Guantanamo Boy (24 page)

Then, flicking open a yellowing book, Khalid puts it to his nose to smell the dusty pages and runs his fingers over the smooth covers. He uses them as playthings by lining them up in a tidy row on his pillow, then stacks them on the floor to enjoy the small footstool they provide. He even tries to walk up and down with a book on his head.

Over the next few days, Khalid reads the three condensed stories in each book over and over again to himself until the characters become his friends.

“Come out, you Dam Busters. I know where you are. You want the rest of this bread roll, Atticus Finch? Well, too bad.”

Everyone, prisoners and soldiers, sigh with relief at the sound of relative normality coming from Khalid’s cell, and Khalid sighs, because the words spark a tiny flame of pleasure in his broken heart and mind. Bit by bit the white noise shrinks and the characters in the stories take over. Khalid finds himself poring over the words and thinking about the passages he’s read for hours and hours, and some of the emptiness he feels dies away because the books become his family.

Until . . .

“Time to go,” the guard yells just as Khalid opens
To Kill a Mockingbird
for the fourth time. It was one of the books on his English GCSE list but they hadn’t read it before he left.

“Not now,” Khalid says, but the door swings open and a bunch of tinkling shackles catch his eye. Forced to drop the book on the floor, Khalid’s desperate to have the story back in his lap. Desperate for the special feeling of peace reading brings him, but the guards clamp his wrists and ankles tight and seem to enjoy leading him outside the moment the rain starts. They walk him through endless small puddles on the path towards the building next to Camp Delta and all Khalid can see is the face of Boo Radley in the reflections in the water.

The waves of hissing, cold rain do their best to stretch the cracks in Khalid’s flip-flops to the limit. He slips and slides past the limp wet American flag hanging from the pole and is transported to another time, the 1930s, and another place, a small town in Alabama, and Scout, the six-year-old girl, and her brother, Jem, and the story waiting for him on the floor of his cell.

Where are the showers? Khalid’s not sure. Everything looks different in the rain. There are no shadows for a start and a tingling freshness fills the air when, like magic, the rain suddenly stops. There’s a smell of damp earth underfoot and, reaching the line of showers and their weak trickle of watery disinfectant, he’s already soaked to the skin and aware this is going to be a pain in the neck.

Looking around routinely to see if any of the men are as young as him, Khalid glances briefly from one to the other. No one seems to be under the age of twenty.

Unless that man over there with his back to him is younger than he looks? Khalid tries not to stare. It’s bad enough he’s looking at all. Instead, he concentrates on washing his feet for a moment, but the smell of soap makes his nose tingle and he starts sneezing.

“Time’s up, 256,” someone shouts. But he’s only half washed. Why is he ordering him to get dressed when he’s covered in suds? The next man steps hurriedly under the trickle to take Khalid’s place. A man who requires not one but two guns on him. Why two, when everyone else has one?

Khalid glances at him: a tall man with a firm, quiet look. There’s nothing to mark him out from the crowd apart from a disfigured left hand with stunted fingers the size of a child’s. He’s standing proudly even though he’s naked, so Khalid reckons he’s someone important. The kind of bloke who holds his own in every situation, no matter what. His natural stance is dignified, almost regal, while Khalid knows his own is more like a beggar these days. Lost. Pathetic. Weedy.

Suddenly feeling worse, Khalid turns away embarrassed. Cross with himself for staring, even though he was only trying to work out why the man warranted two guns pointed at him. Maybe he’s a suicide bomber or a real terrorist? A leader of some crazy group? Whatever he is, he stands out from the crowd.

Without warning, instead of going back to the cells, they march Khalid with dried soapy skin to a new recreation area which is nothing but a large open cage in the middle of a concrete yard. A yard surrounded by razor wire, enclosed by wire fencing, open to blossomy clouds and smelling of rain. They undo the shackles and lock the wire door.

Khalid stares at the shimmering wet concrete space which is about twenty steps wide. He’s never been here before, although he’s been in the camp for, he thinks, about—how long is it? They brought him here autumn 2002, he knows that much. He was fifteen then. The festival of Eid came and went without any celebrations and Tony Blair joined Bush and went to war in Iraq. When was that? Ages ago. He was sixteen at some point, March 11, although he doesn’t know exactly when that was, because no one told him it was his birthday. And now, with Ramadan over, it’s nearly December, so he’s been here about a year. At this rate he’ll be an old man and in a coffin before he gets out. Before he can run and jump and yell and do all the stuff he used to do without anyone making a fuss.

