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lawyer,” he said.
    Then, he asked about my marital status. When I told him I was single, he seemed to find it incomprehensible. “ Bachai , why aren’t you married? Don’t ruin yourself,” he said. I smiled when he said that. While my parents rarely pushed the issue, it was something I was familiar with. There’s a preoccupation with marriage in the East, particularly in rural areas and particularly for girls, whose social and economic well-being is linked to finding a husband. Most Afghan women don’t work, and marriage is their only ticket to a life outside of their father’s home. They marry very young too—sometimes in their mid-teens. So, as I was in my late twenties, Haji Nusrat likely thought I was an old maid and worried that I was destined for a childless life of celibacy.
    Peter turned the subject to filing petitions and the length of time court proceedings might take. Nusrat’s mood changedagain, this time to one of despair. He stopped eating pistachios and gazed at Peter’s face as he spoke.
    “Allah has made you a very handsome man,” he said to Peter. “You are also a great man. May Allah make you even greater.” Then, he promised he’d make Peter a famous lawyer and bring him endless business if he helped him get home. “Everyone in Afghanistan will know your name,” he pleaded. As I translated, I felt a lump growing in my throat. Suddenly, I couldn’t speak. Peter and Nusrat watched as the tears dripped onto my shawl.
    The old man looked at me. “You are a daughter to me,” he said. “Think of me as a father and pray for me, bachai .” I nodded, aligning and realigning pistachio shells on the table as I translated.
    As the meeting ended, it was obvious that the old man was in pain. His legs hurt, and he tried to stand and stretch them. He pushed hard against the tabletop with his palms, trying to lift his weight. I leapt to his side and helped him stand. He gripped the edge of the table for balance and exhaled deeply.
    A few moments later, I helped him sit back down. As we started collecting our things to go, I turned back to Nusrat, who was watching us gather up the pizza boxes and pistachio shells and unfinished baklava. The military didn’t allow any food to be left with the detainee, so we had to take any leftovers with us.
    “ Bachai , tell your mother and your father that an old man with a white beard sends his salaams,” he said.
    I responded with the customary reply: “ Walaikum as-salaam —And may peace also be upon you.”
    I adjusted my shawl one last time and glanced at him. He was quiet for a moment. Then, he opened his heavy arms tome, and I embraced him. He pushed my head into his white prison uniform and for several moments prayed for me as Peter watched: “ Inshallah—God willing—you will find a home that makes you happy. Inshallah , you will be a mother one day. Inshallah , you will always have a family that will protect you. Inshallah , you will finish law school and continue to help us. Inshallah , you will make the world proud.”
    Then, he patted my back. “You are a great woman, and may Allah make you greater,” he said.
    Finally, he let me go and asked me to say du’a —prayers— for him.
    “Of course,” I promised. “Every day.”
    And until the next time I saw him, I did.

CHAPTER FIVE
BIG BOUNTIES

    Before I got involved with Guantánamo, I had no opinion about whether the detainees there were guilty or innocent; I just thought they all deserved a fair hearing and due process. But after I met some and talked to them, and after I read their files, I came to believe that many, perhaps even most, were, as Tom Wilner had put it, innocent men who’d been swept up by mistake.
    I really became convinced when I found out about the bounties.
    Many of the men I met insisted that they’d been sold to the United States. During the war after September 11, the U.S. military air-dropped thousands of leaflets across Afghanistan, promising between $5,000 and