Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

My diseased leg was now causing me pain all over, even though I did my best to suppress it. Added to which, O God my Creator, was chronic insomnia and a whole series of spotted images that crowded my mind, all of which combined to make me want to scream out loud and ask for help. The only thing that stopped me from doing so was my worry that I would wake up my neighbors and disturb their sleep. For that reason I made do with uttering a few low-keyed groans that were only audible to me, like someone struck low with diarrhea.

I stayed like this, with only God being aware of my sufferings, till night was almost at an end. Just then, a cry rang out: a prisoner was asking for a clamp so he could pull out a tooth that was hurting. I listened as a number of voices rounded on him, while others advised him to grin and bear it till the morning guard arrived. All the while, the poor man kept groaning in pain and mouthing deeply moving words to the effect that the chief nurse in the clinic had told him that he would only fix his tooth if he provided the names and addresses of a Salafi* mafia group that they claimed he belonged to, whereas in fact he did not. He kept on shouting and asking the prisoners who were yelling at him what he was supposed to do. Suddenly his yelling stopped abruptly, as though he had fainted or else he had been gagged and taken away.

“Some people’s troubles are other people’s boons,” as the poet al-Mutanabbi* tells us. That was certainly the case with my present situation. My concern about this other prisoner in pain distracted my attention from my own problems, and the fact that he may have suffered dire consequences made me give thanks to God for suppressing my own pain. That was in spite of the fact that, according to my own reckoning and physical senses, my own pains were far worse than a mere toothache, even if it involved a molar. After such feelings of gratitude and the distraction evolved, I succumbed to a much needed slumber that felt for all the world like a drug-induced stupor.

My Appointment as Mufti

The way I woke up this morning was unusual — in fact, unprecedented. The sound of drums and clarinet echoed through the block, accompanied by the din as my neighbors jumped up and started asking questions. I was totally stunned and amazed when a music group made up of two men invaded my cell, preceded by the gigantic black guard carrying two platters on his head. I was sitting there with my two crutches beside me as he put them both down in front me. No sooner had his two companions stopped their playing than one of them came forward, cleaned my hands, then placed my right hand on a copy of the Qur’an on a platter, and asked me to swear. I asked him what about.

“Swear first,” he replied, “and then we’ll tell you why.”

When I refused, the second man had no choice but to take a document out of his sleeve and hand it to me, using a duly gruff tone to claim that it was an official document licensing me as mufti and signed by his excellency, the judge. No preacher, whether of the mystical or orthodox variety, would challenge it. He went on to tell me that the two platters and the clothes, food, and drink on them were all a gift from the judge to the newly appointed mufti, a celebratory gesture on the occasion of my promotion and the bestowal of such bounty on me.

I lowered my head and swallowed hard, both astonished and annoyed at the extent to which this idiotic and corrupt judge was prepared to take things. I said nothing for a while, as I made ready to give a trenchant answer to this sinister and self-interested proposal. All the while, my neighbors were spreading the word, reacting angrily to what the ones closest to me were telling them about the goings-on inside my cell. Loud voices were raised, some accusing me of being a spy and agent, while others confirmed the impression by noting that I regularly spent long hours with the judge and received special treatment. I had a single cell to myself and now had been given two platters with who knows what kind of good things on them. Another one protested that he had once spotted me wearing a decent suit and tie, not to mention the Nike shoes he had seen me strutting around in. All their voices were now united as they proceeded to curse all traitors and informers like me and promised me that God and His servants would wreak the very worst punishment on me. .

I used my two crutches to stand up and informed my visitors that this new promotion demanded that I make a tour of my neighbors.

“Not until you swear the oath,” the platter carrier objected.

“The tour first,” was my response.

The two musicians argued with each other at first, but then they and the giant black man went out ahead of me. I walked the entire length of the block on my two crutches.

“God is sufficient for me,” I yelled as loudly as I could, “and good is He as a trustee! The people I’m helping are letting me down.”

I kept repeating these phrases as often as I could, and eventually they stopped their taunts and curses. I now uncovered my swollen, pus-filled leg.

“My fellow prisoners,” I told them, “how can your accusation possibly apply to someone like me who has to use crutches to walk and whose leg is supposed to be amputated? Our torturers are making my treatment conditional on cooperating with them and being a spy. I stand completely innocent of the charges you are leveling at me! I pray to God to give you all forgiveness and pray to His almighty power that he will save us all from this dire experience that tyrants have imposed on us all, using all kinds of tricks and subterfuges to sow suspicion and dissension in our ranks. O God, protect us with Your mercy and forgiveness. Lessen for us the trials of aspiring towards You. Grant us the necessary strength and fortitude, but do not make us reliant on our own feeble and troubled souls. O God, intensify Your punishment for all those who tyrannize and do evil on earth. Carry out Your threats against them on this earth before the next world. Amen! Our final prayer is one of praise to God, the Lord of the two worlds!”

All the prisoners were by the doors of their cells, clinging on to the bars. As I pronounced each prayer, they all said “Amen!” They stretched out their hands in greeting and asked me to forgive them. Some of them had tears in their eyes. The gigantic black man kept looking back and forth between me and his two companions, and I noticed that signs of emotion, and even tears, were clear on his enormous face and his reddened eyes.

When I thought it was time to bring this manifestation to an end, for fear of dire consequences, I made my way back to my cell, followed by the three men. The clarinet player stopped me and reminded me breathlessly about the oath.

“I will not swear any oath,” I declared in a clearly audible voice that undoubtedly would reach as far as my closest neighbors. “I reject the post and will have nothing to do with it. I also refuse to accept the two platters and their contents. Inform your master that prisoner number 112 protests against his current situation, citing in the process the most important figures in jurisprudence where they say: ‘Those who try to render legal judgments without learning are like people who pick grapes before they’re ripe.’”

Many voices now relayed what I had just said, either directly or from the prisoners closest to me who had heard it. Their tones varied. Some of them chose to acknowledge and value its rectitude; others to explicate its context and significance; still others to ask what the word tazabbab (pick grapes) meant in Arabic. I decided not to get involved in these issues, but went into my cell, giving the giant black man an affectionate glance, especially since he stopped the two men from taking the gift away and stuck closely to them as they left.