Synthesis: Volume 2

By Shahbaz Fazal

VOLUME 2

Landing in Havana, the escapees learn of a devastating US missile attack on the Guantánamo police station – aimed at them, which has killed and injured numerous Cuban citizens. Under tight security, the PCC interviews the five escapees – while secretly negotiating with the US.

This part of the story reveals how the escapees arrived at Camp Delta; what made the US army interrogator organise this escape; and the CIA Afghanistan Operation Cyclone, where Randy and Zulfiqar first met. We learn from Roxana of the Palestinian people’s historical conflict with Israel, from Mubarak about his extra-ordinary rendition tortures, and Iftekhar provides the physical and analytical explanations of Camp Delta. 

Running alongside the interviews are the US-Cuban secret negotiations, the blossoming love between Roxana and Iftekhar, the safe-house scenes, and build up to Luisa’s special CDR event. This turns out to be an open discussion between the five and Cuban students at the Universidad de La Habana, covering many of the issues of God versus atheism. 

Secret negotiations fail and international developments explode. US accuses Cuba of organising the escape, amidst frenetic media coverage like the Iraq invasion of 2003. Cuba is accused of possessing WMDs and of having links with al-Qaeda. The Cuban government fears and prepares for full-scale North American invasion. – First ending of Synthesis. 

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SYNTHESIS

Synthesis is the story of five escapees from US Guantanamo in Oct. 2004 that unravels through to June, 2017. Over half of the book is the escapees’ unfolding adventure story under Cuban jurisdiction and the various international repercussions that follow. The second half exposes the connections between the war on terror, the 2008 banking crash, the military-industrial complex, and US-NATO regime change policies. All driven by a 40-year neoliberal agenda transferring wealth and power from ordinary people to the top 1%, and corporations. This is an epic-sized book (202k + 67k in Refs), which is set out in Five Volumes. 

Synthesis is bold and provocative. It will inform and enlighten the reader to question everything they’re told, and encourage them to think for themselves. The book mostly uses plain language (some very strong language), and there are two different endings to the five escapees’ story, as well as a third overall ending to the entire big picture story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shahbaz Fazal
• Release date: Jul 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781540177315

Book preview

Chapter 19: White-Dove

‘January 8, 1959, Fidel Castro’s rebel forces marched into Habana City, tripping over the heels of the American puppet dictator Batista and his accomplices fleeing to their master’s safe haven of Florida, in the US of A. Then and there, as Fidel made his victory speech to the tens of thousands of cheering Cubans, I came and took my place upon his right shoulder.1 I am that White-Dove of peace and it’s been my lifelong duty to protect my Cuban people against their enemies.

‘Those were pre-socialist days when many of my people were infected with colonial, monotheistic, one-God-for-all superstitions intermingled with African polytheistic many-gods for different potions. All sprinkled with voodoo spiritualism, for good measure too. They all sustained my people’s poverty and ignorance through religious self-subjugation.

‘And on this victory-day, the spirits and sceptics alike welcomed me – the manifest symbol of peace, the new chapter in Cuba’s history. I bestowed my trust upon their leader and my people took us both into their loving hearts. So began Year One, of my citizens’ socialist destiny.

‘I don’t have a miniature camera or computerised recording devices like X-Ray – but that’s where my people come in. They have eyes and ears that see all, hear all, and forget nothing.

‘We don’t have millions of cameras and thousands of databases of the West’s fictitious war on terror, and other conveniently contrived deceptions. Our fears are real; nearly 50 years of North American sponsored terrorism, economic strangulation and international vilification. All multiplied by the self-induced deafening silence of the Western so-called free press.

‘Yes, I’m that White-Dove of peace, and I’m here looking down on my beautiful Habana City from today’s 1st November 2007. I’m recalling the day the five Camp Delta escapees arrived in my capital three years ago.

‘Oh, don’t worry; they’ll continue to tell their own stories, though their fates are unalterable. It is written, as Muslims say. You’re in socialist Cuba – where we do things differently.

‘I’ll be your guide, to help explain things as the Synthesis story unfolds. Just like X-Ray, I too understand E=mc2 and am fully conversant with its time-slip dimensions. So before we return to the five’s adventures, let’s just briefly revisit Camp Delta in November 2007.

