Chapter 17
Family
ALTHOUGH STILL SUSPICIOUS of Sikander, Mahler failed to make any progress in extracting information that could confirm his status as a high-value al-Qaeda detainee. Eventually, however, he was forced to conclude that Sikander was not knowledgeable about anything of significance. Even so, Sikander’s innocence was far from proven and for anyone in authority the career risks of freeing him were too great.
The brutally simple connection between behavior and punishment was not lost on Sikander. He learned to become a compliant and cooperative detainee, and even finally admitted that his wife’s brother and cousin had been Taliban members, but that they were disillusioned with the movement and had returned to Pakistan with Sikander’s in-laws. At least he had convinced himself that it was probably the case given their willingness to depart Afghanistan with the family.
The cells in Delta were austere but they were indoors and more comfortable than X-ray’s wire cages had been. Despite this easing in living conditions, Sikander continued to dread interrogations. In contrast with their previously certain harshness, their severity had become unpredictable, which only amplified his anxieties. He found himself marking time in half-day increments and whenever he could, congratulated himself on making it through any half day that passed without interrogation.
Still, in the relative comfort of his present circumstances, he could play games, interact, and eat with fellow detainees, including Fareed, who had toned down some of his volatility.
After spending until late May in the maximum security subcamp 1 of Camp Delta, both Sikander and Fareed had recently been moved into subcamp 4, which was modeled more along the lines of a prisoner-of-war camp.
Sikander was now allowed visits from the International Committee for the Red Cross. By policy, as long as he had been deemed a high-value al-Qaeda affiliate, there was no question of any ICRC visits. During the first such contact he learned that the Red Cross was able to deliver mail on his behalf and, for the first time after almost five months in Guantanamo, Sikander could write to Rabia.
He set about the task at once. Choosing to use English, he judged that his captors would acknowledge his cooperation with their censorship objectives. If they wanted to derive intelligence from it, English would make it easier for them to see that they would be wasting their time.
Dearest Rabia, Assalaamu ‘alaykum!
Rabia, I miss you. I miss you so much, and the children and Ammee-jan, Jamil, Sameena, and everyone else. I miss you all. You are receiving this letter to let you know that I am alive only by the grace of Allah. I am being held in an American camp at Guantanamo and the Americans have the mistaken belief that I have been a member of al-Qaeda or the Taliban. After I left Junaid and the family at Qunduz, my dearest, I was shot in the back but also by the grace of Allah, I recovered from the wound. However, I was captured and handed over to the Americans. I have tried to explain to them that I was never a member of al-Qaeda or the Taliban, but until now they remain unconvinced. Rabia, please find a way of getting me help. Find a lawyer. Do what you can, my love, but please help.
Wasalaam, your life companion and loving husband,
Sikander
It was May. It was hot. It was Peshawar. After the flurry over obtaining a photograph four months earlier, efforts to locate Sikander seemed to have stalled. The family was despondent. Deep down, Sofie was sure that her son was alive, and even though she missed him terribly, her spirit reassured her, connected as she felt it was to his. Noor was likewise sanguine, though more from her confidence in Sikander’s resourcefulness. Together they comforted Rabia, who was up and down, sometimes optimistic, at other times consumed by doubt.
Noor had become good friends with Sofie. She was pleased with the changes in Saleem and with his reconnection with Ejaz and Hinna. With a healthy income from Javelin, Saleem and Amina rented a home in another part of Hayatabad. Abdul Majeed and Fatima moved to the north side of the Industrial Estate, closer to Jamrud, not far from Abdul Rahman and Sabiha, who had opened a small convenience store in the market, with money Sofie had loaned them. The business was just getting going and Abdul Rahman was assiduous in paying her back.
On May 14, 2002, gunmen opened fire at an Indian army camp near Jammu in Indian-occupied Kashmir, killing thirty-four people, mostly wives and children of officers. Four days later, Pakistan’s ambassador was expelled from India. Two day later still, clashes between India and Pakistan killed six Pakistani soldiers and an Indian soldier, along with civilians on both sides. The following day, Kashmiri separatist leader, Abdul Ghani Lone was assassinated, and on the day after that, India’s Prime Minister Vajpayee ordered his troops to prepare for war.