The thought makes his heart sink.

He walks to the end of the fenced yard, testing out his new-found space, and the sun suddenly peeps out from behind a sparkling spider’s web criss-crossing the wire. The gray clouds part and a wide-open soft blue sky opens up. In that moment the vast space takes Khalid out of the yard and into the source of a bigger, deeper blue that’s more blue than anything he’s ever seen. So perfect a sight he can almost touch it.

A sudden whiff of wet grass lingers for a moment as Khalid imagines hours of walking round here, gazing at the light, and his heart skips a beat at the deep, sudden peace breathing fresh air gives him.

Two minutes later, the sound of padding footsteps breaks his trance. Khalid widens his eyes as the guards bring two men through the gate. Both are as surprised as Khalid to be here. Their shackles are undone and, smiling from ear to ear, the men gaze round the yard as if it’s a football stadium or something.

For a minute, Khalid’s annoyed. Why did they have to come? He was enjoying having the place to himself.

The guards lock them in and wander off to one side. Leaving the three of them staring at each other, all wondering if they’re allowed to talk or not. Unaware what the rules are and bewildered by the sudden freedom to move about as they like.

“
As-salaamu alaikum.
” The black guy speaks first.

“
Wa alaikum as-salaam
,” Khalid and the smaller man quickly answer.

Luckily, the first guy also speaks English.

“My name’s Ali Abaza. I come from Ghana but live in Saudi Arabia most of my life.”

“I’m British,” Khalid replies. “I’m sixteen.”

Ali widens his smile to show off a row of perfect sugar-white teeth. “Only sixteen?”

“Yeah, the name’s Khalid Ahmed.”

“Balendra Varshab,” the smaller guy butts in. “Bengal, Bengal.” Unable to understand a word of English, he nods while repeating his name and country until eventually Khalid turns away. Then Balendra walks a few steps to the end of the wire and lies down on his back. Arms behind his head, he does a few sit-ups. The sudden panting and thudding are an unwelcome addition to Ali and Khalid’s conversation as they pace the perimeter of the fence.

Eyes on the ground, talking non-stop, Ali quickly explains he’s twenty-seven and was working as a lawyer when they picked him up for questioning. Because he speaks four or five languages and has traveled in the West as well as the Middle East, he aroused their suspicions after 9/11. A devout Muslim, he was accused of helping fundamentalists and Islamists working on dirty bombs. Men they refused to name.

“How can I defend myself when I don’t know what I’m accused of? Tittle-tattle, gossip, lies, that is what has brought me here. If I told you what they did to me in Bagram you would weep.” Ali shakes his head with the same disbelief that Masud, the necklace-seller, had shown.

Khalid watches him choke back his anger, running his hands across his shaved head, back and forth as if it’s hurting.

“Are there other kids here?” Khalid says at last.

Ali thinks for a moment. “A young boy was on the same plane as mine from the camp in Bagram. He was no more than twelve years. Another one I saw being taken for interrogation in Saudi. He was also younger than you. At that time his mouth was bleeding. He had his hands over his eyes because his face was covered with bruises. All he did to deserve that was “pretend” to be sick when they played the American national anthem one morning. A guard told me that himself. And he said it turned out the boy was actually sick.” Ali sighs. “I studied hard for a better life. I had my eye on getting married. Now my life has changed forever.”

Khalid wants to tell him he’s not the only one. “Where are the 9/11 bombers, then?” he asks instead. “Someone here must be a terrorist. Where are they?”

“I wish I knew the answer to that. Let me tell you this, Khalid: I was researching an important subject which I know implicated me in some way. Learning about the many secret prisons all over the world. Guantanamo Bay is the famous one, but there are many more. They are everywhere. They employ torture as many have done throughout history to gather information and I will tell you, being a lawyer, this subject of human rights is the closest thing to my heart.”

