My Torturess

by Bensalem Himmich

  “Swear first,” he replied, “and then we’ll tell you why.”

  When I refused, the second man had no choice but to take a document out of his sleeve and hand it to me, using a duly gruff tone to claim that it was an official document licensing me as mufti and signed by his excellency, the judge. No preacher, whether of the mystical or orthodox variety, would challenge it. He went on to tell me that the two platters and the clothes, food, and drink on them were all a gift from the judge to the newly appointed mufti, a celebratory gesture on the occasion of my promotion and the bestowal of such bounty on me.

  I lowered my head and swallowed hard, both astonished and annoyed at the extent to which this idiotic and corrupt judge was prepared to take things. I said nothing for a while, as I made ready to give a trenchant answer to this sinister and self-interested proposal. All the while, my neighbors were spreading the word, reacting angrily to what the ones closest to me were telling them about the goings-on inside my cell. Loud voices were raised, some accusing me of being a spy and agent, while others confirmed the impression by noting that I regularly spent long hours with the judge and received special treatment. I had a single cell to myself and now had been given two platters with who knows what kind of good things on them. Another one protested that he had once spotted me wearing a decent suit and tie, not to mention the Nike shoes he had seen me strutting around in. All their voices were now united as they proceeded to curse all traitors and informers like me and promised me that God and His servants would wreak the very worst punishment on me . . .

  I used my two crutches to stand up and informed my visitors that this new promotion demanded that I make a tour of my neighbors.

  “Not until you swear the oath,” the platter carrier objected.

  “The tour first,” was my response.

  The two musicians argued with each other at first, but then they and the giant black man went out ahead of me. I walked the entire length of the block on my two crutches.

  “God is sufficient for me,” I yelled as loudly as I could, “and good is He as a trustee! The people I’m helping are letting me down.”

  I kept repeating these phrases as often as I could, and eventually they stopped their taunts and curses. I now uncovered my swollen, pus-filled leg.

  “My fellow prisoners,” I told them, “how can your accusation possibly apply to someone like me who has to use crutches to walk and whose leg is supposed to be amputated? Our torturers are making my treatment conditional on cooperating with them and being a spy. I stand completely innocent of the charges you are leveling at me! I pray to God to give you all forgiveness and pray to His almighty power that he will save us all from this dire experience that tyrants have imposed on us all, using all kinds of tricks and subterfuges to sow suspicion and dissension in our ranks. O God, protect us with Your mercy and forgiveness. Lessen for us the trials of aspiring towards You. Grant us the necessary strength and fortitude, but do not make us reliant on our own feeble and troubled souls. O God, intensify Your punishment for all those who tyrannize and do evil on earth. Carry out Your threats against them on this earth before the next world. Amen! Our final prayer is one of praise to God, the Lord of the two worlds!”

  All the prisoners were by the doors of their cells, clinging on to the bars. As I pronounced each prayer, they all said “Amen!” They stretched out their hands in greeting and asked me to forgive them. Some of them had tears in their eyes. The gigantic black man kept looking back and forth between me and his two companions, and I noticed that signs of emotion, and even tears, were clear on his enormous face and his reddened eyes.

  When I thought it was time to bring this manifestation to an end, for fear of dire consequences, I made my way back to my cell, followed by the three men. The clarinet player stopped me and reminded me breathlessly about the oath.

  “I will not swear any oath,” I declared in a clearly audible voice that undoubtedly would reach as far as my closest neighbors. “I reject the post and will have nothing to do with it. I also refuse to accept the two platters and their contents. Inform your master that prisoner number 112 protests against his current situation, citing in the process the most important figures in jurisprudence where they say: ‘Those who try to render legal judgments without learning are like people who pick grapes before they’re ripe.’”

