Colin's Birthday Party

Today, Colin is celebrating his Big 10!  We had a fantastic time and over 20 of his closest friends came to his birthday bash, playing laser tag near Reston.  Don, Pearl and Joel were there and we had such a splendid time.  We each played two games and I found it quite thrilling and interactive.  Reminded me of the time we played paint bullet gun in BOOST in San Diego (1987).  I got Colin a 3rd Generation IPOD, 8 GB.   He was very excited and I was too since I only have the 2nd generation Nanos.

Happy Birthday Son!  Daddy is really proud of you of everything you've done and your good grades.

Bahrain

During the first week of December, we travelled to the U.S. Central Command (CENTCOM) and U.S. European Command (EUCOM) AORs. The number one reason for going was to convey our sincere appreciation for the outstanding work the active duty and reservists who perform each and everyday under very challenging conditions and to determine how Navy Medicine headquarters can better support their needs.

Our first stop Dec. 1 was Bahrain, the home of U.S Naval Forces Central Command (NAVCENT), the Naval Component Commander for CENTCOM. I wanted to get a strategic view of the medical presence and services Navy Medicine provides to U.S. and coalition forces in the Arabian Gulf, Red Sea, Gulf of Aden and parts of the Indian Ocean.

While in Bahrain, we visited the Bahrain Defense Force Royal Medical Services which provides Level IV medical care as needed by U.S. service members assigned to NAVCENT and Naval Support Activity (NSA) Bahrain.

Our next stop Dec. 3 was Camp Arifjan, Kuwait, the home of U.S Army Central (USARCENT), the Army component commander for CENTCOM and the Army's First Theater Sustainment Command (TSC). First TSC provides joint, theater focused logistic support in the CENTCOM AOR making Camp Arifjan the logistical command and control hub for Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom.

Camp Arifjan is home to the 44-bed US Military Hospital Kuwait staffed by the Expeditionary Medical Facility-Kuwait (EMF-K). The hospital provides complete resuscitative surgery and acute care to approximately 20,000 coalition forces in five installations in the Kuwaiti Theater of Operations. It is housed in Base-x modular shelters, tailored to meet the medical mission, and are setup in less than 48 hours. Try to visualize an operating room in a tent or a state-of-the-art digitized, computerized CAT scan machine in a large metal box or mobile units comprise of six ICU beds (expandable to 12) with full cardiac monitoring and ventilator capability.

Cumulative for 2007, EMF-K conducted over 80,500 outpatient visits, 1,200 surgeries, 15,200 dental encounters, and 22,500 immunizations, a productivity output similar to family practice teaching hospitals in the US and similar in terms of breadth and depth of talent.

Rock Creek Parkway Accident

View Rock Creek Parkway in a larger map

Visiting Kim, Rio and Rintaro with Colin in NYC (Coney)

This is Colin's very first trip to the Big Apple and Colin's first time he met his cousins: Rio and Rintaro.

In fact, I haven't seen Rio since she was just 4, so needless to say, I was quite delighted.

For this summer, this was my second trip to NYC -- having visited several weeks prior.  Was really glad that Kim, Yute and Rio travelled to NYC for work.

While visiting, we toured all over this great city and really enjoyed watching the Sailors in their Dress Whites all over Times Square during Fleet Week.

For this visit, going to Coney Island was a wonderful decision and better than watching the NY Mets play their final season in their ballpark.

It was a lovely summer day, and Coney Island was a wonderful American Experience.  One of our favorite rides was the B&B Carousel that offered a stupendous view of the Atlantic Ocean and the entire island.

The broadwalk was fun to stroll on seeing people from all walks of life enjoying the sights and sounds of this landmark, historical resort that could soon be closed to redevelopment in the near future.

After a long day, wonderful Korean food in Manhattan -- NYC has so much to offer in terms of diversity of cuisine.

Guinness and Friends from Northern Ireland

Running and sweating along my favorite path, the National Mall. I don't always get the opportunity to stop and grab a cold one -- not within eyeshot of the US Capitol, at least -- the Capitol Police or Park Police would be on top of me in a milisecond or less like a SWAT team on G-8 protestors.

