“God is with you, Ilyas,” I shouted as loudly as I could. “You’re dying in the cause of the truth and will rise again in Paradise along with the companions and martyrs. .”
The guard punished me by hitting me on the head from behind. He pointed out that Mama Ghula had just come into the yard on what looked like an inspection tour. She was wearing dark clothing and carrying a collection of black plastic bags. This time she was not accompanied by her gigantic black assistant or any other gorillas With her fat, fleshy body and stunningly ugly appearance, she was the only person who was walking around, strutting like a peahen at times and prowling like a leopard at others. She headed over to the crowd of onlookers and gave them all vicious looks full of contempt, chewing on gum and rubbing her thighs in a suggestive manner that managed to disgust even the most sexually repressed of the prison population. I noticed that she gave me special attention, just in case I decided to surprise her with a lewd wink or salacious gesture. She may have realized that I was challenging her, cursing the day she was born and everything she did; either that, or else that my madness had worsened and intensified. But the whore turned away and ignored me. Then, all of a sudden, a primitive-looking prisoner came into the middle of the yard and galloped toward her like a horse.
“Long live jihad,” he yelled. “Long live revenge! God is most great! He is the only victor. .”
But before he could reach his target, a soldier shot him dead. Witnesses immediately pronounced the fourfold “God is great,” while the man’s killer removed his body from the scene.
Mama Ghula completed her inspection tour without batting an eyelid at what had just happened. She then headed over to the five men and conducted the same sort of inspection routine. Accompanied by a man wearing a clerical costume (which made him look like some kind of demon), she stood in front of each one of them, talking to him as though she was going to either cuff him or bargain with him. That done, she covered his head with a black sack, and the cleric pronounced what I assumed to be the statement of faith or the prayer for forgiveness or both. They both did the same routine with the other four men. When she reached the last man in the row, Ilyas Bu Shama, he resisted having the sack put over his head. He launched himself at her, and bit her on the ear, making it bleed. She cried out in pain, and the cleric rushed away to get help. Soldiers hurried over and rescued their boss.
Defying the iron grip of my guard, I yelled words of triumph and support to Ilyas, accompanied by a muted buzz from the prisoners, which soon became a crescendo of noisy objection and abuse. All the while, the soldiers were emptying their rounds into the bodies of the five men, following the orders of Mama Ghula, who gradually withdrew under the protection of male orderlies. When the guards set about loading the corpses into the back of a truck that was ready to take them away, a tremendous hue and cry arose and threatened to get worse. However, everyone promptly heard the whizz of bullets being fired into the air from some of the guard towers, and the yard was soon wrapped in a silence more profound and deadly than that of the grave.
There now prevailed a truly funereal atmosphere as the prisoners were led away under intensified guard to the communal cafeteria. There they sat down to eat a meal, the repetitive contents of which told me that it was lunch.
I had no desire to break into everyone’s silent contemplation, but rather I needed to perform a religious obligation.
“My friends,” I told the community, “men of profound faith with dreams as large as mountains have today died before your very eyes. We can do no less than turn, one and all, towards the qibla, say the prayer of the absent, and pray for them. . My brothers, let us all say the four ‘God is greats’. .”
Nobody responded or even moved. At some tables, they started laughing out loud, and it gradually spread to other tables as well. The whole thing astonished me, and I was utterly disgusted. How could I not be? How? When things returned to their normal state, I happened to hear something uttered in my direction from one of the tables:
“Weeping over the dead is a waste, saint of God. With enough cares all you can do is laugh. .”
I paid no attention to this comment, but started doing the ritual myself: first once, then again. By the third and fourth time, the sound of other tired voices could be heard praying along with me. When I sat down again, feeling aggravated and disgusted, my neighbor leaned over and whispered in my ear.
“I’ve the solution for you,” he said. “It’ll solve all your problems and provide you with a way out. It makes bitter things taste sweet, things that are tight open up; with it misery turns into a boon. Mama Ghula treats you like a lamb, or a cat even; the director like a cock, and the judge like a donkey. It’s not wine I’m suggesting; that’s forbidden. No, what I’m recommending is ecstasy, extracted from the purest hashish, and at a very reasonable price too. You can have it on credit or else you can perform a service for me. What do you say?”
Shying away in disgust, I rejected his offer. I put my tray back in its place and started looking for my masked guard to take me back to my cell. Once I found him, he told me that this was not a charitable institution for feeding the poor and needy traveler. I would have to help wash the cafeteria’s pots and pans and clean the furniture and walls. I did just that, along with a whole group of other people, although I had no idea whether they were genuine internees or plants. Once that was all done, I again asked to go back to my cell. My guard accompanied me and for the first time asked me if there was anything I wanted to buy on the black market. He named them alclass="underline" American cigarettes, French wine, a Japanese radio, Saudi toothpicks, Indian perfume, Moroccan hashish, local soap, and toothpaste and chewing gum from no particular location. Interrupting, I told him I wanted none of it.
14. Another Torture Session
Back in my cell, I noticed that my bedcover had been decorated with a pair of Nike sneakers, a prayer rug, a miniature bowl, and a bound volume that I assumed was a copy of the Qur’an. There were also some newspapers and magazines (in Arabic and Western languages), with their dates erased and some articles cut out. I assumed that they all went back several years. I immediately sat down and started leafing through the newspapers, reading some of the headlines and articles inside. Some of them made me pause: “Terrorist explosions all over Baghdad leave dozens of people dead and wounded,” “Maghribi women are enslaved and sexually exploited in Gulf countries,” “In Tangier a man from the Gulf deliberately infects his Tunisian companion with AIDS,” “The AIDS virus threatens the entire continent of Africa,” “Networks to transport Maghribi ‘artistes’ to work in Gulf and Middle Eastern brothels,” “The rape of children in and out of schools is an ongoing nightmare in Arab societies,” “Dozens killed and injured in terrorist explosions in the capital city of Algiers,” “A family in Marrakesh sets dogs and snakes loose on their son’s fiancée to force her to have an abortion,” and “Spain keeps a watchful eye on Moroccan fundamentalists who have served in the army.” The magazines were all pornographic, so I threw them into a corner to protect myself with the sheltering veil of modesty and devotion.
There was one article that I read all the way through, describing the incendiary threats issued by the authorities of the Zionist entity against the Arab resistance forces. It confirmed everything that not only I, but also all liberal and oppressed peoples of the world, already know: Israel’s tyrannical regime, duly bolstered by comprehensive and unconditional support from America, is also supported by European regimes and even by certain Arab governments as well. The Palestinian and Lebanese resistance movements are fighting not merely Israel, but also all those other tyrannical forces. It was in that context that I read this article with great enthusiasm; I even jotted down some quotes from it and only wished that I knew who had originally written it.