Sami Alhaj is a journalist. As a journalist, Sami always knew that he would be exposing himself to danger as he worked to deliver truth to his viewers, as journalism is one of the most dangerous occupations around the world today. But for over six years, Sami found himself a symbol of all that is wrong with the US “war on terror” and the camp of horrors they set up to support it. Sami was arrested by Pakistani authorities on false charges in early 2001, then transferred to US custody. He spent over six years in the American prison camp in Guantánamo, Cuba, before he was finally released and charges dropped. This is Sami’s story, told in his own words, in an act of generosity as he shares his pain with us. The story is told at his own pace, as the memories of those years in Guantánamo came flooding back to him after he returned to Al Jazeera in Doha. “To have a brilliant and courageous journalist for a client in Guantánamo Bay was all I could have wished for. Sami’s work from inside the belly of the beast, revealing dark truths the US military would rather have kept well hidden, and contributed more to a true understanding of that dreadful place than anything else in the last 15 years. It is well past time that his story should be told at full length.” Clive Stafford Smith, Sami’s lawyer 1 Some years ago, a female US soldier who guarded us at Guantánamo got in touch with me. This is what she said: "You can inform the brothers that their strength has inspired me to accept Islam. May Allah protect you and guide you along the righteous path." 2 PREFACE By the time I started writing this book, I was no stranger to sitting alone with my thoughts … I had spent countless hours doing just that in my cell in Guantánamo. What I didn’t know during my six years of incarceration was that I wasn’t alone; my employers, Al Jazeera, were bringing up my name and my trial on a daily basis. They broadcast a message that resonated around the world: “Release Sami Alhaj.” My name scrolled across the channel’s TV news ticker, engaging viewers with my plight. I am truly grateful to, and proud of, this organisation, which treated me like a son throughout my trial and brought my case to the world’s attention. They spurred on institutions and NGOs working on human rights issues in all four corners of the earth. They turned news coverage into an international onslaught. There are some I would like to thank by name. First and foremost is my wife, Umm Mohammad, who worked tirelessly for my release and always believed I would return to my family. At Al Jazeera, I would like to thank Wadah Khanfar, former director general of the organisation, who was waiting for me when I arrived in Khartoum airport after my release, having cancelled all commitments to be there. I’d like to thank Dr Fawzi O Sediq who coordinated with Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International and other civil society organisations. In Sudan, Dr Hassan Saeed al-Mujammar from the Civil Aid Organisation was tireless in his support and advocacy. 3 The International Office of Humanitarian and Charitable Organisations (IOHCO) in France also advocated on my behalf, Dr Haytham and Anna, who visited Guantánamo herself and made sure the administration there pulled my file back out of oblivion. Alkarama, a human rights organisation in Switzerland, also advocated on my behalf, particularly Dr Rachid Mesli, the legal director. In Kuwait, Dr Adel Jassim al-Damakhi, head of the Kuwaiti Association for the Basic Elements of Human Rights at the time, campaigned on my behalf. Thanks are also due to Khalid al-Anasi, executive director for the National Organization for Defending Rights and Freedoms (HOOD) in Yemen, and Asim Qureshi, head of CAGE in London. I also want to thank Al Jazeera’s lawyers, the Sudanese Lawyers Union and the human rights NGOs who worked tirelessly to free me. Also, I’d like to thank those who massed in a silent rally in front of the American embassy in Khartoum for believing in me and my innocence. To the Sudanese activists, parliamentarians, organisations, the Worldwide Body for Development in the South, the Khartoum Centre for Human Rights and Environmental Development, the Sudanese Observatory for Human Rights, the Hope Centre, and the Development Initiatives for Women and Children organisation, to all of you, thank you. Everyone who stood by my side buoyed my faith in humanity and justice, and in the work I was doing as a journalist, work I had always been reverent of. I am indebted to all who worked on my behalf and believed in the justice of my cause. With every beat of my heart, streams of gratitude flow towards Al Jazeera, who remained a compassionate and persistently approachable father. My gratitude extends to the organisations that took up the work of the mother, 4 and to all who worked on my behalf around the world and have become my brothers and sisters. To you all, I dedicate my memoirs, an attempt to put down in words what I went through during six years in the world’s most inhumane prison camp. Taken without cause and held with no justification, I remained there, bewildered and in agony until my jailers saw fit to release me. Forgive my jumble of memories, thoughts and emotions as I tried to unburden myself to you and describe the depths of depravity and humiliation in which we were mired. Through the telling of this story, I have gained insight, peace and strength, releasing the turbulence in my soul as the words poured out on paper. Now, I am at peace, stronger than I was before, more tolerant, more a friend and companion in the silence of this gentle Arabian night in the city that I love: Doha. 5 THE NIGHT BIRD I sit alone in the darkness of night, listening to the sound of my breath and the beating of my heart, a soft breeze bearing light warmth towards me. The shushing waves of the nearby Arabian Gulf reach my ears as I recall the strongholds of a different gulf, a strange gulf. A night bird lands near me, singing faintly, as if beseeching an absent mate. I can’t tell what kind of bird it is and try to make out its body in the night, but the sadness of its song sweeps me back into my thoughts; to an hour and place very much unlike this. Guantánamo. Guantánamo is my story; I am prisoner number 345. Guantánamo is my story and the story of over 800 prisoners. Most of us survived our time there, in some ways our experience was similar, and in other ways, it was very different. I remember days of pain and torture at the hands of hard-hearted, stone-faced men and women. They robbed me of the best days, months and years of my life without the least remorse. But, I defeated them. I defeated them with my resolve, taken from Allah Himself, who is with us wherever we are, in the darkest of nights and longest of days. He is the Lord who inspired me to bear my suffering, till the demands of my body withdrew under the reins of my spirit. A powerful emotion filled me, that steadfastness of mind and self, showed me that inside each of us is massive strength that lies dormant until needed, then ignites and rages, devouring all inhibitions and eliminating every challenging wind. This spark was triggered the day I began my journey into bodily hunger and spiritual fullness. I thought deeply before putting my life on the line, then I decided. 6 I would go on hunger strike. I would protest my unfair imprisonment and make my strength, grown from the calm Allah had put in my heart, known to my cruel jailers,. In those dark days, I called on the example set by the heroes of Islam. Bilal ibn Rabah who endured the boulder rolled onto his chest in the desert of Mecca. I could see him in my mind, lying under the boulder, defiantly repeating his faith in Allah: “The One! The One!” I saw Mus’ab ibn Umayr, holding the flag in his left hand after they cut off his right, then with his upper arm after they cut off his left hand. I recalled the heroism of Khalid ibn al-Walid whose body was so covered in cuts and wounds from swords and arrows that there wasn’t an inch of clear skin. I saw them in my mind’s eye, and I held on to them for strength. Don’t depart, my mind. As I sit in the Doha night, I remember the barbed wire, the clatter of weapons, dogs howling, the blood red of our clothes. Sounds of pain resonate in my ears, the pain of that place. The place where my gaolers put me in solitary confinement, stripping me bare and throwing me into a cramped, freezing cell. I recall how, on that day when I was thrown into solitary, as I sat there shaking and trembling, I heard a voice from the cell on my right, entreating in a tone filled with endurance: “The One! The One!” In a few moments, the voice of another prisoner came from the cell to my left: “Sami! Make Bilal on your right shut up so that I can deal with the cold.” And I smiled.