Guantanamo Boy

by Anna Perera

  “What are these for?”

  “Security,” the guard says. “Won’t be for long!”

  A shattering feeling of relief builds up inside Khalid as they throw a hood on his head and usher him into a vehicle waiting outside. Finally, he’s leaving Guantanamo Bay after what feels like thirty years.

  And Niamh, what can he do for her?

  For a start he can tell her he loved her buttercup painting. That it was way better than anything else and when he stood in the library looking at it he lost all sense of time—he was right there in the long grass. A rush of pure, vibrating pleasure suddenly shoots from Khalid’s stomach to his throat. Yeah, there’re so many nice things he’s going to do. He can’t wait.

  Khalid doesn’t know where they are taking him this time but he’s back in the vehicle and smelling the night air and the whiff of petrol as they drive for a while and then stop. He listens to the sound of soldiers opening metal gates and the vehicle driving off. When it stops next time, he’s moved to a boat. A large boat, Khalid thinks by the easy feeling he gets from speeding across the water. Before long they are back on land. Soon he’s shuffled out and the shackles are undone and the hood’s whipped off for the last time.

  Staring at the military plane, Khalid says a quiet thank-you to the thousands of stars in the Cuban night sky and says a silent prayer for the men who are still there. For a moment he hears the patter of rain as he’s guided to the plane. A soldier hands him a white plastic bag with his Qur’an, letter, postcard, sheets of paper and pen. No goodbye. No good wishes. Nothing but a soldier directing him. Gun at the ready.

  On board, Khalid’s surprised to see lots more people. A few police and men in plain suits. Then there’s the guy he saw in Karachi. That bloke with the posh voice. Other guys who nod and smile as he walks past. And what looks like another newly released detainee: T-shirt half off, he’s reading the Daily Mirror and quickly working his way through a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.

  “Khalid . . . finally, at last.” Harry jumps out of his seat to greet him, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Hiya.” A bit dazed from lack of sleep and starving hungry, Khalid sits next to him.

  “Did you ever believe you’d be going home?”

  “No way. Thanks for everything,” Khalid says, tears welling in his eyes again.

  “No, no. Thank your family and friends when you get home. Rochdale is a good place, you know? That whole community has been fighting to get you back. Your dad got up a petition and thousands of people have signed. The Rochdale Evening News took up the case. You’re famous! Want these?” Harry hands Khalid a packet of cheese crackers and a bottle of water.

  “Thanks.”

  He hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday and taking his time to enjoy each mouthful, the extraordinary feeling he’s going home slowly flows through his body until the certainty can no longer be denied. But not only does Khalid find this Rochdale stuff hard to believe; it seems incredible that from now on people will think he’s special, though not for anything positive, just for spending time in that prison.

  Roaring to the end of the runway, the plane finally takes off.

  That’s it—the nightmare’s really over. But before Khalid gets the chance to absorb the fact of his freedom, Harry has another surprise.

  “I almost forgot!” Bending down to riffle through the bulging black briefcase stowed carefully under the seat in front, he finds the package he’s looking for.

  “Ah, yes, here they are.” He hands Khalid three bright envelopes held together by an elastic band. “From your family.”

  The first one Khalid opens has a huge red number 17 on the front and the words “Happy Birthday.” The others are handmade cards of birds and flowers from Aadab and Gul.

  “Happy birthday for three weeks ago,” Harry says.

  “Yeah, March eleventh. Seems so long ago now. Thanks.”

  “Hundreds of people have sent cards,” Harry says. “Your mum’s keeping them for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” Harry laughs. “A belated happy birthday from me too. Why didn’t I get you a present? Wait a minute. Excuse me?” Harry calls to the soldier on duty. “Any chance of a couple of fresh orange juices?”

  Clinking small plastic glasses to celebrate his seventeenth birthday, Khalid catches up on the family news he’s missed from the letter inside the huge blue football card from Mum and Dad. The news of his Uncle Amir’s death, plus details of the small flat the aunties have moved to in Karachi. How Aadab has started a gymnastics class at the sports club and Gul is enjoying swimming after refusing to go anywhere near the water. And how Mum’s the first person in the family to pass her driving test. Loads of things that make Khalid smile.

