In the dismal paved courtyard the atmosphere and regulations were the same as before. What was new and different this time was a circle of prisoners with hands and feet shackled; they were some distance from our circle and were wearing dirty white clothing. They kept moving in a circular pattern between barbed-wire passageways and were being observed by heavily armed guards. I managed to ask the prisoner in front of me in a whisper who these other prisoners were, but he did not reply. I also asked him about someone called Ilyas Bu Shama, but he simply shrugged his shoulders. The same thing happened with the prisoner behind me.
I realized that there was no hope of sneaking a conversation with the prisoners in my group, so I simply started walking around in circles like everyone else without taking any risks or wandering off. I made do with building up a sense of resistance in the face of so much adversity and sniffing the fresh air outside the confines and aggravations of my cell.
With the blowing of a whistle the exercise period came to an end, and the prisoners in blue uniforms were taken away for their communal meal. Like everyone else, I joined a line, which passed in front of someone who distributed the food, then sat at a wide table designated for my use along with four others. Everyone had a bowl of broth, along with some lentils and pieces of meat, a complete loaf of bread, a banana, and two pears. Was this supposed to be a festival meal I knew nothing about?
Complete silence prevailed, only broken by the clanking of spoons, swallowing noises, and ambiguous hand movements under the table. I am an inveterate meddler, so I asked what was the occasion for this feast. No one answered. At that point one of the people at the table got up and went to refill his bowl, whereupon my immediate neighbor took advantage of the other man’s absence to tell me to stop talking; his reason was that spies were regularly planted among the prisoners. I asked him about the other group of fettered prisoners in white clothing, and he replied that they were people with life sentences. Whenever one of them died, he could simply be wrapped and buried in those dirty white garments. I then asked him if he knew either Ilyas Bu Shama or ‘Umar ar-Rami, but he shrugged his shoulders. As soon as the other prisoner came back, he stopped talking. For my part I now focused on my bowl and finished what was in it. When I looked up, it was to see the man who had returned staring hard at me, his expression a tissue of hatred. So, I decided, that is how relationships work between inmates in this extraordinary and barbaric prison; a network of ambiguity as to roles and a predominant sense of suspicion and fear among individuals, all accompanied by a lively trade in information and rumor with its cryptic signals and codes.
When I returned to my cell, it was to find that my new cellmate, ‘Umar ar-Rami, had vanished into thin air, without leaving any note or the slightest trace. I felt exhausted and lay down, watching as night fell. I prayed for heaven’s mercy, begging for relief from my misery and help in comprehending what was happening to me and going on all around me every day.
8. My Session with Both the Investigating Judge and His Secretary, Nahid al-Busni
Next morning, I was shaken awake by a guard who escorted me to the administration wing and stopped me in front of a door.
“By order of his excellency, the investigating judge,” he told me, “you are to enter this bathroom, wash yourself, shave your beard, clean your teeth, powder yourself, then put on a new shirt and blue suit along with a necktie. You’ll find everything inside. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
He locked the door behind me and left. It took a moment for me to recover from my shock and surprise, but then I set about beating the time limit he had imposed. The hot water covered my entire body, and with the help of some soap and vigorous rubbing with a cloth, I got rid of most of the grime. Once I had finished washing, I dried myself with a big, soft towel, cleaned my teeth with a fresh toothbrush and toothpaste, trimmed my beard according to the correct Sunni practice, powdered myself, and then put on my new suit. They had forgotten just one thing: shoes to go along with the suit! Putting on a pair of rubber slippers, I sat on a chair. At this point I was scared, because the thought occurred to me that this cleansing routine might be the way prison officials used to deal with prisoners who were about to be executed — a sort of anticipatory wash of bodies that would soon be buried.
The only way I could find to keep my fear and confusion to myself was to concentrate even harder on cleaning my teeth and combing my hair back. When the guard suddenly came back into the room I swallowed the toothpaste in my mouth, and then expressed my thanks. I told him I was ready. I asked if I could bring my old clothes and some of the washing items with me.
“That’s all yours,” he said. “Throw your old clothes in this bin, and put the tie on.”
I had a hard time stuffing the washing materials in my pockets. He understood that I was no good at tying ties, so he helped me with that before escorting me to the investigating judge’s office.
An energetic young woman welcomed me with a smile.
“Nahid al-Busni at your service,” she told me softly as she offered me a chair. “His excellency is on the phone. .”
No. . the secretary with whom I had sat on the previous occasion was quite different from this polite and punctilious young woman. I began to assess how different the two of them were: this one was of medium stature while the earlier one had been exceptionally tall. Both of them were beautiful and neat, but their features were different. This new secretary’s demeanor, unlike the previous one, was much more modest and staid, while the transparent muslin head scarf that they both wore was not intended to hide their carefully coiffed hair.
The intercom bell rang, and the secretary took me into the judge’s office. He welcomed me with a smile and congratulated me on my freshened appearance. Asking Nahed to bring me something, he invited me to take a seat in front of him.
“Coffee or tea?” she asked.
“Bring him some semi-sweet coffee,” the judge told her as he fidgeted in the leather chair behind his huge desk.
Once she had left, he gave me another smile and fiddled with his clipped moustache.
“I used to know another woman from Fez,” he told me, “who used to pronounce the consonant ‘qaf’ as ‘hamza’; she also turned the ‘raa’ into ‘ghayn.’ Even worse was an Iraqi woman in my service — God forgive her — who used to turn ‘k’ and ‘j’ into all sorts of weird sounds. So, whenever she wanted to express her condolences to the relatives of someone who had died, she would say to each one individually: ‘May God increase your penis’ (intending to say ‘your reward,’ as I’m sure you’ve already realized). To God alone belongs all that He has created! But when it comes to typewriting, the secretary always sticks to the written form of the letters and not the way they are pronounced. I’ve hired this particular orphan woman because she is devout and respects the Creator. She has memorized his Holy Book and uses its teachings in her treatment of people who come for interviews. Her male and female colleagues call her Benazir, because her conduct and actually her appearance and head-wear as well remind people of Benazir Bhutto — may God preserve her as a wonderful model in this world of ours in anticipation of the next! In fact, this secretary is a great admirer of Benazir Bhutto, even though she is not interested or involved in politics.”
The young woman now brought me a cup of coffee and some pieces of chocolate.
“You’re not interested in politics, are you, pretty lady?” he teased the young secretary. “Go on, say ‘You’re so right,’” he said gesturing at me. “‘You’re so right’ is the only possible correct answer to this plague against our language. Only that way can you be sure of not committing some grave offence against the grammatical rules of the Arabic language. So tell us, ‘You’re so right.’”