by Anna Perera
ALBERT WHITMAN & COMPANY
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Perera, Anna.
Guantanamo boy / by Anna Perera.
p. cm.
Summary: Six months after the events of September 11, 2001, Khalid, a Muslim fifteen-year-old boy from England is kidnapped during a family trip to Pakistan and imprisoned in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, where he is held for two years suffering interrogations, water-boarding, isolation, and more for reasons unknown to him.
ISBN 978-0-8075-3077-1 (hardcover)
1. Guantánamo Bay Detention Camp—Juvenile fiction.
[1. Guantánamo Bay Detention Camp—Fiction. 2. Prisoners—Fiction. 3. Prejudices—Fiction. 4. Torture—Fiction. 5. Cousins—Fiction.
6. Muslims—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.P42489Gu 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010048016
Text copyright © 2009 by Anna Perera.
First published in Great Britain by Puffin Books.
Published in 2011 by Albert Whitman & Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Printed in the United States
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 LB 16 15 14 13 12 11
For more information about Albert Whitman & Company,
visit our web site at www.albertwhitman.com.
For JLK, with love
Guantanamo Boy
Advanced Praise for the US Edition
“Teen readers need and deserve stories that open windows to worlds they cannot and do not inhabit. Guantanamo Boy opens wide a window that casts a bright light on the ethics of interrogation. Like Cory Doctorow’s Little Brother, it should raise questions for which there are no easy answers.”—Teri S. Lesesne, Professor of Library Science, Sam Houston State University, Huntsville, TX
“Guantanamo Boy is one of those rare reads that bridges a fictitious story to that of a real time, place and event making the story so vividly real in its telling. Khalid is a normal fifteen-year-old English boy, who loves soccer, computer games and has a crush on a girl at school. Soon after 9/11, on a trip to visit Pakistan to visit family Khalid finds himself kidnapped, tortured and eventually incarcerated at the Guantanamo Bay prison for terrorists. Terrorism and its consequences on the innocent are brought into such focus that you are shocked beyond belief with the sheer reading of this story. This is a must-read for young adult readers and a great crossover for adults. A book that will stay with you a very long while; a book you’ll want to tell others about, discuss and ruminate over.”—Becky Anderson, Anderson’s Book Shops
“All I could think about while reading Guantanamo Boy was this could happen to one of my friends! I’m a sixteen-year-old sophomore and Khalid the main character is only fifteen, an innocent, when he is kidnapped and eventually thrown into prison at Guantanamo Bay. What kept going through my mind was the injustice, the pain, the loneliness, the anger, the tears, and the hopelessness. What a read—it really opened my eyes to the hysteria that terrorism causes in our world.”—Hallie, age sixteen
“A chilling and horrifying story of an innocent fifteen-year-old London-born Pakistani boy who is captured by the US government, taken to Guantanamo prison and tortured until he collapses. The novel will raise important questions related to government profiling, human rights, and the use of ‘torture.’ This may well become one of the most important teen novels about social justice of the new century. It will be chewed up, debated, and hopefully digested.”—Pat Scales, librarian, author, and member, National Coalition Against Censorship Council of Advisors
“Anna Perera has written a book for young people, but it is a real world book, with lessons for adults as well.”—Clive Stafford Smith, Founder and Director, Reprieve
Praise for the UK Edition
“This powerful and humane book shows that hatred is never an answer, and proves the pointlessness of torture and the danger of thinking of anyone as ‘other.’’’—Sunday Times “Children’s Book of the Week”
“One of her greatest achievements is to make the frightening monotony of the two years [Khalid] suffers so full of suspense.”—The Observer
“An excellent novel . . . superb.”—The Times
“Exteremely powerful, and the descriptions of torture are genuinely harrowing.”—The Guardian
“Timely, gritty fiction.”—Times Review
“Could it happen? It has happened. That’s why teenagers should read this book.”—The Irish Times
“The argument is as well balanced as the moral outrage is palpable.”—The Financial Times
“Rising star: Anna Perera. Her novel highlights the teenagers sent to the camp as it tugs readers into its vivid nightmare journey.”—The Independent
“Guantanamo Boy’s ability to deal with difficult issues surrounding the camp makes it a compelling read for people of all ages and a remarkable achievement.” —Politics.co.uk
“Compulsively readable . . . a powerful novel, sure to generate debate.” —Courier Mail
“Exploring the war on terror through the eyes of a child, Perera handles this confronting subject matter with great sensitivity.” —Daily Telegraph (Australia)
Contents
Author’s Note
1.Game
2.Blood’S Thicker Than Water
3.Karachi
4.Missing
5.Easter
6.Power
7.Bread
8.Masud
9.To Kandahar
10. Processing
11. Red Cross
12. Wade
13. Lights
14. Water Tricks
15. Sleep
16. Guantanamo
17. Sweat
18. Every Shred
19. The Jinn
20. Exercise
21. Hair
22. News
23. Lee-Andy
24. Harry
25. Echoes
26. Hot Shots
27. Touchdown
28. Home
29. Assembly
30. Gul
Guantanamo Bay Timeline
Guantanamo Boy Synopsis and Discussion Questions
Chapter Discussion Questions and Prompts
Sources For Timeline
About the Author
Author’s Note
I would have preferred not to write this story, but it wouldn’t leave me alone.