  Harry then fills him in on the War on Terror, plus the Madrid train bombings three weeks ago and stories of the renditions, all the handing over of prisoners which Khalid has been part of.

  In some ways Harry’s more excited than he is. But then Khalid guesses he’s had a good night’s sleep, unlike him.

  “I made a few notes for you about what’s been happening with Guantanamo Bay. Here—take a look. It’s pretty shocking stuff.”

  Khalid glances down the page, reading about the widespread criticism of the military tribunals called “kangaroo courts” by a British Lord Justice. Reading the section on juveniles with growing disgust.

  In January 2004 a Pentagon spokesperson told a BBC journalist that after the release of three Afghans aged eleven to fifteen, no other juveniles remain in Guantanamo.

  “Yeah, well, I was still there,” Khalid says, pointing this bit out to Harry.

  He nods. “A report from the charity Reprieve says many more juveniles have been held at the base and none have been given a fair trial and found guilty.”

  Khalid hands the whole thing back. “I can’t take any more in at the moment.”

  “No, of course,” Harry says.

  Then a policeman walks along the aisle and pauses for a moment to give Khalid a warm smile. Khalid shrinks back, half expecting him to shout. But the man does nothing more than hold out a small plastic bottle of water, saying, “Enjoy the journey. Want anything else?”

  “Yeah, I mean no. No, thanks.” Khalid turns to Harry, eager to ask the long-awaited question that’s just popped into his mind. “My cousin Tariq Waji Hachem is still in Guantanamo. He’s only two years older than me. Can you help him?”

  Immediately, Harry looks concerned. “Your father mentioned him several times. We’ve been unable to get confirmation from the authorities that Tariq’s being held there.”

  Slowly and in great detail Khalid tells his cousin’s story, which, in many respects, is identical to his own, explaining how Tariq was abducted from his home while playing Bomber One on his computer and was taken for questioning in Islamabad before being carted off to be tortured into giving a confession, which he later retracted. The moment he’s finished giving him Tariq’s details, Khalid sinks back in the seat, suddenly tired.

  “Now we have your testimony, it’s going to be easier to help him,” Harry says. “But you look tired. Perhaps we’ll leave everything else until later. I haven’t even told you what’s going to happen next, have I?”

  “Just two more things before I pass out,” Khalid says. “That woman in Karachi said they had my passport.”

  “Impossible. Your dad took your passport when he first went to the police, then to the newspapers—everywhere—to prove you were missing.” Harry grins. “I remember the rare light-hearted smile your dad gave me when he showed me your passport photo. He said it was one of the few you liked and you wouldn’t mind him showing it to anyone. What was the other thing?”

  “I need the loo.”

  Harry laughs. “No need to tell me. It’s the far door on the right.”

  Anxious at the thought of walking past so many policemen, Khalid almost decides to wait, but Harry gives him an encouraging glance which helps him take his first unaccompanied steps since h
is ordeal began. But as Khalid stumbles into the aisle, the policeman the other side of him jumps up to escort him, and stands waiting outside the door to walk him back. Forcing Khalid to realize this whole thing is not quite over yet.

  Sadly, there’s no mirror in the loo. Just a basic chrome toilet and sink. He was hoping to see himself—see how bad he looks.

  Once back in his seat, smelling of the sweet coconut soap he’d found in the sink, Khalid asks, “Will they ever close that Guantanamo hellhole down?”

  “One day, Khalid, one day. But the trouble is, they don’t know what to do with the men there. Many of them are stateless refugees with no place to go.”

  The idea that some of those men have no home kicks Khalid in the guts. He’d spent so long being consumed by his own problems, living in his own sad little world, that he hadn’t given much thought to anyone else. At least he has a country, a home and family, mates even. In that moment, Khalid feels very, very grateful to have everything that matters.

