By Shelly Bryant

Situated 250m behind the barbed wire topped wall, the cell block was filled to capacity, one inmate to each room. Unlikely as it might seem, the compound was completely silent, apart from the sound of the waves coming from the other side of the wall.

Inside the cell block, the silence in Sector A was broken by the buzz of the alarm that indicated that the door on the west end of the corridor running outside the cells was opened. That was the door that led to Sector B. The buzzing sound continued as the rattling of chains and shuffling of feet crossed the threshold, accompanied by the clip-clop of military issue boots that flanked the shuffler. The face of the detainee who walked between the two guards was hidden from view by a heavy black hood that draped down over the dingy, nondescript grey prison uniform hanging loosely from his shoulders. No doubt the uniform had been a better fit when the inmate was first escorted into the internment camp.

The shackles on the man's feet kept him moving at an awkward pace. It was impossible to tell whether this irritated or discouraged him, his expression being hidden behind the hood as it was. Anyway, there was no one other than the guards who would have seen what his face revealed, had it been left uncovered. All the other prisoners looked studiously away from the figures as they passed each cell's gate. Their lack of interest was due not only to the fact that the man between the guards was unrecognisable behind the heavy black fabric, but also — and more importantly — because they did not want the guards to think they were interested in what went on beyond the confines of each inmate's respective cell. Apathy was strongly encouraged in this camp.

Apathy. It was much easier to engender indifference in a group of captives than most people might imagine. Take away freedom of movement, deprive a man of sufficient food and nutrition, give him no meaningful work to do and little time to exercise either body or mind, and limit his interaction with other humans. Apathy seemed to be a natural response to such a regimen.

Coercion, humiliation, and degradation were only needed at infrequent, irregular intervals. In an environment where freedoms and privileges were in short supply, a sparing use of harsher methods of crowd control was preferred. Too heavy an application tended to create fear, and fear was not apathy. It was a delicate balance, but one that was maintained almost to perfection in this camp. They had been practicing for many years.

The prisoner shuffled down the length of the corridor. When the lock clicked at the east end, a second buzzer sounded, indicating the opening of the door there. Apparently the detainee who had walked blindly between his captors had been counting the doors he had passed through on his journey. His breath suddenly came out in a series of sobs. The door rattled open. The sound of the soldier's hand pushing the prisoner through the final door was clearly audible above the buzzing. The prisoner screamed, "No!" Then the door banged shut again and the lock clicked into place. The buzzer stopped.

The earlier silence was not restored. The screamed protest of the detainee was repeated with increasing frequency over the next several minutes, punctuated by angry shouts from the soldiers. The protests soon gave way to a different kind of cry, containing less desperate fear and more guttural pleading. Both finally gave way in turn to agonised howls that eventually trailed off into defeated whimpers. It took several hours to play out the full range of possibilities in the repertoire of this man's cries. He lasted longer than the previous inmate who had made the same walk, but he did not set a camp record. By the time his howls ceased, he still had a very long way to go to achieve that.

When even the echoes of the prisoner's last cries had died in the ears of the other inmates, a convoy of vehicles pulled into the courtyard, recognisable from inside the cell block only by the low growl of their engines and the glare of their headlights while they idled on the hardened dirt between the building and the outer wall. They never stayed long enough to turn off the engines. There was a slamming of doors, shouts in a tongue most of the inmates did not understand, at least not when spoken so rapidly. The doors slammed again, the engines' growls grew fiercer, and the headlights turned away from the cell block. The inmates could only assume that the vehicles left the camp and travelled now along the coastal road.

Prisoner 714903 lay in the dark, listening until there were no more sounds of vehicles in the compound. The rumble of the waves that apparently broke somewhere just beyond the wall of the camp continued their relentless assault on his ears. He hated the sea.

Prisoner 714903 did not wonder which of his fellow inmates had been taken from his cell, escorted through the corridors, and tortured on this night. That would become obvious enough, in time. That man would not be seen again, and then it would be known to all who had been unfortunate enough to be chosen this time.

Prisoner 714903 did not wonder who. He did not wonder why. His mind only had space enough for a single thought: I will not be next.

