I was Saddam's PrisonerAbu Jameel - XKP

Published: 2012Categorie(s): Non-Fiction, Biography & autobiography, Military, Person-al Memoirs, Philosophy, Movements, Religion, Islam, News and invest-igations, True crime, True story, SocietyTag(s): Abu Jameel xkp shia iraq iran jail sadam saddam Prisoner islamcrime life story true Kashiful Ghita Aalim Mujtahid

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Chapter 1Foreword

In the name of Allah, the Most High. Salawat upon Muhammad, the lastof the Prophets, and his immaculate progeny.

Six months after my release from the fateful detention in Iraq underSaddam's Ba'thist regime, I sat down to write my experience. When theessay, divided in twenty small chapters was ready, I gave it to mychosen friends and relatives to read.

They advised me against printing it. Several reasons were advanced.Meshed in the web of these disincentives, I kept the essay hidden away.

And then one morning, I woke up with an inexplicable urge to joinhands with the oppressed Muslims throughout the World. I decided topublish my essay, and join the chorus of agony and anguish white thewhack of the tyrants' whips continues unabated.

There in the distant countries, I can see an old mother, expectantlypeeping out of a small window, waiting for her son to return. I can see abride who wakes up every morning to find that her husband is not byher side. I can see the small innocent faces of children questioninglylooking at their mothers, to find out when father would return home,bearing with a loving smile, his hands full of small gifts.

And on the other side of the corridor, I see the blindfolds, the shackles,the whips and the blood streaming from the bare backs of the young andold Muslims. I can hear them moan and whine. With them, I join to raisea feeble cry.

May Allah, in His Mercy, help Islam, as ever.

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1984

ABU JAMEEL

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Chapter 2Chapter One

It was past midnight. The inmates in the cell were all half asleep, after aday, which had ended with a lot of anxiety and fear. Fear reigned every-where; the fear of being summoned by the "Muhaqqiq" for an investiga-tion that never seemed to end, of being beaten till you bled profusely1 ofbeing tortured till your nerves were wrecked. And then the massive met-al door creaked, with a squeak harsh enough to send your bloodtingling.

Every time the guard, the Haras, turned the keys in the hole, the doorunlocked in stages, with a sharp metal voice. The leaning, reclining andsleeping inmates sat erect, with all alertness, like a flock of frightenedsheep, expecting the slaughterer to enter the pen and make his pick.

But this time it seemed odd. Odd because the activities normallyended before midnight. So everyone looked questioningly at each other,shuffling his blanket full of lice, ready to meet the fate. A Harasentered. "Inhadh", he shouted, and commanded us to vacate the frontpart of the cell and push ourselves to the rear. In a cell which couldhardly occupy three scores, we were three hundred.

Behind him entered a young man, stark naked except for a brief loin-cloth. He seemed to be in his early twenties. His head was shaved exceptfor the two gleaming black locks, which gave an impression of two eyesgrown on the head. His eyebrows totally shaved, his moustache half-shaven. Blood streamed from his chest, back, arms, thighs and legs. Hehad been chastised with the lashes, which turned his skin violet, andshowed the marks clearly. His ghost-like appearance scared everybody,most of us unable to meet his glance, which showed utter helplessnessand distress. And then we saw Abu Mahmood, dressed as usual in hisblack double-breasted suit, with a wry smile hanging on his thick lips.

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"Tell them!" he shouted at the tortured young man. "Tell them of yoursins, and why have we treated you thus". And the young ghost mutteredin Arabic. "I had been here few months ago, and then I was released. As Iwent home, I informed some of my relatives and family friends about thewhereabouts of their missing members. They had disappeared, and thefamilies were worried. I told them, they were all detained by theMukhaberat, and that I had met them. I am now arrested again and con-victed of having disclosed the secret".

