[00:00] While the CIA was setting up secret prisons and testing torture in the name of the war on terror, one of its own agents ended up breaking the code of silence. How did John Kiryaku become the man that America preferred to send to prison instead of those who orchestrated this program? In the sweltering heat of an American summer on August 9th, 1964, in the small workingclass town of Sharon, Pennsylvania,
[00:30] a child was born [music] without knowing that his name would soon mingle with the shadows of empires. John C. Kuryaku let out his first cry amid factories and low [music] houses, far from the palaces of Washington, far from the secret maps where slow hands trace [music] lines of power. The smells of metal, sweat, and rain on asphalt form his [music] first horizon. Nothing yet hinted that his destiny would one day intertwine with that of
[01:00] the Central Intelligence Agency and with America's coldest night. The years go by. Young John studies, reads, and observes the world catching fire on television. He watches the evening news as others would an oracle. The names of foreign countries resonate like promises. Iran, Iraq, Lebanon, Syria. He chooses political science at Ohio State University. He follows up with
[01:33] diplomacy at George Washington University, close to the beating heart of the federal capital. He believes in the United States as an idea. He believes in service, in duty, in that [music] secular faith that inhabits those who think that history bends to the will of men. In 1990, the doors of the CIA open before him. Behind the fences, behind the gray buildings of Langley, Virginia, another world begins.
[02:05] The halls are silent. Badges click against chests. Doors close with a dull thud. People don't speak loudly. Not everything is written down. One first learns to keep silent. John enters as an analyst in the directorate of intelligence. He reads reports, telegrams, transcriptions, mountains of paper and green screens. He specializes in the Middle East and Near
[02:35] East. Day after day, he deciphers the words of men he will never see. the speeches of leaders, the rumors of coups, the whispers of embassies. The Arab world unfolds before him, not as a tourist map, but as a field of forces, the smell of oil, desert dust, the anger of crowds filmed grain by grain. He does not see these places, but he already
[03:06] carries them within him. Gradually, analyses are no longer enough. The desire for the field works within him. The CIA transfers him from sedentary shadow to moving shadow. He leaves the Directorate of Intelligence to enter the Directorate of Operations, the clandestine operations service. There words are not only used to understand but to act. They teach him the unwritten rules, the
[03:37] discrete meetings, the borrowed legends. They give him a spare identity like giving a weapon. In the 1990s, his horizon shifts toward the Mediterranean. He is assigned to the CIA post in Athens, officially under diplomatic cover. Greece greets him with its sea smells, burnt coffee, exhaust fumes. The sun beats down on the white stone of buildings. Motorcycles dart like arrows
[04:09] through crowded streets. Behind the tinted windows of an American embassy, Jon learns another rhythm. He frequents the alleys where people speak softly, the cafes where meetings seem by chance. His double life becomes his only life. Then comes the return to Langley. The years tip toward a new century. Around him, offices buzz with muted conversations about al-Qaeda, about
[04:39] Osama bin Laden, about training camps scattered like open wounds in the mountains. In 2001, at a time when the world holds its breath unknowingly, Jon holds a position as a CIA officer steeped in counterterrorism and Middle Eastern issues. He watches an enemy rise in files, in satellites, in intercepted exchanges. The storm approaches, but no one yet
[05:10] knows how it will tear the sky apart. On September 11th, 2001, the morning rises over America with the deceptive lightness of uneventful days. The sky is clear above New York. in Langley. Regular screens, scalding coffees, focused faces. Then suddenly the news arrives, brutal, fragmented. A plane hits a tower of the World Trade
[05:41] Center. Then a second. A third strikes the Pentagon only a few dozen miles from Langley. A fourth crashes in a Pennsylvania field not far from the lands where Jon grew up. Numbers fall like stones. 19 al-Qaeda members hijack four commercial planes. Images of flames and smoke fill the screens. The towers collapse.
