A Wedding and a Party… I Turn Myself In… Release from Custody… The Camel Rests in Two Steps… The Secret Police Show Up at My House… “Independence Day”… A Flight to Jordan
September 29, 2001, was a very busy day: for one, I was involved in organizing the wedding of my lovely niece Zeinebou Mint Elmamy, and for two, I was invited to attend a big dinner organized by a very important man in my tribe named Ahmed Ould El Moctar Ould Khattary. This man had unluckily been involved in a terrible car accident, and had recently come back after spending some time in the U.S. for medical treatment. Ould Khattary enjoys a high respect among the people from the South, and the dinner was to aid what we call The Cadres of Trarza.*
In the morning I asked my boss to give me some money to help my sister with the wedding.* In Mauritania we have the bad habit of organizing everything on the whim, a heritage of rural life that all Mauritanians still deal with today. My job was to help transport the invited guests to the site where the wedding was taking place.
Weddings in the Islamic, Arabic world are not only different from one country to another, but within the same country there are all kinds of different customs. My niece’s wedding followed the customs that are practiced by average prestigious families in southern Mauritania.
Most of the work is usually done by the guy. He investigates the would-be wife’s background by unleashing the female relatives he trusts the most. The report of this “committee” will produce an assessment of the technical data of the girl, her attitude, her intellect, and the like; sometimes this investigation step can be skipped when the girl already has a good reputation.
The next step is dating, though that is different than the American model. The interested guy dates his would-be wife in her family’s house, usually in the presence of other family members. The goal of these dates is for both to get to know each other. The dating can take between a couple of months and a couple of years, depending on the man and the girl. Some girls don’t want to start a family before graduating from school, and some do—or let’s say family pressure and the man compel her to start the family right away. On the other hand, most guys aren’t ready for marriage; they just want to “reserve” the girl and go about their business until they are financially ready. The groom is usually older than the bride, sometimes even much older, but in a few cases the bride happens to be older, and sometimes much older. Mauritanians are relatively tolerant when it comes to age differences.
Before the guy officially asks for the hand of the girl, he secretly sends a good friend to the girl to ask her whether she might consider him. When that is established, the decisive step comes next: the guy asks the girl’s mom whether she would accept him as the husband of her daughter. Guys only ask for the hand of a girl if they know they will more than likely be accepted, so sometimes the guy sends a trusted third person in order to avoid the embarrassment of being turned down. Only the mother of the girl can decide; most fathers have little say.
This step, though not official, is binding for both. Everybody now knows that the couple is engaged. Premarital sex is not tolerated in Mauritania, and not only for religious reasons: many guys mistrust any girl who accepts having sex with them. They assume, if she accepts having sex with me, she would accept another man, and another man, in an endless sexual adventure. Although the Islamic religion treats males and females the same way in this regard, the society tends to accept premarital sex from men much more than women. You can compare it with cheating in the U.S.: the society tolerates it more if a man cheats than if a woman does. I never met an American man who would forgive cheating, but I did meet many American women who would.
There is no party or engagement ring, but the fiancé is now entitled to give his wife-to-be presents. Before the engagement, a lady would not accept presents from a stranger.
The last step is the actual wedding, the date of which is set by agreement of both; each party can take as much as time as he or she needs, as long as it is reasonable. The man is expected to produce a dowry as a necessary formality, but it is not appropriate for the girl’s family to ask for any sum; the whole thing must be left to the man and his financial possibilities. So dowries vary from a very modest to a relatively sinfully high amount. Once the man produces whatever his possibilities and judgment allow, many families will only take a small, symbolic amount and send the rest to the man’s family, at least half of the dowry.
The wedding party traditionally takes place in the girl’s family house, but lately some people have found a lucrative business in professionally organizing weddings in club-like houses. The party begins with the Akd, the marriage agreement, which can be performed by any Imam or respected Sheikh. Mauritanians don’t believe in governmental formalities, and so hardly anybody declares his marriage at a government institution unless it is for financial advantages, which rarely exist.
The wedding party equally drains both the groom’s and bride’s family. Traditionally, Mauritanians would party for seven full days, but the punishments of modern life cut those seven days back to one single night. Only the friends of the groom from his generation are allowed to attend the wedding, unlike women, who can be all different ages. At the party women don’t mingle directly with men, though they can be in the same hall; each sex respects the spot of the other. However, all the attendants talk to each other and enjoy the same entertainment that takes place in the middle of the hall, such as sketches, music, and poetry. When I was a child, women and men used to pass coded messages back and forth targeting a particular individual who certainly understood the message; the messages usually unfolded a funny situation that could happen to anybody and that is somewhat embarrassing. The person’s friends would laugh at him or her, and he or she would have to fight back targeting the anonymous person who sent the message. People don’t do this teasing entertainment anymore.
During the wedding food and drinks are generously served. The party traditionally closes with what they call the Taweez-Pillage, which doesn’t have anything to do with the literal meaning of the words. It just describes the plot by the women to kidnap the bride, and the brothers’ efforts to prevent the act. The bride’s female friends are allowed to conspire and kidnap the bride and hide her; it is the job of the groom and his friends to prevent this event, and should the men fail in preventing the abduction, it is their duty to find the bride and deliver her to her husband. The bride must cooperate with her female friends, and she usually does, otherwise she’ll be branded with all kinds of bad adjectives. It sometimes takes many days for the males to find the bride.
When the man succeeds in getting the bride the party is over, and the bride is given to the groom. Both get escorted by their closest friends in a long rally leading to the house of the new family, while the rest of the attendants retreat to their own homes.
The wedding of my beloved niece Zeinebou Mint Elmamy would have gone more or less like this. I wasn’t supposed to attend the party because I was way older than the groom, and in any case I didn’t have time. I had another interesting party waiting on me. When I finished delivering the guests I checked with my mom on the situation. Everything seemed to be alright; my services no longer were required as far as I could see. The atmosphere of wedding was clearly going to take over.
When I got to the party, which was in the beautiful villa of Ahmed Ould El Moctar Ould Khattary in Tevrlegh Zeina, the warmth of companionship hit me gracefully. I didn’t know the majority of the guests, but I spotted my beloved cousin and dear friend Dr. Ibrahim Ould N’taghri drowned in the middle of the crowd. I right away fought through the crowd and sat beside him.
He was happy to see me, and introduced me to the most remarkable guests. We retreated to the margin of the party with a few of his friends, and Ibrahim introduced me to a friend of his, a young lawyer. The lawyer asked Ibrahim and me whether he could defend our cousin Mahfouz, who now was wanted by the U.S. authorities with a $25 million reward.*
“What are you going to do for him? Reduce his sentence from 500 to 400 years?” I asked wryly. People in the other parts of the free world like Europe have problems understanding the draconian punishments in the U.S. Mauritania is not a country of law, so we don’t have a problem understanding whatever the government does; even so, the Mauritanian legal code, when it is followed, is much more humane than the American. Why sentence somebody to 300 years when he is not going to live that long?
We were just talking like that, and enjoying the food that was generously served, when my cell phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket and stepped aside. The display read the phone number of the DSE, the Directeur de la Sûreté de l’État.
