Guantánamo Diary

by Mohamedou Ould Slahi

  ■■■■■■■ was leading the monologue ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■. Every now and then the ■■■■■■■■■■■ entered and tried to make me speak, “You cannot defeat us: we have too many people, and we’ll keep humiliating you with American ■■■■■■■.”

  “I have a ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ friend I’m gonna bring tomorrow to help me,” ■■■ said. “At least ■■■■■■■ cooperate,” said ■■■■■■■ wryly. ■■■■■■■ didn’t undress me, but ■■■ was touching my private parts with ■■■ body.

  In the late afternoon, another torture squad started with another poor detainee. I could hear loud music playing. “Do you want me to send you to that team, or are you gonna cooperate?” ■■■■■■■■ asked. I didn’t answer. They guards used to call ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ because most of the torture took place in those buildings, and at night, when darkness started to cover the sorry camp.†

  ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ sent me back to my cell, warning me, “Today is just the beginning, what’s coming is worse.”

  But in order ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ to know how much torture a detainee can take, they need medical assistance. I was sent to a doctor, an officer in the Navy. I would describe him as a decent and humane person.*

  “■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■. I don’t examine people with that shit on them,” he said to the escorting ■■■■■■.

  “The gentleman has a pretty serious case of sciatic nerve,” he said.

  “I cannot take the conditions I am in anymore,” I told him. “I am being stopped from taking my pain medication and my Ensure, which were necessary to maintain my head above water,” I said. The interrogators would organize the sessions so that they would cover the time when you are supposed to take your medication. I had two prescriptions, tabs for the sciatic nerve back pain and Ensure to compensate the loss of weight I had been suffering since my arrest. I usually got my meds between 4 and 5 p.m., and so the interrogators made sure that I was with them and missed my medication. But look at it, what sense does it make, if the interrogators work on hurting my back and then give me back pain medication, or to give me a bad diet and want me to gain weight?

  “I don’t have much power. I can write a recommendation, but it’s the decision of other people. Your case is very serious!” he told me. I left the clinic with some hope, but my situation only worsened.

  “Look, the doctor said I’ve developed high blood pressure. That’s serious; you know that I was a hypotensive person before,” I said the next time ■■■■■■■ called me to interrogation

  “You’re alright, we spoke with the doctor,” the interrogators replied. I knew then that my recipe was going to continue.

  The torture was growing day by day. The guards on the block actively participated in the process. The ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ tell them what to do with the detainees when they came back to the block. I had guards banging on my cell to prevent me from sleeping. They cursed me for no reason. They repeatedly woke me, unless my interrogators decided to give me a break. I never complained to my interrogators about the issue because I knew they planned everything with the guards.

  As promised, ■■■■■■■ pulled me early in the day. Lonely in my cell, I was terrified when I heard the guards carrying the heavy chains and shouting at my door “Reservation!” My heart started to pound heavily because I always expected the worst. But the fact that I wasn’t allowed to see the light made me “enjoy” the short trip between my freakin’ cold cell and the interrogation room. It was just a blessing when the warm GTMO sun hit me. I felt life sneaking back into every inch of my body. I would always get this fake happiness, though only for a very short time. It’s like taking narcotics.

  “How you been?” said one of the Puerto Rican escorting guards in his weak English.

  “I’m OK, thanks, and you?”

  “No worry, you gonna back to your family,” he said. When he said that I couldn’t help breaking in ■■■■■■.* Lately, I’d become so vulnerable. What was wrong with me? Just one soothing word in this ocean of agony was enough to make me cry. ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ we had a complete Puerto Rican division.† They were different than other Americans; they were not as vigilant and unfriendly. Sometimes, they took detainees to shower ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■. Everybody liked them. But they got in trouble with those responsible for the camps because of their friendly and humane approach to detainees. I can’t objectively speak about the people from Puerto Rico because I haven’t met enough; however, if you ask me, Have you ever seen a bad Puerto Rican guy? My answer would be no. But if you ask, Is there one? I just don’t know. It’s the same way with the Sudanese people.

  “■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ and give him no chair,” said the D.O.C. worker on the radio when the escort team dropped me in ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ entered the room. They brought a picture of an American black man named ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■.“We’re gonna talk today about ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ after bribing me with a weathered metal chair.‡

  “I have told you what I know about ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■.”

  “No, that’s bullshit. Are you gonna tell us more?”

  “No, I have no more to tell.”

