Guantanamo: My Journey by David Hicks

Author:David Hicks
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Australia
Published: 2010-01-12T16:00:00+00:00

Cassel: If the President deems that he’s got to torture somebody, including crushing the testicles of the person’s child, there is no law that can stop him?

Yoo: No treaty.

Cassel: Also no law by Congress. That is what you wrote in the August 2002 memo.

Yoo: I think it depends on why the President thinks he needs to do that.

Doug Cassel, Professor of Law and Director of the Center for Civil and Human Rights, Notre Dame University, with John Yoo, author of the torture memos, December 2005

A DAY ARRIVED when two or three yellow school buses drove into camp along the dusty track. The windows had been replaced with sheets of metal, allowing passengers zero visibility. The camp began to bustle as armed military personnel positioned themselves in every corner and teams of escorts marched about, jingling with the three-piece suits they carried. One block of detainees was escorted directly into the waiting buses. Other detainees from mixed blocks, including me, were then escorted to the now empty block to wait for the buses’ return. I suppose this period was exciting, because something major, something different, was happening. There was about to be a change of scenery, we hoped a change in circumstances – for the better.

When the buses returned, I was chained with a bag secured over my head with tape. Then I was guided onto the bus and locked to the floor. When we began to move, I could hear other detainees in chains around me. Some of them wriggled about, and were struck in the back of the head and screamed at for their troubles. To avoid being hit, I remained as still as I could, but I soon learned that no matter how carefully I followed orders, I was to be struck and screamed at anyway.

It was a short journey and the bus came to a sudden stop. I could hear the movement of other detainees – chains rattling, feet scraping – before hands gripped my arms tightly and yanked me up from the floor. I was led off the bus and ordered to halt. The tape and bag were removed from my head. I was disoriented. The Muslim chaplain was standing in the bright sun to greet me. Before I could gather my thoughts, I was led through two lockable gates called a sally port. Again, there were fences covered in green shadecloth and lots of razor wire. A square, white sign hanging by the gates I entered read: ‘C Block’. Once through the gates, I stood before a long, narrow structure. It looked to be a hybrid between a cage and an enclosed building, like ATCO portables. I was escorted into this structure and down a hallway.

Detainees were on both sides of this walkway, housed behind diamond wire. I was not taken far into Charlie Block, as it was called, when I was directed into an empty cage on my right. The restraints were removed, and I was left alone to absorb the new environment and chat with fellow detainees.

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