I kept reading my Koran in the dim light. My heart was pounding as if it wanted to jump out of my mouth. I barely understood anything of what I was reading; I read at least 200 or 300 pages unconsciously. I was prepared to die, but I never imagined it would be this way. Lord have mercy on me! I think hardly anybody will meet death the way he or she imagined. We human beings take everything into consideration except for death; hardly anybody has death on his calendar. Did God really predestinate for me to die in Jordan at the hands of some of the most evil people in the world? But I didn’t really mind being killed by bad people; before God they will have no case, I was thinking.
A fake peace dominated the trip between Cyprus and my unknown present destination. The bandits seemed to be exhausted from the previous day trip from Amman to Nouakchott, and that was a blessing for me. At around 4 a.m. GMT on Thursday, November 29, t he plane started to lose altitude again, and finally landed in a place I didn’t know. I think it was an Arabic country somewhere in the Middle East, because I think I spotted signs in Arabic through the small windows when I stole a quick glimpse off my guarding demon. It was still nighttime, and the weather seemed to be clear and dry; I didn’t see any signs of winter.
This time I did not hope for the police to search the airplane, because Arabic countries are always conspiring with each other against their own citizens. What treason! Nonetheless, any leak of information wouldn’t hurt. But I didn’t give that daydream a second thought. We didn’t stay long, though we went through the same procedure, Satan and his two pilots going for a short break, and the same noises of taking on fuel that I heard in Cyprus. The plane took off to its final destination, Amman, Jordan. I don’t think that we made any more stops, though I kept passing out and coming to until we arrived in Jordan.
Over 90 percent of Jordanians are Muslim. For them, as for all Muslims from the Middle East, fasting during Ramadan is the most important religious service. People who don’t fast are resented in the society, and so many people fast due to social pressure even though they don’t believe in religion. In Mauritania, people are much more relaxed about fasting, and less relaxed about prayer.
“Take your breakfast,” said the guard. I think I had fallen asleep for a moment.
“No, thanks.”
“It’s your last chance to eat before the fast begins.”
“No, I’m OK.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Hajji.” They started to eat their breakfast, chewing like cows; I could even hear them through my earmuffs. I kept stealing glimpses toward the small windows until I saw the first daylight prying the darkness open.
“Hajji, I’d like to perform my prayer,” I said to the guard. The guard had a little conversation with Satan, who ordered him to take off one of my earmuffs.
“There is no opportunity to pray here. When we arrive, you and I are going to pray together,” said Satan. I was sort of comforted, because if he prays that was a sign that he was a believer, and so he wouldn’t possibly hurt his “brother” in belief. And yet he didn’t seem to have knowledge about his religion. Prayer must be performed on time in the best manner you can, at least in your heart. You cannot postpone it except for the reasons explained in the Islamic scriptures. In any case, the promised prayer with Satan never took place.
1 Trarza is the region of southern Mauritania that extends from the Senegalese border north to the capital. It was also the name of a precolonial emirate in the same region. The Cadres of Trarza is a community organization.
2 When MOS returned to Mauritania in 2000 he worked as an electronics and computer specialist, first for a medical equipment supply company and then, starting in July 2001, for a company named Aman Pêche in Nouakchott. “This is a French word for fish,” he explained at his CSRT hearing. “This company was a company of people from my tribe, and they gave me more money to join them. They wanted to develop the business and to use me; I was just setting up at my office, because they didn’t know what to do with me at first. They had many electronic devices they wanted me to take care of. I had just set up my office and installed the AC, and September 11th happened. Then America went crazy looking for leads; and I was the cousin of the right hand of Osama bin Laden, and oh, get him.” CSRT transcript, 8; ARB transcript, 18.
3 In the wake of the 9/11 attacks, Mahfouz Ould al-Walid (Abu Hafs) was now the subject of a $25 million bounty (see footnote on p. 96).
4 In his 2005 ARB testimony, MOS dates this interrogation as October 13, 2001, and speculates that these two interrogators are FBI, though “they are American, they may be anything.” ARB transcript, 18.
5 “Noumane” is Noumane Ould Ahmed Ould Boullahy. A footnote to Judge James Robertson’s opinion granting MOS’s habeas corpus petition notes, “The government asserts that Salahi swore the oath to Osama bin Laden, and did so at the same time as Noumane Ould Ahmed Ould Boullahy, who went on to become one of bin Laden’s bodyguards. There is no evidence that Salahi maintained, or that he ever had, any relationship with Boullahy.” The opinion is available at https://www.aclu.org/files/assets/2010-4-9-Slahi-Order.pdf.
6 Mokhtar Hauoari, an Algerian-Canadian, was convicted and sentenced to twenty-four years in prison in connection with the Millennium Plot.
7 The Sûreté Nationale is the Mauritanian national police force; the Directeur Général de la Direction Générale de la Sûreté Nationale, abbreviated as DG, is the country’s top law enforcement official.
8 In the manuscript, this is abbreviated PDG, short for the French title président-directeur général, the equivalent of president and CEO.
