Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

When morning came, the guard whom I had been long awaiting finally arrived. He put breakfast down in front of me and kissed my head in thanks. I asked him why, and he responded delightedly in a loud voice that I begged him to lower.

“You, by Almighty God, are a genuine saint. Your prayers have been answered. My unmarried daughter has been married to a nice man, and my second wife has had a baby boy after only giving me daughters!”

“That is all from God’s own bounty alone,” I replied. “He alone deserves the praise. He is the Generous Giver.”

“I’m giving you this bag of pencils and paper to fulfill my promise to you. You can expect even more from me if you can make another prayer for me. .”

“Is it for something good?” I asked anxiously.

“It’s all good as far as I am concerned. I want God to give my boss a heart attack so I can be rid of his violent ways and take his place.”

“That’s a nasty prayer to ask for, and the consequences are far from clear.”

“Please don’t say no. I kiss your hand. .”

“I would need to know a lot more about you, your boss, the site of the center, and the identities of its bosses and directors.”

“I only know a little bit about those things. If I revealed even that little to you, Saint of God, my head would roll before your prayer had even a chance to get rid of my boss. . I have to go now before our relationship arouses suspicions. .”

“Go then and think carefully. Let me do the same. However can you give some help to the sick people on this block?”

“I’ll tell a female doctor whom I trust and some other nurses about their condition and yours. God be with you!”

I was longing to ask him if the doctor was the same one that I’d met in the clinic and who has treated me so kindly, but, before I could do so, the guard kissed me on the forehead and hurried out. I now turned to the breakfast tray and ate everything before it went cold. When I checked on my leg, I noticed that it was even more swollen; congealed blood in the veins was making the dark blue area spread even further. I hurriedly wrapped it in the mufti’s scarf to protect it from the chill of the morning air, then took the undergarments from the table, put them on with a good deal of difficulty, and wrapped myself in the mufti’s cloak under the blanket, where I decided to wait and see what would happen next.

As torture experts are well aware, boredom and routine are types of psychological torture that can be applied to break prisoners’ wills, reduce their self-esteem to zero, and destroy them — all with the goal of making them compliant and submissive in mind and body. However, as I look back in time, I can see myself having cultivated a resistance, endurance, and steadfast posture of defiance. Now that I had been through so much and traveled so far, it was no time to crack up and give way. My leg might well have to be amputated, so let them do it! As for my asthma, well, it might hit me at any time. So, by the true work of the Creator, I shall either move forward to rescue and victory, even if it means crawling; or else I shall perish and surrender my soul, happy and sufficient, to its Creator.

I noted these thoughts down on my new notepad, and added some further comments in which I condemned lust and the humiliation of slavery and extolled the pure air of emancipation and liberal existence.

My activities were interrupted by noises through the tube from my neighbor. He began by thanking me on behalf of all the inmates in the block and himself for all the kind words of advice I had offered yesterday. He told me that they had all asked that I give them some of the dates and raisins from my platter to eat so they could all sweeten their own mouths and stomachs and share all the benefits with me. I was glad to do as they asked and passed as much as I could through the tube until only a little bit was left. A few moments later voices were raised, promising me dates and raisins in paradise; still others wished me well for interceding with the guards so that the sick people in the block could be transferred to the clinic for treatment — particularly those who kept screaming in pain and others who kept making vain attempts to suppress their agony. There was one voice, sounding like a bugle, who asked me to respond urgently to a series of questions that he described as being difficult. When your endurance is at an end, he asked, and your body is totally destroyed by torture, does the Shari‘a law allow you to commit suicide? And, with the reference to God, is He with the crushers or the crushed? Are people allowed to listen to dirty jokes as a way of lightening the burden of weary and oppressed souls?

The entire place fell suddenly silent, as though the entire group was waiting for my responses. I paused for a while to think, then used my crutches to move over to the door, holding the megaphone.

“My brother,” I said, “Shari‘a law forbids outright anyone killing himself. ‘Do not kill yourselves; God has been merciful to you’ (Qur’an, Sura of Women, 4, v. 29). God Almighty’s mercy demands of human beings that they endure suffering and misfortune. The idea that God should consort with wrongdoers and tyrants is abhorrent — Heaven forfend! God stands far above such a notion, He who never wrongs the slightest thing. He it is who addresses His prophet Noah who has to confront his rebellious nation: ‘Do not address Me regarding those who have done wrong. They are drowned.’ (Qur’an, Surat Hud, v. 37). With regard to jokes, the idea is to make time pass easily, not to kill it. The general purpose is to provide the soul with some solace and benefit. So, if someone has a store of tales that are disgusting, then he should let people know that his jokes are going to be like that. Modest and bashful people can then block their ears. If time and place were different, I could provide you with more elaborate answers. .”

Hardly had I finished before a watchman whom I had never set eyes on before grabbed the megaphone from me and told me to stop talking and withdraw. I decided to do as he asked, whereupon he frowned threateningly at me and retraced his steps. I assume that his colleagues must have done the same thing with the other inmates of the block, because for a while everything suddenly went silent, interrupted by occasional throat-clearings and coughs. After a while another voice could be heard, chanting the Sura of Yasin. After cleaning my hands from the bottle, I followed the text in my copy of the Qur’an. When the voice finished chanting, I continued reading some other chapters from the Qur’an, using them as sources of divine inspiration to rid the soul of its dross and carry it aloft to the realms of contemplation and reflection.

When I woke up and looked around, I saw the gigantic black guard leaning over me. He had a sympathetic look on his face as he removed the Qur’an from my chest and placed it on the platter with the thurible and perfume bottle. He then gave me a series of signals from which I deduced that he wanted me to accompany him to the hospital for treatment. His expression gave no other indications besides what he had just communicated to me, but nevertheless I indicated how delighted I was. He helped me get up, but I was so weak and giddy that he had to carry me on his shoulders, with my two crutches under his armpit. As he carried me slowly along the block, my neighbors stood by the cell doors, enthusiastically shouting my name and wishing me well: “Long live the Saint of God, Hamuda! Long live the hero, Hamuda! May he live long!” Some of them even prayed that I would be able to endure the torture that awaited me in the female ghoul’s torture chamber, while others prayed to God and his faithful saints that they would help me endure my sufferings and bring me back alive to their quarters so they could benefit from my advice and I could explain to them what the word tazabbab meant in Arabic.