  Many voices now relayed what I had just said, either directly or from the prisoners closest to me who had heard it. Their tones varied. Some of them chose to acknowledge and value its rectitude; others to explicate its context and significance; still others to ask what the word tazabbab (pick grapes) meant in Arabic. I decided not to get involved in these issues, but went into my cell, giving the giant black man an affectionate glance, especially since he stopped the two men from taking the gift away and stuck closely to them as they left.

  After a few moments to recover my breath, something that I presumed all my fellow prisoners were doing, I leaned over to take a look at the two platters. I noticed that there was a megaphone on one of them, presumably something that the judge wanted me to use to announce my opinions.

  “Fellow prisoners in this block and the entire wing,” I said, grabbing it with delight, “in order to fulfill the pledge I made to you, here is an account of what is on the two platters. One of them contains various kinds of hors d’oeuvres and fruit, both fresh and dried, and bottles of milk and water; the other has a copy of the Qur’an and the two great volumes of commentary,* a prayer mat, rosary, cloak, headcap, shawl, house clothes, sandals, a water pipe along with pieces of ambergris and incense, a perfume bottle, and lastly, a transistor radio. The entire gift is now at your disposal, to distribute among yourselves amicably and with all due liberality.”

  I now heard several voices declaring that the items in question were clearly my property, fair and square. One single voice could be heard above the others, praising me for my unequivocal refusal to accept the position of mufti offered by the administration. However, on behalf of his fellow prisoners he asked me nevertheless to avail them of my advice and counsel, all in fulfillment of the statement of our blessed ancestors: “religion as counsel . . .”

  When the guards made their rounds, the voices stopped and silence prevailed once again. I took advantage of the situation and lay down on my back, relishing the relaxation and looking at my cache of gifts on the tray, with its eats and drinks. As I was testing the smallest transistor radio I had ever seen and picking up a fuzzy, weak signal in some foreign language, I happened to notice a cavity at the bottom of the wall opposite my bed. At first I thought it must be a mouse looking for a way out, but there soon emerged a reinforced cardboard tube, through which I heard the voice of someone who introduced both himself and the tube as a telephone linking the prisoners in the cells. When he asked me if I was on the air, I replied that I was. No sooner had he made sure that the line was good than he told me that he had a whole cluster of questions about the situation of the majority of prisoners. He had collected them all and selected the most intelligent ones. The thrust of some of them was to ask whether it was legitimate to mention God’s name—may He be exalted!—in a prison such as this one, polluted as it was with some many outrages and enormities, not to mention stenches of every conceivable kind.

  “The mention of God’s name,” I replied, my mouth close to the tube’s aperture, “is not only permissible, it is required, and frequently at that; all in order to bolster the soul in its steadfast resistance to the trials and tribulations we are all facing. It was the same way with the original Muslims in pre-Islamic times when wine, gambling, idols, fortune-telling, animism, and female child burial were all common practice . . .”

  The same voice now continued in a quavering tone, asking questions framed by the notion that there should be no bashfulness where religion is involved. The brunt of the question involved prisoners who were suffering from diarrhea, constipation, and hemorrhoids, and others who were ejaculating whether asleep or awake. Some of the latter—God forbid!—co
uld not control their sexual instincts; no sooner did they set eyes on a female prisoner, guard, or typist than they ejaculated. Another group, whose questions were closely related to those of this last one, was asking about the law’s view of their need to masturbate as a way of relieving their feelings of frustration and sexual denial. In all these cases and others like them, the primary issue involved the meager supply of water they were getting, which made it impossible for them to wash themselves and remove their impurities, something that in turn nullified both their ritual ablutions and prayers.

  I proceeded to answer these questions one by one, projecting them through the tube to the person who was now virtually the communal communicator. I recited Qur’anic verses about times of anxiety and hardship, and others dealing with kinder and easier moments. I mentioned the need to keep such difficulties to oneself; in times of hardship and cruelty, necessities could render undesirable conduct legitimate. I counseled them all to remain devout, to perform the prayers of fear, illness, and imprisonment. I categorically forbade any of them who were either ill or incapacitated to fast during Ramadan and other times in case they subjected themselves and their health to potential danger . . .

