My Torturess

by Bensalem Himmich

  Once in the secretary’s presence, I was stunned by the difference between the veiled, jallaba-clad woman of yesterday and the modern, brazen, and attractive female I saw in front of me now-honey-colored eyes, heavily kohled eyelids, a beautiful, heavily made-up face, and blonde hair skillfully coiffed. I looked at the floor so as to lessen the effect she was having on me and then accepted her invitation to sit down and hand her my report.

  “Oh yes,” I heard her tell me in a coquettish tone, “I’m the one you saw the last time you were in this office. Every Friday and religious holiday I wear the veil—or, rather, I wear traditional clothing. Apart from that, I’m thoroughly modern, as you can see. There’s religion, and then there’s the world, as the investigating judge is fond of saying. So what have you had to say?”

  “You, the phony judge, and everyone else here,” I thought to myself, “can all go to Hell. By God, you have no share of either God or of this world!”

  “What did you have to say?” she repeated her question.

  “In my report,” I told her, “I’ve said what I’ve said, and that’s it.”

  “You’ve just reminded me,” she went on. “The judge is busy, so he’s asked me to make a typed copy of what you’ve said so he can read it. I have to prepare a summary of it in French for Mama Ghula. So what did you say?”

  “OK,” I said.

  I paused for a few moments to collect my thoughts, then started reading out my report, in a loud voice at times and muttering at others. I noticed that she kept skipping entire paragraphs, then using the gold pen she was holding between her heavily lipsticked lips to underline particular words or whole lines. She would ask me to explain phrases she did not understand; for sure, I had failed to do any editing or had scribbled them too quickly in one of the fits of nervous depression that affected me sometimes. I asked her to give me the context again, and she moved in my direction, bringing her high heels, her half-exposed thighs, and her plunging neckline with her. Repeating the word “context” with a laugh, she leaned over me with her ample bosom in full view and spelled out each word for me with her gold pen. Under the spell of her peerless beauty and the attractive perfume she was wearing, I started tamping down my animal feelings and instinctive loathing. I kept sneaking looks at her legs as, given the context, I made the necessary changes and adjustments to my manuscript.

  In this particular situation, it occurred to me that I might leap on top of this woman who was controlling me with her surging femininity and do to her what bulls do to cows. Once I had had my way, I would counter her accusation of sexual assault by accusing her in turn of sexual arousal. I was the one who was imprisoned and oppressed, and the difference was made that more obvious by her provocative dress, her suggestive movements, and her flirtatious chatter. My reasoning would certainly be persuasive: one evil deed promotes another, and the one who starts is the wrongdoer. However, I was aware of being in the same position as Joseph—may his remembrance be sanctified!—even though I was certainly not as handsome or devout as he was. For that very reason I decided against such an idea, cursing as I did so the evil temptations of the devil, not to mention the many salacious women of this morally corrupt era of ours.

  The secretary herself may have become aware of the turmoil going on inside me, because she returned to her chair and gave me a series of ambiguous looks. Taking a mirror out of her handbag, she freshened the makeup on her cheeks, eyes, and lips, as though she had just emerged unscathed from a passionate conflict of some kind.

  She now adopted a warmer, softer tone. “Words of wisdom now decree,” she said, “that you remove all the padding from your statement, and there’s a lot of it. Instead only include things that will help the investigation. Yet more wisdom: concentrate on eradicating any statement that smacks of a question. In the center’s constitution, Article Seven of the section on interdictions stipulates that the suspect is not permitted to ask questions, even though it be in a surreptitious or indirect fashion; on the other hand, the suspect is completely obliged to respond to the all investigating judge’s questions. So what did you say?”

  “Madam,” I replied, “I have . . .”

  “Miss,” she corrected me.

  “So, Mademoiselle,” I replied defiantly, “I have nothing to add or delete. Either the whole report is accepted, or it’s all deleted.”

  Leaping to her feet she came over and started chastising me.

  “The judge will remove exactly what he wishes from your report and will compel you to tell the truth about yourself. Should you refuse or behave defiantly, Mama Ghula will be able to remove you from existence with one flick of a knife. Are you belittling me because I’m a woman? Just take a look at my hand: it may have silk gloves on, but it’s made of steel.”

  With that she slapped my face so hard that I almost fainted.

  “And that’s just a sample,” she yelled angrily, her eyes red with fury. “Now get up and get out!”

  Once outside the door, the black guard who had escorted me to the toilet started describing the woman and the restrictions I was under. I understood that what he was doing was letting me purge myself of illicit thoughts, something he undoubtedly had to do with every man who found himself sitting with and talking to this temptress of a woman and possessed even the slightest degree of masculinity and chance.