  27

  TOUCHDOWN

  The wing flaps flick up, waking Khalid from a delicious long sleep. His head’s been twisted sideways on his shoulder for what must have been hours and he’s paying for it now that he tries to sit straight, hands on his aching neck. Through the window he catches sight of an astonishing maze of gray clouds. Clouds that go on forever without a hint of blue.

  The noises coming from the galley kitchen sound like bones cracking until someone laughs instead of screams and Khalid breathes in the pleasant smell of warm bread rolls.

  “Feel any better?” Harry smiles.

  “Yeah, just starving,” Khalid says.

  “Well, that didn’t take long.” Harry nods at the steel trolley making its way towards them and before long the trays soon slot into place. One fresh bread roll, a golden square of butter, curly omelette and a portion of baked beans. The best meal of his whole life. He swallows everything so quickly, Harry pushes his tray towards him.

  “Have mine too. I’m not in the least bit hungry.”

  “Thanks, mate.” Aware that Harry is totally enjoying watching him eat with his elbows in the air, grunting happily after each mouthful and licking his lips at another small chocolate croissant, which he saves until last, Khalid scoffs the lot and sits back to rub his stomach.

  “What now?”

  “Well, I’m afraid you won’t be going directly home. We land at RAF Northolt.” Harry pauses for a moment to scratch his chin. “There are a few formalities to be dealt with first. More interviews, that sort of thing. Plus someone will talk to you about adapting to real life after your ordeal. It will take a few days and then you’ll be going home.”

  “How many days?” Khalid had imagined the plane was going to land in Manchester, not RAF Northolt—somewhere else in England.

  “Three or four days. A week at the most,” Harry says. “Nothing to worry about. You’ll be given a comfortable room this time—with a bathroom.”

  “What about my family?” he asks. Aadab and Gul? How tall are they now? Khalid suddenly wonders. Do they want him back? Aren’t their lives better without him? He wasn’t that nice to them before. Would they be pleased to see him again?

  “They’ll have to wait until you’re brought home, Khalid. But they know you’re on your way. Everyone does. You can use my phone to talk to them when we land.”

  “I was looking forward to seeing my mates and that,” Khalid says as the seat-belt sign flashes on and the plane begins its descent.

  “It won’t be long, I promise,” Harry reassures him.

  Home. England. This is England. As he looks out of the window to watch the plane coming in, endless gray clouds burst with hard, cold rain and Khalid feels an overpowering sense of peace just gazing at the lush green fields, busy roads and small houses below. But the moment they land a plain-clothed policeman in a navy suit boards the plane and walks towards him.

  “Just a formality,” Harry whispers as the man bends over Khalid to quietly tell him, “I am placing you under arrest under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.” A policeman quickly handcuffs him before they move on to do the same to the other man who has been released.

  “This happened with the last three men who came back. Nothing to worry about,” Harry says. “I’ll see you later.” But Khalid’s stomach turns over—what with all the food, the sight of England after two years away and being so close to home, and now this.

  Within minutes, he’s led to the doors of a black van that’s driven on to the plane through the open back. A driving wind forces heavy rain up the cold tunnel, chilling Khalid to the bone. The other prisoner begins shivering uncontrollably as they’re ushered on to the van’s hard seats and the doors slam shut.

  “What a pisser, eh? After all that shite we’ve been through, we end up freezing to death in the back of a bloody police van. My name’s Ashwin Al-Asmari and I’m from Birmingham. The guy on the plane said we have to go through this because the Americans are watching us. So what? Let ’em have an eyeful, I say.”

  “Quiet in the back, please!” one of the policemen shouts.

  Ashwin pulls a face and starts coughing.

  “You were that guy—the one who was coughing all night in Camp Delta,” Khalid whispers.

  “They wouldn’t give me my right medication. Said I was pretending to have asthma. I practically died in there.”

  “Quiet down!” the policeman demands.

  It’s the last Khalid sees of Ashwin after they are led quickly from the van through pouring rain into a long, gray building. A drooping cobweb catches Khalid’s eye as it swings from the door in a cold draught of English spring air that smells crisp and fresh and suddenly full of hope.

