In the Country of Men

by Hisham Matar

  ‘They are at the National Basketball Stadium,’ Moosa said softly to Mama or to himself.

  ‘Which one? Where?’

  ‘The new one on the way to town.’

  ‘And what are they doing there?’ Mama asked, raising her voice.

  Interrogations were always conducted in windowless rooms. Moosa said nothing, and I, fearing Mama would send me away to practise my scales, didn’t look back.

  The National Basketball Stadium was full. The camera panned the tiers; not one seat was empty. Most of the spectators wore something green: a shirt, an arm- or headband. Who are we playing, I wondered? Basketball wasn’t a game I liked, but whenever Libya played against another country, no matter the sport or game, I was riveted, glued to the television screen. Once I sat for six hours watching a close chess match between a Libyan and a Korean at the International Chess Championship in Moscow. When the Korean won I almost cried with disappointment.

  The camera finally turned to the court. A long table was positioned at its centre. Whoever put it there made sure its middle was exactly on the court’s centreline. It was meticulously decorated in the style of a news conference desk: its top neatly covered with a white tablecloth and on its front, hiding the feet of the seated committee, a green fabric fell precisely to the floor. Three people sat at the long table, two men and a woman. A bottle of water and an empty glass stood in front of each one. A microphone was placed in front of the man in the centre. He tapped it twice, then began reading from a piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘The consummate revolutionary leader of the world revolution for a new civilization, Muammar el-Qaddafi, the Leader of the Libyan people, the symbol of hope and freedom, the Son of the Desert …’ He looked up, checking the mood of the crowd, ‘… because,’ he said, raising his voice, pointing his index finger towards the sky, ‘because it was in the desert where our Leader was born, in the desert where God spoke to Moses, in the desert where the prophet Elijah heard the still voice of God ordering him to face the tyranny of an oppressive ruler, in the desert where Christ prepared himself through fasting and prayer for a mission which was to shape Western history, in the solitude of the desert where the Prophet Muhammad contemplated the order of creation and the sad state of his own people’ – Mama and Moosa didn’t, but I said ‘Peace and blessings be upon him’ after each prophet’s name – ‘and it was also in the desert where our Leader, the Guide, the Saviour of the Nation, our Great Teacher and Benefactor, the Father of the Great el-Fateh of September Revolution, Muammar el-Qaddafi, was born, lived, dreamed and reflected.’

  The crowd leaped up, cheering. ‘Turn, turn,’ a voice whispered, and the cameraman swung the camera on the happy and clapping spectators. Mama and Moosa were still and quiet. ‘This purest of hearts …’ the man tried to continue. He looked down and held his hand in a fist above him and pounded rhythmically at the air. ‘This …’ he was unable to break the jubilant howl of the spectators. ‘This purest …’ he said in a voice like a high-pitched siren, like Sheikh Mustafa’s voice as it crackled with emotion during the Friday sermon. ‘This purest of hearts, the emblem of single-mindedness, the symbol of courage, dedication and self-determination, our consummate Leader and Benefactor, who teaches us abundantly by example, has prevailed.’ For a moment he lost his voice. The woman to his right poured him a glass of water. He took a sip and continued. ‘People, masses, brothers, sisters, today is a day to relish. Today we have defeated the corrupt elements that tried to undermine our achievements and hinder our march.’ The crowd came in, more jubilant and eager, desperate to express their commitment. Someone tried to say something to the cameraman. He couldn’t hear and shouted, ‘What?’ Just then the chaotic cheering merged into a chant, even the cameraman and the one beside him joined in: El-Fateh, the revolution of the masses! El-Fateh, the republic! Chaotic shouting reigned again before another chant emerged: With our blood! With our soul! We’ll defend our Guide! The camera moved, the picture blurred then focused on one of the basketball nets. It zoomed out quickly on to the backboard of the net, then moved down to where a man, seated on the shoulders of another, was struggling to tie a rope. Then he kicked his heels into the man beneath him and his bearer moved. When they were out of the picture the camera zoomed out a little and showed a rope hanging from behind the backboard, swinging with a loop at its end.

