“Miss,” she corrected me.
“So, Mademoiselle,” I replied defiantly, “I have nothing to add or delete. Either the whole report is accepted, or it’s all deleted.”
Leaping to her feet she came over and started chastising me.
“The judge will remove exactly what he wishes from your report and will compel you to tell the truth about yourself. Should you refuse or behave defiantly, Mama Ghula will be able to remove you from existence with one flick of a knife. Are you belittling me because I’m a woman? Just take a look at my hand: it may have silk gloves on, but it’s made of steel.”
With that she slapped my face so hard that I almost fainted.
“And that’s just a sample,” she yelled angrily, her eyes red with fury. “Now get up and get out!”
Once outside the door, the black guard who had escorted me to the toilet started describing the woman and the restrictions I was under. I understood that what he was doing was letting me purge myself of illicit thoughts, something he undoubtedly had to do with every man who found himself sitting with and talking to this temptress of a woman and possessed even the slightest degree of masculinity and chance.
7. Yet Another Wounded Man on My Bed
Back in my cell, I noticed that my bedcover was sticking up as though it had been stuffed with straw, alfalfa, or something like that. I lifted the bottom part, only to discover two human feet. I thought it was Ilyas Bu Shama, so I yelled his name as I lifted the top part. I found a head completely wrapped in bandages; all that was visible was a pair of closed eyes and a thin moustache that made it clear that it was not Ilyas, unless he had recently started a moustache. I lay down on the other bed, my mind going over all the images and scenes that I had witnessed in this strange, horrendous place whose exact location and the nature of whose functions and purposes were still a matter for conjecture and guesswork on my part. Just as I was dozing off, there was a knock on the door, and I was given some lunch through the aperture. I asked if my new cell mate was Ilyas Bu Shama, but the guard said that he knew no one of that name and then went away. I was now left with the question as to whether my particular cell had been designated as the favorite spot for major casualties, the prisoners who had been subjected to the very worst kinds of torture.
I sat there toying with pieces of bread that I dunked in a tasteless broth, if only to stave off a rampant hunger. Thoughts kept occurring to me, intended to clarify the situation in which I found myself and dispel some of my worst suspicions and anxieties.
Through the absolute silence of my contemplation there now broke an intermittent moaning from the person spread-eagled on the bed in front of me. I rushed over to say how glad I was that he had regained consciousness, but — amazingly enough — he started pushing me away with both hands and saying things that showed how frightened he was of me. There was nothing I could say by way of assurance and comfort that managed to calm his growing panic. I moved quickly back to my own corner and huddled there, all the while listening to him as he raved that I was a double agent charged by the administration with spying on him and providing details of his periods of movement and rest. I pronounced a solemn oath to him, saying that I was a prisoner with all the same concerns that he had; I was neither an informer nor a spy. He did not respond, but I think that my solemn oath penetrated his hearing. I did the same thing twice more, and at that point he signaled to me to come over. I sat down by his head, and he stared at me with tear-filled eyes. He now uncovered the lower half of his body.
“Look, my friend,” he told me in a crushed tone. “See what those bastards have done to me! They’ve castrated my right testicle, and they’ve threatened to do the same with the other one if I don’t do what they ask and cooperate.”
I did my best to control my emotions and hold back tears.
“God fight them and destroy them in this world before the next!” I said. “But tell me, my friend, what kind of cooperation is it they want from you?”
“They’re asking for the names of a jihadist cell that I don’t even know. They want to know about a number of people they’re looking for, some of whom I only know in passing — a connection as thin as a spider’s web, others who are either friends or relations. Was I supposed to do evil to people who have been good to me or implicate them so as to avoid the kinds of dire punishment that this woman called Mama Ghula inflicts on people? I am a God-fearing person. If I did such a thing, I’m afraid I’d spend all eternity in hellfire — and ‘evil is it as a resort.’ My friend, do you agree with me on this?”
“Of course I do!” I agreed spontaneously. “In my view you’re replicating the actions of our noble Prophet who possessed the very noblest character.”
“When that fiendish torturess finally gave up on me,” he said, “she brought in someone wearing a mask whom she described as the center’s deputized surgeon. She ordered him to do what he did. Shall I take off the bandage from my scrotum and show you the bloody scar?”
When I fervently indicated that I did not wish to see it, he acquiesced, albeit reluctantly. He now succumbed to a flood of violent tears, only interrupted by a question:
“If you were in my place, my friend,” he asked, “what would you have done?”
I stared at him, panic-stricken and lost for words.
“I’m almost thirty,” he went on, “and I hope to fulfill my religious obligations by getting married. The surgeon swore to me that even with a single testicle you can still get married and have children, just like someone who can see with only a single eye, or has only one lung with which to breathe, or one kidney to purify his blood. Now I’m faced with two choices, each one of which is a bitter pill to swallow: to continue with my resistance, in which case the result will be complete and terminal castration — and, once that is done, which woman would ever accept me into her bed? Either that, or else surrendering and losing all respect with people. I tell Mama Ghula and the investigating judge everything I know about the people they are looking for. I’ll be cooperating with a gang of spies and undercover agents in getting them arrested. So answer me, friend: if you were in my place, what would you do?”
I frowned, not only because the question itself totally dismayed me but also because I was being forced to make a choice.
“For the time being you can remain neutral and say nothing,” he went on. “but don’t be surprised if one day during your time in prison you find yourself having to answer the very same question. But for now, give me something to eat and drink, then let me rest. I’ve already talked too much.”
I swiftly responded to his request. Before he fell asleep, I asked him his name.
“‘Umar ar-Rami,” he replied.
When I asked him where this prison was located, he signaled that he had no idea.
As I wrapped myself in my bedcover, I could not help thinking about this helpless man, now threatened with the loss of his second testicle, and then about Ilyas, the man who had spent the night in my cell but was not there the next morning. My mind was churning with all sorts of questions and uncertainties, sending me into a bewildering vortex of fear that was only dispelled when a guard came tiptoeing into my cell and signaled to me to follow him.
“Exercise is better than worry,” he whispered in my ear.
Quite the contrary, in fact. On this ultimately scary and vicious vessel, such emphasis on exercise was yet another problem. The people in charge had completely transformed its significance; the well-known proverb “mens sana in corpore sano” had been converted into a combination of a sick joke and a demeaning routine.