“Hi,” I answered.
“Mohamedou, where are you?” he said.
“Don’t worry! Where are you?”
“I’m outside of my front door! I’d like to see you.”
“Fine. Just hold on, I’m on my way!” I said. I took my cousin Ibrahim aside.
“Look, Deddahi called me, and I’m going to see him.”
“As soon as he releases you, give me a buzz.”
“Alright,” I said.
The DSE was waiting in front of his house, but he was not alone: his assistant stood beside him, which was not a good sign.
“Salam Alaikum,” I said, stepping outside my car.
“Waalaikum Assalam. You’re gonna ride with me, and somebody else is going to drive your car.”
“Fine.” The Inspector and I rode with the DSE and headed toward the secret, well-known jail.
“Look, those people told us to arrest you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but I hope you’ll be free soon. This whole 9/11 attack thing is screwing up everybody.” I didn’t say a thing. I just let him and his assistant make small talk, to which I paid no attention. The DSE had already called and interrogated me twice in the two and a half weeks since the 9/11 attack, but obviously the American government was not satisfied with a yard; they wanted a mile at first, and then the whole Autobahn, as it turned out in the end.
They put me in the same room I had been in one and a half years ago. The Inspector went out to brief the guards, which gave me the opportunity to give a quick call to my cousin Ibrahim.
“I’m arrested,” I whispered, and hung up without even waiting on his answer. Then I erased my whole phone book. Not that I had any hot numbers—all I had were some numbers of business partners in Mauritania and Germany—but I didn’t want the U.S. government harassing those peaceful people just because I had their numbers in my phone. The funniest record I deleted read “PC Laden,” which means computer store; the word for “store” in German just happens to be “Laden.” I knew no matter how hard I would have tried to explain that, the U.S. interrogators would not have believed me. For Pete’s sake, they always tried to pin things on me that I had nothing to do with!
“Give me your cell phone,” the Inspector said when he returned. Among the belongings the Americans took back home with them later was that old, funny looking cell phone, but there were no numbers to check. As to my arrest, it was sort of like political drug-dealing: the FBI asked the U.S. president to intervene and have me arrested; in turn George W. Bush asked the vanishing Mauritanian president for a favor; on receiving the U.S. president’s request, his Mauritanian colleague moved his police forces to arrest me.
“I really have no questions for you, because I know your case,” the DSE said. Both the DSE and his assistant left, leaving me with the guards and oodles of mosquitoes.
After several days in the prison, the DSE came to my cell.
“Look! Those people want to know about Mehdi and Ganczarski, and they said you were a part of Millennium Plot.”
“Well, Mehdi and Ganczarski are my friends in Germany, and as to the Millennium Plot, I had nothing to do with it.”
“I’ll give you a pen and paper, and you write whatever you know.”
After two weeks of incarceration in the Mauritanian prison, two white U.S. interrogators, Mr. Lee and his German interpreter, Mr. Grant, came to the jail late one afternoon to interrogate me.*
Before the two-man U.S. team met me, they asked the police to storm my house and office and confiscate anything that could give leads to my “criminal” activities. A special security team took me home, searched my house, and seized everything they thought might be relevant for the Americans. When the team arrived my wife was asleep, and they scared the hell out of her: she had never seen police searching somebody’s house. Neither had I, for that matter, but I had no problem with the search except that it bothered my family. My neighbors didn’t care much, first because they know me, and second because they know that the Mauritanian police are unjust. In a separate operation, another team searched the company where I worked. As it turned out, the Americans were not interested in any of the garbage except my work computer and the cellphone.
When I entered the interrogation room, the two Americans were sitting on the leather sofa, looking extremely angry. They must have been FBI, because the stuff they confiscated ended up in FBI’s hands back in the States.
“Hi,” I said, reaching out my hand. But both my hand and my “Hi” remained hanging in the air. Agent Lee seemed to be the leader. He pushed an old metal chair toward me.
“Do you see the picture on the wall?” Agent Lee said, pointing at the President’s picture, with Agent Grant translating into German.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Your president promised our president that you are going to cooperate with us,” Agent Lee said. I thought, How cheap! I personally don’t give a damn about either president; to me both are unjust and evil.
“Oh, yes! I surely will,” I said, reaching for a drink on a table filled with all kinds of drinks and sweets. Agent Lee jerked the drink out of my hand.
“We are not here for a party,” he said. “Look, I am here to find the truth about you. I’m not here to detain you.”
“OK! You ask and I’ll answer.”
In the midst of this discourse, the tea guy surged into the room, trying to accommodate his angry guests. “Fuck off!” said Agent Lee. He was very disrespectful toward poor people, an idiot, and a racist who had one of the lowest self-esteems in the world. For my part, I ignored all the curses he addressed me with and just stayed cool, though very thirsty, because the session lasted the whole night.
“Before 9/11 you called your younger brother in Germany and told him, ‘Concentrate on your school.’ What did you mean with this code?”
“I didn’t use any code. I always advise my brother to concentrate on his school.”
“Why did you call a satellite company in the U.S.?”
“Because we have our Internet connection from the U.S., and I needed support.”
“Why did you call this hotel in Germany?”
“My boss asked me to make a reservation for one of his cousins.”
“How many computers do you have?”
“Only my work computer.”
“You’re lying! You have a laptop.”
“That’s my ex-wife’s.”
“Where is your ex-wife living?”
“The DSE knows.”
“OK, let’s check this lie out.” Agent Lee disappeared for several minutes, asking the DSE to search my ex-wife’s house and seize the laptop.
“What if you’re lying?”
“I am not.”
“I’m not.”
Of course he threatened me with all kinds of painful torture should it turn out I was lying. “You know we have some black motherfuckers who have no mercy on terrorists like you,” he said, and as he proceeded, racial references kept flying out of his mouth. “I myself hate the Jews”—I didn’t comment—“but you guys come and hit our building with planes,” he continued.
“That’s between you and the people who did it. You must resolve your problem with them; I have nothing to do with it.”
Every once in a while Agent Lee received a call, obviously from a lady. During that time the other German-speaking idiot came up with the most stupid questions.
“Check this out. This is a German newspaper writing about you guys,” he said. I scanned a newspaper article about the extremist presence in Germany.
“Well, Mr. Grant, that’s none of my problem. As you can see, I’m in Mauritania.”
“Where is Abu Hafs? Where is Noumane?”Agent Lee asked angrily.*
“I am not in Afghanistan, I’m in Mauritania—in prison. How can I possibly know their whereabouts?”
“You’re hiding him,” he said. I was going to say, “Check up my sleeves,” but I realized my situation didn’t allow it.
“Ahmed Ressam said that he knew you!”
“I don’t know Ahmed Ressam. There is nothing to change about that fact.” In the meantime, the DSE and his assistant came back with my ex-wife’s laptop. They weren’t allowed into the interrogation room; they knocked at the door and Agent Lee stepped outside. I looked with the side of my eyes and recognized the laptop bag. I was happy that they found the “big secret.”
Agent Lee returned. “What if I told you that they didn’t find the laptop,” he said, trying to be smarter than he is.