  I looked back at the sofa. Both Mama and Moosa sat erect. Moosa’s hands fell locked between his knees, and there was a sombre grimace on his face, whereas Mama’s face was completely blank. I had never seen it like this before. Her face gave absolutely nothing away. I remembered Ustath Rashid once showing Kareem and me a book of very old portraits from Fayoum. They were beautiful, but something was odd about them. Then he told us how they were made. ‘Because they didn’t have cameras in those days,’ he explained, ‘when a family lost a loved one they got a painter to do a portrait of the deceased. And because no one likes to remember the dead dead, the painters did their best to make the person look alive. They gave them beautiful rosy cheeks, big round eyes and sometimes even a crown of jasmine or olive leaves.’ Mama now looked like a Fayoum portrait, still, wide-eyed, beautiful, but lifeless. I recalled Ustath Rashid’s peculiar statement: ‘If you look closely you can see the shadow of death in the picture. They are unique in that each and every one of them is void of desire.’

  The crowd’s chanting and cheering was so loud, so hysterical and constant, that it fused into a continuous hum, like the hum of a giant vacuum cleaner. When the people calmed down the camera moved on to the court again. A few metres in front of the committee, another man was now present. He had his hands tied behind his back and was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a microphone on a stand. He kept looking behind him at the rope.

  ‘There he is,’ Moosa said.

  Then the camera zoomed in and we could see that the handcuffed man sitting on the floor of the National Basketball Stadium was Ustath Rashid. His forehead shone with sweat. His moustache too was moist, tears silvered his cheeks. He didn’t cry honourably, he cried like a baby. He looked back at the rope, then at the committee who were to one side of him, and said something inaudible.

  ‘Speak into the microphone,’ the man in the centre ordered.

  Ustath Rashid looked to one side and saw a man come from behind. He looked up at him, tried to say something. If I had to guess what, it would be something like: ‘I kiss your feet, for God’s sake, for your parents’ sake,’ because when the man placed his hand on the microphone to adjust it Ustath Rashid tried to kiss it. When the man walked away Ustath Rashid looked back, searching for him.

  ‘What do you have to say in your defence?’ the man at the centre of the table said.

  Ustath Rashid looked at him and cried again. He checked the hanging rope then turned to the man, raising his eyebrows, pursing his lips, pleading like a guilty child.

  ‘We are giving you a chance to defend yourself. If you are innocent, speak,’ the man said with a grin, leaning back in his chair and looking to the man and woman on either side of him, who seemed to understand his humour.

  ‘Innocent, innocent … Innocent.’ Ustath Rashid latched on to the word.

  ‘But we have a confession here,’ the woman on the panel shouted into the microphone. The crowd became excited. The man at the centre leaned towards her and seemed to be saying, ‘Let me handle this.’ She nodded gravely, straightened her blouse, then suddenly became surprised, pleased, waving at someone in the crowd.

  ‘Are you saying you didn’t confess?’ the man asked, holding a piece of paper in his hand.

  Ustath Rashid shook his head then nodded, contorting his face again, tilting his head to one side. ‘I confess, I confess,’ he repeated, then taking a deep breath he sighed, ‘I confess,’ as if under the harshness of the spotlights, sitting on the crisp, multicoloured plastic floor of our new National Basketball Stadium, which was designed to the highest international standards, he needed to hear it once more for himself. Then he
seemed to wake up. He looked up at the panel. ‘Mercy,’ he said, tilting his head and repeating that word a few times, looking back at the hanging rope before crying again.

  The crowd went crazy, as if that one word was the final proof they were all waiting for. A shoe came flying and landed beside him. He looked at it, looked at the crowd and cried, repeating something inaudible now. Maybe he was saying, ‘Mercy,’ or ‘I confess,’ or ‘Innocent,’ or maybe he too had seen someone he recognized, a friendly face.