Meanwhile, Musharraf let it be known that he would not rule out the use of a nuclear first strike against India, and that India should not expect a conventional war from Pakistan. From May 24 for the next few days, Pakistan carried out a series of missile tests, while India placed naval vessels off the coast near Karachi.
The situation deteriorated to the point where the United States and other countries asked their non-essential citizens to leave both countries within days. In early June, an Indian unmanned aerial vehicle was shot down inside Pakistan near Lahore. Finally, in mid-June, amid mounting international pressure, Musharraf made an important “gesture” speech pledging to end militant infiltration into India from Pakistan. In response, India moved its warships away from the Karachi coast and tensions wound down. Musharraf’s attention was again free to focus on other matters.
The doorbell rang at the Khan residence. Sofie heard it and asked Jamil to answer, as he was the only male presently at home.
“Yes? What can we do for you?” Jamil asked the unfamiliar figure at the gate.
“Assalaamu ‘alaykum. I’m from the International Committee of the Red Cross. Here’s my business card.” The man handed the card to Jamil and continued. “We have information about a Mr. Sikander Khan and a letter from him.”
Jamil quickly let the man in and after recovering from his surprise, he called out: “Ammee! Rabia bhabhi! Come quickly! News from Sikander bhai!”
Rabia had been trying to read Dawn and watch CNN simultaneously, in the slim hope of learning something that might have any bearing on her husband’s fate. Hearing Jamil, she sprang to her feet and hurried into the lounge with Sofie and Noor close behind.
Desperate to learn something of her husband, Rabia was too excited to sit, but urged the visitor to make himself comfortable. Jamil offered him refreshment. The man in a gray Western-style suit retrieved a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses and a slip of paper from his inside jacket pocket.
“I’m Yusuf Mirza.” he began with a smile, “from the International Committee for the Red Cross. I wanted to let you know that we have located a Mr. Sikander Khan in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. He was—”
“Ya Allah! Alhamdulillah! I knew!” cried Sofie. Rabia began a whispered prayer of thanks for this good news but a frown quickly took hold at the mention of Guantanamo. Yusuf turned in Rabia’s direction, “Might you be,” he looked down at the paper and back up, “Mrs. Rabia Sikander Khan?”
Overwhelmed by mixed feelings, she nodded, dumfounded.
“Ah! Good, good. I have information that your husband has been held on suspicion of fighting for al-Qaeda or the Taliban.”
Rabia’s fingers leapt to her lips. The relief of knowing that Sikander was alive had been cruelly overshadowed. She felt numb and paralyzed, unable to utter anything.
“How is he? When will he be released?” asked Sofie. “I’ve heard that they don’t have to release people from Guantanamo! Ya Allah! Have mercy!” she pleaded, as she imagined the possible permanence of her son’s incarceration.
“You’re his mother?” Yusuf asked. Sofie nodded. She, too, was hard pressed to speak.
“I recommend you find a lawyer, a U.S. citizen, who can perhaps make a case for Sikander’s release. Please understand, however, that the ICRC doesn’t intervene in these matte
rs. We only make sure that the treatment of prisoners is humane. We have no power to force any change, but we can and do publicize any abuse we may come across,” he explained. “Importantly, however, we’re also able to deliver mail and small packages from family members and I’d be happy to help you with that or answer any questions you have, if I can. But you should know that I’m not the one who meets with Mr. Khan. That’s the job of my colleagues in the U.S.”
Saddened by the news and the look on her daughter’s face, Noor wept silently. She was filled with thoughts of their harrowing departure from Qunduz. If she could only return to that fateful moment when Sikander had decided to ride off; return and scream warnings into his ear about what lay in store for him if he left them. How far things had unraveled from that small error, all for the price of a few mules and a little food!
