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In the summer of 2004, two years after Khadr's arrival, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that the Bush administration could not hold prisoners indefinitely without charging them. Detainees had the right to have their cases heard in federal court. In response, camp authorities quietly released 114 detainees by the end of the year. Virtually none had seen the evidence against them. In June 2006, the Supreme Court suspended the tribunals for three months until Congress officially authorized them.
For Khadr, nothing changed. He continually wrote letters home, promising his mother that Allah would protect them. In an interview with the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, his mother, dressed in a black burqa that covered everything but her eyes, said she would be happy to see her son die a martyr. She also admitted that when the planes hit the World Trade Center, her first thought was, "Let them have it." As for the American medic Khadr reportedly killed with a grenade in 2002, Omar's sister Zaynab was unapologetic. "Big deal," she said with a shrug.
It's an early January morning at Guantánamo. Young soldiers with cropped hair jog along the streets in the gray light of dawn, their T-shirts drenched from the thick tropical air. As they run in single file, a car passes on the winding street, headed to the mess hall up the road. Classic rock broadcast from one of two military-controlled radio stations drifts from its window.
A few miles away, prisoners rise for morning prayer. They kneel and recite Koranic verses. Later, they wash their white uniforms and hang them on chain-link fences to dry.
Across the camp, Omar Khadr is slumped over a defense table in a convincing replica of a U.S. courtroom. He is no longer the frail, clean-shaven teenager who begged Army soldiers to kill him. He scratches a thick beard and rubs his left eye, blinded all those years ago by American shrapnel. His lanky, 6-foot-1-inch frame stretches a white prison uniform, and his face is slack with boredom.
For six and a half years, through torture and isolation, he has awaited his day in court. Next door to the multimillion-dollar courthouse hosting Khadr's hearing, a reporter watches the proceedings on a flatscreen TV mounted on the wall inside a double-wide trailer tucked into the corner of a cavernous, dusty hangar. It's as close as the Pentagon will allow the media.
A Navy lawyer finishes questioning an FBI agent just after 11 a.m., and the camera shifts to Army Col. Patrick Parrish, who is presiding in a judge's flowing black robes. "Because of the inauguration, then, we're going to recess for the rest of the day," he says. "We're going to reconvene tomorrow at 0900." He pauses and clears his throat. "Unless we're told otherwise by the commission."
In that instant, the TV set broadcasting Khadr's hearing flips to live coverage of President Barack Obama's inauguration ceremony. Khadr's slumped figure is replaced by the black-robed figures of the U.S. Supreme Court, tromping down the stairs of the U.S. Capitol.
With George W. Bush sitting nearby, Obama repudiates what Guantánamo Bay has come to represent. "We reject as false the choice between our safety and ideals," he says, setting in motion plans to close the camp within a year and throwing Khadr's case into limbo.
The next day, the brass at Guantánamo try to wrap their minds around what has happened. Army Col. Bruce Vargo — the detention camp's top commander — keeps an office inside a fluorescent-lit trailer in the heart of Camp Delta, where the best-behaved prisoners are held. An Ohio native with meaty, pinched features and a booming voice, he seems the perfect officer — in control and unflappable. "Look, we are responsible for the safe, humane, and transparent legal care and custody of these detainees," he says matter-of-factly. "That has not changed, all right?"
Vargo won't talk about conditions prior to his 2007 arrival, but it is obvious that much has changed since the early days at Camp X-Ray. Today, detainees live in sterile, modern prison cells that look like maximum-security units in places such as Leavenworth, Kansas; and Florence, Colorado. Inside Camp 6 — the highest-security location other than Camp 7, which is in a secret on-base location that is off-limits to journalists — guards proudly display spartan cells with shatter-proof mirrors and collapsible "suicide-proof" clothing hooks.
Most guards are active-duty soldiers and sailors on two-year assignments. Some of them guide journalists, and censor pictures if a snapshot is taken of an empty guard tower or the fence line. Every photo is reviewed and deleted if deemed improper.
Senior Chief Jodi Myers, a perky, well-spoken 41-year-old from Pennsylvania, says prisoners quickly learned of the president's order to close the camp from their lawyers and word-of-mouth. "They know what's going on; they know the dates and stuff like that," she says, surrounded by empty cells in the common area of an unused block. "The guards maintain a very professional attitude, so we never give [detainees] any information. But they get to read the newspaper."
Jeff MacRay, a heavy-set 32-year-old guard from Michigan, says the prisoners are tough to deal with, but uncertainty over the camp's future and the widespread hatred of Guantánamo back home are worse. "It's a difficult occupation," he says softly. "Sometimes things get misconstrued, and it's frustrating."
Cultural advisers now teach guards about Ramadan, fasting, and the importance of daily prayers to Mecca. For inmates, there are art classes, a couple of hours of daily rec time, specially prepared halal meals, and a library with more than 14,000 books in 22 languages. "We take great pains to respect the religion of these men," Vargo says. "Five times a day they get prayer calls, we have respect for their Korans, we have respect for their communal rules. We've ... been continuously working to mature our camps."