The idea came to me after I attended a benefit for a charity called Reprieve, which fights for the rights of prisoners around the world. When Clive Stafford Smith, Reprieve’s founder, said that children have been abducted, abused and held without charge in Guantanamo Bay, I was so shocked and appalled that I felt driven to write this book. The title came to me immediately.
Many people have asked how I managed to spend months poring over such a harrowing subject. All I can say is: I felt the story had to be written. To be honest, I asked myself the same question several times but at no point did I want to give up. I like Khalid and his family and friends, and I rooted for him, and for justice—though the justice system has been ripped apart and abandoned to the four winds. I struggled daily with the issues I had to examine, and at night I was kept awake imagining the consequences if I didn’t hit the right note—the right combination of pressure and sensitivity—in telling this story. Above all, I was determined to enable you, the reader, to find—through the pages of one boy’s fictional experience—some way to understand the stories behind the news.
Once the character of Khalid formed in my br
ain, I needed to get him to Guantanamo. This turned out to be easier than anticipated: Through my daily research of newspapers and Internet articles I saw that the paranoia, hypocrisy, and fear that led to the creation and maintenance of this prison also provided endless opportunities for Khalid to become an innocent victim of the “War on Terror.”
Two books that I turned to while writing mine were Bad Men: Guantanamo Bay and the Secret Prisons by Clive Stafford Smith and Enemy Combatant: My Imprisonment at Guantanamo, Bagram, and Kandahar by Moazzam Begg. Both provided valuable facts and insights. The British film The Road To Guantanamo was useful in providing visual details, as were many news items. I purposely had no contact with anyone who had firsthand experience of the prison because I didn’t want to steal or be influenced by another’s ordeal.
Telling this story was an ordinary act of compassion. It is a plea for another vision in an increasingly war-torn world because, as we know, there really is no “them,” no “they”—there is only us—and more of us.
—Anna Perera
An eye for an eye and the whole world will soon be blind.
—Mahatma Gandhi
1
GAME
Sometimes, Khalid thinks as he drags himself home after another boring day at school, I’d rather be anywhere but here. The thought of having to explain to his dad what happened yesterday is making his guts turn over and he hopes and prays the letter from school complaining about his behavior in the science lab won’t be there waiting for him. But as soon as he unlocks the door to 9 Oswestry Road, the envelope catches the corner of the mat.
Great. Khalid shakes his head at the sight of the school crest of Rochdale High on the back of the white envelope. Picking it up, he dumps his bag at his feet, throws his school blazer at the hook on the wall and, breathing in the smell of last night’s curry, hurries to the kitchen, where there’s more light.
For a moment, Khalid spaces out looking round the open-plan kitchenette. At the knives in the correct slots of the wooden knife holder. At the blue striped dishcloth, folded neatly on the metal drainer, and bar of pink soap in the see-through plastic dish between the shiny taps. Everything’s clean and bright, nice and neat, and nothing like the mess and terrible panic he feels at the thought of his dad reading this letter from his science teacher. He slumps down on a chair and listens to the hum of distant traffic. Checks the clock, ticking steadily on the wall, counting down the seconds until the front door clicks open. For the last three days Dad hasn’t left the Vegetarian First restaurant in Manchester, where he’s been working for ten years as a lunch chef, until around six o’clock and it’s only three forty-five now. It could be hours before he gets home.
The sweet smell of polish is coming from the small wooden table pushed up against the yellow wall beside Khalid. He lifts his feet up to rest them on the table. With the letter from school in his hand, he waits patiently for his sisters, six-year-old Aadab and four-year-old Gul, to charge down the hall, followed by Mum rustling bags of shopping.
“Sadly, Khalid, you cannot be trusted to behave sensibly in the science lab,” Mr. Hanwood had said. “I’m going to write to your parents about this.”
Thanks a lot.
“I never liked him,” Khalid says out loud. Yesterday wasn’t even his fault. His mate Nico was angry with Devy, who owed him money, and when he asked for it Devy told him where to go and Nico reached for his collar and Devy went crazy and tried attacking Nico with his science book. But Nico ducked and he hit Khalid in the face instead. Naturally Khalid threw his school bag at him, which knocked most of the lab equipment off the bench, sending everything flying. And the only thing Mr. Hanwood saw as he came through the door was Khalid flinging his bag.
Oh well, it’s too late now. Unless he gets rid of the letter . . . Things get lost in the mail all the time, don’t they? But a moment later the front door bashes open and he hears Aadab and Gul squealing.
“Ouch! Mum, Gul’s pinching me,” Aadab complains loudly.
“Khalid, how many times have I told you not to leave your bag on the mat and your jacket on the floor?” Mum shouts, ignoring the girls’ bickering.
“I didn’t!” Khalid shouts back, taking his feet off the table and stuffing the letter quickly into his pants pocket. “I put my jacket on the hook. It must have fallen off.”