The next morning, Prisoner 714903 made his way silently out onto the tightly packed earth of the courtyard. He was not certain exactly which prisoner had disappeared the night before, but he could make a reasonable guess. Two faces were missing from the usual lineup of men collected in the courtyard, but he doubted it had been the slight, sallow fellow who had gone. He probably would not have lasted that long. Perhaps he was in the infirmary. It was a favorite tactic of the captors to remove multiple inmates from the general population of prisoners for a few days after one had made that trek down the corridor. It kept the rest of the detainees in the dark about who had disappeared for good, at least until the surviving inmates turned up again. If anyone showed undue interest in finding out which of the missing prisoners had been killed, he became a marked man.

Prisoner 714903 could guess that it was not the slight, sallow fellow who had died, but the other one who was not in the courtyard this morning, the one with the cunning eyes. It did not matter either way to Prisoner 714903, though. He did not know either man. In fact, he did not know anyone in this camp. And he did not want to know anyone. Those who formed connections were the first to go. Prisoner 714903 did not intend to go, not ever. He repeated in his mind the mantra, I will not be next. And he believed the only way he might make good on that promise to himself was to keep to himself. It was no guarantee, for over time (he had lost count of how long it had been) the captors had grown as arbitrary as they were cruel, but he felt it was the only chance he had.

Seated on a wooden bench, he looked out at the clouds above the barbed wire on top of the wall. But he reminded himself not to stare too long. Looking over the wall might also attract unwanted attention. I will not be next.

He turned on the bench so that his back faced the fence. The smell of the sea accompanied the crashing of its waves. He hated both the stink and the sound of the sea. He hated everything about it. His home was inland, far from such vast expanses of water. He never trusted the sea. Bad things came from over the sea.

He reminded himself of the dangers of this way of thinking. Hatred was not apathy. It tended to invade the eyes, eyes that should remain vacant.

He reminded himself that apathy was everything. Ignore the sounds. Ignore the smells.      

I will not be next.

He was careful not to watch the other prisoners as they moved around, each on his own. He reminded himself to keep his eyes vacant, void of any hint of feeling or interest.

I will not be next.

He reminded himself to keep his gaze directed toward the ground, on the blandest spot he could find.

I will not be next.

He heard a dull droning sound in the distance. He was not sure when that lulling rumble had begun. Though he only noticed it now, it seemed to him that the sound had always been there, accompanying the booming of the waves.

I will not be next.

He forced himself not to think about the rumbling sound. Thinking about it might start to look like interest.

I will not be next.

He reminded himself to change the direction of his gaze, still downward, but facing a different, equally bland patch of earth.

I will not be next.

The droning sound grew stronger. It was steadier and less rhythmic than the sound of the waves.

He reminded himself to keep his eyes vacant.

I will not be next.

The sound came from beyond the wall. It was something he knew he should recognize.

He tried to block out the dull rolling noise like he had blocked out the sounds of the sea every day for years. So many years he had lost count.

He relaxed the muscles of his jaw, keeping it slack in a practiced expression of indifference.

I will not be next.

The sound drew nearer, louder.

He reminded himself to ignore it.

I will not be next.

He shifted his gaze again. The sound intensified, setting itself in contrast to other sounds, sounds he had worked hard to learn to ignore. Seagull calls, waves rolling, then crashing. The salty smell of the ocean began to invade his senses, together with those unwelcome sounds.

He shifted his weight and looked down at his sandals.

He reminded himself to show no interest in anything beyond the reach of his own shadow. Ignore the sounds. Ignore the smells.

I will not be next.

Airplanes.

The sound. It was airplane engines. They drew nearer.

But airplanes were none of his business. He would ignore them.

I will not be next.

The bench trembled lightly beneath him.

I will not be next.

A siren blared at the gate nearest the beach. It was echoed by another on the other end of the compound.

I will not be next.

The sound of airplane engines was not far behind him now, just over his right shoulder.

The shaking of the bench intensified.

I will not be next.

There was an explosion.

He forced his eyes to remain on his sandals.

I will not be next.

A bomb. He heard bombs. He knew that sound.

Just outside the wall.

I will not be next.

People were shouting inside the camp. Some of the words were even in his own language.

I will not be next.

Prisoner 714903 gripped the edge of the wooden bench. This was not the move of a disinterested man, but he had to dig his nails into the wood just to keep the rest of his body still.

