Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

The entire corridor is ringing with the sound of feet and voices chattering. The stretcher-bearers are taking the sick and dead prisoners out of their cells. Among the latter is the prisoner opposite me who was always wrapped in his blanket and two of his neighbors. As I watched, I prayed to God to grant them all mercy. Through a megaphone, a loud voice then kept announcing that the major soirée would be happening and encouraged all healthy prisoners to attend. To make sure it was a success, they were told to get themselves washed and remove the foul stench from their bodies. The same voice went on to say that the people who were invited had to get rid of any weapons — knives, razors, and the like. Anyone who did not do so would be caught by the electronic screening devices; the punishment would be twenty consecutive days in the dungeon.

The man making the announcement looked into my cell and urged me to wash myself. The sound of his voice kept babbling until it faded away down the block. I struggled to my feet, telling myself that the gang in charge of the center seemed to be claiming to have plenty of machines to collect foul stenches! As I took off my clothes, the whole idea forced a reluctant chuckle out of me. I went over to the water tap and discovered that there was plenty of water to be had, something very unusual. I washed my shirt, sprinkled water over my body, beginning with my armpits, buttocks, and pubic region, and, as a crowning gesture, performed a ritual ablution that was worthy of the name. After performing the obligatory prayers, I sat cross-legged on my bed, waiting for my shirt to dry and to see what happened next.

There was a weird atmosphere of silence in the cells and the corridor, and I had no idea what kind of din might follow it. As a way of passing the time, I decided to make a kind of perfume as best I could, one I could use to rinse and scent myself. I squeezed some toothpaste into a glass of water, dissolved and shook it, till it was a liquid suitable to my needs. At the same time I prayed to God that He would look on ‘Umar al-Rami with His mercy, he being the one who had given me two tubes of this priceless commodity — may God reward him with something yet more precious and valuable in His eternal paradise!

While I was wrapped in my blanket and still putting my shirt where it could catch the breeze from the upper window, I heard some other voices — some shouting, others merely muttering; they were complaining and protesting. How could he attend the soirée, he was asking, when he was suffering from penile dysfunction? Whenever anything emerged from his penis, it came in painful spurts. Another person was asking for some soap so he could wash properly and remove the filth from his body. Still another said that it was very unlikely that he would attend the soirée since his clothes were filthy and he had no incense or rosewater to perfume himself. The other voices were too far removed or else their voices were not clear, so I could not hear what they were saying.

Just before sunset, I was fully prepared. Putting on my modern suit and tie first, I had then put the prison uniform over it. I had used my own special perfume again and brushed my beard and what hair I had left. A few moments later a guard called out my number and took me via some empty cells to a hall where a large number of prisoners had gathered, although I did not recognize any of them. The majority of them looked grim and downcast, as though they were either going to their own deaths, or else to a funeral, rather than a major soirée. The gestures and affectations of any of them who looked happy and contented made it clear that they were either hashish addicts or mentally deranged.

A whistle was blown to indicate that the group was to move on, and the guards started hustling people along like a herd of cattle. As the group made its way through halls and lobbies, the number grew. When we left the building and headed via courtyards and squares to another one, a soldier took me aside and, avoiding my questions, told me to walk ahead of him. When we reached the side of a sandy hill that was deserted except for two soldiers and a man wearing a jurist’s cloak, the last of the three pronounced the phrases “In the name of God” and “Only God has the power” and then addressed me. He asked me first to confirm my name and prisoner number.

“The list of your crimes and sins is a lengthy one, man from Oujda,” he said. “Most recently you’ve tried to escape and then occupied a cell that does not have your number on it. So answer me swiftly: Do you seek repentance?”

“I have done nothing wrong that would require repentance,” I replied. “I did not run away. I was with the judge, and at his request. .”

That made them all guffaw.

“This claim — in fact, this utter falsehood — is yet another crime, which only makes things that much worse. Tell me, aren’t you afraid to die?”

“God Almighty has said: ‘Every soul tastes death, and We test you with good and evil as a temptation. Then unto Us do you return” [Sura 21, Anbiya, v. 35].

“So that’s how little value you place on your own soul?! Is it because you can’t find a job? At a time when massive unemployment is spreading like a deadly plague, why aren’t you looking for work?”

“I would certainly look for work if it were legitimate and honorable and provided me with a living wage.”

“I can see that you’re both coarse and stubborn. You deserve neither forgiveness nor mercy. So now prepare to die; you can either be buried alive or be shot. The method used is not by compulsion — Islam forbids such a thing, but rather one that the explicit texts of our righteous religion do not forbid, either heads or tails. It’s up to you, so which one do you choose.”

“In God’s name,” I replied, utterly stunned, “I. . I. . choose. .”

“Very well then,” he went on, “here’s a coin. I’ll toss it in the air, and let it fall into my hand. I’ll make the choice instead. Do we agree?”

This phony jurist did as he said. When the decision was made, he came over and kissed me.

“You’re so lucky,” he yelled in congratulation. “You’re to be shot. That’s much kinder than burying you alive. I’m so happy for you! There are also two different ways of doing the shooting. The first has the soldiers in charge, in which case they fire either live rounds or rubber bullets that do not kill. The second way involves us giving you a revolver with a silencer, which you yourself point at your head; either it fires a live round or else there’s nothing that kills and the only noise is the sound of the firing pin. So which do you choose? This time you have to make the decision.”

“Let’s do it the first way,” I replied, my head still spinning with his dreadful words.

He now instructed the soldiers to take their positions at the legally sanctioned distance, while I recited the Islamic statement of faith. The man now came over to me.

“I’ll exempt you from this imminent threat of death,” he told me, “provided that you accept the judge’s offer. You know it by heart.”

I signaled my refusal, and he moved back to his former position.

“Three, two, one, zero,” he yelled.

The bullets struck me all at once. I sank to the ground, but was still alive. When I spotted blood splattering my chest, I had no doubt that I was bleeding profusely and about to die. When that seemed to be taking a while and I was still waiting, I heard the people who had carried out the sentence guffawing with laughter and poking fun at me. From the ground I saw two shoes, the owner of which ordered me to get up. As I stood up slowly, my entire being was completely shattered. The person addressing me was this so-called jurist.

“We’re postponing even your death for a while,” he told me, doing his best not to laugh. “That’s so you can think seriously about things and make the best decision. How lucky you are! The blood on your chest is actually tomato ketchup. Wipe it off and go to the soirée. Good-bye!”