The Legendary drummers Mark Wilson and Lee Lawson performing their magic on the snare 

But this cold one was a frosty Guinness, and today, was like no other day in balmy July on the throes of a long week and the tail end of one of my most favorite Folk Life Festivals thus far (Last year was Silk Roads and the year before featured arts and craft from Latin America).

My First Impressions

The following is an excerpt from an event that occurred to me on March 2003:

Bzz....bzz...bzz...

The nagging buzz of the alarm clock penetrated my dreamless sleep. Shoot, 4.30 already........

Waking up at “O-dark-thirty” was never pleasant, but it would be more unpleasant if I didn’t make it in on time. (O-dark-thirty is military jargon for “earlier than the rooster crows”)

Automatically I sat up, eyes fuzzy with sleep, and  fumbled in the dark to still the alarm, unaware just then that I had woken up to a day that would change my life forever.

As good as on auto-pilot, I showered and shaved, and dressed to face a freezing wintry morning in Washington DC. The biting wind stung my face as I stepped on to the snow-covered streets with caution to negotiate the short walk from the Metropolitan mid-rise apartments in Pentagon City to my office at the Pentagon. The normally invigorating ten minute walk seemed like eternity that morning.

As my boots scrunched on yesterday’s snow, my mind had already wandered into my office, letting my thoughts slip lazily over the job that awaited me at this early, silent hour. Privately I had categorized it as 5^th grade menial.  My crucial task was to surf online, seek out Navy-related articles or ones of relevance to the Navy. In particular, I would have to scrutinize the 5 major metropolitan papers that CHINFO, or the Navy Office of Information, subscribed to daily: The Washington Post, the Washington Times, USA Today, Baltimore Sun and the Christian Science Monitor. I have always been baffled by this particular combination, but it never once occurred to me to ask why. This “CHINFO News Clips” the twenty or twenty-five pages of culled security information of the day that I religiously prepared each morning, is electronically distributed to the entire Navy leadership every morning. Some of Washington’s exalted decision-makers are also privy to this information. 

In the distance I could see the Pentagon, the bright lights beckoning, enticing me to the warmth of its secure fold. I quickened my pace, my chilled body longing for the almost maternal embrace of the heated atmosphere within. As my breath steamed in the frosty air, I imagined the pampered feeling of being enveloped by the pungent aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. My near-frozen body yearned for my first mug of steaming java. Just a few steps more .......

I headed to my office located in the B ring, the 4B463  ring which arose like the proverbial phoenix, from the ashes of the 9/11 terrorist attack.  Now looking at the cozy interior, still shining with the fresh glow of newness, it struck me anew as it does every time I enter the building, as symbolic of our resurrection from the brutal onslaught of terrorism.

As I settled myself down comfortably in my office with my mug of steaming hot java, my thoughts sobered as they dwelt on the prevailing global political arena. There was no doubt that trouble was brewing in the Middle East drama, with hostilities escalating at dizzying speed.   The US was poised to unilaterally strike Iraq at any moment now, and all the tension, the suppressed excitement, the anxiety of an impending war was almost tangible around me at the Pentagon. It was getting translated into laborious top level meetings, long hours and lots of pizza deliveries. As much as it got the adrenaline pumping, I felt a tinge of fear mixed with anxiety.  Several of my buddies were forward-deployed to Kuwait and Iraq. What would be their fate in a war? Would they survive? What about their young families? An unsettling feeling of disquiet tugged at me as I reviewed the news of the day – so slow, so lethargic, as if everything was holding its breath in anticipation. This feeling of calm before the storm was unnerving.

As these thoughts and feelings swirled in my consciousness, I opened the Washington Post and began browsing its contents. One section, then the next ... suddenly I stiffened, my attention riveted by the Feb 13, front page story of the Metro Section. It was a two-page spread on the plight of a community east of the Anacostia River. The graphic story of this economically-distressed neighborhood tugged at my heart in the most peculiar way. The writer’s passion and sensitivity added depth and poignance to an already heart-wrenching story. My attention was caught by the accuracy of the information and the upbeat tone that hinted at a better future around the corner, for the residents.

Such are the contrasts in the hilly neighborhoods of Bellevue, Washington Highlands, Congress Heights, [Frederick Douglass] and Shipley. Together, these five neighborhoods fill the bottom of the D.C. diamond, just east of Bolling Air Force Base.

