Guantanamo

I’m trying to imagine a farmer in Afghanistan. I’m trying to imagine his life as he works in his poppy fields, as he offers his prayers five times daily, as he sits together in the evening with other village folk and as he plays with his son before going to bed.

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The farmer is now in a cell in Guantanamo. He is lying on the floor, wrapped in an Israeli flag while his interrogator stamps The Koran with his feet. He has been subjected to loud noise – cats meowing, infants wailing – which has deprived him of sleep for many days. Once, a female interrogator tried to seduce him, offering sex in exchange for information. On another occasion he was stripped, told to bark like a dog and pick up piles of trash. There have been weeks when he has been denied toilet paper and water for washing himself – weeks he has ended up defecating on himself.

I close The New Yorker. What comes back to my mind is a quote from the article: “If you don’t have a terrorist now, you will by the time he leaves.”