Addressing Rabia, Yusuf continued, “I have this letter for you, Mrs. Khan.” He reached into another pocket, retrieved a sealed envelope and held it out for her. “I can stay if you wish to write a reply, or I can come back if you prefer to have more time.”
Rabia took it silently, staring at it in her hand. It was a piece of him.
Sofie intervened. “Mirza sahib, perhaps it’s better if you come back.”
Returning to the moment, Rabia finally spoke. “Ammee-jan, I…I need to go read this alone.” Sofie nodded sympathetically as Rabia disappeared to her room.
Rabia sat on the edge of her bed. Trembling, she opened the letter, and put it to her nose. She could draw no solace from any scent of her beloved husband. Finally, half daring and half not, she read it, gasping upon learning of Sikander’s being shot. She read it again.
When she was done, Rabia fell back onto her bed. Burying her head in her arm, she cried. Why? Ya Allah! Why is this happening to us? If he’d married a respectable girl from Pakistan, he’d never have had this trouble! After ten minutes, having exhausted her tears, and with whatever composure she could muster, Rabia returned to the lounge.
“Yusuf’s gone.” Sofie said. “He promised to come again tomorrow to pick up your reply for Sikander.” Rabia’s disheveled condition left little doubt as to how she’d reacted to the letter. Satisfied at the very least that Sikander was alive, Sofie decided not to press her for its message just yet. “Rabia, we have to focus on the positive…take heart from this news. At least we know he’s alive and where he is, don’t we? This is a time for us to be strong. It’s one of Allah’s trials. He surely wants us all to make the effort.”
Rabia listened, politely acknowledging Sofie’s effort to raise her morale, but her mind was already ahead of her mother-in-law’s. Developing an idea, she turned to Jamil.
“Jamil bhai, I know that we got nothing from the photograph, but we know where he is now. Can’t we ask Sameena to get the message to Musharraf? Surely he could take it up with the Americans? They’d listen to him wouldn’t they?” Rabia’s tone was more hopeful than confident. “Call her. Ask her to come over as soon as she can.”
With better-developed procedures after their initial improvisations, the new people who interrogated Sikander were usually more humane and, though he didn’t know it at the time, usually from the FBI. They were making their own efforts to connect the dots between people of interest to them in Pakistan and any “sleeping” al-Qaeda operatives in America. A name Sikander had given them was that of his second cousin, Salman Khan of Durham, North Carolina. He was the only person Sikander knew in the United States.
Whatever the improvements in interrogation treatments, the disciplinary punishments meted out for the slightest infractions remained severe. Sikander had learned the hard way from the early days that it was highly dangerous, for example, to damage or write on a polystyrene cup, being U.S. government property. It always pained him, however, to learn of yet another detainee paying a high price for that kind of lesson. He was likewise aware of the harsh punishments handed out to inmates who were uncooperative in interrogations, and, for that matter, to freshly disoriented newcomers. One particularly galling example was when Fareed lost his clothing privileges and was down to boxer shorts. In his air-conditioned cell he was cold and wrapped himself in his prayer rug. The next day it was taken away from him for having been misused as a blanket.
On a June day, Sikander was walking alone in the hot sun for his exercise break. He could smell the Caribbean air in his lungs and life in “Jahannam” felt bearable. Dragging his feet, despite the heat that perhaps others might not bear, and the pain on his ankles from having worn shackles too often, Sikander felt what some would call, inner peace. His near loss of identity had provided him clarity on what was truly important to him, and in its own ironic way, in this place of captivity, released and surfaced his soul.
If he couldn’t have material prosperity, he could value family relationships. If he couldn’t have family relationships, he could value personal liberty. If he couldn’t have personal liberty, then perhaps he could value human dignity. And if, in captivity, there was to be no human dignity, then maybe self-respect, and if not even self-respect, then at least self-awareness, the very seat of his soul. He was who he was and it didn’t matter if he lived or died, he wouldn’t lose that, however hard “they” might try to dispossess him of it.