  7

  Yet Another Wounded Man on My Bed

  Back in my cell, I noticed that my bedcover was sticking up as though it had been stuffed with straw, alfalfa, or something like that. I lifted the bottom part, only to discover two human feet. I thought it was Ilyas Bu Shama, so I yelled his name as I lifted the top part. I found a head completely wrapped in bandages; all that was visible was a pair of closed eyes and a thin moustache that made it clear that it was not Ilyas, unless he had recently started a moustache. I lay down on the other bed, my mind going over all the images and scenes that I had witnessed in this strange, horrendous place whose exact location and the nature of whose functions and purposes were still a matter for conjecture and guesswork on my part. Just as I was dozing off, there was a knock on the door, and I was given some lunch through the aperture. I asked if my new cell mate was Ilyas Bu Shama, but the guard said that he knew no one of that name and then went away. I was now left with the question as to whether my particular cell had been designated as the favorite spot for major casualties, the prisoners who had been subjected to the very worst kinds of torture.

  I sat there toying with pieces of bread that I dunked in a tasteless broth, if only to stave off a rampant hunger. Thoughts kept occurring to me, intended to clarify the situation in which I found myself and dispel some of my worst suspicions and anxieties.

  Through the absolute silence of my contemplation there now broke an intermittent moaning from the person spread-eagled on the bed in front of me. I rushed over to say how glad I was that he had regained consciousness, but—amazingly enough—he started pushing me away with both hands and saying things that showed how frightened he was of me. There was nothing I could say by way of assurance and comfort that managed to calm his growing panic. I moved quickly back to my own corner and huddled there, all the while listening to him as he raved that I was a double agent charged by the administration with spying on him and providing details of his periods of movement and rest. I pronounced a solemn oath to him, saying that I was a prisoner with all the same concerns that he had; I was neither an informer nor a spy. He did not respond, but I think that my solemn oath penetrated his hearing. I did the same thing twice more, and at that point he signaled to me to come over. I sat down by his head, and he stared at me with tear-filled eyes. He now uncovered the lower half of his body.

  “Look, my friend,” he told me in a crushed tone. “See what those bastards have done to me! They’ve castrated my right testicle, and they’ve threatened to do the same with the other one if I don’t do what they ask and cooperate.”

  I did my best to control my emotions and hold back tears.

  “God figh
t them and destroy them in this world before the next!” I said. “But tell me, my friend, what kind of cooperation is it they want from you?”

  “They’re asking for the names of a jihadist cell that I don’t even know. They want to know about a number of people they’re looking for, some of whom I only know in passing—a connection as thin as a spider’s web, others who are either friends or relations. Was I supposed to do evil to people who have been good to me or implicate them so as to avoid the kinds of dire punishment that this woman called Mama Ghula inflicts on people? I am a God-fearing person. If I did such a thing, I’m afraid I’d spend all eternity in hellfire—and ‘evil is it as a resort.’ My friend, do you agree with me on this?”

  “Of course I do!” I agreed spontaneously. “In my view you’re replicating the actions of our noble Prophet who possessed the very noblest character.”

  “When that fiendish torturess finally gave up on me,” he said, “she brought in someone wearing a mask whom she described as the center’s deputized surgeon. She ordered him to do what he did. Shall I take off the bandage from my scrotum and show you the bloody scar?”

  When I fervently indicated that I did not wish to see it, he acquiesced, albeit reluctantly. He now succumbed to a flood of violent tears, only interrupted by a question:

  “If you were in my place, my friend,” he asked, “what would you have done?”

  I stared at him, panic-stricken and lost for words.

  “I’m almost thirty,” he went on, “and I hope to fulfill my religious obligations by getting married. The surgeon swore to me that even with a single testicle you can still get married and have children, just like someone who can see with only a single eye, or has only one lung with which to breathe, or one kidney to purify his blood. Now I’m faced with two choices, each one of which is a bitter pill to swallow: to continue with my resistance, in which case the result will be complete and terminal castration—and, once that is done, which woman would ever accept me into her bed? Either that, or else surrendering and losing all respect with people. I tell Mama Ghula and the investigating judge everything I know about the people they are looking for. I’ll be cooperating with a gang of spies and undercover agents in getting them arrested. So answer me, friend: if you were in my place, what would you do?”

  I frowned, not only because the question itself totally dismayed me but also because I was being forced to make a choice.

  “For the time being you can remain neutral and say nothing,” he went on. “but don’t be surprised if one day during your time in prison you find yourself having to answer the very same question. But for now, give me something to eat and drink, then let me rest. I’ve already talked too much.”

  I swiftly responded to his request. Before he fell asleep, I asked him his name.

  “‘Umar ar-Rami,” he replied.

  When I asked him where this prison was located, he signaled that he had no idea.

  As I wrapped myself in my bedcover, I could not help thinking about this helpless man, now threatened with the loss of his second testicle, and then about Ilyas, the man who had spent the night in my cell but was not there the next morning. My mind was churning with all sorts of questions and uncertainties, sending me into a bewildering vortex of fear that was only dispelled when a guard came tiptoeing into my cell and signaled to me to follow him.

  “Exercise is better than worry,” he whispered in my ear.