 

It was sparsely populated until the middle of last century, when doctors, engineers and other professionals arrived to new neighborhoods of brick houses and bungalows. Many worked at nearby Bolling Air Force Base, just across Interstate 295, or at St. Elizabeths. Some of the public housing projects now being demolished were constructed as temporary government housing during World War II.

 

In the 1970s, thousands of poor African American families were relocated to these neighborhoods and the rest of [Ward] 8 to clear the way for "urban renewal" on the Southwest waterfront. Many were the children or grandchildren of an earlier generation of families moved to Southwest from Georgetown, Foggy Bottom and Dupont Circle, to clear those neighborhoods for affluent whites.

 

Like other financially struggling areas of the city, the neighborhoods in the southern tip suffer from a lack of retail shopping. Martin Luther King Avenue, across from the gated east campus entrance of St. Elizabeths, today offers little more than a barbershop, a convenience store, a discount general store and the Player's Lounge, a local and political watering hole. There is no dry cleaner, drugstore or hardware store, no place to sit down with a cup of coffee. The gaps remind Avery Thagard, the city planner assigned to Ward 8, of the mouth of an old man who has spent a lifetime without good dental care. "It's like missing teeth," he said. "We've got to find a way to fill these gaps with the type of neighborhood conveniences that other communities take for granted."

 

Even as I gobbled up the information, savoring every nuance of expression, I was mentally shaking my head. No, not there, I thought.  I had heard way too many horror stories from way too many people in different social strata. And this was even before I had ever stepped on the soil of Washington DC. Anacostia, the armpit of the nation’s capital, ironically, seemed saturated with crime and as sleazy as any downtrodden community could get. Not to be touched with a barge pole ...... that was the unspoken conclusion I had drawn over and over again.

The day dragged on, and with the passing hours I was conscientiously monitoring the overseas news, tracking each incident as it arose. And all the while, an inner voice was nudging me, trying to steal my attention to the dilemma of Anacostia. My mind was focused on the glimmer of hope I detected in the story. “That community is on the verge of a turnaround. This could be a diamond in the rough.” The thought waves ebbed and flowed, and 

being a good military officer, I was determined to do my own reconnaissance.

It was like was jumping head on into an adventure in the wilds. The danger and the forbidding elements only whetted my appetite further. Anacostia was calling me in mysterious, unfathomable ways. No work week had seemed so long. Never had time dragged this way. I was impatiently counting the hours till the weekend when I would get the opportunity to do my own windshield tour of Anacostia.

I used every bit of my spare time during the week to surf the web and learn about Anacostia. It seemed like the beginning of a mysterious love affair. I was delving as deep as I could into the history of Anacostia, to get to know her, to understand the myriad complex facets that make her what she is today.

 

Anacostia, known as Uniontown in the 1800s, was once home to an all-white workforce from the nearby Navy Yard across the Anacostia River. A stone’s throw away was the Barry Farms area where the descendants of slaves and freed Blacks lived. As the 1880s wore on, the blacks began moving into Uniontown.  The home of abolitionist Frederick Douglass is currently a major tourist attraction in the area. In the early 1900s, Anacostia’s economic wellbeing was hitched to a hub of barber shops, small drug, grocery and hardware stores, and family-owned furniture shops.  

 

In the years leading up to the 1960s, Anacostia was a thriving, vibrant community with quaint and dignified suburbs in the outskirts of Washington DC,  with predominantly white people, good schools, plenty of parkland and clean air. With the gradual development of the outlying areas of Washington DC in the 1950s and the 1960s, longtime white residents moved out of Anacostia, and waves of blacks began to move in. Many of the small shops put up shutters or followed their longtime customers to the suburbs.

As I read on, I realized that the deprived community of Anacostia came to be, not by choice but by chance and through a woeful lack of vision. As the once wealthy neighborhood began to collapse, day by day, the affluence was getting replaced by stark disrepair. The city leaders of the 1960s lacked the vision and foresight to realize the negative consequences of what they did in order to make space for revitalization of the southwest neighborhood across the river. Supported by the federal government, they literally dumped the poor and under-privileged across the river to the newly-built but congested tenements that were sprouting like mushrooms around every corner.

