Guantanamo Boy

by Anna Perera

  Khalid watches him choke back his anger, running his hands across his shaved head, back and forth as if it’s hurting.

  “Are there other kids here?” Khalid says at last.

  Ali thinks for a moment. “A young boy was on the same plane as mine from the camp in Bagram. He was no more than twelve years. Another one I saw being taken for interrogation in Saudi. He was also younger than you. At that time his mouth was bleeding. He had his hands over his eyes because his face was covered with bruises. All he did to deserve that was “pretend” to be sick when they played the American national anthem one morning. A guard told me that himself. And he said it turned out the boy was actually sick.” Ali sighs. “I studied hard for a better life. I had my eye on getting married. Now my life has changed forever.”

  Khalid wants to tell him he’s not the only one. “Where are the 9/11 bombers, then?” he asks instead. “Someone here must be a terrorist. Where are they?”

  “I wish I knew the answer to that. Let me tell you this, Khalid: I was researching an important subject which I know implicated me in some way. Learning about the many secret prisons all over the world. Guantanamo Bay is the famous one, but there are many more. They are everywhere. They employ torture as many have done throughout history to gather information and I will tell you, being a lawyer, this subject of human rights is the closest thing to my heart.”

  From the corner of the compound, Balendra sits up suddenly. His forehead is dripping wet and he pats his head, then his heart to calm down, congratulating himself on so much exercise by muttering rapidly. The soapy smell of his sweat drifts towards them. Ali stands rigidly beside Khalid, staring into the distance. Staring out beyond the fence. Beyond the soldiers watching them from the whitewashed wall, past the concrete and rolls of barbed wire, beyond the sky of Cuba and the sea, to his large office on the second floor of a small block in Saudi Arabia.

  “My office is crammed with books of every kind. Books about King Solomon’s Temple, the Roman Empire, the Islamic court of Cordoba, the Torah, Greek theology, poetry, architecture, art,” Ali says.

  Khalid imagines the huge room with books on the desk, on the chair, stacked everywhere on the floor. The sun peeps down on his silent shadow as Ali travels back there in his mind.

  “The world learned about chivalry and brotherhood from Islam.” He pauses to make sure Khalid has heard this great truth. Only when Khalid nods, does Ali continue talking.

  “A great tradition of learning was spread across Europe during the Dark Ages by Islam, which not only tolerated every other religion but allowed them to flourish. The major religions lived side by side under Islamic kindness. Remember this was at a time when Jews were being hounded to death by Christian Europe.”

  Uplifted by Ali’s knowledge, Khalid’s heart begins pounding with fear. Fear they’re going to be interrupted at any moment, if not by Balendra then by the guards. One of whom stretches his shoulders, glancing at Ali, who’s deep in thought.

  “At that time the Islamic court in Cordoba in Spain was packed with poets, artists, philosophers, mathematicians, while the rest of Europe, including the aristocracy, could barely read. They were too busy persecuting non-Christians,” Ali says.

  “Cordoba, I’ve heard of that,” Khalid says quickly, to show Ali he’s not as stupid or as crazy as he looks.

  “Islam is not a medieval culture, like they pretend in the West. Evidence of its sophistication can be found in every library in the world. And the basis of that well-documented sophistication is Islam’s tolerance of other religions and other cultures.”

  “Yeah, but what about the war with Israel? The stonings, the beheadings and stuff?” Khalid asks. “The way women are treated? Forcing them to wear the hijab?”

  “These things have nothing to do with the rich Islamic culture that still exists.” Ali frowns.

  “Yeah, but how come it’s happening?” Khalid has to make the point, because he sometimes has a lot of trouble understanding this stuff himself.

  “Let me tell you, for hundreds of years Muslims and Jews lived in peace. The Ottoman Empire was torn apart after the First World War, when it was divided between different countries. The imperialists drew lines on maps without thought to the people who had lived there for thousands of years. New states were formed, countries with new names like Iraq. Suddenly Kurds, Sunni and Shiite Muslims were made to live together where before they occupied different cities and had their own systems of government. Divide and rule, you have heard this term?”

