My Torturess Read online

  My Torturess

  Middle East Literature in Translation

  Michael Beard and Adnan Haydar, Series Editors

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  My Torturess

  BENSALEM HIMMICH

  Translated from the Arabic by Roger Allen

  SYRACUSE UNIVERSITY PRESS

  English translation copyright © 2015 by Syracuse University Press

  Syracuse, New York 13244-5290

  All Rights Reserved

  First Edition 2015

  151617181920654321

  Originally published in Arabic as Mu‘adhdhibati (Cairo: Dar al-Shurouq, 2010)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogues, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ∞ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.

  For a listing of books published and distributed by Syracuse University Press, visit www.SyracuseUniversityPress.syr.edu.

  ISBN: 978-0-8156-1047-2 (pbk.)ISBN: 978-0-8156-5317-2 (e-book)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Himmich, Ben Salem, 1947–

  [Mu’adhdhabati. English]

  My torturess / Bensalem Himmich ; translated from the Arabic by Roger Allen. — First edition.

  pages cm — (Middle East literature in translation)

  ISBN 978-0-8156-1047-2 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-8156-5317-21.Extraordinary rendition—Fiction.2.Torture—Fiction.I.Allen, Roger, 1942– translator.II.Title.

  PJ7832.I445M8313 2015

  892.7'36—dc23

  2015001670

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Dedicated to the souls of

  Sa‘ida Laminbahi and Dris Binzikri

  “When you enslave people whose mothers have born them free”

  ‘Umar ibn al-Khattab (the 2nd Caliph of Islam)

  Philosopher and writer, Bensalem Himmich (former Minister of Culture in Morocco) is the author of a number of works (in both Arabic and French). Four of his novels have been translated in many languages. He has won a number of prizes and distinctions, including the Naguib Mahfouz Prize (the American University in Cairo, 2002), the Sharjah-UNESCO Prize (2003), the Diploma and Medal of the Academic Society of Arts and Letters (Paris, 2009)—for his works as a whole, the Naguib Mahfouz Prize of the Egyptian Writers Union (2009), and the Prize of the Academy of Floral Games in Toulouse, France (2011). His novel, My Torturess, was nominated for the International Arabic Fiction Prize (the “Arab Booker”) in 2011.

  Roger Allen won the 2012 Saif Ghobash Banipal Prize for his translation of A Muslim Suicide by Bensalem Himmich (Syracuse University Press, 2011). He has also translated two other novels by Himmich: The Polymath (2004) and The Theocrat (2005). Allen retired from his position as the Sascha Jane Patterson Harvie Professor of Social Thought and Comparative Ethics in the School of Arts & Sciences at the University of Pennsylvania in 2011. He is the author and translator of numerous books and articles on modern Arabic fiction, novels, and stories.

  Contents

  Foreword

  1.The Shock and Terror Cellar

  2.Spending Time in My Cell

  3.Before the Investigating Judge

  4.A Wounded Man on My Bedcover

  5.How Can I Write My Report about Myself?

  6.In the Clutches of the Investigating Judge’s Secretary

  7.Yet Another Wounded Man on My Bed

  8.My Session with Both the Investigating Judge and His Secretary, Nahid al-Busni

  9.A Prisoners’ Soccer Game

  10.My Worst Night of Torture

  11.These Are My Injuries, and Then They Cut My Hair

  12.With the Investigating Judge and His New Secretary

  13.The Letter That Is a Gleaming Light, and I Witness Executions

  14.Another Torture Session

  15.From the Crazy Block to the Shop for the People Practicing for Judgment Day

  16.Between My Walls: The Christian Fayruz

  17.Appointment with the Disciplinary Committee

  18.The Condition of My Leg Worsens and the Block Starts to Sway

  19.Another of the Judge’s Whims: My Appointment as Mufti

  20.From the Hospital to My Involvement in a Communal Burial

  21.In My Torturess’s Bed: A Night of Debauchery and Terror

  22.I Have No Choice but to Sleep and Wake Up to the Vestiges of a Fire

  23.From the Penitents’ Wing to a Debauched Nightclub

  24.A Final Meeting with the Judge, Then the Dormitory with No Sleep

  25.The Major Soirée and Its Disgusting Surprises

  26.My Return to My Beloved Land

  27.Conclusion

  Afterword

  Glossary

  Foreword

  “Dear Hamuda,

  It may well prove difficult for you to turn into a hired hand, someone at the beck and call of tyrants with all their fiendish schemes—professional spy, double agent, hired killer. In that case, you’ll need to come up with a solution, one that may save you provided you learn to do it well. You have to pretend to be crazy, mentally ill. You should pepper your interrogators with all kinds of crazy talk. Threaten your torturers by coughing all over them and infecting them with your sickness. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll give up and send you back to your country or somewhere close, drugged with opium. You’ll eventually come round to find yourself with an electronic belt around you and a bullet aimed at your head, to be fired if you should so much as breathe a word of your story to a living soul or raise a complaint against forces unknown . . .”