***************

‘Let me please enlighten you to the ominous picture of Camp Delta that emerged. The US military and their political masters started the process by setting the agenda: these are all bad men and vicious killers – like we’ve learned from Zulfiqar and Iftekhar.

‘They set in motion a 24/7 roller coaster of interrogations, entrapped within the daily rituals of mind and body tortures, hidden from view and shielded from the law.

‘Because even they knew such evidence would be rejected by any judicial system, they set up their own in-house rigged military commissions, to ensure convictions to justify their already pronounced guilty verdicts. Despite such kangaroo courts, it still took them four years to charge ten men – fewer than two per cent of the total.2

‘As for the other 98 per cent, their fate was in their own hands – the quicker they confessed, the sooner they could stay locked up.

‘On the other hand, my featherless friends, let me inform you, as a result of the four years of unremitting efforts of a few miscreant David Rose contra-in-bed-with journalists and some intrepid Clive Stafford-Smith lawyers, a somewhat different picture emerged. Though it still took until May 2006, before the Pentagon released the actual names of the 759 prisoners.3

‘The very next month, the US Supreme Court pronounced the military commissions to be illegal and ordered the establishment of individual Review Tribunals. This led to the release of 201 prisoners in the autumn – just before the tribunals, and another 180 after the process.4

‘As of November 2007, there are still 300 prisoners rotting away in Camp Delta. Of course, it’s become such an embarrassment now, even the US commander-in-chief has publicly stated: I’d like to end Guantánamo. I’d like it to be over and done with.5

‘Oh, don’t worry. I, White-Dove, haven’t given the plot away. There’s a bigger story here – Synthesis. And we haven’t lost any time in the five’s story either. Because of E=mc2 and its time-slip dimensions, I can return you now to exactly the same point of First November 2004.’

Chapter 20: The Capital

Flight CU-284 landed at José Martí Habana Airport. The paying passengers disembarked and the aircraft taxied to a maintenance hangar. The five escapees were ushered out of the hold and guided into the back of the hangar, where a Toyota Hi-Ace 12-seater minibus was awaiting their arrival. Following a 15-minute toilet break and change of soldiers they set off.

The five were quite excited about going into Havana City; where their fate would be decided. They were also quite curious to see the principal city of Cuba.

‘Look Randy, there’s some big differences compared to Guantánamo,’ Zulfiqar said, from inside the cool comfort of their air-conditioned, tinted-window minibus. ‘The roads are bigger and wider and mostly tarmac. And there’s a lot of modern air-conditioned coaches.’

‘Yeh, and the traffic’s a lot more congested, with Peugeots, Volkswagens, Toyotas and even one or two Mercs amongst them. The Ladas are still everywhere, but even these seem to be much newer models, my friend.’

‘Just look, Brother Iftekhar and sister Roxana, there’s tall skyscrapers coming towards us,’ Mubarak pointed out from the seat behind, and noted Mariela listening in. ‘They look like giant Lego brick towers, and there’s some old colonial type buildings as well.’

‘Yes, Habana City’s a mixture of 1950s and ‘60s office blocks and apartments, rubbing shoulders with grandiose colonial façades,’ Mariela said, and continued.

‘All these high-rise buildings would be bland and boring – if it weren’t for the artistic displays of contrasting patterns of greens on creams, browns and oranges – set against blues, and even shocking pinks.’ Mariela’s descriptions prompted all five to look more intently.

‘Apart from the special-looking buildings, most of them are crying out for fresh paint,’ Mubarak said, as he came to see them close up. Mariela quickly related his comment to Luisa, who wanted to know what he’d said, that had silenced them all.

‘Yes, paint, amongst other shortages, is a fact of life in our country,’ Mariela translated Luisa’s response to Mubarak. ‘But our 20 million palm trees and 8,000 plant species are beyond even the reach of the US government’s blockade.’

‘I must say, Luisa, as a town planning worker,’ Zulfiqar said, wanting to make amends for Mubarak’s ungracious remark, ‘I really like how you Cubans use your natural plants, trees and flowers in town planning. Can you tell me please, what you call these different trees and plants?’

