The Mauritanian

by Mohamedou Ould Slahi

  “Don’t worry! Just talk to them and everything is gonna be alright,” David Hicks encouraged me. Maybe his advice was prudent, and anyway I felt that things were going to get nastier. So I decided to cooperate.

  Agent Robert pulled me to interrogation the next day. I was so worn out. I had no sleep last night, nor during the day.5

  “I am ready to cooperate unconditionally,” I told him. “I don’t need any proof whatsoever. You just ask me questions and I’m gonna answer you.” And so our relationship seemed to enter a new era.

  During his time with me, Robert made a couple of trips, one to Canada and one to Europe, I believe to Germany, in order to investigate my case and gather evidence against me. In February 2003, while he was on his trip to Canada an agent from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service pulled me to interrogation.

  “My name is Christian, from Canada. I came here to ask you some questions about your time in my country,” said Christian while flashing his badge. He was accompanied by one female and one male who were just talking notes.6

  “Welcome! I’m glad that you have come because I want to clarify some reports you produced about me which are very inaccurate.” I continued, “Especially since my case with the U.S. is spinning around my time in Canada, and every time I argue with the Americans they refer to you. Now I want you guys to sit with the Americans and answer one question: Why are you arresting me? What crime have I done?”

  “You have done nothing,” Christian said.

  “So I don’t belong here, do I?”

  “We didn’t arrest you, the U.S. did.”

  “That’s correct, but the U.S. claims that you pitted them on me.”

  “We just have some questions about some bad people, and we need your help.”

  “I’m not helping you unless you tell the Americans in front of me that one or the other of you lied.”

  The agents went out and brought FBI Agent William in, who was probably watching the session through the one-way mirror in the next room.

  “You are not honest, since you refuse to answer the Canadian’s questions. This is your opportunity to get help from them,” William said.

  “Mr. William, I know this game better than you do. Stop trying to talk nonsense to me,” I said. “Look, you keep telling me the Canadians say such and such. Now it’s you guys’ opportunity to face me with my charges,” I said.

  “We don’t accuse you of any crime,” said William.

  “Then release me!”

  “That’s not in my hands.” William tried to convince me but there was no convincing me. I was sent back to my cell and taken again the next day, but I just sat there like a stone. I didn’t waste a word because I had told them clearly the conditions of my cooperation. The CSIS agents also interrogated a teenager called Omar Khadr and made the Army take all his belongings. We detainees felt bad for him: he was just too young for this whole campaign.7

  When Robert came back, he was pissed off because the JTF leadership had ignored him and were exposing me to whomever they wanted. Now I knew the FBI team had no control over my fate; they didn’t have the ability to deal with me, and henceforth I could not really trust them. I don’t like to deal to somebody who cannot keep his word. I knew then for a fact that the FBI team was nothing but a step, and the real interrogation was going to be led by the Department of Defense. If you look at the situation, it makes sense: most of the detainees were captured by DOD troops in a military operation, and they wanted to maintain the upper hand. FBI agents are only guests in GTMO, no more, no less; the facility is run by the U.S. military.

  It happened again. When Robert went to Canada in May 2003, a team that claimed it was from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police reserved me for interrogation, and they were no luckier than their fellow citizens from CSIS. Agent Robert was completely overawed by his colleagues from the JTF command.

  Robert came back from Canada. “I was ordered to quit your case and go back to the U.S. My boss believes that I’m only wasting my time. The MI will take your case,” Robert told me. I wasn’t happy that he was leaving, but I wasn’t really that upset. Agent Robert was the guy who understood the most about my case, but he had neither power nor people who backed him up.

  The next day the team organized a pretty lunch party. They bought good food as a good-bye. “You should know that your next sessions will not be as friendly as these have been,” Robert said, smiling wryly. “You will not be brought food or drinks anymore.” I understood the hint as rough treatment, but I still never thought that I was going to be tortured. Furthermore, I believed that Robert and his associate Agent Chris would inform the proper authorities to stop a crime if they knew one was going to happen.

  “I wish you good luck, and all I can tell you is to tell the truth,” Agent Robert said. We hugged, and bid each other goodbye.8

  * * *

  When I entered the room a desk was prepared with several chairs on the other side of the table. As soon as the guards locked me up to the floor, a tall female Navy Lieutenant and a tall female in civilian clothes entered the room. The Lieutenant, who said her name was Ronica, seemed to be the leader of the team. She had very long black hair and smiled most of the time, even when she was making sarcastic comments. Her associate, a blond woman in her mid-forties who called herself Sam, introduced herself to me as an agent of the FBI. You could tell they had a head start I didn’t. Ronica and Samantha brought heavy binders with them, and were talking to each other.9

  “When is the guy supposed to come?”

  “Nine o’clock.” Against interrogation customs, one of the supposed members of the team did not show up with the rest. It was a technique used to scare and irritate the detainee.

  The door opened. “I am sorry, I was thinking diplomatic time,” the new arrival said. “You know, those of us not from JTF are on another time.” The older looking gentleman was dying to impress. I wasn’t sure how much he succeeded. He said he was from the Department of State, and acted very rushed. He even brought his McDonald’s with him, but offered nothing to anybody.

