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Content Warning: This section references torture, graphic violence, sexual assault, racism, and Islamophobia.
After the polygraph test, SSG Mary introduced Slahi to a new female interrogator. By then, the author and the other detainees knew that all interrogators used the same methods: “[Y]ou can tell they were all graduates of the same school” (305). Slahi repeatedly heard all the same lines, such as, “I have nothing against Islam, I even have many Muslim friends” (306). The interrogators “were literally taught to hate us” (307) as if the detainees were “their worst enemies” (308). At the same time, some guards developed amicable relationships with detainees. Slahi himself questioned the empathy he felt toward his captors: “How could you cry for somebody who caused you so much pain and destroyed your life?” (308).
Slahi divided his detention at Guantanamo into four phases. The first phase involved questioning whether his experiences were real or a nightmare. The second phase “is when you realize for real that you’re in jail and you possess nothing but all the time in the world to think about your life” (309). The third phase brings the realization that the guards and interrogators comprise “your new home and family” (310). The fourth phase—mentioned in the manuscript’s margins—is “getting used to the prison, and being afraid of the outside world” (412). Empathy develops in phase three, when the detainee starts thinking of his captors as a family. One person that the author liked was SSG Mary, the first US woman soldier he met. They had honest conversations. For instance, once SSG Mary stated, “I would hate the US if I were you” (313) because of how the author was treated. When Mary left for the last time, Slahi began crying “as if [he]’d lost a family member” (315).
During this time, Slahi was given books and movies. The books included Life in the Forest by Edward Rutherfurd and Star Wars. Slahi was happy to “settle for any books they gave” (313) him even if in the outside world he wouldn’t have liked them. He learned to play chess with the guards. In addition, he watched films like Black Hawk Down with them. The Joint Task Force (JTF) gave Slahi a TV with a VCR on March 15, 2004. He watched films like The Gladiator as a distraction; although when he was free, he preferred documentaries. He was also given access to a laptop to make him type his own answers during interrogations, “kind of like forced labor” (332).
The guards continued using Star Wars character names such as Master Yoda and Master Jedi. They also nicknamed Slahi “Pillow” (317). Some of the guards liked Slahi, especially his sense of humor: “We slowly but surely became a society and started to gossip about the interrogators and call them names” (322). Yoda showed Slahi military song videos: “I was amazed at how beautifully directed and filmed those propaganda videos could be” (323). However, not all the guards were amicable. Some “performed regular assaults” on the author in Echo Special’s Building Three (326). The one named Big Boss was especially violent—and proud of it. Another guard demanded that Slahi call him “Master” (331). An interrogator pointed out that they didn’t like it when the detainees learned English too fast because they could “understand the guards” (340). However, Colonel Forest organized several meetings between Slahi and a detainee named Tariq al-Sawah “mainly to eat together and play chess” (345). Army Specialist Amy helped Slahi with gardening like growing sunflowers, cilantro, and sage: “Amy treated me as if I were her brother, and I as if she were my sister” (348). The author continued to learn English and considered it an irregular language. In addition, he had religious debates with Amy, who was a Christian. He and Amy exchanged poetry they wrote themselves. For example, Slahi wrote a poem based on Kurt Schwitters’ “An Anna Blume” (1919). Marine, Big G, and Stretch gave him a book with a dedication and wished him luck. For instance, on April 19, 2005, Big G wrote, “It is almost impossible not to like a character like yourself” (363).
In February 2004, Slahi received the first letter from his family released by the US Army. By then, he’d been detained for 815 days: “I couldn’t believe that after all I had been through I was holding a letter from my mom” (337). In July 2004, the author found a copy of the Koran in his laundry even though he was technically not allowed to have religious literature. In September of that year, a representative of the Red Cross—Beatrice, a high-level delegate from Switzerland—was allowed to meet with him “after a long fight with the government” (341). The Red Cross had been very worried about his fate, but he refused to provide details about his torture at that time because he feared retaliation. His fears were founded because some detainees were later “confronted with the statements they made to the ICRC” (344), which indicated that their Red Cross meetings were surveilled. Doctors gained access to the author in March 2004, and he “was able to get psychological assistance for the first time that April” (362). He received a prescription for Paxil (an antidepressant) and sleep medication. In the summer of 2004, his physical rehabilitation began: “The government realized that I was deeply injured and needed some real rehab” (362).