9 Ramadan 4th was Tuesday, November 20, in 2001.
10 Seyloum is the nickname of MOS’s older brother Mohamed Salem.
11 Mauritania’s Directeur Général de la Sûreté Nationale in 2001 was Ely Ould Mohamed Vall. Vall, who served as director of the national police under President Maaouya Ould Taya, seized power himself in a bloodless coup when Ould Taya was out of the country on August 3, 2005.
FOUR
Jordan
November 29, 2001–July 19, 2002
The Hospitality of My Arab Brothers . . . Cat and Mouse: ICRC vs. Jordanian Intel . . . The Good News: I Supposedly Attempted to Kill the Mauritanian President . . . Bodybuilding Center: What I Know Kills Me . . . Unjust Justice
Thursday, November 29, 2001, around 7:00 a.m. local time.
The small plane clumsily started to fight its way through the cloudy and cold sky of Amman. We finally hit the ground and came to a standstill. Everybody was eager to get the hell out of the plane, including me.
“Stand up,” said one the guards, taking off the metal handcuffs that had already built a ring around my wrists. I was relieved, and sat silently talking to myself. “Look, they’re friendly. They just wanted to make sure that you didn’t do anything stupid in the plane; now that we arrived, there is no need for cuffs or earmuffs.” How wrong I was! They just took the handcuffs off in order to handcuff me again behind my back and put on bigger earmuffs and a bag over my head, covering my neck. My heart started to pound heavily, which raised my blood pressure and helped me to stand steadier on my feet. I started to mumble my prayers. This was the first time that I got treated this way. My pants started to slip down my legs because I was so skinny and had been virtually without food for at least a week.
Two new, energetic guards dragged me out of the plane. I twisted my feet when I reached the ladder; I couldn’t see anything, nor did the stupid guards tell me anything. I fell face down, but the guards caught me before I hit the ladder.
“Watch out!” said Officer Rami, my future interrogator, to the guards. I memorized his voice, and when he later started to interrogate me, I recognized it from that day. I now knew that I had to step down the ladder until my feet hit the ground, and an ice-cold winter breeze hit my whole body. My clothes were not designed for this weather. I was wearing the worthless, made-in-a-cheap-country clothes I got from the Mauritanian authorities.
One of the gua
rds silently helped my feet get into the truck that was parked inches away from the last step of the ladder. The guards squeezed me between them in the back seat, and off took the truck. I felt comforted; it was warm inside the truck, and the motor was quiet. The chauffeur mistakenly turned the radio on. The female DJ voice struck me with her Sham accent and her sleepy voice. The city was awakening from a long, cold night, slowly but surely. The driver kept accelerating and hitting the brakes suddenly. What a bad driver! They must have hired him just because he was stupid. I was moving back and forth like a car crash dummy.
I heard a lot of horns. It was the peak time for people who were going to work. I pictured myself at this very same time back home, getting ready for work, enjoying the new day, the morning ocean breeze through my open window, dropping my nephews off at their respective schools. Whenever you think life is going in your favor, it betrays you.
After about 40 or 45 minutes of painful driving, we took a turn, entered a gate, and stopped. The guards dragged me out of the truck. The cold breeze shook my whole body, though only for a very short time before we entered the building and I was left near a heater. I knew how the heater looked even with my eyes closed; I just sensed it was like the ones I had in Germany. Later on, I learned from the guards that the prison facility was built by a Swedish company.
“Do not move,” said one of the guards before they both emptied out of the place. I stood still, though my feet could hardly carry me and my back hurt so bad. I was left there for about 15 or 20 minutes before Officer Rami grabbed me by the back of my collar, almost choking me to death. Officer Rami pushed me roughly up the stairs. I must have been on the ground floor, and he pushed me to the first.
Legend has it that Arabs are among the most hospitable folks on the face of the earth; both friends and enemies are unanimous about that. But what I would be experiencing here was another kind of hospitality. Officer Rami pushed me inside a relatively small room with a desk, a couple of chairs, and another guy sitting behind the desk and facing me. He was a heavy and lazy-looking man in his late twenties who repeated every task many times over. Like the rest of the guards, he was dressed in a Jordanian Army uniform and had a high-and-tight haircut. You could see that he had been doing this work for some time: there were no signs of humanity in his face. He hated himself more than anybody could hate him.
The first thing I saw were two pictures on the wall, the present King Abdullah and his extinguished father Hussein. Such pictures are the proof of dictatorship in the uncivilized world. In Germany I never saw anybody hang the picture of the president; the only time I saw his picture was when I was watching news, or driving around during elections, when they hang a bunch of candidates’ pictures. Maybe I’m wrong, but I mistrust anybody who hangs the picture of his president, or any president who wins any elections with more than 80%. It’s just ridiculous. On the other wall I read the time on a big hanging clock. It was around 7:30 a.m.
“Take your clothes off!” said the guard. I complied with his order except for my underwear. I was not going to take them off without a fight, no matter how weak it would be. But the guard just handed me a clean, light blue uniform. Jordanians are materially much more advanced and organized than Mauritanians; everything in the prison was modest, but clean and neat. It was the first time I put on a prison uniform in my life. In Mauritania there is no specific uniform, not because Mauritania is a democratic country, but maybe because the authorities are too lazy and corrupt. A uniform is a sign of backwards and communist countries. The only so-called “democratic” country that has this technique of wrapping up detainees in uniforms is the U.S.; the Jordanians have adopted a 100% American system in organizing their prisons.
