Lightness of Being…

The tension between Africans and Arabs in the East coast of Africa spans centuries. In the farthest reaches of their collective memory, Africans still remember that Arabs pioneered as slave traders long before Europeans launched the brutal Atlantic slave trade on the West Coast of Africa.  

The terms “Africans” and “Arabs” is really used loosely though. For, within Kenya alone there are estimated to be over 40 indigenous tribes all characterized by their own distinctive language and cultural norms. The Kikuyu and Luo were the largest “power broker” tribes in
Kenya.  

Moi, the infamous despot who was in power for a record 24 years, was surprisingly part of an ethnic minority Kalenjin tribe. There were a lot of antagonisms between the various tribes to begin with, who were roughly grouped together and forced to share a national border by the European’s infamous “Scramble for Africa”. The “Divide and Rule” conquest strategy initiated by the British was finessed by President Moi. He kept his opponents divided and disorganized and appointed his own tribesmen (and allies) to key positions in government to solidify his rule.  

A majority of the coastal tribes such as the Digo, Giriama, and Duruma had converted to Islam and inter married with the Arabs. The rise of a distinct culture and language blending both Arabic architecture and African dialects, created generations of melded colors, hair textures, and the gradual loss of Hadhrami Arabic to the formation of Swahili.   

There were of course, “pure” Arabs who refused to let their families inter-marry with the African tribes. They could proudly trace their family trees, stems and roots all the way to
Yemen, and some even had the distinctive sacred branch of coming all the way from the Prophet Muhammad’s (Peace Be Upon Him) lineage. The fact that there are Indian, Pakistani, Afghani, West African, North African, and Chinese families that hold on to similar claims of pure lineages to the Prophet’s (Peace Be Upon Him) tree was not held to be an incongruous claim. In contrast, it was heralded as evidence of the miracle nature of his Prophet-hood. He was sent to all of mankind and therefore many of his descendants could claim that special connection to him. 

The Arabs in Yemen slowly began to lose connections with their brethren in Africa. While guests to Yemen from other Arab countries like Saudi Arabia, UAE, and even the West were received with wide open arms those from Kenya and her neighboring countries were ambivalently welcomed. The ingrained customs of generosity stubbornly refused one to turn away a guest, but families in Yemen were quick to point out the “Sawaheli” (Swahili) origins of their guests and quicker to distance themselves as family.  

When Zack’s aunt went to visit Yemen for the first time, she was shocked at the curiosity that received her. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Fatima” 

“oh, she has an Arabic name!” 

They inspected her hair, her skin tone, her Arabic accent, and still made sure to inform the rest that she was a ‘Sawaheli’ visitor.   “Pure” bred Arab families soon started running out of choices to marry. Cousins intermarried so much that mentally disabled children started to be born. Younger generations rebelled and insisted on their right to marry a person of their own choice. Soon even the staunchest of families had to admit an Indian here, another African there, and the stronghold on purity began to ease. 

Ethnic tensions were also exacerbated by the war of the classes. Most of the Arabs, who could afford to migrate from Yemen, had some wealth to begin with. Those who did not came up with daring ways to become entrepreneurs and soon were hiring “locals” for domestic jobs and other servile positions. Since human labor was so cheap, even the lower middle class (of all ethnicities) could afford to hire at least one servant.  

The servant-master relationship was conducted with a firm hand. Servants had their own quarters, towels, cups, plates, pots and food. Even among the same African tribes, servants were not allowed to mingle too familiarly with the families. 

Treatment of the servants, of course, depended on the generosity of the family involved. Some were cruel and were repaid back by little revenges stealthily taken behind their backs: Spitting in the food here, stealing a little trinket there.  

Some families were really kind and generous, but acted as if their very generosity was a cause for celebration on the Servant’s side. If the servant were to commit an infraction despite the employer’s benevolence, women shook their heads sadly and consoled each other: 

“It’s okay; you know you can’t be nice to ‘these people’. The only way to deal with them is firmness. If you are too nice, they start climbing all over your head!” 

Within the upper echelons of the Kenyan society, where wealth was concentrated, rich people acknowledged each other with bare civility, and were forced to deal equitably with each other. With the lower masses however, the game was played differently. A rich powerful Luo, could treat a humble Arab trader with the same racist attitude, that the Arab would in turn use on his employees.  