Over the past six months he had lost all but the last of these things, and came near to losing that too. Their absence from his life had provided the best evidence of their worth and the least of these had been material prosperity. He also understood that his essential self amounted to no more and no less than the sum of his values and the behavior toward which they guided him. That would be just as true if he perished in Guantanamo as it would be if he were ever to return to his family in Peshawar.
Sikander’s perspective also gave him new insights into his captors. He saw them as people trapped in their own circumstances. By now he had come across several guards who were genuinely nice people with integrity and honor. Some of them were forced to behave in ways that clearly went against their own values and natural inclinations. They could be distinguished from the more sadistic, zealous ones, and perhaps worse still, from those who had arrived as principled humane people, but found the permissive environment too severe a temptation, succumbing as they eventually did, to new norms of inflicting wanton hardship and cruelty upon the detainees.
All this was, of course, contrary to the lofty ideals of humane treatment codified in numerous memoranda and operating manuals. But such documents mattered little as long as misbehavior toward detainees remained without consequence.
Sikander felt concern for such people. In his mind their situation formed a more cruel prison for their spirits than anything they could fashion to confine him. Unlike him, they had lost themselves, denied even the awareness of their own spiritual annihilation. The luckiest of them might avoid that fate and would be left searching for ways to repair their souls. In any case, it would probably be long after he had either departed this place or died there. With more empathy than disdain, he wished them luck.
The exercise walk was finally called to a close and Sikander returned quickly to his cellblock. The rest of the morning was spent reading a dog-eared copy of The Grapes of Wrath, which had been brought to him on the trolley cart euphemistically known as the “library.” At lunchtime he joined Fareed in the dining hall.
Sikander and Fareed had befriended some other inmates, with whom they’d built a good rapport, sharing their ability to speak Pashto, English, and Urdu. Sikander had by now also picked up a smattering of Arabic. Like the vast majority of non-Arab Muslim children, he had learned how to recite the Qur’an’s Arabic, but without understanding it. He often pondered the irony that his longstanding wish to grasp the original language of the Qur’an, was being fulfilled, albeit partially, in this, of all places.
Although Fareed had become much more sedate and cooperative with authorities, he could always find something to complain about. Today it was the food. Pushing away his tray in disgust, he leaned in toward Sikander.
&
nbsp; “Dunno how you can eat this crap!”
“It isn’t that bad Fareed. Seems to keep you in good enough—”
Sikander’s attention shifted to the dining hall’s double doors that had swung open. A guard came through them and called out, “Sikander Khan!”
Without delay, Sikander stood up and raised his arm. “Yes!” he called out. His spirits sank. Another interrogation.
“This way!” said the guard. Sikander glanced at Fareed—who wore a combined look of dismay, apprehension, and sympathy—before following the guard out of the dining hall. When, however, he was led past his own cellblock into another, previously unvisited building, his concern multiplied. This was not normal. Anything not normal usually resulted in pain. His heart pounded.
The guard opened the door, ushering Sikander in. Once inside, they stopped.
“Hold out your hands,” commanded the guard. Trembling, Sikander complied.
“Put these on,” said another guard as he held out a neat stack of clothes; a short-sleeved shirt, a pair of pants, and a pair of socks, on top of which was perched a pair of slip-on canvas shoes. The guard gestured toward a small windowless office indicating the place where Sikander was to change.
“Why? What’s going on?” Sikander took the risk of asking, his gaze fixed on the two soldiers in front of him.
“Please put them on, Mr. Khan.” The soothing female voice came from behind the half-open door. Sikander hadn’t looked in her direction when walking into the room. “You’re going home.”
You’re—going—home. Three simple words that, at first, refused to register. But when finally he was past being arrested by them, he was gripped by suspicion. A trick. Trying to weaken me. He turned to face the woman.
She was attractive. After her eyes, a crimson velvet bow on her straw-colored hair tied in a ponytail, drew his attention. She carried herself with poise, and in her prim gray tailored suit with crimson camisole and matching shoes, she would have been more at home in a Wall Street lobby than handling a detainee release process. Improbably deferential, she smiled at Sikander with an innocence that had no place here.
SIkander Page 44
