I Was Saddams Prisoner
Chapter Seven
The modes of chastisement varied. At times it depended upon the
Muhaqqiq. There seemed to be a long list of punishments, and he would
prescribe any for the detainee. From Mosul, there was Husain, an old man
who was a farmer. For six days on end no morsel of food or sip of water
was allowed to him. He had a bulky, beefy frame, and perhaps this helped
him survive. When he was finally allowed the first meal, he could hardly
open his eyes to see what went into his mouth. He had been denied sleep
as well. When sleep stealthily took the better of him, he was slapped
and kicked by the ever attending Haras. His speech became incoherent,
his eyes blank. Sitting next to me, he showed some sign of recovery
after weeks. What was his offence? "I used to go to the mosque fairly
regularly. They thought I was religious, and therefore affiliated to
Hizbud-Da’wah." Then, with an admonition he said "Do not mention Da’wah
here. They will strangle you."
The detainees came and went. From the first three hundred, our number
fell to around one hundred and eighty. And it dwindled still further to
eighty-six. What a relief! We were now able to stretch our legs and
sleep. It was not so before. Our chief had contrived an ingenious method
for our sleeping cycles. Everyone was a Badeel to his mate. While my
friend slept, I stood upon his body for six hours or so. No movement was
possible because of congestion, nor could I sit because of the feet
interlocking each other's. And then he woke up to allow me to sleep. He
stood over my body as if to prevent me from escaping.
But our room soon became crowded as scores of Egyptian and Jordanian
young men were brought in. We were nearing the three hundred mark again.
The cell now rang with Arabic dialects, punctuated with hilarity so
characteristic of the Egyptians. There were other companions who stuck
to us so faithfully. They were the overgrown black lice, which skipped
from one person to another, causing intolerable rash, irritation and
pain. These parasites never left us alone. They were to be seen
everywhere on our bodies, on our torn and slit shirts, in the
buttonholes, and hundreds of them crawling in the plaited curly hair of
the Sudanese, the Somalis and other Arab friends. Killing them became a
good pastime, and we soon obliged each other by picking up a stray louse
crawling on the ground, or on the other fellow's clothes. Sores appeared
everywhere, and scratching became an obsession.
A 'Doctor' came to the metal door thrice a day. The window would open
and a trimly young man accompanied by Haras would appear. "Man Indahu
Ilaj?" he would shout. Those who needed treatment flocked to the door.
The common complaints were 'ishal' (diarrhoea), 'Qabdh'
(constipation), 'Ghudood' (tonsils), sores on the tongue and upon the
palates and the nostrils. The medicine man had a list, which he
consulted. If one said 'Ishal', one was given the red tablets to
swallow in his presence, and if it was 'Qabdh', then the tablet was
invariably pink; and so on. Minor ailments like sores were never
treated; they were all classified as "Hassasiyyah", allergic. Some
killer cream finally treated the scourge and havoc played by the lice,
and we felt greatly relieved. The lice were there, but their number had
considerably reduced.
It takes all sorts of men to make a society in the cell. There were
political refugees, dissidents, defectors, smugglers, thieves, foreign
exchange dealers, pimps and sexually perverted. And along with them were
men like me who were accused of espionage. Jawad, aged 19 years, was
there because he tried to trace the President's portrait and
inadvertently drew his nose crooked; Muhsin was there because he visited
mosques and the Holy Shrines of Najaf and Kerbala quite frequently;
Abdul-Rab was apprehended because he was found with a note-book in which
he had written quotations from Nahjul Balagha; Mustafa, a Turk, was
brought in because they mistook him for another Mustafa, also a Turk,
who was wanted; Jasim was there because he dealt with ammunition and
firearms; Ibrahim came because he believed that Iraq-Iran war must stop
and strongly expressed his opinions before the informers; Abu Mansoor
was here for no reason known to him, and a half-mad Muhammad was with us
because he visited the Shrine of Najaf, and banged his slippers upon the
sacred Zareeh. An Indian, Kehar Kaushal, entered the cell because he
joined a strike, which was illegal in Iraq. They had struck together
since they had not been paid for six months. Two Pakistanis came to Iraq
without visa, another one without a passport. One Indian tampered with
his own Passport, trying to erase an old, expired visa so that a new one
could be stamped. Such was the colourful, motley crowd, each with a
peculiar story.