There was another dynamic at play too. The Coastal region which had flourished a couple of centuries ago due to trading and exploration had been on a gradual decline. After Kenya’s independence, the ports and major lands were divided up among Kenya’s elite (invariably of the Kikuyu and Luo tribe). Soon jobs in the Coastal region were appropriated to people from “Bara” (the interior of Kenya).  

As more immigrants came in to the Coast, more Coastal families were broken up, and men were forced to go abroad in search of other means of livelihood. The rest who stayed back, were faced with exorbitant unemployment rates (higher than the National average), and a listless lethargy that attracted young men and women to drugs, prostitution and other illicit activities. 

There was a general discontent among the Coastal region and murmurs of discrimination found their expression in the formation of the explosive Islamic Party of Kenya, which for a brief shining moment brought all their grievances to the forefront and coated them with an Islamic fervor that united all downtrodden ethnicities under its banner; but was inevitably squashed by the long and adept hand of Moi’s administration.  

The vicious cycle of hate, ignorance, and racism never got really out of hand though. Fortunately for Kenya, unlike Idi Amin’s Uganda, there was an intuitive sense that all the races and classes were interdependent and hence one could not be exiled without the detriment of all.  

Bush’s infamous ‘War on Terror’ however, cracked open a door to allow the floodgates of pent up emotions and old prejudices a freer reign.  

“These Arabs are going to get what had been due to them for a long time” 

{-} 

Six months.

Or was it a year? Two years?After a while calendar dates, holidays, birthdays, and even night and day began to lose meaning.

The prisoners were stuck in an eternally intractable moment oozing with a wretchedness that knew no bounds. 

Zack had learned a few important lessons since his arrival at the pearly gates of the Bay. 

Lesson 1: Privileges were at the discretion of the guards. 

“As long as you are here, I am your God.”  Since writing material could be revoked at will; Zack began scratching the floor, his bed railing, the water bucket anything he could use as a pad, with his calloused hands and overgrown dirty nails. He had the insistent need to assert his being by marking his territory, to deeply engrave the one thing that he could never forget.  The word “Hana’a” was written over and over again. 

{-} 

The good thing about spies in a small community like Mombasa, or even the Coast province in
Kenya, was that news about them traveled fast. It did not take long, for the larger community to tell who the spies were among them were. Sometimes, the spies themselves would voluntarily divulge the information in their excitement, or overwhelming need to confess to their relatives and loved ones. The relatives would warn their “close” friends, who in turn would tell anyone with ears that “so and so is a spy.”  

People soon started avoiding them, and instinctively curbed their political discontents; even the walls have ears nowadays.  

Reports to the CIA and the National Security Intelligence Service of Kenya, were often contradictory, exaggerated, and full of gaping holes. Sometimes the spies made up information about their neighbors in the pressure to come up with something exciting to report, or the need to prove themselves above the others of their ranks.  

News of raids would reach the suspects before the decision was even finalized, giving them ample of time to arrange for a quick escape. In their frustration however, the police would round up anyone in the household or even curious bystanders in big trucks and take them for “interrogation”. The poor people, always innocent, would be beaten, abused, and shackled eventually to be let out only after many palms have been greased.  

While the FBI, still insisted on a modicum of sophistication and civility, applying stealth and discretion in their “raids”; NSIS was completely free from such unnecessary restraints. They attacked in broad daylight, threatening with open hatred, and inflicting torture with confidence borne and approved by the world’s only superpower. As long as they were engaged in the relentless and obscure pursuit of “terrorists”, the world could afford to turn a blind eye to their injustices. In fact, they were lauded for being “key allies” in the “war on terror”.  

Khalid Al Amoody caught wind of his implication in the Nairobi Embassy bombing and set to work quickly. He divested all his property and left specific instructions with his Lawyer on what to do with them. He packed up a small bag with his bare necessities, and set off using different means to an undisclosed location till things calmed down.  

He was a powerful businessman with many enemies. He understood that his implication with the bombing had little to do with his nonexistent guilt, and everything to do with petty grievances accumulated over the years.  