Chapter 7 concludes The Mauritanian but feels unfinished. This feeling isn’t surprising: After all, the author wasn’t released from Guantanamo and sent home to Mauritania until 2016. Thus, The Mauritanian represents only a small part of Slahi’s ordeal. At the end of the chapter, the author emphasizes one of the reasons for writing his diary—that the American people should know about what their government has been doing at the Guantanamo Bay detention camp: “I would like to believe that the majority of Americans want to see justice done, and they are not interested in financing the detention of innocent people” (367). Slahi highlights the American paradox: “The United States is the ‘democratic’ country with the most draconian punishment system” (335). Another matter for Americans to consider is the relationship between the violence of US foreign policy and the country’s “[h]igh crime rates [...] compared to Europe because [v]iolence naturally produces violence” (336).
Although Chapter 7 doesn’t represent the conclusion of Slahi’s captivity, it functions as a wrap-up to the book. Slahi uses it to process his experiences at Guantanamo, which he divides into four phases, ranging from denial to acceptance, similar to the stages of grief. Phases three and four are akin to the related concepts of a trauma bond and Stockholm syndrome, respectively. Phase three shows the development of positive feelings for one’s captors. Slahi cried when SSG Mary left Guantanamo because she was like a family member. However, Mary repeatedly sexually assaulted him. He also apparently developed some feelings for Army Specialist Amy, reminiscent of a trauma bond. When Amy traveled to Montreal with her boyfriend, Slahi wrote her a letter of disappointment when he determined that she didn’t travel alone. At the very least, this situation is complex as viewed through the prism of the unequal power relationship between an interrogator and a detainee. In turn, phase four features “being afraid of the outside world” (412). In this way, Guantanamo became the proverbial devil you know, whereas the outside world is unknown.
Slahi displays significant awareness of how paradoxical his feelings are: “How could you cry for someone who caused you so much pain and destroyed your life? How could you possibly like somebody who ignorantly hates your religion?” (308). In addition to Mary’s sexual abuse and his conflicted feelings toward her and Amy, he continued to endure occasional torture and a senseless elevation of American worthiness over his own, underscoring how all three themes—Depersonalization and Dehumanization; Racism, Islamophobia, and the US War on Terror; and The Absurdities of Life as a Detainee—were still in play despite his gaining new privileges. At times, he even felt like he was enslaved: “I was in a worse situation than a slave: at least a slave is not always shackled in chains, has some limited freedom, and doesn’t have to listen to some interrogator’s bullshit every day” (309). Beyond trauma bonding, an additional explanation for his sentiment is that people are social creatures and need human contact and a community; at Guantanamo, the detainees and staff were the only people Slahi encountered—and during his prolonged solitary confinement, he regularly interacted only with his captors.
Despite the difficult questions surrounding the relationship psychology between the captive and the captor, one friendship seems to have been authentic because it lasted for decades. A guard nicknamed Stretch, whose real name is Steve Wood, converted to Islam, inspired by Slahi. He has kept in contact with the author and has been the subject of a documentary (“My Brother’s Keeper: A Former Guantánamo Detainee, His Guard and Their Unlikely Friendship.” The Guardian, 23 Feb. 2021).
Like Chapter 6, the final chapter continues to explore the ways that Slahi sought a sense of normalcy and dignity. As his situation slightly improved, he was able to watch films, read books, and play chess. Even though he preferred documentaries when he was free, in captivity, Slahi was glad to watch anything that the staff gave him. On one occasion, he watched the film Black Hawk Down (2002), about the US 1993 intervention in Somalia. He noticed that the Guantanamo staff seemed to care only about the fate of the American soldiers:
The guards almost went crazy emotionally because they saw many Americans getting shot to death. But they missed that the number of U.S. casualties is negligible compared to the Somalis who were attacked in their own homes. I was wondering at how narrow-minded human beings can be (315).
This observation is an indirect commentary about US foreign policy. Whereas Americans were understandably devastated by the 9/11 terrorist attacks, the violence of US foreign policy in the Middle East and beyond, along with the secret prison at Guantanamo, reveals the type of American exceptionalism that asserts itself in an ugly way, without regard for the plight of others.
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