 

Before long, the city fathers realized the gravity of their error, but it was too late in the day to retrace their steps.  The shift in populace and the new bussing regulations that swept the nation, led to white people leaving Anacostia in droves. Following close on their heels were the middle class blacks who couldn’t stand how bad the streets had gotten and how unsafe the schools had become.  The neighborhood was almost unrecognizable after some time. The safe and trusty Mom and Pop stores and the family barbershops gave way to vandalized houses, vacant lots and liquor stores.

Over thirty years, the upscale neighborhood fell from its middle-class perch to a poverty-ridden, crime-infested community where the common sights were check-cashing outlets, liquor stores, drugs, crime, homeless people, storefront churches and abandoned buildings. When Interstate 295 came into being in the 1960s, there was fervent hope that might bring a change for the better. Hopes were miserably dashed when all the beltway did was to give Anacostia a sense of being little more than a shortcut from the suburbs to downtown.  

 

Only residents know the miserable reality of life in Anacostia. Crime is a part of daily life, with one-fourth of the city’s murders committed in the area, according to police statistics for the Seventh District. Anacostia and Ballou, the High Schools of the area are among the District’s most troubled. In 1990, the only grocery store in Anacostia closed down.  There are no sit-down restaurants in the entire Ward – just a sea of carry-outs that pass food to customers through bullet-proof glass. The Players Club on Martin Luther King Street, the only place that serves a decent lunch, has albeit, a Jekyll-and-Hyde façade, transforming by night into a sleazy, sordid strip club where people get mugged or stabbed perennially every night. The formerly famous and classy Nichols Street is now the infamous Martin Luther King Avenue, where open air drug markets, drive-by shootings and gang wars play out in squalid surroundings.  Teenage boys regularly terrorize the town by stealing cars, burning them up and leaving the burned carcass on cinder blocks on the wayside. Crack or cocaine use is rampant on Galveston Place and Mellon Street and residents who brave the menacing behavior and threats in the light of day, are too scared to do the same at night, even though securely locked up in their cars. Fear is all-pervasive, and even the police delay answering distress calls, often waiting an hour or more to respond. The state of the main thoroughfare of Anacostia seems no different to the vandalism and waste of war-torn, terror-swamped Beirut or Baghdad after an insurgent strike.

 

When the weekend came around, I was sufficiently acquainted with the history of Anacostia for my first visit there to be meaningful. As I drove my truck down from Arlington, the dismal weather added to my somber mood in no mean way.  The twelve inches of thick, wet snow dumped by the huge snow storm of the previous week was gone.  What was left behind was a muddy quagmire of rocks, sand and mud and a bone-chilling, blustery wind that blew steadily from the east.  I passed the Barry Farms, the last vestige of public housing in DC. My truck rattled crazily on the cracked and rutty road which was in an absolute state of neglect and disrepair like the dilapidated, pathetic-looking puke-brown houses at Barry Farms. Rough-looking, unkempt youth hung around the street indolently, while the children of the area played around them, shrieking and yelling as they ran hither and thither amidst crack needles and used condoms, innocently oblivious to the more sinister goings on around them. Every which way I turned, hopelessness stared me in the face and my heart kept sinking with every mile, even as the laundry hanging on makeshift clothes lines whipped about crazily in the cold blowing, as if desperately trying to lure me there.   The feeling of abandonment, of overhanging danger, was so intense I began to wish I was in an armored humvee with ballistic glass, instead of in my simple Grand Caravan.

 

As I steered my truck down Martin Luther King Boulevard, the atmosphere turned tangibly formidable. The solitariness that seemed to pervade the area was enhanced by the silence that enveloped the red-brick walled campuses of the old mental asylum of St Elizabeths, which flanked both sides of the road.  I had no idea where I would end up—perhaps this was a war zone .... With a deep sense of uncertainty I headed north on Alabama Avenue.

