Seven years ago, I wrote an op-ed in The Washington Post about my role conducting abusive interrogations in places like Abu Ghraib and Fallujah: "An Iraq interrogator's nightmare" (Feb. 9, 2007). I ended the piece by suggesting that the story of Abu Ghraib and abusive interrogations wasn't over. In many ways, I thought, we had yet to open the book.
The book never opened. Instead, our country spent the next seven years denying, ignoring or defending our use of interrogation practices that manipulated and abused the emotional, mental and physical well-being of thousands of foreign detainees.
In recent weeks, reports have emerged about growing friction between the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and CIA officials responsible for an internal report on interrogation. But the public discussion about interrogation has been dominated by a debate that focuses on a cost-benefit analysis. Does U.S. safety and security mandate the suspension of ethical standards? Is the physical well-being of Americans more valuable than codes of honor? Do we value our bodies more than our souls?
I sympathize with the men and women who have found themselves on the front lines confronting these difficult questions. They feel isolated and overwhelmed. Their war has been ignored by an alarming percentage of Americans. An even larger percentage has failed to serve alongside them. Meanwhile, that same public demands a nearly impossible standard of success. Those demands and expectations are channeled down through civilian and military leaders who pressure subordinates to produce results in the most challenging environments.
Nevertheless, the few of us who had the courage to serve remain responsible for our actions.
Even the staunchest supporters of aggressive interrogation practices acknowledge their malicious nature. They say the tactics are a necessary evil, or are practiced in the shadows, or belong in the dark. They fight to keep the stories quiet. They classify, deflect, deny. They don't just close the book: They erase it. But an accounting of our failures is the only way forward.
Late in the summer of 2005, I returned from Iraq for the second time. My conscience was poisoned, my moral code shattered. I resigned my position with the National Security Agency the following year and returned home to Pennsylvania in an effort to address the consequences of my actions. Eight years later, the struggle continues.
I have spent much of that time researching and pursuing avenues of forgiveness. I studied at Princeton Theological Seminary, attended conferences on torture, published articles about my involvement in interrogation and befriended a rabbi who walked me through the process of repentance. The rabbi introduced me to the writings of Maimonides, a medieval Jewish philosopher who wrote about the importance of being specific during the process of confession. So let me be specific.
