A Fictional Story... Or A Premonition Of Things To Come?

It was two AM when the knock came on the door. My dog began barking and my wife nudged me to go take care of whomever had the audacity to knock on our door at that hour. I threw on my robe, put the dog in his crate, and went to answer the door. There was shouting and more hurried knocking coming from the other side. Before I could reach the door, it burst open. The glass to the sliding doors near the living room shattered. Suddenly there were 15 to 20 men, all masked and armed to the teeth, in my home. They were yelling and swearing at the top of their lungs, instructing me to drop to the floor and lay on my stomach. My wife bolted out of the bed and rushed out of the bedroom. A shot was fired in her direction. More yelling and swearing, this time directed at her. She, too, was being told to hit the floor. The dog was barking like a rabid watchdog.

The rush of armed bodies kept coming. One of them stepped onto the middle of my back. I cried out in pain and was hit for my effort. Suddenly, three men grabbed my arms, pulled them behind me, and fastened them together with something that cut into my wrists. I could feel pain in my wrists and blood dripping down over the them.

My wife was screaming and crying out. I was helpless to respond. I could not see her from my place on the floor. The dog yelped and stopped barking, and I heard whimpering from the direction of his crate. Without warning, I was lifted off the floor and practically dragged out to a black van that was fitted as a police vehicle. I could not see anything outside of the van. I heard my wife yelling. Suddenly, the van jerked, sped up and I was aware that I was being taken somewhere.

After riding in the back of the van, completely void of any views or communication, the ride stops. The door of the van is opened and I am dragged out and escorted to a large building. My surroundings are unfamiliar. I am pushed and nudged all the while. I am rushed through a process of getting my picture, fingerprints and paperwork completed. No one answers any of my questions or talks to me in any way except to get information from me or to give me commands. My questions regarding my wife’s whereabouts and safety go unanswered. My request for a lawyer goes unheeded. I am placed in a dark cell and the doors are slammed behind me. There are no other people in the cell areas. I can hear the sound of activity coming from other areas of this building. I sit on the cold metal bench that is permanently fixed to the wall. Whatever is restraining my hands is still cutting into the flesh of my wrists. I manage to lie down on the bench and fall asleep.

A loud crash awakens me. There are five men in my cell yelling and screaming at me. The torrent of their questions is disturbing and confusing. My attempts to ask about my wife and request a lawyer results in name-calling. Somewhere between my requests and all the yelling I hear one of them call me a "goddamned terrorist." I am hoisted from the bench and pushed around the cell. The lights in the hall leading to the cell go dark and I am escorted out of the cell. I am placed in a room with a table and three chairs. The room is devoid of any décor, equipment or other furniture. My hands are cut free, only to be placed in actual handcuffs, which are then attached by a chain to the table. The men leave the room.

Some twenty or thirty minutes later a large man enters the room and sits across from where I am restrained. My inquiries as to why I am being held against my will are ignored, as are my requests for a lawyer, and my concerns about my wife. The man stares at me without saying a word. I begin to quietly say a prayer to my self. As the man notices my lips moving he slams his fists on the table and, with a torrent of profanity, tells me to shut my mouth. I tell him that I was praying. I receive a slap across my face. I continue my prayer in my head. Some time later I receive another slap across my face and a chastisement for my thoughts. I feel my face redden and sting in response to the slap. The man leaves the room. I am sitting alone in the room for what seems to be an eternity.

Without warning the lights in the room start to strobe and loud punk rock music is pumped into the room. I cannot reach my ears to cover them. The noise is loud enough, and annoying enough, that my head begins to pound. The strobe light causes me to feel a bit of nausea. The effect is disorienting. My mouth is dry and I am feeling the need to urinate.

After a long barrage, the music stops and the lights go out. I am alone and in the dark. While I am thankful that the music has stopped, the urge to urinate is now becoming significantly uncomfortable. The darkness, the pain from my stretched bladder, and the torrent of unanswered questions running through my mind are as disorienting and torturous as was the strobe light and music.

Again, without warning, the room is lit. Another man enters the room, unchains me and takes off the handcuffs. He instructs me to strip off my clothes. I resist this idea and request a lawyer. He shoves me into a corner and threatens me. Even with my own history of using profanity, the rush of swears coming out of him is offensive. He again instructs me to strip of my clothes. This time he adds a threat of bodily harm if I refuse to comply. I refuse. He rushes me. I strike back. My military and martial arts training give me the advantage. I throw him to the ground. Within seconds I feel an electrical current rushing through my body. I am being attacked with a tazer. I fall to the ground. The man I was struggling with gets up and kicks me. Another jolt of current is sent through my body. I am instructed to stand up and remove my clothing. I have no choice but to comply. I am now aware of several more people in the room, including a couple of women.
I ask that the women leave the room. Another burst of electricity is sent through my body. I drop to my knees. The group of people in the room begin to yell at me, shouting a variety of instructions to remove my clothing. I stand and start removing my clothes. I realize as I am removing my trousers that the pain from my bladder is now gone. During one of the zaps from the tazer my urinary sphincters released. I am embarrassed. The women in the room are now laughing and calling me names in reference to having wet myself. One of the men removes the tazer connections with several sharp yanks on the wires. There is a stabbing pain with each yank. Another man yells at me to hurry up the process of removing my clothes. I stand naked, completely exposed, cold and wet along my legs and crotch. My mind reels and I try to remove myself from the reality of what I am experiencing. I am again handcuffed and chained to the table. All of the others leave and the lights go out. I am alone in the dark, naked and overwhelmed. I begin to cry in response to the anger, embarrassment and frustration that I feel.

