“I am very happy with your cooperation. Remember when I told you that I preferred civilized conversations? I think you have provided 85% of what you know, but I am sure you’re gonna provide the rest,” he said, opening an ice bag with some juice.
“Oh, yeah, I’m also happy!” I said, forcing myself to drink the juice just to act as if I were normal. But I wasn’t: I was like, 85% is a big step coming out of his mouth. Captain Collins advised me to keep cooperating.
“I brought you this present,” he said, handing me a pillow. Yes, a pillow. I received the present with a fake overwhelming happiness, and not because I was dying to get a pillow. No, I took the pillow as a sign of the end of the physical torture. We have a joke back home about a man who stood bare naked on the street. When someone asked him, “How can I help you?” He replied, “Give me shoes.” And that was exactly what happened to me. All I needed was a pillow! But it was something: alone in my cell, I kept reading the tag over and over.
“Remember when Captain Collins told you about the 15% you’re holding back,” said SFC Shally a couple of days after Mr. Zuley’s visit. “I believe that your story about Canada doesn’t make sense. You know what we have against you, and you know what the FBI has against you,” he continued.
“So what would make sense?” I asked.
“You know exactly what makes sense,” he said sardonically.
“You’re right, I was wrong about Canada. What I did exactly was. . . .”
“I want you to write down what you’ve just said. It made perfect sense and I understood, but I want it on paper.”
“My pleasure, Sir!” I said.
I came to Canada with a plan to blow up the CN Tower in Toronto. My accomplices were Ahmed, Mohamed, Hasni, and Raouf. Hasni went to Russia to get us the supply of explosives. Mohamed wrote an explosives simulation software that I picked up, tested myself, and handed in a data medium to Raouf. The latter was supposed to send it with the whole plan to Sheikh Abu Qatada in London so we could get the final fatwa from the Sheikh. Raouf was supposed to buy a lot of sugar to mix with the explosives in order to increase the damage. Ahmed provided the financing. Thanks to Canadian Intel, the plan was discovered and sentenced to failure. I admit that I am as guilty as any other participants and am so sorry and ashamed for what I have done. Signed, M.O. Slahi.
When I handed the paper to SFC Shally, he read it happily.
“This statement makes perfect sense.”
“If you’re ready to buy, I am selling,” I said. SFC Shally could hardly hold himself on the chair; he wanted to leave immediately. I guess the prey was big, and SFC Shally was overwhelmed because he reached a breakthrough where no other interrogators had, in spite of almost four years of uninterrupted interrogation from all kinds of agencies from more than six countries. What a success! SFC Shally almost had a heart attack from happiness.
“I’ll go see him!”
I think the only unhappy person in the team was SSG Mary, because she doubted the truthfulness of the story.
Indeed the next day Captain Collins came to see me, escorted as always by two uniformed men he wanted people to think were his bodyguards. “Remember when I told about the 15% you were holding back?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I think this confession covered that 15%!” I was like, Hell, yes!
“I am happy that it did,” I said.
“Who provided the money?”
“Ahmed did.”
“And you, too?” Captain Collins asked.
“No, I took care of the electrical part.” I don’t really know why I denied the financial part. Did it really make a difference? Maybe I just wanted to maintain the consistency.
“What if we tell you that we found your signature on a fake credit card?” said Captain Collins. I knew he was bullshitting me because I knew I never dealt with such dubious things. But I was not going to argue with him.
“Just tell me the right answer. Is it good to say yes or to say no?” I asked. At that point I hoped I was involved in something so I could admit to it and relieve myself of writing about every practicing Muslim I ever met, and every Islamic organization I ever heard of. It would have been much easier to admit to a true crime and say that’s that. “This confession is consistent with the Intels we and other agencies possess,” Captain Collins said.
“I am happy.”
“Is the story true?” asked Captain Collins.
“Look, these people I was involved with are bad people anyway, and should be put under lock and key. And as to myself, I don’t care as long as you are pleased. So if you want to buy, I am selling.”
