My Torturess

by Bensalem Himmich

  Protests were heard all over the hall, and the speaker was compelled to stop talking and hurry off the stage under a positive hail of shoes. Some of the prisoners were arrested, but one of them managed to elude the guards and, like a genie out of a bottle, made his way to the stage.

  “It’s easy to counter this nonsense from the Americans,” he yelled into the microphone. “Just listen to a recent statement I managed to get from my transistor radio before they took it away from me. The prime minister of Israel, Ehud Omert, had this to say: ‘If Hamas does not stop terrorizing our children and old people with its homemade bombs, we’re going to destroy Gaza and leave it a total ruin.’ The two major political parties in America and other groups also have been falling over each other in their rush to declare Israel a strictly Jewish nation, implying the need to strip Palestinians of all their weapons, including religion. The secretary of state, in fact, has spoken in the name of all the groups and on his own behalf. What he has had to say is even worse and more vicious in its intent. Just listen . . .”

  He was not able to finish his sentence because Nahid Busni approached him on tiptoe and sprayed his eyes with pepper spray, the smell of which spread all around the hall. As she went back to her seat, two guards picked up the speaker, who had fainted, and took him out through an emergency door—all to the accompaniment of protests from the audience.

  The soldiers and guards now imposed quiet again, and the emcee returned to the stage, accompanied by a group of men who looked like ascetics and dervishes.

  “Oh dear, oh dear!” he said nervously, tapping the floor with his foot. “I said from the start ‘No politics, none!’ Politics tear people apart and sow the seeds of dissent and conflict. Our goal here is to clear the air, break the ice, and remove all the nasty disputes between brothers. Now that I’m feeling a bit calmer, let’s go back to our soirée. As I said before, brothers, our slogan tonight is dance music as a way of feeling better. This is a group that has devoted its talents to a blend of Sufi séance and well-known techno songs. The same thing has happened with jazz and the traditional music of the Gnaoua.* This group’s known by the initials, TTI, Transtechno-International. They’re here to entertain you with some of their works. Anyone who feels moved and transported and wants to join in the dance is welcome to do so. Three, two, one, zero . . .”

  Ear-splitting music now emerged from the speakers, and the group did a crazy dance in a circle, necks extended, heads and bodies swaying, and eyes closed in the sheer emotional intensity of the moment. Voices competed with each other to shout out phrases, but the only one we could hear was “God is with us, God is alive!” While some people in the audience joined it, others—including myself—did their best to ignore the whole thing by reciting verses from the Qur’an and repeating the beautiful names of God.

  The music stopped all of a sudden, and the group left the stage to applause, most of it artificial. The emcee now came back.

  “Thank you, thank you to the TTI group,” he enthused. “Now this wonderful soirée will continue. It’s time now for humor and jokes, something that’ll make us all feel so much better. This is the way things were in the past, those fortunate people who imitated the behavior of our Prophet—the purest of peace be upon Him! The story is told about him that, whenever he attended a ceremony of some kind, he had it recorded. So no scowling and frowning, people!”

  While his enormous body was swaying and dancing this way and that, another group came up on to the stage, singing in the rap-style:

  “Take it down, folks, take it down,

  Take a good look, folks, a good look!

  Watch and be watched,

  Have a good time and sing,

  Sing, O sing again,

  Life goes by so fast,

  If you don’t have a laugh,

  Things’ll get you down, and you’ll be dead!”

  “So then,” the emcee went on, “it’s time for some good old-fashioned laughter. Our center’s clown for the evening is a master at telling jokes and humorous stories—the salt of life and the best cure for depression and anxiety. So a round of applause, please, for our witty midget with the long white beard and experienced penis. He comes from a family of jokesters and inherits the talent from the old masters of racy humor, the ones to whom the well-known slogan applies: ‘There’s no modesty in faith.’ There are countless examples who could be cited—al-Jahiz, al-Tawhidi, Ibn al-Jawziyya, al-Suyuti, al-Tifashi, and many, many others as well—God’s mercy on them all!* We have all benefitted from their mention and memory, and both they and we are thereby forgiven. Everyone say ‘Amen!’”

  Some people responded enthusiastically, others less so. At this point, a group of senior officials at the center came out through a door at the back of the stage. There were seven of them, including the same ghoul with her amazing body clad in black and her usual searing glances. The emcee leapt up to welcome them and escorted them all to their special seats with a welcoming bow. He then turned and told the assembly to stand up and greet them all with applause. Some groups did as they were asked, but others refused. The guards went over and started hitting and threatening the recalcitrant prisoners, so all were eventually on their feet and clapping. The loudspeakers added their own mechanical applause to the noise, along with some weird military band-music—may God never empower such people! Once this particular farce was over, the officials sat down in their seats and so did everyone else. The emcee now thanked everyone for welcoming the senior officials so warmly and displaying their genuine feelings in this way. He then called on the official clown to perform his act. The midget came forward and bowed to each of the officials one by one. His beard looked long enough to serve as a broom for the stage.

