Benyamin: Goat Days

Our block was like a railway station where people arrived and departed. There were no permanent residents. All the prisoners didn’t come at the same time; they came separately, from different police stations from various corners of the country, on different days, at different times. We sometimes didn’t even discern the slow inward flow. But some departures were like the emptying of a platform when a train arrived.

The day after the inspection by the Arabs was the day of the embassy visit. Embassy officials of different countries came to the prison with release papers for the prisoners of their respective countries. If the previous day was one of tears, the next was one of joy. On that day too, all the prisoners would be taken out in a line. Embassy officials would read out the names of those whose papers — exit passes — had been processed, and they would step forward. It was a rather impatient wait. It amused me to compare it to the anxiety of beauties waiting for the announcement of the Miss Universe contest results. A joy similar to that which lights up the face of the winner when her name is announced must have erupted in the heart of each one whose name was called out. That roll call marked the final release from a long agony. But nobody expressed it openly. There were many more for whom the waiting — wracked with anxiety and hope — continued. There was despair when one recognized that one’s name wasn’t among those that were called out. Some, who had been waiting for months, would just burst into tears.

The five-minute period after this announcement, when the officials went into the prison office to take care of the paperwork, was for us the time of goodbyes. It was the time to recall with tenderness our life together, the many days spent with each other sharing each other’s griefs. Still, it was with great jubilation that those left behind bid farewell to those who departed. It wasn’t possible to say goodbye to too many. Because, by then, the policeman’s whistle, like that of the moving train, would go off. All those called would run towards the exit. Who would like a policeman’s belt smack his back as he leaves prison?

I felt an intense fear creep into my heart as I spent many days like that in the prison. Those who came before me and after me had left for the homeland. My papers alone were yet to be processed. I knew those who were released had passports and other documents. It was not reasonable to expect the processing of my permit to be as fast as theirs. Still, there was only so much time one needed to get the papers in order. It was already four or five months since I entered the prison. My only solace was that Hameed was there with me to share my misfortune. His papers hadn’t been processed either.

Every week, we would have great expectations when the embassy officials arrived and we would suffer greater disillusionment when they left. I had surrendered myself to the police believing Kunjikka’s assurances that he would take care of all the rest. It will be taken care of. I must trust Kunjikka. My God … who else will I trust in this world if I don’t trust Kunjikka? In Your mercy, forgive me for doubting him even for this half a second of despair, and for forgetting all the favours he did for me in Your name.

These are embassy matters. Everything will happen only in its turn. I have waited and endured for so long. What is another day or two? The time Allah, the merciful, has set for me has not yet come. That was the satisfactory explanation for the delay.

It was that day of the week when the Arabs came to the prison. By then, Hameed and I had become veteran inmates. Since the new arrivals worried more about the Arabs coming in, Hameed and I pacified them as we walked past them to stand at the end of the line. By now, we had become familiars to the policemen. I thought they felt some sympathy for me after hearing my story. Because of that we didn’t have to be as disciplined as the new ones. It had become our habit to talk, laugh indiscriminately and make fun of others, while we stood there.

I was saying something to Hameed when his facial expression suddenly changed. Surprised, I looked at him questioningly. For some time, he stood like that. ‘Oh Najeeb …’ he cried in a faint voice. I don’t know how many emotions were solidified in that cry — sorrow, fear, hurt, pain. It was only then I learned that so many emotions could coalesce into a single cry. One of life’s raw moments that no artist in the world can capture.

There was no need for Hameed to say anything else. I looked towards the spot on which his eyes remained frozen. An Arab was walking towards us. Even before he reached us, Hameed began to howl. And because of that, the Arab did not have to wander searching for his prey. The one he came looking for was there, crying loudly in front of his eyes.

As soon as he saw Hameed, the Arab jumped at him like a cheetah and rained blows on him. He beat him with his hand, his belt and the iqal which secures the gutra , till his anger subsided. Like the others in the block, I could only watch and cry.

‘I wanted to go home. I could not bear to be there any longer. Let me go … leave me … leave me …’ Although Hameed screamed, the Arab dragged him to the room of the warden.

That was the last time I saw Hameed. Though I wondered what happened to him, I could not trace him. How many lives like that end halfway, incomplete! Helpless creatures who fade away, unable to recount their stories to anyone.

The familiarity of a few days, much friendship — that was Hameed for me. He had worked in a farm from dawn till night, undergoing torture for low wages. He ran away when it became unbearable. When he reached the prison, Hameed was four times happier than I was. He strongly believed that once he had reached the safety of the government, he would not be caught by the Arab again. But how suddenly does the world turn upside down! That day, the whole block was silent. He was dear to everyone. He mingled with everyone like they were his own. Cracked great jokes. He was like an elder brother to many. Finally we had to see him being dragged away howling. I could not recall anyone in the recent past who had protested so loudly when taken back by an Arab.

It was what happened the next day that hurt even more. Hameed’s was the first name to be called out that day by the embassy officials. Oh my Lord, you had not allowed for this name to be called last week. If it had been called out, his life would have been so different and joyful. No. I am not going to contest your judgement. I firmly trust in your exactness. If you would speak to him and convince him that the time of suffering you have ordained for him has not ended.

When Hameed left, I felt very lonely in the prison. I could not be very friendly with the newcomers. I confined myself to a corner, hardly talking to anyone. I began to eat infrequently. In fact, most days I didn’t eat. The loss of Hameed was the loss of my happiness. I would wait anxiously and briefly feel revived when the embassy people dropped in once a week. When we approached them to ask about our papers, they would narrate stories of many complicated papers being processed. They left giving us hope, every time, that everything would be ready by the next week. Thus, I waxed into hope and waned into despair in a regular cycle.

Many such days passed in prison and yet another parade day arrived. I was standing in the queue without any particular fear or anxiety. Many Arabs kept walking past us. Then, suddenly, a face appeared at the farthest end of the line. As that face came into view, thunder rumbled through me. I called Allah just like Hameed had done a few days ago!

It was my own arbab , who I firmly believed would never come in search of me. Arbab! My arbab whom I met for the first time at the Riyadh airport some four years ago. I was dizzy with fear. I thought I would fall down as I grabbed the hand of the person standing next to me.