  “I just arrived from Washington,” he commenced. “Do you know how important you are to the U.S. government?”

  “I know how important I am to my dear mom, but I’m not sure when it comes to the U.S. government.” The Navy Lieutenant Ronica couldn’t help smiling, although she tried hard to keep her frown. I was supposed to be shown harshness.

  “Are you ready to work with us? Otherwise your situation is gonna be very bad,” the man continued.

  “You know that I know that you know that I have done nothing,” I said. “You’re holding me because your country is strong enough to be unjust. And it’s not the first time you have kidnapped Africans and enslaved them.”

  “African tribes sold their people to us,” he replied.

  “I wouldn’t defend slavery, if I were in your shoes.” I said. I could tell the Lieutenant was the one with the most power, even though the government let other agencies try their chances with detainees. It’s very much like a dead camel in the desert, when all kinds of bugs start to eat it.

  “If you don’t cooperate with us we’re gonna send you to a tribunal and you’re gonna spend the rest of your life in the prison,” Lieutenant Ronica said.

  “Just do it!”

  “You must admit to what you have done,” Samantha said, gesturing to a big binder in front of her.

  “What have I done?”

  “You know what you’ve done.”

  “You know what, I am not impressed, but if you have questions I can answer you,” I said.

  “I have been working along with my colleagues Robert and Chris on your case. Robert and Chris are gone. But I’m still here to give you an opportunity.”

  “Keep the opportunity for yourself, I need none.” The purpose of this session was to scare the hell out of me, but it takes more than that to scare me. The self-described “diplomat” disappeared for good, and I never saw him again; Lieutenant Ronica and Samantha kept i
nterrogating me for some time, but there was nothing new. Both women were using dead-traditional methods and techniques I probably mastered better than they had.

  “What is the name of your current wife?” was Samantha’s favorite question. When I arrived in Cuba on August 5, 2002, I was so hurt physically and mentally that I literally forgot the name of my wife and provided a wrong one. Samantha wanted to prove that I am a liar.

  “Look, you won’t provide us information we don’t already know. But if you keep denying and lying, we’ll assume the worst,” said Lieutenant Ronica. “I have interrogated some other detainees and found them innocent. I really have a problem sleeping in a comfortable room while they suffer in the block. But you’re different. You’re unique. There’s nothing really incriminating, but there are a lot of things that make it impossible not to be involved.”

  “And what is the straw that broke the camel’s back?”

  “I don’t know!” Lieutenant Ronica answered. She was a respectable lady and I very much respected her honesty. She was appointed to torture me but she ultimately failed, which led to her separation from my case. To me Samantha was an evil person. She always laughed sardonically.

  “You’re very rude,” she once said.

  “So are you!” I replied. Our sessions were not fruitful. Both Lieutenant Ronica and Samantha wanted to reach a breakthrough, but there was no breakthrough to be reached. Both wanted me to admit to being part of the Millennium Plot, which I wasn’t. The only possible way to make me admit to something I haven’t done is to torture me beyond my limit of pain.

  “You’re saying that I am lying about that? Well guess what, I have no reason not to keep lying. You don’t seem any more impressive than the hundred interrogators I have had lately,” I said.

  “You’re funny, you know that?”

  “Whatever that means!”

  “We’re here to give you an opportunity. I’ve been in the block for a while, and I am leaving soon, so if you don’t cooperate . . .”

  Samantha continued. “Bon Voyage!” I said. I felt good that she was leaving because I didn’t like her.

  “You speak with a French accent.”

  “Oh, God, I thought I speak like Shakespeare,” I said wryly.

  “No you speak pretty well, I only mean the accent,” said Samantha. But Lieutenant Ronica was a polite and honest person. “Look, we have so many reports linking you to all kinds of stuff. There is nothing incriminating, really. But there are too many little things. We will not ignore anything and just release you.”

  “I’m not interested in your mercy. I only want to be released if my case is completely cleared. I really am tired of being released and captured in an endless Catch-22.”

  “You need your freedom, and we need information. You give us what we need and in return, you get what you need,” the Lieutenant said. The three of us argued this way for days without any success.

  And then the guy I call “I-AM-THE-MAN” came into play. It was around noon when an army sergeant joined the two women while they were interrogating me.

  “This Sergeant First Class will be joining us in your case,” the Navy Lieutenant said, gesturing to the new arrival.

  “This sergeant is working for me. He is going to be seeing you often, among others who are working for me. But you’re gonna see me also,” Lieutenant Ronica continued. Sergeant Shally sat there like a stone; he didn’t greet me or anything. He was writing his notes and hardly looked at me, while the other women were asking questions. “Don’t make jokes, just answer her questions,” he said at one point. I was like, Oops. He expected me to be completely subdued, given my circumstances, and he was very disturbed at the defiant way I was addressing his colleagues. It soon became clear that Sergeant Shally was chosen with some others to do the dirty work. He had experience in MI; he had interrogated Iraqis who were captured during Operation Desert Storm. He speaks Farsi, he told me, but it was hard to imagine him learning a language. All he was able to hear was his own voice. I was always like, Is this guy listening to what I am saying? Or let’s just say his ears were programmed to what he wanted to hear.

