This searing memoir shares the trauma and triumphs of Lakhdar Boumediene and Mustafa Ait Idir's time inside America's most notorious prison.
Lakhdar and Mustafa were living quiet, peaceful lives in Bosnia when, in October 2001, they were arrested and accused of participating in a terrorist plot. After a three-month investigation uncovered no evidence, all charges were dropped and Bosnian courts ordered their freedom. However, under intense U.S. pressure, Bosnian officials turned them over to American soldiers. They were flown blindfolded and shackled to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, where they were held in outdoor cages for weeks as the now-infamous military prison was built around them.
Guantanamo became their home for the next seven years. They endured torture and harassment and force-feedings and beatings, all the while not knowing if they would ever see their families again. They had no opportunity to argue their innocence until 2008, when the Supreme Court issued a landmark ruling in their case, Boumediene v. Bush, confirming Guantanamo detainees' constitutional right to challenge their detention in federal court. Weeks later, the George W. Bush–appointed federal judge who heard their case, stunned by the absence of evidence against them, ordered their release. Now living in Europe and rebuilding their lives, Lakhdar and Mustafa are finally free to share a story that every American ought to know.
Learn more at witnessesbook.com or donate to a crowdsourced restitution fund at GoFundMe.com/witnesses.
This searing memoir shares the trauma and triumphs of Lakhdar Boumediene and Mustafa Ait Idir's time inside America's most notorious prison.
Lakhdar and Mustafa were living quiet, peaceful lives in Bosnia when, in October 2001, they were arrested and accused of participating in a terrorist plot. After a three-month investigation uncovered no evidence, all charges were dropped and Bosnian courts ordered their freedom. However, under intense U.S. pressure, Bosnian officials turned them over to American soldiers. They were flown blindfolded and shackled to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, where they were held in outdoor cages for weeks as the now-infamous military prison was built around them.
Guantanamo became their home for the next seven years. They endured torture and harassment and force-feedings and beatings, all the while not knowing if they would ever see their families again. They had no opportunity to argue their innocence until 2008, when the Supreme Court issued a landmark ruling in their case, Boumediene v. Bush, confirming Guantanamo detainees' constitutional right to challenge their detention in federal court. Weeks later, the George W. Bush–appointed federal judge who heard their case, stunned by the absence of evidence against them, ordered their release. Now living in Europe and rebuilding their lives, Lakhdar and Mustafa are finally free to share a story that every American ought to know.
Learn more at witnessesbook.com or donate to a crowdsourced restitution fund at GoFundMe.com/witnesses.
Witnesses of the Unseen: Seven Years in Guantanamo
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Overview
This searing memoir shares the trauma and triumphs of Lakhdar Boumediene and Mustafa Ait Idir's time inside America's most notorious prison.
Lakhdar and Mustafa were living quiet, peaceful lives in Bosnia when, in October 2001, they were arrested and accused of participating in a terrorist plot. After a three-month investigation uncovered no evidence, all charges were dropped and Bosnian courts ordered their freedom. However, under intense U.S. pressure, Bosnian officials turned them over to American soldiers. They were flown blindfolded and shackled to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, where they were held in outdoor cages for weeks as the now-infamous military prison was built around them.
Guantanamo became their home for the next seven years. They endured torture and harassment and force-feedings and beatings, all the while not knowing if they would ever see their families again. They had no opportunity to argue their innocence until 2008, when the Supreme Court issued a landmark ruling in their case, Boumediene v. Bush, confirming Guantanamo detainees' constitutional right to challenge their detention in federal court. Weeks later, the George W. Bush–appointed federal judge who heard their case, stunned by the absence of evidence against them, ordered their release. Now living in Europe and rebuilding their lives, Lakhdar and Mustafa are finally free to share a story that every American ought to know.
Learn more at witnessesbook.com or donate to a crowdsourced restitution fund at GoFundMe.com/witnesses.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781503602113 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Redwood Press |
| Publication date: | 04/10/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 288 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Witnesses of the Unseen
Seven Years in Guantanamo
By Lakhdar Boumediene, Mustafa Ait Idir, Daniel Hartnett Norland, Jeffrey Rose, Kathleen List
STANFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
Copyright © 2017 Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior UniversityAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5036-0211-3
CHAPTER 1
BEFORE GUANTANAMO
Lakhdar Boumediene
LONG BEFORE I WAS AN ALLEGED TERRORIST, I was a child.