I put my head down on the desk and begin to talk to myself in a quiet whisper. I remind myself of my boot camp experiences. I recall my training as a fleet marine corpsman. I seek memories of survival training experiences. I recite the “Lord’s Prayer,” seeking some solace and rest through my connection with God. I fall asleep.

The door opens and the lights go on. A single person enters carrying a yellow jumpsuit and some flip-flop sandals. I am unchained and released from my handcuffs. The person offers the jumpsuit and sandals. I take them. As I open up the jumpsuit to accommodate putting it on, I notice the word “TERRORIST” is written on the back and front of the jumpsuit. I ignore it just so I can put on something warm and preclude any future embarrassment and exposure. The person, who I can now identify as a man dressed in a suit, asks me to take a seat. He pulls a bottle of water from his suit coat pocket and offers it to me. As I open it and drink from it, I realize how thirsty I was.

The man introduces himself as a member of a federal task force on domestic terrorism and a FBI agent. I ask him for a lawyer. He tells me that since I am being held as a suspect of terrorism under the Patriot Act, I am not entitled to a lawyer. He informs me that all of my belongings from my home have been packed up, moved to a warehouse, and are being carefully examined for evidence of my collusion with Al-Qaeda operatives.

Expressing my anger and frustration, I yell at him that I am not a terrorist. I reference my military record, my honorable discharge from two branches of the service, and my citizenship. He gets up and leaves.
A short time later the room is filled with several people, including the two women. I recognize them most of them as having been present when I was attacked with the tazer. I am instructed to stand up and remove the jump suit. The bottle of water is confiscated. I am barraged with orders and profanity. I remove the jumpsuit and, once again, stand before them naked and exposed. The jumpsuit and water are taken out of the room. The group begins to question me in rapid-fire succession. I don’t even have time to run the questions through my mind before another question hits me like a brick wall. Somewhere in the process I become aware of questions regarding phone calls to a close friend named Mohammed, who lives in Canada. Then there are questions about e-mails to my friend Elsa, a Christian missionary teacher and lay preacher living in Bahrain. Then I am asked about my past visits to my friend Massoud in Qatar. My reason for working as a teacher in Bahrain and Saudi Arabia were also brought up. I could not answer the questions because they came too fast and there wasn’t time to answer. I decided to just shut up. Shortly after I shut up, the group left the room, and the lights went out. I found the chair and sat down, still naked, still exposed. I remained in the room for a long time, alone and vulnerable, thoughts racing through my mind.

Why did they want to know about Mohammed? He’s a teacher that I met while teaching in Bahrain. He lived in Toronto and we stayed in touch. I visited him several times since 1997. Elsa is a British citizen that I also met while I was in Bahrain. She was a missionary. Why would they want to know about her? Massoud is a business owner that I met though Bader, a friend that had immigrated to American just after the fall of Iran to the Ayatollah Khomeini. Bader became a naturalized citizen after having sought asylum here in the States. These were my friends. None of them had anything to do with terrorism.

My thoughts were interrupted when the light went on and the same man in the suit returned. He gave me the same jumpsuit to put back on. As soon as I had the jumpsuit buttoned up, another person came in with a tray of food. I sat down and the FBI guy let me eat while he asked questions. I answered only the questions that I felt were innocuous, or were common knowledge.

He asked me about e-mails I sent to Massoud, Mohammed, Bader and Elsa. He asked me about my trip to India in 1995. And then he asked about the jaunt I took to Pakistan that same year. I told him about visiting India as part of my exploration of the region while on vacation from teaching in Bahrain and Saudi Arabia. I told him about visiting Mohammed and Monsoor, another teaching colleague and friend, in Karachi and Islamabad. He inquired about my blog and my political opinions expressed in my writings. The questions involved every aspect of my life. I only answered in limited fashion. I informed him that I felt I was being illegally held, that I wanted a lawyer, and that I wanted to know what was happening to my wife. He became obviously irritated. I finished my food as fast as I could.

