For many years, I have been asked whether I could forgive those who imprisoned, tortured, and dehumanised me. It is a loaded question; it is never just about personal forgiveness, but also an invitation to speak on behalf of all Guantanamo Bay prisoners. I usually reply that forgiveness is never simple, especially when justice has yet to be served.

I was held in Guantanamo for nearly 15 years without charge, subjected to treatment no human being should ever endure. I was one of countless innocent people kidnapped during the global campaign of the United States of revenge and terror after September 11, 2001, which justified the illegal invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, unleashed and legalised torture programmes in CIA black sites and at Abu Ghraib, and turned Guantanamo into a laboratory of dehumanisation.

In my cell, I once opened a boxed meal to find the words “We Will Never Forget, We Will Never Forgive” scrawled on the inside of the box. I wrote back: “We Will Never Forget, We Will Never Forgive, We Will Fight For Our Justice.” For this, the camp administration penalised me with “food punishment” and solitary confinement, claiming that my message was a death threat.

Today, on the 24th anniversary of the September 11 attacks, “Never Forget, Never Forgive” echoes once again. These words are presented as grief and as a desire to honour the memory of those lost, but they also carry darker implications. As someone directly affected by the aftermath of 9/11, I believe it is crucial to consider what those words really mean, especially when they are used as a rallying cry for revenge, retaliation, retribution, or vengeance, rather than as a thoughtful appeal for justice, accountability, and meaningful reflection. Once again, the question of revenge and forgiveness circulates in public discourse, yet rarely do commentators pause to ask what forgiveness truly entails.

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In cases such as CIA black sites, Guantanamo, Abu Ghraib, and the many other atrocities committed in the name of fighting “terror”, forgiveness cannot be reduced to an individual act. The harm was inflicted on a global scale, touching tens of millions: those tortured, those killed in drone attacks, the families left behind, and entire communities in Afghanistan, Iraq, Yemen, and Somalia, to name only some. I remain unwilling to step forward and say “I forgive”, because forgiveness is not mine alone to give. For it to carry weight, it must be offered collectively, by victims, survivors, and even the dead. And the dead, of course, cannot forgive.

Despite the scale of harm in question, some voices have emerged claiming to forgive the atrocities they endured at Guantanamo. While this may appear noble, it is crucial to understand that treating forgiveness as a purely personal choice ignores the vast harm inflicted on tens of millions in the so-called war on terror. In other words, when individuals extend forgiveness for personal gain — whether for fame, recognition, or profit — it becomes an act of betrayal.

To those offering such forgiveness, I ask: Who exactly are you forgiving? Torturers who never apologised? Governments that deny their crimes? Has anyone even asked for your forgiveness, or are you offering it freely to those who insist they have done nothing wrong? Have you thought about the families wiped out in US drone strikes, erased in an instant and forgotten? Have you thought about those who never left CIA black sites — whose names remain unknown, whose deaths were never recorded, whose bodies were never returned? When the machinery of violence remains untouched, what does forgiveness mean if not to comfort the guilty and erase the suffering of the victimised?

These questions point to a deeper problem: why is it always the wronged who are asked to forgive? Why must the abused carry the moral burden of healing a world that continues to brutalise them? Long before any investigation, accountability, or even acknowledgement of harm takes place, the wronged are urged to move on for the sake of peace and others’ comfort. This pattern is clear in the behaviour of the US, which marches forward proudly, cloaked in the language of democracy and human rights, while the victims of its brutality are told to wait, to be patient, and to forgive.

This moral double standard reveals everything about who is recognised as human and who is not. When the US kills, tortures, or disappears people, such actions are framed as necessary, strategic, or even heroic. But when survivors speak out, demand accountability, or refuse forgiveness, they are portrayed as bitter, vengeful, and ungrateful. This hypocrisy is no accident; it is built into the very architecture of oppression.

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We cannot begin a conversation about forgiveness before justice or reparations. To discuss forgiveness in such a context is nothing more than an attempt to whitewash and justify crimes committed. Forgiveness is not a one-sided act, a gift from the wronged to the wrongdoer without any expectation of accountability. True forgiveness is inseparable from justice. Insisting on forgiveness before justice is not a path to healing; it is a strategy to erase the truth. It demands silence instead of memory, submission instead of resistance. It turns the conversation about forgiveness into yet another instrument of control, designed to absolve the guilty and shame the survivor.

True forgiveness cannot be granted while the systems of oppression in question remain intact. The US has not officially ended the so-called war on terror. Guantanamo remains open, and the machinery of detention, torture, and extrajudicial killing continues in various forms. The government has neither taken responsibility for the harm it caused nor acknowledged victims and survivors. There has been no meaningful compensation, no effort to make amends.

How can we speak of forgiveness when the same imperial power that claimed to be defending the innocent after September 11 now enables and partners in genocide, in the killing of tens of thousands in Gaza? The ethical failures that allowed Guantanamo to exist are mirrored today in the support for policies that subject Palestinians to starvation and mass slaughter. Forgiveness is not a blanket absolution for injustices committed. Some crimes may never be capable of earning forgiveness. Perhaps the only principled response to such atrocities is to refuse to forgive and to refuse to forget. Never forgive. Never forget.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.