I was 18 when they sent me to Guantanamo. The system that allowed it never went away

After hours of waiting and listening to men scream in pain, soldiers came and dragged my body and threw me onto the concrete, before cutting my orange uniform off my body and stripping me naked again.

I wanted them to remove the hood, the earmuffs, the goggles, the duct tape, the cuffs on my hands and legs.

I'd lost all feeling.

But they didn't.

I felt strong pressure from water over my body, then something like liquid soap and a large, rough brush scraping over my skin. They pretended it was a shower, but it was humiliation and more beating.

I was dragged again to more humiliation, a cavity search, over and over. They laughed and asked, "Where is Osama bin Laden? Welcome, Mr Commander."

A photo was taken. I couldn't see anything. Fingerprints and other procedures followed, but I couldn't make out most of them.

Then a red bracelet was placed on my left hand.

Later, soldiers removed my handcuffs and brought me some food: a US military MRE - Meal, Ready to Eat - a brown bag with a photo of a soldier holding a gun on it, the same meal we’d been given in Kandahar.

They tossed the meals through an opening in the cage, calling out our cage numbers.

I could see an ocean of orange figures in cages, each block divided into 10 cages, two rows, three blocks per row.

Only cages: no ceiling, no toilets, no privacy, mesh fencing filled with shaved men and children.