Guantanamo Boy

by Anna Perera

  By the time Tariq finishes, Khalid feels like going on hunger strike. Who cares about Oklahoma? How come Tariq’s got a new toothbrush? What kind of toothbrush? Unable to admit his own prison toothbrush that fits on a ring on his finger has only a few bristles left because he can’t get a word in edgewise. Not that going on hunger strike is a joke, as Tariq goes on to explain.

  “When I first came here, in February 2003, many men went on hunger strike. It lasted for a long time,” Tariq begins. “They tried to cover it up. For a while no one would admit what was happening, but I could see the food coming back uneaten. Plus a Turkish man who had been tortured so much he could hardly stand straight told me every day the latest news.”

  “Why didn’t I know about this?” Khalid asks.

  “Probably because you were lost in your own world, cuz. That’s what prison does to people. You become more dead than alive. What is there to notice when you stop existing? Nothing. No. No. They say I am a good prisoner now—high compliant is what they call me.”

  “High compliant?” Khalid remembers overhearing a guard use the phrase.

  “Seventy-one days the hunger strike went on,” Tariq continues. “The military ended it by force-feeding. You might know this is not legal. It was a non-violent protest but they pushed tubes down their noses to feed them against their will. One guard said the hunger strike proves we are evil.”

  There are so many things Khalid doesn’t know, suddenly remembering the sight of the man in hospital with yellow tubes down his nose. So that’s what they were doing. Force-feeding him. Maybe that was why the doctor took no notice of him.

  “Under the Geneva Convention, prisoners have the right to grow flowers. Did you know that?” Tariq says. “It’s just one of the many things we haven’t been able to do in Guantanamo.”

  “Why would I want to grow flowers?” Khalid smiles. “That’s so lame.” His mind drifts back to the small front garden in Oswestry Road and the rows of purple, white and yellow flowers that appear outside the living-room window each summer. He can see himself lying on the sofa watching TV, with long green leaves poking their tips at him in the breeze.

  “It would be nice to have the choice,” Tariq says. “And do you know the words “enemy combatants” have been invented to deny us the status given to prisoners of war?”

  “Yeah?” Khalid replies, still shocked by things like this, even though it doesn’t really surprise him.

  “But the worst thing is,” Tariq tells him, “millions of people around the world have objected to us being here, writing letters about abuse and no fair trials, except now a military tribunal where they have their own rules.”

  “Why haven’t I had a military tribunal?” Khalid finally interrupts.

  “This is not the law of the land they keep in these tribunals. No jury is there.” Tariq sighs.

  If Khalid had known all this earlier, he might have felt better.

  “Make no mistake, this tribunal would find us guilty!” Tariq says.

  “How come?”

  “You told me you signed the papers. I signed the papers. The fact we signed after being tortured means nothing. We are guilty now to them,” he says.

  A couple of minutes later, when Khalid hears guards clanking shackles and pushing Tariq’s door open, he leans closer to the wire. This is his first chance to see Tariq instead of just hear him.

  He presses his body tight, hands spread high, gripping the wire to take in every bit of his cousin when he finally appears. Marvin’s chunky shape is there first—standing to one side to usher Tariq out. An overpowering smell of vanilla soap drifts from his shirt pocket, which is crammed with the stuff.

  “Shower time, buddy,” Khalid hears him tell Tariq.

  “You bet it is,” Tariq says in a strange accent which isn’t quite American.

  Marvin lays a hand on Tariq’s shoulder to lead him the other way, but not before Khalid, who’s flat against the fence, shouts, “Hey, I want a new toothbrush. Marvin. Marvin.”

  “Later, man.” Marvin smiles.

  Tariq half turns towards him. Recognizing his classic features from the online picture next to his name, Khalid notices he’s taller and slimmer than he had imagined. In profile, he reminds him a bit of Mum. “Hi.” Khalid gets another brief glimpse when at last his cousin manages to twist his head right back from the heavy middle chain pulling his neck down. The second their eyes meet, Tariq’s big, black, warm eyes make everything else fall away, burrowing straight to the core of Khalid’s soul. Suddenly his whole family had come home to him.