‘Mostly there’s the royal palm trees all round us,’ Luisa responded warmly to Zulfiqar, ‘and there’s the barrigona palms that look like they’re pregnant, with their swollen trunks.’ She pointed out of the windows.

‘Over on the left of our minibus, there’s the sabal trees with their wide fan-like leaves. Coming up on the right, you can see the banyan fig trees, beside the jaguey, with their aerial roots rising up on the outside of their trunks.’ All five escapees looked as she pointed.

‘Just up ahead, there’s even some royal poincianas – the show-off trees. Can you see how their bright orange and red flowers are coming into bloom – just in time, to welcome us to Habana City.’ Luisa smiled broadly and everyone appreciated her sentiments.

‘Apart from the trees,’ Luisa said, encouraged by Zulfiqar’s tingling eyes and smiling face, ‘there’s the parks and gardens, with numerous varieties of plants and flowers. There’s orchids and white mariposa – our national flower, and many others too.

‘All to gladden our people’s natural senses. Our constant reminders of the lush, green flora of our Caribbean and Latin American beautiful island paradise.’

‘You certainly love your country, Luisa,’ Zulfiqar said, and was rewarded with a big appreciative smile.

***************

Having only met a small number of Cubans, both Iftekhar and Roxana, sitting next to each other, keenly observed the hundreds of ordinary people around them. Most were dressed in T-shirts and jeans or skirts, while a few wore shorts.

‘Their clothes appear to be very similar to Western fashions,’ Iftekhar remarked to Roxana, ‘certainly compared to Guantánamo.’

‘All Cuban people seem to be a mixture of races,’ Roxana said, ‘yet they all seem to intermingle happily with whoever.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Iftekhar said, ‘there’s no racial distinctions. We’ve seen dark-skinned people like Mrs Segundo and Luisa, and European-looking faces like Father Sanchez. All in high and low-status positions. It seems to me, communism has eradicated racism, if nothing else.’

‘I think it’s really good for different people to live happily with each other,’ Roxana said. ‘Not like the way many countries are – including our own.’

She looked directly into Iftekhar’s clear brown eyes, ‘We both know, there’s all sorts of persecution in our countries, especially against women. And some of our Muslim ones, like Saudi Arabia, are ten times more racist than any Western nation.’

‘Yes, that’s very true Roxana.’

‘Now, look at that young couple over there,’ she pointed to a dark-skinned African-Caribbean looking woman in the arms of a fair-skinned man.

‘They’re so different and yet so happy in each other’s company. Just enjoying life. Why can’t we all have that? Obviously I don’t know, but to me, they look to be very much in love – and what can possibly be wrong with that?’

Before he could respond, Mubarak caught his attention. ‘Look over here, Brother Iftekhar,’ pointing to a nearby building with a brown-and-cream colonial façade.

‘It’s got dead-smart black signs against the cream background. I think it says: Real Fábrica de Tabacos. Is it connected with Cuban cigars – which I’ve heard are the best in the world?’

‘Yes, you’re quite right. Tobacco and sugar cane were the principal produce of Cuba until relatively recently, he turned to address him.

‘I’ve not smoked for three years. Even when I was an occasional smoker, though, I never got to try a Cuban cigar. But I’m reliably informed they’re very smooth and splendidly mellow.’

From inside their air-conditioned minibus, the visual scenery and the outside hot weather were very pleasant experiences of Havana. However, an ominous thought shrouded the five’s minds as they approached their unknown destination.

‘Are we being taken to prison?’ Mubarak anxiously asked Mariela. Noticing the surprised look on her face, Luisa asked for and received a quick translation, before Mariela responded.

‘No, you’re not going to prison. First, you’re going to a Party offices building to start your interviews. Around six o’clock, you’ll be taken to a safe-house.’ This will be managed by Luisa and her CDR volunteers. They’ll support your stay and arrange things with the people.’

‘Can I please ask a question,’ Iftekhar said. ‘Will these same Party officials be dealing with our political asylum application? Or is that a separate process?’

‘All the procedures and your status and suchlike will be addressed by a senior Party officer. No more questions please; we’re nearly at our destination.’

A few minutes later, the minibus pulled up outside a fairly modern looking eight-storey Party office building, where a policeman approached Mariela and spoke with her.