“All I can tell you is that I have no laptop,” I said, letting him believe that I hadn’t seen the case. He didn’t ask anymore about the laptop after that. They mirrored all the hard disks and took them home, just to waste four years popping their eyes out of their heads looking for non-existent treasure. Tough luck!
“We have invaded Afghanistan and are killing everybody. Do you think that’s OK?” Agent Lee asked.
“You know best what you’re doing,” I said.
“Do you know Hauoari?”*
“No!”
“The Canadians said that they saw him with you. Either I am lying to you or they lied to me—or you’re lying.”
“I don’t know him, but in the mosque, and in the café beneath it, I was always around many people I don’t know.”
“Why do you think we picked you up out of more than two million Mauritanians?”
“I don’t know why. All I know is I haven’t done anything against you.”
“Write your name in Arabic.” I wrote my name. For some reason, he kept taking pictures during the session. He really confused the hell out of me.
“Why did you call the UAE?”
“I didn’t.”
“So you think I am lying to you?”
“No, but I don’t remember calling the UAE.” As it turned out he did lie, but maybe unintentionally. I didn’t call the UAE, but I did receive a call from a female friend of mine, Dr. Eeman from Saudi Arabia, who tried desperately to bring me and my ex-wife back together. I couldn’t remember this during the session, I was so nervous. But when I was released, my family helped me remember, so I went to the police on my own and explained the call to them, and another call my cousin Ibrahim, who is a radiologist, made to France to contact his medicine supplier in Paris. In real life, if I give my phone to somebody I trust, I don’t ask him about the details of his call. But if you get arrested, you have to lay out your whole life, and something like “I don’t remember” doesn’t work.
During the session, Agent Lee called my family and me all kind of names, and forbade me to drink from the goods that my people paid for—it was, after all, our taxes that made the U.S. guests comfortable. At the end of the session, when I was about to dehydrate, Agent Lee hit me in the face with 1.5-liter water bottle and left the room. I didn’t even feel the pain from a blow that almost broke my nose because of the relief of Agent Lee and his translator leaving. Agent Lee didn’t write anything, which struck me as strange because interrogators always want to write, but I believe that they recorded the session. Mr. Grant tried his best to repeat the curses that Agent Lee was generously producing. I think that Mr. Grant was worthless to Mr. Lee; he just brought him along as a translator.
The Americans left Mauritania, and the next day, the Mauritanian government released me without any charges. Furthermore, the DSE went to the Media Center and informed them that I was innocent and acquitted of every charge. The DSE’s boss, the Directeur Général de la Sûreté Nationale,* offered me a loan in case I had any problems getting back to my job, and at the same time, the DSE called the President and Director General of my company and assured him that I am innocent and must resume my work.*
“We never doubted him for a second. He is welcome any time,” my former boss answered. Still, the government was ordered by the U.S. to keep me under house arrest with no reason besides injustice and the misuse of power. I wasn’t worried about getting a job after jail because I knew that Mauritanians were growing tired of Americans jumping on innocent people all around the world and trying to incriminate them. In fact, I got more job opportunities than I ever had in my life. My only worry was for my sister Nejah, who was suffering from depression and anxiety. My family of course was very happy to have me back, and so were my friends and relatives who kept coming to greet me and wish me good luck.
But the camel, as they say, rests in two steps.
Legend has it that an urban dweller rode a camel with a Bedouin. The Bedouin sat in front of the hump, and the urban dweller behind it so he could steady himself by grabbing the Bedouin. When they arrived home, the camel bent his front legs to come to rest, and the Bedouin, caught off guard, lost his equilibrium and fell to the ground. The urban dweller couldn’t help laughing at the Bedouin.
The Bedouin looked at his friend and said, “Too soon to be happy: the camel rests in two steps.” And indeed, as soon as the camel bent his rear legs to come to his final rest, the urban dweller fell on his face.
As far as I can remember, I never fell off a camel; however, as soon as I resumed my life, the U.S. government started conspiring with the Mauritanian government to kidnap me.
It was around 4 p.m. when I got back from work about a month later. It had been a long day, hot, and humid: one of those days. The Islamic calendar read Ramadan 4th, and so far everybody in the family was fasting except for the kids.*
It had been a remarkable workday. My company sent me to assess a relatively big project for our small company: we had been asked to give an estimate to network the Presidential Palace for both computers and telephones. I had made an appointment with the project coordinator for early that morning, and waiting outside his office was the order of the first half of the day. There are two things all government officials have in common: they don’t respect appointments, and they never start work on time.
During Ramadan, most people party nights and sleep days. I hadn’t partied last night, but I had stayed up late for another reason: namely I had a little familial fight with my beloved wife. I hate fights, and so I was depressed and couldn’t sleep the whole night. As drowsy and sleepy as I was, I still managed to be on the site of my rendezvous, though not punctually, with time enough to beat the coordinator by hours. His office was closed, and there was no free chair in the corridor, and so I had to put up with squatting on the floor with my back to the wall. I fell asleep many times.
Around noon my colleague and cousin Ould Khattary showed up and took me to the Presidential Palace. I thought there would be a lot of formalities, especially for a “terrorist suspect” such as myself, but nothing like that happened. You had to give your name the day before, and when I showed the guards my ID they verified the visitors’ list, where my name appeared with the appropriate clearance. I was shocked. But after all, only the Americans suspect me of terrorism, no other country. The irony is that I have never been in the States, and all the other countries I have been in kept saying, “The guy is alright.”
As soon as I entered the sanctuary of the palace, I felt as if I were in another country. There was a garden inside with all kinds of flowers. Water fountains created a light drizzle. The weather was just cool and fine.
We went right to business. I went through many rooms on different floors and took some measurements, but we were stopped and advised to leave the actual palace because there was an official visit. We could stay inside the compound, and so I used that time and went to the palace’s central telephone exchange to check on the infrastructure. The IT guy was the cousin of the president, and as friendly as most people from Atar. He was more of a security choice; the president trusts his own people most, which makes perfect sense. I felt depressed because the whole project needed much more work than what it said in the papers, and I needed help, professional help. I didn’t want to mess around with the Presidential Palace. I would rather retreat completely than start selling them made-in-Timbuktu hi-tech equipment.
The IT guy showed us the things we needed to see and disappeared to his guests. It was late, and the project coordinator asked for another appointment to finish the measurement work and the assessment of the needed infrastructure. My cousin Ould Khattary and I left with the intention of coming back tomorrow and finishing the work. By the time we left the gate, I was already tired, and like, Get me the hell outta here. I made a call to my boss and briefed him, and I even went to the office after that and told my colleagues what happened.
On the way home, my cousin Hussein Ould Ndjoubnane called me to make sure that I would be at dinner in his house. Hussein is a government employee who studied administration and joined our bureaucracy, working his way up to the position of a Prefect. He is also an old friend of the family; I knew him and played cards with him when I was a child. Today Hussein was organizing a big dinner for his friends, including my brother, who was on vacation with us from Germany, and me. Right when Hussein called, my car had a breakdown. I hated it when my As-Old-As-My-Grandpa car did that.
