"You say you want a revolution
Well you know
We all want to change the world
You tell me that it's evolution
Well you know
We all want to change the world
But when you talk about destruction
Don't you know you can count me out
Don't you know it's gonna be alright
Alright Alright"

The smell of meat, some kind of beef, a barbeque maybe, caused saliva to drip from the corner of Mesut's dry cracking lips. He tried to catch the salty fluid with his tongue, but to no avail, as it dropped to the dirt.

Blindfolded, he could only imagine what the drop looked like as it hit the soft, dry dirt. A miniature explosion and cloud of dust billowing into the air, like the atomic bomb explosion he had seen on TV.

The whiff of food made his stomach grumble, the sounds of an empty bowel with nothing to churn. He hadn't eaten since the sun had come up in the sky and didn't expect to be fed again until the chill of the evening made his skin prickle with bumps. The small volume of bread and soup would mean that the growling of his stomach would keep him from sleeping. It had been weeks, maybe months since he last slept through the night.

But hunger was not his most pressing concern. The heavy metal shackles around his ankles and wrists left the skin underneath raw, so raw that every move made him wince. As a result, he huddled in the corner of his cage most of the day and night, except for meals, when he had to crawl to the entrance to fetch the tray of morsels.

He was huddled in the corner of the cage, arms around his knees, in a fetal position, when he heard the rattling. His whole body jerked, partly because of fear, partly hunger, hoping food would be left for him. But anticipation was short lived as he heard several voices. Normally one guard brought the food.

He raised his forearms to his face, manacled wrists above his head, anticipating the onslaught.

Look at him cower, one of the men snickered. Like a little baby. A baby who needs his mommy.

This guy stinks, another said. Let's give him a bath!

There were only two of them. Mesut was certain of it. He heard scuffling outside the cage, then felt a forceful stream of water hit his midsection. His body tensed as the blow from the high-pressured torrent pressed him against the metal wall.

He cried out in pain, pleading for mercy, as the water ripped at his skin, but the torture and humiliation continued for what seemed an eternity.

Then suddenly it stopped. He could hear the men laughing, joking. There, nice and clean, one of them snickered.

Mesut heard footsteps. He smelled their presence. They were close, maybe standing right next to him.

One of the men shouted. Now, tell us where your officers are! Give us a coordinate! Mesut felt a blow to his side, a kick. The force caused him to fall to his side. Another blow, then another. He pleaded. Stop, stop, I know nothing of officers.

The torturers were young. Couldn't be more than eighteen or nineteen, Mesut thought. They were immature, unreasonable, crude.

The side of his face was covered by mud. He spit, trying to move the grains from his lips.

Did he spit at us? he heard one of them ask.

Another blow to the side, then a kick to the head.

His vision was blurred and the bright light stung. He was on his back looking into the faces of the two young soldiers. Peering over their shoulders was an older man, also military, dressed in a well-pressed uniform, stripes on his sleeve, an officer of some sort. Mesut could see hints of gray hair under his cap, and under his dark thick eyebrows, gentleness.

What happened here? the older man asked. Mesut wondered to whom he was speaking. He squinted, trying to get a clear look at his captors.

Can't you speak? the man asked, this time looking directly into Mesut's eyes.

Yes I can speak. Mesut glanced back and forth into the eyes of each of the young soldiers.

Well then?

One of the soldiers squinted and scowled at him. Mesut looked back at the officer. I must have tripped and fallen over.

The older soldier let out a grunt, turned and walked out of the cage. The young soldiers followed.

That evening, Mesut sat in the corner of his cellblock savoring the sunset. It had never looked so wondrous streaks of clouds, shades of purple and pink speckled with shadows of waterfowl, mountain peaks rising above the desert sand in the distance.

As far as the eye could see, a mosaic of hundreds of storage containers, like those carried by freighters across the ocean. Each container, tipped on its side, looked as if it housed five prisoners in separate cells no bigger than a closet. Steel mesh fencing replaced three sides of each container, with half of each cell space taken up by a metal bed welded to the wall. These cells are smaller than the prison facilities for those waiting to being executed, Mesut thought.

Even inmates on death row in his country were allowed to shower and exercise for an hour outside their cells each day.

Camp Freedom prisoners, by contrast, were permitted to leave their cells for only two 15-minute shower and exercise sessions per week. This meant they were confined to their open cells in fierce tropical heat for all but 30 minutes each week unless subjected to interrogation, which could happen at any time of the day or night.