The young guy behind the table was rather fat. He was acting as a clerk, but he was a horrible one.
“What’s your name? What’s your address in Amman?”
“I am not from Amman.”
“Where the hell are you from?”
“I am from Mauritania,” I answered.
“No, I mean where do you live here in Jordan?”
“Nowhere!”
“Did they capture you while transiting through the airport?”
“No, Hajji took me from my country to question me for two days and bring me back.” I wanted to make it sound as harmless as possible. Besides, that’s what I was told, even though I had the feeling now that I was being lied to and betrayed.
“How do you spell your name?” I spelled out my complete name, but the guy didn’t seem to have gone to primary school. He wrote as if with Chinese chopsticks. He kept filling out one form after another and throwing the old ones in the garbage can.
“What have you done?”
“I’ve done nothing!”
Both burst out in laughter. “Oh, very convenient! You have done nothing but you are here!” I thought, What crime should I say in order to satisfy them?
I presented myself as a person who came all the way from Mauritania to provide intels about my friends. “Hajji told me he needed my help,” I said. But then I thought, What a silly answer. If I were going to provide information freely, I could do so in Mauritania. The guards didn’t believe me anyway; what criminal benevolently admits to his crime? I felt humiliated because my story sounded weird and untruthful.
In the bureaucratic chaos, the prison’s commanding officer took the process in hand. He took my wallet and copied my personal data from my ID. He was a serious looking officer in his late thirties, light blond, Caucasian looking, with a dry face. It was obvious he was married to the cause. During my sojourn in the Dar Al Tawqif wa Tahqiq, the “House for Arrest and Interrogation,”1 I kept seeing him working day and night and sleeping in the prison. Most of the guards do. They work far from home, and the guards told me their shifts could stretch for several days; during that time they rarely left the facility. I would catch him sneakily trying to look through the bin hole without me noticing him. I’m-Watching-You, as I called him, was an officer in what they call the al Jaish Al Arabi, the Arab Legion. I was thinking, What a masquerade! If this is the protector of us Arabs, we screwed up! As an Arabic saying has it, “Her protector is her assailant.”
“Why do they call you guys the Arab Legion?” I asked one of the guards later.
“Because we are supposed to protect the entire Arab world,” he responded.
“Oh, that’s really great,” I said, thinking that we’d be just fine if they protected us from themselves.
After they had finished processing me, one of the escorting guards handcuffed me behind my back, blindfolded me, and grabbed me as usual by the back of my collar. We got in the lift and I felt it going up. We must have landed on the third floor. The guard led me through a corridor and took a couple turns before a heavy metal door opened. The guard uncuffed me and took off the blindfold.
I looked as far as my eyes could reach. It was not far: about 8 or 9 feet to a window that was small and high so detainees could not look outside. I climbed up once, but I saw nothing but the round wall of the prison. The prison was in the shape of a circle. The idea was smart, because if you succeeded in jumping out of the window, you would land in a big arena with a 30 or 40 foot concrete wall. The room looked bleak and stark, though clean. There was a wooden bed and an old blanket, a small sheet, and that was about it. The door closed loudly behind me and I was left on my own, tired and scared. What an amazing world! I enjoyed visiting other countries, but not this way.
I performed my ritual wash and tried to pray standing, but there was no way so I opted to pray sitting down. I crawled over to the bed and soon trailed off. Sleep was a torture: as soon as I closed my eyes, the friends I was potentially going to be asked about kept coming to me and talking to me. They scared the hell out of me; I woke up numerous times mumbling their names. I was in a no-win situation: if I stayed awake, I was so dead tired, and if slept I got terrorized by nightmares to the point that I screamed out loud.
Around 4:30 p.m., the guard on watch woke me up for
food. Meals were served from a chariot that goes through the corridor from cell to cell, with the cook passing by again later to collect the empty plates. Detainees were allowed to keep one cup for tea and juice. When the cook showed up for my plate, he saw that I hardly ate anything.
“Is that all?” As much as I liked the food, my throat conspired against me. The depression and fear were just too much.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Well, if you say so!” The cook quickly collected my plate and off he rolled. In jail it’s not like at home; in jail if you don’t eat, it’s OK. But at home your parents and your wife do their best to persuade you. “Honey, just eat a little bit more. Or should I prepare you something else? Please, just do it for my sake. Why don’t you tell me what you’d like to eat?” In both cases, though, you more than likely won’t eat more—in jail because they scare the hell out of you, and at home because you’re spoiled. It’s the same way when you feel sick. I remember a very funny case when I was really hurting; it was either headache or stomach ache.
“I’m in so much pain! Can you please give me some medication?”
“Fuck you, crybaby,” the guard said. I burst into laughter because I remembered how my family would be overreacting if they knew I was sick.
The Mauritanian Page 18