“Yes, because you didn’t hang it up properly,” Mum says, suddenly there beside him with a white plastic shopping bag cutting into each arm. Behind her Aadab and Gul thunder up the stairs to change out of their school clothes.
“Sorry.” Khalid jumps up to take the heavy bags from her. “What time’s Dad home tonight?”
“Any minute now,” Mum says. “He’d better not be late again or I’ll be having words with that boss of his. He works too hard, your father, and never complains.”
Khalid stares at his mum. She’s frowning, always worried about something or other, which is probably why her thick, shiny hair is starting to turn gray. Her eagle eyes are all over the place, looking for anything out of order that she might need to put right. Of course he could give her the letter, but she looks tired out and is too busy unpacking groceries, and anyway, she’ll just tell Khalid to wait until his dad’s back.
Trying to act normal, Khalid wanders into the living room and switches on the TV. There’s a news item about Guantanamo Bay, the prison in Cuba that Mr. Tagg was telling them about in history yesterday. A picture flashes up of a group of soldiers pointing guns at men in orange prison suits bent double on the ground, surrounded by high wire fences with a couple of nasty-looking dogs to one side.
“The camp is being expanded to house more Taliban prisoners,” the newsreader says.
Poor guys, Khalid thinks.
“Six months after 9/11 and the world is getting madder by the day,” Dad says, suddenly behind him.
“Oh, hi, Dad. Didn’t hear you come in. How’s it going?” Khalid’s heart is pounding faster and faster as he tries to sound calm.
“My feet are killing me,” Dad mutters, not noticing anything odd as he shuffles away.
Half an hour later, Dad is sitting beside Khalid at the table, telling them all about his day. How much lentil khoresh was wasted. How many half-eaten naan breads were thrown out. He goes full tilt through the contents of the restaurant bins with pain on his face. Aadab and Gul frown along with him, trying not to giggle during his long pauses, and wait patiently for him to unwrap the tin foil from the slices of nutmeg cake he keeps in his pocket for dessert.
Khalid worries and fidgets, not daring to fish the letter from his pocket.
“Things will get worse before they get better,” Dad says. “A man came into the restaurant today, pointed his finger at the waiter and said, ‘You better watch your step round here, mate.’ Can you believe it? The boy hasn’t done anything wrong. Nothing except wear the shalwar kameez. That’s it.”
“The table is not the place to discuss world events,” Mum says. “Food goes down badly if you are concerned at all.” She doesn’t like sitting on the floor to eat either, like her brother’s family. “We are living in England,” she says. “Not Turkey or Pakistan, and English floors are cold, with or without cushions.”
Khalid always does the dishes after tea. It’s something Dad taught him to do when he was six years old. “Helping your mum shows her respect,” he says, and Khalid’s glad to do it, because Mum works hard in the office at the local primary school and is always tired when she gets home.
Today, Khalid dries while Mum washes, picking up the cutlery with the tea towel in one swoop to save time. Quickly arranging the red tumblers in a line on the shelf, anxious to get it over with, because he has plans to meet his Pakistani cousin online at six o’clock. Tariq’s in Lahore, so this time works out OK for both of them.
Mum spots him checking the clock. “Tariq isn’t a bad boy.” She smiles, reading Khalid’s mind. “But he can’t settle to anything, Uncle says.”
“Can’t settle? He’s learning Arabic, isn
’t he?” Dad laughs, unfolding his newspaper. “That’s not something I ever managed to do. Tariq speaks English, Urdu, Punjabi—now Arabic. He’s going places, that young man! You’ll see.”
Khalid glances at his mother, but there’s no smile on her face.
“Why don’t you like Tariq, Mum?”
“He’s having too big an influence on you. All the time you are Tariq this, Tariq that, as if he’s someone very important.” Mum folds her arms and raises her eyes to heaven. “Even Dad says this.” She glances at Dad’s blank, innocent face with disbelief. “Yes. Yes, you do!”
Dad smiles secretively at Khalid, as if to say, Let it go. But Mum can’t let it go, insisting on staring at the computer in the corner as if it’s an evil monster.
“My brother tells me Tariq spends too much time on the computer and he doesn’t listen,” she continues. “What kind of young man lives like this? A very bad way to behave, and don’t argue.”
“I wasn’t going to!” Khalid protests, while remembering it was Mum who encouraged their friendship in the first place. For a long time, because of her, he’s hero-worshipped his older cousin. Sending his first e-mail to him almost two years ago, when he heard the news from Mum that Radhwa, the two-year-old sister Tariq adored, had died. Died slowly after a long illness. Mum explained that Tariq went totally crazy, refusing to believe she was gone, and had nightmares for weeks on end. At the time Tariq was fifteen, Khalid only thirteen, and though the whole family was brokenhearted, no one took Radhwa’s death harder than Tariq.
“Write to him, your cousin,” Mum had ordered. “Say something to help him get better.” So he did, e-mailing him the hottest Web links for his home town, Rochdale, and their football club. It was strange at first, e-mailing someone he didn’t really know, but bit by bit they became friends who chatted mostly about the stuff they had in common. Computers, video games, football, movies, the usual things that everyone likes whether they live in Rochdale or Lahore.