“Do you need me to come to you?” Hussein asked.
“No, I can see a garage not far from me. I’m sure they’ll help me.”
“Don’t forget our Dinner Party, and remind Seyloum!” he said.*
A mechanic from the garage found that the benzene pipe to the carburetor was broken, and fixed it. In Mauritania people fix everything; in Germany, people replace everything. The mechanic wanted me to pay him more than I thought he ought to be paid, and so I did the thing I hate the most, negotiation, and paid him the amount we agreed on. One thing I like about Germany is that you don’t need to negotiate; everything is labeled with a price. You could be mute and nonetheless be treated justly. The thing about negotiation is that most of the time somebody is going to be disadvantaged. Personally, I just want a fair price for both parties that makes each party happy.
When I arrived at my mom’s home around 4 p.m., only my aunt Khadijettou, Nen as we call her, and my sister Nejah were there, and both were asleep. My mom had gone outside to gather her scattered sheep; it was feeding time. I went inside the house and put on my bathrobe. On my way to the shower, my mom and two secret police guys surged almost simultaneously into the house.
“Salahi, the Director General wants to see you!”
“Why?”
“We don’t know,” said one of the guys.
“OK. I’m going to take a shower and change my clothes.”
“OK!” said the guy, stepping out. “We’re gonna wait on you outside.” The secret police respected me highly since I turned myself in a couple of weeks ago; they knew I am not a person who flees. I had basically been under house arrest since 2000 but I could have fled the country anytime; I didn’t, and didn’t have any reason to. I took my shower and changed. In the meantime my aunt woke up because of the noise. My sister didn’t wake up, as far as I remember, and that was good, because I was only worried about her and the extreme depression she had been suffering.
“I think the police called you because you bought a new TV, and they don’t want you to watch TV. Don’t you think?” said my mom innocently.
I smiled and said, “I don’t think so, but everything is going to be alright.” My mom was referring to the new satellite antenna I installed the night before to have better TV reception. The irony is that the arresting agent, Agent Yacoub, was the one who helped me install the antenna. When I was in prison the month before, he had asked me to find a job for him because the police paid him miserably. I promised him I would, and in the meantime, I wanted to offer him an opportunity to do some work for me, so I called him to help fix my antenna, and paid him adequately. That was the only way for a man like him to survive. I helped him get some work, and we were sipping tea and joking in my house.
“I didn’t bring you to my house to arrest me,” I said jokingly.
“I hope you will never be arrested,” Agent Yacoub said.
My mom’s house is next to my brother’s, with a short wall that separates them. I could simply have jumped to my brother’s house, and escaped through his door that opens to a completely other street, and guess what? There would be no finding me, not only because so many people would shelter me, but also because the police agents would not have been interested in finding me. I even believe that the government would have been much happier saying to the U.S., “He fled, we couldn’t find him.”
You should know, Dear Reader, that a country turning over its own citizens is not an easy deal. The President wished he hadn’t had to turn me over. I wonder why? After all it cost him his office afterward. I understand that if the U.S. captures me in Afghanistan and takes me to GTMO for whatever reason, my government cannot be blamed because I chose to go to Afghanistan. But kidnapping me from my house in my country and giving me to the U.S., breaking the constitution of Mauritania and the customary International Laws and treaties, that is not OK. Mauritania should have asked the U.S. to provide evidence that incriminates me, which they couldn’t, because they had none. But even if the U.S. did so, Mauritania should try me according to the criminal code in Mauritania, exactly as Germany does with its citizens who are suspected of being involved in 9/11. On the other hand, if the U.S. says, “We have no evidence,” then the Mauritanian response should be something like, “Fu*k you!” But no, things don’t work this way. Don’t get me wrong, though: I don’t blame the U.S. as much as I do my own government.
The secret police agents obviously wanted me to flee, especially Agent Yacoub. But I wanted to keep it real—not to mention that the government itself assured my family that I had done nothing, and so my family always wanted to me to go to the police whenever they asked to see me. The funny thing about “Secret Police” in Arab countries is that they are more known to the commoners than the regular police forces. I think the authorities in Arabic countries should think about a new nomenclature, something like “The Most Obvious Police.”
There were four of them when I stepped outside the door with my mom and my aunt. My mom kept her composure, and started to pray using her fingers. As to my aunt, that was her first time seeing somebody taken by the police, and so she got crippled and couldn’t say a word. She started to sweat heavily and mumbled some prayers. Both kept their eyes staring at me. It is the taste of helplessness, when you see your beloved fading away like a dream and you cannot help him. And same for me: I would watch both my mom and my aunt praying in my rearview mirror until we took the first turn and I saw my beloved ones disappear.
“Take your car, we hope you can come back home today,” one of the guys had instructed me. “The DG might just ask you some questions.” Agent Yacoub occupied my passenger seat, as sad as he could be.
“Salahi, I wish I were not part of this shit,” he said. I didn’t respond. I kept following the police car that was heading toward the secret, well-known jail. I had been incarcerated a couple times in the same illegal prison, and knowing it didn’t make me like it. I hated the compound, I hated the dark, dirty room, I hated the filthy bathroom, and I hated everything about it, especially the constant state of terror and fear.
“Earlier today the Inspector was looking for you. You know the DSE is on a trip in Spain. The Inspector asked us who has your phone number. But I didn’t say anything, even though I have it,” said Agent Yacoub, trying to make himself feel better. The only other guy who had my phone number was the DSE, and obviously he didn’t give it to anybody.
So here we are, at the gate of the resented prison. Inspector Ismael was in his office, looking at me with his dishonest smile, which he quickly changed into a frown.
“We didn’t have your phone number. The director is on a trip. He’s coming in three days, and meanwhile we are going to hold you in contempt.”
“Why? I’m really growing tired of being arrested for no reason. What do you want from me now? You’ve just released me,” I said, frustrated and angry, especially since the guy who knows my case was not in the country.
“Why are you so scared? I never knew you like that,” the inspector said.
“Look, you arrested me after 9/11, and the U.S. interrogators came here and interrogated me. After that you, when you realized that I’m innocent, you released me. I sort of understand the mass arrest after 9/11, but this arrest right now is not OK.”
“Everything is gonna be alright. Give me your cell phone,” the inspector lied, smiling his usual forced smile. The police inspector had about as much clue as I did about the goal of my arrest because the government wouldn’t have shared anything with him. I don’t think that the Mauritanian government had reached a resolution on my case; the main guy, DSE Deddahi, was on a trip, and without him a decision could hardly be made. What the inspector and I both knew back then was that the U.S. asked Mauritania’s then-president to hold me; the Mauritanian president asked his Directeur Général de la Sûreté Nationale—who is now the president—to arrest me; and he in his turn ordered his people, led by the inspector, to hold me in contempt.*
However, I think that the U.S. wasn’t making a secret of its wish, namely to have me in Jordan, and so at the point of my arrest on November 20, 2001, two people knew the plan: the Mauritanian president and his DG. But since the U.S. was asking so much from its ally, the Mauritanian government needed some time to digest and confer. Turning me over to Jordan involved some serious things. The Mauritanian constitution would have to be broken. The Mauritanian President was hanging onto his office by a spider’s thread, and any trouble would shake him heavily. The U.S. hadn’t asked the Mauritanians to turn me over to them, which would make more sense; no, they wanted me in Jordan, and that was a big disrespect to the sovereignty of Mauritania. The Mauritanian government had been asking for evidence, any evidence, and the U.S. had failed to provide anything, and so arresting me in itself was burdensome for the government, let alone sending me to Jordan. The Mauritanian government sought incriminating evidences from the countries I had been in, Germany and Canada, and both countries provided only good conduct reports. For these and other reasons, the Mauritanian President needed his trusted guy, the DSE, before he took such a dangerous step.
