| The prisoner’s cry pierced through the hot Caribbean air. It was not the first time that such a shriek had roused the rest of the detainees from their daily lethargy. But this time it brought them to their feet and unleashed a flurry of noise, as they pounded the cement floors and rattled the wire mesh of their cells. An invisible force unsettled the stillness of the island. Despite slights against the prisoners’ religious practices, insults muttered by angry guards, and accusations from interrogators, prior to this moment, life at Guantanamo had appeared under control.
Until one prisoner saw his Koran kicked. Until his wail became a call to action.
Several evenings later, the prisoners still in revolt, another man, his hat in hand, walked through the camp as he had done many times before. This time, he paused before a row of cages that had direct sight lines into the cage of the one who shrieked. Bending forward, the general sat on the hardened, dry earth, his legs crossed and his head bare, and looked through the mesh and into the eyes of the prisoner before him, one of many who had elected to go on a hunger strike after the incident with the Koran. “Talk to me,” he said. “Please talk to me.” |