Bensalem Himmich - My Torturess

I obeyed the order of this soldier who had disguised himself as a jurist and followed a soldier to the place he was indicating.

My escort halted me and then told me to go in. Once inside, a guard told me to sit on an empty chair at the back of the hall. I was surprised that no one had used an electronic device to search me for weapons or check on my bodily odors; maybe because I had come late or stories about the electronic scanner had been a pack of lies. I asked someone sitting opposite me where we were. He seemed perplexed by the question, so I specifically asked where this detention center was. He pointed his finger at his head and turned away. I stayed where I was, although I resisted the temptation to fall asleep by looking at people’s backs and watching the prying eyes all around the hall.

The hall where the soirée was taking place was actually the dining hall that had been turned into a kind of theater. The audience consisted of the various types and categories of prisoner, surrounded by guards and a few soldiers who kept going up and down the rows. Everyone was facing a wide stage lit by flashing strobe lights that pulsated to the soft rhythms of some jazz blues. As the prisoners sat there and waited, various salesmen wandered up and down the rows with bags and baskets: one offering cold drinks, another snacks and sandwiches, and a third — who was most successful at flaunting his ware.

“Listen, folks,” he shouted, “if there are no more beans, don’t blame my means!”

A short while after I had taken a seat, a girl got up on to the stage. Her bodily attributes made it obvious — but God knows best — that she was none other than Nahid Busni. She started singing in a thoroughly suggestive fashion, and her reddened lips spoke into a handheld microphone. Here’s some of what I managed to pick up:

“What to drink when you’re thirsty? What can you drink that will make you feel happy and vigorous again? What lets you feel young all over again? Drink what I do, Pepsi Cola! Young folk only drink Pepsi. Pepsi Cola makes girls feel sexy and men strong. And here’s the last thing I have to tell you: When my boyfriend and I are feeling bored and start quarreling with each other, we lie down on a Rich-bond bed and that makes us happy and loving all over again! Rich-bond, Rich-bond. . wow, what a bed!”

This girl waved at the crowd. By now I had no doubt in my mind that she was Nahid Busni, the only difference being that, whereas she had previously been pronouncing the letter “r” as “gh,” now she was turning the “qaf” into a “hamza.” My assumption was confirmed when the prisoners started yelling her name out; as she sashayed her way off the stage. Some of them even invited her to try a straw bed where she would find some real men.

Once she had left the stage, her place was taken by a fat, bald man with a yellowing beard who started leaping and charging across the stage. He was wearing a yellow suit and carrying a microphone in one hand and a red handkerchief in the other which he waved at times and used to wipe the sweat off his forehead at others.

“Dear audience,” he shouted, “may your enjoyment and delight last forever! The girl in that part of the show with the lovely voice and perfect shape has now left the stage, but she’ll be back, thanks to your polite reception. I’m the master of ceremonies this evening, and I’ll be back to let you all know more about this wonderful evening, one that will break the ice and remove all the nasty disputes between brothers. All that will happen according to the sacred verse that says: ‘You are all Adam’s descendants, and mankind comes from Eve.’”

A number of voices were raised to correct him, and the emcee hurriedly apologized.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he went on. “The tongue has no bones in it! We’ve been looking into the complaints that some of you have raised against others and propose to use either consensus or majority vote to come to decisions about them on this stage — all with a view to being absolutely fair, reconciling people with each other, and being totally impartial. There’s only one complaint remaining, and it’s been raised by prisoner 19, who is present among us against prisoner 112. I see a hand raised. . maybe the defendant. So let him come up to the stage along with the plaintiff. Be quick now; time is not on our side. You are Hamuda from Oujda, correct? You’re a cultured man, right? This man, ‘Allal Munkhar, accuses you of causing him to receive sixty lashes because you encouraged him to applaud you during a previous cross-examination. We can give you a choice: do you want to receive the same number of lashes as he did in front of this crowd, or would you prefer to kiss his head and beg him to forgive you?”

To bring closure to this farce, I had no choice but to accept the second option. As I used the microphone to ask the man’s forgiveness, my eyes happened to fall on two men sitting side by side in the front row. The emcee came back on to the stage, and both he and the plaintiff urged me to leave.

“Praise be to God!” the emcee said. “The kiss has taken place and the file is now closed. Why are you standing there like a statue, Oujda man?”

I pointed to the two men.

“That man and the other man beside him, I know them both,” I declared.

“Do you have a complaint to raise against them?”

“That one is Ilyas Abu Shama, who was killed in the main courtyard a while ago in front of witnesses, but here he is now, alive and kicking! The other one is ‘Umar al-Shami, who was killed in my presence only yesterday, and yet here he is too, alive and kicking!”

The emcee used the microphone to relay my comment, and the whole place erupted in laughter.

“Time’s short,” he told me. “Choose one of them, and we’ll see if things go for or against you.”

I pointed at ‘Umar al-Rami, and he came up on stage. I tried to embrace and kiss him, but he refused and pushed me away.

“By what heavenly miracle are you still alive?” I asked him as affectionately as I could while the emcee kept switching the microphone between the two of us. “I watched the soldiers fire a fusillade of bullets at you.”

“None of what you say ever happened,” he replied in a dry tone. “You’re certainly mistaken. .”

“My dear brother,” I went on, “don’t you remember the night they put you in my cell? It was after you’d been brought from the torture chamber with the most dreadful wounds. I saved you and looked after you. Please remember, I beg of you. .”

“Listen, everyone,” he replied, “this man’s spouting nonsense. Everything you’re saying is a pack of lies!”

“We need to get back to the program,” the emcee interrupted. “Can anyone suggest a way forward or a solution. .?”

Some voices were raised, suggesting that Shari‘a principles be applied: the burden of proof rests with the plaintiff, and those who wish to deny it have to be prepared to swear. Someone else demanded that I describe the body of the now resurrected dead person in detail. The emcee obtained my agreement to the proposal. When I pointed out that the prisoner’s uniform that I was wearing was actually ‘Umar’s, he objected that all uniforms looked the same. I then whispered in the emcee’s ear that he should investigate whether ‘Umar had been castrated or not. He gave me a weird look and let out a series of guffaws that sounded like women at weddings. The effect spread to the rest of the audience.

“No, no!” he chuckled. “That’s impossible! This is a prize, something you’ll never forget even if you manage to forget all about this soirée. Listen, everyone, and bear it in mind for later. Now as before, words count and the verdict will be carried out. This lad here claims that his rival has been castrated, and he wants it checked. Can you imagine such a dreadful accusation?”