I was born on April 27, 1966. I grew up in Saida, Algeria, a mid-sized city a few hundred miles southwest of Algiers. Most of my family still lives there. When I was growing up, we lived in a house with three bedrooms: one for my parents, one for my five sisters, and one for my four brothers and me.
Our home was in a working-class neighborhood, and our family was fairly poor. My father earned a modest paycheck as a night watchman. But modest becomes meager pretty quickly when a paycheck has to support so many people.
My father is a gentle, soft-spoken man whose slender frame conceals a fierce spirit of pride. He wouldn't borrow money and he wouldn't ask for help. I saw him turn down food at mealtimes so that there would be enough for his kids. As a child, I never once heard him complain.
My father often went out of his way to try to help people who were even less fortunate than we were. When we came across someone in town begging for money, my father would press a few coins into my hand and say, "Give these to him." Sometimes we would bring bread with us on our walks to give to people in need.
That was the kind of community in which I grew up. People looked out for each other. When someone died, the neighbors would take turns preparing meals for the grieving family for at least a month. Our corner of Saida could be a chaotic, hardscrabble place, but we were in it together.
* * *
When I was six, I started going to school. I'll always remember my first teacher, a kind, sympathetic man who understood my family's situation and did what he could to make sure it didn't keep me from getting a good education. He convinced the school administration to give me pens, notebooks, and other supplies for free. If it weren't for him, the simple fact of being poor might have made me hate school. Instead, I loved it. I was an enthusiastic, hard-working student all through elementary school. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I told them I wanted to become a teacher.
Every year, the school gave out books as prizes to the top students, and I usually came in first or second. My favorite subjects were history and geography — I liked to read stories about the past, and it was fun to think about all the places I might travel when I grew up.
In the afternoons and on weekends, my friends and I played in the mountains a short walk outside of Saida. There was a forest where we could run and climb and hide, fields where we played soccer for hours, and a river where we swam and caught fish. We also tried, without success, to catch rabbits.
A few times, we came across a nest of baby doves whose mother had abandoned them, and we took them home and raised them as pets. They spent most of their time in the rafters of our house, and my pet cat Za'iim ("Chief") had the same experience with them as we did with the rabbits.
In the summertime, I lived with my grandparents in their village. It was just fifteen miles outside of Saida, but it felt like a different planet. The houses were spread out instead of crammed together. The roads were dirt instead of asphalt. There was no electricity or running water — we had canisters of gas for the stove and we fetched water from a nearby well with our donkey's help. The biggest difference was the silence. Except for the occasional bark or bray, the village was completely calm.
I loved the peacefulness of the village. I loved spending time with my grandparents and learning about farming from my grandfather and my uncles. Most of all, I loved riding the horses. My grandfather had a few white horses, and I went riding every chance I got. I would climb on the horse, grab its mane, and off I went. I'll never forget how good that felt, galloping bareback across the open fields.
When I reached the sixth grade, they stopped giving me school supplies. And in middle school, money mattered more. The other kids had new backpacks, new clothes, new shoes, new books and notebooks — and I didn't. For the first time, being poor made me feel inferior.
I did what I could to earn some money — I would buy trinkets in the neighborhood souk, where everything was cheap, and resell them at a higher price — but I wasn't able to make enough to afford all the school supplies I needed. Everything came to a head one day in math class.
Our teacher had told us to buy a specific type of ruler and bring it to class. It wasn't an expensive ruler, but it cost more than my parents or I could spare. So when the teacher walked over to my desk and asked where my ruler was, I meekly told him that I hadn't been able to afford it. Disdainfully, the teacher took two dinars out of his pocket and tossed them on my desk.
"There," he spat, as the coins clanked down in front of me. "Go buy one."
The classroom erupted in laughter. I sat there, my ears burning, as the teacher, my classmates, and the two coins stared at me. I still don't know why he did that. He could have taken me aside after class and given me the two dinars, and I would have been grateful for his generosity. Instead, I'll never forget how humiliated I felt that day.
