Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

“There’s nothing to cut,” she yelled in her foul French. “This sheep’s got no flesh on him. He’s all skin and bones.”

How I congratulated myself on being so incredibly thin; I was so grateful! The torturess made do with scratching my backside and thighs with her dagger, then proceeded to pound me with a cane on the soles of my feet, which had been dampened with cold water. When she was exhausted and I was totally destroyed, it was time for the swing and seesaw routine, something that is infamous, even for prisoners who have the strongest possible constitution. Trussed up like a sheep for sacrifice, I was spun around horizontally in two directions while she launched insane attacks on my backside, stomach, and genitals.

If it had been a matter of swinging gently as in childhood days of old, it would not have been so bad, but in this case they were doing it to cause maximal pain and damage, flaying my body and making it bleed every time I crashed into a wall studded with sharp, pointed protrusions. No human intellect, no legal system, could possible justify such bestial activities.

One of the consequences of my gruesome and painful ordeal was that the bottle came shooting out of my anus, leading to the most incredibly intense stomach pains and severe internal convulsions and distress. My head, meanwhile, was finding it hard to tolerate the vertigo and the continual collisions with the walls, so that gradually I began to waver between a marginal consciousness and a sense of detachment from my surroundings. Even so, this fiendish woman kept up her crazy assault, kicking me savagely as she accused me of being hard-hearted toward her. In a bizarre twist, she was still insisting that I needed to stop torturing her and provide her with the information that would help her keep her job and look after her children.

All of a sudden she stopped and stood me up. She begged me to sign a piece of paper, accompanying the gesture with mechanical kisses that were rough and cruel — almost crushing my lips and chattering teeth.

Even though I was feeling dizzy, I managed to respond, “I’ve no objection to any woman kissing me on the mouth,” I raved, “but not a barbaric ghoul-woman with foul breath and crooked artificial teeth!”

My torturess now completely gave up hope of using her normal methods on me, and put me back on the seesaw machine. This time it was even more vicious and insane than before. I now made good use of the disgusting meal that they had fed me before it all started and that was now causing me all sorts of intestinal pain. Taking advantage of the situation to have my revenge on this ugly fiend of a woman, I raised my head every time I passed by her shoes and used every ounce of energy I had left to plaster her face with a shower of thick, viscous vomit. By doing so, I hoped she would deliver a final crushing blow to put me out of my misery. In fact, the female ghoul whom I had insulted soon decided to prod my back with an electric stun gun and followed it with a savage blow to my head. I heard the other prisoners who were waiting for their turn utter cries of panic and fear, while the single girl among them started wailing and fainted away. In my semiconscious state, I heard the ghoul order her assistants to bring over some onion and throw some cold water on me, and she told me to remain conscious. However, the space around me started to become a blur, and everything turned head over heels. All my eyes could make out were vague shapes, all fuzzy, and a few other moving figures. Soon afterward it all disappeared down a dark and bottomless pit.

When I woke up the next morning, I was aching all over. Everything hurt, but some pains were localized while others were everywhere throughout my body. With a fair amount of effort, I managed to sit up and felt a bandage around my head. My teeth were in a complete mess: three of them were only attached to the jaw by a slender bit of flesh. I hurriedly rid my mouth of them. Just then, I remembered the mirror hidden under my pillow. I took it out to take a look at the injuries on my face and body. My vision was impaired enough as it was, but the general sight was appalling: bruises and contusions everywhere; wounds, swellings, and scars. My nose was totally stuffed with phlegm, which meant I could only breathe through my mouth.

I need to piss, so I struggled gamely to my feet to go to the toilet. That made me aware of the fact that I was walking like a young boy who had just been circumcised. Once I had relieved myself, I started pacing back and forth in my cell and repeating to myself that my morale was still intact. I needed to make sure that I did not give way or show any weakness. They would never be able to take away my self-respect and pride, even if they broke my ribs and nose. This then was the routine I undertook for just a few minutes, and, when I felt exhausted, I collapsed on the bed. I wonder what day it is, I asked myself in a tone that, while weak, was still defiant. .

When you are stretched out in bed the way I was, what can a patient do except think long and hard about the situation he is in and the possible outcomes that await. Once all thoughts have been exhausted or become too convoluted, there’s a tendency to indulge in illusions, some of them fanciful, others more concrete and insistent. Examples of the first type included women and more women, the majority of whom took the form of Nahid,* the secretary, her name and reputation being completely deserved. Within the second category I would see myself using my hands and whatever digging equipment I could lay my hands on to escape from this prison and go back to the place where I was picked up; I could disappear for a while and repair my body and soul under the protective eye of my loving mother. All kinds of frustration and roadblocks would stand in my way, but I was confident that I could either work my way around them or else jump right over them, inspired and guided by my determination and my burning desire to rescue my life from a deadly treadmill of futility and the clutches of a sudden oblivion.

These illusions started to pile up and reproduce, but all of a sudden the stream dried up as a result of my inevitable collapse into a place than which there is nothing more obscure and rotten — in fact, just like the one I am in, situated under the oppressive tread of its denizens and myrmidons, some of whom I met, others whom I never even saw.

These sessions involving contemplation and illusion had by now become addictive. However, on every occasion, I would lose track of things, either because I was struck by a crushing sense of impotence or because I would be interrupted by the arrival of a guard with food or a warder to take me for further interviewing and torture.

On one occasion the thing that bothered me was the din coming from the corridor of the cells next to mine. The reason for it became clear when three sturdy men invaded my cell carrying a spray machine and proceeded to spray every single corner of my cell, after which they aimed it at me, concentrating on my head, armpits, and crotch. When I asked what was going on, one of them told me that, by order of the higher authorities, there was a campaign in every part of the detention center to eradicate the ever-increasing insect population during the summer season. He went on to tell me that, as part of the instructions, the heads and beards of all prisoners were to be shaved and the hair was to be put in sacks for burning. The hairdresser advised me not to make a fuss and to let him shave my head. Other prisoners who had resisted and made a fuss had had both their beards and moustaches completely shaved off as punishment. Watched by his two companions, he sat me down on a stool and started using enormous clippers to cut off hair wherever he found it, almost as though he were using a scythe to cut wheat sheaves or weeds. He then moistened my head, temples, and chin with foamy water and proceeded to remove any hair that was left with a razor. Before they left, one of the men spoke to me.