"Did you hear him"? Abu Mahmood blurted. And every one of usanswered in a chorus: "Na'am Sayyidi". The message was conveyed. Theyoung man, hardly able to walk was then pushed out of the door, takenaway to where nobody knew.

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Chapter 3Chapter Two

Our cell was on the fourth floor. This was No: 58. We were told to re-member the number, and every time one of us came back from theMuhaqqiq, the Haras would ask him the Raqam of his Ghurfa. If hefailed to speak out the number, or was unable to convey because he wasa foreigner, just as I was, then he must suffer the slaps and blows fallingupon his jaws, cheeks, head and everywhere. The Haras enjoyed this tre-mendously, and invariably performed his duties to please his masters.And when his hands tired, there were the kicks. "Cursed are your fatherand 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 sur-veyed 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 commonplacewithin our cell, a strange bond of sympathy had grown among us. Weheard each other's plight patiently and attentively, consoled and tendedwounds. And when a newcomer appeared, we played host. So when thisboy, Hasan, wept, the senior members rushed towards him, held him bythe hand, and bade him to act honourably like a man. "Ayb-Ayb LaTabchi-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 nocold water available. And a cluster of men sat around him to hear hisstory. But Hasan was primarily interested to know how long he wouldbe 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. Myfather is dead. She had just gone out to buy some food for the house, and

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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 hecried again.

This time they let him cry. As he lifted his head from his knees, tearsrolling by his fair cheeks, for he was half Iraqi half Turkoman, he askedone of us. "How long have you been here?" "Two hundred and eightdays", the answer; he glanced at another questioningly and the reply was- "Arb'ata Ash-Hur" - four months. He now wept with a loud wail andsaid: "But they told me ten minutes. I am asthmatic, and my widowedmother is old."

I was there to witness the pathetic scene. A young friend of mine rest-ing his palm against his cheeks was lying next to me. With a nervoustwitch he looked at me and then at the newcomer and said "Allah Kar-im", and then with a sarcasm that seemed so out of place in the gory en-vironment he added "Inna Anzalnahu Fi Thamani Khamseen” - Verily wehave sent him down to No: 58…………

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Chapter 4Chapter Three

A young man sat at a far corner in the cell, looking down through hisparted knees, dejected and detached. And then he lifted his head lookingstraight, with a blank gaze. He was hardly twenty-two; his body slim,weak and full of marks left behind by the chains and the lashes. Thesenever seemed to heal. Mates next to him teased him, gently stabbed andprodded his body with their fingers, and cracked jokes at his expense.His response would be varied. At times he was irritated and enraged. Hewould stand up protesting, brandishing a warning finger at them. Andsometimes he would make a rejoinder and add to the general joviality. Itwas evident that this terrible experience in Mukhaberat had had a tellingeffect upon his mind.

His name was Waseem, and he hailed from a known family of Iraq,the Kashiful Ghitas. He had lived in Switzerland for four years, pursuinga course in Engineering, and spoke English and German with consider-able ease. On his way back on vacation, he came to Beirut to meet hisbrother who was actively engaged in religious publication work, andwas known for his affiliation with Amal. As he crossed the border toIraq, the devils of Mukhaberat apprehended him, promising a very briefand informal interview. He was now here for the past five months! Ac-cused of anti-Ba'thist activities, of course.

A small window carved within the massive metal door opened oneday, and Haras shouted Waseem's name. The senior most among us hadassumed headship in the cell, and acted as a transmitter. He looked atWaseem and said, “Harval” - Run. And Waseem lept from his nook, an-swering "Na 'am, Sayyidi". A sharp merciless gaze from the guard shookhim to his core, and then from through the window he was given ablindfold to wear. This was made of a black leather cover with a rubberstrap. It covered your eyes and hung down crisply to your nostrils, and

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had the nauseating stench of human sweat. Then the door unlocked, twoarms pulling him out like a doomed animal, and the handcuffs were fit-ted to his wrists. The door was locked again, and we were now to waitfor his return to know about his fateful encounter with the Muhaqqiq.