He reminded himself to keep his eyes vacant. He looked at the dirt under the nail of his big toe.

I will not be next.

It was just a bombing. It was not his business.

The toenail. That was his business.

I will not be next.

He looked at his toenail.

He reminded himself to ignore the sounds of chaos around him.

I will not be next.

Another bomb dropped. This one was much closer. Inside the courtyard.

Prisoner 714903 fell to the ground. As the world turned black around him, he said aloud, 'I will not be–'

Lying on the tightly packed earth in the courtyard, Prisoner 714903 came to. It did not take him more than a couple of seconds to remember where he was. Forgetting that was a luxury he could not afford. Instinctively, he thought, I will not be next.

He took a deep breath and sat up. He shook his head, crossed his legs, and tried to keep his eyes vacant as he stole glances at the area around him.

How long had he been out? The camp seemed to be a completely different place now than it was before he lost consciousness. Smoke hovered over the courtyard. He could still hear the waves in the distance.

Men in prison uniforms huddled together in the courtyard, no longer standing apart. Some whispered among themselves.

Soldiers still moved swiftly about the compound, but they were not the same soldiers as before. Their uniforms were different. They were slighter of build than the captors Prisoner 714903 had come to accept as his overseers and providers, as much as they were his tormentors.

He would not be taken in by these changes.

I will not be next.

 He remained apart from the other prisoners, stealing glances at them as furtively as possible. He reminded himself to keep his eyes down, his head lowered, his shoulders slumped enough to appear submissive, but not sickly.

He pulled himself up on his haunches. Squatting there under the hot sun, he felt more at home. Confident, if not comfortable. He bent his head, peeking beneath his left arm to see how far he had fallen from the bench he had been sitting on earlier.

The overturned bench lay several meters behind him. Its steel legs had pulled up large chunks of earth where they had been uprooted, along with the concrete that had been designed to keep them firmly in place even in the event that a riot broke out amongst the detainees.

I will not be next.

Prisoner 714903 looked to the ground in front of him again. He stole glances right and left. No one was watching. Still, he was cautious as, at intervals, he broke his gaze away from the ground and tried to catch sight of the changes in the compound around him, to get a glimpse of the new soldiers. No one appeared to know he was there.

But he would not be taken in by appearances.

He eased his way back toward the bench. When he reached it, after a minute or two of crab walking across the sand, he leaned back against the overturned bench, the seat serving as a nice backrest. It offered some security, a sort of rear guard as he tried to gain some feel for what had happened, and what was happening now.

The new soldiers were in darker green uniforms than those Prisoner 714903's captors had worn. He saw no signs of the soldiers who had been in control of every aspect of his life in the years he had been interned at this camp, but an idea of what might have happened to them began to form in his mind when he saw several troops of newly arrived soldiers milling about the old cell block.

Who were these people?

This new army had not come from his home country. The soldiers there moved with less precision, and their uniforms were less... well, less uniform. Many of the soldiers back home wore the same clothes they wore when they worked the fields. And, since civilians in his hometown often carried weapons to work each day, it could sometimes be difficult to differentiate between soldier and civilian.

This army was different. They did not move like the captors. They were lighter on their feet, more like Prisoner 714903 and the other men from home than like the burly soldiers he had grown accustomed to since he had been brought to the camp. But he could make out little else about these soldiers from this distance. And he certainly had no intention of getting a closer look.

I will not be next, he reminded himself. I will not be next.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in that spot, observing as best he could while trying to look indifferent toward all that went on around him. When the sun had moved to its peak at midday, he had remained rooted to this spot. It was hot, but also comfortably out of the way of the newly arrived soldiers. By the time the sun had begun to move closer to the wall on the western edge of the compound, Prisoner 714903 was still huddled against the overturned bench. The breeze, tainted with the fishy smell of the sea, grew cool. He gave no thought to what he would do when night fell. He only reminded himself, from time to time, to keep his eyes vacant and to avoid being next.

But mostly, he watched.

A soldier noticed him squatting there.

Prisoner 714903 dropped his gaze and pulled his shoulders into a more pronounced slouch. It was too late. The soldier had seen him and was now approaching him. Prisoner 714903 did not look up.