  The moment Tariq’s gone, Khalid sinks to the floor. Sobbing. Head in his hands. Overwhelmed by his first meeting with the cousin he used to adore. Touched by a friendly smile that he knows is genuine. By his chained hands and feet. By his shaved head and face. By his shuffling away, obviously deeply moved by the powerful emotion that passed between them.

  Khalid recognizes between sobs that since they found each other this place has changed. Even when he hated him, just knowing he was there brought him comfort. Someone. Something. Some future to look forward to. Plus, he brought him a precious link to his family and the outside world that he could tap into at any time.

  No matter what has happened, Tariq has explained so much and led Khalid from the dark side of his mind. Suddenly, he sees it’s not enough to forget. It will only be enough if he can recognize the steps he’s taken to get to this point and decide not to allow this experience to poison his life. For that reason, he has no choice but to forgive Tariq. For once. For always. And now he’s actually met his cousin, he’s made so weirdly happy all of a sudden by the thought he might see him again when he returns from the shower, Khalid finally forgives himself for hating him, for misjudging him and—yes—wanting to hurt him.

  Breaking free from the stranglehold of so much anger and blame, Khalid wipes away the last of his tears. Shaking his head to rid himself of the memory of the different kinds of hell he’s lived through. Shaking it so hard he doesn’t, at first, hear Lee-Andy’s quick steps coming towards him.

  “Just come to say good-bye, pal,” she says.

  “Why?” Khalid quickly comes to the conclusion she’s OK, now it’s too late.

  “Politics, I guess. Who knows what goes on in their minds? I sure don’t.”

  “Me neither.” Khalid smiles.

  “How’s the ear doing?” Wrinkling her nose, she places her hands on her hips.

  “Better!”

  Lee-Andy looks him in the eye for a second and Khalid catches the disappointment she feels at having to go.

  “You don’t want to leave?”

  “No way. What’s the use in pushing paper? But that’s how it rolls.” The feeling that their odd, short relationship has helped him surfaces in Khalid’s mind. She was obviously so bored out of her brains here she decided to talk to him and maybe that’s helped her in some way too.

  “I’m snapping my fingers in front of my eyes all the time,” he mutters, instead of the deeply felt thank-you he’d like to give her.

  “Don’t forget to keep doing it.”

  “I’ll try,” Khalid says.

  “Probably won’t see you any time soon. Stay cool, pal.” She turns away.

  “Yeah.” Khalid sighs. Pleased by her genuine regret. I mean, now he has Tariq close by, why should he care what happens to her? But he does, because she’s been kind to him, and besides, he’ll never forget how delicious that chocolate bar tasted. In a way her concern has helped him to forgive Tariq. She didn’t care that they knew each other from before. She stood nearby, letting them talk, and no, he doesn’t really believe she was spying on them. Lee-Andy allowed them to chat for no other reason other than she thought it would help him.

  The idea that she’s going alarms him for a second until she swings her reddish ponytail, smiles briefly, then rushes off, but this time the door shuts with a certainty which feels lighter than it’s ever done before. Lee-Andy has gone but Khalid is coming back to himself. Even the movie
in his head of the girlfriendless hell he’s endured here—that just rose up in front of him—is shrinking back. Aware of how his brain is creating the sudden feeling of a lifetime’s future loneliness by flashing up pictures of all the girls he’s ever liked, he can’t help going right back to the beginning, to the girl in elementary school whose bag he once carried to the gym.

  “Bye, hugs ’n’ kisses,” eleven-year-old Ariella whispered in his ear before Khalid had time to catch his breath. Throwing open the door to times when girls are people to like instead of ignore.

  Realizing he has the power to change his feelings by deciding what pictures he allows in his mind, a rare feeling of peace rises in Khalid. Ariella’s gone, and so have all the others, probably Niamh too. If only he’d told her just once that he liked her.

  Rubbing his face, Khalid finally admits to himself, yeah, Lee-Andy, he fancied her a bit. So what? At least it proves he’s not quite dead inside, and anyway, she is the only attractive female he’s seen for a long time.