  The new ■■■■■■■ pulled the metal chair away and left me on the floor. “Now, tell us about ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■!”

  “No, that’s passé,” I said.

  “Yes, you’re right. So if it is passé, talk about it, it won’t hurt,” the new ■■■■■■■■ said.

  “No.”

  “Then today, we’re gonna teach you about great American sex. Get up!” said ■■■■■■■■. I stood up in the same painful position as I had every day for about seventy days.* I would rather follow the orders and reduce the pain that would be caused when the guards come to play; the guards used every contact opportunity to beat the hell out of the detainee. “Detainee tried to resist,” was the “Gospel truth” they came up with, and guess who was going to be believed? “You’re very smart, because if you don’t stand up it’s gonna be ugly,” ■■■■■■■■■■■■.

  As soon as I stood up, the two ■■■■■■■ took off their blouses, and started to talk all kind of dirty stuff you can imagine, which I minded less. What hurt me most was them forcing me to take part in a sexual threesome in the most degrading manner. What many ■■■■■■■ don’t realize is that men get hurt the same as women if they’re forced to have sex, maybe more due to the traditional position of the man. Both ■■■■■■■ stuck on me, literally one on the front and the other older ■■■■■■■ stuck on my back rubbing ■■■ whole body on mine. At the same time they were talking dirty to me, and playing with my sexual parts. I am saving you here from quoting the disgusting and degrading talk I had to listen to from noon or before until 10 p.m. when they turned me over to ■■■■■■, the new character you’ll soon meet.

  To be fair and honest, the ■■■■■■■ didn’t deprive me from my clothes at any time; everything happened with my uniform on. The senior ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ was watching everything ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■.* I kept praying all the time.

  “Stop the fuck praying! You’re having sex with American ■■■�
��■■■ and you’re praying? What a hypocrite you are!” said ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ angrily, entering the room. I refused to stop speaking my prayers, and after that, I was forbidden to perform my ritual prayers for about one year to come. I also was forbidden to fast during the sacred month of Ramadan October 2003, and fed by force. During this session I also refused to eat or to drink, although they offered me water every once in a while. “We must give you food and water; if you don’t eat it’s fine.” They also offered me the nastiest MRE they had in the camp. We detainees knew that ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ gathered Intels about what food a detainee likes or dislikes, when he prays, and many other things that are just ridiculous.

  I was just wishing to pass out so I didn’t have to suffer, and that was really the main reason for my hunger strike; I knew people like these don’t get impressed by hunger strikes. Of course they didn’t want me to die, but they understand there are many steps before one dies. “You’re not gonna die, we’re gonna feed you up your ass,” said ■■■■■■■■■■■■.

  I have never felt as violated in myself as I had since the DoD Team started to torture me to get me admit to things I haven’t done. You, Dear Reader, could never understand the extent of the physical, and much more the psychological, pain people in my situation suffered, no matter how hard you try to put yourself in another’s shoes. Had I done what they accused me of, I would have relieved myself on day one. But the problem is that you cannot just admit to something you haven’t done; you need to deliver the details, which you can’t when you hadn’t done anything. It’s not just, “Yes, I did!” No, it doesn’t work that way: you have to make up a complete story that makes sense to the dumbest dummies. One of the hardest things to do is to tell an untruthful story and maintain it, and that is exactly where I was stuck. Of course I didn’t want to involve myself in devastating crimes I hadn’t done—especially under the present circumstances, where the U.S. government was jumping on every Muslim and trying to pin any crime on him.

  “We are going to do this with you every single day, day in, day out, unless you speak about ■■■■■■■ and admit to your crimes,” said ■■■■■■■.

  “You have to provide us a smoking gun about another friend of yours. Something like that would really help you,” ■■■■■■■ said in a later session. “Why should you take all of this, if you can stop it?”

  I decided to remain silent during torture and to speak whenever they relieved me. I realized that even asking my interrogators politely to use the bathroom, which was a dead basic right of mine, I gave my interrogators some kind of control they don’t deserve. I knew it was not just about asking for bathroom: it was more about humiliating me and getting me to tell them what they wanted to hear. Ultimately an interrogator is interested in gathering Intels, and typically the end justifies the means in that regard. And that was another reason why I refused both to drink and to eat: so I didn’t have to use the rest room. And it worked.

  The extravagance of the moment gave me more strength. My statement was that I was going to fight to the last drop of my blood.