“But we have to check with the other agencies, and if the story is incorrect, they’re gonna find out,” Captain Collins said.
“If you want the truth, this story didn’t happen,” I said sadly. Captain Collins had brought some drinks and candies that I forced myself to swallow. They tasted like dirt because I was so nervous. Captain Collins took his henchman outside and pitted him on me. SFC Shally came back harassing me and threatening me with all kinds of suffering and agony. It was amazing how much control Captain Collins had over this man who was way over forty years old. Now Shally was telling me I was going to be put back to intensive torture, and for what? Because my false confession wasn’t tight enough.
“You know how it feels when you experience our wrath,” SFC Shally said. I was like, what the heck does this asshole want from me? If he wants a confession, I already provided one. Does he want me to resurrect the dead? Does he want me to heal his blindness? I am not a prophet, nor does he believe in them. “The Bible is just the history of the Jewish people, nothing more,” he used to say. If he wants the truth, I told him I have done nothing! I couldn’t see a way out. “Yes! . . . Yes! . . . Yes!” After SFC Shally made me sweat to the last drop in my body, Captain Collins called him and gave him advice about the next tactics. Captain Collins left and SFC Shally continued.
“Captain Collins has overall control. If he is happy everybody is. And if he isn’t, nobody is.” SFC Shally started to ask me other questions about other things, and I used every opportunity to make myself look as bad as I could. “I’m going to leave you alone with papers and pen, and I want you to write every-thing you remember about your plan in Canada!”
“Yes, Sir.”
Two days later they were back at my door.
“Get up! Get your hands through the bin hole!” said an unfriendly-sounding guard. I didn’t welcome the visit: I hadn’t missed my interrogators’ faces over the weekend, and they scared the hell out of me. The guards shackled me and took me outside the building where Captain Collins and SFC Shally were waiting for me. It was my first time seeing the daylight. Many people take daylight for granted, but if you are forbidden to see it, you’ll appreciate it. The brightness of the sun made my eyes squint until they adjusted. The sun hit me mercifully with its warmth. I was terrified and shaking.
“What’s wrong with you?” one of guards asked me.
“I am not used to this place.”
“We brought you outside so you can see the sun. We will have more rewards like this.”
“Thank you very much,” I managed to say, though my mouth was dry and my tongue was heavy as steel.
“Nothing is gonna happen to you if you tell us about the bad things. I know you’re afraid that we will change our opinion toward you,” said Captain Collins while SFC Shally was taking notes.
“I know.”
“Let’s talk hypothetically. You understand hypothetical?” Captain Collins said.
“Yes, I do.”
“Let’s assume you’ve done what you confessed to.”
“But I haven’t.”
“Just let’s assume.”
“Okay,” I said. As high-ranking as Captain Collins was, he was the worst interrogator I’ve ever met. I mean professionally. He just jumps back and forth without focusing on any specific thing. If I had to guess, I would say his job was anything but interrogating peop
le.
“Between you and Raouf Hannachi, who was in charge?”
“It depends: in the mosque I was in charge, and outside he was in charge,” I answered. The questions assumed that Hannachi and I are members of a gang, but I didn’t even know Mr. Hannachi, let alone conspire with him as part of a corps that never existed.8 But anyway I could not tell something like that to Captain Collins; I had to tell him something that made me look bad.
“Have or haven’t you conspired with those individuals as you admitted?”
“You want the truth?”
“Yes!”
“No, I haven’t,” I said. Captain Collins and SFC Shally tried to play all kinds of tricks on me, but first of all I knew all the tricks, and second I had already told them the truth. So it was futile to play tricks on me. But they drove me into the infamous Catch-22: if I lie to them, “You’ll feel our wrath.” And if I tell the truth, it will make me look good, which would make them believe I am withholding information because in their eyes I AM A CRIMINAL and I wasn’t yet able to change that opinion.