 

And then serendipity walked into my life.  What a wonderful feeling of old-world charm, of warmth, courtesy and dignity flowed through my being!  Not in my wildest dreams had I expected this kind of genteel neighborhood in such squalid, miserable surroundings.  Leafless burly oak trees, like faithful sentinels, lined the street, their gigantic trunks offering security and stability to the ornate Victorian houses that stood beyond, gracious, spacious buildings, most of them orderly and well-kept. As I cruised by, bemused, enthralled, the years rolled back to an era of wine and roses in Anacostia. I imagined an environment of upper class living that matched the graciousness of their homes. A well-maintained playground and a softball field would have been favorite haunts of the children of the area as they ran and played with abandon, singing at the tops of their voices, the air filled with high-pitched laughter and joyous screams. The ting-a-ling-ling of the ice-cream truck on a hot summer day would have brought the kids out by the dozen, thirsting for ice-lollies and varied flavors of ice-cream. Kids mean schools - clean and well-maintained schools where the children of affluent white Americans in days gone by were given the foundation for their lives. As I drove past, I could not help the let-down feeling that engulfed me as I observed the leaky roofs, the sense of dilapidation and neglect that seemed all-pervading. The neglect outside was just a whiff of the unkempt condition that could probably be found inside, I said to myself.

 

My exploration of Anacostia continued with more passion and determination the next weekend. During the week I had filled my after hours with intensive homework. I read up voraciously on Anacostia, past and present, I spoke with people who had grown up in Washington DC. And by the weekend, I had valuable insight into why Anacostia is what it is today.                                                      

When I drove down to Anacostia the next weekend, I was deeply aware of the area’s notoriety for drug turf wars on the streets and drive by shootings for no reason at all.  You were in danger of getting shot at just because you were not from the area or were from a different street. High schools pitted against other high schools.  Streets versus streets, block versus block.  That seemed to be the only line of segregation.  There was just one race in Anacostia. Black Americans.  A white man would not dare even drive through. At worst, he would be shot at.  At best, the cops would pull him over and inquire whether he was buying drugs.

Driving down Martin Luther King Ave, I could see a group of about twenty ruffians with dirty, disheveled appearance, milling around the run-down liquor store at the corner, whiling away their time by staring and yelling at passing cars. In an unexpected move, an elderly man with an unkempt grey beard that fell to his chest, jumped off the sidewalk gesturing wildly.  I instinctively stepped on the brakes.  “No carryout,” he commented in a jeering tone, referring to the ubiquitous carry-out Chinese food shops all over the city. This joke at my expense provoked a wave of derisive laughter from the rest of the men. I shot him a look of pure disgust. The car behind me honked violently, jerking my attention back to the traffic I was holding up.  I shrugged off my annoyance at this uncalled for provocation by the street corner drunks, and hesitantly turned right to head down Lebaum Street, unsure of where this would lead. 

I remembered my trip down memory lane last week and the remnants of gracious living down Alabama Avenue. That seemed a world away as I courageously continued down the rough and pitted Lebaum Street. Neglected, dirty-looking apartment buildings and empty soda bottles appeared to be the signature of the area, as were the formidable-looking ghetto youth who hung out outside and in the back alleys.

Amidst the squalor and lurking danger of this street, my attention was captured by a forlorn-looking, worn down red-brick house - 500 Lebaum Street.   The walls of this two-story Cape Cod house appeared near collapse, the sidings were about to fall off, and the weather-beaten roof  had layer upon layer of broken tile. A couple windows were boarded up, and shattered glass lay scattered on the unkempt grass. Malicious sprays of graffiti smeared one wall and empty beer bottles and crushed soda cans littered the sidewalk. The front yard was cluttered with a worn and scratched dining table and four dirty-looking half-broken chairs. Close to the retainer wall were boxes overflowing with untidily packed clothes. The very air was filled with desolation and abandon. I was intrigued. Was this house up for sale? Was it an eviction? It had seen better days – that was for sure. I parked my truck right by the house, and sat debating the wisdom of leaving the safe confines of my vehicle. I had been part of Operation Enduring Freedom and served with the US forces in Israel and the Middle East, but this time the tasking was different and more mission essential.  I felt my pocket for the pocket knife I carried just in case and my cell phone on ready in my other hand. I opened my car door cautiously, stepped onto the premises hesitantly. The boarded up windows were dirty and eerie-looking. I felt a shiver of apprehension run through me. As I trod warily to the backyard, I was accosted by more shabby furniture and many more boxes of clothes thrown willy nilly. It gave me the creeps. My inner being revolted, I could feel. I needed to get away, now. The scary, isolated atmosphere was beginning to penetrate my very being.  I should forget the experience entirely. I turned to retrace my steps. Suddenly I froze in my tracks.  Images of some soulful moments of a while back came flooding to my mind.  Could I walk away from some of the most awesome views of Washington DC?  Moments ago, on another road, I stood among the trees on an incline gazing spellbound at a panoramic view of Washington DC, stretching as far as the eye could see, beyond the Capitol “Hill”, beyond the Washington Monument, over the heads of the rich and the powerful, towards the bleak, wintry skies. It was as if a profound statement was being made by the poor and forgotten of Anacostia. 