  “Yeah, yeah, my history teacher told us about that! Divide the people so they fight each other and then you can rule them when the country is in chaos. That’s what happened with the British Empire, wasn’t it?” Khalid says. Pleased he’s able to act as if his brain is still working in front of someone as clever as Ali.

  “Yes, and many other empires. For eighty years politicians have divided the Muslim from his Jewish neighbor and brother. And now from his Christian brother. Unification and peace are the only things worth fighting for. Any act you commit with anger, hatred, aggression, unkindness in your heart that hurts another human being of whatever religion is not an act of tolerance—so cannot be considered. Not for any reason.”

  “But the stonings and stuff are done by Muslims. Maybe they don’t feel any anger or unkindness when they’re doing it?” Khalid says.

  “This behavior has been learned from history. Politics and culture must not be confused with religion. This issue is not a religious one. Let us not forget, Khalid, at this moment, as we speak, men and women in America are being sentenced to death. They are being killed day after day, year after year without end. These deaths are taking place because of their laws, in their country. Do you blame Christianity for this, or those who make the laws? Perhaps you blame the people? Or those who are paid to execute? Many think it is correct for these executions to happen. Why do they believe this?”

  “It’s political, right. OK, then. Nah, I don’t believe in the death penalty for any crime.” Khalid’s mind spins from so much information and talk.

  “Oxford and Cambridge universities in your country, England, were modeled on the Muslim seats of learning in Spain. Prejudice has worn us down, but we will rise again as the noble, peace-loving religion that we have been throughout time. We are not demons.”

  “But the bombings and that?” Khalid wonders what Ali’s going to come out with next.

  “Any person who commits an act of terrorism violates the laws of Islam,” Ali says.

  Khalid’s confused, wondering how to reply, when suddenly Balendra’s beside them, smiling. Breathing forcefully, he grabs his hips to steady himself.

  Ali turns, happily smiling back, white teeth sparkling like pearls.

  A familiar noise of squeaking boots forces them to glance at the fence, where two soldiers are approaching. Keys at the ready.

  There they are, the same as all the others. Middle height, medium build, brown-haired, slightly stocky soldiers. Leather gun straps making a rubbing sound on their shoulders as they walk. An overdose of strong aftershave disguises the smell of their sweating skin.

  “Take note from the Qur’an, Khalid. ‘God is not so weak as to need a protector.’” Ali’s led away, his perfect shadow beside him.

  Khalid catches sight of his own shadow. Straightening himself to alter it, he glances up to see the clouds closing in again. A vulture flaps overhead while he wonders at the things Ali’s told him. Realizing he knows nothing about anything. Now the lights are on concerning the history of Islam and how misunderstood the subject is—even in his own mind—several arguments start up in Khalid’s brain.

  Arguments where he takes both sides, sees both sides, defends both sides. Pointing his finger at his friends if they disagree.

  At anyone who’ll listen.

  His mind burns with imaginary people who agree with the death penalty. He argues with himself until he becomes exhausted. At the same time, he wonders where his brain has been all these years while he�
�s been playing football down the park, gaming on the computer, thinking about Niamh. He’d ignored the important things in life and regrets not listening to what Dad tried to teach him.

  Caught in a roller-coaster of strong emotions that fling him from wall to wall. From sanity to craziness, with nothing in between. The chat with Ali has added more complications to the whirl of activity in his head. Only the books Khalid’s been reading can take him out of himself and back to a more solid, reliable world. Beginning, middle and end. Where the problems belong to someone else and everything about them is more interesting and easier to understand than what’s happening to him.

  21

  HAIR

  This morning, Khalid lies on the bed, hands tracing the itchy grid of dark stubble covering his head. Tired. So tired. Tired of thinking about Ali and his clever brain while his own twisted mind is caked with moss. And scared. Scared that any day now they’ll shave him again.

