Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

I sat there toying with pieces of bread that I dunked in a tasteless broth, if only to stave off a rampant hunger. Thoughts kept occurring to me, intended to clarify the situation in which I found myself and dispel some of my worst suspicions and anxieties.

Through the absolute silence of my contemplation there now broke an intermittent moaning from the person spread-eagled on the bed in front of me. I rushed over to say how glad I was that he had regained consciousness, but — amazingly enough — he started pushing me away with both hands and saying things that showed how frightened he was of me. There was nothing I could say by way of assurance and comfort that managed to calm his growing panic. I moved quickly back to my own corner and huddled there, all the while listening to him as he raved that I was a double agent charged by the administration with spying on him and providing details of his periods of movement and rest. I pronounced a solemn oath to him, saying that I was a prisoner with all the same concerns that he had; I was neither an informer nor a spy. He did not respond, but I think that my solemn oath penetrated his hearing. I did the same thing twice more, and at that point he signaled to me to come over. I sat down by his head, and he stared at me with tear-filled eyes. He now uncovered the lower half of his body.

“Look, my friend,” he told me in a crushed tone. “See what those bastards have done to me! They’ve castrated my right testicle, and they’ve threatened to do the same with the other one if I don’t do what they ask and cooperate.”

I did my best to control my emotions and hold back tears.

“God fight them and destroy them in this world before the next!” I said. “But tell me, my friend, what kind of cooperation is it they want from you?”

“They’re asking for the names of a jihadist cell that I don’t even know. They want to know about a number of people they’re looking for, some of whom I only know in passing — a connection as thin as a spider’s web, others who are either friends or relations. Was I supposed to do evil to people who have been good to me or implicate them so as to avoid the kinds of dire punishment that this woman called Mama Ghula inflicts on people? I am a God-fearing person. If I did such a thing, I’m afraid I’d spend all eternity in hellfire — and ‘evil is it as a resort.’ My friend, do you agree with me on this?”

“Of course I do!” I agreed spontaneously. “In my view you’re replicating the actions of our noble Prophet who possessed the very noblest character.”

“When that fiendish torturess finally gave up on me,” he said, “she brought in someone wearing a mask whom she described as the center’s deputized surgeon. She ordered him to do what he did. Shall I take off the bandage from my scrotum and show you the bloody scar?”

When I fervently indicated that I did not wish to see it, he acquiesced, albeit reluctantly. He now succumbed to a flood of violent tears, only interrupted by a question:

“If you were in my place, my friend,” he asked, “what would you have done?”

I stared at him, panic-stricken and lost for words.

“I’m almost thirty,” he went on, “and I hope to fulfill my religious obligations by getting married. The surgeon swore to me that even with a single testicle you can still get married and have children, just like someone who can see with only a single eye, or has only one lung with which to breathe, or one kidney to purify his blood. Now I’m faced with two choices, each one of which is a bitter pill to swallow: to continue with my resistance, in which case the result will be complete and terminal castration — and, once that is done, which woman would ever accept me into her bed? Either that, or else surrendering and losing all respect with people. I tell Mama Ghula and the investigating judge everything I know about the people they are looking for. I’ll be cooperating with a gang of spies and undercover agents in getting them arrested. So answer me, friend: if you were in my place, what would you do?”

I frowned, not only because the question itself totally dismayed me but also because I was being forced to make a choice.

“For the time being you can remain neutral and say nothing,” he went on. “but don’t be surprised if one day during your time in prison you find yourself having to answer the very same question. But for now, give me something to eat and drink, then let me rest. I’ve already talked too much.”

I swiftly responded to his request. Before he fell asleep, I asked him his name.

“‘Umar ar-Rami,” he replied.

When I asked him where this prison was located, he signaled that he had no idea.

As I wrapped myself in my bedcover, I could not help thinking about this helpless man, now threatened with the loss of his second testicle, and then about Ilyas, the man who had spent the night in my cell but was not there the next morning. My mind was churning with all sorts of questions and uncertainties, sending me into a bewildering vortex of fear that was only dispelled when a guard came tiptoeing into my cell and signaled to me to follow him.

“Exercise is better than worry,” he whispered in my ear.

Quite the contrary, in fact. On this ultimately scary and vicious vessel, such emphasis on exercise was yet another problem. The people in charge had completely transformed its significance; the well-known proverb “ mens sana in corpore sano ” had been converted into a combination of a sick joke and a demeaning routine.

In the dismal paved courtyard the atmosphere and regulations were the same as before. What was new and different this time was a circle of prisoners with hands and feet shackled; they were some distance from our circle and were wearing dirty white clothing. They kept moving in a circular pattern between barbed-wire passageways and were being observed by heavily armed guards. I managed to ask the prisoner in front of me in a whisper who these other prisoners were, but he did not reply. I also asked him about someone called Ilyas Bu Shama, but he simply shrugged his shoulders. The same thing happened with the prisoner behind me.

I realized that there was no hope of sneaking a conversation with the prisoners in my group, so I simply started walking around in circles like everyone else without taking any risks or wandering off. I made do with building up a sense of resistance in the face of so much adversity and sniffing the fresh air outside the confines and aggravations of my cell.

With the blowing of a whistle the exercise period came to an end, and the prisoners in blue uniforms were taken away for their communal meal. Like everyone else, I joined a line, which passed in front of someone who distributed the food, then sat at a wide table designated for my use along with four others. Everyone had a bowl of broth, along with some lentils and pieces of meat, a complete loaf of bread, a banana, and two pears. Was this supposed to be a festival meal I knew nothing about?

Complete silence prevailed, only broken by the clanking of spoons, swallowing noises, and ambiguous hand movements under the table. I am an inveterate meddler, so I asked what was the occasion for this feast. No one answered. At that point one of the people at the table got up and went to refill his bowl, whereupon my immediate neighbor took advantage of the other man’s absence to tell me to stop talking; his reason was that spies were regularly planted among the prisoners. I asked him about the other group of fettered prisoners in white clothing, and he replied that they were people with life sentences. Whenever one of them died, he could simply be wrapped and buried in those dirty white garments. I then asked him if he knew either Ilyas Bu Shama or ‘Umar ar-Rami, but he shrugged his shoulders. As soon as the other prisoner came back, he stopped talking. For my part I now focused on my bowl and finished what was in it. When I looked up, it was to see the man who had returned staring hard at me, his expression a tissue of hatred. So, I decided, that is how relationships work between inmates in this extraordinary and barbaric prison; a network of ambiguity as to roles and a predominant sense of suspicion and fear among individuals, all accompanied by a lively trade in information and rumor with its cryptic signals and codes.