From the corner of the compound, Balendra sits up suddenly. His forehead is dripping wet and he pats his head, then his heart to calm down, congratulating himself on so much exercise by muttering rapidly. The soapy smell of his sweat drifts towards them. Ali stands rigidly beside Khalid, staring into the distance. Staring out beyond the fence. Beyond the soldiers watching them from the whitewashed wall, past the concrete and rolls of barbed wire, beyond the sky of Cuba and the sea, to his large office on
the second floor of a small block in Saudi Arabia.

“My office is crammed with books of every kind. Books about King Solomon’s Temple, the Roman Empire, the Islamic court of Cordoba, the Torah, Greek theology, poetry, architecture, art,” Ali says.

Khalid imagines the huge room with books on the desk, on the chair, stacked everywhere on the floor. The sun peeps down on his silent shadow as Ali travels back there in his mind.

“The world learned about chivalry and brotherhood from Islam.” He pauses to make sure Khalid has heard this great truth. Only when Khalid nods, does Ali continue talking.

“A great tradition of learning was spread across Europe during the Dark Ages by Islam, which not only tolerated every other religion but allowed them to flourish. The major religions lived side by side under Islamic kindness. Remember this was at a time when Jews were being hounded to death by Christian Europe.”

Uplifted by Ali’s knowledge, Khalid’s heart begins pounding with fear. Fear they’re going to be interrupted at any moment, if not by Balendra then by the guards. One of whom stretches his shoulders, glancing at Ali, who’s deep in thought.

“At that time the Islamic court in Cordoba in Spain was packed with poets, artists, philosophers, mathematicians, while the rest of Europe, including the aristocracy, could barely read. They were too busy persecuting non-Christians,” Ali says.

“Cordoba, I’ve heard of that,” Khalid says quickly, to show Ali he’s not as stupid or as crazy as he looks.

“Islam is not a medieval culture, like they pretend in the West. Evidence of its sophistication can be found in every library in the world. And the basis of that well-documented sophistication is Islam’s tolerance of other religions and other cultures.”

“Yeah, but what about the war with Israel? The stonings, the beheadings and stuff?” Khalid asks. “The way women are treated? Forcing them to wear the hijab?”

“These things have nothing to do with the rich Islamic culture that still exists.” Ali frowns.

“Yeah, but how come it’s happening?” Khalid has to make the point, because he sometimes has a lot of trouble understanding this stuff himself.

“Let me tell you, for hundreds of years Muslims and Jews lived in peace. The Ottoman Empire was torn apart after the First World War, when it was divided between different countries. The imperialists drew lines on maps without thought to the people who had lived there for thousands of years. New states were formed, countries with new names like Iraq. Suddenly Kurds, Sunni and Shiite Muslims were made to live together where before they occupied different cities and had their own systems of government. Divide and rule, you have heard this term?”

“Yeah, yeah, my history teacher told us about that! Divide the people so they fight each other and then you can rule them when the country is in chaos. That’s what happened with the British Empire, wasn’t it?” Khalid says. Pleased he’s able to act as if his brain is still working in front of someone as clever as Ali.

“Yes, and many other empires. For eighty years politicians have divided the Muslim from his Jewish neighbor and brother. And now from his Christian brother. Unification and peace are the only things worth fighting for. Any act you commit with anger, hatred, aggression, unkindness in your heart that hurts another human being of whatever religion is not an act of tolerance—so cannot be considered. Not for any reason.”

“But the stonings and stuff are done by Muslims. Maybe they don’t feel any anger or unkindness when they’re doing it?” Khalid says.

“This behavior has been learned from history. Politics and culture must not be confused with religion. This issue is not a religious one. Let us not forget, Khalid, at this moment, as we speak, men and women in America are being sentenced to death. They are being killed day after day, year after year without end. These deaths are taking place because of their laws, in their country. Do you blame Christianity for this, or those who make the laws? Perhaps you blame the people? Or those who are paid to execute? Many think it is correct for these executions to happen. Why do they believe this?”

“It’s political, right. OK, then. Nah, I don’t believe in the death penalty for any crime.” Khalid’s mind spins from so much information and talk.

“Oxford and Cambridge universities in your country, England, were modeled on the Muslim seats of learning in Spain. Prejudice has worn us down, but we will rise again as the noble, peace-loving religion that we have been throughout time. We are not demons.”