  Quite the contrary, in fact. On this ultimately scary and vicious vessel, such emphasis on exercise was yet another problem. The people in charge had completely transformed its significance; the well-known proverb “mens sana in corpore sano” had been converted into a combination of a sick joke and a demeaning routine.

  In the dismal paved courtyard the atmosphere and regulations were the same as before. What was new and different this time was a circle of prisoners with hands and feet shackled; they were some distance from our circle and were wearing dirty white clothing. They kept moving in a circular pattern between barbed-wire passageways and were being observed by heavily armed guards. I managed to ask the prisoner in front of me in a whisper who these other prisoners were, but he did not reply. I also asked him about someone called Ilyas Bu Shama, but he simply shrugged his shoulders. The same thing happened with the prisoner behind me.

  I realized that there was no hope of sneaking a conversation with the prisoners in my group, so I simply started walking around in circles like everyone else without taking any risks or wandering off. I made do with building up a sense of resistance in the face of so much adversity and sniffing the fresh air outside the confines and aggravations of my cell.

  With the blowing of a whistle the exercise period came to an end, and the prisoners in blue uniforms were taken away for their communal meal. Like everyone else, I joined a line, which passed in front of someone who distributed the food, then sat at a wide table designated for my use along with four others. Everyone had a bowl of broth, along with some lentils and pieces of meat, a complete loaf of bread, a banana, and two pears. Was this supposed to be a festival meal I knew nothing about?

  Complete silence prevailed, only broken by the clanking of spoons, swallowing noises, and ambiguous hand movements under the table. I am an inveterate meddler, so I asked what was the occasion for this feast. No one answered. At that point one of the people at the table got up and went to refill his bowl, whereupon my immediate neighbor took advantage of the other man’s absence to tell me to stop talking; his reason was that spies were regularly planted among the prisoners. I asked him about the other group of fettered prisoners in white clothing, and he replied that they were people with life sentences. Whenever one of them died, he could simply be wrapped and buried in those dirty white garments. I then asked him if he knew either Ilyas Bu Shama or ‘Umar ar-Rami, but he shrugged his shoulders. As soon as the other prisoner came back, he stopped talking. For my part I now focused on my bowl and finished what was in it. When I looked up, it was to see the man who had returned staring hard at me, his expression a tissue of hatred. So, I decided, that is how relationships work between inmates in this extraordinary and barbaric prison; a network of ambiguity as to roles and a predominant sense of suspicion and fear among individuals, all accompanied by a lively trade in information and rumor with its cryptic signals and codes.

  When I returned to my cell, it was to find that my new cellmate, ‘Umar ar-Rami, had vanished into thin air, without leaving any note or the slightest trace. I felt exhausted and lay down, watching as night fell. I prayed for heaven’s mercy, begging for relief from my misery and help in comprehending what was happening to me and going on all around me every day.

  8

  My Session with Both the Investigating Judge and His Secretary, Nahid al-Busni

  Next morning, I was shaken awake by a guard who escorted me to the administration wing and stopped me in front of a door.

  “By order of his excellency, the investigating judge,” he told me, “you are to enter this bathroom, wash yourself, shave your beard, clean your teeth, powder yourself, then put on a new shirt and blue suit along with a necktie. You’ll find everything inside. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  He locked the door behind me and left. It took a moment for me to recover from my shock and surprise, but then I set about beating the time limit he had imposed. The hot water covered my entire body, and with the help of some soap and vigorous rubbing with a cloth, I got rid of most of the grime. Once I had finished washing, I dried myself with a big, soft towel, cleaned my teeth with a fresh toothbrush and toothpaste, trimmed my beard according to the correct Sunni practice, powdered myself, and then put on my new suit. They had forgotten just one thing: shoes to go along with the suit! Putting on a pair of rubber slippers, I sat on a chair. At this point I was scared, because the thought occurred to me that this cleansing routine might be the way prison officials used to deal with prisoners who were about to be executed—a sort of anticipatory wash of bodies that would soon be buried. />
  The only way I could find to keep my fear and confusion to myself was to concentrate even harder on cleaning my teeth and combing my hair back. When the guard suddenly came back into the room I swallowed the toothpaste in my mouth, and then expressed my thanks. I told him I was ready. I asked if I could bring my old clothes and some of the washing items with me.

  “That’s all yours,” he said. “Throw your old clothes in this bin, and put the tie on.”

  I had a hard time stuffing the washing materials in my pockets. He understood that I was no good at tying ties, so he helped me with that before escorting me to the investigating judge’s office.

  An energetic young woman welcomed me with a smile.

  “Nahid al-Busni at your service,” she told me softly as she offered me a chair. “His excellency is on the phone . . .”

  No . . . the secretary with whom I had sat on the previous occasion was quite different from this polite and punctilious young woman. I began to assess how different the two of them were: this one was of medium stature while the earlier one had been exceptionally tall. Both of them were beautiful and neat, but their features were different. This new secretary’s demeanor, unlike the previous one, was much more modest and staid, while the transparent muslin head scarf that they both wore was not intended to hide their carefully coiffed hair.