Mansoor Adayfi was a student when the 'war on terror' turned him into a number. Twenty-five years later, he argues that the machinery behind his imprisonment has found new targets
Growing up as a child in Yemen, I never thought the day would come when I would share my story with a global audience.
But little did I know that I would be caught in the violent crosshairs of the "war on terror" launched in the immediate aftermath of the 9/11 attacks.
Prior to September 11, 2001, there was nothing extraordinary about my life.
I grew up in a humble family, and only when I reached my teens did I begin to think about leaving my country.
When I was 18, I took the drastic step and left my village to finish school, armed with a dream of studying computer science abroad.
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For nearly a year, I asked the head of the institute where I studied and worked for a reference letter. He always told me, "Later."
After the USS Cole was attacked in Yemen, the head of the institute was asked to write a book about al-Qaeda and the Taliban. He sent a former student who had fought the Soviets in Afghanistan to conduct research and asked me to accompany him.
"Come back from this trip," he promised, "and I will give you your letter."
We flew to Dubai, then Pakistan, and travelled overland to Afghanistan, eventually reaching Kabul, where an NGO was helping us with our research.
I was still there when the towers fell in New York City.
We only learned about the attacks three days later from a radio in a restaurant.
Soon after, while helping the NGO move supplies before fleeing the country, armed men stopped our car and abducted us.
We eventually ended up in the hands of a warlord who demanded $100,000 for our release. I didn't know then that American planes were dropping leaflets across Afghanistan offering bounties for suspected al-Qaeda and Taliban fighters.
Two weeks later, the warlord's men came for me.
Hooded and handcuffed, I remember little of what followed except violence, a truck, a helicopter, a plane, and finally an underground room.
They hung me from the ceiling with a hood over my head. When they removed it, five rifles were pointed at me, red dots fixed on my chest.
"Hello, Mr Adel," a translator said, confusing me with an Egyptian general. "Do you know who we are, and why we are here?"
Of course, I had no idea.
Weeks earlier, I had been conducting research in Afghanistan and was expecting to begin university at the end of the year. Now, I was accused of being an al-Qaeda leader, kidnapped by Afghan warlords and handed over to the CIA.
The beginning of my ordeal
While I was unlawfully detained at an air base in Kandahar, I could see US Air Force aeroplanes taking off and landing from the makeshift site.
When an Air Force cargo plane landed, we knew that a group of prisoners would disappear.
At the end of December 2001, around a hundred of us were held there, in wooden tents surrounded by barbed-wire walls three metres high.
From the tents, I could see US Air Force planes taking off and landing from the makeshift site.
One afternoon, a group of soldiers in different uniforms from those stationed at the Kandahar site began calling the detainees by their numbers.
I was in a tent with a group of men who couldn't walk, after months of torture at the CIA black site.
I remember it vividly. The soldiers called out my number and ordered me to lie down.
They first set a dog on me and then jumped on my back before restraining me and dragging me to a tent.
They called it a processing station. I was hung up and stripped naked. Male and female soldiers stripped us, shaved our bodies, left us with no hair, mocked our genitals and kicked us.
I watched a young boy as he cried. I spat at the soldiers and told him not to be afraid. They turned their attention to me and beat my mouth hard, splitting my lip.
I spent hours hanging there naked. Then a soldier came with an orange jumpsuit, orange shoes, orange socks, an orange hat - orange everywhere.
It was my first time meeting my new "friend": the colour orange.
I don't remember ever wearing it before.
At that point, I didn't think much about the colour itself. There were also chains and shackles I'd never seen before, goggles, earmuffs, a mask, and a sign reading "BEAT ME".
They dressed me, chained me, hung the sign around my neck, covered my eyes and ears, and forced me to sit on the floor.
When it was time for prayer, I called out and tried to stand to pray. I was beaten, thrown to the floor, gagged with duct tape and strapped to a stretcher.
I could hear the roar of the Air Force engines. We waited like that for hours, then were loaded onto the plane one by one. We were chained to the floor in a circle.
I had no idea where they were taking us or what would happen.
The journey
On board, the soldiers welcomed us with beatings and humiliation, sitting on us and posing for photos.
Every 10 or 15 minutes, I was beaten, as the sign around my neck had instructed.
Loud music, loud engines, pain and sensory deprivation. It was hard to breathe. The shackles on my hands and legs were so tight that I could feel the pain shooting to my brain.
I prayed the journey wouldn't last long.
Hours passed and the pain got worse. I lost feeling in my hands and feet. The earmuff frame dug into my head; I was bleeding, but the beatings never stopped.
When the plane landed, I felt a sense of relief that the journey was over. But that didn’t last.
We were dragged onto another plane, and the journey continued. I was dying, struggling to breathe, unable to hold my body up any longer.
I thought I would die. I prayed to Allah to forgive me and accept me.
I heard someone calling out for prayer: "Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar." Soldiers silenced him immediately. After that, whenever we sensed it was prayer time, we would nudge each other with our elbows to pass the message, and we prayed as best we could under the circumstances.
The next leg of the journey was longer than the first. Where were they taking us? When would it end?
I kept praying to Allah to make it easier for all of us. Someone had already collapsed against me. I was glad I could at least serve as some support.
Finally, the plane landed.
Despite all the pain, I was relieved: Alhamdulillah.
Soldiers started pulling us out one by one. I couldn't walk. I was dragged and passed from one person to another. I could hear laughter.
'Only cowards beat and abuse men who are chained and shackled. Only cowards act that way'
I was chained again, and someone shouted loudly in English while a translator repeated it in Arabic: "You are under the control of the United States Marines. If you try anything, we will eliminate you."
The man kept cursing and humiliating us; the translator added his own insults, too.
I didn't care who he was. To me, they were just a group of cowards. Only cowards beat and abuse men who are chained and shackled. Only cowards act that way.
The bus drove a short distance, then stopped, and I felt us moving over water - a sea.
I felt a kind of relief at the sea. Welcome, friend, I thought. The sea broke through the sensory deprivation.
That was my first clue: the sea was nearby.
The boat sailed for 20 or 30 minutes, then the bus drove again for another 30 to 45 minutes. The Marines spent the whole time beating us. One soldier kept hitting my head from the front and back at the same time. I saw flashes of light each time.
The bus finally stopped. The Marines pulled us out one by one and forced us to kneel on sharp gravel. Hours passed like that. My body refused to cooperate, and the beatings continued.
A dog barked loudly again and sniffed my body. I was barely conscious. I didn’t care much anymore about what came next.
I'd stopped worrying long before, back at the CIA black site, where it had been worse.
I had no feeling left about what was coming.
Oh Allah, I am in your hands. Please don't give them control over me.
Our journey had gone by land, sky, sea, and land again. I never wanted to go back in the air again.
Arriving at Gitmo
After hours of waiting and listening to men scream in pain, soldiers came and dragged my body and threw me onto the concrete, before cutting my orange uniform off my body and stripping me naked again.
I wanted them to remove the hood, the earmuffs, the goggles, the duct tape, the cuffs on my hands and legs.
I'd lost all feeling.
But they didn't.
I felt strong pressure from water over my body, then something like liquid soap and a large, rough brush scraping over my skin. They pretended it was a shower, but it was humiliation and more beating.
I was dragged again to more humiliation, a cavity search, over and over. They laughed and asked, "Where is Osama bin Laden? Welcome, Mr Commander."
A photo was taken. I couldn't see anything. Fingerprints and other procedures followed, but I couldn't make out most of them.
Then a red bracelet was placed on my left hand.
Click here to read the full story: I was 18 when they sent me to Guantanamo. The system that allowed it never went away | Middle East Eye
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