There was a weird atmosphere of silence in the cells and the corridor, and I had no idea what kind of din might follow it. As a way of passing the time, I decided to make a kind of perfume as best I could, one I could use to rinse and scent myself. I squeezed some toothpaste into a glass of water, dissolved and shook it, till it was a liquid suitable to my needs. At the same time I prayed to God that He would look on ‘Umar al-Rami with His mercy, he being the one who had given me two tubes of this priceless commodity—may God reward him with something yet more precious and valuable in His eternal paradise!
While I was wrapped in my blanket and still putting my shirt where it could catch the breeze from the upper window, I heard some other voices—some shouting, others merely muttering; they were complaining and protesting. How could he attend the soirée, he was asking, when he was suffering from penile dysfunction? Whenever anything emerged from his penis, it came in painful spurts. Another person was asking for some soap so he could wash properly and remove the filth from his body. Still another said that it was very unlikely that he would attend the soirée since his clothes were filthy and he had no incense or rosewater to perfume himself. The other voices were too far removed or else their voices were not clear, so I could not hear what they were saying.
Just before sunset, I was fully prepared. Putting on my modern suit and tie first, I had then put the prison uniform over it. I had used my own special perfume again and brushed my beard and what hair I had left. A few moments later a guard called out my number and took me via some empty cells to a hall where a large number of prisoners had gathered, although I did not recognize any of them. The majority of them looked grim and downcast, as though they were either going to their own deaths, or else to a funeral, rather than a major soirée. The gestures and affectations of any of them who looked happy and contented made it clear that they were either hashish addicts or mentally deranged.
A whistle was blown to indicate that the group was to move on, and the guards started hustling people along like a herd of cattle. As the group made its way through halls and lobbies, the number grew. When we left the building and headed via courtyards and squares to another one, a soldier took me aside and, avoiding my questions, told me to walk ahead of him. When we reached the side of a sandy hill that was deserted except for two soldiers and a man wearing a jurist’s cloak, the last of the three pronounced the phrases “In the name of God” and “Only God has the power” and then addressed me. He asked me first to confirm my name and prisoner number.
“The list of your crimes and sins is a lengthy one, man from Oujda,” he said. “Most recently you’ve tried to escape and then occupied a cell that does not have your number on it. So answer me swiftly: Do you seek repentance?”
“I have done nothing wrong that would require repentance,” I replied. “I did not run away. I was with the judge, and at his request . . .”
That made them all guffaw.
“This claim—in fact, this utter falsehood—is yet another crime, which only makes things that much worse. Tell me, aren’t you afraid to die?”
“God Almighty has said: ‘Every soul tastes death, and We test you with good and evil as a temptation. Then unto Us do you return” [Sura 21, Anbiya, v. 35].
“So that’s how little value you place on your own soul?! Is it because you can’t find a job? At a time when massive unemployment is spreading like a deadly plague, why aren’t you looking for work?”
“I would certainly look for work if it were legitimate and honorable and provided me with a living wage.”
“I can see that you’re both coarse and stubborn. You deserve neither forgiveness nor mercy. So now prepare to die; you can either be buried alive or be shot. The method used is not by compulsion—Islam forbids such a thing, but rather one that the explicit texts of our righteous religion do not forbid, either heads or tails. It’s up to you, so which one do you choose.”
“In God’s name,” I replied, utterly stunned, “I . . . I . . . choose . . .”
“Very well then,” he went on, “here’s a coin. I’ll toss it in the air, and let it fall into my hand. I’ll make the choice instead. Do we agree?”
This phony jurist did as he said. When the decision was made, he came over and kissed me.
“You’re so lucky,” he yelled in congratulation. “You’re to be shot. That’s much kinder than burying you alive. I’m so happy for you! There are also two different ways of doing the shooting. The first has the soldiers in charge, in which case they fire either live rounds or rubber bullets that do not kill. The second way involves us giving you a revolver with a silencer, which you yourself point at your head; either it fires a live round or else there’s nothing that kills and the only noise is the sound of the firing pin. So which do you choose? This time you have to make the decision.”