He got up, picked up the tray, and left the room. As soon as he left the strobe light and loud punk music filled the room. I found a corner of the room, sat down, put my hands over my ears and closed my eyes. I don’t know how long this assault lasted, but the room went dark and silent at some point in time. I sat in the dark for a long time. Then the door opened, the lights went on, and I was instructed to stand up. I was handcuffed and escorted out of the room. I was led to another cell area, just as isolated as the previous cell, but this was lit with high intensity lighting. There was no bench or furniture of any kind. There was a bucket in the corner. The cell door was closed behind me after I was nudged through the doorway.

I sat in a corner, away from the bucket. I could smell feces and urine coming from the bucket. It had been in the bucket for some time and the odors filled the room. I tried to ignore the stench. Closing my eyes, and holding my hands over them, I tried to shut out the over-stimulation of the high intensity lighting. I was in the room, alone, without water, food or comfort for a long time. I occasionally got up to relieve my bladder. I eventually had to use the bucket for a bowel movement, but there was no toilet paper. I had to deal with the discomfort of going without the amenities of daily hygiene. No one came to look in on me.

It was not until I was totally exhausted that I was able to sleep. But without the use of my CPAP machine, it was not a restful sleep. My sleep apnea kept me from getting any real rest. Still, no one came to look in on me. At times I got up and walked around, just to keep my muscles from aching and cramping. Each time I reached a point of exhaustion I would drop off into an un-restful sleep. The odors from the bucket only bothered me when I used it to relieve myself and the use would stir up its contents. I measured time the best way I could by keeping track how full the bucket was getting. Still, I had no idea how long I had been in this cell, how long I had been left alone, or when I had last eaten. I was thirsty and my throat was parched. My nostrils were dried out and that made my breathing more difficult during those periods when I did sleep. I had not taken any of my blood pressure medications since just before going to bed on the night that these folks had raided my home.

My thoughts ventured to my wife and my dog. I wondered what was happening to them. I broke down into tears several times, wondering if my wife was suffering or being treated in the same manner they were treating me. I wondered what they did to my dog. Was he being held at a kennel? Had they left him alone in his crate? Again, I became exhausted and fell into yet another un-restful sleep.

I was awakened by the sound of people approaching the cell. The door opened and I was escorted back to the room where I had been attacked with the tazer. I was instructed to sit down and I was chained to the table. I realized at that moment that I had been handcuffed all the time I had been in the brightly lit cell with the nauseating bucket. I sat alone for a long time, then the strobe light and music began. My mind was reeling and I screamed for it to stop, but it continued for some time.

The door opened, the strobe light and music stopped, and a man that I had not seen before came into the room. I was again questioned about all the things the FBI man had asked me. I was also asked about various files and writings that were found on my computers that were confiscated from my home. The man refused to answer any of my questions regarding my wife, my dog, or anything to do with time or date. My requests for a lawyer were ignored. After a long period of questioning the man got up and left.

A short while later the same group of people that I had struggled with before entered the room, including the two women. I was unchained and released from the handcuffs. They instructed me to remove the jumpsuit. After complying with the request, everyone but the two women left the room. I was instructed to stand against the rear wall, facing the women. I stood there while the women made comments about my appearance, smell and lack of hygiene. I tried to ignore them, but I knew that their presence was embarrassing and frustrating. After an eternity of embarrassment, they left. Another man, this one dressed in military police garb, entered the room and placed me in handcuffs. He escorted me to an area where there were toilets and showers. I was allowed to clean myself up, brush my teeth with a bare toothbrush, and shower. I was given a clean jumpsuit, this one without the label “TERRORIST” on it.

After cleaning up and showering, I was escorted to a cell that had a bench, a working toilet, and a small window that allowed some natural light. I could see that it was daytime, but I could not tell if it was morning or afternoon. I lied down on the bench and drifted off to yet another un-restful sleep, not knowing how long I had been held, or how long I would be held. I did not know why I was being held. I did not have any contact with my friends, family or colleagues. I had not been able to call my job and let them know what was happening. I did not know where my wife was, or how she was being treated. I had done nothing wrong. I was not a terrorist and I had no contacts with terrorists. Yet, I was a prisoner without recourse, with all my rights being denied, and being deprived of all the basics of daily living.

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This story is fictional. However, given the realities of domestic spying, indefinite detention of accused persons, denial of legal representation, wiretapping and data mining, and the broad powers that are being claimed and exercised by the Bush administration, it could become reality. Our Constitutional rights are under assault in the name of power, control and an exaggerated sense of danger. The terrorists that seek to do us harm are winning the war against terror because they have provided those with a fascist ideology to create climates where we are not only deprived of our fundamental liberties and rights, but many of us are convinced that these folks are right to do so. We must understand that what George W. Bush has done is exactly what our forefathers and framers of the Constitution feared. Liberty, justice and rights are under attack in these United States of America, and it is our own leaders that are attacking.Please pass this along… We need to get the word out and tell our leaders that we want a reasonable level of security, but not at the complete sacrifice of our privacy, rights, liberties justice and our first principles.