I will not be next I will not be next I will not be next

The soldier's boots came to a standstill right at the spot Prisoner 714903 had chosen as the focal point for his vacant gaze. The inmate did not look up. He did not move.

The soldier squatted. He held a stainless-steel bowl in his hands. He thrust it toward the inmate.

This was clearly an offer.

Prisoner 714903 would not be taken in. I will not be next. He did not respond to the offer at all, neither to reject nor accept it.

The soldier grunted. Perhaps he said something, but it was unintelligible. The prisoner heard the grunt, but did not look up.

The soldier inched his way toward the prisoner, still crouching and proffering the bowl.

"Na," he grunted again.

Prisoner 714903 wanted to back away, but the bench he had trusted to serve as his rear guard all afternoon now worked against him. There was nowhere to go.

The soldier ducked his head down into the inmate's field of vision. The face was dirty, making it hard to decipher anything about the man's appearance. Black eyes were visible through the grime, black as the sea. Prisoner 714903 hated the sea. He did not trust anything that came from there.

The soldier grunted again, pushing the bowl toward the inmate more insistently. A thin wisp of steam rose up, threading its way between the two black eyes.

"Na!"

Prisoner 714903 took the bowl from the other man's hand.

The soldier stood, turned around, and walked away. He did not look back at the prisoner.

The bowl was filled with clear broth. A few soggy shallots floated on its surface. The steam that rose from it was not terribly fragrant, but that did not deter Prisoner 714903. His hunger overcoming his judgement, he put his lips to the brim and drank the savory broth.

Just as he slurped the last drops of soup from the bowl, a second soldier approached him. He dropped the bowl to his knees, his eyes to the ground, and silently cursed himself for having momentarily dropped his guard. Don't be taken in, he reminded himself. The soup. Why had he let a bowl of thin broth disrupt his vigilance? He reminded himself to keep a vacant look in his eyes.

The second soldier stopped in front of him, reaching out to take the bowl from the detainee's knees. He replaced it with a second bowl, which Prisoner 714903 caught with one hand before it toppled to the ground. A white pasty porridge filled this bowl.

He glanced up at the soldier. The man jutted his chin forward, pointing at the bowl the prisoner now held in hand.

"Eat."

Prisoner 714903 did not know much English, but this was one word he had picked up from his previous captors during the time he was detained in the centre. It was a familiar command, though it sounded different coming from this soldier. It was crisper and shorter. Sharper.

He raised his eyes toward the soldier's face again. Who were these men who had taken over the camp? What were they doing here? What did it all mean?

Don't be next! He reminded himself that he must not be taken in. He must not look too interested. He could not let himself be next.

He dropped his eyes to the ground.

The soldier waited.

Reminding himself not to appear too eager, he slowly raised the bowl to his lips and sipped. Rice porridge. It was bland and watery, but warm. He carefully took a second sip.

The soldier turned and walked away.

Before night fell, several large, open-sided tents were constructed in the courtyard. Each prisoner was given a light blanket. The soldiers pointed them toward the tents. The detainees shuffled to follow the instruction, quickly and quietly. By the time darkness fell upon them, they had settled in for their first of many nights sleeping in the open air.

The next morning, Prisoner 714903 awoke as soon as the sun rose above the horizon. He coughed. The cool air from the sea had given him a sore throat as he slept. Nothing good ever came from the sea. Even the air from it was bad.

Squatting, he folded his blanket and waited for someone to tell him what to do next. The soldiers appeared at the edge of the tent, barking unintelligible instructions as they pointed and gestured to make themselves understood.

The detainees exited the tents in as orderly a manner as a crowd of several hundred men could. They deposited their blankets in large metal boxes, then proceeded to the latrine. From there, they were ushered to several long troughs of water where they were allowed to wash before being herded back to the tents. Once all the detainees were seated under the shelters, a second meal was distributed, consisting of the same thin, pasty porridge they had eaten the previous evening.

Prisoner 714903 sat alone, reminding himself between sips of porridge that he must keep to himself, remain disinterested, and stay out of trouble. After breakfast, his resolve was redoubled when he saw the soldiers begin to lead the detainees out of the tent one by one.

Instinctively, Prisoner 714903 thought, I will not be next.

It was with some mild surprise that he noticed that the prisoners who had been taken out eventually returned to the group. As soon as they were seated again, those nearest them began whispering questions.

