Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

I was not of a mind to let them use and insult me as they wished, particularly when I heard them negotiating as to who would be using me as a bags of skin and bones to toss around; anyone who failed to catch it (meaning me) would have to pay his dues, implying a round of drinks or hashish. I took advantage of this chatter and their rest time and slunk away. I ran around the courtyard, hither and yon, looking for somewhere to hide or escape. When some of the men I had run away from caught up with me, I managed to avoid them by slipping out of their reach and getting away. Just as my breath was beginning to run out, I hurled myself at a guard and told him my name and cell number. I begged him to protect me and take me to see the investigating judge. How I rendered praises to God when the guard ordered the men who were chasing me to go back to their exercise.

“You’re Hamuda!” he yelled at me. “What a lucky chance! The judge has been asking me about you. Let’s go to see him now. But first you need to shower, shave and put on some fresh clothes. Follow me.”

Duly amazed, I followed him. My only hope was that, now that I had escaped from the bulging-muscle brigade and was on my way to see the judge who would decide my fate, I was not simply going from the frying pan into the fire. To convince me that nothing worse could possibly happen, I obeyed the guard’s three injunctions. A few hours later I had washed my body and mouth, shaved my beard and head, and put on a black suit, white shirt, and red tie, keeping my Nike shoes to help me walk.

For hours, the guard kept me in a narrow room that was locked, but I did not mind; quite the contrary in fact, I was enjoying the quiet music that emerged from speakers in the ceiling, not to mention other services being offered by a beautiful, dark brown hostess: refreshing drinks, a splendid lunch followed by cups of decent tea, and a variety of delicious sweets. I tried to get the hostess to talk and gathered that she was Filipina and only spoke English. In a few broken phrases I communicated to her how grateful I was and that I did not know much English. I apologized for my awful accent.

As I sat there alone in this room, I spent several moments in front of the mirror, staring at my body and noticing how incredibly thin it was and how bad my face looked: Few teeth in my mouth, sunken cheeks, a jutting nose, dark eyes with little glow to them, hair and beard flecked with grey. Escaping from the realities of the miscreant mirror, I sat down on the bench, unable to decide whether to stop thinking about things and relish the current moment, or else to try to guess what was going on in the judge’s mind; what new tempting offers or unpleasant surprises would he be springing on me if I stuck to my guns or, as he would term it, my stubborn behavior.

I remained in that state until the hostess returned in the evening and invited me to accompany her at once. With her, I got into a jeep with its armed driver. For about five kilometers we crossed the desert at high speed. The jeep stopped in front of a sturdy-looking building with fences all around. I followed the hostess inside, where the air conditioning gave one a sense of relaxation. After I had gone through an electronic screening machine, a foreign soldier subjected me to a detailed manual search of my body. He told me to remove my shoes and put them in a basket, and I did so. After he had disappeared into a side room, he came back and handed me some moccasins to replace my own shoes that he was going to keep for reasons that I could not ask about because of the language problem. Putting the moccasins on, I followed the hostess through lobbies and halls with American décor and furniture till we reached a bar with the name Zemzem Bar written above the door. She told me to sit on a separate bench that she pointed out for me, then said her farewells and left.

The bar had an American design, at least as far as my knowledge of Western movies made me aware. The majority of the people in it were Americans; theirs was the only language that was to be heard. I tapped out a rhythm on the low table and whispered the tune sung by the late Husayn Salawi: “All you hear is Okay, Okay, come on, bye-bye.”

One of the barmaids caught my attention, not just because her breasts were almost naked and she was extremely beautiful, but also because she looked very much like Na‘ima, the judge’s secretary, the woman who had been so kind to me. Without even realizing what I was doing or thinking about the possible consequences, I rushed over to her and whispered her name. She pretended not to know me and told me that she would be bringing what I ordered. I went back to my spot as quickly as possible so as not to disturb her or arouse suspicion in any prying eyes. A few moments later, when I realized that no one was paying me any attention, Na‘ima came over and put a glass of orange juice on my table.

“If you talk to me,” she whispered, “you’ll ruin my entire life.”

And with that she melted rapidly away.

“No, a thousand times no, Na‘ima!!” I told myself. “I’ll never ruin your life. It’s quite enough already that my own life is in ruins, quite enough. .”

But how could I keep quiet about these soldiers and foreign detectives, strutting around so arrogantly. Dear Na‘ima, they will never make you an exception to the way they treat waitresses and other barroom girls. One of them taps your backside for pleasure, while another squeezes your breasts, puffs his cigarette smoke all over them, and raises a toast to their beauty. Yet another pulls you toward him and gives your mouth a passionate kiss.

So, tell me, Na‘ima, am I supposed to say nothing as I watch these disgusting goings-on? Should I simply swallow my fury, or do I have the right to pounce on these Yankees and curse them for fooling around with you? Should I tell them: “Listen, you pig, don’t touch any Moroccan girls, or else. .”

Or else what, Hamuda?! You’re so weak, so sick and completely crushed; a surefire candidate at any time for murder by a knife thrust or fatal blow to the heart or head. You’re a total nonentity, a flea. By God, all you can do is cower in your chair and grovel. You’re dreaming if you think you can put up a fight. So you disapprove of the lewd behavior you’re watching and giving this haven of debauchery the holy name of the Zemzem well in Mecca. Fair enough, but you had better keep it all under wraps. If you so much as air it in public, it will be the end of you.

A large number of people of both sexes began to populate the bar. As I watched, mouths and bodies started responding to the glasses of alcohol, not to mention the music, which attracted more and more people to the dance floor. Hands and legs intertwined, and the dancers rocked and swayed as they kept up the bump and grind, and so on and so on. .

Na‘ima came over to me as I sat there at the edge of this scene. She gave me a glass of water that I smelled but did not drink. My expression showed how much I disapproved of the whole thing, but the words that she whispered in my ear had the opposite effect, bringing me a sense of warmth and serenity:

“Here’s a vial of blood. Hide it. When your interview with the judge comes to an end, break it open and spit the contents out. Complain to him that you have a bad cough and think you may have contracted tuberculosis. But don’t mention me. Farewell!”

It was only a few minutes after my adviser, Na‘ima, had disappeared into the crowd before someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Get up and follow me,” they said.

The person who had instructed me to follow her was wearing a military uniform; in all likelihood she was a foreigner. As I followed her through corridors and halls, the din from the nightclub gradually diminished. She took me through one door, then a second and a third and made a telephone call on her mobile. After a few minutes’ wait, she was authorized to enter. I followed her into a wide lounge with muted red lighting. I spotted the judge sitting cross-legged on a wheeled couch, his face showing all the signs of an advanced state of drunkenness. My escort sat me down on a chair, gave a military salute, then left.