“The terrorists who declared war on America represent no nation. They defend no territory. And they wear no uniform,” is how George W. Bush described the men who were illegally detained, and subject to abuse and torture, in Guantanamo Bay after the U.S. invaded Afghanistan in the wake of 9/11. At its height, the prison, known as Camp X-Ray, held nearly 800 detainees, with 39 remaining there today. The rest of them — barring those who didn’t survive — were repatriated back to their homelands starting in 2005, around the time Bush’s war on terror began to wind down.
This was the case for all prisoners except those from Yemen, who were refused release but found themselves on a curious path to freedom when Prince Muhammad bin Nayef of Saudia Arabia welcomed them to a rehabilitation center he built in Riyadh. Partaking in a 12-month program that included classes about religion, morality and how to become good Muslim husbands, the bulk of former terrorists who went through “jihad rehab” seemed to have made it out successfully. (A few of them faked their way through therapy and immediately rejoined Al-Qaeda afterwards.)
Jihad Rehab
The Bottom Line
A compelling look at lives lost and redeemed.
Granted full access to the facility and the chance to follow three detainees on their paths toward a new life, filmmaker Megan Smaker gives viewers the rare chance to get up close and personal with the men of no nation, territory or uniform that President Bush kept locked up for so long. What she discovers offers insights into who these men really are, why some of them did what they did (although motives can remain vague or unspoken) and what rehabilitation really means for those who live through it.
A former firefighter who resided in Yemen and speaks Arabic, Smaker convinced the detainees to tell her their stories — or rather the parts they chose to tell — during their 12-month stays at the Mohammed bin Nayef Counseling and Care Center, as it’s officially called. The men have a lot in common: they’re all Yemenite, joined Al-Qaeda when they were in their teens or 20s and spent roughly 15 years in Guantanamo.
But they also have distinct personalities: Nadir was Osama Bin Laden’s bodyguard (“When the plane hit, I couldn’t see what the problem was,” is how he describes his initial reaction to 9/11) and now wants to lead a normal life; Ali unwittingly joined the jihad as the 15-year old brother of Qasim al-Raymi, who would become the emir of AQAP (Al-Qaeda in the Arab Peninsula) and was killed by a U.S. airstrike in 2020; and Mohamed is a soft-spoken arms specialist who claims innocence at first, then is more open about his activities, but finds himself troubled by life on the outside.
Shot over several years, the documentary trails the three men, who become fast friends at the facility, through the long process of rehabilitation and release. If there’s one lesson to cull from their collective experiences, it’s that they were all more or less kids when they first signed up for the jihad and thus not fully aware of the consequences. They hated America’s interventions in the Middle East, wanted to support their fellow Muslims in Bosnia, and naively saw joining Al-Qaeda as the kind of adventure you undertake when you’re young and a bit unwise.
This doesn’t excuse their actions, but it explains why, when they find themselves in rehab as fully grown adults, it’s as if they’re learning how to live normally for the first time. The Center teaches them basic skills, like how to apply for a job, but it also introduces Freudian psychology, art therapy and what many would consider to be a backwards view on how to sustain a healthy marriage, courtesy of Saudi specialists.
The facilities, which include a swimming pool and gym, are comfortable and clean, and as the ex-jihadi get closer to release it looks like they may manage to thrive as civilians. But then a political coup transfers power into the hands of Mohammed bin Salman (MBS), who’s less tolerant of terrorists and political dissidents — they seem to be the same thing for him — leaving Nadir, Ali and Mohamed in a state of limbo where they can’t move abroad and can’t be legally employed, even if two of them find wives.
Smaker gets familiar enough with her subjects to show how frustrated they are by the bureaucratic void and how damaged they are by their extended stays at Gitmo, which seems to have broken them in ways that can never totally be fixed. In that sense, Jihad Rehab is not unlike your classic prison flick where life on the outside proves to be tougher than life behind bars, and the way the men try, and often fail, to make it work in the free market dictatorship of Saudi Arabia is heartbreaking to witness.
The film has its drawbacks, like a busy score that adds false dramatic notes, animation sequences that are well-composed but feel like accouterments, and cheesy cinematic ideas like pigeons taking off in slow-motion, which is a rather heavy metaphor for burgeoning freedom. All of these seem unnecessary in light of the harsh realities Smaker manages to capture, and she’s probably less of a born director than she is a thoughtful and persistent interrogator, getting her subjects to bare themselves in front of the camera in ways they would never have done beforehand.
Their participation in Jihad Rehab was hopefully a form of rehab for them as well, although by the time the film ends, it’s uncertain whether these “enemy combatants” — a term devised by the U.S. government to avoid treating them like regular prisoners of war — will ever shake off the taint of their previous lives or the trauma of their long incarcerations. Perhaps at best, their experiences will serve as a valuable testament to the post-9/11 period many of us lived through, some much more painfully than others.