{-} 

Sitting on a rock, with her feet submerged in the rushing waters, Summayya stared blindly at the fathomless horizon.  

She couldn’t shake off feelings of despair cloaking her soul.
It’s useless, utterly useless. 

Everything she had worked for, the entirety of her beliefs and passions were just pretty decorations added to “distinguish” her personality.  

She was just as bad as all the aunties and uncles she had always derided. She was much worse, carrying around a brave heart thinking she could change the world. She knew nothing of oppression, tasted nothing of the bitter suffering of this earth. She was just a suburb kid, who had come to realize her “missions” were simply child’s play.   

Researching Zackarriya’s fate, led Summayya to the horrors suffered by hordes of nameless and faceless victims of the “war on terror”. She spoke to wives mourning the fates of their husbands, to ex-detainees who spoke of brutality in soft dead voices, and to mothers who wept their sons’ sudden disappearances.
She witnessed first hand how the last strand of Hannah’s hope was squashed and how her eyes lost their sparkle. Hannah had forced her mom to the Masjid where she was certain her baba was just waiting for her. She saw how the little girl ran from class room to class room, from the prayer place to the basketball court, yelling his name over and over again.  

She saw how her little shoulders shook, how her mom had to hug her forcibly, and force her into her arms, shaking and weeping.  

She saw how slumped her little frame was, when she walked out the Masjid door and never looked back again.
The letter writing campaigns, sit-ins, protests, and marches did nothing to change the reality of the world. Pundits were busily splitting hairs on the actual definition of “torture” and calmly discussing the moral ambivalence Gitmo put the US in. No one was paying for the untold crimes being committed in the lofty name of “freedom”.   

Rumsy and his cronies, must be having a good laugh at our expense. 

She had screamed until she was hoarse; no one had ears anymore. 

She felt lost and lonely. The stories she heard kept replaying in her head over and over again. Zackarriyya had become a symbol for her, and the abyss he had disappeared into, brought back all the memories of her earlier defeats. 

Speaking up against 9/11 mattered little since all Muslims were still categorically condemned. Marching and organizing against the war in Afghanistan was futile as blood still continued to flow. The euphoria of joining millions in the march against Iraq was in vain; as they were finally shocked and awed into silence. 

Summayya felt like a failure. Her whole existence was centered on chasing one mirage after another.  

Nothing really matters anymore. 

{-} 

The arrival of ‘fresh meat’ in Guantanamo Bay always titillated the military guards. They took bets on how long it would take to break the newbie. Some were more stubborn than others, and those especially were the challenge that they sought out with patience and skill borne out of long years of experience. Even those without experience learnt quickly. 

 They were engaged in a war on terror. And many had discovered newfound zeal and meaning in their patriotic fervor to prove their duty and stand up with the civilized, the good, and the mighty; against those aggressive, cowardly, freedom-hating, women-oppressing, murdering savages.  

To the soldiers, breaking the prisoners had taken on the form of a sport; there was little else to keep them busy.  They were stuck in a base with little contact with the outside world. Mail was constantly delayed; phone use was too expensive; and the internet was too slow and had a lengthy waiting list.  

Everything cost much higher for them on the base, and they were not even allowed the luxury of cost of living allowance.  

Those guarding Camp X-ray and a few others were completely insulated from the rest of the Base population which numbered 10,000 at one time. Their neighbors knew nothing of the on goings at the camps, which coupled with the lack of media access, allowed the guards plenty of room to flex their “creativity”.  They were bored. They needed to kill time. And of course perform their duties with highest distinction. 

 The Morale, Welfare, and Recreation (MWR) office spent a lot of resources organizing family events for the residents. They had Jazz concerts, hiking clubs, and shows once in a while to rouse them off their feelings of boredom and isolation.  

“The active members are happy.”

 MWR proudly declared once, conveniently omitting the number of how many “happy” members actually resided on their little bay.

 {-} 

Lesson 2: Interrogation was just a pretty word for Torture. 

The first day he was called for “questioning” he instinctively flinched. Two guards shackled him, chained his legs, and half dragged him across the yard to the “conference room”, where all interrogations too place. They immediately proceeded to unshackle him.  

