“Captain, I can provide you with the details of my business, my address, my phone numbers and—”
“I could give a rat’s ass about your business!” Valdez declared, emitting another chuckle. “I care that you were here fighting alongside the enemy. Hell, if you have money that makes you more dangerous!”
Sikander had no reply. Valdez unwound his fishing reel a little.
“Look; I’d like to help you out of this if you’re really telling me the truth about what you were doing in Qunduz, but so far you’re not giving me anything to believe in.” Valdez seemed to be projecting a genuine concern that the right thing be done. But while Sikander could provide all kind of details about his life in Pakistan, he could say nothing to disprove his support for the Taliban or al-Qaeda. He held a shrug and slowly shook his head. Valdez sighed in resignation.
“I guess he’s sticking to his story…for now,” muttered Valdez, as he flatly pronounced, “Bagram,” while signing something official-looking that Bryers presented to him.
Three weeks after Sikander was shot, the American-led and backed Northern Alliance forces, which for five years had had no answer to the Taliban, now held the north of the country. Meanwhile, the Eastern Alliance under Hamid Karzai held the remainder. The war to remove the Taliban was over. Sikander’s predicament was not.
Having recovered from his reopened wound, Sikander was moved out of the hospital and was now in a single cell. But it was a blessing compared with the hell-trip out of Qunduz.
Valdez never came back. At first Sikander was curious as to why he was no longer of interest. But the talk with Valdez had only been an initial screening, and as his answers had not been satisfactory, the more expert facilities of the Bagram Collection Point, awaited him at the sprawling Bagram Air Base.
Unfortunately for Sikander, Valdez’s report wrote him up as “unconvincing, uncooperative, wounded and captured in Kunduz—requires further interrogation, English speaking Pakistani. Profile—better than 75% probable al-Qaeda or Taliban. Probable combatant, money-man, or both.”
A week later, along with other prisoners, Sikander was taken in the back of a truck from Sheberghan to Bagram. He was hooded and made to wear earmuffs to mute external sounds. His hands were manacled, his waist had a belly chain, and his ankles were shackled. Apart from the jostling caused by the truck he felt he was trapped inside himself, with little awareness of his environment other than feeling colder. He was his own prison cell.
Eight hours later, the truck stopped. Sikander was led out by a hand gripping his arm. He made the small shuffling steps imposed on him by the shackles and entered a much warmer place. He was in one of Bagram’s vast hangars built by the Russians, like the rest of the entire base, after the 1979 invasion. Separated from the other prisoners, Sikander was led through a concertina-wire clad cage used as a sally port, into a larger holding pen. He was disoriented, imagining it was still sometime in the afternoon. When the hood and muffs were finally removed, he could see through some windows in one of the far hangar walls that it was dark outside.
Removing only one restraint at a time, his captors made him strip to receive a full body cavity search. He was also photographed. With his clothes back on, he was taken to a holding cell.
A month passed.
During that time, Sikander had only cursory interaction with guards and short spells of exercise, though always manacled and shackled. Finally, on January 8, he was visited by an interrogator.
“Khan? From what I see here, you understand me, don’t you?” Sikander looked up at the officer. He was a major with “Duke” written on his name label.
Duke was in his late thirties and seemed to be a person who cared about his appearance. His BDU was a little neater than most others Sikander had seen. His Farragut, Tennessee, drawl made just about everything he uttered sound almost affable. A career soldier, he loved his job, and was looking for this war to make the next mark on his résumé.
“Major Duke,” Sikander said as he stood up. “Yes, I can understand what you’re saying.”
“Gooood!” Duke responded with a grin. “That means we’re going to be able to communicate and it will always be better for you if we can communicate.” Duke’s tone was amiable and engaging. He shuffled through some papers and what looked like a printed report. While fixing his gaze on the report, he called over a guard to bring Sikander out of his cell and walk him the short distance to a makeshift room set up against the hangar’s wall.