I handed my cell phone to the Inspector, and he ordered the guards to take care of me and left. So I had to party with the guards instead of Hussein Ould Ndjoubnane and the rest of my cousins.
In Mauritania, the guards of secret detainees are part of the Secret Police, and as much as they might sympathize with you, they would do anything they were ordered to, even if it involved taking your life. Such people are resented in the society because they are the arms of the dictatorship; without them the dictator is crippled. They must not be trusted. And yet I didn’t feel any hatred toward them, just bad for them; they had the right to be as miserable as the majority of Mauritanians. Most of them knew me from previous arrests.
“I divorced my wife!” a young guard told me.
“Why, man? You have a daughter.”
“I know but I don’t have enough money to rent a place for my wife and me, and my wife got fed up with living in my mom’s house. They just couldn’t get along.”
“But divorce? Come on!”
“What would you have done in my shoes?” I couldn’t find any answer, because the simple Math was against me. The guy’s salary was about 40 or 50 dollars a month, and in order to have a somewhat decent life he needed at least $1,000. All my guards had something in common: they all lived way below the poverty line, and without a supplementary job none of them could make it to the end of the month. In Mauritania, the gap between leading officers and enlisted agents is just too big.
“We have seen many people who have been here and ended up occupying very high level jobs in the government. We’re sure you will, too,” they always teased me. I’m sure they aspired to better jobs in the government, but I personally don’t believe in working with a government that’s not righteous; to me, the need for the miserable wages is not an excuse for the mischief they were doing under the color and authority of an unjust regime. In my eyes, they were as guilty as anybody else, no matter what excuses they may come up with.
Nonetheless, the Mauritanian guards, without exception, all expressed their solidarity with me and wished they didn’t have to be the ones who had to do the job. They showed me all kinds of sympathy and respect, and they always tried to calm me down because I was worried about being turned over to the States and sent to a Military Tribunal. By then, the U.S. President was barking about putting terrorist suspects before military tribunals, and all kinds of other threats. I knew I would have no chance to be tried justly in a foreign military tribunal. We ate, prayed, and socialized together. We shared everything, food, tea, and we had a radio receiver to hear the news. We all slept in a big room with no furniture and an oodle of mosquitoes. Since it was Ramadan, we ate nights and stayed awake for the most part, and slept during day. They were obviously directed to treat me that way; the inspector sometimes joined us to check on things.
As scheduled, the DSE came back from his trip. “Hi,” he greeted me.
“Hi.”
“How are you doing?”
“Fine! Why are you arresting me?”
“Be patient! It’s not a fire!” he said. Why did he speak about fire? I wondered. He didn’t look happy at all, and I knew it wasn’t me who was causing his unhappiness. I was completely depressed and terrorized, and so I fell sick. I lost my appetite and couldn’t eat anything, and my blood pressure dropped gravely. The DSE called a doctor to check on me.
“You cannot fast. You have to eat,” he said, prescribing some medicine. Since I couldn’t stand up I had to urinate in a water bottle, and as to anything else, I didn’t need to because I hadn’t eaten anything. I really got very sick, and the Mauritanian government was completely worried that the Merchandise was going to vanish before the U.S. client took it. Sometimes I tried to sit up in order to eat a little bit, but as soon as I sat straight, I started to get dizzy and fell down. All that time I drank and ate what I could while lying on a thin mattress.
I spent seven days in Mauritanian custody. I didn’t get any visits from my family; as I later learned, my family was not allowed to see me, and they were denied the knowledge of my whereabouts. On the eighth day, November 28, 2001, I was informed that I was going to be shipped to Jordan.
November 28th is Mauritanian Independence Day; it marks the event when the Islamic Republic of Mauritania supposedly received its independence from the French colonists in 1960. The irony is that on this very same day in 2001, the independent and sovereign Republic of Mauritania turned over one of its own citizens on a premise. To its everlasting shame, the Mauritanian government not only broke the constitution, which forbids the extradition of Mauritanian criminals to other countries, but also extradited an innocent citizen and exposed him to the random American Justice.
The night before the multilateral deal was closed between Mauritania, the U.S., and Jordan, the prison guards allowed me to watch the parade that was coming from downtown toward the Presidential Palace, the bands escorted by schoolboys carrying lighted candles. The sight awoke childhood memories of when I took part in the same parade myself, as a schoolboy, nineteen years before. Back then I looked with innocence at the event that marked the birth of the nation I happened to be part of; I didn’t know that a country is not considered sovereign if it cannot handle its issues on its own.
The Secret Service is the most important government corps in the third world, and in some countries in the so-called free world as well, and so the DSE was invited to the ceremonial colors at the Presidential Palace in the morning. It was between 10 and 11 o’clock when he finally came in, accompanied by his assistant and his recorder. He invited me to his office, where he usually interrogates people. I was surprised to see him at all because it was a holiday. Although I was sick, my blood pressure rose so much from the unexpected visit that I was able to stand and go with them to the interrogation room. But as soon as I entered the office I collapsed on the big leather black sofa. It was obvious that my hyperactivity was fake.
The DSE sent all the guards home, and so I was left with him, his recorder, and his assistant. The guards gestured to me happily as they left the building, as if to say, “Congratulations!” They and I both thought that I was going to be released, though I was skeptical: I didn’t like all the movements and telephone conversations that were going on around me.
The DSE sent his assistant away, and he came back with a couple of cheap things, clothes and a bag. Meanwhile the recorder collapsed asleep in front of the door. The DSE pulled me into a room with nobody but us.
“We’re going to send you to Jordan,” he announced.
“Jordan!” What are you talking about?”
“Their King was subject to a failed assassination attempt.”
“So what? I have nothing to do with Jordan; my problem is with Americans. If you want to send me to any country, send me to the U.S.”
“No, they want you to be sent to Jordan. They say you are the accomplice of Ahmed Ressam, though I know you have nothing to do with Ressam’s plot or with September 11.”
“So why don’t you protect me from this injustice as a Mauritanian citizen?” I asked.
“America is a country that is based on and living with injustice,” was his answer.
“OK, I would like to see the President!” I said.
“No, you can’t. Everything is already irreversibly decided.”
“Well, I want to say good-bye to my mom,” I said.
“You can’t. This operation is secret.”
“For how long?”
“Two days, or maximum three. And if you choose, you don’t need to talk to them,” he added. “I really have no problem with that.” I knew that he was speaking out of his rear end, because I was destined to Jordan for a reason.