  “I haven’t got lice!” Khalid shouts. No answer. There’s only the sound of padding footsteps heading away from him. Are they afraid that if they don’t cut and shave them some ugly monster will grow on their heads and do them in? Or maybe the shaved heads make it easier to tell who are the detainees and who are the soldiers, as if the orange uniforms aren’t enough. Or, more likely, they do it to make them feel less like men and more like laboratory mice.

  The library man, Will, came yesterday with two more yellowing Reader’s Digest condensed books and a copy of National Geographic magazine. But it’s not enough. Khalid had read both books and the National Geographic from cover to cover by this morning. He’s read the article about Sri Lankan elephants twice and even found time to glance at the Qur’an again.

  What’s he going to do for the rest of the week until Will comes back?

  “Please can I have more books?” he asked the female guard at breakfast time.

  “Buddy, you’ve had your books,” she says.

  “Yeah, but I’ve read them. Can you maybe give mine to someone who’s read theirs? Swap them over?”

  “You bet your sweet bippy you’ve read ’em,” she crows. “What else have you got going on? Nada! Hey, relax. Chill, man. I’ll maybe see what I can do.”

  “Thanks very, very much.” Khalid gives her a wild, smarmy, begging look for luck and she says, “Oh, you guys—some nerve!”

  It was worth a try.

  Now he’s waiting for two things today. The head shaving, which he thinks is more than a week overdue, and, hopefully, a couple of new books to read, deciding it’ll be great if the shaving comes first, because afterwards he’ll have the new books to look forward to.

  Yeah, the barber will loosen his collar so a few sharp hairs drift down his spine to irritate him, like he always does. Khalid expects to be butchered by him yet again. Whereas, if the books come first, he’ll be sad and fed up knowing he can’t enjoy them until he’s been cut to shreds by the shaver. Maybe even find he’s read them before, which will make him feel even worse. Knowing then he’s got nothing to look forward to.

  It’s all so complicated.

  Khalid goes over the timeline of the day’s expected events so fully, his heart starts racing, while his neck begins itching from imaginary stubble. Hope soon fades of a simple solution when breakfast arrives, but no barber or books. Not even a shower, which he badly needs.

  Between avoiding the scary pictures at the back of his mind and waiting for the barber and books, his heart’s beating faster, pounding hard with worry and waiting. He’s getting himself more and more worked up and the sweat pouring over him is making the waiting worse. The air conditioner has gone off at the hottest time of the day and, being on the kind of timer only Einstein could figure out, there’s no chance it will start working right now.

  Lunch has come and gone before footsteps come to a halt outside his door and someone shouts, “256—barber!” Goosebumps break out on Khalid’s neck at the sound of the loud voice. He knew it. Knew it was barber day today! As long as the books don’t come while he’s there, all will be cool.

  Khalid jumps up, arms at his side, waiting for the door to click, bang and thump open. He lifts his hands for the shackles to be tied. Hurrying the guard in his mind so he can get the whole shaving thing over with and be back here for the new books that he prays will come later. He was right about the hair, wasn’t he?

  The moment the guard leads his dragging shape into the corridor, Khalid notices the linoleum’s been washed. Usually there’re tiny bits of dirt and dust in the crevices between the bubble-like shapes but today there’s none. Then he realizes the last time they took him out for a shower was before lunch and maybe they don’t sweep the corridor until later. Khalid tries to remember the sound of sweeping after lunch.

  Did they sweep the floor without him noticing?

  He promises himself he’ll listen more carefully tomorrow, to see whether the sweeping routine has changed from early evening to early afternoon.

  He knows tracking these changes is pathetic but it’s something concrete to latch on to—as well as something he can congratulate himself about when he works out the new routine. Occasionally he even thinks he can read the guards’ minds.

  This one, for instance, look at him. He’s not as tall as Khalid and his thick, meaty neck throbs, the large vein pulsing as he walks. His dead eyes stare straight ahead. Khalid guesses he’s wondering whether to have a second helping of chips with his steak for dinner. It occurs to him that this soldier looks more brain-dead than most.