  Ashwin’s taken to one room, Khalid to another one farther down the corridor. A room larger than his living room at home, with a proper-size single bed in the corner. A pile of new old-man clothes and a new Qur’an, newspapers, crisps, water. Not quite as good as a hotel room but a hundred times more comfortable than the cell he’s been used to. The police escort smiles.

  “You might want to dry off—take a shower and get changed,” he says. “Your lawyer will be here soon. Would you like a hot drink? We have everything.”

  “Yeah, tea. No, wait, hot chocolate please, with two sugars.”

  Khalid’s relieved to see the back of him. Two minutes later, he’s staring at his face from all sides in the bathroom mirror. Eyeing his body from all angles. Surprised to see he doesn’t look anything like he thought he did. His face seems gentler than he remembers it. Sadder. His chin is bigger than it was, he’s sure of that. And his shoulders are rounder than they were. His neck seems to poke forward and definitely isn’t as straight as it used to be either. But apart from that he decides he’s still basically good-looking, even though he’s grown so much taller. Standing with his back to the door, he tries to measure his height with a hand over his head, then looks back with surprise at the distance it is from the floor.

  “Yeah, that’s way over six feet,” Khalid says out loud. “Probably six feet three.”

  After luxuriating under waterfalls of steaming-hot water, then changing into clean clothes, Khalid begins to feel almost human. By the time there’s a knock on the door, he’s ready to face the world. But when Harry bursts in grinning, offering him a flash silver mobile, and says, “Your dad’s on the phone!” Khalid freezes in shock.

  “Dad! Dad!” Khalid grabs the mobile. Holding it close, he turns away from Harry as Dad’s soft, gentle voice passes through him in a wave of longed-for pure pleasure.

  “I’m fine. I’ve just had a lovely shower, Dad.” Sitting on the bed, Khalid sinks into his voice, into the warmth of his home in Rochdale, with the sound of his sisters kicking up a fuss in the background.

  “I know, Dad. They didn’t tell me either. It’s a shock for me too. Are you OK? Dad, don’t cry. You’ll make me cry. Yeah, put Mum on. Me too, Mum. Don’t. Now everyone’s crying. Hi, Aadab. No, I know you’re not going to cry. You’re too grown up, ye
ah, course. You sound a lot older. Hareema’s your new best friend? She sounds nice. Gul, I love you too. What new bike?”

  Over the next twenty-four hours, Khalid is fingerprinted and questioned briefly by two men he assumes are the police.

  “Name? Address? What date did you travel to Karachi in Pakistan? Where did you go while you were there?” All the usual stuff, but this time there’s no mention of a demonstration, or a computer game, or accomplices, or anything else. Plus they write down the answers. When they ask Khalid to explain his abduction, they act like they are listening and write that down too. The whole thing feels like a conversation to Khalid and not like an interrogation.

  Several times Khalid speaks to his family, mostly just saying, “Yes, I’m fine. No honestly, I’m all right. It’ll be OK.” While they do most of the talking, telling him about the efforts made by the people of Rochdale, charities like Reprieve, the Islamic Human Rights Commission, Guantanamo Human Rights Campaign, Amnesty International, and many other groups who have been working hard to get him released.

  The next morning a policeman escorts Khalid along the corridor to another room with comfy armchairs, a small kitchen and a gray table.

  “Take a seat,” he says, as if it’s a place the soldiers use at break times to read the papers and relax. Khalid glances at the coffee machine bubbling on the worktop beside the sink. For a moment the sight of the beige froth fascinates him and the policeman smiles.

  “Would you like some?”

  “Er . . .” Khalid hesitates as the door opens and another man rushes in who looks like an office worker in gray trousers and white shirt, a pile of blue folders under his arm.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Professor Wolfson. My job is to help you settle back into normal life as soon as possible.”

  “When can I go home?” Khalid asks.

  “Tomorrow probably,” says Professor Wolfson, smiling. “Let’s see now. Yes.” He drops the blue folders on the coffee table and looks Khalid straight in the eye. “Good. I think we’ll have one to start.” He gestures to the policeman, who moves towards the kitchen area.