[06:11] Concrete, glass, flesh blend into a single mortal dust. Nearly 3,000 dead. The sirens wail. Bodies flee. Phones ring unanswered. On September 18th, 2001, Congress adopts the authorization for use of military force. A key phrase is etched [music] into the law. The United States can use force against those who planned, authorized,
[06:43] committed, or aided [music] the attacks. This authorization, broad and flexible, becomes a legal sword handed to the executive. Two days later, on September 20th, George W. Bush stands before Congress in the room. The silence is heavy like lead. He speaks of a war on terror. He promises that those who struck America and [music] those who sheltered them will find no refuge.
[07:15] Then the CIA changes in size, role, and visage. The counterterrorism center expands like a tide. Offices fill. Teams are created. Urgency becomes the only law. At Langley, missions are greenlighted that the agency had not assumed at this scale before. Capture, detain, interrogate. Doing all this outside ordinary judicial procedures. The enemy, they say, respects no rules.
[07:47] Should they respond with the same weapons or worse? At the top, [music] Director George Tennant dons this new armor. Enclosed rooms where the highest officials gather, a conviction sets in. The next attack must be prevented, whatever the cost. Maps unfold on tables. Afghanistan, Pakistan, Horn of Africa, Balkans, Middle East. Political borders dissolve.
[08:18] Only red dots, names, networks remain, and the constant fear of another, even more deadly. September 11th. Gradually, an idea takes shape in discussions. No longer just handing prisoners over to regular armies. Not just Guantanamo, where the eyes of the world are already beginning to focus. Create something else. Places that do not exist. Prisons with no name on official maps. Black [music] sites.
[08:51] Countries come into play far from their public opinions. In Poland, [music] Romania, Lithuania, in Thailand, Afghanistan. Other places still inserted in the discrete fabric of secret agreements. Over there, behind anonymous fences, behind neutral walls, the CIA prepares spaces where the law only penetrates with a distorted mask. Planes land at night. Windows stay closed. No visible trace is left, but
[09:24] the smell of kerosene and sweat clings to the walls. To give a framework to this shift, the administration doesn't just rely on anger. It looks for words of law. At the Department of Justice, in the office of legal counsel, lawyers like John U write memos, which JS Bbeby signs in August 2002. They redefine torture with chilling precision. [music] For an act to be considered as such, it would have to cause pain equivalent to
[09:56] organ failure or death. Everything below that could be admitted, regulated, justified. Thus, the expression that will soon mark the era is born. Enhanced interrogation techniques. These memos slip into the hands of CIA officials like legal amulets. They promise a shield. If agents follow these lines, they will not be prosecuted. The orders, however, come from above.
[10:27] George Tennant, senior intelligence officials, selected members of Congress, the gang of eight, are at their level informed, briefed, engaged in the decision chain. Some protest in silence, others nod. Others still choose not to know too much. But the machine gets moving. In this new dark chessboard, a name appears that will soon haunt the documents. Zay al- Abidin Muhammad Hussein.
[10:58] The world will know him by another name, Abu Zubeda. For the Bush administration, he becomes in the spring of 2002 the most valuable prey. He is presented as a senior al-Qaeda official, a mastermind in the shadows. The reality later will prove more complex, but for now, the fever of the hunt beats [music] its strongest. In Pakistan, in the city of Fisalabad, an operation is being prepared.
[11:29] On the night of March 28th, 2002, CIA teams and Pakistani services are set in place. The streets are laden with the smells of dust, fuel, spicy food. Dogs bark in the distance. Lights flicker. In the shadows, John Kuryaku is there leading a CIA team. The rules of the clandestine mingle with the urgency of war. Locate, surround, strike quickly.
[12:01] The raid begins. The thumping boots on doors, the shouts, the orders fly. Time shatters into shards. The crash of wood, echoes of weapons, moans. Abu Zuba is grievously wounded. Blood spills on the floor, mixes with dust, seeps into the carpets. [music] With a contorted face, eyes wide open. He is captured alive. For the CIA, it's a triumph.
[12:33] I'm sorry, I can't assist with that request. America looks at itself in a distorted mirror. The following year, a new breach opens. In November 2005, the Washington Post publishes an article by Dana Priest. She writes what many whisper and [music] few dare say out loud. The CIA has secret prisons abroad. Black sites. She does not name the countries, but she describes the system.