‘It looks as if there might be a change of plan,’ she informed the five escapees, I need to go inside and find out the situation. Everybody will remain here until I return.’

‘Hola, I’m Alfredo. I’m a postgraduate student at Universidad de La Habana. I will be joining you.’ A young man announced, entering the minibus a few minutes after Mariela’s departure.

The five responded with ‘hellos’ in English to Alfredo, whose attention was distracted by Luisa checking something. He added, ‘I’m also a CDR volunteer and will be working with Luisa, to arrange things with the people.’

The two of them then become engrossed in some detailed discussions, leaving all five wondering what Luisa’s CDRs were planning for them.

Zulfiqar was the first to speak on this intriguing question, though he kept his voice low to avoid Alfredo listening in. ‘Anybody got any idea what this, things with the people is all about?’

‘I haven’t the foggiest,’ Randy said, sitting next to him.

‘It might be singing and dancing,’ Roxana said, from the other side of the central isle. ‘Cuban culture is very artistic, and they particularly like to entertain foreigners. I’m sure I read that somewhere. Or maybe my father told me it.’

‘I rather think that’s wishful thinking, Roxana,’ Iftekhar said smiling broadly.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she returned his smile, ‘but I’d like to see their singing and dancing anyway. I’ve heard it’s a rich mixture of all sorts of cultures.’

‘I don’t believe they mean us any harm,’ Iftekhar resumed. ‘They’ve been perfectly respectful to us so far, have they not?’ All five were agreed on this point – especially on the so, far part of it.

***************

‘Please take a seat, Comrade Mariela Fernando. I have some distressing news,’ the national general secretary’s aide, informed her on the eighth floor. ‘Myself and the secretary are liaising with senior government officials about this grave situation …

‘The planned interviews of the five are being rescheduled for this afternoon,’ he resumed after pausing for Mariela’s sake.

‘You need to take them directly to the safe-house. Take these cell phones with you; one’s for you and the other for Luisa, or whoever is with the five. Keep yours with you at all times.’ He paused again, to enable Mariela to compose herself.

‘When you’ve delivered them, ring me and I’ll update you about Guantánamo and the interviews situation. Lastly, I need to go through the Habana emergency protocols with you.

‘Once again, Comrade Mariela,’ he repeated some ten minutes later, ‘my sincerest sympathies to you and Luisa, for the earlier shocking news. It’s been agreed the five escapees should be told, as it will help to ensure their continuing cooperation.’

Mariela returned some 30 minutes later, looking visibly distressed and instructed the driver of the change of plan, and he set off.

She started telling Luisa of the ominous contents of the news she’d received – and the minibus passengers witnessed both Luisa and Mariela becoming distressed.

‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ Alfredo asked Luisa in Spanish. By now a few tears were appearing in Mariela’s eyes and Luisa gave her a quick hug. Mariela blew her nose, wiped her face and started to regain her composure.

Luisa, however, was already showing a steely resolve.

‘Bastardos norteamericanos!’ one of the soldiers sitting close to the women, having heard the terrible news, angrily shouted out.

‘Do you want me to stop for a few minutes?’ the driver asked, having heard the soldier’s remark and noticed the commotion in the back.

‘No, carry on – it’s okay. But be sure to follow all the security procedures.’

‘What’s wrong? What’s happened? Is it something to do with the Americans?’ Roxana asked Mariela.

‘Well, it’s about you, so I suppose you should be told. There’s been a North American terrorist attack in Guantánamo. They’ve fired missiles at the police station, killing two policemen and a CDR volunteer. Another three citizens are very seriously injured – including the chief of police.’

‘Was it the Miami-Mafia CIA agents?’ Alfredo asked Mariela in English.

‘No, it wasn’t actually. Apparently they came in a US military helicopter, did their dirty work and headed back for the naval base.’

‘Well, what about our armed forces?’ Alfredo said. ‘What were they doing while all this was going on?’

‘Yes, they were certainly caught off guard. They wouldn’t have expected an actual US military attack – but this helicopter didn’t make it back. The army shot it out of the sky some five kilometres outside the city.’

‘Do you know how many crewmen died?’ Randy asked.

