11. These Are My Injuries, and Then They Cut My Hair
When I woke up the next morning, I was aching all over. Everything hurt, but some pains were localized while others were everywhere throughout my body. With a fair amount of effort, I managed to sit up and felt a bandage around my head. My teeth were in a complete mess: three of them were only attached to the jaw by a slender bit of flesh. I hurriedly rid my mouth of them. Just then, I remembered the mirror hidden under my pillow. I took it out to take a look at the injuries on my face and body. My vision was impaired enough as it was, but the general sight was appalling: bruises and contusions everywhere; wounds, swellings, and scars. My nose was totally stuffed with phlegm, which meant I could only breathe through my mouth.
I need to piss, so I struggled gamely to my feet to go to the toilet. That made me aware of the fact that I was walking like a young boy who had just been circumcised. Once I had relieved myself, I started pacing back and forth in my cell and repeating to myself that my morale was still intact. I needed to make sure that I did not give way or show any weakness. They would never be able to take away my self-respect and pride, even if they broke my ribs and nose. This then was the routine I undertook for just a few minutes, and, when I felt exhausted, I collapsed on the bed. I wonder what day it is, I asked myself in a tone that, while weak, was still defiant. .
When you are stretched out in bed the way I was, what can a patient do except think long and hard about the situation he is in and the possible outcomes that await. Once all thoughts have been exhausted or become too convoluted, there’s a tendency to indulge in illusions, some of them fanciful, others more concrete and insistent. Examples of the first type included women and more women, the majority of whom took the form of Nahid,* the secretary, her name and reputation being completely deserved. Within the second category I would see myself using my hands and whatever digging equipment I could lay my hands on to escape from this prison and go back to the place where I was picked up; I could disappear for a while and repair my body and soul under the protective eye of my loving mother. All kinds of frustration and roadblocks would stand in my way, but I was confident that I could either work my way around them or else jump right over them, inspired and guided by my determination and my burning desire to rescue my life from a deadly treadmill of futility and the clutches of a sudden oblivion.
These illusions started to pile up and reproduce, but all of a sudden the stream dried up as a result of my inevitable collapse into a place than which there is nothing more obscure and rotten — in fact, just like the one I am in, situated under the oppressive tread of its denizens and myrmidons, some of whom I met, others whom I never even saw.
These sessions involving contemplation and illusion had by now become addictive. However, on every occasion, I would lose track of things, either because I was struck by a crushing sense of impotence or because I would be interrupted by the arrival of a guard with food or a warder to take me for further interviewing and torture.
On one occasion the thing that bothered me was the din coming from the corridor of the cells next to mine. The reason for it became clear when three sturdy men invaded my cell carrying a spray machine and proceeded to spray every single corner of my cell, after which they aimed it at me, concentrating on my head, armpits, and crotch. When I asked what was going on, one of them told me that, by order of the higher authorities, there was a campaign in every part of the detention center to eradicate the ever-increasing insect population during the summer season. He went on to tell me that, as part of the instructions, the heads and beards of all prisoners were to be shaved and the hair was to be put in sacks for burning. The hairdresser advised me not to make a fuss and to let him shave my head. Other prisoners who had resisted and made a fuss had had both their beards and moustaches completely shaved off as punishment. Watched by his two companions, he sat me down on a stool and started using enormous clippers to cut off hair wherever he found it, almost as though he were using a scythe to cut wheat sheaves or weeds. He then moistened my head, temples, and chin with foamy water and proceeded to remove any hair that was left with a razor. Before they left, one of the men spoke to me.
“Now you’re ride of fleas, gnats, and cockroaches. You should be grateful!”
Here I am now with my mirror that I have taken out of its hiding place. When I take a look at my face, I can hardly recognize myself. All the bumps, bruises, and bald spots that used to be covered up by my hair, all the cracks in my lips — some the result of smiling, other resulting from incredible pain — are now exposed, as is the absence of most of my front teeth. May God grant me an even greater profusion of hair to make up for what has been shaved off and burned, and a bushy beard, too, which can accompany me on nights when I shall devote myself to higher things. When it comes to Your enemies, O God, those who abuse helpless people inside this place, send down upon them lice, flood, a plague of frogs, and blood, just as you sent down as clear signs of Your wrath against the tyrant Pharaohs of old.
Next morning, the guard woke me up with an invitation to a communal breakfast. I waddled my way after him to the usual prisoners’ mess. No sooner had I set eyes on them with their heads and beards completely shaven than I remembered that I now looked exactly like them. It was difficult to recognize people and even more difficult to talk, particularly when, like me, you had no particular friends there. At the table to which I was assigned, I noticed that there were some prisoners with no eyebrows, and, when I looked round, there were others like them as well. I guessed that they had been punished that way for resisting yesterday’s shaving routine and causing trouble.
A general mood of suspicion and caution hovered over the scene at the tables, not surprising in view of the fact that some of the so-called prisoners were actually plants among the real internees. For that reason, the major sound was the clanking of spoons, sipping noises, and the clearing of throats, all of which covered up the lack of any conversation. Beyond that, there were the usual suspicious movements going on close to and underneath the tables.
Once I had finished my broth and coffee, I started looking around, trying to work out who were the real internees and who were the plants. The shaving routine had not discriminated between the heads and beards of either group, but, like me, some of them had colds and catarrh and looked thin, while others looked perfectly healthy. The latter looked like violent skinheads, while the former now had all the bumps and bruises of their faces and skulls exposed. So where exactly did the bounds of truth come to an end and those of deceit and obfuscation begin? That particular question kept nagging at me, especially when one of the latter group leapt up on a table and attracted people’s attention. Once everyone was watching, he lowered his trousers.
“So they shaved my beard and head,” he yelled as they cackled, “but shit on all of them. My masculinity is still intact; they haven’t been able to shave that off. Anyone who doubts that can take a look at my erect penis in my hands.”
The guards came rushing over and tried to grab him as he leapt from one table to the next and then wove his way between the chairs, just like a well-trained clown. There was widespread chaos at this point, and voices were raised:
“Power to the man with proof in his hands!” they yelled. “Power to him!”
“Long live the stallion,” others cried. “Long may he live!”
12. With the Investigating Judge and His New Secretary