Today I received a visit from the colonel. He was much shorter than I had expected.
What had I done to deserve such an honor?
The colonel informed me that tomorrow I would be moved to another camp, where I would not be allowed the provisions I’ve been permitted here. It all sounded very official, like it was really going to happen. (By “provisions,” I assume he meant my pen and paper.)
They have a saying here in No Man’s Land, something of a greeting between a higher official and one of his subordinates. It’s a call and response. “Honor bound!” the high official will say. “To defend freedom!” is the response given. Until now, I never gave it much thought. One hears it so often on the block that one forgets to listen. Only when the colonel greeted Win this morning did I start to contemplate the meaning of the phrase. Why now, all of a sudden? Why, it was the way the colonel said his lines, with the delivery of a powerful stage actor. He spoke to Win with such bravura, such authority—such grace!—that I thought he must have authored the words himself. “Honor bound, soldier!” said the colonel.
“To defend freedom, sir!” said Win.
Win saluted the colonel with a quick slice of the hand at a downward angle, swift, precise. The colonel returned the salute; then with a nod, he motioned Win at ease.
In a few days, my tribunal will begin. When I told the colonel that I would like for my confession to be submitted as evidence in my CSRT,1 he informed me that he would see to it, personally. “You have my word.”
“Scout’s honor?” I quipped.
“My word alone is enough. You will find that when I give my word, it produces results. Decisions are made; people move on my command. Lives are at stake—”
“Et cetera, et cetera,” I said.
“Why don’t you ask the private?” he said, nodding over at Win. “Private, what happens when I give my word?”
“Sir, decisions are made, sir,” said Win. “People move ASAP on your command, sir.”
“Why’s that, private?”
“Sir, lives are at stake, sir!”
“You see. There you have it,” said the colonel.
So far, none of my cohorts on the block have had their tribunals.
“It is quite a new process,” said the colonel. “But you shouldn’t worry yourself. The process is being perfected every day.”
“When will I meet my personal representative?” I asked. “The one that I was promised.”
“Any day now,” he said.
“Before my tribunal?” I asked.
“Oh absolutely. The process requires it.”
“And what if I choose to defend myself?”
“That, of course, is one of your options, but it is not encouraged. It may hold up the proceedings to have to explain everything to you and so forth. It could be very confusing for all parties. Your representative in this matter will inform you of all you need to know.”
“And what about my lawyer in New York?”
“What about him?”
“Why can’t he defend me?”
“I believe he needs to be cleared by the Pentagon first. Even so, this is a military tribunal—a proceeding of the United States military. Nonmilitary personnel are prohibited. It is a matter of national security, you understand.”
“Then I will defend myself,” I said.
Something in the motto for this godforsaken place has got me thinking about my captors. They are men who have dedicated themselves to what they believe to be a just cause, a righteous cause, a cause buried in a few simple words. I say buried, because breaking the phrase into a call and response, punctuated with “sir, yes sir,” confuses a fairly respectable ideology: “Honor bound to defend freedom.” I am beginning to see how these words could be applied to my own situation. Be free or die trying.
“I shall defend myself,” I repeated.
“That is your right. But again…it’s not encouraged.”
“Tell my personal representative not to bother coming.”
“I don’t think it will take. Your representative in this matter is essential so that you may better understand the process. Even if you were to choose to defend yourself, he would still need to be at the tribunal.”
“But you understand what I’m saying, colonel. I no longer wish to meet with him. I’m through waiting.”
The colonel didn’t move. He just stood there, hardened, looking me in the eyes.
“There’s a real shit storm brewing because of you,” he said.
“Come again?”
“A shit storm. That’s parlance for one fucked‑up situation. You’re back in the media again. Congratulations. A real Patty Hearst. America’s heart bleeds. But I won’t let you burn me. Mark my words. I’m a fair man, but I won’t be walked all over.”
“I don’t—”
“I know you don’t know what I’m talking about. But listen. Accept. To listen is divine—that’s what I tell my men. And my men listen, comply, act. Lives are at stake. I am not one to be humiliated, son. I run a secure facility housing the worst criminal masterminds of our time. This is a place of routine and discipline. Hitler would be here today. So would Mussolini, Stalin, Pol Pot, Ho Chi Minh. Bin Laden himself will be here very soon. Wait and see. We’ll get him. This will blow over. I don’t mean the war, but this media shit storm we’re about to enter together. It will not be remembered. With the right actions anything can be extracted from hearts and minds. Suppressed then forgotten. Mark my words. Whatever happens, mark my words.”
The colonel turned swiftly and he was gone. Win came to attention and saluted an empty corridor.
1. Combatant Status Review Tribunal.