“Let’s do it the first way,” I replied, my head still spinning with his dreadful words.
He now instructed the soldiers to take their positions at the legally sanctioned distance, while I recited the Islamic statement of faith. The man now came over to me.
“I’ll exempt you from this imminent threat of death,” he told me, “provided that you accept the judge’s offer. You know it by heart.”
I signaled my refusal, and he moved back to his former position.
“Three, two, one, zero,” he yelled.
The bullets struck me all at once. I sank to the ground, but was still alive. When I spotted blood splattering my chest, I had no doubt that I was bleeding profusely and about to die. When that seemed to be taking a while and I was still waiting, I heard the people who had carried out the sentence guffawing with laughter and poking fun at me. From the ground I saw two shoes, the owner of which ordered me to get up. As I stood up slowly, my entire being was completely shattered. The person addressing me was this so-called jurist.
“We’re postponing even your death for a while,” he told me, doing his best not to laugh. “That’s so you can think seriously about things and make the best decision. How lucky you are! The blood on your chest is actually tomato ketchup. Wipe it off and go to the soirée. Good-bye!”
I obeyed the order of this soldier who had disguised himself as a jurist and followed a soldier to the place he was indicating.
25
The Major Soirée and Its Disgusting Surprises
My escort halted me and then told me to go in. Once inside, a guard told me to sit on an empty chair at the back of the hall. I was surprised that no one had used an electronic device to search me for weapons or check on my bodily odors; maybe because I had come late or stories about the electronic scanner had been a pack of lies. I asked someone sitting opposite me where we were. He seemed perplexed by the question, so I specifically asked where this detention center was. He pointed his finger at his head and turned away. I stayed where I was, although I resisted the temptation to fall asleep by looking at people’s backs and watching the prying eyes all around the hall.
The hall where the soirée was taking place was actually the dining hall that had been turned into a kind of theater. The audience consisted of the various types and categories of prisoner, surrounded by guards and a few soldiers who kept going up and down the rows. Everyone was facing a wide stage lit by flashing strobe lights that pulsated to the soft rhythms of some jazz blues. As the prisoners sat there and waited, various salesmen wandered up and down the rows with bags and baskets: one offering cold drinks, another snacks and sandwiches, and a third—who was most successful at flaunting his ware.
“Listen, folks,” he shouted, “if there are no more beans, don’t blame my means!”
A short while after I had taken a seat, a girl got up on to the stage. Her bodily attributes made it obvious—but God knows best—that she was none other than Nahid Busni. She started singing in a thoroughly suggestive fashion, and her reddened lips spoke into a handheld microphone. Here’s some of what I managed to pick up:
“What to drink when you’re thirsty? What can you drin
k that will make you feel happy and vigorous again? What lets you feel young all over again? Drink what I do, Pepsi Cola! Young folk only drink Pepsi. Pepsi Cola makes girls feel sexy and men strong. And here’s the last thing I have to tell you: When my boyfriend and I are feeling bored and start quarreling with each other, we lie down on a Rich-bond bed and that makes us happy and loving all over again! Rich-bond, Rich-bond . . . wow, what a bed!”
This girl waved at the crowd. By now I had no doubt in my mind that she was Nahid Busni, the only difference being that, whereas she had previously been pronouncing the letter “r” as “gh,” now she was turning the “qaf” into a “hamza.” My assumption was confirmed when the prisoners started yelling her name out; as she sashayed her way off the stage. Some of them even invited her to try a straw bed where she would find some real men.
Once she had left the stage, her place was taken by a fat, bald man with a yellowing beard who started leaping and charging across the stage. He was wearing a yellow suit and carrying a microphone in one hand and a red handkerchief in the other which he waved at times and used to wipe the sweat off his forehead at others.
