We reached the gate of a prison building whose number I could not make out. There the soldiers handed me over to a gorilla-like guard. The leader told him to put me temporarily into the cell of the deceased prisoner, ‘Umar al-Rami, in the dormitory where no one slept. The corridor leading to my temporary new abode had cells with iron bars on either side so that you could see what was going on inside. In this particular block the level of privacy and personal intimacy was zero or even less! Once the guard had locked the door, all I could do was throw myself down on the bed and try to sleep off the trials and tribulations of the previous day.
It was not daylight that woke me up, but the sound of a variety of song and dance tunes that reverberated in my cell in continuous clashing waves of noise. Even though it was still night, I opened my eyes and realized where I was now. I got up to investigate and discovered that the cell opposite mine was occupied by the figure of someone wrapped in his bedsheet, most probably asleep. I yelled to him several times, asking him what was going on, and requesting that he let me sleep and have some peace and quiet, but there was no response. Going back to my bed, I lay down and contemplated my new misfortune, the noise that was now emerging from transistor radios and the loudspeakers on the walls and ceilings. I was anxious to find some distraction for my senses and nerves, so I started checking on the late ‘Umar al-Rami’s belongings. All I found was a medium-sized radio that I immediately hid, a circular-shaped comb, two tubes of toothpaste with no brush, and a blue prisoner’s uniform, which I put on over my Western suit so as to give me extra protection against the cold. My sense of smell told me that there was some food in a sealed bag, so I opened it and proceeded to assuage my hunger with some bits of bread, olives, and boiled potatoes. I then used water through a thin tube to clear the mucus from my nose and cleaned my teeth by putting some toothpaste on my finger. I lay down to get some rest, but the deafening noise of the music made that impossible. As time went by, it never let up.
Late at night, there was a sudden silence. I seized the opportunity to get some sleep, but almost immediately a ringing voice could be heard intoning the phrases “In the name of God” and “Thanks be to God.” That was followed by a homily and advice concerning the proper way to perform ablutions, wash the bodies of the dead, and say the necessary prayers over them. The devout Muslim was enjoined to practice that prayer is better than sleep and reminded to consider night and day the punishments of the grave inflicted by the two questioning angels, Munkir and Nakir,* not to mention the Day of Gathering and Judgment. This was the kind of sermon that put you in mind of the poor and stupid preachers you might encounter in the desert or the countryside. This particular preacher of the end of time included in his premonitions certain verses from the Qur’an, our sacred text that is far too lofty to be soiled in this foul and demeaning place. The dreadful way he was pronouncing the verses was even worse than a donkey braying. Once he had finished and his voice had turned hoarse, his words were immediately followed by some recorded songs with lewd lyrics. It was totally impossible to get to sleep. I noticed a guard passing by, so I hurried over to the bars at the entrance to my cell and yelled my complaint to him. He signaled back to me that he could not hear what I was saying, then left.
I was left on my own to mutter angry words of complaint to myself. I used moistened bread to make some earplugs and held them in place with my tie, but they did little good. This incredibly loud noise, completely nerve-shattering was another means that the people in charge of the prison were using to torture prisoners and drive the weaker and more sensitive ones to breakdown and madness. I turned to my own devices, invoking whatever help I could to protect myself against their evil and thwart their devilish schemes — God is enough for me, and good is He as a trustee.
Dawn is the time for prayer for those who will. As I did so, the situation in the wing was no different from what I have already described. It was only when morning broke that things calmed down. A guard brought me breakfast. I begged him to ask the inmates to lower the volume on their music at night so people who wanted to get some sleep and relax could do so. In a gruff tone he informed me that the basic principle of this wing required that prisoners inure their bodies to being deprived of sleep or to get whatever they could to the accompaniment of popular verses and contemporary songs, interspersed with sermons on Fridays and holy days. When I asked him why the noise happened during the night rather than daytime, he scoffed.
“You idiot!” he replied as he locked the door, “It’s at night that you’re sleepless. The music you’ve been hearing is merely a warm-up for the even greater soirée tonight. Haven’t you heard about it?!”
“The even greater soirée tonight?” I was still asking as he left.
If I am invited to attend, it will be certainly easier than staying in this block, which seems to be inhabited by people who are not actually alive — human specters with God knows what problems and afflicted with how many scars.
Apart from performing my prayers — something that by now has become my fondest activity, the only way of passing the time of day is what I have been training myself to do: huddle in a corner in a lump and withdraw into myself so I can engage with my inner being. Then I can probe and search, hold conversations, recollect and recall things, battle against fancy, and declare victory. I can pose those ultimate questions and seek the remotest of signs; I can broach the discourse of the impossible, that elusive elixir that is so hard to grasp; I can circle around myself like a snake and chew the soles of my feet, and all in search of a small amount of sleep and quiet. Perhaps I can also indulge in still deeper contemplation and replace my current, horrendous reality with a more luminous dream. But fat chance of that!
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!