Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

After a few moments to recover my breath, something that I presumed all my fellow prisoners were doing, I leaned over to take a look at the two platters. I noticed that there was a megaphone on one of them, presumably something that the judge wanted me to use to announce my opinions.

“Fellow prisoners in this block and the entire wing,” I said, grabbing it with delight, “in order to fulfill the pledge I made to you, here is an account of what is on the two platters. One of them contains various kinds of hors d’oeuvres and fruit, both fresh and dried, and bottles of milk and water; the other has a copy of the Qur’an and the two great volumes of commentary,* a prayer mat, rosary, cloak, headcap, shawl, house clothes, sandals, a water pipe along with pieces of ambergris and incense, a perfume bottle, and lastly, a transistor radio. The entire gift is now at your disposal, to distribute among yourselves amicably and with all due liberality.”

I now heard several voices declaring that the items in question were clearly my property, fair and square. One single voice could be heard above the others, praising me for my unequivocal refusal to accept the position of mufti offered by the administration. However, on behalf of his fellow prisoners he asked me nevertheless to avail them of my advice and counsel, all in fulfillment of the statement of our blessed ancestors: “religion as counsel. .”

When the guards made their rounds, the voices stopped and silence prevailed once again. I took advantage of the situation and lay down on my back, relishing the relaxation and looking at my cache of gifts on the tray, with its eats and drinks. As I was testing the smallest transistor radio I had ever seen and picking up a fuzzy, weak signal in some foreign language, I happened to notice a cavity at the bottom of the wall opposite my bed. At first I thought it must be a mouse looking for a way out, but there soon emerged a reinforced cardboard tube, through which I heard the voice of someone who introduced both himself and the tube as a telephone linking the prisoners in the cells. When he asked me if I was on the air, I replied that I was. No sooner had he made sure that the line was good than he told me that he had a whole cluster of questions about the situation of the majority of prisoners. He had collected them all and selected the most intelligent ones. The thrust of some of them was to ask whether it was legitimate to mention God’s name — may He be exalted! — in a prison such as this one, polluted as it was with some many outrages and enormities, not to mention stenches of every conceivable kind.

“The mention of God’s name,” I replied, my mouth close to the tube’s aperture, “is not only permissible, it is required, and frequently at that; all in order to bolster the soul in its steadfast resistance to the trials and tribulations we are all facing. It was the same way with the original Muslims in pre-Islamic times when wine, gambling, idols, fortune-telling, animism, and female child burial were all common practice. .”

The same voice now continued in a quavering tone, asking questions framed by the notion that there should be no bashfulness where religion is involved. The brunt of the question involved prisoners who were suffering from diarrhea, constipation, and hemorrhoids, and others who were ejaculating whether asleep or awake. Some of the latter — God forbid! — could not control their sexual instincts; no sooner did they set eyes on a female prisoner, guard, or typist than they ejaculated. Another group, whose questions were closely related to those of this last one, was asking about the law’s view of their need to masturbate as a way of relieving their feelings of frustration and sexual denial. In all these cases and others like them, the primary issue involved the meager supply of water they were getting, which made it impossible for them to wash themselves and remove their impurities, something that in turn nullified both their ritual ablutions and prayers.

I proceeded to answer these questions one by one, projecting them through the tube to the person who was now virtually the communal communicator. I recited Qur’anic verses about times of anxiety and hardship, and others dealing with kinder and easier moments. I mentioned the need to keep such difficulties to oneself; in times of hardship and cruelty, necessities could render undesirable conduct legitimate. I counseled them all to remain devout, to perform the prayers of fear, illness, and imprisonment. I categorically forbade any of them who were either ill or incapacitated to fast during Ramadan and other times in case they subjected themselves and their health to potential danger. .

“It’s the messenger’s task to pass on what he hears,” the other voice said. “By God’s power I’ll convey your words to the people who asked the questions. I can hear guards’ footsteps. Cover up the hole with soil. If they happen to notice it one day — heaven forbid! — then blame it on mice and rats. That’ll be a good excuse, and you’ll be safe.”

That was the last thing the voice said before the tube rapidly disappeared. I followed his instructions about the hole, then stayed where I was, staring at my surroundings. The food distributor looked in and stared at the platter in a way that suggested that the gift I had received would last me for days and days, lucky me!

The giant black guard — God grant him a good reward! — had wanted me to have the platter of food and drink for myself alone. If I left it untouched, it would undoubtedly be eaten by the rodents and insects. I had to assume that the food and drink did not contain any deadly poison because the judge who had ordered it sent to me still wanted me alive so he could implement his fiendish plan to use me as a co-opted spy, mufti, and so on. I lunched on some bread, dates, and milk, then poured some water over my face, and stretched out to performed such prayers as I could, training myself in the process to get some rest and peace of mind, both of which I genuinely needed.

While I was relaxing in this way, I remembered the guard who had promised me to bring me pencil and paper, and for whom I had uttered the prayer he had requested of me. I found it odd that he had stayed away and felt sorry, hoping that there was a good reason for it. While I was indulging in these and other obscure thoughts and illusions, I fell into a deep, troubled sleep, which lasted well into the night. I was awakened by noises in the block, as a prisoner tried to appeal to the consciences of the nurses or anyone with an ounce of pity in him to rid him of the hemorrhoids that made it impossible for him to evacuate his bowels or sleep.

Some voices started shouting out my cell number, asking me to shut this prisoner up, by delivering a fatwa or offering him advice. Through the megaphone I responded that I had no knowledge of medicine and pharmacology. Instead, I cited for him the story of the Sufi, a renowned advocate of modesty and salvation, who acquired his own share of hemorrhoids which became acutely painful. He managed to tolerate them till nobody heard any more about them and no one ever bothered to look at his private parts. He told some of his closest devotees that, before he was to die of some other disease, he had gone along with the tales of people and nations who had perished in times of yore, ‘Ad, Thamud, and Pharaoh. Every time his pain became unbearable and acute, he had used their stories as a cooling fan. .

Various voices now competed with each other to pass this piece of information along. Some of them termed it implicit advice on my part, and counseled the sick man to follow the advice so as to relieve himself of the pain and his colleagues of the sound of his groans. And that’s what happened! Only a few minutes went by in the block — amazingly enough! — before absolute silence prevailed, and everyone was able to get back to sleep again. All of them thought that the solution was the consequence of my noble heart, but that was not the way I saw things. I lay there in my cell, consigning the last vestiges of darkness to their distant resting-place and awaiting the first signs of light.