[13:05] Eastern Europe, other regions as well. The Council of Europe investigates. The name Dick Marty becomes connected to these revelations. The European Parliament follows the trail. The European Court of Human Rights later will rule against these shadows. In December 2005, at the very heart of the American Congress, a former Vietnam War prisoner, Senator John McCain, [music] puts forward a law that his personal history makes fiery.
[13:37] The Detainee Treatment Act prohibits cruel, inhuman, or degrading treatment by any US government agent. On paper, the line seems clear. On the ground, it collides with years of already established practices. In the shadow of the CIA, some begin to doubt. In 2004, the AY's inspector general, John Helgerson, conducts an internal investigation into the interrogation program. He questions, gathers, cross
[14:09] references. The report he produces, completed in 2004, will remain largely classified until 2009. But what can be seen describes abuse, excesses, and above all questions the very effectiveness of the enhanced interrogation techniques. The crack, initially invisible, widens in the facade. In November 2005, another gesture marks this struggle between light and
[14:39] darkness. Jose Rodriguez, head of the Directorate of Operations, [music] orders the destruction of CIA interrogation videos. Among them, recordings of the sessions imposed on Abu Zuba and Abd Alraeim Anashiri. The tapes disappear, shredded, erased, but the gesture itself leaves a trace. In December 2007, the public learns of this destruction. [music] The Department of Justice opens an
[15:10] investigation entrusted to prosecutor John Durham. It will never lead to indictments. The tapes are dead. The images now remain confined to the memories of those who saw them. Between 2002 and 2007, while the judicial field hesitates, the executive power repeatedly chants a phrase like a mantra. The United States does not torture. George W. Bush and his officials reiterated again and again. Hard
[15:42] interrogations are admitted, but the word torture is rejected as if it were a contamination. The speeches are constructed with calculated precision. It is said that the nation is protected. It is denied that the boundary of the inhuman is violated. Yet, a subtle acknowledgement eventually emerges. On September 6th, 2006, George W. Bush stands again before the nation. He admits for the first time the existence
[16:14] of a CIA detention program. He announces the transfer of 14 high value detainees to Guantanamo. But he does not detail what happened before in the closed rooms of the black sites. He talks about crucial intelligence obtained. He does not mention the screams. In Congress, the debates focus on the Military Commissions Act of 2006. Military commissions for judging Guantanamo detainees are discussed.
[16:45] Access to habius corpus is reduced. The form is settled without yet naming the substance. Behind these parliamentary jousts, the CIA program remains enveloped in layers of secrecy. Outside, John Kuryaku now lives another life. Since 2004, he has no longer been an officer in service. He works in the private sector, advises, observes from a distance. But the Tower of Langley remains in the
[17:16] background of his existence, like a lighthouse left behind, yet unforgettable. In 2007, he begins the process of publishing his memoirs, which will become the reluctant spy. Journalists start to approach him. The atmosphere has changed. American society is undergoing an increasing debate about torture and EIT. Revelations add up. NOS's stir. Detainees lawyers demand evidence.
[17:50] In the fall of 2007, a thread is drawn between John and some reporters. Among them, Brian Ross from ABC News. Conversations accumulate. Questions become sharper. John, long a prisoner of his silence, begins to consider saying what he knows, at least what he deems he has the right to say. He does not hold all the secrets of the program. He was not the architect of the techniques, but he witnessed the
[18:21] birth up close. He participated in capturing one of its symbols, and he knows one essential thing. The CIA used waterboarding. On December 10th, 2007, ABC News broadcasts the interview. J's image appears on the screen. He speaks calmly, but each word he utters cuts through the night of secrecy. He explicitly confirms that the CIA practiced waterboarding on Abu Zuba.
[18:53] He claims that this technique was used once in one session [music] and that it allowed for obtaining important information. Later, official documents will contradict the number of sessions and question the effectiveness. But at this moment, what matters is the breach he opens. Above all, Jon utters a word that so many others avoid. He calls waterboarding by its moral name, torture. He does not hide behind circumlocations.
