Camp Nowhere

The U.S. government might stop transferring Yemeni Guantánamo detainees back home. But where will they go?

Barack Obama is in a tight spot. Just when the U.S. president was in the process of transferring Guantánamo Bay detainees to Yemen, Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab attempted to blow up Flight 253, and suddenly Yemen, with its resurgent al Qaeda presence, started looking like a less acceptable destination. Detainee transfers have now been delayed, as they should be -- but what is going to happen to the 91 Yemeni detainees still in custody, more than 30 of whom have been cleared for release?

Obama has three options: restarting transfers to Yemen with new pressure on the Yemeni government to step up deradicalization efforts, sending the detainees to a Saudi-led rehabilitation program, or detaining them indefinitely in U.S. custody. None of these choices is ideal, but Obama still has the opportunity to find an acceptable long-term solution.

In fact, sending the detainees to Yemen was never an ideal option. To date, U.S. officials have transferred to Yemen more than 20 detainees whom it deemed a lower security risk, relying on assurances from the Yemenis that they would mitigate whatever threat the detainees did pose. Indeed, between 2000 and 2005, the Sanaa government supported a rehabilitation program for its own prisoners, the Yemeni Committee for Dialogue. Its chair, Qadi Hamoud al-Hitar, publicly claimed that his efforts to engage prisoners in religious dialogue and reintegrate them into society were successful.

But the evidence seems to suggest otherwise. One participant, a former al Qaeda commander, said in private conversations that the "dialogue" consisted of short meetings during which prisoners were encouraged to sign forms pledging obedience to Yemeni President Ali Abdullah Saleh. The dialogue did not address engaging in terrorist activity outside Yemen, nor did it effectively provide post-release support. Reports suggest that several graduates returned to their violent ways, many of them in Iraq. Moreover, plans for renewing and improving deradicalization efforts -- as the Yemenis promised before transferring detainees -- are still in the very early stages. One Yemeni official remarked last fall, "Lots of people [are] thinking about it, but nothing [is] being done."

If Obama decides to continue sending detainees back to Yemen, the United States could continue pushing Sanaa to revamp its rehabilitation program. But this approach comes with serious risks and would require significant outside guidance, financial support, and political pressure. Rehabilitation plans remain in the early stages, and no money has been allocated to the endeavor. If this approach is pursued, Washington would need to guarantee the involvement of key Yemeni domestic agencies such as the National Security Bureau and the Political Security Organization; religious and civil society leaders; and both international and domestic NGOs. NGOs should assist with social-service and family-oriented programming and provide external auditing to protect against the misuse of funds. U.S. officials must also make it explicitly clear that the Yemeni government is accountable for the program's success.

Even with significant external support, one Yemeni official estimates the program would rehabilitate just 30 to 40 percent of participants. Yemen struggles with pervasive poverty, growing political unrest, and a resurgent al Qaeda. These factors make deradicalization even more difficult than it is already. Saleh is focused primarily on defeating the Houthi rebellion in the north, quashing a southern secessionist movement, and managing a festering socioeconomic crisis. Given the energy spent on these and other domestic priorities, the Yemeni government lacks the will and capacity to develop and implement an effective rehabilitation program. As one Yemeni noted, Saleh "can't deal with this right now."

The second option, sending the detainees to Saudi Arabia, is potentially a far better alternative. The Saudi deradicalization program is not perfect, and a number of its graduates have returned to violent jihad. But, unlike in Yemen, the Saudis continue to assess and revise their deradicalization strategies, evaluation metrics, and post-release programs to meet these challenges. Although the Saudis have resisted accepting Yemeni detainees in the past, Obama could use the growing instability in Yemen and the potential threat released detainees pose to Saudi security to convince them to support this approach.

If the Saudis agree, several changes would increase the likelihood of success. First, the program should include Yemeni families, scholars, and clerics in the Saudi counseling staff. Yemeni detainees should only be transferred to Saudi Arabia in small groups, and transfers should be sequenced to allow time for a rehabilitation process that will require trial-and-error adaptations and ongoing evaluations. Just as importantly, an after-care program should be established in Yemen to help reintegrate released detainees, who will face joblessness, social stigma, and, possibly, al Qaeda recruitment. Moreover, Yemeni-led security monitoring will likely be ad hoc and largely ineffective; externally supported Yemeni post-release programs are necessary to help address this challenge.