  The sound of slow, plodding footsteps forces Khalid to turn quickly to grab the door. Desperately tweaking the fence to try and part the strong wire, all he can see is a ruddy-necked, chunky soldier standing with his back to him. Legs apart, completely blocking Tariq from view.

  “Get out of the way,” Khalid mutters. But Marvin doesn’t move. Instead he slowly edges Tariq into the cell, but even though Khalid can’t see him, a wave of pleasure passes over him as he breathes in the smell of vanilla soap coming from Marvin’s still-bulging pocket. Tariq’s returned and knowing that makes him smile.

  24

  HARRY

  Khalid doesn’t get the chance to tell Tariq how he feels because none of it matters anymore. Anyway, there’s nothing to explain because his cousin carries on as if everything has always been fine between them. Now that they’ve joined forces, they keep each other going and are making up for lost time as good friends.

  Later that week, after lunch, Marvin and another guard arrive for Khalid with an armful of shackles and unlock the door.

  “Hey, Marvin,” Tariq calls from next door, but they haven’t come for him today.

  “Not now, bud,” Marvin replies, his low tone of voice giving Khalid the impression Marvin’s on serious business right now. What, he can’t imagine. Marvin’s giving no clues away as he and the other guard enter the cell. His shirt pockets are flat. No smell of vanilla soap today, just the faint whiff of cigarettes, so Khalid knows he’s not going for a shower. Plus he went for exercise yesterday, so unless everything’s changed he won’t be going again until the day after tomorrow.

  Marvin’s an expert with shackles, fastening them not too tightly. Smiling broadly to show he means no harm.

  “Where we going?” Khalid asks, shuffling behind, trying to keep up with him.

  “You’ll soon find out,” Marvin says solemnly, leaving Khalid in the dark as they cross the yard and walk round the corner to enter a small building. This place smells of white paint; it’s cleaner and brighter than the others. The long, low building has small windows in the roof that throw patches of sunlight on the immaculate concrete floor.

  Marvin flings open the door to a small room with a black desk and two chairs.

  Khalid’s first thought when he sees the two floor bolts is, Oh yeah, another interrogation room, but seconds later a man who looks like a teacher comes in and he changes his mind.

  “Hi, Khalid, I’m your new lawyer. Name’s Harry Peterson.”

  “Eh?” No one has called him Khalid in that way for the last two years. Looking him up and down as the guard undoes the wrist shackles and motions him to the chair to bolt his ankles to the floor, he’s sure he misheard him.

  “What did you say, man?” It comes as a huge surprise to hear words like that from anyone, let alone this guy, Harry, who has a big, gentle face and fair, scruffy hair. “You’re my lawyer?”

  “Yes,” Harry says. Khalid takes in the loose, navy shirt, the same beige corduroy trousers that Mr. Tagg always wears. He looks old-fashioned, way uncool. Plus he nods all the time, but he smells of a nice aftershave that reminds Khalid of one he used to wear at home.

  “Yes, I’m your lawyer.”

  “Pardon?” Khalid almost chokes he’s so shocked, which makes Harry laugh.

  “Here. This has been a long time coming, I’m afraid.” Harry hands over a white envelope addressed to him here in Guantanamo Bay. His first letter. Trembling, Khalid tries to settle the wave of surprise and excitement that’s bubbling in his stomach.

  “That’s my dad’s writing.”

  “Yes, it is.” Harry lowers his eyes out of respect for Khalid, whose sweating fingers fumble awkwardly with the corner, which is stuck down tight. The ordinary, small, delicate task is an ordeal for him. He hasn’t even tied a shoelace in the last two years. Sighing heavily, he taps a knee with the envelope for a moment before mentally snapping his fingers in front of his eyes and starting over. This time he gently peels back the obviously glued and messy re-stuck edge with a fingertip, slowly working along it until it tears. Pulling each slice back until the neatly folded letter appears inside. With a badly trembling hand, he rustles the thin sheet from its sleeve and opens it carefully to read the letter in silence. Doing his best to hold in his emotions, he’s unable to stop the odd tear racing down his face.