  “Dear prisoners, our beloved in God,” he said, grabbing the microphone to a chorus of hysterical laughter from the audience, “have you heard the one about the smart young dandy? He kept on saying wonderful things about one of his singing-girls and her sexual performance in a whole variety of rarely encountered positions, all with a professional approach that was unrivaled. Is this slave girl of yours going to enter heaven or not, he was asked. ‘No, she won’t,’ he replied, provoking all kinds of laughter and applause, ‘By God, not unless I hide her with me on the Day of Judgment and cross the narrow path to heaven with her. Then she’ll be able to make it under my cloak!’”

  Mechanical applause emerged from the loudspeakers.

  “May God preserve you all from collective repression and inadequacy! So here’s another one, about an old monk sitting on a crowded bus. Standing next to him is a beautiful and attractive young girl. When the bus brakes suddenly, she loses her balance and her lovely backside lands up in his lap. When she gets to her feet again, she’s blushing furiously and asks him to forgive her. ‘My dear girl,’ the monk replies, ‘I totally forgive you. All you’ve done is to arouse the church keys from a prolonged slumber!’”

  There was some feeble laughter, followed by more when people finally understood the symbolic meaning behind the joke.

  “So now you’re enjoying my jokes,” he went on, “and you want more. However, the program is a busy one, and time’s short. So just one more as a farewell gesture. Here’s one about a shaykh who liked boys. One day he spotted a truly lovely boy, so he followed him and decided to use every means possible to seduce him. The boy got on a bus, so he did too. Standing right behind the boy, he started whispering in his ear. The boy indicated his agreement, but the shaykh started rubbing the boy’s backside hard. ‘Enough!’ the boy told him angrily. ‘We’ve agreed already, so why are you tickling me like that?’ ‘Just to remind you!’ the shaykh replied.”

  That was followed by a lot of lewd laughter, led by the female ghoul, who had a microphone right in front of her. The loudspeakers duly amplified the laughter and applause, which grew louder and louder. She stopped laughing all of a sudden. The midget stood in front of her and proceeded to perform some amazing gymnastic tricks, as though he were dedicating them to his only ackno
wledged patroness and guardian. Once he had finished, he disappeared behind her.

  “God fight you, master clown and midget!” the emcee now said, faking a broad smile. “Now it’s the enormous black guard’s turn. He’s a loyal servant of this center and needs no introduction. From time to time you’ve undoubtedly heard the sounds of tom-tom drums that trace their origins to deepest black Africa. However, you’ll never have heard anything as loud and superb as what our African giant can do. The amazing thing is that, as he’s playing, he can actually hear nothing—whether it’s soft or loud—because, as you all know, his hearing and speech are both impaired—we seek refuge in God from such calamities! He’ll be coming up on the stage, so please give him some applause to encourage him. Count down with me . . . three, two, one, zero . . .”

  True enough, the giant black guard now came up on the center stage. I got up from my seat to look at him; in fact, I was one of the first to do so. In this case, the applause was heartfelt and genuine, not compulsory or under threat. People were yelling support for him and offering prayers for his continent, his people, and his tribe. The guards now started interfering to get people to stop yelling and take their seats again. The giant guard bowed low to the audience, then sat there with the drum between his knees. With taps and drumbeats he started creating melodies that were at turns soft, medium, and loud. The feelings of joy and rapture that they aroused made everyone want to shake and dance. And that is precisely what happened: as the atmosphere intensified, people started standing up and dancing, soon followed by others. Feet, legs, heads, hands, and bodies all started moving in crazy, swaying circles. One of them asked me to join in, but I excused myself because of my bad leg. He did not hear me. I was pulled toward him and did my best to imitate his movements.

  This went on for a while, and the emcee was not able to do anything about it. The dancers were clearly totally absorbed. It felt as though they were not yet rid of their feelings of filth and repression and were using their sweat, shouts, and frothy moans to expunge it all. The emcee did his best to rewind things and used the microphone to ask the assembled company to stop; there was a still a lot to go in the soirée’s program. He reminded them all that the crowning touch would come when new groups and ranks of recanting prisoners would be presented, people who had now seen the light and were going to cooperate in a spirit of true devotion, to root out extremism and terrorism from all quarters of the globe. When this announcement totally failed to achieve any result, he went over to the black guard and signaled to him to stop playing and leave the stage. But the guard refused and hit him so hard that he fell to the floor.

  At this point the female ghoul staggered to her feet in disgust and walked unsteadily toward her servant. She indicated to him by mime that he should put the drum away. He did so, showing his obedience by bending down and kissing her feet. She now asked for her microphone and proceeded to announce in a mixture of French, English, and Arabic that in her previous life she had worked as a circus trainer of lions, tigers, and other wild beasts. Training the African slave who was now bowing in front of her and kissing her feet was easier than training a monkey or braying ass. Turning to the audience, she threatened them all with time in the dungeon with no limit, and torture chambers. The punishment would apply to anyone who continued to subvert order and refused to obey instructions.