A day in the cell is measured by events. There are no clocks, and nowatch is allowed. It was appreciably long before the unlocking of thedoor silenced us all, our eyes frightfully riveted to it. Waseem re-appeared, crestfallen arid bent from his waist, plodding heavily forward.The shirt he wore stuck to his back, showing clear bloodstains. It hadbeen the most terrible day of his stay. The interrogators first served himwith the blows, and then whipped him with "Sonda" till his fleshshowed, and blood trickled all over his back. Later they tied him firmlywith chains around his wrists and ankles and onto an iron frame. Thehands were then pulled on either side till he felt that they were comingout of the shoulders, and so were the legs till they seemed to dislocatefrom the hips. And then the frame was hung and turned so that he layupside down. "Speak the truth else you will die!" The words which weremeant to elicit from him a confession. Waseem threw himself to theground, unable to walk or talk for three days. In his half wakeful state,droplets of tears rolled down his cheek, with a weak voice "What have Idone, mother-what have I done?"

He woke up after three days, this time surprisingly alert and sane."You belong to Kashiful Ghitas?" I asked. "Yes", he said, I was surprised,for I knew that one Ali Kashiful Ghita was acting for the Ba'thist underthe guise of an Aalim-a Mujtahid. In fact, Ali Kashiful Ghita brought dis-grace upon his revered family by joining hands with the infidels againstSyed Muhsin El-Hakim. Waseem understood this implication. "Please donot mention my uncle Ali. He is a traitor".

For two more months, Waseem was in the cell, each day waiting forhis fate. His mind was now split between hope and despair. He some-times anticipated his release-talked about his marriage and settling inlife. And then suddenly turned round to ask: "But I am useless; look atmy features-I am so ugly. Who will give me her hand in marriage?"Waseem felt so concerned about his lower jawbones, which jutted outconspicuously. He would show me his teeth, and observe that the upperrow stood behind the lower ones when he shut the mouth. And whenhope welled up, he would say: "Never mind, I 'will visit my dentist first

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and tell him to mend my jaw"! A ripple of laughter followed. My Iranianfriend Jabbar asked: "What did he say? -a dentist? Why a dentist? Tellhim to knock this door and ask for Muhaqqiq. He will mend his jaws inthe Ghurfa Amaliyyat" Laughter again. One day Waseem signed beforeQadhi, and was consigned to Abu Ghuraib for sentence. God only knowswhat befell him.

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Chapter 5Chapter Four

The guard shouted from the window: “Jasim Hammud, Khuz Aghrnzak!” -Jasim Hammud, pick up your belongings, “Wa Hidhaak… .” - and yourshoes… . “Wa Raqamak… .” - and your number “Watla'a” - and come out.This typical announcement meant the release, at least from the drearycell. No one could predict whether the fellow was going home or to thegallows or before a firing squad. The victim himself felt so uncertain thathe would not be able to decide whether to celebrate or to mourn the de-parture. And what is the number?

Every unfortunate one who enters the Mukhaberat is given a smallwooden or plastic tablet bearing a number. "You are no more a humanbeing; you are a number", he is told. The psychological impact of thismust be experienced to be fully understood. One, for the first time per-haps, realises that he has ceased to be a human person-nor is he acommodity. No-he is merely a number-as abstract as a number. Andthen he is frightened at the prospects. So, he has ceased to exist in reality.He is nobody.

During my stay of four months and two days in detention, we were attimes called by our names, and at times by the numbers. This meant thatwe had to remember our numbers at all times if we wished to avoid thecalamity. A feeling of reassurance surged forth when I was called byname. At least, I existed. But this was depressed when I was cited as anumber. We had a Korean who did not know Arabic at all. He wastaught to memorize the number, which he did after great effort. Hefailed, however, to show up when his number was called, and the Harasshouted: “Ayn Huwa-Ma Aku?” - Where is he, is he not there? Unfortu-nately, nobody else recalled that it was the Korean's number, so the headshouted repeating it. After a pause, the Korean responded.

