Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

“Ah yes, Sefrou, with an ‘e’ vowel, not an ‘i.’ That right, Miss, Sefrou. But, before you get back to work, allow this fellow countryman to give you a kiss to congratulate you on being chosen as beauty queen. Come on, you lucky man, take what I have allowed you to take: a filial kiss between the man and woman from the same Arab country. They are siblings, a laudable custom, and there’s no divine dictum that forbids it. Stand up and kiss her. You lucky man! But be very careful now, no straying beyond the cheek!”

I stood up to do what I was told, and planted a gentle kiss on the trembling girl’s neck, desperately trying as far as possible to avoid committing the kind of sin that I was powerless to prevent.

“So, is everything okay?” the judge asked as soon as the Moroccan girl had rushed out. During the course of carrying out my duties, I’ve come across men who cry and ejaculate very quickly. Are you one of them? Can I be sure? Or will you recite the Qur’anic verse to me: ‘O you who believe, ask not about things which, if they were made clear to you, would annoy you’ [Sura 5, The Table, v. 101]. Okay, so you’ve understood?”

“From that particular perspective, Judge,” I told him in a vexed tone, “you can be reassured. I haven’t sneaked in here to hear your talk about castration and your attitude toward it, or about Egypt and whether it’s the mother of the world, or about this Moroccan lady and her truly laudable qualities. I’ve come to see you about one thing and one thing only, something where I’ve come to the end of my rope. It concerns the woman known as the female ghoul, or Mama Ghula. The first time that barbaric female subjected me to totally evil and demeaning treatment, but I managed to tolerate it. But the second time the torture was utterly bestial and obscene. Now, Judge, I’m raising a complaint with you and recording it in the light of the fact that I’ve lost my front teeth and my body is covered in welts and bruises. .”

The judge rubbed his bald pate and the back of his neck and took several puffs from his pipe, as though he were disturbed by my torture or found my account tedious. I gave him an inquiring look.

“Do you have an open mind? If so, then it can harbor secrets. I’m going to confide in you my personal attitude toward this female ghoul. It’s just like my attitude toward castration: rejection and disapproval. She should be punished not merely for what she’s done to you but also because, when it comes to monstrous conduct and illicit behavior, she has no peer; when it comes to terror and violence, no one else comes even close. But how can I be blamed when Uncle Sam has written her a blank check? What am I supposed to do? The Yankees have given her a green light — in fact, it’s so green that there’s nothing fresher and greener. And, if you’ve never heard of the Yankees and Uncle Sam, then let me tell you that it’s the Americans. .”

The phone rang. The judge mouthed some short, clipped phrases into it, the majority of which expressed agreement and support.

“Okay,” he resumed, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief, “let pick up where we were, since we’re both of us fond of Na‘ima. You have three choices, and no more. You can either open your heart to Mama Ghula and tell her all the secret information she needs about your cousin, Abu al-Basha’ir; or else you can do the same thing with me here; or you can continue defying Mama Ghula and playing the fool in her presence as you have been doing — this time you can imagine that she’s a cow and circle around her repeating a whole series of threatening phrases like ‘I’m a raging bull, and I’m going to put my horns into the female ghoul. . ’ The first of these three choices is a good one, and the second is even better. Both of them will get you safely to shore. However the third option can have no good consequences. .”

With that he gave me an inquisitive look.

“My dear Judge,” I replied, plucking up my courage, “what I know about my cousin consists of the things I put into the report that I submitted to your exalted self. There’s nothing to add to it, and the only falsehood will come when torture makes me reveal things inspired by the devil himself.”

“God, my God!” he interrupted, his eyes closed, “what lovely melodious speech. Let me relish it for just a moment! I won’t even bother about the flattery behind it or the fact that it is so far removed from the truth. .”

“Sir,” I interrupted in turn, “even if my words are the way you have chosen to judge them, I have to tell you that whatever melody you detect is purely coincidental, not as the result of some artificiality. Above all, I don’t intend to flatter. And my only intention is to tell the truth.”

His beady eyes stared hard at me through his glasses.

“Every prisoner I have ever met, past or present, keeps playing the same old tape. Even those with a criminal record continue to claim that they’re telling the plain, unvarnished truth; they’re completely innocent of the charges leveled against them. They all make themselves out to be just the way their mothers bore them: innocent virgins regarding their actions, intentions, and natures. But, when we’ve conducted a patient and thorough investigation with them — using the best methods possible and, when necessity decrees, the most cruel and vicious, they finish up acknowledging their faults. At which point they start asking for reduced penalties; indeed, in the majority of cases they request permission to join the security forces and secret police. We usually grant them such requests, but only, of course, after they have gone through all the necessary psychological and physical tests. If you yourself might be interested in joining that particular group, then you should do your utmost to satisfy the preliminary requirements and not come back to talk to me again until such time as you have done the right thing. That way you’ll be able to give both us and yourself some peace and quiet. As for now, retrace your steps and think things over very carefully. But before you do even that, I suggest that you rid yourself immediately of behavior that harms your interests and does you no good. Your nose and hands, for example, even if they have to be cut off. In fact, avoid using prophetic hadith out of their proper context, the most famous of which is: ‘Grant your brother victory, be he oppressor or oppressed,’ or ‘He who offers a Muslim cover, will be covered by God on the Day of Judgment,’ things like that. And don’t cite verses from the Qur’an either. They’re all merely pretexts you’re using to protect your cousin, who insists on taking his own heretical path, following narrow interpretations and adopting extremist and fanatical views that are contrary to the moderate tenets of our tolerant Islamic faith. By so doing, he completely ignores the injunction of God and His Prophet to avoid all excess in matters of faith. Instead, he chooses to imitate the actions of the Kharijites, Sabeans, Barghwatis, and other fanatical extremists from Islamic history. This is my best advice to you: Don’t pretend you don’t know and don’t spout heresy. Above all, don’t play the infidel after being silent for a spell, and don’t drink piss after so long being amiss. .”

I could no longer stand to listen to this endless flow of verbiage from the judge who wielded such power over me.

“You mention piss, Sir,” I interrupted.

“Oh, do you have an opinion on the subject?” he asked.

“No, Sir, but I do have an urgent need. . to piss. I’ve been afraid of not being able to hold out while I’ve been sitting here. I might wet my trousers, and that wouldn’t be fitting in your exalted presence. .”

“Okay then, get up and go. But don’t forget that, if you‘re stubborn and keep things to yourself, Mama Ghula will straighten your teeth for you. .”