For the next week and a half, I skipped school. I couldn't bring myself to face the other students. I eventually dragged myself back, afraid that my father would find out, but the enthusiasm I had once felt for school was gone. Instead of devouring books and dreaming about college, I counted the days until I turned sixteen, and then I dropped out of high school and signed up for a year-long course in mechanical maintenance at a trade school near my house. I figured it would be a more direct path to a paying job.
At the trade school, my professors appreciated my seriousness. A lot of the students would goof off or skip class, but I wasn't there to waste time. I learned as much as I could, as fast as I could, so that I'd be able to find work. I got along well with a few of the more serious students, and we had a friendly rivalry to see who would earn the highest grade in the program. On the final test at the end of the year, I came in second or third. I had learned a lot, and I was ready to start looking for a job. There was just one thing I had to do first.
In Algeria, before you could get a job, you were required to complete two years of mandatory military service. I really didn't want to be a soldier, but I didn't have a choice, so I enlisted.
Basic training was tough. I wasn't especially comfortable holding a Kalashnikov, no matter how much they trained me. And I was a skinny, frail teenager, so the push-ups and sit-ups and long jogs in the heat were more than I could take. I became very ill, and during Ramadan, when I was fasting, my health got worse. I felt dizzy whenever I stood up.
I was ordered to go to a military hospital for medical exams to determine whether I was fit to serve. If I wasn't, I'd receive a letter exempting me from the two-year requirement. When the doctor came in to speak with me, I saw that he didn't have a letter for me.
"Is that everything?" I asked him.
"I don't know," he answered. "Do you have anything else for me?"
I wasn't sure what he meant, so I shrugged, confused. I was too naive to realize it at the time, but looking back, I'm sure he was hinting that he wanted a bribe.
Since I didn't pay the bribe, I didn't get the letter, and I wound up back at training camp a few days later. I toughed out the last couple of months of basic training. The more sympathetic officers saw how sick I was and didn't make me run or do push-ups. They let me walk while the others jogged.
After basic training, I was assigned to a base in a city not too far from Saida. I was in charge of distributing uniforms and other gear to soldiers. The job itself was fairly boring, but I liked being in the city. After work, I could go to the souk or the café. Best of all, I could go home on weekends to see my family. Sometimes, I went home without first asking my supervising officer for permission, afraid that he would deny my request for no good reason. He may have had his suspicions, but I got away with it for five or six months.
On the holiday of Eid, when several soldiers were given leave permits, my supervising officer told me that he needed me to stay on the base, and that I would be severely punished if I went home. I obeyed his order and missed Eid with my family. I was so sad about it, though, that I went home to see my family the following weekend without asking for permission first. My supervising officer found out and was furious. As punishment, I was transferred to the border patrol.
The border between Algeria and Morocco, or at least the part that I was sent to, was a desolate, barren place. Four other soldiers and I were in charge of a five-mile stretch of border. We patrolled the area with our Kalashnikovs and made sure no one came in or went out. Our stretch of border was in a mountainous region without roads or power lines, and in my year there, I didn't see a single person try to cross.
Because it was a military zone and civilians weren't allowed in, I didn't really see anyone other than my fellow soldiers and the driver who brought us food every few days. It was a dull, lonely year.
In the evenings, we passed time playing cards by candlelight. On days when we weren't on patrol, some of the other guys hunted hyenas and snakes, but I never did. The area was crawling with scorpions. I would stay inside and whittle — I could fashion pretty good-looking birds out of a block of wood, which I would send to family members and friends as gifts. It wasn't much, but it was a scorpion-free way to fend off the boredom.
After about a year at the border, my two years were finally up. I was relieved to get my military ticket and go home, where I could get a normal job and not have to worry about soldiers or scorpions or grueling physical exercise ever again.
After recuperating from service, I started looking for a job. I went to a coffee shop near my house with a pen and notebook, and I sat for hours each morning writing cover letters. "To Whom It May Concern: I am Lakhdar Boumediene. I have a diploma in mechanical maintenance. I am seeking employment as. ..." I sent letters to dozens of companies looking for work.
A few weeks later, one of them wrote back. I was excited when I saw the Cement & Lime Factory logo on the envelope. It was a factory ten miles outside Saida. The letter invited me to come to the factory and take a test. If I passed, they would hire me.
I was so nervous that I had trouble sleeping the night before, but the test was fair and I managed to do well. About a week later, I started working as one of the factory's repairmen. Finally, I had a respectable job.