This approach might provoke concern from senior Yemeni officials, the detainees' families, and the Yemeni public. But if Saleh publicly supports the idea and Saudi Arabia facilitates family visits, the opposition could be overcome. Although concerns remain over whether the Saudis can effectively rehabilitate non-Saudi nationals, particularly because efforts to date have stressed full and continuous family engagement, Saudi rehabilitation experts have a better chance than the Yemenis, who lack both resources and an established program. Given Yemen's growing instability and current al Qaeda activity in the country, transferring detainees to Saudi Arabia is the best strategic solution.

As always, continued detention in U.S. custody remains an option and might be the most practical solution in the immediate term, particularly given the instability in Yemen and the untested effectiveness of Saudi rehabilitation efforts for Yemenis. Although potentially a complicated proposition from both a legal and operational perspective, this approach will address ongoing security concerns while the Obama administration continues to evaluate next steps. After Saudi officials refine their rehabilitation efforts, particularly with respect to non-Saudi nationals, and a Yemeni post-release program is established, the decision should be revisited.

Ultimately, there is no perfect solution. Not all detainees are created equal, and all available options present risks. For the Yemeni detainees presenting the most significant security threat, continued detention might be the only solution. For the rest, preparations must be made now for the day when continued detention is untenable. This means working with both the Yemenis and the Saudis to find a realistic, long-term solution that will be acceptable to the American public and the international community.



Requiem for Port-au-Prince

Port-au-Prince before the earthquake, as described by Haitian writers and visitors to the island nation. 

Port-au-Prince bustled. The garden-filled capital city of 3 million was flocked with hills, covered in chalk-white buildings, home to palaces and slums. Tap Taps, the colorful shared taxis, ported citizens through the city, the onomatopoetic name referring to the custom of tapping coins on the side of the cab to stop it. Tourists walked through the Champ de Mars. Tiny fishing vessels filled the bay, cruise ships looming further out. For the first time in decades, Haiti was peaceful and growing, President Réné Préval well-liked internationally and at home, the economy expanding while nearly every other in the Caribbean contracted.

The day before yesterday, a high-magnitude earthquake leveled much of Port-au-Prince. Here is a remembrance of the city -- founded 260 years ago -- in the words of famed residents and visitors, including Langston Hughes, Edwidge Danticat, and former president Jean-Bertrand Aristide.

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From National Geographic, 1920

When one first approaches the capital of Haiti -- Port au Prince -- by sea it has a comely aspect in the daytime, with its new cathedral, with the twin cupolas, and its great mass of pink and white houses (interspersed with handsome trees) strewn over the foothills of the southern mountain range.

The city, with a population of 120,000, is at the head of a great gulf between the northern and southern arms of Haiti, which Nature had intended to be the imperial naval station of the whole world -- a region of sheltered seas, healthy climate, and shores supplied with all that man could desire in the way of wood and water and fertile soil.

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Langston Hughes, from Autobiography: I Wonder as I Wander, 1956

Haiti, land of blue sea and green hills, white fishing boats on the sea, and the hidden huts of peasants in the tall mountains. People strong, midnight black. Proud women whose arms bear burdens, whose backs are very straight. Children naked as nature. Nights full of stars, throbbing with Congo drums. At the capital lovely ladies ambergold, mulatto politicians, warehouses full of champagne, banks full of money. A surge of black peasants who live on the land, and the foam of the cultured elite in Port-au-Prince who live on the peasants.

Port-au-Prince, city of squalid huts, unattractive sheds and shops near the water front, but charming villas on the slopes that rise behind the port. A presidential palace gleaming white among palm trees with the green hills for a backdrop. A park where bands play at night. An enormous open-air market.

"Ba moi cinq cob," children beg of tourists in the street. Cinq cob means a nickel. They speak a patois French. The upper classes, educated abroad, speak the language of Paris. But I met none of the upper-class Haitians.

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Jean-Baptiste Aristide, a former Roman-Catholic priest and president of Haiti, from In the Parish of the Poor, 1990

I live in Haiti.

The other day in the midst of Port-au-Prince, the great degraded capital city that is my home, I saw a car, an old battered car, a jalopy, falter and sputter and come to a slow halt. It was out of gas; this happens often in my destitute country, where everyone and everything is so poor that the donkeys and horses are starving and even the cars must try to get by on nothing. The man who was driving the car got out and looked at it, stuck there in the middle of traffic, helpless. Then I saw another face, the passenger. A woman. She looked out of the back window with tears in her eyes, and the driver looked around the street at the unemployed loungers who are always there, and said to them, "She is going to have a baby right here." He told them that he had taken the woman from her home because the midwife was unable to help her. The pregnancy was difficult, and the woman needed to go to the hospital to have her baby. Now the tears were coming down the woman's cheeks. "If we do not get to the hospital, she will die," the man told the loungers. "Her baby will die, too."

