My Guantanamo Diary

The very existence of the military detention camp at Guantanamo Bay seemed an affront to what the United States stands for. How could our government deny the prisoners there the right to a fair hearing? I didn't know whether they were innocent or guilty -- but I figured they should be entitled to the same protections as any alleged rapist or murderer.

Maybe part of my interest had to do with my heritage. My Pashtun parents are doctors who met in medical school in Peshawar, a city in northwest Pakistan near the Afghan border. They came to the United States to continue their medical educations. I was born in America in 1978, but I grew up speaking Pashto at home, and am a practicing Muslim. I've always felt the pull of my heritage, and the tragedy of the Afghan people, whose country has been overrun so many times throughout history.

As an American, I felt the pain of Sept. 11, and I understood the need to invade Afghanistan and destroy the Taliban and al-Qaeda. But I also felt the suffering of the Afghans as their country was bombed. And when hundreds of men were rounded up and thrust into a black hole of detention, many with seemingly no proof that they had any terrorist connections, I felt that my own country had taken a wrong turn.

The attorneys I e-mailed eventually put me in touch with Peter Ryan at Dechert LLP, which represents 15 Afghan detainees. After a rigorous six-month background check for a security clearance, off I went in January on my first trip to the base.

I've now been down a total of nine times. And each time, I'm struck by the ordinariness of Guantanamo Bay, the startling disconnect between the beauty of the surroundings and the evil they mask.

I expected a stern, forbidding place. Instead I found sunshine and smiling young soldiers, boozy nighttime barbecues and beaches that call to you for a midnight swim. I've also found loss and tears. Over three months, I've interpreted at dozens of meetings with detainees and heard many stories -- of betrayal and mistaken identity, of beatings and torture, of loneliness and hopelessness.

I've listened to Wali Mohammed protest that he was just a businessman trying to get along in Taliban-run Afghanistan. I've watched Chaman Gul, crouched in his 7-by-8-foot cage, weep for fear that his family will forget him. I've marveled at the pluck and wit of Taj Mohammad, a 27-year-old uneducated goat herder who has taught himself fluent English while in Cuba.

No matter the age or background of the detainee, our meetings always leave me feeling helpless. These men show me the human face of the war on terrorism. They've been systematically dehumanized, cast as mere numbers in prison-camp fashion. But to me, they've become almost like friends, or brothers or fathers. I can honestly say that I don't believe any of our clients are guilty of crimes against the United States. No doubt some men here are, but not the men I've met.

I wish we could just hand our clients the freedom they desperately crave, but so far, we haven't been able to, though three of Dechert's clients were released at the military's discretion before any of us ever even went to the prison. Still, our work with those who remain seems to give them what they need to persevere -- a thread of hope.

The trip to Gitmo begins at the commuter terminal of Florida's Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport. With the exception of one corporate law firm that has become known for making a grand entrance in a chartered private jet, the attorneys doing habeas work at Guantanamo Bay fly the puddle-jumper Lynx Air or Air Sunshine.

At the airline counter, you're asked to show clearance documentation from the Defense Department. Passengers are then weighed for optimum weight distribution on the tiny propeller planes. The 10-seat cabin is so small you can't stand up straight. There are no bathrooms, either, so everybody hits the restroom several times before boarding.

The flight from Fort Lauderdale takes three hours because you have to go around the island to avoid Cuban airspace. Upon arrival, we're greeted by armed U.S. Army personnel who direct us to customs, which consists of a couple of brown tables where more Army boys rifle through our bags.