At 7:30 every morning, a company bus picked me up at a bus stop not too far from my house. I worked on a four-person team that went around the factory fixing various machines that broke down throughout the day. The key was to keep the factory running without interruption.
It felt good to have a regular job and a regular paycheck, to provide for myself and help my family with some of the bills. I also was fortunate to have a great group of co-workers whom I got along well with.
One of my friends at work was a religious man who encouraged me to join him in his prayers and at the mosque. My parents had always taught me to believe in God, and we were faithful Muslims — we fasted during Ramadan, never drank alcohol, celebrated Eid with large family gatherings where everyone brought different desserts, and slaughtered a lamb on the Feast of the Sacrifice to share with people in need — but we hadn't been regular mosque-goers. My grandparents' village where I spent my summers didn't even have a mosque.
With my friend's encouragement, I began going to the mosque more often, and I always found it to be an uplifting experience. The imam would read words from the Qur'an or the hadith, and deliver sermons on themes like the importance of doing good deeds and the need to look out for one another. I know that some imams twist the words of the Qur'an and hadith to incite anger or even violence, but my mosque was a place of peace.
After several months working at the Cement & Lime Factory, I had saved up enough money and enough vacation days to take a trip. I took a steamboat to Alicante, a tourist town on Spain's Mediterranean coast. The glistening beaches, the bright colors, the happy crowds — it was like nothing I'd ever seen before. I determined, then and there, that I wanted to see more of the world beyond Algeria.
For a while, I thought that I could have a comfortable, happy life working at the cement factory, exploring the world when I had vacation time, and growing old in Saida with my family, my friends, and my faith. The longer I worked at the cement plant, though, the more I realized that it was a pretty dangerous place. There was dust everywhere, and the older workers complained that after years of inhaling it all day, every day, their lungs were shot. "You're still young," they told me. "Get out while you can."
And there were frequent accidents. In my first year there, I heard about a few deaths. One man was repairing the industrial-size sintering oven when part of it fell on him, killing him. The danger didn't really sink in until I saw one of the accidents myself.
Every day, trucks would arrive from the quarry with large limestone boulders. The trucks dumped the boulders through holes in the ground onto a conveyor belt that carried them to the crusher. One day, a young coworker of mine was standing too close to the hole as boulders were being dumped in. I don't know why he was there, and I don't know if he tripped, or was startled, but he fell into the hole with the boulders.
We stopped the conveyor belt, and dozens of men began frantically pulling away rock. Some workers pulled boulders away from the top; I went with some others down to the conveyor belt and tried to get to him from below. As the rock shifted, he fell through the hole, and a few of us caught him. I could tell right away that he was dead. An ambulance came, but it didn't matter. The paramedics pronounced him dead on the spot. He had been crushed.
Between the dust and the deaths, I started to think that I should try to find a new line of work. In 1990, when I was twenty-four years old, I ran into a childhood friend who was back in Saida on vacation from his job in Pakistan.
"How can you keep working here, in the dust?" he asked. "There are tons of jobs in Pakistan. Come to Pakistan, stay in my home for a few weeks, and I'll help you find work."
It was an appealing offer. I didn't want to work in a cement factory for the rest of my life, and I wasn't sure what else I could do if I stayed in Saida. And my trip to Spain had made me interested in travel. I decided to go to Pakistan and see what it was like — if I didn't like it I could always come back. I hoped it would be like Alicante.
It wasn't. I was shocked, when I arrived in Pakistan, by the grime, the poverty, the oppressive heat, and the general unpleasantness of the place. After two weeks, I was ready to turn around and go home.
There was just one problem — at some point during those two weeks, I was bitten by a mosquito carrying malaria. I became quite ill and was hospitalized. By the time I recovered and got out of the hospital, months later, I didn't have enough money for a plane ticket home.
So I looked for work. I heard about a job opening at the Hira Institute, a boarding school for Afghan refugee children who had lost their fathers in the war against the Soviets. I could see why the position hadn't been filled — the pay was low, the hours were long, you were expected to live at the Institute, and the nearest large city was twenty-five miles away. Whoever took the job wouldn't get to have much of a life outside the Institute.
The job appealed to me, though. I actually liked the idea of living at the Institute. I wouldn't spend any money on restaurants or rent, so I could save up everything I was paid. That way, if I didn't like the job, it wouldn't be too long until I could afford a flight home.