“Dear audience,” he shouted, “may your enjoyment and delight last forever! The girl in that part of the show with the lovely voice and perfect shape has now left the stage, but she’ll be back, thanks to your polite reception. I’m the master of ceremonies this evening, and I’ll be back to let you all know more about this wonderful evening, one that will break the ice and remove all the nasty disputes between brothers. All that will happen according to the sacred verse that says: ‘You are all Adam’s descendants, and mankind comes from Eve.’”
A number of voices were raised to correct him, and the emcee hurriedly apologized.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he went on. “The tongue has no bones in it! We’ve been looking into the complaints that some of you have raised against others and propose to use either consensus or majority vote to come to decisions about them on this stage—all with a view to being absolutely fair, reconciling people with each other, and being totally impartial. There’s only one complaint remaining, and it’s been raised by prisoner 19, who is present among us against prisoner 112. I see a hand raised . . . maybe the defendant. So let him come up to the stage along with the plaintiff. Be quick now; time is not on our side. You are Hamuda from Oujda, correct? You’re a cultured man, right? This man, ‘Allal Munkhar, accuses you of causing him to receive sixty lashes because you encouraged him to applaud you during a previous cross-examination. We can give you a choice: do you want to receive the same number of lashes as he did in front of this crowd, or would you prefer to kiss his head and beg him to forgive you?”
To bring closure to this farce, I had no choice but to accept the second option. As I used the microphone to ask the man’s forgiveness, my eyes happened to fall on two men sitting side by side in the front row. The emcee came back on to the stage, and both he and the plaintiff urged me to leave.
“Praise be to God!” the emcee said. “The kiss has taken place and the file is now closed. Why are you standing there like a statue, Oujda man?”
I pointed to the two men.
“That man and the other man beside him, I know them both,” I declared.
“Do you have a complaint to raise against them?”
“That one is Ilyas Abu Shama, who was killed in the main courtyard a while ago in front of witnesses, but here he is now, alive and kicking! The other one is ‘Umar al-Shami, who was killed in my presence only yesterday, and yet here he is too, alive and kicking!”
The emcee used the microphone to relay my comment, and the whole place erupted in laughter.
“Time’s short,” he told me. “Choose one of them, and we’ll see if things go for or against you.”
I pointed at ‘Umar al-Rami, and he came up on stage. I tried to embrace and kiss him, but he refused and pushed me away.
“By what heavenly miracle are you still alive?” I asked him as affectionately as I could while the emcee kept switching the microphone between the two of us. “I watched the soldiers fire a fusillade of bullets at you.”
“None of what you say ever happened,” he replied in a dry tone. “You’re certainly mistaken . . .”
“My dear brother,” I went on, “don’t you remember the night they put you in my cell? It was after you’d been brought from the torture chamber with the most dreadful wounds. I saved you and looked after you. Please remember, I beg of you . . .”
“Listen, everyone,” he replied, “this man’s spouting nonsense. Everything you’re saying is a pack of lies!”
“We need to get back to the program,” the emcee interrupted. “Can anyone suggest a way forward or a solution . . . ?”
Some voices were raised, suggesting that Shari‘a principles be applied: the burden of proof rests with the plaintiff, and those who wish to deny it have to be prepared to swear. Someone else demanded that I describe the body of the now resurrected dead person in detail. The emcee obtained my agreement to the proposal. When I pointed out that the prisoner’s uniform that I was wearing was actually ‘Umar’s, he objected that all uniforms looked the same. I then whispered in the emcee’s ear that he should investigate whether ‘Umar had been castrated or not. He gave me a weird look and let out a series of guffaws that sounded like women at weddings. The effect spread to the rest of the audience.
“No, no!” he chuckled. “That’s impossible! This is a prize, something you’ll never forget even if you manage to forget all about this soirée. Listen, everyone, and bear it in mind for later. Now as before, words count and the verdict will be carried out. This lad here claims that his rival has been castrated, and he wants it checked. Can you imagine such a dreadful accusation?”
Laughter echoed around the hall, and some inaudible questions were asked.
“You’ve all freely posed a number of dreadful resolutions to this matter,” the emcee commented. “I propose to appoint this audience member from the front row to assemble them all in a single opinion. Take the microphone and proceed to announce in all clarity what it is to be.”
