Christmas in Guantanamo Bay
By Olivia Scott-Berry / Spinebreakers Crew
A Christmas story based on Guantanamo Boy
“Oi, you, wake up!”
Khalid opened his eyes drowsily as the familiar feelings of confusion and then realization washed over him, shielding his eyes from the dazzling light of the guard’s torches.
“Come on, get up, we haven’t got all night. I’ve gotta get home,” The pallid, wretched guard turned to the other, “Cindy’s waiting for me, says she got a Christmas present I’ll never forget. I’m on the first redeye, in half an hour. Or at least I would be, if the bloody martyr over here wasn’t so bloody lazy!”
His last directed to Khalid, he wrenched open the cage door, cursing as he caught his skin on the jagged edge of the catch. Pulling Khalid roughly by the elbow, he dragged him to his feet, and Khalid stiffened, waiting for the familiar dark, dimmed view which the customary hood brought with it. When he was not suddenly plunged into darkness, Khalid tentatively opened one eye, wary of the guard’s tricks. Sensing that perhaps there would be no hood for him today, Khalid opened the other eye, more freely than the first. But as soon as the relative freedom came, it was gone, as, with a chuckle, the guards pitched Khalid into obscurity.
* * * * * * *
Khalid struggled along the slippery surface, once paved with cracks to catch your feet on, now streaming with some artful liquid, which seemed to be in cohorts with the guards to trip him up. As one of the guards mumbled something to the other, Khalid remembered something that the skinny guard had said, ‘Christmas’.
“Christmas? It’s Christmas? Is it December? The twenty-fifth? Answer me!” Khalid screamed, not sure why this small detail, which was really insignificant to him, suddenly seemed so important.
“Shut up.” Yelled the skinny guard, wrenching the hood of Khalid with such force that his neck snapped backwards. Itching to rub his aching neck, Khalid looked around, only to find himself in a dank room no bigger than his cage.
“What’s going on? Why have you bought me here? Answer me, you bastards!” Khalid attempted to thump on the door which the guards were now heaving shut.
“IS IT CHRISTMAS? WHAT’S THE DATE?” Khalid bellowed, again smashing his hands against the door. He swore violently as the handcuffs rubbing against his wrists dragged across his skin, opening fresh new wounds. One of the guards, Khalid couldn’t tell which, yanked a bolt across on the door, revealing a narrow rectangle through which his eyes were visible, and said, with a surprising calm,
“Not yet prisoner 256, not yet. But maybe if you’re a good boy, Santa Claus will bring you a present tomorrow! For now, here’s an early Christmas present, from us!” Cackling, the guard slammed the bolt across again, leaving Khalid to continue miserably pounding on the door, shrouded in isolated silence.
* * * * * * *
Khalid resigned himself to sitting against the wall, propped up as best as he could, given his present weakened condition. Suddenly a great boom sounded, seemingly from above. Khalid jumped to his feet, cursing himself almost immediately for the involuntary jarring shudder which shot down his neck and spine, and began to search feverishly for the source of the noise.
“So here it is, Merry Christmas, everybody’s having fun, look to the future now, it’s only just begu-” Khalid screamed so ferociously and loudly that he drowned out the gruesome Christmas anthem which was so intent on drowning him. He flung himself to the ground. So this was their game. Torturing him, hoping he’d be driven crazy enough to give them the Christmas present which they longed for, his confession. Well he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction; this would be his Christmas present to himself. He would hold out. Determined, he clenched his jaw, concentrating on filling his mind with memories to revel in, rather than the tinny renditions of anthems and carols which were now filling his tiny cell.
* * * * * * *
Maybe an hour, two hours, ten hours later for all Khalid knew, he had focused on every happy memory he could think of. The current tune, some awful song by Cliff Richards was beginning to get to him. Khalid had held off from remembering past Christmases, but these were the only memories he had left. His family didn’t really celebrate Christmas, but Mac and his family did, so they had pulled the odd cracker and exchanged a few gifts, just as Mac did with them when it came to Eid. Khalid moved away from these good Christmas memories to not so happy times. When some yobs threw a brick through their window, yelling something about terrorists, when Khalid had been forbidden to go to the Christmas disco, but somehow found himself drinking copious amounts of alcohol in the school hall. True, he had had some happier moments at Christmas, secretly meeting up with his mates to exchange presents, eating his first mince pie with Niamh, laughing as she spilt filling on her top, his first kiss, aged five, under the mistletoe at primary school. But the majority of his Christmas memories were bad, tinged with resentment and regret. So why could he not stop thinking about them?
* * * * * * *
Khalid thought of Niamh, remembered how the mince pie filling had oozed over her bottom lip, wondering whether she had been planning to buy him a present. Or had she too forgotten him? Maybe she had a boyfriend now, how long had he been away? Khalid could picture her now, a novelty Father Christmas hat perched merrily on her perfect hair, perhaps exchanging presents with her family, maybe going to meet her friends, talking about that boy who had gone away. Or worst still, perching precariously under the mistletoe, rosy red lips slightly apart, waiting for her new boyfriend. Khalid shook his head once more. No, No.
Khalid couldn’t identify the next song. It was a charity song, he knew that. The kind of thing which ended up dusty on people’s shelves, only to be revived in time for each Christmas. Forcibly, he was reminded of the plight he was in. It was true that he didn’t necessarily celebrate Christmas, but he found himself thinking of all the people in that same condition as him, some in worse situations. Wasn’t this song about Africa? At least he’s fed here; at least if he gets ill he gets treated. And suddenly, Khalid found himself thankful. Thankful that he wasn’t without food or water, thankful that he had medical care, however limited. Yes, it was terrible here, but he was thankful that it wasn’t as bad as it could be.
* * * * * * *
Khalid got by the next few hours, or however long it was, not really aware of the songs blasted by the hidden speaker, just thinking. How he had stolen money from the school collection tins, how he had never bothered to pay on Mufti days, always sidestepping the charity workers in the street. And, just as cheering broke out loudly near to his cell, he resolved that he would make up for it when he got out. And he would get out; he had too much to make up for to rot away in a cage, hidden away in Cuba. His cell door swung suddenly open, to reveal a man holding a cracker, and a mince pie.
“Come on, you poor bastard. Peace to all men?” He said, tentatively. Khalid nodded, shielding himself from the sudden blast of light.
“It’s Christmas?” He croaked.
“Sure is, buddy. Here, pull on this.” The soldier proffered the cracker. Khalid reached out, but found himself too weak to do more than tug on the end. Chuckling the soldier pulled it himself, charitably placing the paper hat on Khalid’s head, reading him the naff joke, and handing him the toy inside, a miniature snow globe.
“Merry Christmas, buddy.” He said, putting the mince pie next to Khalid. Khalid held up his hands, cuffed uncomfortably, laughing for what felt like the first time in decades. The soldier fed him the pie, then said once more,
“Merry Christmas, 256.” Then the door swung shut. Khalid laughed randomly, for it felt like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He murmured, as much to himself as the soldier,
“Merry Christmas.”