Also, I loved the idea of working with orphans. I would be continuing my father's tradition of doing good deeds, and I'd always had a soft spot in my heart for orphans. One of my older brothers had divorced his wife when she was pregnant and refused to have anything to do with his son. I felt terrible for the poor child, growing up without a father. I would give him candy whenever I saw him, and clothes for Eid, but I never felt like it was enough. And here was a chance to help dozens of children whose circumstances were even more difficult than his.
So I went to the Hira Institute and told them I was interested. I had a brief conversation with the deputy director, who asked me if I drink (no), if I care about doing charitable work (yes), and if I minded spending all of my time at the Institute (no). I was hired on the spot.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Witnesses of the Unseen by Lakhdar Boumediene, Mustafa Ait Idir, Daniel Hartnett Norland, Jeffrey Rose, Kathleen List. Copyright © 2017 Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University. Excerpted by permission of STANFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents and Abstracts1 chapter abstractIn Chapter 1, Lakhdar recounts his childhood in rural Algeria and his young adulthood in Pakistan, Yemen, and Albania. He then describes settling down in Bosnia, starting a family, and assisting orphans as an employee of the Red Crescent. The chapter concludes with Lakhdar's memories of September 11, 2001.
2 chapter abstractIn Chapter 2, Mustafa recounts his childhood in Algiers and his young adulthood in Croatia. He then describes settling down in Bosnia, starting a family, and working as a computer technician for the charitable organization Taibah International while also being a member of the Bosnian karate team. The chapter concludes with Mustafa's memories of September 11, 2001.
3 chapter abstractIn Chapter 3, Lakhdar describes being arrested by Bosnian police, accused of plotting to attack the U.S. Embassy Sarajevo, and held in a Bosnian jail cell for three months before being "released" into the arms of an American special operations team.
4 chapter abstractIn Chapter 4, Mustafa describes being arrested by Bosnian police, accused of plotting to attack the U.S. Embassy Sarajevo, and held in a Bosnian jail cell for three months before being "released" into the arms of an American special operations team.
5 chapter abstractIn Chapter 5, Lakhdar recounts being taken to the American military base in Butmir, on the outskirts of Sarajevo, and from there to a base in Tuzla, Bosnia, from which he was flown to Turkey and then on to Guantanamo. He describes the physical and psychological abuse he endured en route.
6 chapter abstractIn Chapter 6, Mustafa recounts being taken to the American military base in Butmir, on the outskirts of Sarajevo, and from there to a base in Tuzla, Bosnia, from which he was flown to Turkey and then on to Guantanamo. He describes the physical and psychological abuse he endured en route.
7 chapter abstractIn Chapter 7, Lakhdar describes his early days in Guantanamo, when he was held in an outdoor animal cage in Camp X-Ray. He shares stories about his cell neighbors, living conditions, medical treatment, and the guards and interpreters.
8 chapter abstractIn Chapter 8, Mustafa describes his early days in Guantanamo, when he was held in an outdoor animal cage in Camp X-Ray. He shares stories about his cell neighbors, living conditions, medical treatment, and the guards.
9 chapter abstractIn Chapter 9, Lakhdar recounts his experiences being interrogated for the first time. He also shares more details about living conditions in Camp X-Ray.
10 chapter abstractIn Chapter 10, Mustafa recounts being brought from the outdoor cages of Camp X-Ray to the indoor cells of Camp Delta. He also describes his early interrogations and various punishments he endured, including solitary confinement and being sexually harassed by a female interrogator.
11 chapter abstractIn Chapter 11, Lakhdar describes life in Camp Delta, being held in solitary confinement, being physically abused during interrogations, and refusing to speak or eat for more than two weeks.
12 chapter abstractIn Chapter 12, Mustafa describes the everyday hardships of Guantanamo, detainees' efforts to communicate with their families, and doctors' refusal to provide medical treatment unless he provided information to his interrogators.
13 chapter abstractIn Chapter 13, Lakhdar describes the Combatant Status Review Tribunal process, explains why he refused to attend his own "show trial," and recounts his participation as a character witness in Hadj Boudella and Mohamed Nechla's tribunals.
14 chapter abstractIn Chapter 14, Mustafa explains why he decided to attend his Combatant Status Review Tribunal and recounts the testimony that he delivered.