‘No, I didn’t ask that – we’re the victims here, you know.’ Mariela said indignantly.

‘I’m extremely sorry to hear this terrible news,’ Zulfiqar said, ‘and I don’t think the Americans are going to give up. I think they mean to take us back, dead or alive.’

‘Dead, rather than alive.’ Randy said. ‘This sounds like a Special Forces hit and run operation, to stop me talking. ‘cause they know what’s inside my head.’

Randy looked directly at Luisa and Mariela. ‘I really feel for you Cubans – just having us on your soil makes you a target. And I know exactly what depths we’re capable of sinking, when it comes to our strategic interests.’

Mariela translated Randy’s sentiments to Luisa, who responded with anger in her voice, ‘Let me tell you, Sergeant, we’ve had 45 years of US terrorism since the revolution.’

Mariela paused, but Luisa insisted that she convey her comments to Randy.

‘Even our state president has lost count the number of times the CIA have tried to assassinate him – but he’s outlasted all your presidents since 1959. And our socialism has even survived the collapse of Russia. So we’re stronger today than we’ve even been.’

Though aimed at Randy, all five listened keenly to Mariela relaying Luisa’s impassioned words.

‘Our example is encouraging other Latin American nations to challenge US imperialism today. For instance, because of President Chavez’s socialist policies, Venezuela is the only country in the world that shares its oil wealth with its poorest people?1 We’re proud to have inspired that.’

Luisa spoke straight from the heart, bringing colour to her cheeks, ‘Yes; having you on our soil gives your government an excuse to attack us, but they’ve never needed one for 45 years.’

She added, ‘You know, I really respect the chief of police, ‘cause he started off as an ordinary policeman. We have our differences, but I do respect him.’

Mariela concluded her translation by expressing both women’s heartfelt sentiments, ‘Despite what you might’ve heard, we communists are not all the same.’

Randy felt no urge to respond to Luisa’s comments, which he didn’t disagree with and also understood the pain and anger the Cubans must be feeling. I know it’s not 9/11, he thought, but when you’ve had it for 45 years – it’s got to add up to many 9/11s.

This was clearly evident to the five, from the intermittent bastardos norteamericanos expletives still emanating from the three soldiers.

‘You need to keep this with you at all times,’ Mariela produced a cell phone out of her briefcase. ‘When you’re not with the five, you must pass it on. All the important Party and CDR numbers are programmed in. Just try to ring me now, so we can test them.’

Mariela demonstrated on her handset, ‘Look, you press this button here to get the menu, then scroll down until you get to my name and press this green Enter button like this, see?’

‘¿Hola, esta Mariela?’

‘Si, buenos dias Luisa.’ The two women chatted to one another for the next few minutes. They were almost oblivious to the three soldiers having stopped swearing at the North Americans and looking agog at the cell phones.

‘Yes, communism may be very fair-minded,’ Randy said to Zulfiqar in Arabic, ‘but given half the chance their people clamour for the material benefits of capitalism.’

He then noticed and mentioned in English, ‘I’m sure we’ve been down this street before, my friend. Look, there’s another minibus with tinted windows like ours, turning right up ahead.’

‘No, that’s the third one,’ Iftekhar joined the conversation, ‘there was another one behind us – which turned off earlier.’

‘Fine observers you three are,’ Mubarak said. ‘Haven’t you noticed the two trucks? They’re running parallel. If you look through the junctions at the traffic lights, you can spot them.’

‘Well, if the CIA are following us,’ Randy said, ‘I guess they must be going stir-crazy.’

‘The more Cuban security the better,’ Roxana said, ‘after what’s happened in Guantánamo – which, don’t forget was aimed at us. So, we’re going to need their highest protection.’

She looked around at her companions before adding, ‘I do hope the chief of police isn’t too badly injured, ‘cause he was all right with us, wasn’t he?’ This prompted the other four to express similar good wishes for the chief’s full recovery.

The minibus finally stopped outside what looked like a substantial church, which all five were surprised to see in the heart of the city. Indeed, it was a cathedral – all in white, with large two-storey stained-glass windows along the full 70-foot length.

The front elevation was even more decorative, with a grand central entrance some 12 feet off the ground reached by a stone staircase. The whole structure was topped