  “It’s the messenger’s task to pass on what he hears,” the other voice said. “By God’s power I’ll convey your words to the people who asked the questions. I can hear guards’ footsteps. Cover up the hole with soil. If they happen to notice it one day—heaven forbid!—then blame it on mice and rats. That’ll be a good excuse, and you’ll be safe.”

  That was the last thing the voice said before the tube rapidly disappeared. I followed his instructions about the hole, then stayed where I was, staring at my surroundings. The food distributor looked in and stared at the platter in a way that suggested that the gift I had received would last me for days and days, lucky me!

  The giant black guard—God grant him a good reward!—had wanted me to have the platter of food and drink for myself alone. If I left it untouched, it would undoubtedly be eaten by the rodents and insects. I had to assume that the food and drink did not contain any deadly poison because the judge who had ordered it sent to me still wanted me alive so he could implement his fiendish plan to use me as a co-opted spy, mufti, and so on. I lunched on some bread, dates, and milk, then poured some water over my face, and stretched out to performed such prayers as I could, training myself in the process to get some rest and peace of mind, both of which I genuinely needed.

  While I was relaxing in this way, I remembered the guard who had promised me to bring me pencil and paper, and for whom I had uttered the prayer he had requested of me. I found it odd that he had stayed away and felt sorry, hoping that there was a good reason for it. While I was indulging in these and other obscure thoughts and illusions, I fell into a deep, troubled sleep, which lasted well into the night. I was awakened by noises in the block, as a prisoner tried to appeal to the consciences of the nurses or anyone with an ounce of pity in him to rid him of the hemorrhoids that made it impossible for him to evacuate his bowels or sleep.

  Some voices started shouting out my cell number, asking me to shut this prisoner up, by delivering a fatwa or offering him advice. Through the megaphone I responded that I had no knowledge of medicine and pharmacology. Instead, I cited for him the story of the Sufi, a renowned advocate of modesty and salvation, who acquired his own share of hemorrhoids which became acutely painful. He managed to tolerate them till nobody heard any more about them and no one ever bothered to look at his private parts. He told some of his closest devotees that, before he was to die of some other disease, he had gone along with the tales of people and nations who had perished in times of yore, ‘Ad, Thamud, and Pharaoh. Every time his pain became unbearable and acute, he had used their stories as a cooling fan . . .

  Various voices now competed with each other to pass this piece of information along. Some of them termed it implicit advice on my part, and counseled the sick man to follow the advice so as to relieve himself of the pain and his colleagues of the sound of his groans. And that’s what happened! Only a few minutes went by in the block—amazingly enough!—before absolute silence prevailed, and everyone was able to get back to sleep again. All of them thought that the solution was the consequence of my noble heart, but that was not the way I saw things. I lay there in my cell, consigning the last vestiges of darkness to their distant resting-place and awaiting the first signs of light.

  When morning came, the guard whom I had been long awaiting finally arrived. He put breakfast down in front of me and kissed my head in thanks. I asked him why, and he responded delightedly in a loud voice that I begged him to lower.

  “You, by Almighty God, are a genuine saint. Your prayers have been answered. My unmarried daughter has been married to a nice man, and my second wife has had a baby boy after only giving me daughters!”

  “That is all from God’s own bounty alone,” I replied. “He alone deserves the praise. He is the Generous Giver.”

  “I’m giving you this bag of pencils and paper to fulfill my promise to you. You can expect even more from me if you can make another prayer for me . . .”

  “Is it for something good?” I asked anxiously.

  “It’s all good as far as I am concerned. I want God to give my boss a heart attack so I can be rid of his violent ways and take his place.”

  “That’s a nasty prayer to ask for, and the consequences are far from clear.”

  “Please don’t say no. I kiss your hand . . .”