  Two men came from behind him and pulled him up from under his arms. He was still wearing the same white shirt that was too big for him, the one he had been wearing in the televised interrogation. He seemed to be begging the men dragging him towards the hanging rope. He reminded me of the way a shy woman would resist her friends’ invitation to dance, pulling her shoulders up to her ears and waving her index finger nervously in front of her mouth. The crowd was jumping now, jumping and howling, Hang the traitor! Hang the traitor! When the men stood him below the rope he tried to kiss one of their hands again. His lips were now as thin as liquorice sticks when pulled at either end. Someone behind him was motioning eagerly for assistance, then a ladder appeared. It was a wide, sturdy-looking aliminium ladder. It shone under the bright lights. It looked brand-new, feathers of ripped plastic stuck out round its feet. Ustath Rashid was made to climb it. At every rung he stopped and begged for mercy. He was pushed along with a strange tenderness, with a mere nudge to his elbow. But after a couple of times the man nudging him seemed to reach the end of his patience. He climbed up beside him and pulled him up by the arm. Ustath Rashid was now halfway up. The rope brushed against his face, making him blink. The man placed the rope round Ustath Rashid’s neck and tightened it. Then he slapped the air beside his ear as if to say, ‘There, done,’ or, ‘See how easy?’ and climbed down. Ustath Rashid’s body sagged a little.

  ‘He’s fainting,’ Moosa said, in the same slow, elongated way in which he had been offering his commentary throughout.

  Mama said nothing.

  Moosa was right. Ustath Rashid slipped off the ladder and was snatched by the rope. This caused an uproar; the crowd was ready. He was propped up, slapped a couple of times across the face, then turned towards the camera. We could see now that his trousers were wet. Something yellow appeared from his mouth and seemed to grow. No one wiped it off, no one brought him a glass of water, a toothbrush and toothpaste to wash away the burning and greedy acid. His head didn’t shake in disgust, he seemed to be oddly comfortable with his vomit.

  The camera turned to the spectators. They were punching the air and cheering. Several women ululated. And suddenly, like a wave rising, the cheering became louder and more furious. The camera swung quickly, and we saw Ustath Rashid swinging from the rope, the shiny aluminium ladder a metre or two to one side, too far for his swimming legs. The crowd spilled down on to the court now. Some of the spectators threw their shoes at Ustath Rashid, a couple of men hugged and dangled from his ankles, then waved to others to come and do the same. They looked like children satisfied with a swing they had just made. Everybody seemed happy. I looked back. Moosa’s cheeks were silver. I had never seen him cry before. Mama stared blankly at the television. I turned and continued watching. After a few more seconds of chaos the flowers returned, still and pink, with the national anthem playing confidently in the background. When I looked back again Mama and Moosa were gone.

  I found her sitting at the breakfast table smoking one of Moosa’s cigarettes. He was filling a teapot with water. I sat down beside Mama.

  ‘Madness,’ she said, the cigarette trembling in her hand. The silence that followed seemed to agree with her. ‘Instead of begging, he should’ve said something,’ she added.

  Moosa placed the tea on the table.

  ‘Did you see how the crowd reacted?’ Mama said.

  ‘Madness,’ Moosa confirmed.

  And in this way they both went over the details of what we had just seen and in their recalling there was comfort in it. I mentioned his trousers darkening with urine. Mama hadn’t noticed this detail, but Moosa had. I was glad when he backed me up on it. She had seen the vomit. That seemed to convince her that we were right about the urine.

  ‘Poor Salma,’ she said.

  ‘May God compensate her and grant her patience,’ Moosa said.

  ‘Amen,’ Mama added.

  I thought of saying, ‘Poor Kareem,’ but I didn’t.

  18

  That night the rain fell for hours. Swamps covered our street and reflected the house lights. Our roof was a shallow pool of rainwater. I walked in it, relishing the resistance of the water against my bare feet. I lay in bed going over the dark episode, looking for how it could have been different, but I couldn’t imagine a happy ending. Shut or open, my eyes continued to see the slim figure of Ustath Rashid swinging in mid-air, the dark stain of urine expanding around his groin, his ankles shuddering one last time the way sheep kick after slaughter, men hugging his legs, women ululating into the night air.

  Mama, too, was unsettled. When at some point in the night I woke up frightened and went to lie beside her, she jolted. ‘No,’ she said, her hand against my chest, her voice murky but urgent in the dark. ‘Go. Sleep in your bed,’ then, as if checking herself, she added, ‘habibi.’