The Transparency of GTMO

The GTMO Underworld

I plunged flippers first into the warm healing waters in a place where happiness and humbleness are God's given virtues.  Then peering mindlessly into the transparency alongside the pristine coral reefs and the rich tropical wildlife. The amazing network of aquatic homes had turned a bleached white harvesting a diverse array of colors skimming around in packs .We stumbled upon a wreck in 25 feet of water. We saw the transom and the engine casing and it was covered in beautiful coral of many different shapes and sizes. It's true amazing and unfathomable how something that was so tragically lost can turn into something so graceful and majestic in a changing, dynamic aquatic landscape.

Then we swam against the ripping current right on top of a coral reef. Have you ever seen these things with your own naked eyes? It is like an oasis in a sub-Saharan desert with so much life and life-form bubbling. The fish were swimming so peacefully, oblivious to the two mortal strangers adorned in awkward scuba gear, finning up close to sling a look. It was right then at that particular moment when I was calmly reminded of God's miracle and the majestic beauty that surrounded the underwater life world drastically different than the glass-covered microcosm above ground.

The next moment I thought about the several hundred men behind the bars. How ironic it was that they lived for several years in what to them may seem like a century, in the edge of paradise, but could not experience the depth and natural beauty that it so proudly flaunted. I knew that they could the hear the surf crashing night and day against the jagged rocks; could feel, smell the salty air, could even envision a spectacular Caribbean sunset bathed in a dark orange hue.


Virtually all of the detainees were not allowed to see the sea, but some like the Uyghurs (all now No longer Enemy Combatants) have managed to plant a secret garden from the watermellons, cantaloupes, lemon and green pepper seeds from their meal -- the hard Caribbean dirt softened with Aquafina spring water.

I also knew that the US had the right to hold enemy fighters during wartime and that we had good intentions to gain intelligence so that we could save American and Allied lives.   But was this really worth the impact and strained relationship we suffered with Europe, the Middle East and the rest of the road.  Was this worth the millions of dollars we were spending to house, feed and care for these detainees. Sometimes the road to hell is paved in good intentions.

And suddenly the peace drifted away.  On our return leg, we faced torrential challenges fighting a relentless current that was so vicious, many times we lost our breath prayed to God that it would not be our very last one.

Still we persevered and the best part of it all was the 5 beautiful peach and gold conch shells so gargantuan, almost the size of my head -- ready for dining, cleaning and showcasing.

I got them cleaned by the local Jamaicans -- they are professionals at it, and I looked forward to show my friends my prized trophies when I return home.

In between these exciting, breath-taking experiences, I did some normal,  activities, too like swimming in the pool 3 times (once for an hour straight until my shoulders screamed for mercy), worked out twice and laid out for a couple of hours in the hot, relentless Caribbean sun. Poor me while roughing it up during my short deployment in the harsh environments of Naval Station GTMO.

But it is not all thrills and excitement here. Even this weekend, I had stayed busy working. Reading and preparing lessons and messages for the media for the upcoming week.

My Role for My Country

I love the natural beauty of Guantanamo, but I'm here to serve my country and to ensure the safety of Americans at home as well as our allies overseas from terrorism. I really wanted to go to Iraq -- not because I believed in the cause, but because I wanted to be in the thick of things.  "The Nation and to some extent, NATO are fighting a war in the Middle East against al Qaeda and the Taliban. "What tangible purpose do you serve over watching detainees in Guantanamo?"