Captain Collins handed me a printed version of the so-called Witness Protection Program. He obviously forgot to disable the date printout footnote, so I could read it. I wasn’t supposed to know the date, but nobody is perfect.
“Oh, thank you very much,” I said.
“If you help us, you’ll see how generous our government is,” Captain Collins said.
“I’ll read it.”
“I think this is something for you.”
“Sure.” Captain Collins gestured to the guards to take me back in my cell. They were still holding me all this time in Camp Echo Special.9
As soon as the interrogation team left, one of the guards was opening my cell and shouting, “Get up Motherfucker.” I was like, Oh my God, again? Master Yoda and his friend took me out of the cell and made me face the wall.
“You fucking pussy. Why don’t you admit?”
“I’ve been telling the truth.”
“You ain’t. Interrogators never ask if they don’t have proof. They just wanted to test you. And guess what? You failed. You blew your chance,” he continued. I was sweating and shaking, and I showed even more fear than I really felt. “It’s so easy: we just want you to tell us what you’ve done, how you’ve done it, and who else was involved with you. We use this information to stop other attacks. Is that not easy?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“So why do you keep being a pussy?”
“Because he’s gay!” said Yoda’s colleague.
“You think the Captain just gave you the Witness Protection information for fun? Hell, we should kill you, but we don’t; instead, we’re gonna give you money, a house, and a nice car, how frustrating is that? In the end, you are a terrorist,” he continued. “You better tell them everything the next time they come. Take a pen and paper and write everything down.”
The interrogators and guards believed the Witness Protection Program is a U.S. specialty, but it isn’t. It’s practiced all over the world; even in the darkest dictatorship countries, criminals can profit from such a program. Captain Collins provided me stories about other criminals who became friends of the U.S. government, such as Wernher von Braun and Viktor Belenko, who fled the Soviets during the Cold War. I was really not enlightened by any of this, but I took the papers anyway: something to read beside the pillow tag. I kept reading and reading and reading it again because I just like to read and I had nothing to read.
“You remember what you told Captain Collins, when he told you you’re hiding 15%,” SSG Mary said in our next session.
“Yeah, but you see I can’t argue with Captain Collins. Otherwise he gets mad.” SSG Mary took a printed version of my confession and started to read it, smiling.
“But you’re not only hurting yourself. You’re hurting other innocent people.”
“That’s correct. But what else should I do?”
“You said you guys wanted to mix sugar with explosives?”
“Yes, I did.” SSG Mary smiled.
“But that’s not what we wanted to hear when we asked you what you meant by ‘sugar.’ As a matter of fact, ” she said, “it’s obvious you have no clue about this stuff.”
“Sergeant, I really don’t know,” I said.
“You cannot possibly lie about something as big as that,” SSG Mary said. “We have a highly qualified expert who could come and question you. What do you think about a polygraph test?”
“Polygraph? I’m dying to take one!” I said, though my heart was pounding because I knew I might fail the test even if was telling the truth.
“I’m gonna organize one for you as soon as possible.”10
“I know you want to make yourself look good,” I said.
“No, I care about you. I would like to see you out of jail, leading a normal life. There are some detainees I want to see stay here the rest of their lives. But you, no!” SSG Mary said genuinely.
“Thank you very much.” Mary left with that promise and I retreated back to my cell, completely depressed.
“Remember that the polygraph is decidedly important in your life,” said Captain Collins shortly before he left one of his sessions, trying with the help of his executioner SFC Shally to pry nonexistent information out of my mouth. He scared the hell out of me, because my whole life was now hanging on a polygraph machine.
“Yes, Sir, I know.”
“Who would you like to have with you during the polygraph,” asked Captain Collins a couple of days before the test.
“I think the male sergeant wouldn’t be a good idea, but I would be just fine if you would be here!”
“Or the other male sergeant?” he said, pointing to SFC Shally.
“Yeah,” I said reluctantly. “But why don’t you just come?”