  “I would need to know a lot more about you, your boss, the site of the center, and the identities of its bosses and directors.”

  “I only know a little bit about those things. If I revealed even that little to you, Saint of God, my head would roll before your prayer had even a chance to get rid of my boss . . . I have to go now before our relationship arouses suspicions . . .”

  “Go then and think carefully. Let me do the same. However can you give some help to the sick people on this block?”

  “I’ll tell a female doctor whom I trust and some other nurses about their condition and yours. God be with you!”

  I was longing to ask him if the doctor was the same one that I’d met in the clinic and who has treated me so kindly, but, before I could do so, the guard kissed me on the forehead and hurried out. I now turned to the breakfast tray and ate everything before it went cold. When I checked on my leg, I noticed that it was even more swollen; congealed blood in the veins was making the dark blue area spread even further. I hurriedly wrapped it in the mufti’s scarf to protect it from the chill of the morning air, then took the undergarments from the table, put them on with a good deal of difficulty, and wrapped myself in the mufti’s cloak under the blanket, where I decided to wait and see what would happen next.

  As torture experts are well aware, boredom and routine are types of psychological torture that can be applied to break prisoners’ wills, reduce their self-esteem to zero, and destroy them—all with the goal of making them compliant and submissive in mind and body. However, as I look back in time, I can see myself having cultivated a resistance, endurance, and steadfast posture of defiance. Now that I had been through so much and traveled so far, it was no time to crack up and give way. My leg might well have to be amputated, so let them do it! As for my asthma, well, it might hit me at any time. So, by the true work of the Creator, I shall either move forward to rescue and victory, even if it means crawling; or else I shall perish and surrender my soul, happy and sufficient, to its Creator.

  I noted these thoughts down on my new notepad, and added some further comments in which I condemned lust and the humiliation of slavery and extolled the pure air of emancipation and liberal existence.

  My activities were interrupted by noises through the tube from my neighbor. He began by thanking me on behalf of all the inmates in the block and himself for all the kind words of advice I had offered yesterday. He told me that they had all asked that I give them some of the dates and raisins from my platter to eat so they coul
d all sweeten their own mouths and stomachs and share all the benefits with me. I was glad to do as they asked and passed as much as I could through the tube until only a little bit was left. A few moments later voices were raised, promising me dates and raisins in paradise; still others wished me well for interceding with the guards so that the sick people in the block could be transferred to the clinic for treatment—particularly those who kept screaming in pain and others who kept making vain attempts to suppress their agony. There was one voice, sounding like a bugle, who asked me to respond urgently to a series of questions that he described as being difficult. When your endurance is at an end, he asked, and your body is totally destroyed by torture, does the Shari‘a law allow you to commit suicide? And, with the reference to God, is He with the crushers or the crushed? Are people allowed to listen to dirty jokes as a way of lightening the burden of weary and oppressed souls?

  The entire place fell suddenly silent, as though the entire group was waiting for my responses. I paused for a while to think, then used my crutches to move over to the door, holding the megaphone.

  “My brother,” I said, “Shari‘a law forbids outright anyone killing himself. ‘Do not kill yourselves; God has been merciful to you’ (Qur’an, Sura of Women, 4, v. 29). God Almighty’s mercy demands of human beings that they endure suffering and misfortune. The idea that God should consort with wrongdoers and tyrants is abhorrent—Heaven forfend! God stands far above such a notion, He who never wrongs the slightest thing. He it is who addresses His prophet Noah who has to confront his rebellious nation: ‘Do not address Me regarding those who have done wrong. They are drowned.’ (Qur’an, Surat Hud, v. 37). With regard to jokes, the idea is to make time pass easily, not to kill it. The general purpose is to provide the soul with some solace and benefit. So, if someone has a store of tales that are disgusting, then he should let people know that his jokes are going to be like that. Modest and bashful people can then block their ears. If time and place were different, I could provide you with more elaborate answers . . .”