Prisoner 714903 checked his surprise. No. This would not do. Surprise was a form of interest, and interest only led to trouble. Like the sea, nothing good could come from it. He reminded himself to mind his own business. He looked at the ground, eyes vacant. He may not get news this way, but he would stay alive.

He called on his years of practice. Apathy. Indifference. No signs of interest in anything going on around him could appear on his face or in his body language. Eyes cast downward, kept vacant, shifting their focal point at irregular intervals, always choosing the blandest, emptiest patches of ground to fall upon. Shoulders forward and tugged down, but not in a sickly slouch. Knees close to chest, elbows against sides, body as compact as possible.

Despite his best efforts, his worst fears were realized. A soldier approached him, took hold of his elbow and pulled him up. He did not resist. Resistance too was a sign of interest, and interest could only lead to trouble. He looked at the ground in front of him, not daring to raise his vacant eyes from the hard-packed earth.

He was led into a shelter standing midway between the detainees' tents and the cell block. A group of soldiers stood around the edges of this tent, obviously positioned to keep the detainees from trying to escape once they had been brought in. A long table sat in the middle of the structure, three soldiers seated behind it. These three soldiers were cleaner than the rest. Prisoner 714903 assumed that meant they were of higher rank. He glanced briefly toward them. These are not white men, he realized. He tried to suppress the shock he felt at that thought, but could not keep from wondering, Who are these soldiers?

The officers started chattering in a language he did not recognize. Its rhythm was quick and hard. Sharp.

He inhaled deeply. Don't be next.

"You know why you are here?" a voice asked from behind the table.

Prisoner 714903 started to tremble.

"You speak English?"

Prisoner 714903 shook his head. He was quaking. He tried to gain some control over his body. He was afraid he would urinate, standing right in the middle of the tent in front of these strange men he had never seen before.

"Little. L-little Englise."

"OK, OK. Little is enough."

He nodded.

"You are free."

"Free?"

"Free. Can go."

"Go?"

The officers shuffled. Prisoner 714903 looked up from the ground in front of him, watching as they started chattering amongst themselves in their own language again. It seemed they thought he did not understand.

I won't be next.

"No American?" he asked.

The chattering stopped.

"No." The officer sounded surprised.

"Japani?"

All the soldiers inside the shelter laughed.

"No. Not Japanese. Chinese. You – free."

"Chini? Free?"

They laughed again.

"Yes. Chinese. Yes, free."

Over the next several days, a new routine was established in the detainment center. Mobile showers were erected, and the former prisoners were deloused. They were fed three times a day beneath the same shelters under which they slept at night. Each meal consisted of nothing more than rice porridge, broth, and a meager serving of vegetables, but there was a meal served punctually each morning, midday, and evening. Encouraged by the regularity of both the content and scheduling of the meals, the former detainees settled easily, almost comfortably, into the routine. Prisoner 714903 found it difficult to maintain his accustomed vigilance in the face of the comforting fixity of this new regimen.

After the final meal of the day on the fourth night in the courtyard, the inmates were herded to a large patch of open ground inside the walled compound to the north of the tents where they slept each night. A large screen had been set up just inside the wall. The detainees situated themselves into rows, seated on the cool, hard earth. A film flickered into life on the screen.

It had been dubbed in Arabic.

"Gentlemen, the army of the People's Republic of China has liberated all prisoners of the capitalist oppressors, who have unjustly kept you at Guantanamo Bay over the past three decades. Some of you may have been here for most of that time, perhaps for half your life or even more. The Communist Party of China is pleased to bring liberation to the oppressed, to all of you who here in Guantanamo Bay.

"It has long been the goal of the Communist Party of China to free the nations from the shackles of imperialism, to see the overthrow of bourgeoisie ways in a world where workers unite to build a better future in which all men and women are free to live in dignity, laboring together to contribute to the betterment of all nations."

The voice continued in an Arabic that was not quite like that spoken in Prisoner 714903's hometown. It was crisper, shorter, harder. Sharper. But he understood the words.