“I’ll try, but if not me, it will be the sergeant.”
“I am very scared because of what your boss Captain Collins said,” I told SSG Mary the day before the test.
“Look, I’ve taken the test several times and passed. All you need to do is clear your mind and be honest and truthful,” SSG Mary answered.
“I will.”
On November 12, 2003, SSG Mary showed up. “Guess what?” she asked, looking at me through the cage of my cell. I quickly stood up at the bin hole.
“Yes, Sir!” I thought she was one of the guards. She got me startled, and she looked at me, smiling.
“Oh, it’s you! I am sorry, I thought you were one of the guards. You came for the polygraph, didn’t you?”
“Yes, in a couple of hours I’ll be back with the guy with the equipment. I just want you to be prepared.”
“OK, thank you very much.” SSG Mary left. I performed a ritual wash and managed to steal a prayer off the guards, I don’t remember whether I performed it formally or informally. “Oh, God! I need your help more than ever. Please show them that I am telling the truth. Please give not these merciless people any reason to hurt me. Please. Please!” After the prayer I exercised a kind of yoga. I never really practiced that meditation technique before, but now I sat on my bed, put my hands on my thighs, and imagined my body connected to the poly.
“Have you done any crimes against the U.S.?” I asked myself.
“No.” Would I really pass? Screw them! I’ve done no crimes; why should I be worried? They’re evil! And then I thought, No, they’re not evil: it’s their right to defend their own country. They’re good people. They really are! And then again, Screw them, I don’t owe them anything. They tortured me, they owe me! I did the yoga with all the possible questions.
“Did you tell the truth about Ahmed Laabidi?”
“No.” Oh, that’s a big problem, because SFC Shally said, “When we catch you lying you’re gonna feel our wrath.” Screw him and Captain Collins; I’m not gonna lie to please him and destroy my own life. No way. I’m gonna tell the truth no matter what. But what if I fail the test, even after answering truthfully? OK! No problem, I’m gonna lie. But what if th
e polygraph shows my new lies? Then I’m really gonna be stuck in a cul-de-sac. Only God can help me: my situation is serious and the Americans are crazy. Don’t worry about that, just take the test and you’re gonna be alright. I was going to the bathroom so often that I thought I was going to urinate my kidneys.
The doorbell rang and SSG Mary surged through with the polygraph tester. He was a small white male in his early forties, with hair that was sprinkled gray, the perfect candidate for a DOD contractor.
“My name is John Smith. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand. I knew he was dishonest about his name. He unluckily chose the wrong name, John Smith, which I knew to be a generic name. But I really didn’t care. After all, what interrogator is honest about anything? He could as well have introduced himself as Joe Dirt with the same effect. “You will be working with me today. How are you?”
“I am very nervous,” I answered.
“Perfect. That is the way you should be. I don’t like relaxed detainees. Give me a minute, I am going to install the equipment.” In fact, SSG Mary and I helped him in setting up his equipment. He was complaining that the building wasn’t steady enough and he was worried about the vibrations, and it took a long time for him to decide where to set up the machine. We ended up in a corner outside my cell. A firm plastic chair was placed next to the table, and I was told to sit facing a thick white wooden wall, so close it almost kissed my nose.
“Now, I want you to sit and look at me the whole time while I am speaking to you.” John Smith was not exactly the evil-looking interrogator. He was, I think, skeptical but fair.
“Have you taken a polygraph test before?
“Yes, I have!”
“So you understand the process and how the test works?”
“I guess I do.”
But John started a long explanation anyway. I noticed an ant walking up the wall, and then many more leading and following her. I learned to follow ants in the Mauritanian secret prison, watching them until they left the cell and me behind. I watched this one climb, going about her daily business and not realizing the drama that was unfolding before her very eyes. I drowned myself in her world, and I missed a lot of what the tester was saying. I was so nervous, but I took this as the first good omen of the morning. I was wondering if I should just concentrate on the ant and answer the questions without thinking.
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