15 chapter abstractIn Chapter 15, Lakhdar recounts his initial meeting with the WilmerHale lawyers, who would go on to argue his habeas corpus case, and shares his initial concern about challenging a U.S. President in a lawsuit, Boumediene v. Bush, that bore his name.
16 chapter abstractIn Chapter 16, Mustafa describes his interactions with the WilmerHale legal team that argued his habeas corpus case and expresses his gratitude for their pro bono work.
17 chapter abstractIn Chapter 17, Lakhdar recounts the psychological abuse he endured at the hands of one interrogator, nicknamed "The Elephant." He also describes the living conditions in Camp Romeo, where he was held for much of his time in Guantanamo, and he relays a conversation he had with a visiting Bosnian official about his plight.
18 chapter abstractIn Chapter 18, Mustafa describes an incident in which he was forcibly extracted from his cell and brutally beaten by a team of guards, causing injuries from which he will never fully recover.
19 chapter abstractIn Chapter 19, Lakhdar recounts witnessing the guards abuse Mustafa and then speaking with Mustafa afterward. He also offers more detail about the living conditions in Camp Romeo and his ongoing interactions with "The Elephant."
20 chapter abstractIn Chapter 20, Mustafa describes his slow, painful recovery from being brutally beaten, offering an account of the guards who tried to help him and the various ways in which doctors and nurses either refused to treat or mistreated his injuries.
21 chapter abstractIn Chapter 21, Lakhdar reflects on various ways in which the guards showed disrespect to each other, to prisoners, and to Islam. He then calls for a non-violent response to these affronts, and recounts a conversation he had with a respectful, compassionate guard.
22 chapter abstractIn Chapter 22, Mustafa describes the affronts to Islam that he witnessed and the powerlessness he felt to do anything about it.
23 chapter abstractIn Chapter 23, Lakhdar explains his decision to begin a hunger strike and describes the experience of being force-fed through a tube. He also recounts a conversation with Belkacem Bensayah and a few moments of levity amid the horrors of Guantanamo.
24 chapter abstractIn Chapter 24, Mustafa describes the hardship of being separated from his family and the experience of hearing his five-year-old son's voice for the very first time during a telephone conversation.
25 chapter abstractIn Chapter 25, Lakhdar describes how he learned about the Supreme Court's ruling in Boumediene v. Bush. He then recounts watching, on a teleconference screen in what had once been an interrogation room, as his habeas hearing unfolded hundreds of miles away in Judge Leon's Washington, D.C. courtroom.
26 chapter abstractIn Chapter 26, Mustafa shares his thoughts about the habeas corpus hearing, testifying by teleconference, and hearing Judge Leon announce the ruling in his case.
27 chapter abstractIn Chapter 27, Lakhdar describes how the guards and other detainees reacted to Judge Leon's ruling, and explains why he was determined to maintain his hunger strike even after Judge Leon ordered his release.
28 chapter abstractIn Chapter 28, Mustafa recounts his last month in Guantanamo, describing how he was still treated as a guilty man even in his final days there.
29 chapter abstractIn Chapter 29, Lakhdar describes finding out, just hours before the plane to Bosnia took off, that he would not be allowed to return to Bosnia. He recounts waiting months in Guantanamo before another country, France, agreed to accept him, and he shares some details about his last days in Guantanamo and the plane flight to France.
30 chapter abstractIn Chapter 30, Mustafa recounts landing in Sarajevo, being driven to his house by Bosnian officials, and seeing his son running behind the car as they pulled into the driveway of his home.
31 chapter abstractIn Chapter 31, Lakhdar recounts being flown to Paris, being reunited with his family, and readjusting to regular meals and post-Guantanamo life.
Epilogue: chapter abstractIn his Epilogue, Mustafa describes his post-Guantanamo life as a teacher, shop owner, karate coach, and father. He also shares his thoughts on the lessons he hopes we will learn from what he went through.
Epilogue: chapter abstractIn his Epilogue, Lakhdar describes his post-Guantanamo life in a small town outside of Nice, France. He discusses the ways in which Guantanamo changed him, the joys and struggles of becoming reacquainted with his family, and the birth of his youngest son, Yusuf. Chapter keywords: Nice, France; PTSD; temper; Youssef Boumediene.