“I want you to understand something, Mr. Khan. Things don’t look too good for you from the information we have. If you want to avoid a bad future, you’re going to need to provide us with a more convincing story than what you’ve been selling so far.” Duke made eye contact with a seemingly sympathetic frown. “You understand me?”
Sikander nodded.
“Do you understand me?” Duke repeated politely but firmly.
“Yes,” replied Sikander.
“Good. Now, it says here you were looking for your family? Why? Where are you from originally?”
“Major Duke, the report is incorrect. I wasn’t looking for my family. I was re-joining them, and I had helped them to a safe evacuation out of Qunduz airfield by the Pakistan Air Force in the middle of November, right at the start of Ramadhan.”
“How’d you get shot?”
“I don’t know. I had just sold the mules we’d used to travel to Qunduz from a village south of Jalalabad. I’d gone to a bakery, picked up some food, and was heading back to the airport. The doctor treating me said that a bullet struck me from behind.”
“Do you remember when?”
“It was the morning of November sixteenth, the morning after we’d seen the setting of the new moon from the airport, marking the start of Ramadhan.”
“And how come you weren’t with your family? How come you went into Kundooz when you must’ve known the place was surrounded?”
“I had the understanding that we had three more days before a siege was to be put on Qunduz. I don’t know, I felt it would be safe. We…we were hungry.
“Anyway, all I remember is that I was in the hands of two Northern Alliance people, one of them a doctor…doctor Atiq…who treated me for the injury. They held me prisoner so that they could sell me. They showed me a leaflet from your military which promised thousands of dollars for turning people—al-Qaeda people—over to your forces.”
Duke hastily wrote something down before continuing. “How do I know you weren’t an al-Kayda fighter, shot by the Northern Alliance mujahideen and turned over to us?”
Duke’s use of “mujahideen” arrested Sikander. He surprised himself with his own resentment at being cast as their enemy by this non-Muslim soldier, when he had endured so much to earn the distinction of being called a mujahid.
“I can’t answer that, sir,” replied Sikander. ”I don’t know how to prove I’m not a member of some organization.”
“Not a good idea to get cute with me.” Duke’s advisory tone conveyed his irritation. Sikander didn’t continue. The major launched into a more direct form of questioning, his demeanor becoming more aggressive by simply shortening his questions.
“Let’s go over your history. Born where?”
“Pakistan, Peshawar.”
“Where’s your home now?”
“It’s in the suburb of Hayatabad to the west of Peshawar.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I run a business called Javelin. We wholesale electrical products.”
“Uhuh. Doing well is it?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Where’d you go to school?”
“University Public School, in Peshawar. Not far from—”
“Father, mother, names?”
“My father was Javed Wahid Khan and my mother’s name is Sofie Khan.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“Yes. I have one brother, Jamil, and one sister, Sameena.”
“When did you finish high school?
”
“I…I didn’t finish, sir. I left before completing high school so that I could fight against the Russians. That’s what brought me to Afghanistan in 1986, and it’s how I met my wife.”
“What’s her name?”
“Rabia.”
“Children?”
Duke’s questions prodded Sikander into one of his recurring torments over his family’s certain anguish over his disappearance. It had been months since he’d seen them and each passing day since his capture had seemed like a week. A sharp crack on the head interrupted his mental digression. He reeled in pain, his manacled hands unable to reach and soothe the place where the blow had struck.
“Children,” demanded Major Duke. His voice bore a new cold, and menacing tone.
“Yes!” cried Sikander. “Two boys!” He made a reflexive but futile attempt to dissipate the pain, grimacing and waving his head about slowly.
“Names?” asked Duke.
“Ayub and Qayyum.”
With his initial questioning out of the way, Duke paused to write yet more notes and now with an intense frown, began once more, “Mr. Khan, I don’t want to tell you that you’ve just told me a pack of lies. Let’s suppose everything you told me is true. You have your business, your wife, your kids, and all the other things, but what if you felt like coming back to Afghanistan because you hate America and suppose you’d seen—” Duke shrugged, “CNN, and thought, you know? I should go over there and help the al-Kayda folks against these infidel Americans. Now how would I know—just from what you’ve told me, mind you—that you didn’t do that?”