Under the law of armed conflict, the US has a legal right to detain enemy fighters during wartime and to keep them detained until the end of hostilities. The reason for this detention is to protect our citizens and the security of the United States and to prevent the enemy fighters from returning to battle.  But just because it is our legal right, doesn't give us the right to go through with it, even at the expense of perceived safety.  What were the messages, the implications, the repercussions here in America and overseas.

During this week and as part of our priority to remain transparent; we will be giving tours to national and international media for an Adminstrative Review Board (ARB). The purpose of the ARB is to determine whether a detainee should be released, transferred or detained.

Our mantra is this: We do not want to hold detainees any longer than necessary, and we want to provide 
the detainees a chance to be heard and to tell their story.

We seek to balance the safety of Americans and our allies overseas with the rights and freedom of each individual -- this would not be an easy goal to reach.

GTMO is not just guard towers and razor wires. There are miles upon miles of fiber optics buried throughout the island, and Camp Delta is a state-of-the-art detention facility modeled after a first-rate correctional facility in Bunker Hill, Indiana.

Transparency in GTMO

However, what is amazing about this conflict compared to previous engagements where the face of former enemy prisoners had remained largely anonymous, is that in this global war on terror there has been so much media coverage generated and opinions expressed on these detainees, that in many ways, these long-term denizens of this remote Caribbean detention facility have become almost instant worldwide celebrities drawing a large fan base of well-wishers who may not even know how to spell their names. Many of these enemy combatants, who were previously nameless have become sacrificial heroes back home.

Social Media

The driving force behind this campaign is the public's
resourceful application of the internet, tapping into social media portals, to carry their voices further 
around the world and to cleverly market their message of human rights and legal rights leveraging the 
power of the public and the power of Web 2.0 to an enormous gain.

As a press officer at DoD, I am very familiar with the stories and queries that are generated from liberal blogs and online publications like Cageprisoners.

Also many of the detainees have their own pages on Wikipedia dedicated to their background, administrative hearings and to used freely to promote their causes. Although we have not yet held a legal trial, we have conducted  several hundred annual administrative hearings which transcripts we have freely released to the public (after Freedom of Information Act request was filed). The vast majority of these transcripts are posted on the internet a testimony to DoD's trustfulness and transparency. However, unfortunately, some of these transcripts serve as additional fodder for the larger public to scrutinize and criticize our review processes.

Whether in GTMO or back home in DC, I was always on a short leash. When the press or even human rights groups called, I was only a blackberry away.  And they called tenaciously.  They loved Friday nights when you were downing a cold one at a Georgetown bar, wondering why you loved the Hoyas so much and you remembered that Rayful Edmond loved them, too.   They also loved birthdays, celebrations, vacations and especially Sunday afternoons with the innocent threat of "this goes to press first thing."  Then you feel a huge lump in your threat when you realize your JAG's not around and without a legal chop, anything you say could have legal ramifications.


For the nearly three years that I worked with detainee affairs in GTMO, I was asked a sackful of  challenging questions.  Some if answered the wrong way was a potential landmine.  Whatever the case, I would never lie.  Did we make a difference -- hard to say.  Did we polish our image? Can you polish a turd?  We did our job, and we were put on the firing line to defend our Nation and our Military.  Win or lose, we would still be there, and we would never waver, even one bit.

Life in GTMO is always full of surprises, action-packed and heart-wrenching.

Of the 20 plus times, that I've visited (either to stay awhile or to stay for a day), I have observed, pondered and tried to figure out right from wrong, good from bad, ethical from unethical.  I've also tried to imagine just what was in the minds of many of these men as they were picked up in Afghanistan, Pakistan, or inside Al Qaeda safehouses.

How long do they think they will remain here and will they ever see the jubilant light of freedom.

And how long should the US maintain Guantanamo Bay?  Originally, many of the 760 men who were held here were low-level fighters until they were transferred home or released. There are many men here that will never see a day in court.  There are also many men who are so bad that they will never see the light of day.  These men include the notorious Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, a Pakistani who was captured by the Pakistani ISI in 2003 and transferred to GTMO in 2006.