This assistant now took the microphone. I immediately recalled that I had met him in the penitents’ wing; I had forgotten him and the fact that he was one of the men who had used my body as a punch ball! However, I did not wish to make my situation even more complicated, so I said nothing about that.
“From what this august assembly has decided,” he said, “I deduce that they wish to elect a commission of upright men. Its task will be to investigate the charge in detail. If they find that the defendant indeed has no testicles, he will stand accused of concealment and lying. If on the other hand the charge is not found to be correct, then the plaintiff will be partially castrated in accordance with the circumstances involved. That’s the way it will be. So be it!”
The emcee now asked if both parties agreed to the proposal. My opponent immediately agreed, but I demurred. Instead, I admitted into the microphone that I was wrong and the person in question merely looked similar. I actually had no doubt that ‘Umar was the person involved, but he now grabbed me by the tie and heaved me across the stage twice, while the emcee kept on yelling that there should be no violence and ordered us both to return to our seats.
“Before you sit down, Oujda man,” he went on delightedly,” kiss this innocent man on the head. In that way we will be purging the atmosphere of all evil, with God’s assistance, breaking the ice, and removing all the nasty disputes between brothers. Now our nonstop soirée will continue. I can communicate to you all the happy news that in a short while our soirée will be honored by the presence of the senior officials at our center, except, that is, for the judge, who has been compelled to travel abroad for some routine medical tests. Now, I want to repeat what I told you all earlier: this stage, this party, with its dance music and musical dance, it’s all part of our motto, our desire to see everyone feeling better. So that’s our slogan. Now let’s give a big hand!”
There were en
ormous speakers at the top of pillars and corners of the hall, and mechanical applause resonated through the space. The majority of prisoners did not join in until the guards made it clear through their looks and gestures that everyone should participate. I did my part, feeling absolutely delighted that the judge had found it necessary to have a medical checkup. My prayer to God was that the reason was connected to my last interview with him and the way I had pretended to be ill.
“Thanks for that warm and sincere applause,” the emcee resumed. “Now, before anything else, this American expert on Islam wants to share with you, in Arabic, the results of his research and archeological digs. Do you agree? Fine, then I now gratefully present to you Doctor George Levy.”
The man in question who was wearing a civilian suit and bow tie now came forward and positioned himself behind the static microphone.
“Gentlemen,” he said tentatively with a nervous smile, “I’m honored to be able to address you all in your wonderful language, the one in which the Qur’an was revealed. Please forgive me if I make any grammar mistakes or use inappropriate words. To avoid such pitfalls I’m going to rely on the well-known proverb, ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ That’s all based, of course, on the sound Islamic doctrine of tolerance, mutual understanding, facilitation, and kindness. You should all be aware that ‘the Kind, the Forgiving, and the Merciful’ are all beautiful names of God! Surely you have all read in the text of the Qur’an where God Almighty says: ‘He has not imposed on you any restriction regarding religion’ [Sura 22, al-Hajj, v. 87], and ‘God wishes ease for you and does not wish hardship’ [Sura 2, al-Baqara, v. 185]. People claim that Islamic fundamentalism in its various guises is the reaction of a wounded creature, but only advocates of extremism, violence, and hatred would want to wound not only themselves but also others, to the point of murder. Islam forbids such behavior and anything else resembling it. Islam is a religion of peace and reconciliation, as the Sufi tendency clearly demonstrates. It’s a religion of compromise, one that encourages harmony and debate over ways to make things better. Muslims follow the better way, albeit based on the Qur’an, which certainly allows for adjustment with the requirements and necessities of the age, from which to reformulate doctrine. Islam is anti-war and anti-weapons, except enough to protect society against internal enemies. It disapproves of weapon ownership, because at base Islam is a faith system that advocates malleability, adaptability, meekness, kindness, and a general inclination toward peace and quiet. I’ll explain this in more detail in my next lecture. Farewell.”
My Torturess Page 21