“Can you assure me of when I’ll be coming back?”
“I’ll try. But I hope this trip to Jordan will add another positive testimony in your favor. The Senegalese, the Canadians, the Germans, and I myself believe that you’re innocent. I don’t know how many witnesses the Americans need to acquit you.”
The DSE took me back to his office and tried several times to call his boss, the DG. When he finally reached him, the DG could not give a precise date for my return but assured him that it would be a couple of days. I don’t know for sure, but I believe that the Americans outsmarted everybody. They just asked to get me to Jordan, and then there would be another negotiation.
“I don’t know exactly,” the DSE told me honestly when he got off the phone. “But look: today is Wednesday. Two days for interrogation, and one day for the trip. So you will be back here Saturday or Sunday.”
He opened the bag that his assistant brought and asked me to try on the new cheap clothes. I put on the complete suit: a t-shirt, a pair of pants, jacket and plastic shoes. What a sight! Nothing fit; I looked like a skeleton dressed in a new suit. But who cared? At least I didn’t.
Between the time when I got the decision and the time the U.S. turned me over to the Jordanian Special Forces, I was treated like a UPS package. I cannot describe my feelings: anger, fear, powerlessness, humiliation, injustice, betrayal.… I had never really contemplated escaping from jail, although I had been jailed unjustly four times already. But today I was thinking about it because I never, even in my dreams, considered I would be sent to a third country that is known throughout the world as a torture-practicing regime. But that was my only bullet, and if I used it and missed I would look very bad in the eyes of my government. Not that that mattered; they obviously would still comply with the U.S. even if I was an angel in their eyes. After all, I had turned myself in.
I looked around for ways to escape. Let’s say I managed to get out of the building: I would need a taxicab as soon as I reached the main road. But I had no money on me to pay a cab, and I couldn’t take one to a place where somebody knew me because those are the first places they’re going to look. When I checked the doors, there was only one door that I would not have any reason to approach, so I asked to use the bathroom. In the bathroom I trimmed my beard and meditated about the other door. It was glass, so I could break it, but I knew the plan of the building; that door would lead to an armed guard who might shoot me dead right away. And even if I managed to sneak past the guard, I had to go around the Ministry for Internal Affairs that neighbors the main street, where there are always guards watching people coming and going. It would be impossible to go through the gate. Maybe, just maybe there’s a possibility of jumping the wall, but was I strong enough to do that? No, I wasn’t. But I was ready to pull all my strength together and make the impossible possible.
All these plans and thoughts were going through my head when I was using the bathroom. I looked at the roof, but there was no way to escape there; the roof was concrete. I finished cleaning and shaving and left. Outside of the bathroom there was a hall without a roof; I thought I could maybe climb the wall and leave the compound by going from one roof to another. But there were two constraints: one, the wall was about 20 feet tall and there was nothing to grab onto in order to climb; and two, the whole compound could be encircled in a matter of minutes by the police, so that no matter where I landed I would be secure in police hands. I realized escape would remain an unrealized dream for somebody who suddenly found all doors before him closed except the door to heaven.
The DSE kept making calls to the incoming flight that carried the special mission team. “They should be here in about three hours. They’re in Cyprus now!” he said. Normally he was not supposed to tell me where the plane was, or who was on the plane, or where I was going to be taken; the Americans wanted to maintain the terrorizing factors as harshly as possible. I should know nothing about what was happening to me. Being taken to an airport blindfolded, put in a plane, and taken to a country that is an eleven hour flight away together make enough horrible factors that only people with nerves of steel would survive. But the DSE didn’t care about telling me everything he knew. Not because he was worried about me, but because he knew for a fact that agreeing to such a horrible operation was at the same time agreeing to give up power. The turmoil against the Mauritanian President was already there, but the DSE knew this would certainly break the camel’s back. I knew the same, and so I kept praying, “Oh, Lord please don’t let people spill blood in my name!”
The DSE learned from the tower that the plane was expected around 7:00 or 7:30 p.m. The recorder had been sleeping the whole time, so the DSE sent him home. It was around 6:00 p.m. when the DSE, his assistant, and I took off in the Director’s luxurious Mercedes. He called the airport watch one more time to make the necessary arrangements to smuggle me securely without anybody noticing. I hoped his plan would fail and somebody would rat the government out.
The DSE headed in the opposite direction of the airport: he wanted to waste time and arrive at the airport about the same time as the Jordanian delegation. I was hoping that their plane would crash. Even though I knew it was replaceable, I wanted the plan to be postponed, like if you got news of your death and you wanted to postpone it. The DSE stopped at a grocery store and went in to buy some snacks for us to break the fast; sunset was going to catch us at the airport about the time of the unwelcome arrival. In front of the store stood a white U.N. truck. The driver had entered the store and left the engine running. I thought, with some luck I could possibly hijack it, and with some more luck I could get away, because the Benz would have little chance against the stronger body of the Toyota 4-wheel-drive truck.
But I saw some drawbacks that discouraged me from the attempt. The hijacking would involve innocent parties: in the cab sat the family of the truck driver, and I was not ready to hurt innocent people. A hijacking would also involve neutralizing the Benz, which could cost the lives of two police officers. Although I wouldn’t feel guilty about them getting themselves killed while trying to unjustly and illegally arrest me, I didn’t want to kill anybody. And was I really physically able to execute the operation? I wasn’t sure. Thinking of the operation was sort of daydreaming to distract myself from the horrible unknown that was awaiting me.
I should mention that in Mauritania the police don’t have the American’s extremely paranoid and vigilant technique of blindfolding, ear-muffing, and shackling people from head to toe; in that regard Mauritanians are very laid back. As a matter of fact, I don’t think anybody is as vigilant as the Americans. I was even walking free when we arrived at the airport, and I could easily have run away and reached the public terminal before anybody could catch me. I could at least have forcibly passed the message to the public, and hence to my family, that I was kidnapped. But I didn’t do it, and I have no explanation for why not. Maybe, had I known what I know today, I would have attempted anything that would have defeated the injustice. I would not even have turned myself in to begin with.
After the grocery stop, we took off straight to the airport. There was hardly any traffic due to the holiday; people had retreated peacefully, as usual on this day, to their homes. It had been eight days since I last saw the outside world. It looked bleak: there must have been a dust storm during the day that was just starting to give way in favor of the ocean breeze. It was a situation I had seen a thousand and one times, and I still liked it. It’s like whenever the dust storm kills the city, the ocean breeze comes at the end of the day and blows the life back into it, and slowly but surely people start to come out.
The twilight was as amazing and beautiful as it had always been. I pictured my family already having prepared the Iftar fast-breaking food, my mom mumbling her prayers while duly working the modest delicacies, everybody looking for the sun to take its last steps and hide beneath the horizon. As soon as the Muezzin declares, “God is Great” everyone would hungrily grab something to drink. My brothers prefer a quick smoke and a cup of tea before anything; my sisters would drink first. None of my sisters smoke, smoking for a lady in my culture is not appropriate. The only absent person is me, but everybody’s heart is with me, everybody’s prayers are for me. My family thought it would be only a matter of several days before the government released me; after all, the Mauritanian authorities told my family that I have done nothing, they were just waiting until the Americans would see the truth and let me be. How wrong was my family! How wrong was I to put my faith in a bunch of criminals and put my fate in their country! I didn’t seem to have learned anything. But regret didn’t seem to help either: the ship had sailed.
