I Was Saddams Prisoner
Chapter Two
Our cell was on the fourth floor. This was No: 58. We were told to
remember the number, and every time one of us came back from the
Muhaqqiq, the Haras would ask him the Raqam of his Ghurfa. If he failed
to speak out the number, or was unable to convey because he was a
foreigner, just as I was, then he must suffer the slaps and blows
falling upon his jaws, cheeks, head and everywhere. The Haras enjoyed
this tremendously, and invariably performed his duties to please his
masters. And when his hands tired, there were the kicks. "Cursed are
your father and your mother, you rogue, why can't you remember your cell
number? " He would shout.
The newcomer today was a young, handsome boy. He was pushed in, his
blindfold removed, his handcuffs undone. For a few seconds he surveyed
the room, looked at the strange, depressed faces and broke down. Sitting
near the door he bitterly wept.
In spite of all the clashes, fights and quarrels that were commonplace
within our cell, a strange bond of sympathy had grown among us. We heard
each other's plight patiently and attentively, consoled and tended
wounds. And when a newcomer appeared, we played host. So when this boy,
Hasan, wept, the senior members rushed towards him, held him by the
hand, and bade him to act honourably like a man. "Ayb-Ayb La
Tabchi-Anta Rajul" - shame, shame, do not cry, you are a man, they
said.
A glass of lukewarm water was given to him to drink, for there was no
cold water available. And a cluster of men sat around him to hear his
story. But Hasan was primarily interested to know how long he would be
here. "They told me to accompany them for ten minutes. Ten minutes, yes,
ten minutes only. I have an old mother, and I am her only son. My father
is dead. She had just gone out to buy some food for the house, and they
came in. My mother does not know that I have been picked. 0 Allah, she
would die ... die ... die ... not knowing where I have gone." And he
cried again.
This time they let him cry. As he lifted his head from his knees, tears
rolling by his fair cheeks, for he was half Iraqi half Turkoman, he
asked one of us. "How long have you been here?" "Two hundred and eight
days", the answer; he glanced at another questioningly and the reply
was - "Arb'ata Ash-Hur" - four months. He now wept with a loud wail
and said: "But they told me ten minutes. I am asthmatic, and my widowed
mother is old."
I was there to witness the pathetic scene. A young friend of mine
resting his palm against his cheeks was lying next to me. With a nervous
twitch he looked at me and then at the newcomer and said "Allah Karim",
and then with a sarcasm that seemed so out of place in the gory
environment he added "Inna Anzalnahu Fi Thamani Khamseen” - Verily we
have sent him down to No: 58…………