What a waste of time. 

“Strip!” one of the guards commanded. 

“What?” he could not seem to comprehend the order. 

Thud! Zack was kicked directly in the crotch.
“How many times do I have to repeat myself?” the guard asked with clenched teeth. 

Doubled up with pain, Zack slowly began undressing himself, a new more lingering agony of debasement slowly overshadowing all the physical hurt he had endured.  

“You don’t have to make it so boring! Strip like a dancer! Now” 

 The two guards started guffawing in amusement. Justin, the younger, more enthusiastic guard, had the brilliant idea of turning on some music.  

“Come on follow that beat!” He ordered, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks.  

What you gon’ do with all that junk?
All that junk inside your trunk?
I’ma get, get, get, get, you drunk,
Get you love drunk off my hump.
My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,
My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps.

Zack contorted his body in what he thought the guards wanted. He felt the burning fires of shame stemming from his depths, rising with the tears that threatened to overflow. This little game continued on for what seemed like forever.
“We have to do a cavity search. Bend over!” Tom, the older more experienced soldier drawled.  

Zack did as he was told. He felt the rough brunt of a club tearing him apart. He yelped in pain and stood up only to receive a blow to his face. He fell flat on the ground, Justin proceeded to shackle his arms to each side of the table, while Tom aroused beyond care, started taking out his clothes. 

Zack howled like a wounded animal, as they took turns raping him, and chastising him for “daring to put your nigger hands on one of our women.” 

“But I’m not black!” he sputtered. 

Zack’s ridiculous assertion was met with renewed enthusiasm to teach this savage where he belongs in this world.  

“I AMA NIGGA!” he bellowed over and over again, on command, as they alternatively beat him, assaulted him, and called him every conceivably filthy thing a human could think of.  

They dragged his unconscious body back to his cage late that night. Even the stars had to momentarily close their twinkling eyes at the sight of Zack; naked, trembling, bruised, bleeding, and utterly stripped of any claims he could ever make on his manhood. The night gently turned darker, shrouding Zack’s shame with her warm, soothing blackness. 

{-} 

Lesson 3: There are No privileges. 

His fifteen minute shower a week, turned into a constant source of amusement for the guards. Tom, who had developed a fondness for Zack, always made sure he joined him in his showers. He especially enjoyed alternatively crushing and fondling Zack’s testicles and “scrubbing” his back for him. 

{-} 

Lesson 4: Asking questions is treason and could cost your life. 

The one time Zack mumbled that he had done nothing wrong and had some rights under the constitution. The soldiers took him into “isolation”. He was stripped, his body contorted in an impossible embryonic position, and short shackled to the floor. They left him there without food or water, to piss and shit on his-self for 36 hours. 

When the guards went in to finally get him, they were stunned at the sight before them.  

Zack was unconscious, his bald head bleeding, with a pile of hair next to him.
 

He had literally pulled his hair out, one by one, all night long. 

{-} 

“Hannah, I have something to say. It is not easy, but you have to know” Jenna with her parents behind her kneeled in front of her daughter. 

“Your baba is dead. An accident sweety, his body was recovered two weeks ago” “

NO! NO! I am not listening” Hannah’s little hands covered her ears and she started screaming to drown out her mom’s words. 

Jenna had to do it. The psychiatrist had told her Hannah needed closure. Her daughter had no way of resolving her dad’s disappearance and will continue to act up unless she knew something definite. The news, any news, would help Hannah deal with the loss, in the proper segmentation of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance.  

It was horrible to lie to her own daughter, but Jenna had no other options. Hannah was visibly wasting away and she could not sit by and watch her consume herself at such a young age. 

Later that night, Jenna sat down and penned a tentative letter to Zack’s parents.
 

It was the least she could do.  

{-} 

Lesson 4: Keep your eyes lowered.  

He saw dead eyes, defeated eyes, eyes that spoke of a deep betrayal of humanity, eyes that couldn’t weep anymore, eyes that lost all hope. Zack understood why they kept them lowered, and spoke only in hushed listless tones to each other across cages.  