  The following morning Mama was gone. A bottomless fear propelled me from room to room searching for her. Then I heard her keys in the front door. She walked in, calling my name.

  ‘You’re not dressed yet?’ She was all in black, her face bare of make-up, her hair tied in a ball. ‘Quick. You must come to say goodbye.’ She was collecting empty plastic bags. ‘Salma and Kareem are going to Benghazi. She has a brother there, he has come to fetch them, drove all night. Remember to say your commiseration.’ Then she pointed her index finger and said, ‘Say: “May God compensate you and have mercy on Ustath Rashid.” ’

  I got the same hollow feeling in my belly as on the mornings when we had to take the anti-flu shot at school, when we all had to stand in line with one sleeve rolled up to the shoulder, watching those at the front cry with pain. Once I ran away and was chased by two teachers who dragged me to the head of the line: ‘Do him now so we won’t have to chase him again,’ they said to the nurse. Somehow the prospect of seeing Kareem after what had just happened to his father frightened me just as much. ‘Grief loves the hollow; all it wants is to hear its own echo,’ Mama had said.

  I followed her in my pyjamas and when I had gathered enough courage I said, ‘I want to stay here.’

  ‘Don’t you want to say goodbye to Kareem? Poor boy, he looks like he’s had a terrible night. His eyes are swollen like two tomatoes.’

  I didn’t know what to say. I imagined his face and imagining it made me want to run to him.

  ‘It’s up to you,’ she finally said. ‘After all, he’s your friend.’ She was busy collecting other things now: napkins, a bottle of water. ‘But if you want to see him you must hurry, they are loading the car.’ When I didn’t reply she said, ‘Shall I tell them you are still asleep?’ I nodded.

  She left and I walked slowly, aimlessly, around our house. I went out to the garden. It was morning, but the sun was as strong as it would be at noon, bleaching everything. I remembered Salah Abd al-Sabur’s words:

  Noon, you fill my heart with fear and dread, showing me more than I want to see. The rain puddles had vanished, in their place the earth was a shade darker. I climbed up to the roof to spy on them. Kareem’s garden was empty. All the windows were closed and sealed with curtains. A car stood in front of the house, its sides brushed with sprays of caked dirt. It’s a twelve-hour drive to Benghazi. I could see a pair of knees beneath the steering wheel, a man’s knees. Then I heard him yell, ‘Come on!’ Mama appeared out of their house, walking hurriedly, carrying the plastic bags she had collected, bulging full now. The man got out of the car, slamming the door hard behind him. ‘It’s unbelievable how long they are taking!’ he said, irritably. He opened the boo
t for her. ‘They’ll be out soon,’ Mama said, carefully placing the plastic bags in the car. He must be the uncle Mama mentioned. Mama stood beside him, rubbing her hands together. His fists were visible in his pockets. I wondered how Kareem will get on with him. Then Auntie Salma appeared. She too was in black. She hugged Mama and sobbed. Mama patted her back and said, ‘Patience, dear, patience.’ The man yelled again. ‘Kareem, what are you doing in there?’ I imagined Kareem walking through his house, maybe smelling his father’s pillow one last time. Then he appeared, walking slowly and not paying any attention to his uncle. He opened the car door and sat in the front, in the seat beside the driver. He looked ahead, I could see the side of his face. I felt that at any moment he was going to turn and face me, then they drove away. I watched the dust gather behind them.

  Mama spent that whole day on the telephone, taking calls from relatives. I answered the first few. ‘People are gossiping,’ they said. ‘Saying that the man yesterday, God forbid, was your neighbour and a good friend of Bu Suleiman. We had hoped it wasn’t true.’

  Then, by early evening, Um Masoud brought over our crystal cake plate full of cookies. ‘I haven’t come empty-handed,’ she said, smiling mischievously. ‘And I don’t mean the cookies. I bring news.’ She marched ahead and into the kitchen. The expression on Mama’s face was suspended between hope and grief. Then Um Masoud turned towards us, smiling. Mama rushed to her side.