Numbly, he watched a series of images appear on the screen. Each seemed to be a variation of the same basic picture. Red background with black and white line drawings. The edges were hard, sharp. He did not recognize the words written there, but the dubbed audio explained that these posters had been on display in the 1950s and early 1960s in China, encouraging the new nation to unite with other Third World countries to overthrow the First World. Prisoner 714903 saw that the images in the posters included men and women of various races standing in opposition to a single unified front of white women and men. It was a message he understood. He thought it made good sense. The voiceover in the film said these posters had been seen all over the great nation of China decades earlier. All the people in China believed in the need to overthrow First World oppression, the voice said. And now the Communist Party of China was, at long last, ready to lead the way as Third World countries rose up to overthrow the oppressing nations.

The film skipped to the 1990s. That's when I was born, Prisoner 714903 thought. The first image was a long stretch of low buildings, all uniform height and color. The next shot showed the same stretch, but with one block of the low structures replaced with a high rise. The image continued to morph, the transformation of the landscape taking place at a constantly increasing tempo. Then, the shot flashed to another landscape similar to the first, following the progression as the low buildings at the new locale were swept away and replaced by dazzling skyscrapers. Then the sequence was repeated at another location, then another, until Prisoner 714903 finally lost count of how many cities were erected at lightning speed as he watched.

"By the beginning of the 21st century," the dubbed voiceover continued, "internal reforms in China had been successfully realised. Old ways had been swept aside, sometimes through admittedly painful processes, clearing the way for new developments. At last, the Communist Party was ready to make its vision a reality. The Party went on not only to build a more prosperous, modernized China, but also to begin to extend its assistance to other nations so that they could follow a similar pattern of development and growth. It began its "Go Forth" campaign, sending funds to Third World nations in need of economic and industrial development of the same sort the New China had achieved in its first sixty years of existence."

By this time, the images no longer depicted city streets filled only with Chinese faces. Now Chinese men and women in Western business attire moved among darker skinned faces, shaking hands with dignitaries from other, poorer nations. The voiceover spoke of "going out" — to Africa, to South America, to Eastern Europe, to the Caribbean. To the Middle East. Roads. Schools. Stadiums. Clean water supplies. Sanitation facilities. Hospitals. Chinese money, pumped abroad, was used to better the conditions of Third World nations everywhere, but particularly in the southern hemisphere. This had been happening since the early part of this century, the film said, the entire time most of the prisoners here at Guantanamo Bay had been unjustly detained. The world was changing. At long last, the struggle for the rise of the Third World, led by the People's Republic of China and its Communist Party, was coming to an end.

The film was over. Prisoner 714903 stared for several moments at the blank screen. The echoes of the final lines of the film ceased and a silence fell over the body of prisoners gathered at the northern end of the detainment center.

An officer walked to the front of the assembly. Prisoner 714903 thought this soldier might have been one of the men who had questioned him. When the officer spoke, he was sure of it. It was the same voice, speaking the same sharp English.

Prisoner 714903 did not pick up every word of the officer's speech, but he understood the command at the end of it. In response, he stood, turned and walked to a tent, picked up a blanket, and settled down for the night.

He did not know how long he lay awake inside the shelter, but it seemed like hours. All around, he heard the whispered conversations between other prisoners. Their voices were just loud enough to cover the relentless crash of the waves on the other side of the wall. He did not join the conversation, but he listened, and he thought.

When sleep finally overtook him, he dreamt of home.

For the next 10 days, the routine was the same. Three meals a day, and at night another film dubbed in Arabic describing the work the Communist Party of China had done, first within the borders of its own country and then in the rest of the world. The glorious achievements of the Party were soon familiar to Prisoner 714903. Modernisation. Industrialisation. Science. Technology. Development. Advancement. Reform. The accomplishments that the Communist Party of China had realised in such a short time were so extensive that he could not help but wonder why he had not heard more about the Party's work before. He could only assume this was a result of his unjust detainment by the capitalist oppressors at Guantanamo Bay.

On the 15th night after the liberation of the camp, there was no film. Instead, a new soldier stood in front of the crowd. His uniform was clean and neatly pressed, its edges crisp. He must have just arrived, thought Prisoner 714903.

The newly arrived soldier spoke to the crowd in an Arabic that sounded like that spoken by the films' voiceovers. Its rhythm was different from the language as Prisoner 714903 and his people had always spoken it, its rise and fall more like the sound of the waves of the sea on the other side of the prison compound's wall than the roll of the hills of home. But the words were familiar, and the detainees were hungry for information.

