A soccer field, rose bushes and, thinly
visible beyond, limp-stretched razor wire—
slivers of silver ember—circling sky
atop courtyard walls. Aamir once aspired
to jihad. “No more,” he whispers, faint grin
curling inside dark beard. He lets me watch
his pen and ink create a francolin.
“At Guantanamo, to draw I would scratch
cell walls with my fingernail. If outside,
I’d slit my wrists on barbed wire, pray to die.
No more. Now I feel Allah’s love inside
me. I see clearly how bin Laden lies.”
Nearby, the general sighs a token
murmur to doctors: “Well done. He’s broken.”
Roger Armbrust
February 21, 2008