Even on rare occasions when the guards removed the restraints during exercise, Mesut and the others found themselves trapped, bound by their fetters and constrained by lack of motivation.

He was not surprised by the empty cells bordering his block. At night, while blindfolded, he called out in loud, haunting whispers, yearning for company, anyone. For weeks, there were no replies.

He was anticipating the return of the guards, a new blindfold and a subsequent return to darkness, but no one showed. He fell asleep, dreaming of his wife and children.

In bed, sleeping next to her, the door swung open. The bang of the door hitting the wall woke him. Still groggy, he heard his wife scream. Three masked men, in dark army fatigues, handkerchiefs covering nose and mouth, rifles in hand, barged into the room. They pointed their barrels at him and yelled, but he was still dazed and didn't understand what they were saying. The language, he had never heard it before. What did they want with a carpenter and his family? He heard a frightened cry from the bedroom of his children. No, no!!! he screamed, reaching out into the blackness of the night.

Shut up old man!! he heard. The voice belonged to a guard standing at the entrance of the cell next to his. You were dreaming. Go back to sleep, or I'll put your blindfold back on.

The young soldier had a prisoner by the arm a middle-aged, bald man, with a gray beard, in cuffs and blindfolded. He pushed the shackled man into the cell. The captive tripped and fell, sliding on the dirt.

Mesut cringed as the man's skin ripped from his knees as they scraped along the gravel.

As soon as the guard left, Mesut whispered loudly. Over here, over here!

Speak again, the bald man said, trying to get his bearing.

Over here!

The man dragged himself toward Mesut. Here, here!! Mesut murmured. After a minute or so of torment, the emaciated, bleeding man reached the fence. Stop! Mesut said, just before the prisoner's head hit the rusting metal.

Where am I?

You're in a prison camp, Camp Freedom.

Freedom for who? Can you see me? Are you still there? He was beginning to panic.

Yes, I'm still here. I can see you. They took my blindfold off yesterday.

Mesut heard voices coming from the alley between two buildings across from the cages. The young soldiers were approaching. Quiet, he whispered, placing a finger to his lips, scooting away from his new friend.

Just as the soldiers turned the corner, a large black limousine approached parking in front of Mesut's cell. The soldiers stood at attention on the other side of the car.

The driver got out and opened the back door. A tall, thin, well-dressed man wearing a black suit slipped out and walked toward the cages. The soldiers scurried behind him like hungry puppies following their mother.

An army truck pulled up behind the limo. Out stepped the officer who had demanded the removal of Mesut's blindfold and cuffs.

All four walked into the cell of the new prisoner. Take off his blindfold! demanded the well dressed man. Yes, sir! one of the young soldiers replied as he reached for the cloth.

The men were close enough for Mesut to see that the dapper man had dark skin, a full head of wavy black hair and a handle bar mustache.

The friendly officer spoke, pointing at the prisoner. Mister Secretary, this man claims he has done nothing wrong. He says he is a taxi driver who was on his way home from picking up his son at school, when soldiers stopped him, placed cuffs on him and threw him into an army truck and brought him here.

The Secretary stood stoically, listening, staring at the bleeding, dirty detainee. Then he turned and walked to the door of the cell. The officer followed him. The Secretary stopped and turned, nose-to-nose. Sergeant, don't ever question my intentions or my authority in front of prisoners or other personnel. Is that clear?

Mesut could see the veins in his neck as he spoke and fully expected the Sergeant to back down.

But he didn t. Instead he got closer to the Secretary. In fact, Mesut wouldn't have been able to fit a sheet of paper between their noses. I am not questioning your authority, Mister Secretary, but these men are not being treated properly.

By this time the two baby-faced soldiers had gathered behind the Sergeant, facing the Secretary. They are smiling, actually smiling, Mesut thought.

The Secretary looked over the shoulder of the Sergeant at the young men. I spoke with these soldiers and assure you their methods of interrogation are in accordance with my command.

The young militia looked at each other and curled their lips into a broader smile than before. It was as if they had won a bet.

With his head turned away from the Sergeant, the Secretary walked briskly past him and out of the cell. The soldiers followed.