The loungers -- hungry young men who had never had a job and who will never have a job if my country goes on as it has done for the last half century -- looked at the car and heard the man's voice and saw the woman's tears. Their backs straightened, their cigarettes fell to the ground, their eyes cleared. They approached the car, eight of them, leaned over, and put their shoulders to the chore. The driver steered. The woman lay back. Down one long dusty road, a left turn, and down another, through the green and white gates of the State Hospital, and she had arrived.

That was the force of solidarity at work, a recognition that we are all striving toward the same goal, and that goal is to go forward, to advance, to bring into this world another way of being. Even if the motor has died, even if the engine is out of gas, that new way of being can be brought into this world through solidarity.

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Lilas Desquiron, from Reflections of Loko Miwa, trans. Robin Orr Bodkin, 1990

Oh! Port-au-Prince is a monster all right -- you'll never get to know the whole story. She'll offer you her sumptuous gardens and extravagant villas. But for those of us tossed back into her seediest neighborhoods by misery, she has both the gentleness and the rage of a whore. A female city, Port-au-Prince sometimes cradles you with an extraordinary tenderness and sometimes spits in your face without your knowing why.

Tonight, as is often the case these days, the streets are deserted. Besides the streetwalkers, only some impenitent revelers dare to be out and about. The macadam resonates with the sound of heavy boots as the armed makout patrol the city. Some of them seem so feeble you have to wonder how they're able to carry around those heavy machine guns. But of all of Duvalier's henchmen they're certainly the most dangerous, however, because they've betrayed us by spreading misery beyond measure and their shame has driven them insane.

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Edwidge Danticat, from Breath, Eyes, Memory, 1994

The sun crawled across our faces as the car sped into Port-au-Prince. I had never been to the city before. Colorful boutiques with neon signs lined the street. Vans covered with pictures of flowers and horses with wings scurried up and down and made sudden stops in the middle of the boulevards.

Tante Atie gasped each time we went by a large department store or a towering hotel. She shouted the names of places that she had visited in years past.

When they were teenagers, she and my mother would save their pennies all year long so they could come to the city on Christmas Eve. They would tell my grandmother that they were traveling with one of the old peddlers, but that was never their plan. They would take a tap tap van in the afternoon so as to arrive in Port-au-Prince just as the sun was setting, and the Christmas lights were beginning to glow.

They stood outside the stores in their Sunday dresses to listen to the sounds of the toy police cars and talking dolls chattering over the festive music. They went to the Mass at the Gothic cathedral, then spent the rest of the night sitting by the fountains and gazing at the Nativity scenes on the Champs-de-Mars. They bought ice cream cones and fireworks, while young tourists offered them cigarettes for the privilege of taking their pictures. They pretended to be students at one of the gentry's universities and even went so far as describing the plush homes they lived in. The white tourists flirted with them and held their hands. They laughed at silly jokes, letting their voices rise and fall like city girls. Later they made rendezvous for the next night, which of course they never kept. Then before dawn, they took a van back home and slipped into bed before my grandmother woke up.

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Georges Anglade, Rire Haitïen (Haitian Laughter), trans. Anne Pease McConnell, 2006

Georges Anglade, a Haitian-Canadian, was a founder of the Université du Québec à Montréal and the minister of public works in the first government of Jean-Bertrand Aristide. He and his wife died yesterday when their home in a suburb of Port-au-Prince collapsed.

The deforestation brigade, specially created in the engineering section of the Armed Forces and trained to use the woodcutter's mechanical saw, spread throughout the country in search of all the wooded areas that would incite an armed rebellion. This delirium of rebel invasion had reached its height at the eastern boundaries of the country, where a strip of cleared land two kilometers wide ran along the three hundred kilometers of common border with the Dominican Republic, destroying an ancient forest of millions of majestic trees. If at least these trees were falling to become love-letter paper, newspaper pages, tickets out of prison, schoolbook chapters, pages for leisurely reading, bookmarks for collections of short stories to savor one by one (between a glass of rum and a cigar)! But no, these trees were falling just to fall, in the short-sighted view of an all-powerful myopic bumping into the tree that hides the forest.

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