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“Shi Bek?” - What is the matter with you? The Haras demanded.Someone had to explain him that the poor man did not know Arabic, butthe guard was not interested. He was roughly manhandled to theMuhaqqiq.

Blindfolded and handcuffed, every detainee was pushed down thecorridors, sometimes by the winding staircases, and alternatively by thelifts. The Haras caught him by the arm and pulled him till he wasbrought to the door of the room where his Muhaqqiq waited. On someoccasions there would be a panel of investigators, four or five or six ofthem, all lined up on a sofa. The blind-fold never allowed you to seetheir faces; you could only count the pairs of shoes visible from beneaththe fold-or hear the footsteps. The Haras would stand by you, or, whendirected, leave the room. And then the volley of questions would begin,questions being shot from here, there and everywhere.

There were several Muhaqqiqs, each assigned to a room, and eachroom had a number. So apart from remembering our own numbers, wewere required to remember the number of our Muhaqqiq's room. It wascommon to say, for example, that "I belong to No.9, or 14, or 21". EachMuhaqqiq was known for his notoriety and cruelty, and if one was in thehands of a Muhaqqiq known to be the least humane and merciful, oneearned our special sympathies. "So you belong to No.14 eh? ThatMuhaqqiq is the most notorious one. He never lets his victims out"-onewould be told.

The questioners were specially trained to cause maximum damage,physically and mentally. The most commonly adopted tactic was to askseveral question consecutively, and then pause. This pause, which attimes extended to several minutes, left the detainee uneasy, unsure andstaggered. What next? The pause seemed eternal. Are they looking atyou, or are they no more interested in you? You never could tell. Itshattered the nerves, and cold sweat would begin to settle on the fore-head. And then it began all over.

"Tell the truth", meant admit your guilt. Contrary to all measures andstandards of justice, you were guilty from the minute you were accused.My Somali cellmate, Abdul Qadir, tried to defend himself. A burningmatchstick introduced to his beard burnt the hair and the chin. He cameback to the cell with a peculiar smell of the scorched hair emanating from

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him. This was the beginning, he was told. "Go and think over it-and tellthe truth when we call you again".

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Chapter 6Chapter Five

Once in a fortnight, the inmates were all hurdled out to what was knownas “Shams". One by one we were rushed to this room, which did nothave a ceiling. Here we were able to breathe fresh air and enjoy somesunlight. As we passed through the corridor which led to “Shams", wesaw the ladies with their children seated in captivity. The guard instruc-ted the ladies to cover their faces, while small babies fearfully clung totheir mothers. The slightly grown up children played in the corridor,kicking the football, which was not there. They perhaps rememberedtheir days of freedom and imagined things, which would help them, for-get the plight of their mothers, or the torture of a passing-by maledetainee.

We knew that there were some ladies in the corridor, for while we re-mained incarcerated in the cell, we distinctly heard hysteric screams ofthe ladies in the middle of the nights. Was it a nightmare? Or did shedream of her husband, her son or her youthful daughter who had eitherbeen captured or had disappeared never to be seen again? Or was it thepain in her ribs after having been mercilessly tortured in GhufaAmaliyyat down below? One thing is certain. Whenever these shriekspierced through the dark of the night, a blanket of silence fell upon usall. The Iraqis wondered what had befallen their nation. Could there beany justifiable malice against an innocent woman who has apprehendedbecause her male relative had either defected or committed an offence?There were hundreds of them. Some were in the cells for over a year.How did I know? My wife was there!