The Mercedes was heading soundlessly to the airport, and I was drowned in my daydreams. At the secret gate, the airport police chief was waiting on us as planned. I hated that dark gate! How many innocent souls have been led through that secret gate? I had been through it once, when the U.S. government brought me from Dakar and delivered me to my government twenty months earlier. Arriving at the gate put an end to my dreams about a savior or a miraculous sort of a superman who would stop the car, neutralize the police officers, and carry me home on his wings so I could catch my Iftar in the warmth of my mom’s hut. There was no stopping God’s plan, and I was complying and subduing completely to his will.
The Airport Police Chief looked rather like a camel herder. He was wearing a worn-out Boubou, the national dress, and an unbuttoned T-shirt.
“I told you I didn’t want anybody to be around,” said the DSE.
“Everything’s alright,” the chief said reluctantly. He was lazy, careless, naïve, and too traditional. I don’t even think he had a clue about what was going on. He seemed to be a religious, traditional guy, but religion didn’t seem to have any influence on his life, considering the wrong conspiracy he was carrying out with the government.
The Muezzin started to sing the amazing Azan declaring the end of the day, and hence the fast. “ALLAH is Great, Allah is great.” “I testify there is no God but God,” once, twice, and then twice, “I testify Mohamed is the messenger of God.” “Come to pray, Come to pray, Come to flourish, Come to flourish,” and then, twice, “God is Great” and “There is no God but God.” What an amazing message! But guess what, dear Muezzin, I cannot comply with your call, nor can I break my fast. I wondered, Does this Muezzin know what injustice is taking place in this country?
There was no clean place around. All the miserable budget the government had approved for the restoration of the airport had literally been devoured by the agents the government put its trust in. Without saying anything, I went to the least dirty spot and started to perform my prayer. The DSE, his assistant, and the chief joined in. After I was done praying, the DSE offered me water and some sweet buns to break my fast; at that same moment the small business jet hit the runway. I had no appetite anyway, but the arriving plane sealed any need to eat. I knew I was not going to survive without eating, though, so I reached for the water and drank a little bit. I took a piece of the sweet bread and forced it inside my mouth, but the piece apparently landed in a cul-de-sac; my throat conspired against me and closed. I was losing my mind from terror, though I tried to act normally and regain my composure. I was shaking, and kept mumbling my prayers.
The ground crew directed the small airplane toward the Benz. It came to a stop inches away, the door opened, and a dark-skinned man in his late forties stepped down the accommodation ladder with steady steps. He was rather heavy, with one of those big bellies that no amount of tucking can do away with, and had one of those beard and mustache combinations that keeps drowning in anything they drink. Oh Lord, I wouldn’t share a drink with one of those people, not even for a million dollars. As soon as I saw the guy, I gave him the name Satan.
When he hit the ground he scanned us standing before him with his fox’s eyes. He had a dry, neutral smile, and the habit of tweaking his mustache, and he kept moving his eyes, one wide-opened and the other squinted. I could easily see the shock on his face because he didn’t seem to find the person he was looking for, namely me. But you could tell it was not the first time he led an abduction operation: he completely maintained his composure, as if nothing big was happening.
“We’ve brought people here in bags,” his associate Officer Rami told me later in Jordan.
“But how did they survive the trip without suffocating?”
“We make an opening for the nose to facilitate a continuous oxygen supply,” Officer Rami said. I don’t know about the bags story, but I do know cases of kidnapping terrorist suspects to Jordan.
Satan was expecting his prey to be shackled, blindfolded, earmuffed. But me, standing before him in civilian clothes with eyes wide open like any human being, that struck him. No, that is not the way a terrorist looks—especially a high-level terrorist who was supposedly the brain behind the Millennium Plot.
“Hi,” he said; he obviously wasn’t used to the beautiful Muslim greeting, “Peace be with you!” He quickly exchanged words with the DSE, though they didn’t understand each other very well. The DSE wasn’t used to the Jordanian dialect, nor was the Jordanian guest used to the Mauritanian way of speaking. I had an advantage over both of them: there is hardly any Arabic dialect I don’t understand because I used to have many friends from different cultural backgrounds.
“He said he needs fuel,” I explained to the DSE. I was eager to let my predator know I am, I am. I took my bag and showed my readiness to board, and that’s when Satan realized that I was the meager “terrorist” he was sent to pick up.
The DSE handed him my passport and a thin folder. At the top of the accommodation ladder there were two young men dressed in Ninja-like black suits who turned out to be the guards who were going to watch me during the longest eleven-hour trip of my life. I quickly spoke to the DSE in a manner I knew Satan wouldn’t understand.
“Tell him not to torture me.”
“This is a good guy; I would like you to treat him appropriately!” the DSE said vaguely.
“We’re going to take good care of him,” answered Satan in an ambiguous statement.
The DSE gave me some food to eat during the flight. “No need, we have enough food with us,” Satan said. I was happy, because I liked the Middle Eastern cuisine.
I took the seat that was reserved for me, and the leader of the operation ordered a thorough search while the plane was rolling on the runway. All they found was my pocket Koran, which they gave back to me. I was blindfolded and earmuffed, but the blindfold was taken away to allow me to eat when the plane reached its regular altitude. As much as I knew about the basics of telecommunication tools, I was terrorized when they put on the earphone-like earmuffs: I thought it was a new U.S. method to suck intels out of your brain and send them directly to a main computer which analyzes the information. I wasn’t worried about what they would suck out of my brain, but I was worried about the pain I may suffer due to electrical shocks. It was silly, but if you get scared you are not you anymore. You very much become a child again.
The plane was very small, and very noisy. It could only fly for three to three-and-a-half hours, and then it had to take fuel. “They are in Cyprus,” the DSE told me several hours before their arrival in Nouakchott; I figured the return would be by the same route, because such crimes have to be perfectly coordinated with the conspiring parties.
Satan offered me a meal. It looked good, but my throat was stiff and I felt like I was trying to swallow rough stones. “Is that all?” Satan wondered.
“I am alright, Hajji,” I said. Hajji literally means somebody who has performed the pilgrimage to Mecca, but in the Middle East you respectfully refer to anybody you don’t know as Hajji. In Jordan they even called every detainee Hajji in order to keep the names secret.
“Eat, eat, enjoy your food!” Satan said, trying to give me some comfort to eat and stay alive.
“Thanks, Hajji, I’ve eaten enough.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Hajji,” I replied. Satan looked at me, forcing the most dishonest, sardonic smile I ever saw, exactly like he did when he stepped down out of the plane back in Nouakchott airport.
The guards collected the garbage and placed the tray table in the upright position. I had two of them watching me, one right behind my neck, and the second sitting next to me. The guy behind me was staring at me the whole time; I doubt he ever blinked his eyes. He must have been through some rough training.