  Khalid steps into the sunshine and once again the same delicious blue sky greets him, but with no hint of rain in the thin clouds. Quickly, he takes in the full force of the shimmering light on the pale earth and a beautiful, sparkling spider’s web swinging from a truck mirror.

  Light reflects light until his head is pulled down again by the weight of the waist chain it’s connected to. He finds it easier, though less entertaining, to follow the flickers of sunshine passing over the guard’s black boots. The sound of hammering in the distance tells him yet another fence is being erected.

  A group of soldiers drop cardboard boxes beside the door of a shed. More soldiers patrol the fence with squeaking boots as Khalid’s led past an open truck smelling of bananas.

  In the distance, more trucks, more bland buildings. More impossible-to-see-through fences. More rocks. The sunshine quietly points Khalid’s eyes to the lizard on the wall of the open building. Its pale body is a perfect match for the spotted, uneven concrete it’s glued to and the sight makes Khalid smile.

  Several men stand hunched and bowed in a line, guards at each side. A fleeting glance of recognition passes between Khalid and the man just arriving behind him. It’s Ali Abaza from the recreation ground. Khalid shuffles round, twisting his head slightly to get a better look. He expands and then relaxes his chest to make the abrupt movement look more natural to the guard standing right next to him.

  Ali lifts his head, nodding quickly. A horde of unspoken thoughts and feelings pass between them. The snap message from Ali’s eyes tells Khalid things are worse than they were and he wishes he could explain what’s been happening. Khalid nods politely, as best he can.

  Just then the guard shoves Khalid forward, blocking the gap between them. The whining sound of the electric razor cuts off his thoughts with the more pressing threat he’ll be next. The wordless conversation is sadly over.

  The noise of the clippers and a faint breeze distract Khalid from the sight of men’s shadows lined up beside them. The shapes merge with the guns and soldiers’ boots and there’s not a breath of energy between the men and their shadows. Everyone’s as dead as dead can be.

  The strange sound of loud breathing and the whiff of burning hair confuse Khalid for a moment as he’s pushed down on the stool. Quickly, he catches sight of a wide face beaming with pleasure as the man slices into his scalp with pink hands. Beside Khalid is a small wooden table with a bucket of water for rinsing the blades and a silvery tin box with spare batteries and a
face shaver with three cutters. A tin box Khalid’s never noticed before.

  The chrome clippers begin whizzing and spinning to cut him open in a hundred places and the razor threatens to slit his ears and gouge his eyes out if he moves a muscle. Preventing Khalid from catching anyone else’s eye with an elbow in his shoulder blade, the barber nudges him. But when Khalid’s head is forced down, then sideways for the barber to clip his neck, he catches his own eyes clearly reflected in the shiny surface of the tin box. Tripping him into the sight of an unknown skinny face covered in stubble, black eyes staring out like someone mad.

  The more he looks, the more shocked he is by the hugeness of his chin. Did it always look like that? With a swift flick, his head is turned and the reflection disappears. The glinting blades flash past his forehead.

  This one’s enjoying slashing Khalid’s temples to pieces. Prodding his ears out of the way. Slicing his scalp as if he’s trying to lift it off. So aware of his power, he gives a little laugh when he slides into an eyebrow and Khalid recoils, only for the barber to grab his chin and push his forehead back with thumping fists. Khalid can do nothing but tense up, gritting his teeth.

  A drop of blood dribbles down his face and slips over his lips.

  The barber jerks Khalid’s head swiftly, one more time, to finish off his low hairline, sending itchy hair flying down his back. Scraping his skin so hard, red weals form on every part of his sore, dry head and neck.

  For as long as Khalid can remember, a visit to Robbie the barber in Rochdale was a quick, pleasant non-event. After asking what he wants, the barber does the cut with a smile and a few fast, gentle strokes. Maybe a kind word about his thick hair and the new aftershave he’s wearing as he softly brushes loose hairs from Khalid’s neck before shaking the clippers for the next guy to take his place.