  Oh yes, my gracious Na‘ima, may God be gracious to you and comfort you!

  That note that you sneaked into my pocket and begged me to destroy after I had read it, that precious note, I’ve memorized it by heart. I fed its paper and ink to my stomach for it to digest. I can vouch for the fact that I owe my rescue to it, emerging alive from the dark recesses of a horrendous prison. But for that note, I would have spent still more years under relentless guard watch and enduring never-ending torture sessions, all supervised and directed by that truly barbaric and expert hang-woman of evil memory and repute known by the name “Mama Ghula.”

  Now that I’ve come back to my bookstore and my home, where vermin and insects have fouled everything during my long prison term, how am I supposed to go out into the streets, squares, markets, and mosques in Oujda without bumping into people and chatting with them? How can I use them to salve my wounds and breathe in the sweet zephyrs of my recovered freedom by contacting them and getting together? Am I supposed to be able to travel to Ouad-Zem t
o look for my mother and find out whether she’s still alive or has died and gone to meet her generous Maker? If I did that, how could I explain to the small number of people who still remember me why I’ve been away for so long, why I look so dreadfully emaciated and the hair on my head and beard has turned grey? If the clever ones managed to get me to talk about what happened to me, would I be expected to talk about it all under the banner of truth and honesty, or indulge instead in all kinds of deception, falsification, and duplicity? Whichever route I chose, I would find myself between a rock and a hard place: a bullet to my head or an electric charge to my heart, neither of which could possibly miss once they were fired. Either that, or else a tissue of lies and deceit, along with all the self-hate and remorse that goes with it.

  Alternatively, silence may be the solution, relying on the inexorable passage of time, which would also involve always staying at home. But both those requirements will inevitably morph into two other types of prison, as the time period grows ever longer and the space is so confined. When we are talking about someone like me who has been traumatized by a barbaric incarceration, any kind of prison, however light its burden may seem, will provoke a nervous attack and twist the knife in my wound.

  So take things slowly, I told myself, till the multiple layers of hesitation and despair gradually peel away and the feeling of depression lightens a bit.

  In the early days I thought I could meet people in public places, albeit taking all necessary precautions and adopting all manner of concealment strategies. For example, I would regularly avoid going out in broad daylight when exposure and visibility would be at their maximum. Even when I ventured out at night, when it was likely to be pitch dark, I would put on a reinforced metal helmet and bulletproof vest that I had made myself out of iron and steel and concealed inside my leather jacket, something I had bought from a stall downtown that I had visited in disguise at dead of night.

  As I walked along streets and alleys, there was much less movement at night; the lights would be either turned off completely or kept low. Peering eyes used to stare curiously at my outfit but without attracting too much attention. Maybe they assumed I was a motorcyclist; I had left my bike, was now walking on foot, and had forgotten to take off my helmet. In stores, cafeterias and cafes customers became more and more curious about my general appearance; they kept nodding in my direction and cracking malicious jokes. Children and teenagers went so far as to stand in my way and call me “cosmonaut”—all of which made me decide to strike those particular spots from my list of regular haunts.

  Apart from those few spaces where no people were to be found, the only places I could go were the city mosques. I started visiting them in rotation just before evening prayer time, all in the hope of avoiding prying eyes and people’s attention. But, as the nights rolled by, things started to go awry with the worshippers in the mosques, some with shaven or uncovered heads, others wearing skullcaps and turbans. For no particular reason they were all amazed at my cautious attitude toward the wardens, preferring to consider the outwards aspects of the situation rather than the essence. Their own ignorance aside, they had little time to listen to what had happened to me. Even if a few of them were willing to hear snippets of what I had to say—and how on earth did I manage to do that?!—they would soon move away, twirling their fingers against their temples as a sign of total disbelief.

  I decided to avoid any undesirable communication with people and worshippers by staying at home for several days, preparing my own food and blackening page after page with accounts of my years in prison. One day, after I had performed the evening prayer, I fell sound asleep. In a dream, I saw myself going out on the night coinciding with the celebration of the Prophet’s birthday. I left the house without changing my precautionary garb. By the gateway of the main mosque two men in civilian clothes stopped me, led me into an empty alleyway close by, and probed me from head to toe, firstly with an electronic device, then by hand. Taking off my helmet and coat, they handcuffed me and took me to the police station by the Sidi ‘Abd al-Wahhab Gate (where the heads of executed people used to be hung in the old days). While I waited for the arrival of the police officer and his recorder, I was forced to spend the rest of the night on a bench outside his office. Curling myself up into a ball, I fell asleep, oblivious to my surroundings. At that point I woke up with a start. After checking everything carefully, I found myself still lying in my own bed.

