I Was Saddams Prisoner
Chapter Nine
"Dawaam" started in the early hours of the day, and halted temporarily
in the afternoon. It resumed in the evening and continued till midnight.
These were the hours of Tahqeeq, when detainees were called in for
questioning. Weekend began from Thursday afternoon, and ended till
Saturday morning. Things were usually quiet during the weekend. Friday
was a good day, because each of us was given 'Baidh', a boiled egg in
the breakfast.
Usual breakfast consisted of Shorba, a thick paste with an offensive
smell, and two half-baked Sammoon which was definitely unfit for human
consumption. The crust seemed to be brown and baked enough for eating.
The inside of the bread was a sticky blend of flour and yeast, which
choked as we tried to swallow. A boiled egg on Fridays was an invaluable
gift of God, treasured and valued. I remember when on a particular
Friday, we were only eighty-six in the cell, and the Haras opened the
window and asked:
"Kam Wahid" - How many of you?
And our headman, gathering all the courage retorted:
"Mitayn Wa Thdashar-Wallah". Two hundred and eleven. By God.
The Haras gave two pales full of eggs-and we had enough each to last us
for three days.
Our ears now turned to the outside noises. When the trolley carrying
lunch approached, someone would announce-"Ghaza, Ghaza" - and ask us to
arrange ourselves in the Majmooa of tens. Plastic bowls were then
distributed to each Majmooa. It was the same diet everyday. Oily,
half-cooked rice in big plastic containers which resembled bath-tubs for
babies, and a slimy pungent curry which sometimes contained large square
bits of tough meat. The headman and his aids then filled our bowls.
Bones in the meat, quite rare though, was an essential raw material. We
washed it and then set down for hours and sometimes days rubbing it
against the hard floor till it assumed the shape of a glossed round pin.
Then we flattened one tip, and with a nail from the shoes on the rack,
we bore a hole in it. This was the needle. It was prohibited item just
like the rosary, but it could be conveniently concealed. And then we
pulled out threads from our tattered shirts and threaded the needle to
stitch our torn shirts and pyjamas. It seemed Time had travelled
backwards, for we were using implements of the 'Bone-Age'. It was
beautiful, this needle. Abu Fahd, a Druze from Syria treasured one
dearly, and said, "I will carry it with me when I am released, and place
it in a Mathaf (Museum)."
"Dolkatukum Ya Ikhwan-Dolkat" - the headman always announced when he
knew tea would be served in the evening. A Dolka was a plastic jug,
which was filled with black tea having strong aroma of camphor. It was
very sweet. A jug for ten. And the same curry which was left over from
lunch. If there were some crumbs, we dipped them in the offensive liquid
and ate.
The Dolka had another use also. Water from the taps was always sizzling
hot. "No cold water, Sir, you are Mawqufin. You are not in your houses."
This was the water for drinking, wudhu, washing our clothes and
ourselves and for the toilets. Water was kept in the Dolka for hours to
cool down. In Hammam, it was collected in the trough till it became
usable for bath. And when a particular Dolka was ready, scores of
inmates quenched their thirst with small sips, which would at times only
wet their lips. During my four months and two days, cold water was
available for ten days when some anniversary was being celebrated in
Iraq. Mukhaberat seemed to be in a condescending mood. Wudhu meant a
quick jerk of your palm below the water flowing from the taps-if you
were not careful, blisters formed on the palms. We could not wash our
torn pyjama suits - because there was no spare suit. So we washed our
shirt first, shook it till it dried, wore it around the loins and then
washed the pyjama. And if the Muhaqqiq decided to call one right then,
one rushed downstairs with the dripping suit. 'Harval Ya Maloon, La
Umma Lak' - the Haras would roar.