Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

At this point the telephone rang.

“Eat the chocolate,” he told me as he grabbed the phone.

“My respects, Colonel,” he said. “Yes, Sir, the members of the terrorist cell you’re mentioning have all confessed and provided us with extremely useful and detailed information. Yes, that’s right. . there are seven of them. Six of them have signed a document requesting a pardon and announcing their repentance. The seventh had a heart attack in Mama Ghula’s cavern. Yes, she tells me that she tortured him after he’d tortured her by refusing to talk. That’s right, Colonel, one evil deed deserves another; and the one who starts is the worst offender. Yes, Sir, I’m on to it. . I hear and obey. .”

He waved at me to leave, and I did so. As I passed by the secretary, Nahid, I decided to play the fool, so I gave her a knowing wink, my mouth full of chocolate. She shuddered, then rounded on me.

“You’re a nafty man,” she said, “not only that you’re impolite and impiouf!”

“Thankf so much!” I replied, imitating her pronunciation and blowing her a kiss.

With that, I left in high spirits and encountered the guard waiting outside by the door. Two other guards had another prisoner with hands and feet tied who was waiting to appear before the investigating judge. He was undoubtedly one of those dangerous people I’d just heard about. I wondered if the time would come when I too would be one of those if I carried on refusing to cooperate by submitting to their will and serving as one of their agents.

On the way back to my cell I indulged in a sincere desire to get to know the guard better and open a line of communication. So I asked him how he was and what his professional and family situation was like.

“Fine,” was his only response.

When I tried to expand on the conversation, he begged me not to expose him and his salary to any risks. So I said no more.

As he locked my cell door, he told me that tomorrow there was supposed to be a soccer match between two teams of prisoners. He suggested that I get ready and go to sleep early.

I checked my bed and all the corners of the cell to see if there was anyone else, whether alive or dead, in the cell with me. It emerged that this time I was on my own. I noticed that there was still some food left in my bowl. At this point I remembered the treasure trove that I’d stuffed into my pockets that morning, so I hid the bottles of perfume and soap under my pillow, and cleaned my teeth with the brush and toothpaste. I did some exercises to warm me up, all in preparation for falling asleep. However, I was so worked up that my churning brain would not let me sleep until very late; sometimes I would be thinking about Nahid al-Busni — at others, about the nasty and complex personality of the investigating judge. I kept coming up with things that motivated and terrified me in turn, the kind of talk that was intended to crush my ethical self and sense of purpose, whether the method involved hypocrisy or deceit — and all of it accompanied by a generous dose of decadent pseudo-erudition.

Our appointment for the soccer game happened next day in the searing midday heat. It took place on a sandy field behind the detention center’s main buildings. According to the announcement made over a speaker hanging in one of the windows, there were to be two teams of prisoners. I noted that the team I was on, which was called the Black Beasts, was entirely barefoot or, like me, wearing rubber sandals. Most of them looked emaciated and weak. By contrast, the other team, called the Red Barbarians, was wearing professional soccer boots; they all looked like very fit rugby players. When I asked one of my teammates standing near me what this utter disparity meant, he looked around and then told me that I would soon understand. For the time being it was better to say nothing.

After we had done some warm-up exercises, a female referee dressed entirely in black summoned us with a whistle blast. It was clear from her appearance that this was indeed Mama Ghula of evil repute. She addressed us all in her beloved French, using the military tone of voice of one who brooks no argument regarding her orders.

“Soccer here,” the translator told us, “is not the game you’re used to seeing. Here, as in everything else, we do things differently and invent our own rules. The game will have only one time period; there’ll be no second half, overtime, or rest period. One period, and that’s it. The goals will be counted, but the victors will be those with the necessary staying power to keep resisting, without giving up or withdrawing. Now put your trust in God that victory will go to the stronger side.”

After this weird introduction, she tossed the coin to start the match, and my team won. She then went and checked on the two goal nets and spoke to some of the guards who were standing on the sidelines with their guard dogs. The Red Barbarians team now proceeded to launch a verbal attack on us, using every conceivable kind of abuse and vile language, all accompanied by threatening gestures. Some of my teammates responded with abuse of a lesser kind, and there were exchanges of spitting and punches as well. This totally unsporting conduct only came to an end when the female referee came back and blew her whistle to start the game.

For something like half an hour, the ball never left the feet of my team — more’s the surprise! We managed to score eleven goals, four of them by me. There were no serious attacks from their side and very little challenge or resistance. It reached the point that, every time our forwards were heading toward their goal, the goalkeeper would show his alarm by huddling up or run along the backline, yelling and screaming, while his colleagues simply laughed and guffawed.

But after we had scored the seventh goal, I got the impression that some kind of conspiracy was being launched against my team. I pointed this out to my teammates every time we scored another goal. However, most of them were overjoyed at the team effort and the success we were having; they accused me of being a pessimist and weakling. For them, the name of our team, the Black Beasts, was fully justified. But, when their bodies started to tire and it became much harder to get to the other team’s goal, with shots going wide or missing altogether, they started to agree with me. From then on, it was a matter of dragging their legs around in their own half and never moving out of it; if anyone did move out, it was as though we were out for a stroll — like someone playing golf or walking in a public park.

Just a few minutes later, everything changed completely, and went from bad to worse. Our opponents had already had their share of fun at our expense, and now they turned serious. It was time for attack and revenge. Showing us their muscles and powerfully fit bodies, they proceeded to turn the soccer field into a savage war zone with a series of nonstop powerful attacks. They forced us into our own half, moved toward our defensive line, and set about viciously attacking any of us who had the ball or were even standing anywhere close. Gradually, our team started to collapse with bruises, fractures, and severe wounds; players who lost consciousness were transferred to the clinic. The rest of our team was left spread-eagled on the sand, bleeding and groaning. One of them happened to be the man whom I had asked about the extraordinary difference between the two teams. I leaned over to offer him some comfort.

“Now I think you understand,” he told me between pants. “The team that resorted to such violence and aggression to win the match consists of prisoners who are acting as agents and others in preventive detention who joined our team as substitutes for our wounded. . If you yourself haven’t been hurt and evacuated beforehand, you’ll find that they’re all unhurt when the game is over.”