KSM was detained in Soviet-era blacksites in Eastern Europe until the fateful day in Sept 2006 when President Bush announced that KSM and 15 other "high-value" detainees had now been transferred in GTMO.


Five months later, KSM boasted during a Combatant Status Review Tribunal that he was the mastermind of 9-11 as well as the October 2000 bombing of the destroyer USS Cole.  KSM also brutally cut the throat of the Wall Street Journal correspondent, Daniel Pearl.  Should the US continue to detain these evil men and prosecute them in Guantanamo, or should we consider bringing  them to American shores to face justice and jail or the ultimate penalty for their crimes?

While Guantanamo still could have worked, we sadly let things get of hand. While I do not have reason to believe that torture was ever committed in Guantanamo, the term has obvious broad interpretations and for that matter implications for many people from many different cultures.

What was at stake? National Security. Our image and perception around the world -- which truly matters in a geopolitical environment.  The right thing to do, and the ability to sleep soundly at 

night.

Whatever the answer, it is as gray as a giant storm cloud over the Caribbean Sea.  Being gray means being open minded, flexible and always seeking input from your colleagues, friends, even our enemies -- because they are the ones most willing and able to provide the information you need to succeed and the will determine how the initiative will be viewed throughout the world.   So, after much deep thought, I realized exactly where we had had failed -- we didn't ask any one what they thought.

Vet First, Shoot Second

When the first detainees were transferred in January 2002, we did not let the rest of the world know our intentions and true objectives.  


We didn't ask them how the rest of the world would feel about transferring these men tens of thousands of miles to Cuban shore.  


We didn't ask whether they agreed with our decision to label these men "unlawful combatants" not "prisoners of war", a label that is not afforded the rights guaranteed by the Geneva Conventions.  And lastly, we didn't ask for their support -- something critical which we are depending on today as we transfer many of these men back home or to our countries that can guarantee safe custody.

I'm not necessarily in favor of closing Guantanamo Bay.  I believe the detention facility as it stands today has much value and is the right place to prosecute and detain these enemy fighters.

My issue though, is many of these men should never have been sent to Guantanamo -- a base facility that should never have been opened, a detention facility that now open should not be closed.


It's already done irrevocable damage to our image, but we need to minimize its damage to the future and refrain from making any political mistakes.

GTMO in a way is the lesser of two evils.  Let's polish our evil image and try these enemy combatants away from our shores without US Courts, where critical evidence is seen as suspect.


One size doesn't fit all and in the case of our detainees, Military Commissions where in many common sense prevails, is definitely the way to go.

Sailing GTMO

July 2005

What is it about sailing that tugs at my heart, that cradles my seafarer soul?


Is it the allure of skimming across the sea with the smell of the ocean breeze caressing your wind chapped face?  Cruising around the bay with the  rhythmic sound of the warm tidal water gurgling against the hull -- music to my ears and therapy to my storm-swept conscience.





As my Hunter 140 sliced by the crystal-clear Caribbean coastline, my mind focused on two key elements that overshadows everything else of relevance; the luff of the jib sail creating a feeling of speed and the gentle feel of the tiller tugging against my hand as I tweaked and twitched in search of the optimal speed.

Within a magical hour, I had cris-crossed my way through the historic harbor passing the old, dungy airstrip of McCalla Field to my left.




McCalla had once served as an airstrip for launching aircraft 
Closed since 1960, the airstrip has recently served as a refugee camp for Haitians fleeing their homeland for Florida.


In Guantanamo Bay, all directions head southerly and with the trade winds blowing steadily across the Windward passage, the fastest way to head out to sea is to haul the sails in tight and point towards the entrance of the harbor.  This point of sail, it is a back-and-forth struggle between the boat and the wind.    You know your trim is just right by the angle of heel your boat makes, lifting you up into the sky and for a fleeting moment you have taken flight.


Sailing beam reach is the fastest point of sail.  At this tact, you are steering 90 degrees to the wind and your sails are neither too close nor too far from the side.


My eyes were amazed by the beauty and grace of blissful Guantanamo harbor.  The sails luffed a jiggle. I eased the jib an inch and pulled the tiller slightly. What a precious experience forged in eloquence and natural beauty amidst a world of chaos surrounded by guard towers and fences strung with razor-sharp concertina wire.