While in Shams we were asked to remove our shirts and do some exer-cise. The guard stood there with a rubber hosepipe in his hands, andasked us to run round and round till we were breathless. And this fol-lowed by a vigorous exercise, which rendered everyone thoroughly

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exhausted. There were some who tried to avoid this gruesome drill un-der health pretexts. Some were spared, but not all. My Sudanese friend,Qasam, once sat down refusing to participate. He had been sufferingfrom a nasty cough and a high temperature for sometime, and had not atall recovered. Right then Abu Mahmood, dressed in his black attire, ap-peared. His appearance always heralded a misfortune, for his unseemlyfeatures were enough to frighten anyone who chanced to see him in anunlit alley. He looked around and found Qasam and his likes retired in acorner. "Shi Bek?" "What is the matter with you?" No reason would con-vince him. He then delivered a talk to us all in which he emphasizedupon the need to exercise which, he said, was meant to keep us fit. "An-tum Mawqufin" - You are detainees, "Ihtarirnu Anfusakurn" - maintainyour self-respect. And with that he ordered all the invalids to jump andrun. Qasam ran till he panted and suffered from short breath. Later hewas admitted to the 'hospital' down below, chained to his bed. Diagnos-is? Tuberculosis."

God knows which medicine was administered to him, but he was sentback to our cell for convalescence. He was still coughing, and ran hightemperature. Something within him seemed to eat him up. TheMuhaqqiq recognized no infirmities. In that state of health, he was takenby the Haras blindfolded and handcuffed for interrogation. He wasasked there by the Muhaqqiq to sing a Sudanese song, and then dance.Despite his frailty, he summoned all his strength to oblige. And then themercurial mood of the Muhaqqiq became evident. "Tell the truth-Whydid you go to Libya? Did you read the Green Book? What are your rela-tions with Gaddafi and Khomeini?" To all this, his answer was simple.He had left Sudan as a political dissident, and came to Iraq to find a job."Well, well-you do not want to tell the truth. Enough time has been givento you till now-but you refuse to realize. We have decided to… . executeyou." With this fateful verdict, he returned to the cell. It is indeed diffi-cult to assess whether he was being steadily devoured by his ailment orby the bare sword that hung over his head.

A visit to Shams was meant to give us opportunity of breathing freshair and enjoying the sunlight. Here we would see the azure sky, thechirping birds flying, and at times hear the hoot or a siren. Once weheard Adhan also from a nearby mosque. Airport seemed to be not faraway; because we could hear the planes take off and land. It is said thatdivine gifts and blessings are valued high when they are lost.

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The sagacity of this maxim was best realized in the Shams, for we wereonly yards away from freedom. Freedom, which is taken for granted byall of us, and is rightly, considered as our basic right, can only be evalu-ated when it is denied. Here, while a group of our friends enjoyed thesunshine and fresh air, another group waited for the guard to go, so thatthey could sit in respite and brood over their fate. As the Haras left us fora few minutes, these friends would sit and cry. The sweet memory of thefree past and the prospects of an uncertain future engendered a feelingof depression, which could not be easily overcome. And when we re-turned to the gloomy cell, the depression continued for hours on end.

And at that moment, the window in the metal door clicked open andthe Haras appeared. He asked our chief to come and then spokesomething, which was not audible. Abruptly the window was shut, in amanner to convey total indifference and an insult. And then the headsaid: "Brothers, Seyyid al-Haras (the guard) is totally displeased with thestench and filth in this cell. While we were in Shams, he visited this celland was horrified to see the shamble. He now commands us to clean thefloor, the toilet and the Hammam." All of us were soon mobilized toscrub the floor, and wash the closets. We sprinkled the 'Tide' washingpowder originally rationed out to us for washing out torn clothes, andpoured water to spread the layers of dirt evenly in the cell!

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Chapter 7Chapter Six

Georges and Oscar were Christians. Georges was an Iraqi from Kirkuk,while Oscar was a Catholic from Philippines. Just as December set in,they remembered the festival of Christmas, and hoped that they wouldbe released to reunite with their families. And then Christmas passed un-eventfully, so they expected the release on the New Year eve. Nothinghappened. Georges was spending his second month in the cell, but Oscarhad been there for six months. Both spoke fluent and flawless English.