"Gentlemen," the soldier began, his tone official, hard, and sharp, "you know that you are, at last, free. You are no longer prisoners. I know many of you are eager to return to your homes, and the Communist Party of China aims to help you do that. All of you who came from Middle Eastern and North African nations will be repatriated, eventually. We must ask for your patience, though, as there are many arrangements to be made. We will do our best to arrange for the speediest possible return home for all of you. You are welcome guests of the Communist Party of China in the meantime, and we will do our best to provide for you.

"However, we also must warn you – you must prepare your minds for what you will encounter when you do finally return. Many of you have been here for a very long time, and you will find your homelands greatly changed. The Middle East has been the site of much unrest, and many of the countries there have been ravaged by war. You may return to find you have no home. The Communist Party of China will help with the rebuilding efforts in the war-torn areas. You have seen in the films shown here over the last couple of weeks that the Party is committed to humanitarian work, and has been active in improving living conditions for people all over the world, so you know you can trust the Party to be your faithful ally. When you return home, do not be discouraged. What you have lost may not be salvageable at this point, but you can rebuild, and the Party will help you build your home nations into great, powerful, wealthy states, just as China built herself up again after devastating natural disasters and invasion from imperialist nations in the middle of the previous century. Take heart, and remember what a united people can do. Nation building is a worthy endeavor, and you must not be afraid to make sacrifices for your country.

"Now, not all of you lived in the Middle East or Northern Africa before your detainment here at Guantanamo Bay. Some of you had settled in the US, Europe, or other parts of the Western world. For those of you who were in this situation, you will be pleased to know that not only the People's Republic of China, but also many other friendly nations in Africa, Asia, Eastern Europe, the Caribbean, and South America have agreed to take in refugees. There will be places for all of you in these friendly nations, and you will be free to start afresh there with aid from the government that takes you in.

"Now, are there any questions?"

There was a long moment of silence, then one man in the middle of the crowd raised his hand. The soldier pointed to him, and he started asking a question.

"Please," the soldier interrupted, holding up a hand. "Chinese or Arabic only."

The man with the question looked bewildered. He turned to the inmate next to him and spoke for a moment, then his companion asked in Arabic, "Why can't those who were living in the US return there?"

The soldier replied, "The US, Australia, and many countries in Western Europe have embraced an isolationist policy. They have closed their borders to almost all would-be immigrants, and they have adamantly refused entry to all former detainees from camps in Guantanamo Bay."

"But can't you make them take us in? Maybe create nations for us like they did for the Jews in the last century?" another voice asked from the crowd.

"No. We cannot."

"Why not? Didn't you defeat them?"

Murmured questions could be heard from every quarter.

The soldier raised his voice in order to be heard above the whispering voices in the audience. "No. We did not defeat them. There were no battles fought at all. We simply bought them out."

"No battles?" one of the former detainees asked. "But weren't those bombs we heard on the day of your arrival?"

The official laughed. "Yes, you heard some explosions, but it was merely a military parade. As I said, we did not fight a single battle with your captors, nor with any of the nations who have acted as their allies. There was no need to. There was no war, just a buyout."

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. It was well documented fact that Western nations, particularly the US, were not only operating at a trade imbalance with China for decades, but were also taking loans from the Chinese government. We Chinese learned our lesson from the Unequal Treaties of a century earlier, and so turned the tables on the former superpowers. It was done gradually — and quite systematically — over time. In recent months, the Communist Party of China has finally called in old debts and taken all overseas interests out of the hands of the West. It has been agreed by the international community that this is in everyone's best interests. There will be a clear line of segregation between the West and the Rest. If you look at it from a historical perspective, you cannot deny that the former superpowers from the West only ever wanted to live in a world run by them and serving their interest. We've agreed to let them live in just such a world, as long as they confine it to the lands within their own borders. No more colonialism. No more preying on and oppressing poorer, less privileged nations. There is the West, confined within their borders, and there is the Rest — an international community that cooperates for the mutual benefit of all men and women. The West will live in isolation, in a world of its own making, and the Rest will live in ours.

  "The Communist Party of China is happy to welcome you into this new world."

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