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Here but also there

Binyam Mohamed is free at last. But will he ever truly be free from the memory of what happened to h

I took a walk in the countryside with Binyam Mohamed after his release from Gitmo. “I still think I might wake up tomorrow morning and find myself back in Guantanamo Bay,” he told me, as we climbed a hill in the West Country. “It would all be the same. I’d just find that I had just been allowed to spend a rather longer-than-normal visit with my attorney.”

Adjusting after seven years in prison is not easy; adjusting after the surreal nightmare of seven years of torture is obviously much harder still. Binyam and I continued to talk. Only hours earlier he had been in a cell in Camp Five. At Gitmo, he was allowed a maximum of three paces in one direction, before a concrete wall turned him around. The freedom of this field, where only sheep were fenced in, seemed unreal.

The day before, Binyam had flown in to RAF Northolt. A phalanx of journalists waited at the entrance to the air force base in west London. For Binyam, it was a confusing welcome. Here were many of the people who had worked hard for his freedom, people who had written and broadcast about the horrors of his rendition to torture in Morocco. When we had carried their newspaper articles into his prison cell, he had hope. But, to keep his spirits up, I never took him the hostile editorials.

“Terror suspect flown back to Britain by private jet”, the Daily Express headline now shouted at him. Indeed, he did fly in on a Gulfstream – paradoxically, the same brand of “private jet” used by the CIA in July 2002 to carry him to 18 months of medieval mistreatment in Morocco.

“Treated like royalty,” added the Express. It is true that I waited with his sister Zuhra and his military attorney, Lieutenant Colonel Yvonne Bradley, in the “Royal Suite” at RAF Northolt. Binyam, in the meantime, was undergoing two hours of questioning by the British police, less typical of the welcome accorded to Her Majesty.

The police were worried, reporting that dozens of photographers on motorcycles were revving their engines just outside the base. The prospects for us of carrying Binyam away to recuperate quietly in the countryside seemed dim. But, in the end, we did escape, running the gauntlet of the Northolt gate.

The next day, Binyam and I walked, and he talked about his future. Seven years of his life had been taken from him. How could he ever hope to make up for that time in the years ahead? Was his life destined to be defined by the stolen years? Would he only be asked to talk about the torture?

Binyam was reticent about the media. We discussed how, if he spoke to only one journalist, he would risk alienating the rest. He knew that if he had to talk to everyone, he would risk losing a tenuous grip on his new reality. He knew that the more his picture was published, the less likely it would be that he could live a normal life.

He had returned home with only one clear ambition – to help secure justice for the 241 men whom he left behind at Guantanamo. Among them was Shaker Aamer, who Binyam had hoped would be on the same Gulfstream flight as himself. Shaker would have been coming home to his wife and four children; instead, he remains Internment Serial Number 239, still unable to hold Faris, a child he has never met, born after he was seized in Pakistan.

Binyam never told the men on his block that he was slated for freedom. He felt it would be unkind. How could he tell Mohammed el-Gharani, snatched by the Pakistanis and sold to the Americans at the age of 14, that he – Binyam – was headed home, while Mohammed would be left behind? So he hedged, and hinted that he was packing his meagre belongings for a move to another cell block.

Now some of Binyam’s first, strange meetings on a West Country farm were with other British men he had met at Guantanamo Bay. This only deepened his confusion. Was he here, or was he there?

These former prisoners respectfully urged him to face as much of the media as he could. He was, they told Binyam, the only voice for the men left behind.

So Binyam decided that he would try to speak out. But it would have to be incremental. And some things he simply could not confront. He would not, he insisted, go into the details of the harshest abuses. The torture had been designed to humiliate; repeating it all now would merely add to the degradation.

Binyam knew he had to talk about some of his mistreatment. We talked about the music torture that had been designed to destroy his sanity. When we had spoken at Guantanamo Bay, he had described how Eminem was played incessantly at him in the “Dark Prison”. Back then, I could never play the music so as to identify it for him; I was allowed to carry only a pen and paper for the interviews. Now, with my laptop in front of us, we could identify the songs. I played him “White America”. He flinched. He knew, warily, that he would be destined to encounter songs such as this at random through the rest of his life.

As the days went by, Binyam slowly decompressed, beginning a process that will take months, if not years. He began to emerge more frequently from his room. In the kitchen, my seven-month-old son, Wilf, reached out to tug on Binyam’s beard. Binyam smiled gently at the child. There was a twinkle in his eyes, perhaps for the first time in seven years.