Everyone in the cell likes to know the other man's story and the reasonfor his apprehension. Then one would compare its seriousness with onesown case, and reckon if he himself stood any chance of reprieve."Georges, what have you done?" I asked. "Nothing serious. I am accusedof having shown disrespect to Seyyid al-Rais (the President). In a fit ofanger, I wrinkled a newspaper, and it happened to contain his photo-graph." He was reported, and subsequently accused of, or rather con-victed of, being anti-Ba'thist. I did not realize how difficult life must befor the Iraqis. Later on, I found that there hardly was any printed materi-al, a daily, a weekly or a monthly, which did not carry the President'sportrait. Any use of these papers, other than reading, could render theIraqis vulnerable.

And then suddenly I sensed that the friends in my cell were buoyantwith some expectations. It was January, and an army anniversary wasapproaching. Hawwaz and Burhan confided that there would be a gen-eral "Afw", a pardon for all of us. Qathan said that the Haras had toldhim, that Seyyid al-Rais did this every year, and there was no reasonwhy he should not do it this year.

Qahtan was from Tikrit, and enjoyed special liberties with some of theguards who knew him personally. They allowed him to come out in the

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corridor and smoke one or two cigarettes. There they talked to him, andparted with the outside news. But Qahtan had to pay a price for the fa-vours. He passed the information about the conduct, and the talk ofevery cellmate to Haras, who in turn transmitted it to the Muhaqqiqs. Soour attitude towards Qahtan was that of fear and respect.

As the date of the anniversary drew near, the feelings in the cell ranhigh. Strange enough, but nobody in the cell forgets the dates. The dura-tion of one's confinement and detention is measured by the number ofdays. Abu Ali says: "I am completing my hundred and fourth daytoday", and Faisal says that he is doing his hundred and seventy eighth,out of which he spent exactly sixty three days alone in a single cell on thefirst floor and further fourteen in the red cell - Ghurfatul Hamraa.

Qahtan was now surrounded by all of us, eager to get a final confirma-tion from him about Afw. He took out a rosary-atasbeeh or sabha, made ofstrings pulled from Bataniya (the blankets) and then plaited and knottedto resemble the beads. Placing his hand upon a distant knot and witheyes closed, he started from the first knot chanting: “Allah, Muhammad,Allah, Muhammad….." the final knot ended with Allah, and I could seehow elated he was. "Hatman, Aku Afw", he said. "Definitely, there is apardon."

The date passed and there was no sign of any reprieve, not for Qahtaneither!

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Chapter 8Chapter Seven

The modes of chastisement varied. At times it depended upon theMuhaqqiq. There seemed to be a long list of punishments, and he wouldprescribe any for the detainee. From Mosul, there was Husain, an oldman who was a farmer. For six days on end no morsel of food or sip ofwater was allowed to him. He had a bulky, beefy frame, and perhapsthis helped him survive. When he was finally allowed the first meal, hecould hardly open his eyes to see what went into his mouth. He hadbeen denied sleep as well. When sleep stealthily took the better of him,he was slapped and kicked by the ever attending Haras. His speech be-came incoherent, his eyes blank. Sitting next to me, he showed some signof recovery after weeks. What was his offence? "I used to go to themosque fairly regularly. They thought I was religious, and therefore af-filiated to Hizbud-Da’wah." Then, with an admonition he said "Do notmention Da’wah here. They will strangle you."

The detainees came and went. From the first three hundred, our num-ber fell to around one hundred and eighty. And it dwindled still furtherto eighty-six. What a relief! We were now able to stretch our legs andsleep. It was not so before. Our chief had contrived an ingenious methodfor our sleeping cycles. Everyone was a Badeel to his mate. While myfriend slept, I stood upon his body for six hours or so. No movement waspossible because of congestion, nor could I sit because of the feet inter-locking each other's. And then he woke up to allow me to sleep. Hestood over my body as if to prevent me from escaping.

