I Was Saddams Prisoner
Chapter Thirteen
The corridor to which I was brought the first day was dimly lit. As I
sat on the floor, I remembered that it was Friday night: "Laylatul
Jumu’ah".... and then my eyes fell on the handcuffs. I could not believe
my eyes. Was this actually happening? Or was it a bad dream? Raising my
head towards heaven, I sighed, and in a bid to control my emotions, I
said: "Alhamdulillah - all praise be to Allah".
Unaccustomed to the ways, I pushed the irksome blindfold upwards and
managed to survey the surroundings. The corridor was occupied by scores
of people, all handcuffed and blindfolded. A cry of agony, now and then,
pierced through the pervasive silence. I was terribly upset. My lips
were dry, my throat parched.
Looking towards the Haras, I raised my finger and asked for water. He
exchanged a glance of surprise with his colleague, and said: "Hear that?
He is asking for water!" They both giggled. I had made an outrageously
unusual request! But his colleague said: "Huwa Ghareeb", he is a
stranger, give him some." A small glass filled with cold water was given
to me, with an admonition: "Next time you are thirsty, seek my
permission and go to the washroom. You will find water there." He was
referring to the boiling water from the taps; but then I did not know.
As dawn broke, men around me shuffled and woke up from their sleep. And
then one after another hesitantly sought permission from Haras.
"Sayyidi” no reply. "Sayyidi?" no attention. He now dares raise his
voice pleading: "Sayyidi?”.... The Haras turns his face towards him with
total indifference and shouts back "She Bek?" "May I go to the toilets?"
"Go", the Haras shouts. This continues the whole day. No one is allowed
to talk, and the blindfold must not be raised. Ah, the new Haras who had
come to relieve his colleague saw that my bandage was a little higher.
He came near and blurted: "Get it lower, and do not try to look
around."
It is indeed difficult to describe the uneasiness and distress a person
experiences when deprived of vision, knowing full well that God has
endowed him with the normal sense of sight. Blindness is different. The
latter is a state of resignation to fate, while the former always feels
threatened and subdued. 0 God! What a horrendous experience it is!
Unable to sustain the perpetual darkness caused by the leather cover
before my eyes, I kept on pushing it upwards, and then finding that the
Haras was not attentive, surveyed the corridors and its inhabitants.
Carefully, I placed the cover back to its position before he noticed.
"Ya Allah Raham Kar.... Ya Allah....", I heard. It was in my own
language, the dialect seemed familiar. As he found his place in the
corridor I managed to steal a view. He was middle-aged, with a luxurious
growth of beard. I drew closer and asked: "Are you from Pakistan?" He
was taken aback, for he least expected anyone who could speak Urdu. With
a sigh of relief, he said: "No, I am from India." "Your name?" "Ali
Husain." "Why are you here?" "I came for Ziyarat of Arbaeen." "So you
are Shia?" "Yes I am." And then we had a brief exchange of information,
all conducted in soft whispers.
Rooms lining the corridors were either single cells for solitary
confinement, or 'Red Cell', "Ghurfatul Hamraa", where more than twenty
would be squeezed in at a time. Murmur of Tasbeeh, Dua-e-Kumail, and
Adhan could be heard from these rooms.
For six days, I was in this corridor, every hour expecting a release,
which I hoped, was imminent. With the passage of time, hope denuded. The
uncertainty was now indeed frightening. The only solace was the company
of fellow humans who had shared my plight. It was common suffering. Then
one day, my name was announced along with many others. Six of us stood
up. We were asked to line up, holding the shirt of one in front, so that
"blind would lead blind." Ali Hussein was not to come, so he felt
miserable. "Where are you going?", he demanded. Not knowing what destiny
held in store for me, I conjectured "I am being released-hopefully.
Khuda Hafiz." Ali Hussein raised his shackled hands and prayed: "0
Allah, send me where this man goes!"
We were taken to a cell, which was on the fourth floor. As the door
opened, our blindfolds and handcuffs were removed, and the Haras pushed
us all in. In spite of the cold outside, the cell was warm, and heat
inside was stifling. There were more than three hundred unfortunate
detainees swarming in this place, where hardly seventy or eighty could
be accommodated. Two days later, Ali Hussein appeared. He suffered from
myopia, with a limited visual acuity. I advanced to greet him. "Salaamun
Alaikum, Bhai Ali Hussein," I said.
Recognizing my voice, he looked up and then after a pause, said: "So my
prayer was answered! I asked God to send me where you were going, little
knowing where it would be-and here I am, landed in this dungeon Ya
Allah Raham Kar."