  Meanwhile, Harry is busy shuffling papers, trying to give him the space to take in the sudden, amazing news that Dad’s fine.

  “I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get to see you,” he says when Khalid folds the letter away. “Your family is well and sends you their deepest love.” Harry explains he’s spent months attempting to get the Americans to follow the due process of law by giving Khalid access to a lawyer and family and friends.

  Khalid drops his eyes. He doesn’t want to talk about anything—not yet. A few minutes’ silence passes before Khalid says, “What are they accusing me of?”

  “Well, the trouble is you signed a confession, albeit under duress, and they’re using that to detain you indefinitely. I have to be honest—this might take a while, Khalid. There’s a paranoia out there about people they refer to as evil terrorists that’s difficult to dispel.”

  All this is too much for Khalid. It’s the first conversation he’s had with an Englishman who looks and talks like one of his teachers and probably went to university and all that. Plus he speaks so properly and friendly, it sounds weird. But at least he doesn’t talk down to him. Feeling suddenly grateful for the last few weeks spent chatting to Tariq, Khalid realizes he’s not as out of his depth as he would have been before.

  “The fact you were picked up when you were just fifteen might work in your favor.” Harry frowns, nodding slowly.

  “How come? It hasn’t so far.”

  At this, Harry laughs. “I know. It took us a while to find you. Your dad traveled all over Pakistan looking for you, refusing to go home to Rochdale until he discovered what had happened. When he returned to England they confiscated the family computer and hauled him in for days of questioning but were unable to find anything.”

  Harry goes on to tell him what’s been happening in the past two years. The various bombings in India, Turkey, Indonesia, Bali, the Philippines. The capture of Saddam Hussein. Most of which is lost on Khalid, because he can’t bear the thought that anyone might think he was involved in something as terrible as the events Harry describes. The fact there’s a small window behind Harry through which Khalid can see a truck going past distracts him for a moment from fully imagining the pain these people have suffered.

  Harry seems to think with his fingers; he keeps patting his open laptop while trying to reassure Khalid that everything will be OK. Then he clicks his short nails together when he explains how long it took to get permission from the American government to visit him here.

  All the while, the letter from Dad is safely folded in Khalid’s shaking hand and its words pierce him with pleasure as Harry talks.

  “Is there anything you w
ant to know?”

  “Don’t suppose you have Rochdale’s soccer results by any chance?” Khalid asks.

  With a long, deep laugh, Harry throws his head back and flicks his forehead with two fingers. “Why didn’t I think to find that out? Your dad told me you’re an avid fan. I’ll do my best to get that information for you as soon as I can. Don’t worry, Khalid, one day all this will be over and you can go back to your normal life, even though it might not feel normal for quite a while!” Looking him straight in the eye, Harry frowns. “Are you OK?”

  “Not really!” He guesses Harry’s trying to tell how this conversation, the letter and his time here are affecting Khalid, and by the way Harry’s pursing his lips right now, maybe he’s wondering whether Khalid’s all right mentally.

  When they come to take Khalid away, Harry glances at the floor, clearly emotional but doing his best to hide it.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow to take a statement about everything,” he says.

  “About how they tortured me?” Khalid says loudly for the guards’ benefit.

  “Anything and everything.” Harry smiles to give him confidence and keep him going until then.

  As soon as Khalid’s back in his cell, the flap in the metal and wire door slams open with an earth-shattering bang. Dropping the letter on the bed, Khalid moves quickly to take the plastic tray smelling of rotten fish from the soldier outside. Hardly bothering to glance at the bread roll and ball of rice, the foul-smelling fish in runny tomato sauce, he rests the tray on the floor, ignoring Tariq’s whispers as he rushes to read Dad’s letter again.

  My dear, dear son,

  So much sadness that you are knowing nothing about has been in all our hearts since you are gone. My heart is breaking in two as I write this letter. Everything in my life comes to nothing when I count the days since I last saw you in Karachi. Now we have found out where you are we are doing everything in our power to get you home. We will not stop until you are with us again. This you can be sure of, son. Don’t worry. I will make certain of it.