Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

“Weeping over the dead is a waste, saint of God. With enough cares all you can do is laugh. .”

I paid no attention to this comment, but started doing the ritual myself: first once, then again. By the third and fourth time, the sound of other tired voices could be heard praying along with me. When I sat down again, feeling aggravated and disgusted, my neighbor leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“I’ve the solution for you,” he said. “It’ll solve all your problems and provide you with a way out. It makes bitter things taste sweet, things that are tight open up; with it misery turns into a boon. Mama Ghula treats you like a lamb, or a cat even; the director like a cock, and the judge like a donkey. It’s not wine I’m suggesting; that’s forbidden. No, what I’m recommending is ecstasy, extracted from the purest hashish, and at a very reasonable price too. You can have it on credit or else you can perform a service for me. What do you say?”

Shying away in disgust, I rejected his offer. I put my tray back in its place and started looking for my masked guard to take me back to my cell. Once I found him, he told me that this was not a charitable institution for feeding the poor and needy traveler. I would have to help wash the cafeteria’s pots and pans and clean the furniture and walls. I did just that, along with a whole group of other people, although I had no idea whether they were genuine internees or plants. Once that was all done, I again asked to go back to my cell. My guard accompanied me and for the first time asked me if there was anything I wanted to buy on the black market. He named them all: American cigarettes, French wine, a Japanese radio, Saudi toothpicks, Indian perfume, Moroccan hashish, local soap, and toothpaste and chewing gum from no particular location. Interrupting, I told him I wanted none of it.

Back in my cell, I noticed that my bedcover had been decorated with a pair of Nike sneakers, a prayer rug, a miniature bowl, and a bound volume that I assumed was a copy of the Qur’an. There were also some newspapers and magazines (in Arabic and Western languages), with their dates erased and some articles cut out. I assumed that they all went back several years. I immediately sat down and started leafing through the newspapers, reading some of the headlines and articles inside. Some of them made me pause: “Terrorist explosions all over Baghdad leave dozens of people dead and wounded,” “Maghribi women are enslaved and sexually exploited in Gulf countries,” “In Tangier a man from the Gulf deliberately infects his Tunisian companion with AIDS,” “The AIDS virus threatens the entire continent of Africa,” “Networks to transport Maghribi ‘artistes’ to work in Gulf and Middle Eastern brothels,” “The rape of children in and out of schools is an ongoing nightmare in Arab societies,” “Dozens killed and injured in terrorist explosions in the capital city of Algiers,” “A family in Marrakesh sets dogs and snakes loose on their son’s fiancée to force her to have an abortion,” and “Spain keeps a watchful eye on Moroccan fundamentalists who have served in the army.” The magazines were all pornographic, so I threw them into a corner to protect myself with the sheltering veil of modesty and devotion.

There was one article that I read all the way through, describing the incendiary threats issued by the authorities of the Zionist entity against the Arab resistance forces. It confirmed everything that not only I, but also all liberal and oppressed peoples of the world, already know: Israel’s tyrannical regime, duly bolstered by comprehensive and unconditional support from America, is also supported by European regimes and even by certain Arab governments as well. The Palestinian and Lebanese resistance movements are fighting not merely Israel, but also all those other tyrannical forces. It was in that context that I read this article with great enthusiasm; I even jotted down some quotes from it and only wished that I knew who had originally written it.

I got up and washed my hands with the meager supply of water that was available so that I could handle the Qur’an, even though the process was hardly adequate. When I opened the cover and looked at the title, I was totally shocked: The Perfumed Garden for the Heart’s Delight by Shaykh Muhammad al-Nafzawi.* My entire body convulsed, and I shivered at the thought of this utterly malicious and disgusting act aimed at me.

So, who had been responsible for sending me these “generous gifts,” I wondered.

If it had not been for the lewd materials included with the rest, I would have assumed that they came from Na‘ima, who still retained her place in my heart and mind. But, since I knew her own beliefs, I came to the conclusion that it had to be the investigating judge. It was a down payment on a pact between the two of us, something required to fulfill a need he had in his own vicious and evil heart. But I vouched to myself, by the Creator of the heavens and earth and in the name of my plan to resist and hold fast, that this judge, wallowing in his foul slime, would never be able to catch me in his snares or get the things he wanted. Praying on his prayer mat, I decided, would be corrupt and invalid; using the bowl to perform the ritual ablutions would not cleanse, just the opposite; and, as for reading The Perfumed Garden in my current situation, that would be the worst of all. Except for the Nike sneakers that I needed so badly, I tossed everything else — even the newspapers — into the corner where I had already thrown the pornographic magazines.

The next morning I helped clear and sweep the cafeteria along with a group of other prisoners. I was then escorted by a masked guard to a secret room in a cellar, one that I had not seen before. He tied my hands behind my back and sat me down on a seat facing a table and chair. After a few terror-laden moments, a huge, muscular man came in, clearly one of the detention center’s major gorillas. Along with the guard, he stationed himself behind my back. Mama Ghula now came in, followed — what a nice surprise! — by Na‘ima. The two women could hardly have seemed more different: one was like a compliant gazelle, while the other looked like a savage beast. There was Mama Ghula in all her proverbial ugliness and bestiality, while Na‘ima was also there, infinitely attractive and supremely gentle.

Na‘ima’s boss instructed her to shine a light beam directly at my face. I now decided to show how crazy I had become, part of my plan that I’ve described earlier. I expressed my admiration for Na‘ima, but without mentioning her name or referring in any way to her message.

“I’m delighted to see you here, lovely visitor,” I declared. “Weren’t you scared of the guards on the way?”

Instead of getting any reply from her, I received a blow to the neck from the gorilla standing behind me. That shut me up.

“No questions allowed,” came a threatening voice as though coming from a machine. “No sexual harassment either.”

He moved over and stood beside Mama Ghula, who was busy eating sandwiches and drinking bottle after bottle of beer. Every so often she would open her mouth, stuffed full of food, and whisper something in the gorilla’s ear. He would then convey it to me as a terse question.

“The boss is asking,” he would say in his mechanical tone of voice, “about the things you haven’t talked about so far.”

“Every arrow in my quiver I’ve told you about,” I replied, my eyes watering because of the intense light focused on my face. “Prayers to God are all that’s left.”

“You’ve emptied one quiver, you son of a bitch,” the gorilla replied menacingly, “but you’ve hidden another one. Empty it now, or else I’m going to empty your veins of blood. In your home city of Oujda, you were involved with books. Fine, but you also got involved in other things, too. A woman named Fatima al-Lozi, for example. You installed her in your bookstore. The boss wants to know about your relationship with her.”