Bite

Haris Durrani

Kamal Khan woke up. Instinctively, his drowsy eyes searched for the cell phone. His hands fumbled for it, and flipped it open. He put on his best smile and took a picture.

“Hope the CIA’s happy with that,” he grumbled.

The picture, with his bed-head dark brown hair, brown skin, and pale white pillow would be posted on Kamal’s website. He dropped the phone and stood up. With a stretch that nearly reached the ceiling, Kamal rubbed his eyes and made his way downstairs.

“Sleep well?” Aisha, his wife, asked.

Kamal mumbled something inaudible. Absently, he hugged his wife and looked to his ten-year-old son, Bilal, who sat wide awake eating cereal.

The boy jumped up and squeezed his father. 

Kamal looked to Aisha. Their eyes met and they both smiled.

Casually, Kamal reached into his pocket and opened his cell phone. He pointed the lens at himself, making sure that the whole of the kitchen, including his wife and son, was in the lens.

Aisha looked at Kamal as he placed the cell phone on the table. “That cell phone has got to be helping, Kamal.”

“Yep.” Kamal was slowly emerging from his sleepy state. “Sure are. I’d rather have a life like this than end up in Gitmo.”

“Mommy, what’s the Gitmo?” asked Bilal, who remained oblivious to the horrors of the world.

Aisha looked to Kamal who nodded subtly for her to speak.

“For now, we’ll just tell you that it’s a bad, bad place.”

“Will you tell me everything when I grow up, Mommy?”

“Maybe,” said Aisha. “But I hope by then it will no longer exist. If will only be a part of history.” She was quickly near tears.

When Kamal finished his breakfast, he grabbed his phone and began to make his way up the stairs.

“Bye, Bilal.” He embraced his son on his way out.

“Don’t forget to get me the new Spider-Man DVD!”

Kamal could only smile. He hugged Aisha.

Kamal gave both Bilal and Aisha another squeeze with his free hand before he left.

As Kamal drove to the diner, he snapped a photo making sure to include a street sign on it. He strided toward the entrance. An elderly lady, hunched and bearing an old wooden cane was approaching the door from inside. With haste, Kamal reached out and pulled the door open for the white-haired and wrinkled woman.

He smiled broadly as he helped her down the steep ramp.

Kamal returned to the door and scanned the tables until his eyes finally fell on Ali. While Kamal was tall and broad-shouldered, with wildly growing hair, Ali was short, thin, and had very little hair on his head despite his relatively young age.

Ali looked up. “Hey, Kamal. How’s it going?” He stood.

 “Okay.”

“What do you mean by ‘okay’?” Kamal inquired.

“America wasn’t as great as I thought it would be. That’s why I moved back to London. After 9/ll, everything went down hill. Can’t believe the policies that administration has passed. And the War in Iraq is outrageous. It may be somewhat bad here, but nothing can compare to how the American government reacted.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s like all Muslims are a threat. True, there are bad Muslims, but their irresponsible actions do not reflect the will of the entire worldwide Muslim community.”

“Exactly. Can you believe that the Patriot Act was passed without any Congressmen reading the entire thing?  Ridiculous!”

“And look at the Military Commissions Act! The U.S. government can practically take anyone, call them enemy combatants, and shove them into military prisons. Most of those detainees around the world are never tried.”

Kamal took out his phone and asked the waitress to take a picture.

She gave him a quizzical look and took the outstretched phone.

Puzzled, Ali, leaned towards Kamal. With a click, the photograph was taken.

When the waitress left, Ali asked, “Now what was that all about?”

“In 2002, I was put on a watch list—I’m Muslim, it’s racial profiling. But the main reason is that there is another Kamal Khan who apparently is a terrorist. I don’t know anything about this Kamal Khan. For all I know, he could be five feet, while I’m six. I also have reason to believe that my ten-year-old son is on a list too.”

“Go on.”

“So, I’m in danger. I could end up in a military prison. I have to be careful.”

“This is shocking, especially about your son. My heart goes out to you. But… what does any of this have to do with the camera?”

“I was saying before that I was dead afraid. I needed some way to stay out of Gitmo or any other place. So I had an idea.”

“Which is…?”

Kamal smiled with pride. “My own website, The Life of Kamal.  See these photos? It’s my life since late 2002 documented as a series of pictures. With this, there can be no shadow of a doubt that I am doing something illegal.”

“It’s brilliant!” Ali looked like a scientist who had discovered something groundbreaking. “How many photos do you post a day?

He thought for a moment. “I’d say 50.”

Kamal acknowledged the waitress and waited for her to leave: “And the CIA, Homeland Security, and the Department of Defense check my website regularly.”

“How do you know that?”

“There was a blurb about my site in the local newspaper. The journalist must have been able to conduct interviews with some U.S. intelligence officials.”

Ali finished chewing. “That’s a great idea. But it’s sad, though. We have to expose ourselves, naked to the world, to remain safe from actions that are supposed to increase our security.”

Kamal took a sip of his coffee. “Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away, our human rights were put above all else… no more.”