  “I’m an asshole,” he said once. “That is the way people know me, and I have no problem with it.”

  For the next month I had to deal with Sergeant Shally and his small gang. “We are not the FBI; we don’t let lying detainees go unpunished. Just maybe not physical torture,” he said. I had been witnessing for the last months how detainees were consistently being tortured under the orders of the JTF command. Abdul Rahman Shalabi was taken to interrogation every single night, exposed to loud music and scary pictures, and molested sexually. I would see Abdul Rahman when the guards took him in the evening and brought him back in the morning. He was forbidden to pray during his interrogation. I remember asking the brothers what to do in that case. “You just pray in your heart since it’s not your fault,” said the Algerian Sheikh in the block. I profited from this fatwa since I would be exposed to the same situation for about a year. Abdul Rahman was not spared the cold room. Mohammed al-Qahtani suffered the same; moreover his interrogator smashed the Koran against the floor to break him, and had the guards push his face down against the rough floor.10 Not to speak of the poor young Yemenis and Saudis who were grossly tortured the same way. But since I’m speaking in this book about my own experience, which reflects an example of the evil practices that took place in the name of the War Against Terrorism, I don’t need to talk about every single case I witnessed. Maybe on another occasion, if God so wills.11

  When SFC Shally informed me about the intentions of his team, I was terrified. My mouth dried up, I started to sweat, my heart started to pound (a couple weeks later I developed hypertension) and I started to get nausea, a headache, a stomach-ache. I dropped into my chair. I knew that Sergeant Shally was not kidding, and I also knew that he was lying about physical pain-free torture. But I held myself together.

  “I don’t care,” I said.

  Things went more quickly than I thought. SFC Shally sent me back to the block, and I told my fellow detainees about being overtaken by the torture squad.

  “You are not a kid. Those torturers are not worth thinking about. Have faith in Allah,” said my next -door neighbor, Abu Walid from Yemen.12 I really must have acted like a child all day long before the guards pried me from the cellblock later that day. You don’t know how terrorizing it is for a human being to be threatened with torture. One literally becomes a child.

  The Escort team showed up at my cell.

  “You got to move.”

  “Where?”

  “Not your problem,” said the hateful escorting guard. But he was not very smart, for he had my destination written on his glove.

  “Brothers pray for me, I am being transferred to India!” I called. The isolation India Block was reserved by then for the worst detainees in the camp; if one got transferred to India Block, many signatures must have been provided, maybe even the president of the U.S. The only people I know to have spent some time in India Block since it was designed for torture were a Kuwaiti detainee and another fellow detainee from Yemen.13

  When I entered the block, it was completely empty of any signs of life. I was put at the end of the block and the Yemeni fellow was at the beginning, so there was no interaction whatsoever between us. The Kuwaiti man was put in the middle but with no contact with either. Later on both were transferred somewhere else, and the whole block was reserved for me, only me, ALLAH, my interrogation team, and the guards who worked for them. I was completely exposed to the total mercy of the interrogation team, and there was little mercy.

  In the block the recipe started. I was deprived of my comfort items, except for a thin iso-mat and a very thin, small, worn-out blanket. I was deprived of my books, which I owned, I was deprived of my Koran, I was deprived of my soap. I was deprived of my toothpaste and of the roll of toilet paper I had. The cell—better, the box—was cooled down to the point that I was shaking most of the time. I was forbidden fr
om seeing the light of the day; every once in a while they gave me a rec-time at night to keep me from seeing or interacting with any detainees. I was living literally in terror. For the next seventy days I wouldn’t know the sweetness of sleeping: interrogation 24 hours a day, three and sometimes four shifts a day. I rarely got a day off. I don’t remember sleeping one night quietly. “If you start to cooperate you’ll have some sleep and hot meals,” Sergeant Shally used to tell me repeatedly.

  Within a couple of days of my transfer, a young Swiss woman from the International Committee of the Red Cross showed up at my cell and asked me whether I wanted to write a letter. “Yes!” I said. Natalie handed me a paper and I wrote, “Mama, I love you, I just wanted to tell you that I love you!” After that visit I wouldn’t see the ICRC for more than a year. They tried to see me, but in vain.14

  “You’re starting to torture me, but you don’t know how much I can take. You might end up killing me,” I said when Lieutenant Ronica and Sergeant Shally pulled me for interrogation.

  “We do recommend things, but we don’t have the final decision,” Lieutenant Ronica said.

  “I just want to warn you: I’m suffering because of the harsh conditions you expose me to. I’ve already had a sciatic nerve attack. And torture will not make me more cooperative.”

  “According to my experience, you will cooperate. We are stronger than you, and have more resources,” Lieutenant Ronica said. SFC Shally never wanted me to know his name, but he got busted when one of his colleagues mistakenly called him by his name. He doesn’t know that I know it, but, well, I do.

  Sergeant Shally grew worse with every day passing by. He started to lay out my case. He began with the story of Ramzi bin al-Shibh, and me having recruited him for September 11 attack.

  “Why should he lie to us,” SFC Shally said.