“I didn’t,” replied Sikander wearily. “Until now I have always liked America. Your country made it possible for me to fight the Russians. I never met any al-Qaeda people. I don’t agree with their views. I…” Sikander could think of nothing else to add.
“Uhuh!” Duke snickered. “Do you know how many people who love America I’ve met in the last ten days? A Pakistani, caught in Kundooz, coincidentally the very area the Taliban and al-Kayda people had retreated to. Most of the non-Arab, non-Afghans came from Pakistan, from all walks of life, I might add, and now, now that you’ve been caught? Why, you love America! Now what I want is the truth. I want to know all the details of any plans you’re aware of. I want to know dates. I want to know places. Names of people you were with. Names of leaders. What do they have cookin’? Where are they hidin’?” demanded Duke. Having bought Sikander’s claims of owning a business he was increasingly convinced he was using his money to aid the enemy. That made Sikander a prisoner of above average value.
“Major, I don’t have any al-Qaeda connections. I’ve never met any of them. How can I convince you of that!?” Sikander pleaded.
“Can’t spend all day with you, Mr. Khan. I’m not gettin’ your cooperation and there are people who know how to do this way better than I do. You’ll be seein’ them soon enough!”
Ramadhan was long finished and 2002 had begun. In Pakistan, ‘Eid-ul-Fitr celebrations were subdued. Adding to the tensions from the war in neighboring Afghanistan, a new crisis was brewing. An attack on the Indian Parliament had resulted in several policemen, a gardener, and the six attackers being killed. The Indians blamed the militia groups, Lashkar-e-Taiba, and Jaish-e-Mohammed. Pakistan was accused by India of having sponsored them and provided safe havens for their training. Along with the diplomatic furor, each country’s troops were amassed along their shared border.
The Pakistani leadership continued to insist on the legitimacy of the Kashmiri people’s separatist movement, which the accused militias had, originally at least, been fighting for. Most people agreed, however, that they had recently become much more focused on Islamist militancy than on achieving a new political reality in Kashmir.
In mid-January, Pervez Musharraf gave a speech suggesting that extremism would be combated within Pakistan but that Pakistan still claimed full rights to Kashmir. This seemed to defuse the tensions and a stand-down by both sides soon followed. In these times, however, as Rabia, Sofie, and the family all waited, Sameena could bring no word from Musharraf of any development. He was too busy avoiding a nuclear conflict with India to be concerned about Sikander and the numerous other prisoners being processed from all over Afghanistan.
“Get up! Get up!” barked a staff sergeant while striking a stick on the bars of Sikander’s cage. It was January 11 and Sikander had just gone back to sleep after performing fajr, when he was roused. By now he was well aware that obedience was his only option. His captors were under few illusions about prisoners being volatile and unpredictable, so he was made to stand upright and carefully brought out of the cage, shackled and manacled before being maneuvered into a chair, to which his restraints were then bound.
“No hair or beards where you’re going,” said a voice from behind. It was a solider with a razor and scissors. “Can’t risk the lice.”
With the shaving over, Sikander was forced to strip and given a full body cavity search. After wincing very briefly at the pain, it took all of Sikander’s effort to suppress any further reactions. He had long since learned not to pass comment and, to the extent possible, not to react to any treatment in case it invited more of the same from the sadistically inclined among his captors.
Not all soldiers behaved the same way at Bagram, and Sikander clearly saw differences in ethics and moral values among them. But it was noteworthy that as time passed, a general drift toward more inhuman tendencies became increasingly “normal.”
When he was dressed again, tight-fitting goggles were placed over his eyes, with black tape over the glass panes and on the sides, to seal his view of anything around the edges. Over his mouth was placed a surgical mask, and earmuffs sealed off most of his hearing. His hands were wrapped in mittens while the manacles were removed so that they could be reapplied with his hands behind his back. A belly chain was fastened around him and used to link him to a prisoner in front and one behind.
