind, I cannot stop my mind from scrambling over the accusations brought against me. Yes, I joined al Qaeda, but that was back when their conflict was not with Americans, but with the Soviets. I only volunteered to help my brothers in Afghanistan. As soon as their purpose soured, I withdrew into Turkey. Several of my relatives stayed but I didn’t keep in touch with them! Seeds of doubt worm germinate deep in my mind but I keep pushing on. Yes, I gave advice to a friend who wanted to find an al Qaeda training base, but again, that was back when their purpose was for the good of our Muslim brothers. In Canada, yes, I attended the mosque where the Millennium plotters also attended and I even spoke to them but never in an evil way! I returned to Turkey and have lived peacefully! Captain Jones’ voice bounces around in my head as if he were in the room; “Liar. Liar. Liar!” Another week in my cell. I find myself longing for human interaction, even with my interrogators. “Think of me as a friend, Mustafa. All we want to do is prevent any more killing. Tell us what you know…. give us names, places…” Mr. X’s voice slithers from the corner of my cell, but when I raise my head from the floor, there’s nothing but the same white walls. I close my eyes and try to sleep. A guard slams his club on the bars. I scramble to my feet, swaying slightly as blood rushes from my head. The guard examines me and wrinkles his nose. It’s been two weeks since I’ve been allowed to wash myself, and I feel filthy in the eyes of God and men. The woman’s shrieking voice sends pain lancing through my temples, “Filthy pig! Disgusting, filthy scum!” Blinking away the pain, my eyes refocus just as the guard leaves my view. Another week. Or maybe a day, or hour. I don’t know. I’m so hungry. I lay on my side, trying to avoid the lights that beam down on me at all times. They’re far too bright, and they won’t let me sleep. Sometimes voices radiate down from them, at first it was Jones’ voice but lately it’s been my wife’s, and sometimes my cousins’. They never have much of anything to say. They just keep asking me why I’m here. Those seeds of doubt that were sown so many weeks ago sprout into fruition as I consider their question. What have I done to deserve this hell? If I was the good man, the good Muslim I kept telling myself I was, why am I lying here, broken and forsaken? As I lay, cringing in the unforgiving light, a thought occurs to me. A horrible, horrible thought. What if I have been influencing all these people to join the current, evil al Qaeda? What if I just wasn’t aware of the effect of my words? Am I still innocent? This is why the interrogators are so persistent! They know the true impact of my words. Perhaps I am guilty. In desperation, I call out to God, a Du'a al-mas'alah, saying, “O God, forgive me my sins and have mercy on me, deliver me from this horrible place!” My words ring in the vacuum of noise that is my world, and I wait. An hour passes, and another, and ten more after that, with not a sound but for the voices of my kin asking, “Why? Why? Why?" With that, my last shred of hope gave way. It’s true, then. I am a murderer. I think. Allah will not spare me for this. I am truly a wolf in a sheep’s skin. My mind swirls and in my sleep-deprived state, I cannot think anymore. I drag myself to the bars of my cell and hit them with my palm. The pain rattles throughout my body but I can no longer feel it. A guard appears. “What the fuck do you want now?” he shouts angrily. “Interrogator, sir.” He kicks the bars with his heavy boots, causing me to fall to the floor. Then without another look, he turns on his heel and marches out. Once again in the frigid room, my hands are chained to the floor and I stoop in the painful position. Mr. Jones’ heavy shoes thud into the room. “I helped to facilitate the Millennium Plot. When I was in Turkey, I recruited for al Qaeda. I worked with my relatives still in al Qaeda to plan the 9/11 attack,” I sigh and my head droops. Mr. Jones’ boots appear in my downcast vision and his hand tilts my chin up almost tenderly. He examines my face and says, “There now, doesn’t that feel good to finally tell the truth?” Darkness starts to impede the edges of my vision. The voice of my interrogator grows distant. “You will tell me everything you know, starting from the beginning.” His face blurs and I try to blink but once my eyes close, I cannot open them again. My hands and legs shake and I fall to the floor in a heap. My hands grow cold. I feel my heart stutter once. My name was Mustafa Balik. Twice. I was a prisoner in Guantanamo Bay. Thrice I am guilty. Until it falls still.