I Was Saddams Prisoner
Chapter Seventeen
Days rolled into weeks and weeks into months; my hopes for release and
freedom were diminished and denuded. Every time I returned from the
Muhaqqiq, my companions would ask: “Waqq’at?” - Did you sign? I had
not been asked to sign anything till when I was summoned for the sixth
time. Eight pages written in Arabic were spread before me to sign, with
blindfold pushed upwards to allow me to see the words at the end,
"Al-Muttaham" - the Accused. No one was supposed to read the contents,
even if it meant signing ones own death warrant.
In the cell, I broke the news to my friends, and they were jubilant.
Extending their hands to congratulate me, they explained: "You have
signed. Your investigation is now over. "Inshallah Takhruj.... " - God
willing you will soon leave. Two more months elapsed, and I was still
there. A delay after having signed portended serious consequences, and
my friends began to doubt my innocence. Abu Mansoor whispered to his
friend: "This man must have committed a big offence, else he would not
be here for so long after 'Tawqi'. He might go to Abu Ghuraib for a
couple of years."
Early one morning, Muhammad who worked in Amanaat downstairs, lingered
into our cell and called my name. As I entered the Amanaat, I remembered
my first day, and strange feeling overwhelmed me. There, seated on a
small chair, I saw my wife after four months, but we were not allowed to
converse. Both of us were asked to put on our clothes and check our
belongings. Muhammad said: "You are going home today. Be happy and
smile." We managed a nervous smile, for here you do whatever you are
told to do. And then within minutes, an officer announced: "Sorry, but
the releasing officer will be late by two hours. So change your clothes
and go back to your cell."
This tormenting exercise was repeated on us thrice. Every time we were
brought to Amanaat, given back our clothes and suitcases, and then under
one pretext or the other, were again thrown into our cells. The officers
seemed to enjoy this game of cat and mouse; though we could no more
tolerate the cruel joke. On the last occasion, the officer in charge
made us sign several papers, amid unprintable abuses, and allowed us out
in their car. We were taken to another cell situated in the heart of
Baghdad. A room was given to us, where we sat to recall our experiences
from the first day, shed tears over each other's miseries so as to
mitigate the overwhelming grief.
A day later when our photographs and fingerprints had been taken, we
were transferred to a third place where old hoary, half-naked inmates,
most of them totally deranged mentally, accepted us without any
curiosity. One of them beckoned us to an adjacent room, which we
entered. My wife was taken to another room reserved for Iranian ladies
while I stayed behind with some hard-core criminals who had been there
for as long as nine months. An Egyptian, Majid by name, politely
welcomed me and said, "Welcome to Sheraton. Feel at home, please. And
what did they tell you?" Nervously I answered: "They have asked me to
remain here for a night." Giving a mischievous smile, he said: "Yes,
they told me so when they brought me here seven months ago." My heart
sank.