But our room soon became crowded as scores of Egyptian and Jordani-an young men were brought in. We were nearing the three hundredmark again. The cell now rang with Arabic dialects, punctuated with hil-arity so characteristic of the Egyptians. There were other companionswho stuck to us so faithfully. They were the overgrown black lice, which

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skipped from one person to another, causing intolerable rash, irritationand pain. These parasites never left us alone. They were to be seen every-where on our bodies, on our torn and slit shirts, in the buttonholes, andhundreds of them crawling in the plaited curly hair of the Sudanese, theSomalis and other Arab friends. Killing them became a good pastime,and we soon obliged each other by picking up a stray louse crawling onthe 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 wouldopen and a trimly young man accompanied by Haras would ap-pear. "Man Indahu Ilaj?" he would shout. Those who needed treatmentflocked to the door. The common complaintswere 'ishal' (diarrhoea), 'Qabdh' (constipation),'Ghudood' (tonsils), soreson the tongue and upon the palates and the nostrils. The medicine manhad a list, which he consulted. If one said 'Ishal', one was given the redtablets to swallow in his presence, and if it was 'Qabdh', then the tabletwas invariably pink; and so on. Minor ailments like sores were nevertreated; they were all classified as "Hassasiyyah", allergic. Some killercream finally treated the scourge and havoc played by the lice, and wefelt greatly relieved. The lice were there, but their number had consider-ably reduced.

It takes all sorts of men to make a society in the cell. There were polit-ical refugees, dissidents, defectors, smugglers, thieves, foreign exchangedealers, pimps and sexually perverted. And along with them were menlike me who were accused of espionage. Jawad, aged 19 years, was therebecause he tried to trace the President's portrait and inadvertently drewhis nose crooked; Muhsin was there because he visited mosques and theHoly Shrines of Najaf and Kerbala quite frequently; Abdul-Rab was ap-prehended because he was found with a note-book in which he had writ-ten quotations from Nahjul Balagha; Mustafa, a Turk, was brought in be-cause they mistook him for another Mustafa, also a Turk, who waswanted; Jasim was there because he dealt with ammunition and fire-arms; Ibrahim came because he believed that Iraq-Iran war must stopand strongly expressed his opinions before the informers; Abu Mansoorwas here for no reason known to him, and a half-mad Muhammad waswith us because he visited the Shrine of Najaf, and banged his slippersupon the sacred Zareeh. An Indian, Kehar Kaushal, entered the cell be-cause he joined a strike, which was illegal in Iraq. They had struck

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together since they had not been paid for six months. Two Pakistaniscame to Iraq without visa, another one without a passport. One Indiantampered with his own Passport, trying to erase an old, expired visa sothat a new one could be stamped. Such was the colourful, motley crowd,each with a peculiar story.

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Chapter 9Chapter Eight

In a well-lit room, a Muhaqqiq sat on an elevated platform, with a writ-ing pad before him. In my first encounter with him, the blindfold wasslightly raised by the Haras -enabling me to see the interrogator and sur-vey the room. There were several other tables around, and a portrait ofSaddam neatly placed on a plank. And there was a sofa set arranged onone side. I was given a chair, which I thought must have come there bymistake from a kindergarten. It was small, very low and apparentlyfragile.

Initial questions dealt with my identity, my family history and my im-mediate relatives. In between these were simple enquiries, he asked:

"Do you pray"?

"Yes". I said. The question seemed strange and totally irrelevant. Butthen I thought that perhaps they wanted to establish if I was truly aMuslim; a quality, which I guessed, might earn me some favour. As dayspassed by, I understood the implications.