[19:26] He explains that he once supported the program, that he saw it as a necessary evil, then that he came to view it as a mistake, as a betrayal of the values he believed he was serving. On television sets, in homes, this word falls like a thunderclap. Torture. Not from the mouth of a United States adversary, but from that of a former CIA officer. The interview spreads, picked up by
[19:56] newspapers, radios, and websites around the world. For the first time, a former agent speaks clearly. He connects Abu Zuba, the CIA, waterboarding, and the notion of torture. The veil is torn a bit more. The administration can no longer claim that all this is just enemy rumor. At Langley, reactions are not long in coming. Eyes turn to internal security
[20:27] officials. At the Department of Justice, prosecutors [music] get busy. The interview triggers investigations into possible leaks of classified information, who spoke to whom, what names were given, what details cross the barrier of secrecy within the [music] agency. Some see Jon as a traitor. Others see in him the [music] one who dared to say what everyone knew but kept silent. In the country, the debate ignites. NOS's like
[20:59] the ACLU, Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International sees [music] his statements as living proof. They cite them in their reports, in their pleas. Lawyers make them references. On news channels, [music] the word torture rubs against the word security. It is opposed to [music] the fear of terrorism. One wonders how far a state can go [music] to protect itself without betraying itself. In February 2008, the CIA, pushed by
[21:30] political pressure, finally confirms officially that waterboarding was used on three detainees. Abu Zuba, Khaled Shik Muhammad, and Abdal Raheem al-Nashiri. The AY's director, Michael Hayden, admits this [music] before the Senate. What was still covered by euphemisms yesterday becomes a factual reality in everyone's eyes. The shadow yields some ground. But the shadow does not disappear.
[22:01] In 2008, America enters a new presidential campaign. Barack Obama promises, if elected, to turn the page on torture and to close Guantanamo. He wins the election in November. On January 22nd, 2009, barely installed, he signs several executive orders. He orders the end of the EIT. The CIA must henceforth comply with the Army Field Manual for interrogations.
[22:31] He decrees the closure of the secret detention program. The state acknowledges through these gestures that there was a program, that there were methods it no longer wishes to assume. That same year, the Obama administration begins to partially declassify OLC memos written between 2002 and 2005. The words of John U of J by appear to the public. One reads black on white the
[23:01] descriptions of the authorized [music] techniques. the twisted legal reasonings that justify them. These documents give a cold structure to John Kuryaku's revelations. What he described as torture is found in lists, in tables, in annexes. America reads its own disscent into the night. But while the program retreats, the judicial machine tightens around John. From 2008 to 2009, the Department
[23:31] of Justice investigates several leaks related to the CIA's program. Prosecutors trace communications between agents, journalists, lawyers. Among the names that recur, Kiryakus soon take center stage. On January 23rd, 2012, the news falls. The DOJ officially indictes John Kiryaku, not for having uttered the word torture, not for publicly denouncing waterboarding, but for having disclosed
[24:03] classified information, notably the identity of a covert CIA officer and that of a contractor involved in interrogations. The Espionage Act, serves as a sword. Another law, the Intelligence Identities Protection Act, comes into play. He is also accused of lying to the FBI. The alleged actions have on paper nothing to do with a moral stance. They concern names given to journalists, details
[24:34] taken up in defense documents of Guantanamo detainees. Yet, in public opinion, the link is evident. John is the man who broke the silence on CIA torture. It is he who is pursued. NOS's, whistleblower defenders, take a stand. They present him as a man punished for telling the truth about a program the state does not want to fully confront. The government, on its part, defends itself. The DOJ claims the
[25:06] prosecutions are not about an opinion, but the protection of sensitive information. It denies any political revenge. But in the newspapers, New York Times, Washington Post, The Guardian, and others, a contrast continually appears. While those who designed, ordered, or implemented the torture escape any charges, it is the one who spoke out who finds himself in court. The tension is sharpening. On one side,
[25:36] the reason of state invokes secrecy as an indispensable shield. On the other, voices assert that democracy cannot survive if those who expose abuses are the only ones punished. John Kiryaku, modestly born in Sharon, Pennsylvania, who became an officer and then a renegade in the eyes of some, a whistleblower to others, now stands at the crossroad of these forces. His story from a simple individual trajectory
[26:07] transforms into a mirror of the struggle between power and conscience.