“No more,” echoed Kamal. “It’s just too bad...”

“Yep. The current administration over in the U.S. can’t get it right. The world is a messed up place.”

“Ah, well. That’s just the way things are. We can’t do much about it. It’s up to writers to make the difference. Writers, journalists… they can change a country if they’re good enough.”

Kamal glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. Business call soon.”

“Bye.” Kamal left Ali to finish his breakfast.

He walked out the door and across the parking lot to his car. Kamal took out his phone for a snapshot. By now it had become an automatic routine, like breathing.

He turned the phone around and checked the picture. There he was, wearing a fake smile. Behind him was a corner of his car. Behind that, more cars, and then the rectangular diner with its dull gray outer walls and large glass windows that reflected the dimming light of the sun.

Kamal lifted his head. In the distance, lightning struck and thunder cracked. A storm approached. Focusing back on the picture, something caught Kamal’s eyes. In one of the cars, a large black van with shaded windows, the bright screen of a laptop computer stood out. On the screen were a series of indistinct photographs and on the top of the screen were familiar bolded green letters that, when Kamal continually enlarged the image and squinted his eyes to look hard, said, “The Life of Kamal.”

Kamal entered his car and drove to the parking lot exit. As he waited for traffic to clear for a safe turn, he looked back at the picture. It was difficult to see past the shaded windows besides the computer, but one other thing did catch his eye. A pair of sunglasses was subtly reflected in the computer’s light.

“What’s taking so long?” said Bilal, who was playing computer games. Beeps and buzzes emitted from the speakers.

“I don’t know.” Aisha looked up from her book. “I tried calling him. He’s not picking the phone. Maybe the storm is messing up the reception. Maybe he forgot to charge his phone.”

Bilal paused his game, granting a relaxing silence amidst the hectic sound effects, and sat next to his mother on the couch. “But Daddy never forgets anything. Never.”

Aisha patted her son’s back, trying to reassure him while she herself was not. The storm had grown much more violent, with savage winds, heavy rain, loud claps of thunder, and bright flickers of lightning. “It’s all right. Maybe he got caught in the storm. Maybe some roads got flooded and he had to take detours.”

Suddenly the phone rang and broke the worrisome silence. Aisha was startled. Bilal sat straight. “Is it him?”

Aisha picked up the phone. “Hello? Kamal? Is it you?”

“No, no. This is Ali Bin-Hamed. I’m—”

“Yes, yes. I know who you are. We’ve met.”

“Kamal said he was with you. Is he there?”

“Um… that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Is he at home?”

“No.”

“I need to tell you something.”

“Well, let it out then.” Aisha was increasingly anxious.

“Right.” Ali took an audible breath. “He left early for a business call. I watched him take one of his pictures—I assume you know what I’m talking about?”

“I do.”

“Good. So, he took the picture, entered his car, and then left. Once he turned right onto the road, a black van followed. Suspicious, I hurried out to my car. I soon caught the black van and Kamal’s vehicle. After about five minutes of following, I saw Kamal turn into Blockbuster, the van right behind him. I was stopped by a traffic light and when I got to the Blockbuster lot neither the van nor Kamal’s car was there.”

Aisha gasped. “And you have no idea where he is?”

“None whatsoever. No idea. I figured he might be at home…” Then Ali’s voice crackled and died as the power went out. Aisha found herself in pitch darkness.

“Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“Was that Daddy?”

“No.”

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t be.” She groped around in the dark and found Bilal’s hand.

The next day, with the power back up, Aisha called Ali’s home number from the caller ID. For a minute, the phone rang and time slowed. The answering machine: “Hello. This is the residence of Ali Bin-Hamed. You can also reach me at my work number”—the number was given—“or at my cell”—the cell phone number too was given. Aisha scribbled down the digits as they were read, left a quick message, then called Ali’s work and cell phones.

No response from either one.

Kamal Khan awoke, trembling, in a pitch black room on cold, relentless cement. He moved his head from side to side, groaning from the throbbing pain in his head. He rolled around, his aching bones pressing down on the hard floor. He could feel his cuffed hands and feet.

There were flashes of memory, quick pictures like the ones he posted on his Where was he? He did not know. But the clouded memories kept sparking before his weary, darting eyes like the flashes of lightning from that last day of freedom. Sweat coated his body and made him stink.

He fell back into a restless sleep and the flashes came again. A rainy day. Lightning. Thunder. A Blockbuster parking lot. Then darkness. The roaring sound of a plane. A man standing over him. The man hit him. And darkness again.

He entered back into the abyss of unwanted recollections. A gate. Soldiers in green camouflage and helmets with automatic rifles. Kamal was wearing orange now, different from before. His feet were bare and the soles hurt against the unforgiving rocks. A blow to the chest. A blow to his head. And again, darkness.

Kamal was brought to consciousness by a firm kick in the stomach. “Up!”

Kamal, lying on his side, opened one eye and then the other. He saw shining black boots illuminated by a light from somewhere in the room.