Clive Stafford Smith is director of Reprieve, the UK legal action charity that uses the law to enforce the human rights of prisoners, from death row to Guantanamo Bay. For more information, visit: www.reprieve.org.uk

Clive Stafford Smith is legal director of the charity Reprieve and has spent more than 20 years representing prisoners on Death Row in the United States. More recently he has represented many of the prisoners in Guantanamo Bay.

This article first appeared in the 09 March 2009 issue of the New Statesman, Planet Overload

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The New Times: Brexit, globalisation, the crisis in Labour and the future of the left

With essays by David Miliband, Paul Mason, John Harris, Lisa Nandy, Vince Cable and more.

Once again the “new times” are associated with the ascendancy of the right. The financial crash of 2007-2008 – and the Great Recession and sovereign debt crises that were a consequence of it – were meant to have marked the end of an era of runaway “turbocapitalism”. It never came close to happening. The crash was a crisis of capitalism but not the crisis of capitalism. As Lenin observed, there is “no such thing as an absolutely hopeless situation” for capitalism, and so we discovered again. Instead, the greatest burden of the period of fiscal retrenchment that followed the crash was carried by the poorest in society, those most directly affected by austerity, and this in turn has contributed to a deepening distrust of elites and a wider crisis of governance.

Where are we now and in which direction are we heading?

Some of the contributors to this special issue believe that we have reached the end of the “neoliberal” era. I am more sceptical. In any event, the end of neoliberalism, however you define it, will not lead to a social-democratic revival: it looks as if, in many Western countries, we are entering an age in which centre-left parties cannot form ruling majorities, having leaked support to nationalists, populists and more radical alternatives.

Certainly the British Labour Party, riven by a war between its parliamentary representatives and much of its membership, is in a critical condition. At the same time, Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership has inspired a remarkable re-engagement with left-wing politics, even as his party slumps in the polls. His own views may seem frozen in time, but hundreds of thousands of people, many of them young graduates, have responded to his anti-austerity rhetoric, his candour and his shambolic, unspun style.

The EU referendum, in which as much as one-third of Labour supporters voted for Brexit, exposed another chasm in Labour – this time between educated metropolitan liberals and the more socially conservative white working class on whose loyalty the party has long depended. This no longer looks like a viable election-winning coalition, especially after the collapse of Labour in Scotland and the concomitant rise of nationalism in England.

In Marxism Today’s “New Times” issue of October 1988, Stuart Hall wrote: “The left seems not just displaced by Thatcherism, but disabled, flattened, becalmed by the very prospect of change; afraid of rooting itself in ‘the new’ and unable to make the leap of imagination required to engage the future.” Something similar could be said of the left today as it confronts Brexit, the disunities within the United Kingdom, and, in Theresa May, a prime minister who has indicated that she might be prepared to break with the orthodoxies of the past three decades.

The Labour leadership contest between Corbyn and Owen Smith was largely an exercise in nostalgia, both candidates seeking to revive policies that defined an era of mass production and working-class solidarity when Labour was strong. On matters such as immigration, digital disruption, the new gig economy or the power of networks, they had little to say. They proposed a politics of opposition – against austerity, against grammar schools. But what were they for? Neither man seemed capable of embracing the “leading edge of change” or of making the imaginative leap necessary to engage the future.

So is there a politics of the left that will allow us to ride with the currents of these turbulent “new times” and thus shape rather than be flattened by them? Over the next 34 pages 18 writers, offering many perspectives, attempt to answer this and related questions as they analyse the forces shaping a world in which power is shifting to the East, wars rage unchecked in the Middle East, refugees drown en masse in the Mediterranean, technology is outstripping our capacity to understand it, and globalisation begins to fragment.

— Jason Cowley, Editor 

Tom Kibasi on what the left fails to see

Philip Collins on why it's time for Labour to end its crisis

John Harris on why Labour is losing its heartland

Lisa Nandy on how Labour has been halted and hollowed out

David Runciman on networks and the digital revolution

John Gray on why the right, not the left, has grasped the new times

Mariana Mazzucato on why it's time for progressives to rethink capitalism

Robert Ford on why the left must reckon with the anger of those left behind

Ros Wynne-Jones on the people who need a Labour government most

Gary Gerstle on Corbyn, Sanders and the populist surge

Nick Pearce on why the left is haunted by the ghosts of the 1930s

Paul Mason on why the left must be ready to cause a commotion

Neal Lawson on what the new, 21st-century left needs now

Charles Leadbeater explains why we are all existentialists now

John Bew mourns the lost left

Marc Stears on why democracy is a long, hard, slow business

Vince Cable on how a financial crisis empowered the right

David Miliband on why the left needs to move forward, not back

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times