“In my training, I almost lost my composure,” one young recruit later told me in the Jordanian prison. “During the training, we took a terrorist and slew him in front of all students. Some couldn’t take it and burst out crying,” he continued.
“Where did you guys train?” I asked him.
“An Arabic country, I cannot tell you which one.” I felt nauseous, but tried my best to act in front of the guy as if everything were normal and he were a hero. “They want us to have no mercy with terrorists. I can kill a terrorist who is running away without wasting more than one bullet,” he demonstratively claimed.
“Oh, that’s great! But how do you know he is a terrorist? He might be innocent,” I gauged.
“I don’t care: if my boss said he is a terrorist, he is. I am not allowed to follow my personal judgment. My job is to execute.” I felt so bad for my people and the level of cruelty and gruesomeness they have fallen into. Now I was standing for real before somebody who is trained to kill blindly whomever he is ordered to. I knew he wasn’t lying, because I met a former Algerian soldier once who was seeking asylum in Germany, and he told me how gruesomely they dealt with the Islamists, too.
“During an ambush, we captured a sixteen-year-old teenager, and on the way to the jail our boss stopped, took him off the truck, and shot him dead. He didn’t want him in jail, he wanted revenge,” he told me.
I wondered why there was so much vigilance, given that I was shackled and there were two guards, two interrogators, and two pilots. Satan asked the guard who was sitting beside me to empty his seat, and he sat beside me and started to interrogate me.
“What’s your name?”
“Mohamedou Ould Salahi.”
“What’s your nickname?”
“Abu Musab.”
“What other nicknames do you have?”
“None!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Hajji!” I wasn’t used to an interrogator from the Sham region, and I had never heard that accent in such a scary way. I find the Sham accent one of the sweetest in the Arabic language, but Satan’s accent was not sweet. He was just evil: the way he moved, spoke, looked, ate, everything. During our short conversation we were almost shouting, but we could hardly hear one another because of the extremely loud whining of the engines. I hate small planes. I always feel as if I’m on the wing of a demon when I travel in them.
“We should stop the interrogation and resume it later on,” he said. Thank you, old engines! I just wanted him out of my face. I knew there was no way around him, but just for the time being.
At around midnight GMT on Wednesday, November 28, 2001, we landed in Cyprus. Was it a commercial airport or the military airport? I don’t know. But Cyprus is one of the Mediterranean paradises on Earth.
The interrogators and the two pilots put their jackets on and left the plane, most likely for a break. It looked like it had been raining; the ground looked wet, and a light drizzle was caressing the ground. Every once in a while I stole a quick glimpse through the small, blurry window. The breeze outside gave away the presence of a cold winter on the island. I felt some noises that shook the small plane; it must have been the fuel cistern moving. I drowned in my daydreams.
I was thinking, Now the local police will suspect the plane, and hopefully search it. I am lucky because I’m breaking the law by transiting through a country without a transit visa, and I’ll be arrested and put in jail. In the prison, I’ll apply for asylum and stay in this paradise. The Jordanians can’t say anything because they are guilty of trying to smuggle me. The longer the plane waits, the better my chances are to be arrested.
How wrong I was! How comforting a daydream can be! It was my only solace to help me ignore and forget the evilness that surrounded me. The plane indeed waited long enough, about an hour, but there was no searching the plane. I was nonexistent in the passengers’ list that the Jordanians gave to the local authorities. I even thought I saw police in thick black uniforms coming near the plane, but I was not to be spotted because I was sandwiched between two seats and had to keep my head down, so I looked like a small bag. I might be wrong though, and just saw them because I wanted the police to come and arrest me.
Satan, his associate, and the two pilots came back and we took off. The pilots switched places. I saw the fat pilot sitting in front of Satan; he was almost as broad as he was tall. Satan started a conversation with him. Although I couldn’t hear the talk, I assumed it to be a friendly discussion between two mature men, which was good. Satan grew tired like everybody else, except for the young guard who kept his never-blinking eyes pointed on me. Every once in a while he made a comment like, “Keep your head down!” and “Look down,” but I kept forgetting the rules. I had the feeling that this would be my last flight, because I was certain I wouldn’t make it through the torture. I thought about every member of my family, even my far nephews and nieces and my in-laws. How short is this life! In a blink of an eye, everything is gone.
I kept reading my Koran in the dim light. My heart was pounding as if it wanted to jump out of my mouth. I barely understood anything of what I was reading; I read at least 200 or 300 pages unconsciously. I was prepared to die, but I never imagined it would be this way. Lord have mercy on me! I think hardly anybody will meet death the way he or she imagined. We human beings take everything into consideration except for death; hardly anybody has death on his calendar. Did God really predestinate for me to die in Jordan at the hands of some of the most evil people in the world? But I didn’t really mind being killed by bad people; before God they will have no case, I was thinking.
A fake peace dominated the trip between Cyprus and my unknown present destination. The bandits seemed to be exhausted from the previous day trip from Amman to Nouakchott, and that was a blessing for me. At around 4 a.m. GMT on Thursday, November 29, the plane started to lose altitude again, and finally landed in a place I didn’t know. I think it was an Arabic country somewhere in the Middle East, because I think I spotted signs in Arabic through the small windows when I stole a quick glimpse off my guarding demon. It was still nighttime, and the weather seemed to be clear and dry; I didn’t see any signs of winter.
This time I did not hope for the police to search the airplane, because Arabic countries are always conspiring with each other against their own citizens. What treason! Nonetheless, any leak of information wouldn’t hurt. But I didn’t give that daydream a second thought. We didn’t stay long, though we went through the same procedure, Satan and his two pilots going for a short break, and the same noises of taking on fuel that I heard in Cyprus. The plane took off to its final destination, Amman, Jordan. I don’t think that we made any more stops, though I kept passing out and coming to until we arrived in Jordan.
Over 90 percent of Jordanians are Muslim. For them, as for all Muslims from the Middle East, fasting during Ramadan is the most important religious service. People who don’t fast are resented in the society, and so many people fast due to social pressure even though they don’t believe in religion. In Mauritania, people are much more relaxed about fasting, and less relaxed about prayer.
“Take your breakfast,” said the guard. I think I had fallen asleep for a moment.
“No, thanks.”
“It’s your last chance to eat before the fast begins.”
“No, I’m OK.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Hajji.” They started to eat their breakfast, chewing like cows; I could even hear them through my earmuffs. I kept stealing glimpses toward the small windows until I saw the first daylight prying the darkness open.
“Hajji, I’d like to perform my prayer,” I said to the guard. The guard had a little conversation with Satan, who ordered him to take off one of my earmuffs.
“There is no opportunity to pray here. When we arrive, you and I are going to pray together,” said Satan. I was sort of comforted, because if he prays that was a sign that he was a believer, and so he wouldn’t possibly hurt his “brother” in belief. And yet he didn’t seem to have knowledge about his religion. Prayer must be performed on time in the best manner you can, at least in your heart. You cannot postpone it except for the reasons explained in the Islamic scriptures. In any case, the promised prayer with Satan never took place.