  On this new day there’s a light tap on the door. No one ever comes to see me, so I leap up to see who is knocking. There is a devout shaykh whose general appearance and demeanor remind me of the imam at a small mosque downtown. Rumor has it that he was fired from his position for unknown reasons. Once I had greeted him and invited him inside to share my breakfast, he confirmed my impression, then proceeded to give me a few terse details about himself. He told me that he was now working in Noah’s profession and owned a thriving carpenter’s workshop. He had lots of customers because he was willing to make do with reasonable charges and refused to cheat people. He then launched into an amazing story, some of which was so disturbing that it left me with my mouth agape and my tongue paralyzed:

  “Listen, my boy,” he said. “I’m going to tell you some really serious things. Once you’ve taken them all in and thought about it, you’ll want to consider the situation you’re in now and protect yourself from all kinds of nasty outcomes. I have to begin with two pieces of bad news, in fact two deaths. Your mother—God have mercy on her soul!—died in a series of floods caused by torrential downpours of rain, leading to several landslides and the collapse of a number of houses. Her resting-place in Ouad-Zem is in a communal grave for those people who were swallowed up by the earth; the sheer quantity of mud and debris made it impossible to locate anyone. The second death involves your cousin, al-Husayn al-Masmudi. He had been fighting the jihad in Afghanistan and Iraq, then came back to the Awras Mountains two years ago. He joined some fighting groups there, but was killed in the region near Bumirdas. Your mother was convinced that you had perished in the sea along with all the other people who risk their lives trying to get to Europe; that’s what happened to some of her neighbors’ children. However, your late cousin, al-Husayn, who used to visit me regularly under cover, assured me that you had been rushed away somewhere, and he had no idea where. He made me promise to look after you if you ever came back, and I promised to do so.”

  As I listened to Shaykh Hamdan al-Mizati’s shattering news, I shed a few dry tears and was struck dumb.

  “So I can help you, my boy,” he went on, “you’re going to have to reassure me that the terrible years you’ve spent in prison which have so damaged your body and general health have not affected your mind or faculties. The first thing you need to do in order to reassure me is to take off immediately that helmet and the bulging jacket that some people assume is booby-trapped. This paranoia you have, that someone is spying on you all the time, is simply a devilish illusion on your part. The belt you’re wearing is another piece of fantasy, child’s play in fact. These little foibles of yours keep bothering the police; they smell a rat. Will you promise me to get rid of them?”

  I handed them over on the spot and gave him a crowbar so he could break the belt.

  “Take them by all means,” I told him, doing my best to control my emotions. “Bury them wherever you like.”

  “Fine!” he replied, putting everything into a bag. “You’ve convinced me that your mind’s still working. Now tell me what you’d like me to do, God willing.”

  “My dearest wish, Sir,” I replied, “is to make a record of a truly horrendous period of imprisonment, one that lasted more than six years. If I were to tell part of it out loud, the people listening would laugh in my face; they’d be convinced that I was a raving paranoiac, completely insane. I urgently need some medical tests, but I’m postponing them in case they provide me with disturbing information that may depress me and thus prevent me from writing down my story. Once I’ve finished my work, then let hap
pen whatever fate decrees. I want my testimony to be in written form, so that, once I’m dead, some cognizant reader who is both aware and sympathetic may get hold of it. So that’s my dearest wish, but I can’t possibly achieve it in this cramped space where I’m losing all hope and my spirit is almost completely crushed. It feels just as bad as those long and bitterly destructive days I spent in prison.”

  The shaykh thought for a while, then suggested something that offered me a blessed release.

  “Between today’s prayer times collect everything you need. The late al-Husayn has assigned ownership of this place to you by way of a contract. Tomorrow just after dawn you’ll accompany me in my truck to a farm that I own south of Oujda on the Angad Plain. God willing, you’ll be able to settle down there and complete your project. The shepherdess who runs the farm and her daughter will take care of you. So we’ve agreed then.”

  With that the shaykh stood up and grabbed the bag of stuff. I escorted him to the door, kissed his shoulder, and offered him my profuse thanks.

  And that is exactly what happened. That devout believer kept his promise. I spent the entire night in prayer, thinking all the while about what the shaykh had told me, beginning with the two deaths, then offering advice, and finally providing me with a truly blessed means of escape.

  Once we reached the farm, my benefactor introduced me to the shepherdess, an energetic and strongly built widow and her middle-aged daughter whose Bedouin garb was quite incapable of concealing her wonderful buxom figure and radiant face.

  We had a rich and filling breakfast together, and then the shaykh informed the two women that I needed privacy and quiet. He asked them both to look after me. He then embraced me, wished me luck and success in my project, and said farewell. He promised to come back for a visit when time allowed and to serve as my very first reader.

  Now I was left on my own in this large house which opened up on to fields, trees, crops and animals. I began to prepare myself for the project I had been contemplating. I was fully aware, needless to say, that the things I was going to record were merely the tip of an iceberg; I would have to allow for lapses of fact or memory and acknowledge that it would be utterly impossible to cover everything. I now started spending the whole day writing, although for part of the time I would go for walks and contemplate or else have brief, innocuous conversations with the widow. I intentionally kept my relationship with her daughter chaste and proper so that I could retain the respect of her mother and the shaykh as well.