  However, no sooner had this thundering, frothing woman stopped talking to recover her breath before launching into another tirade of insults than the entire audience witnessed something utterly amazing. The black guard suddenly leapt to his feet, with the female ghoul perched on his enormous shoulders. He walked all across the stage while she, obviously stunned, waved at the audience and showed the victory sign to a wave of artificial applause. Everyone’s astonishment only intensified when, in front of the entire assembly, the black slave threw the female ghoul to the floor. As her eyes widened in sheer amazement, he leapt on her and put his fingers in her eyes, while she screamed for help. He aimed a series of crushing blows at her head and started ripping at her stomach, as though he wanted to tear out all her organs and innards. No sooner was the stage emptied of the emcee and other officials than the soldiers and guards fired a hail of bullets at the black guard, who fell to the ground to take cover. He then stood up, holding the bloody body of the female ghoul. Once the armed men realized that their female boss was either near death or already dead at the hands of the man who was holding her up, they were told to attack the stage and aim at the black guard from every direction. That is precisely what they did, firing a hail of bullets at the target while at the same time not missing the dead body of the ghoul. The two bodies fell to the floor in a pool of blood.

  At this point a whole series of protests and fights broke out involving groups of prisoners on the one hand, including me, and on the other, guards and other prisoners. The soldiers now started attacking the former group, firing live rounds into the air and at their feet, along with tear gas. Panic ensued, and everyone tried to get to the doors and windows. I suffered a blow to my neck from a rifle butt. Along with many others, I lost consciousness and fell to the floor.

  26

  My Return to My Beloved Land

  I woke up to find myself in the clinic along with a whole host of other wounded prisoners. I made a huge effort to remember what had happened some time ago, a period I could not even estimate. I was able to recall a few details, but I stopped trying because I was suffering from a chronic migraine. I pretended to be asleep, but then I noticed Na‘ima approaching my bed with her friend, the Christian female doctor and a foreigner—all of them wearing surgical masks. They were all talking in English, but I managed to understand that the doctor was trying to convince the man that I was paralyzed and spitting blood. Na‘ima told him the same thing and suggested that I should be returned to my homeland because my health made me useless for any kind of service, and I might cause contagion in the center that would affect everyone. That was the last I heard before I felt Na‘ima’s hand touching my face and watched as the three of them moved on to other beds and then left.

  I was delighted by this chain of events, although I still felt a bit cautious. The possibility of my release came closer when the foreigner did not demand that I be subjected to any further medical examination. It never even occurred to me as a possibility—but it’s what actually happened!—that one of the other sick prisoners in a bed beside mine stood up on his bed and yelled as loudly as he could; “Listen, you people!” he said. “This man’s paralyzed. They’ve sent him here to infect us all with his infectious disease. Either take him away now or else get us all out of here!”

  These words of warning were followed by complaints and protests from the other prisoners. Most of them were getting ready to run out of the room, and they would have done so if the emergency intervention squad had not come in and resolved the issue in their own unique fashion. Once their commander realized what the issue was, he gave orders that I was to be put in a secure room. I praised God for this series of events and assumed that it augured well.

  A masked visitor arrived in the middle of the night, grabbed my left arm by the wrist and put an electronic monitor on it, one that would tell the personnel and staff at the center everything I would be doing on a series of high-tech screens. He advised me that I would soon be on my way and advised me strongly not to let anyone or any other entity know that I had been in prison or why I had been away for so long. If I did so, the electronic device would administer a deadly electric shock even before I had a chance to open my mouth. If there were to be any technical problems, a fully trained sniper would fire a silenced bullet at my head. This visitor administered an injection, then left. With that, I lost consciousness . . .

  They must have re-injected me with a powerful, long-lasting sedative several times during my transfer; I had not the slightest sense of its mode, method, or duration. I woke up to find myself in the shade of a palm tree with a bag containing some conserved food, bottles of water, and some Morocc
an money. I was able to confirm that I was back in my beloved homeland when a camel driver came up and asked me in the purest Moroccan Arabic if I needed any help. After thanking him for his offer, I asked him what the date was. He told me it was Wednesday in the Muslim month, Rabi‘ ath-thani 1425; in the Western calendar, the 17th of May, 2006. So, I muttered to myself, I’ve been in prison for five years. The man looked worried and asked me again if there was anything I needed.

  “Yes,” I replied. “What’s the closest village with a mosque?”

  “‘Abw al-Akhal” he replied. “It’s a short distance away. I’m going that way.”

  I stood up and mounted the camel behind him. With a shout of praise to God, he urged the animal into motion.

  On the way he asked me what had brought me to this deserted spot.

  “A sheer love of my homeland and its desert,” I replied, conscious of the monitor on my wrist, “and a desire to see the moon and pearly stars from close up.”

  He approved of my opinions and recited these Qur’anic verses in a melodious tone: “God has made the earth for you as a carpet, so you may traverse its pathways and valleys.” (Sura 71, Nuh, v. 20)—God Almighty has spoken the truth.