Sikander felt the tug of the chain, and instinctively shuffled forward. After a few faltering steps, sensing a slight breeze on what was left exposed of his face, he judged he was now outside. Suddenly, a firm grip on each elbow arrested his motion and held him still. Something was being written on his forehead with a felt-tipped marker. Finally, a bag seemed to be dropping over his head, leading him once more to a feeling of being imprisoned within himself.
The tugging of the chain resumed, slackening and tightening as he struggled to keep his balance without the usual sensory cues. A hand grabbed him at the elbow, stabilizing him, but continuing to urge him forward.
The engines of the C-141 Starlifter idled with its gaping ramp down as it awaited its human cargo and with all pre-flight inspections complete, Sikander and his fellow detainees were marched carefully up the aircraft’s ramp and made to sit on its floor. Webbing straps were passed through everyone’s arms, legs, and ankle shackles to hold them in place inside the cavernous twenty-one-meter-long hold of the giant transport. Sikander’s limbs started to go numb. Shortly after takeoff, as the aircraft underwent several maneuvers, each was a fresh source of pain in his shoulders, wrists, and hips. The pain subsided once the airplane leveled off at cruise altitude. Fifteen hours later, it landed.
Two months before Sikander’s flight, on November 13, 2001, George W. Bush had issued a Presidential Military Order covering the treatment of detainees as illegal enemy combatants, a concept not mentioned in the Geneva Conventions. White House legal counsel went on to advise the president that the Geneva Conventions did not apply to such detainees, even Taliban detainees who, they argued, came not from a state but from a “failed state.” No theory was presented for why such a distinction was important. The November 13 PMO essentially handed the President the right, without recourse to any other authority, to designate, incarcerate, and eliminate anyone as an illegal enemy combatant. The agility it afforded the administration seemed like a worthwhile value in light of most people’s resentment of the provision of due process to suspected terro
rists.
Added to this was a further theory that the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, though under the control of the United States, was not sovereign American territory, and was therefore beyond U.S. judicial reach. As a result, any detainee believed or declared by presidential order to be an illegal enemy combatant was subject to indefinite detention in a place under U.S. government control but capable of being dealt with in any manner whatsoever, and without legal recourse to challenge such detention or treatment.
Back in 1994, a camp facility was created at the naval base in Guantanamo Bay as part of Operation Sea Signal to house Haitian migrants. At the south side of the base, several camps, beginning with Camp Alpha and then Bravo, Charlie, Delta, and Golf, were constructed. When more were built on the north side, the naming began from the other end of the alphabet, beginning with Zebra. The American government decided to establish a large-scale permanent facility for holding and questioning detainees captured in its global war on terror among these camps. As a temporary facility, Camp X-ray was hurriedly prepared while the larger Camp Delta was redesigned for more permanent use. X-ray was to be pressed into service almost immediately, using razor wire and chain-link fencing, with tents for guards and specially constructed modular cells for detainees. Camp Delta was to be made ready by April 2002.
By order of the Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld, U.S. Southern Command set up two Joint Task Forces. JTF-160 would manage and handle detainees, while JTF-170 would interrogate them. The former was composed largely of military police units while the latter consisted of intelligence-gathering personnel. Together they comprised what was called the Joint Interagency Intelligence Facility at Guantanamo.
By the second week of January 2002, everything was in place for prisoners who had been picked up in Afghanistan and held for questioning at Bagram to be brought to Camp X-ray. Sikander was among the first batch to be transferred. He had plainly failed to convince anyone who mattered that he was not a member of al-Qaeda or the Taliban. He was not difficult to designate. With his money and his English-speaking skills, captured after being shot by Northern Alliance forces, he was almost certainly a high-value suspect and no military officer would risk his career on giving him the benefit of the doubt.
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