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“This is totally different from what was going on before September 11,” he said. “The United States used to put a lot of pressure on governments to improve human rights. It was believed to be the country that protected human rights. Activists and journalists used to use the United States as a backup, as something to keep them strong against their governments, and the governments tried to beautify their images before the Americans. Now the United States turns a blind eye. The State Department issues an annual report, but there’s no punishment behind the report. Now, when we try to challenge our government about a detention case, they say, ‘Look, see, there’s your glorious example at work.’ They say, ‘Because we are not strong enough to face the United States, we are obliged to do what they ask.’ It’s not acceptable to anybody, but this is really happening.”

“This is an important interview,” Mohammed the translator announced as we drove through the dust and clotting darkness. Hamood Abdulhamed Hitar was a prominent judge and head of the newly formed theological committee. “He is a very big judge, an important man,” Mohammed told me. A proudly displayed sheep pelt slid along the dashboard as he swung the wheel. “He can answer all of your questions, about terrorists, everything.”

“And renditions?”

He tightened his lips.

“I think so, yes.” He paused. “Maybe he will talk with us quickly, because now it’s time for chewing qat.”

Each Yemeni afternoon dissolves into qat, the balm and consolation for another day endured. “Did you chew qat before?” he asked.

“A little the other day.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t polite to admit that it had given me a mediocre buzz and a splitting headache.

Frames of light etched the windows and doors of the judge’s house, chasing off the gloaming. We doffed our shoes at the threshold and padded into the mafraj, a qat-chewing salon swaddled in carpets and strewn with cushions. There he was, the high court judge and soon-to-be cabinet minister, luxuriating on thick pillows, the spoils of trees spread about.

“Salaam aleikum,” I said.

“Aleikum salaam,” he replied.

Islamic greetings thus dispensed, I sank down into the cushions. Mohammed pulled out his own bundle of qat, and handed me a few branches.

“Tell me about the work you do.” I tried to poke the leaves out of the path of my tongue.

The judge combed his fingers through glossy leaves. “I’m in charge of holding dialogue with those returning from Afghanistan and those with extremist ideas which are uncommon to people …” He trailed off. I slid my eyes over to Mohammed, who stared serenely at our host. Head hung low, the judge pored over the qat branches. Then he roused himself with a shake, and slipped back into the interview:

“I talk to people with extremist ideas whether they went to Afghanistan or not,” he said by way of clarification, and gazed indistinctly at the air between us.

“When they came back they were under security supervision and security knows that and from the way of common speeches and ideas it’s obvious they have extremist ideas,” he finally said.

I copied this incoherency down and looked up to find his bloodshot eyes flickering expectantly. The question, his gaze announced imperiously, had been duly answered. I looked at him. He looked at me. Mohammed chomped away at his leaves.

As qat speeded the judge’s blood, his words crowded and leapfrogged from his mouth. My pen chased his runaway thoughts over the page in long, broken sentences. Acid juices trickled down my throat, and my head thickened. When the judge said things like: “We work in three stages. The fourth stage involves two types of dialogue …” I just scribbled away.

The judge thought he could talk the terrorists out of it. That was the upshot. He met with militants and argued with them, trying to debunk their extremist ideas with theology. This was trendy in Saudi Arabia, too—a dry and Socratic strategy of undoing extremism. It always sounded bogus to me, this idea of coaxing bombers back to normalcy.