Torture Works

The essential problem with our current debate about torture is that not nearly enough Americans have been tortured.

Consider John McCain, the only Senator who has actually been tortured and who is adamantly and fiercely opposed to any kind of torture policy. Perhaps a lack of empathy in most Americans allows them to consider torture acceptable; however, compassion and a belief in basic human rights should demand rejecting torture in all its forms. Still, lacking empathy, a bit of experience would go a long way to convince Americans that torture is wrong. I recall that I possess that experience.

I have been tortured, surely not as severe as in a CIA black site, and my tormentors were not interested in information, only punishment and “behavior modification.”

It happened when I was arrested for essentially protesting police brutality in Ignacio, Colorado. Instead, the Ignacio police brutes turned on me. They almost shot me and then proceeded to beat me silly (I later counted 43 separate cuts and contusions), which was really not so bad, but then they threw me in the La Plata County Jail.

What not to do

I got to the jail in the evening and was a less than cooperative prisoner. To punish me (and perhaps “teach a lesson”), two of the guards put me into this specially reinforced canvas jacket with leather wrist and ankle straps and chains, then they tightened the straps and chains, forcing my arms behind me to fasten to my ankles (the straps were so tight that it took almost ten years to restore full feeling in my hands). The jailors, a fat one and a young blond one, placed me on a bench in the cell and the fat one said, “Don’t move from that bench or you won’t be able to get back up.” They then left me alone.



Richard Kuklinkski, cyanide killer

Fifteen minutes later, the two barged into my cell and one of them held some kind of spray can. I said, “What’s that?” The blond one replied, “It’s cyanide. We’re gonna kill you.” They then sprayed the cyanide liberally around the room and rushed out before it could kill them, too. Of course, I leapt (clumsily) from the bench and put my nose to the crack under the door to breathe clean air. After a few minutes, I heard them laughing and noticed that the spray was something like Lysol.

I managed to get back on my bench and proceeded to endure the pain of a “stress position.” All night long my hands, feet, ankles, and wrists ached with such intensity that I could only breathe. My Zen training must have paid off, as I managed to breathe through each wave of pain. Pain followed pain. Pain was my world, there was no other.

Finally, about eight in the morning, the lights came on  and the jail doctor entered the cell. He took one look at me and ordered the jailors to untie me. The relief was bliss! Then, at ten that morning, the nice judge mandated me to hospital, and my ordeal was over.

Afterwards, I was ever so polite to policemen and jailors, you bet, yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir, no, I don’t want anymore, sir! So, torture works, folks, absolutamente. However, I must confess that I was not really cured of my inner unruliness, contempt for cruel and incompetent police, and detest of injustice. I just learned to be a bit more circumspect.