“I said, up! Get up!” The voice came from the glistening boots.

Kamal moaned. He felt as if he was underwater. The soldier swore colorfully.

“What’s your problem? I said, up!” A merciless hand pulled him up onto a stiff wooden chair.

Light shone from above with blinding brilliance. He squinted. A silhouette of a massive dark figure was at the far end of the rough, splintery table before him.

He forced his dry mouth to speak. “Wh-where am I?”

“You are in Guantánamo Bay, Mr. Khan,” said the silhouette in a deep voice that resounded like Darth Vader’s. The soldier at Kamal’s side remained at attention. But he did glare at Kamal—at his Pakistani skin.

Kamal tried to see the man’s face, but only saw his dark form.

“Wh-who a-are you?You think I’m a t-terrorist? A threat? You’re wrong. You saw the pictures I posted on the Internet. I put my life on that site. You’re w-wrong. You are the menace to the democracy… You are violating the Declaration of Human Rights!”

Mr. Vader was not obliged to answer Kamal’s questions. Mr. Vader snapped his fingers. The soldier delivered a blow across the back of Kamal’s head.

His head throbbed. Through clenched teeth he spoke, “G-give me a t-trial. Now. If I’m guilty, it’ll show.”

“There’s no need to waste such time. For all we know, your partners could be already on the move to attack the nation. We have caught one of them. Ali Bin-Hamed.”

“Ali!” Not Ali.

“Now, to business. What and where were you going to attack?”

Kamal braced himself for another punch, but none came. Instead, the soldier reached under the table and dragged out a large barrel of dirty water, pulling it beside Kamal’s chair. The soldier shoved Kamal’s head into the murky water. Kamal struggled for breath, shaking his head this way and that in an unsuccessful attempt to free his hair of the soldier’s firm grasp. His heart thumped hard and his lungs yearned for air. Then the soldier pulled Kamal’s head back up. He choked.

“Where were you going to attack? And no lies!”

“I told you, I never planned such an attack.”

The snap of fingers, the slimy water, the lack of breath, and air again.

Kamal began to recite the first Surah of the Qur’an, Al-Fatiha, quietly to himself.

“Is that code, devil-talk, or both?”

Kamal recited prayers in his head as he was plunged into the icy water. His hair moved back and forth, swaying in the water like tall grass on a windy day. He spent some time beneath the surface, his lungs bursting.

“You will respond. You should have learned your lesson by now.

Kamal Khan had no idea how long he had been kept in solitary confinement. There had been so many violent interrogations. There were so many bruises and cuts on his body.

The door opened and two robust soldiers with mad, wild dogs emerged. The dogs barked and growled loudly, jumping up and down from their leashes.

“You will learn your lesson and tell us your savage plans. You are like dirt! Like these dogs here, you are nothing but nothing. An animal. Animals deserve no mercy.”

“Release them!” commanded the interrogator.

The soldiers released the dogs. They lunged towards Kamal like hungry predators.

It was years since he’d first arrived at Gitmo. The only people he’d seen were interrogators and soldiers. The food and water served to him through the prison door, no matter how disgusting, was an oasis in this scorching desert of pain and suffering. He had been isolated in this dark room. Special sound-canceling earmuffs had been placed on his head, and he could not take them off. Kamal was detached from reality.

Kamal began to hallucinate. His mind worn like his sore body—his son and wife emerged from the dark.

“We love you so much,” Aisha said.

“I… love… you too.” His mouth, full of decaying and broken teeth, fought to get the words out.

Kamal leaned into them, and fell through empty air onto the ground. He winced and his family was gone.

Finally, he was swallowed by a hole of darkness.

Kamal Khan was no more.

________________________________________________________________________

Bilal was now fourteen. There were no logical explanations for his Dad’s vanishing. Bilal had learned to let go and move on. The new thing was his site like Dad’s that he’d started last year. Mom’s hopes were wrong. Gitmo was still an active and living threat in his life.

Bilal flipped open his cell and snapped a picture of the diner as he entered, holding the door for a struggling middle-aged women with two babies in a carriage and one in her arms. Mom had dropped him off here to meet with his friend, Tony McFerrin, to discuss their school project on Guantanamo Bay.

Tony was in a corner drinking soda. “Hey, Bilal.” He said, brushing a hand through his blonde hair.

“Let’s get a picture for my site,” Bilal said.

“The project.”

“Right. You’ve heard of America’s disgusting tortures haven’t you?”

Tony, furrowed his brow. “I know. How could people do that type of thing?

A silence coursed between them.

The waiter came up to the table. Tony dictated what he wanted to eat.

As he did so, Bilal flipped open his phone and checked the picture he had taken. There they were, two friends smiling at a small diner table. Bilal looked passed the window behind the two faces into the parking lot, where there was a black van. He zoomed in, focusing on a bright light behind the darkly shaded windows. Then he saw something else. There was the faintest hint of a glimmer behind the dark window. A pair of sunglasses was reflected ever so slightly by the luminescence of the computer screen.