Communication between prisoners was strictly forbidden. But they found little ways to pass notes using a makeshift pulley system from cell to cell. The notes were always filled with little satirical poems made about their guards, hopeful verses from the Quran, or fantastic stories of excitement and adventure. No complaints were ever penned or shared between mates.  

They shared an unspoken code of silence, when it came to what they were enduring; knowing that giving voice to any of the things they had to live with would certainly drive them insane. 

{-}
 

Maryamu wept softly in the arms of her old husband.  

She knew that something had gone horribly wrong months ago. It wasn’t like Zack not to make his monthly call. She had no way of contacting anyone else in the US to confirm her mother’s intuition, and thus she simply waited and prayed. 

Saidi, her son in law, immediately made calls to Nairobi. One of the firms that regularly contracted his truck was owned by a high ranking Government official. Saidi had talked to him many times and they mutually respected each other. Maybe he could do something to help. 

Maryamu woke up into the depths of that night: Weeping, praying, bargaining, she made her case to God for the safe keeping of her son. 

{-} 

 Zack started reading the Quran compulsively. 

He was fascinated by the concept of evil.
 

Why was evil created? How to rid of the world of evil?  

He had plenty of time to reflect.  

The inanity of his life prior to Gitmo amused him now. How he worried about the silliest things.  

He tried to conceptualize how life would be if he ever left his cage. But he couldn’t conceive it. 

Even images of his little Hana’a had grown blurry. He couldn’t decide if the color of her eyes were brown or green? Her hair too kept getting darker and lighter in his confused recollections. 

He called out to her at night, in his nightmares, and was invariably kicked awake to stop his “sniveling and moaning” by one of the guards. 

{-} 

“Our aim is to put you in hell so you’ll tell the truth. These are our orders - to turn your life into hell.” 

Zack finally understood what hell meant. It can’t get any worse than this. There was little left to surprise him anymore.  

He spit up blood, pee-ed blood, coughed up blood. Hell, he even shit blood. 

He couldn’t pray anymore.
Raising his hands while covered in filth, an unbearable stench, trying to pick off the lice from his head and body, did not make sense to him. 

God would never listen to me.  

I am not human. I am worse than a dog. I am a piece of shit allowed to subsist as some crazy comical aberration of life.  

{-}

Lesson 5: It doesn’t matter what lesson this was, Zack already broke it. 

“Hana’a? Is that you?” Zack couldn’t believe his eyes. “

What are you doing here honey? Come on let me hide you” There was nowhere to hide her, so Zack simply took her to the corner of his cage.  

“I miss you baba” Hana’a’s spoke so softly, Zack had to really focus to hear her. 

“I miss you more than you will ever know my little baby” he started weeping. 

Her eyes were golden green! How could he have forgotten?  Those big soulful, golden green eyes stirred something long forgotten in him.  

“Tell me about yourself honey! What has happened to you? Are you okay my little baby?” 

Zack and Hana’a talked all night long, laughing, sharing, and catching up. Her fragrance filled his cell with scents of vanilla and apples. Her laughter brought him memories of his boyhood ocean, her innocence a light in the pitch darkness of his tunnel, her sweetness a balm to his dying soul. 

Zack finally had his Hana’a back. He grinned manically and refused to leave the corner where his little Hana’a sat with her lacey pink dress, pig tails and bows. 

The guards, a bit scared by the crazy glint in his eye, left him alone.  

He never really had a chance.  

{-} 

Zack’s body was found the next day, laid out straight in his bed, with a neat slit right across his throat. 

How he managed to find a razor, when even the pens that were given to them were rubbery and soft, no one could figure out. 

He died with a disturbing smile on his face. 

The guards refused to touch the body. Finally, an ambulance was called and the paramedics got the privilege of doing the job. 

Not a single news media reported his death. 

He was buried in an undisclosed location, his funeral attended only by a grave digger and a guard. 

{-} 

His family continued to fight for his release. It wasn’t until 5 years later that they found out he was dead. 

{-}        

Zachary Moody.

Born 1964 died 2004.
 

R.I.P. 

{-}

Zackariyya Bin Salim Al Amoody

Inna Lillahi Wainna Ilayhi Rajioon. 

To Him we belong and to Him we shall return.

{-}