The Sergeant stood still, staring pensively at nothing in particular, then walked over to the other prisoner. The captive sensed someone was approaching and laid on his side, curling into a fetal position. I won't hurt you, the Sergeant said, while crouching in front of the terrified man. You have to tell me everything. Those men will be back and they won't take no for an answer.

I told them everything. I know nothing of the revolutionaries. I am a simple taxi driver. I know nothing. He began to sob.

The Sergeant gently placed his hand on the man's shoulder, rested it there for a moment, then stood and left the cell.

That night, Mesut sensed danger and tried to stay awake, but he was so tired, so tired. His eyes drooped. He slapped himself. Anything to stay awake, but the force of exhaustion was too great.

He woke to an electrifying pain, a jolt that brought tears to his eyes and knocked the breath from his lungs. He let out a wordless bellow. Then cupped his hands around his knees as he fell to his side.

He was kicked again and again. He yelled as he tried to block the boots from hitting his side, but eventually he lost feeling in his arms. He felt the pressure of the steel-toed shoes, but there was no sensation. So, you are no revolutionary, he heard one of the soldiers yell.

Stop, please, I beg you. Mesut pleaded.

What's the matter, your buddy the Sergeant not here to protect you? the other soldier yelled in an evil tone, almost laughing.

No no! It was the faint yell of the prisoner in the next cell.

Then a smash to Mesut's head. He knew his nose was broken, bleeding. Blood everywhere. Again a blow to the head.

No, no. The yells were not from the prisoner. Mesut was back in his home in Washington DC. The cries were from his children's bedroom. No, no, haunting cries. He walked as fast as he could but he was moving like a snail. He finally reached the doorway and turned into the room. His wife was sitting on the bed holding both his children in her arms, moaning, rocking back and forth. Mesut tried to speak, to yell, I'm okay, I'm okay, but no words came from his lips. His wife was reaching to a wall that opened to a beach, a beautiful sandy beach. Mesut could hear the howling wind as it passed across his lobes, the chirping of gulls, the laughter of children. He looked toward the water. It couldn't be. He recognized himself, in the water, walking away from his wife, his children deeper, deeper. No, no, his wife moaned, reaching into the empty air. Calling out to her husband as he walked further and further, deeper, deeper. I'm here, I'm here, he tried to yell. But he was never there.

Secretary of the Kingdom, after the six-year war (the great one), made secret policies for interrogation of suspected revolutionaries. Through code policy, secretly named Zinc Blue, he encouraged physical coercion and sexual humiliation of the radicals in an effort to learn more about their growing insurgency. It was said that the policy was an operation, which stemmed from the Secretary's venerable desire to take control of the Kingdom's covert and paramilitary operations from the Underground Intelligence Agency (UIA).

This desire began shortly after the bombing of Riyadh, the Kingdom's capital city a nuclear attack killing over half of its citizens. Counter attacks by the Kingdom's military proved futile, especially because of command and control problems experienced while searching for revolutionaries, necessitating a change in wartime policy.

For example, during a search and destroy mission, the UIA discovered, through counterintelligence, a convoy which may have been transporting a Revolutionary leader. Because of protocol requiring political and military correctness, a lawyer on duty at the Kingdom's Central Command was asked to evaluate the situation. He refused to authorize a strike. By the time an attack was finally approved, the target was out of reach.

Over a dozen other situations were reported to the Secretary, many involving fighter pilots who claim to have had Revolutionary leaders in their sights, only to lose the opportunity to annihilate the targets because of political fence hurdling.

Camp Freedom

Held without charge and in infringement of their democratic and legal rights, the prisoners have been deemed unlawful combatants by the Kingdom authorities in order to deny them official prisoner-of-war status and their most rudimentary human rights. They have no access to their families or lawyers and the Kingdom's government has given no indication when or if the prisoners, some of whom are only 16 years of age, will ever be charged or brought to trial. Under their current status, the prisoners can be held as long as the Kingdom decrees.

Amnesty International described the conditions at Camp Freedom as cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment in violation of international law and called for all interrogations to be halted until the detainees are given the opportunity to consult lawyers. These appeals, needless to say, have been brushed aside by the Kingdom's administration while the military has announced that it plans to expand the jail to take up to 5,000 prisoners.

The Kingdom's lawyers concluded that Revolutionary fighters are not protected by the Geneva Conventions because they do not satisfy main conditions of the treaty, including requirements to obey laws of war, wear insignia recognizable from a distance and operate under the command of a responsible individual.