Radwa Ashour - Granada

— Do you practice witchcraft?

— No, I do not.

— How do you explain all the paraphernalia that was found in your house?

— They are seeds, herbs, and solutions I used to cure people’s illnesses.

— Who taught you that?

— I taught myself.

— By yourself, or through books?

Saleema paused before she responded.

— Where am I going to get the books? I don’t read Spanish, and Arabic books are banned by law.

— The books we found in your possession.

— Neither I nor anyone else in my household owns or purchases books.

— Then you admit that you practice witchcraft and that it is the devil who taught you to make what you call medicine?

— I never said that.

— Do you not believe in the existence of black magic and witches who have the power to induce storms, kill livestock, or infect people with deadly illnesses?

— I believe that all those things, I mean storms and the death of livestock and people, have natural causes that we don’t know about because our knowledge as human beings is insufficient. No, my lord, I do not believe in witches.

— Then why do people resent you?

— People resent me?

— Why do they resent and fear you, and why do they avoid your stare? You once told somebody, “Do not speak to me in that manner,” and you gave him a look that made him writhe in pain all night long. You put your hand on the stomach of a pregnant woman who died two days later. A woman sent for you to come and cure her ailing son, and you made him bleed so profusely that his bedroom floor was soaked in blood, and he died.

— I have no recollection at all of the first incident. When somebody insults you or talks to you rudely, you say, “Don’t talk to me in that manner,” but I do not remember when I said that or to whom, and his illness that night is pure coincidence. The second incident is correct. A woman I encountered on the street, a New Christian, that is, an Arab like me, sought my advice. “I can’t understand why I don’t feel the baby moving inside of me.” I felt the woman’s stomach, and I deduced that the baby was dead in the womb since there were no signs of life stirring within even though her stomach was huge. It was clear that she was in the final weeks of pregnancy. I was right; the woman died because the dead baby inside of her poisoned her body.

As for the third incident, well, that’s correct as well. A Castilian woman came to me in tears. She begged me to go with her because her little boy was very sick. Against my brother s orders that I never visit the houses of strangers, I accompanied the woman home. When I arrived, I found the boy hemorrhaging, he had no color in his face, and his fingertips had turned blue. He was on the verge of death, and my prognosis was that he was bleeding internally, and that there was nothing I could do to save him.

— Do you know how to perform witchcraft?

— I told you I don’t believe in witchcraft.

— And you don’t believe in the devil?

— I don’t know.

— Do you believe in the existence of Satan, or not? Answer yes or no.

The inquisitors were all looking straight at her. The judge’s eyes peered at her from behind his thick, puffy eyelids. The thin, frail one to his left ogled her with two gleaming, lascivious eyes, and she couldn’t understand why. The one to his right, the one with the waxen face and sharp features, looked at her with a stone-cold expression. Even the scribe lifted his eyes from the pen and paper and looked at her amused.

“I do not believe that the devil has existence,” she answered in a faint voice. Once she said it, she quickly corrected herself when she detected a look of victory reflected in their expressions. “Yes, I do believe that Satan exists.”

— Do you worship him?

The thought never entered her mind.

— What do you mean, worship him?

— Do you believe in Satan over God?

— Of course not!

— Then how do you explain this?

The judge waved in front of her a piece of paper the size of a palm of the hand, but she was unable to make out the details. He raised it as though it was the final piece of evidence that would seal her guilt. His two assistants nodded their heads approvingly.

— What’s this?

— Come closer, and have a look at this piece of paper. Look at it closely.

She looked at it. On it was a drawing of a sheep or a gazelle. She examined it closely and then she remembered. “Ah, it’s a bad drawing. I’m not good at drawing pictures.”

— Then you admit that this is your drawing?

— I used to own a gazelle I loved very much. I tried to draw a picture of it.

The judge burst into a raucous laughter and his colleagues followed suit. Even the scribe joined in.

— This is a billy goat, not a gazelle.

— As I said, Your Honor, I’m not very good at drawing.

— This is the billy goat with which you copulate and to which you travel by night.

— The billy goat I copulate with?

— Yes, the billy goat that drew you away from your husband and caused him to abandon you. It is the devil in whose service you are employed.

The judge raised his voice to a shrill pitch as his face contorted and he pointed his accusing finger at Saleema. He tilted his neck forward, carrying with it his head inflamed in anger.

Was this a nightmare, Saleema thought, that shoved her into an absurd game directed by three strange, demented men? The judge accuses her of copulating with a billy goat and faults her for drawing a picture that didn’t mean anything. Even those men who came and arrested her acted strangely. One of them tried to fiddle with her books, and when she reached over to stop him, he jumped away in a panic and screamed at her, “Don’t touch me!” as though she were some kind of snake or scorpion that could kill him in a second. Then they tied her up as though she were a raging bull, and they put her into a large basket. You don’t put a raging bull in a large basket. Maybe a lamb, a chicken, or a rabbit. But this was only Saleema bint Jaafar whom they were taking away, tied up and in a basket! Whenever she recalled the scene, she would laugh a laugh that verged on sobbing, and then she would laugh no more.

Prior to presenting her to this three-man tribunal, they brought in a huge, stern-looking giant of a woman who cut off all her hair and ordered her to remove all her clothes until she stood in front of her naked as the day she was born. The woman inspected her body and ran her fingers under her arms, between her legs, and into all the holes of her body, her nose, mouth, and ears, and even her private parts. But what was she looking for? Saleema wondered if this was all somehow a joke, or just sheer madness. And on top of it all, the judge sticks his finger in her face as though he’s about to pluck out her eyes and screams at her, “the billy goat with which you copulate!”

Saleema was terrified as she sat alone in her cell because she didn’t understand what was happening. At first she thought it was Saad they wanted, but now that the investigation started she knew it was she they intended — but why? She wondered if they were going to charge her for failing to attend mass on Sundays and holy days of obligation, but the judge never mentioned anything of the sort. She needed to be clear-headed in order to ponder, reflect, and understand everything that was happening. She needed to remain calm, but how could she be calm with all that humiliation? The woman threw at her a woolen rag that was supposed to be her dress, and then led her into the main hall and forced her to walk in backwards unlike all God’s creatures. “Turn,” the woman said, and Saleema turned around only to face three interrogators, with their waxen faces, curved noses turned upward, and their scrutinizing eyes piercing her very soul. She couldn’t understand what they wanted from her. She was confused, and she felt both utter fear and bitterness. She was seething with an anger that could only be mollified by attacking these men, the scribe and the giant woman, tearing off their heads and shredding them to pieces. But how could she ever erase the humiliation? There was nothing that could undo that. “The billy goat with which you copulate!” She wondered whether to laugh or cry, or bang her head against the wall and smash it instead of smashing their heads that she couldn’t stand. “The billy goat with which you copulate!”