In August, journalist Moustafa Bayoumi said broke the story that the first photo of a detainee on a Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) black site had been released. It shows an emaciated Ammar al-Baluchi, chained and naked in a stark white room. According to CIA protocol, the photo of the Pakistani detainee, subjected to years of torture, was intended “to document his physical condition at the time of transfer.” In a recent one Hyperallergic In his op-ed, Bayoumi reflected on the dark history of various regimes’ use of similar “atrocity photography” – a genre of memories they create for themselves that record the violence but obscure it from public view.
While this photo embodies dehumanization, another image shows a different perspective. Using a vortex of colored lines and dots, al-Baluchi illustrated what he saw during a period of dizziness caused by a traumatic brain injury caused by this torture.
Now that they are no longer in the media, it is easy for many to forget that there are still dozens of people imprisoned in Guantánamo Bay. The detention camp has held hundreds of prisoners from around the world since it opened in the early 2000s in the aftermath of September 11, and al-Baluchi makes up the vast minority of those charged with crimes related to these events. While more than half of the men those still held there were cleared for release years ago, they have not been released, and it is possible they never will.
More than ten years ago, a group of these men started making art. In the beginning, they used what little materials they could find, such as soap scratched on the walls or plastic forks scraped onto Styrofoam cups, and even drew with tea powder on toilet paper. If these secret artists were discovered, they were punished. But starting in 2010, after Obama-era reforms, inmates were finally allowed to take art classes. What happened was a brief flourishing of the arts in one of the least likely places and under inhumane conditions.
In this episode, we speak with Erin L. Thompson, a Hyperallergic collaborator, is a professor of art crime at John Jay College who was a curator Ode to the seaa groundbreaking exhibition of artwork by inmates that debuted in 2018. She recently returned from a week-long trip to the Caribbean military prison to watch the September 11 trials that were ultimately postponed. Thompson spoke with editor-in-chief Hrag Vartanian about the strict scrutiny of not only the controversial art, but also the way authorities tightly control the photography produced by the media.
Writer and artist Molly Crabapple, on the other hand, found a solution. She came to talk to us about her journey to the detention center in 2013, when she was granted access to draw this surreal prison and its inhabitants, both the imprisoned men and the medics, guards and other actors who keep the machine running. Her work shows us how drawing can illuminate truths that censored photographs cannot.
And finally, we spoke to writer Mansoor Adayfi, who was held in Guantánamo Bay for almost fifteen years. Like the vast majority of those imprisoned there, he was never charged with a crime. Adayfi gave us a firsthand account of the hunger strikes, the changes in torture tactics and incarceration that accompanied each presidential administration, the bonds that developed between the men in prison, and the blossoming of art through painting , singing, dancing and writing among the population. prisoners. He explains how such art became a lifeline for their survival. The author of Letters from Guantanamo And Don’t forget us here: lost and found in Guantanamowith which he works as an activist CAGE toward the goal of permanently closing Guantánamo Bay.
In 2022, eight current and former detainees wrote a letter urging President Biden to end Trump-era policies that prevented their work from leaving Guantánamo. Several men who were up for release that year said they would rather have their art released than themselves. Adayfi told us he would say the same if given the choice.
“Art is not just art. It becomes a part of you. You put your blood, your sweat, your memories, your time there. That art helped you find yourself. To preserve your sanity and your humanity,” he explained.
“Art from Guantánamo, we consider it as one of us, as a living being. It went through the same process: the beatings, the abuse, the torture, the death, even. Just like us, just like us prisoners. It’s the same process. It has been through everything we have been through.”
Although the Biden administration has lifted the ban on art leaving Guantanamo Bay, they have not fulfilled a promise to close the prison before Donald Trump returns to power in January. His government could usher in an expansion of similar detention camps, along with a new era of censorship and repression in many forms. But as long as such injustices continue under any regime, stories like Adayfi’s are crucial to hold on to and learn from.
Even if a detainee manages to be released from Guantánamo Bay, he still faces significant challenges. You can donate here to the Guantánamo Survivors Fund, which aims to provide medical care, housing and education to those released.
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