  “We’re stronger than you, we have more people, we have more resources, and we’re going to defeat you. But if you start to cooperate with us, you’ll start to have some sleep and hot meals,” said ■■■■■■■■ numerous times. “You cooperate not, you eat not, you get remedy not.”

  Humiliation, sexual harassment, fear, and starvation was the order of the day until around 10 p.m. Interrogators made sure that I had no clue about the time, but nobody is perfect; their watches always revealed it. I would be using this mistake later, when they put me in dark isolation.

  “I’m gonna send you to your cell now, and tomorrow you’ll experience even worse,” said ■■■■■■■ after consulting with ■■■■ colleagues. I was happy to be relieved; I just wanted to have a break and be left alone. I was so worn out, and only God knew how I looked. But ■■■■■■■ lied to me; ■■■■ just organized a psychological trick to hurt me more. I was far from being relieved. The D.O.C., which was fully cooperating when it came to torture, sent another escort team. As soon as I reached the doorstep ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ I fell face down, my legs refused to carry me, and every inch in my body was conspiring against me. The guards failed to make me stand up, so they had to drag me on the tips of my toes.

  “Bring the motherfucker back!” shouted ■■■■■■, a celebrity among the torture squad.* He was about ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■, about six feet tall, athletically built, and ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■. ■■■■■■ was aware that he was committing heavy war crimes, and so he was ordered by his bosses to cover himself. But if there is any kind of basic justice, he will get busted through his bosses; we know their names and their ranks.

  When I got to know ■■■■■■ more and heard him speaking I wondered, How could a man as smart as he was possibly accept such a degrading job, which surely is going to haunt him the rest of his life? For the sake of fairness and honesty, I must say that ■■■■■■ spoke convincingly to me, although he had no information and was completely misled. Maybe he had few choices, because many people in the Army come from poor families, and that’s why the Army sometimes gives them the dirtiest job. I mean theoretically ■■■■■■ could have refused to commit crimes of war, and he might even get away with it. Later on I discussed with some of my guards why they executed the order to stop me from praying, since it’s an unlawful order. “I could have refused, but my boss would have given me a shitty job or transferred me to a bad place. I know I can go to hell for what I have done to you,” one of them told me. History repeats itself: during World War II, German soldiers were not excused when they argued that they received orders.

  “You’ve been giving ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ a hard time,” continued ■■■■■■, dragging me into a dark room with the help of the guards. He dropped me on the dirty floor. The room was as dark as ebony. ■■■■■■ started playing a track very loudly—I mean very loudly. The song was, “Let the bodies hit the floor.” I might never forget that song. At the same time, ■■■■■■ turned on some colored blinkers that hurt the eyes. “If you fucking fall asleep, I’m gonna hurt you,” he said. I had to listen to the song over and over until next morning. I started praying.*

  “Stop the fuck praying,” he said loudly. I was by this time both really tired and terrified, and so I decided to pray in my heart. Every once in a while ■■■■■■ gave me water. I drank the water because I was only scared of being hurt. I really had no real feeling for time.

  To the best of my knowledge, ■■■■■■ sent me back to my cell around 5 a.m. in the morning.

  “Welcome to hell,” said the ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ guard when I stepped inside the block. I didn’t answer, and ■■■■■ wasn’t worth it. But I was like, “I think you deserve hell more than I do because you’re working dutifully to get there!”

  When ■■■■■■ joined the team, they organized a 24-hour shift regime. The morning shift with ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ started between 7 and 9 a.m. and ended between 3 and 4 p.m.; the dayshift with ■■■■■■■ ran between 4:30 and 10 or 11 p.m.; and the nightshift was with ■■■■■■. He always took over when ■■■■■■■ left; ■■■■ would literally hand me over to him. This went on until August 24, 2003; I rarely got a break or relief from even one of the shifts.*

  “Three shifts! Is it not too much for a human being to be interrogated 24 hours a day, day after day?” I aske
d ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ was the least of many evils, so I just tried to talk to ■■■■ as a human being. You might be surprised if I tell you that ■■■■ possesses good qualities as a person. As much as I hated what ■■■■ was doing, I must be just, fair, and honest.†

  “We could put on more personnel and make four shifts. We have more people,” ■■■■■■■ answered. And that’s exactly what happened. The team was reinforced with another ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■, and instead of a three-shift team I had to deal with four fresh people during a 24-hour period.

  “You fucked up!” said an escorting guard who by accident had to escort me twice in one day from one building to another. “What are you doing here? You’ve been in reservation already!”