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Sunday 15 January 2012

My Guantánamo Nightmare

My Guantánamo Nightmare
Published: January 7, 2012 

ON Wednesday, America’s detention camp at Guantánamo Bay will have been 
open for 10 years. For seven of them, I was held there without 
explanation or charge. During that time my daughters grew up without me. They were toddlers when I was imprisoned, and were never allowed to 
visit or speak to me by phone. Most of their letters were returned as 
“undeliverable,” and the few that I received were so thoroughly and 
thoughtlessly censored that their messages of love and support were 

Some American politicians say that people at Guantánamo are terrorists, 
but I have never been a terrorist. Had I been brought before a court 
when I was seized, my children’s lives would not have been torn apart, 
and my family would not have been thrown into poverty. It was only after the United States Supreme Court ordered the government to defend its actions before a federal judge that I was finally able to clear my name and be with them again. 

I left Algeria in 1990 to work abroad. In 1997 my family and I moved to 
Bosnia and Herzegovina at the request of my employer, the Red Crescent 
Society of the United Arab Emirates. I served in the Sarajevo office as 
director of humanitarian aid for children who had lost relatives to 
violence during the Balkan conflicts. In 1998, I became a Bosnian 
citizen. We had a good life, but all of that changed after 9/11. 

When I arrived at work on the morning of Oct. 19, 2001, an intelligence 
officer was waiting for me. He asked me to accompany him to answer 
questions. I did so, voluntarily — but afterward I was told that I could not go home. The United States had demanded that local authorities 
arrest me and five other men. News reports at the time said the United 
States believed that I was plotting to blow up its embassy in Sarajevo. I had never — for a second — considered this. 

The fact that the United States had made a mistake was clear from the 
beginning. Bosnia’s highest court investigated the American claim, found that there was no evidence against me and ordered my release. But 
instead, the moment I was released American agents seized me and the 
five others. We were tied up like animals and flown to Guantánamo, the 
American naval base in Cuba. I arrived on Jan. 20, 2002. 

I still had faith in American justice. I believed my captors would 
quickly realize their mistake and let me go. But when I would not give 
the interrogators the answers they wanted — how could I, when I had done nothing wrong? — they became more and more brutal. I was kept awake for many days straight. I was forced to remain in painful positions for 
hours at a time. These are things I do not want to write about; I want 
only to forget. 
I went on a hunger strike for two years because no one would tell me why I was being imprisoned. Twice each day my captors would shove a tube up my nose, down my throat and into my stomach so they could pour food 
into me. It was excruciating, but I was innocent and so I kept up my 

In 2008, my demand for a fair legal process went all the way to America’s highest court. In a decision that bears my name, the Supreme Court declared that “the laws and 
Constitution are designed to survive, and remain in force, in 
extraordinary times.” It ruled that prisoners like me, no matter how 
serious the accusations, have a right to a day in court. The Supreme 
Court recognized a basic truth: the government makes mistakes. And the 
court said that because “the consequence of error may be detention of 
persons for the duration of hostilities that may last a generation or 
more, this is a risk too significant to ignore.” 

Five months later, Judge Richard J. Leon, of the Federal District Court 
in Washington, reviewed all of the reasons offered to justify my 
imprisonment, including secret information I never saw or heard. The 
government abandoned its claim of an embassy bomb plot just before the 
judge could hear it. After the hearing, he ordered the government to free me and four other men who had been arrested in Bosnia. 

I will never forget sitting with the four other men in a squalid room at Guantánamo, listening over a fuzzy speaker as Judge Leon read his 
decision in a Washington courtroom. He implored the government not to 
appeal his ruling, because “seven years of waiting for our legal system 
to give them an answer to a question so important is, in my judgment, 
more than plenty.” I was freed, at last, on May 15, 2009. 

Today, I live in Provence with my wife and children. France has given us a home, and a new start. I have experienced the pleasure of 
reacquainting myself with my daughters and, in August 2010, the joy of 
welcoming a new son, Yousef. I am learning to drive, attending 
vocational training and rebuilding my life. I hope to work again serving others, but so far the fact that I spent seven and a half years as a 
Guantánamo prisoner has meant that only a few human rights organizations have seriously considered hiring me. I do not like to think of 
Guantánamo. The memories are filled with pain. But I share my story 
because 171 men remain there. Among them is Belkacem Bensayah, who was 
seized in Bosnia and sent to Guantánamo with me. 

About 90 prisoners have been cleared for transfer out of Guantánamo. 
Some of them are from countries like Syria or China — where they would 
face torture if sent home — or Yemen, which the United States considers 
unstable. And so they sit as captives, with no end in sight — not 
because they are dangerous, not because they attacked America, but 
because the stigma of Guantánamo means they have no place to go, and 
America will not give a home to even one of them. 

I’m told that my Supreme Court case is now read in law schools. Perhaps 
one day that will give me satisfaction, but so long as Guantánamo stays 
open and innocent men remain there, my thoughts will be with those left 
behind in that place of suffering and injustice. 

Lakhdar Boumediene was the lead plaintiff in Boumediene v. Bush. He 
was in military custody at Guantánamo Bay from 2002 to 2009. This essay 
was translated by Felice Bezri from the Arabic. 

A version of this op-ed appeared in print on 
January 8, 2012, on page SR9 of the New York edition with the headline: 
My Guantánamo Nightmare.

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