passed by Dilawar as they went on to deal with other prisoners.
“Dilawar was hanging limp in the chains,” remembered Sergeant Thomas V. Curtis. “I thought he was sleeping. So I kicked the door and I could have sworn I got a response, a slight move of the head.” Then, he said, “we took the hood off and uncuffed him and he was dead weight. He just dropped.”47
The MPs tried to resuscitate Dilawar but failed.
His legs were “pulpified,” according to the forensic report.48
Curtis summed up the way he felt about Dilawar’s death: “It was more or less that he was the second one to die in our shift,” he said. “I had no personal connection to him, I didn’t [know] him, but it was unfortunate… You can sit back now and see that we should have done things differently. It was like a war thing, us against them. We just did what we were trained to do.”49
Even if high-ranking officers did not have a direct role in ordering the abuse at Bagram, they could still have contributed to it in other ways. According to a classified report given to the Washington Post, the 377th’s command oversaw the abuse, knew soldiers “were striking detainees in Afghanistan,” and that a “dereliction of duty contributed to routine prisoner mistreatment.”50 Perhaps more than issuing orders, officers simply chose to ignore maltreatment, and that inaction, in turn, helped allow abuse to continue, and to worsen, unabated.
After Wahid and I wrapped up our reporting in Khost, we set out to Forward Operating Base Salerno to catch our flight to Kabul. But we decided to visit one more place before we left. Sadat sped by the verdant fields that edged Khost’s main road, drove past Salerno’s gate, and climbed the same mountain road where Dilawar and his passengers traveled on their way to Yakubi.
There, just beyond a coarse, gravelly cemetery, lay an exposed saddle where the four travelers had been abducted five years earlier, explained Sadat. Wahid, conscious of our surroundings and our proximity to the Pakistan border, felt that we were now exposed. He grew edgy and suggested we move on quickly. We had only a few minutes to take in the surroundings and reflect on the journey that began there nearly a year after the war on terror was declared. Sadat drove us back to Salerno and deposited us at the gate.
“Thank you, brother,” he said. We embraced, then Sadat waved and finally departed.
At Salerno, visitors had to pass three main checkpoints: Afghan forces manned the first two; US troops guarded the third. When we arrived at the first checkpoint, Afghan guards exchanged puzzled questions through rackety walkie-talkies about how best to announce our presence and who would give us clearance. Thirty minutes passed before we were granted permission. We passed the first two checkpoints and hiked several kilometers with heavy luggage along the hot, dusty road to the US checkpoint. I approached the gate first and walked towards a Pashto translator who shouted out to us as we advanced. His cries continued as we neared, and the American soldiers beside him raised their rifles. I suddenly remembered the way Tank, the Governor’s security attaché, described how he identified suspected suicide bombers: they were often dressed in baggy clothes, carried some kind of gear (often strapped to their chest), and were almost always heavily sweating. I fit the profile.
“I’m American—I don’t speak Pashto!” I declared.
The US soldiers were taken aback, then relaxed and lowered their weapons. They asked to see my passport and inquired about our business. The Afghan guards at the first gate had relayed confusing messages to the translator at the US checkpoint, which only heightened their trepidation. Wahid eventually caught up to the checkpoint and doubled over with laughter when he learned that I had been confused for an Afghan—and by my own countrymen. The soldiers were stunned that anyone other than an Afghan would travel “outside the wire” (outside the base, without a military convoy) in local garb.
“Takes a lot of balls,” said one soldier, shaking his head in disbelief.
After clearing this last checkpoint, we went out to the airfield to catch our flight. Just as we were rushing down the base road, a call came from Kabul: our flight was cancelled due to technical problems. The travel company promised to try again the next day, but added there could be a two-day delay, given the foul weather that had formed around Kabul’s mountains. Travel in Afghanistan comes with many hurdles and regularly includes these types of delays and cancellations. Our journey from Khost to Kabul was no different, and Salerno became our home for a spell.
Wahid and I sat beneath locust and poplar trees that hugged the roads, and paused to appraise our situation. Beige office buildings and long olive-green tents were wedged between the alleyways that divided the base. A small stream of Afghans ambled through Salerno, mostly filling their hours with construction work. American soldiers strolled by, often dressed in Army T-shirts and shorts, with M16s casually slung over their shoulders or pistols fastened to their sides. Movement around the base seemed unhurried, even calm.
I tried to convince Wahid that our time on the Salerno base would be tranquil, maybe even enjoyable. It would be safer at Salerno than in Khost, where suicide bombs seemed to strike regularly, I argued. True, we wouldn’t have a jasmine-perfumed veranda, but there was a recreation hall—the Hard Rock—with ping-pong, pool tables, and a small movie theater with many DVDs. We would have access to the KBR mess hall that served a wide array of bland meals and junk food, which would likely ensure one less night of food poisoning back in the Governor’s Guesthouse (I had already had many bouts of sickness there). We could enjoy a night of air-conditioning and avoid more malaria-bearing mosquitoes. And at last, we had access to bathrooms with fully functional plumbing.
Eventually, Wahid agreed to stay—albeit with some reluctance. A contract worker on the base overheard our discussion and offered to help us properly check in so that we could secure accommodation. We agreed, and minutes later she located a military escort who met us at Salerno’s multi-denominational chapel (just across from a mobile Subway kiosk).
A young Army captain and mother of two walked us around the base facilities, first showing us our lodgings: a tent filled with twenty stiff cots that sheltered a handful of Navy reserves from Florida. Then the facilities: restrooms along the roads and the mess hall on the opposite end of the base. Finally, the bomb shelter. She reminded us about Salerno’s pseudonym, “Rocket City,” and instructed us to file into fortified bunkers if the sirens sounded off.
“Just wait for them to announce the all-clear. Then you’ll be fine and can return to your tent,” our escort explained. “There’s usually not a lot of action with so much ‘luminous,’ and we nearly have a full moon now.”
Wahid’s face dropped; her words offered little consolation. It wasn’t just the prospect of occasional incoming fire that was disconcerting. Together, dressed in local attire, we stood out among the throngs of American soldiers, and often caught suspicious stares. Tired, lost in thought, we sat by the road under the shade of the trees, calculating the time we’d have to stay on the base, when a patrol of GIs pulled up in front of us. The soldiers spilled onto the road and questioned us about our presence on the base. Our luggage, which we had just dropped off at the tent, was visible in the back of their SUV.
“You didn’t properly check in, and you guys need to speak with the commander,” said the sergeant.
The soldiers encircled us as we took our seats in the vehicle. Wahid’s face looked strained with worry.
“Nothing will happen to us,” I promised. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”
He nodded and turned away.
The SUV pulled up at the American
