On June 11 this year, four prisoners from Guantánamo Bay landed in Bermuda, sparking a local and international media frenzy. Six months on, the former terror suspects are happily settled on the Island, leading quiet, busy lives far removed from their existence at the world's most notorious detention camp. They spoke to The Royal Gazette about why they love the Island and hope to stay here for the rest of their days.

After a busy day tending the fairways of Port Royal Golf Course, Khalil Mamut likes nothing more than to watch a bit of sport on television or, sometimes, an action movie.

The 31-year-old offers up this piece of information with an engaging grin on his face, nothing in his expression betraying the fact that the story of his life so far could easily be made into a Hollywood blockbuster; perhaps even will be.

For the tale of how Khalil and his countrymen fled their Chinese Turkestan homeland for the Tora Bora mountains of Afghanistan, got picked up by Pakistani forces and spent seven years in a US camp for terrorist suspects in Cuba, despite being found guilty of precisely nothing, is certainly the stuff of drama, if not legend.

Even some of the dates involved have a poetic symmetry. "On June 10, 2002, I was taken to Guantánamo Bay," says Khalil. "On June 10, 2009, I was released. We stayed there for seven years and now I'm talking to you. Everything is cool. We are free. We are talking to you."

He shakes his head and laughs, which is incredible really, considering those seven years of serious bad luck; numerous minutes, hours, days, weeks and months of his life lost, never to be regained.

Khalil won't go into detail about the time he and his friends Abdulla Abdulqadir, Salahidin Abdulahad and Ablikim Turahun spent at Guantánamo Bay.

"Those seven years, we were in difficult hardship," is all he will say. "[They were] bitter days. Really, it's unforgettable. We don't want to mention and talk about those days."

The four men now consider themselves to have been granted a happy ending — and their focus is on forging fresh lives on the Island. "When we were released, it put everything behind [us]," says Khalil. "Now we start a new life. There is no reason to remember and make sad."

Abdulla, 30, adds something in Uighur and Khalil translates: "What's done can't be undone. What happened, happened."

The Uighurs landed in Bermuda — a place they'd never heard of before — on June 11, after Premier Ewart Brown agreed a deal with the US to give them sanctuary. The men told the press at the time, as did their lawyers, how grateful they were to have been offered a home here, when no other country in the world would take them. Six months on, nothing has changed.

Khalil, who speaks the most English, says their gratitude to the Island and its people is immeasurable. He describes the first month as intense, when their pictures were everywhere and public interest in their story was at its pitch.

"Now, everybody forgot," he smiles. "They treat us like Bermudians. They tell us: 'What's up, man, what's going on? You cool?' They are really friendly. They know us."

Walking down the street with the Uighurs feels slightly surreal. They are four utterly normal looking men — though Salahidin and Ablikim appear older than their 32 and 38 years, respectively, no doubt due to the rigours of life in a detention camp.

But their faces are so familiar from the front page stories that it's impossible not to feel a little self-conscious being with them. "We are famous," agrees Abdulla, who also speaks some English. "And not just in Bermuda."

When a truck driver beeps his horn and waves, it's natural to assume it's because of that unasked-for "celebrity" factor. In fact, as Abdulla later explains over a strawberry milkshake, the man was a Muslim and they know him from the mosque in Hamilton.

Deeply religious men, the Uighurs pray five times a day and attend the mosque every Friday. "They are really friendly [there] and have welcomed us," says Khalil. "It's just like one family."

It is within the Island's Islamic community that the four Uighurs hope to find wives and eventually raise families here. They laugh when asked about romance and explain that their religion forbids Western-style dating.

"In our religion, it's prohibited to talk face-to-face," says Khalil, adding that formal introductions through fathers or brothers must be made.

If that seems alien to most Bermudians, be assured that the rest of their lives sound as normal as anyone else's. They start work at 6.30 a.m. each weekday, making their way to the Southampton golf course on two scooters.

Khalil and Abdulla proudly show off their Bermudian driving licences and their two friends hope to follow suit today — sitting their bike tests on the six month anniversary of their arrival.

They like their work maintaining the fairways and are finished by 2.45 p.m, after which they usually return to their Government-provided Paget home to pray, clean and cook traditional Uighur dishes, usually featuring lamb, fish or chicken.

They have cell phones and a shared laptop and can send e-mails and surf the web. Until recently they played football for Crossroads Warriors at weekends, but Abdulla broke his finger and hurt his knees and they're taking a break.

They love to swim and have done all the usual tourist activities, reeling off a list of attractions including the Crystal Caves and the Aquarium. They even came out to watch the Queen, like thousands of others, last month.

But some aspects of life here are definitely tough and isolating. Khalil says they have made friends and hope to make more.

The men are the only Uighur-speaking people on the Island — and the only asylum seekers, presumably — and Salahidin, a former clothing merchant, and Ablikim, who was a boxing teacher, speak little English.

An English language teacher visits them three times a week and Khalil and Abdulla are keen to have the classes split in half, so they can start learning at a more advanced pace.

"The difficult problem is the language," says Khalil. "Me and Abdulla, it's OK. The other two — their English is poor. When we go out, a little bit we feel like [we are] insufficient, because of the language problem."

Far worse, undoubtedly, is the lack of contact with their families in Turkestan and the knowledge that they can't go home.

Khalil says: "When I arrived here, after two days I called them. They were really excited and happy, my father, my brother. They said: 'Respect yourself and others. Be nice to your neighbours.' They gave me their regards to [give to] all the people in Bermuda — and thanks.

"After one month, I called them. But now they have changed government [in Turkestan]. They blocked every line, the cell phone and the computer. Recently, we have not been in contact."

Ablikim has spoken to his young son just once since his release.

And Khalil, asked if he misses home, bursts out: "I miss everything in Turkestan, especially my mom and my friends."

Laughing again, he says he drove a 550 Suzuki in Turkestan, where he was manager of a small rock candy factory — and now has to make do with a 135cc bike.

But he adds sombrely: "We can't go back, unless it is independent." He doesn't talk about the reasons they left Turkestan (also known as the Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region of China) — but global human rights organisations have highlighted the oppression of the minority ethnic Uighurs there.

Khalil reveals that since coming to Bermuda, the men have been told they can move to the States. "They tried to take us to America after we came here," he says. "We told them no, we like Bermuda. It's a beautiful place."

He says they love the people, the weather, the greenery — even the rain. In fact, the narrow roads are their only complaint.

Khalil believes Bermuda and the US came to an agreement before he and his three friends were released that they would be given passports after a year on the Island. Until they get travel documents, they can't leave the Island.

But they are in no hurry to travel and, in the meantime, time is flying by for the men. "It's very fast," says Abdulla, a former shop worker. Faster than at Guantánamo Bay? He raises an eyebrow and smiles. "Yes. Exactly."