Detainees charged with criminal offences or accused of immoral prac-tices stood a better chance of early release. Pimps, drug peddlers, smug-glers, playboys and gays were released within two to three weeks, be-cause they helped the process of de-Islamization. Sameer, an Egyptianyoung man, looked quiet and well behaved in the cell, but his story wasastounding. He travelled with strangers in the buses, and on the waywould politely offer tea from his thermos. The traveller soon went into adeep slumber, and Sameer helped himself with all the contents of thestranger's wallet. The drugs and sedatives thus used in the blend madetea all the more palatable-for both, Sameer and his victim. Here, Ireckoned, was a boy who would be severely punished and detained for

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many years. But he was released from the cell within a month and wasseen in Baghdad by some of my friends who were brought back fromfreedom again, this time accused of being deserters.

The Ba'thist regime does not tolerate religious leanings. Just as we satone evening to eat the upper crust of the half-baked breadcalled Sammoon with tasteless curry, which had more water in it than anyof its usual ingredients, young Muhsin entered. Most of the inmatesseemed to know the newcomer. He had been here six months ago, andhad stayed for four months. He was then sent to Abu Ghuraib jail. Theygreeted him and welcomed him to the meal. He was a resident ofSamarra. I found him reticent but cordial. He prayed regularly and satfor Dhikr, Taqeebat and other voluntary acts of worship for quite long.As our acquaintance became intimate, I once asked him about his case.He was reluctant to disclose anything in presence of the others. Early onemorning, we chanced to be alone near the Hammam for Wudhu, and heexplained his plight in detail. "I was arrested because I was a regular go-er to the mosques and the Shrines of Askariyyain, and accused of beingassociated with Da’wah. They kept me here for four months, and did notcall me for Tahqeeq even once. Then I was suddenly transferred to AbuGhuraib, where I stayed for six months. I became acquainted with thecruel Haras of Abu Ghuraib, and being a senior inmate, was usuallyspared their whips and slaps. Then I wrote a note to the Head ofMukhaberat complaining that I was not being interviewed and Iwondered how long would I remain incarcerated without knowing thecharges preferred against me. I was transferred again to this place. Theyhave called me downstairs once, but could not trace my file. And whenthey found it after a long search, there was nothing against me exceptthat my inclinations towards the Ba'thist policy were unknown. So Imust be religious, fanatic, orthodox, reactionary and follower of HizbudDa'wah." Muhsin stayed for ten months and many more weeks, totallyneglected. Iraq’s present Ba’thist regime consigns religious youths to thedungeons of oblivion.

Religious performances in the cell were looked down upon by theHaras and other officers who made unannounced, short visits. To beseen with a rosary - a sabha was the most intolerable offence. Rosariesmade from the strings of motleyBataniyya, plaited and knotted with greatcare and dexterity, were perhaps the only attractive items in this drearycell. We said our Tasbeeh with these rosaries hidden under the blankets

23

covering our knees. A Haras, Raed, saw one of us with this beautifulbrown rosary in his hand, and was red with anger. The massive dooropened, and a search began. Some twenty-five rosaries were found onthe inmates, and they were all pushed out to the corridor for punish-ment. The cracking wire whips and the wails of "Sayyidi-Sayyidi-Afw-Afw" could be faintly heard from outside. Quran was not allowed intothe cell. Daily prayers were ridiculed, though tolerated. Muhammad Aliof Samawa once stood up for Tahajjud in the small hours of the night. Inthe packed cell, he managed to find a place near the door. During the fi-nal Witr, he had just raised his palms for Qunoot, when most unexpec-tedly Abu Mahmood appeared at the infamous window. "Shunu SalatHazeh" what sort of prayer is this? There was nobody there to answer, forMuhammad Ali was steadfast in his supplications, and those half awakelike myself pretended to be in deep sleep. Abu Mahmood stood rivetedto the ground till Tahajjud was over and with a contemptuous grin said:"You would not be here if God ever heard!"

My interrogation continued on the same note.

"Do you speak Arabic or Persian?"

"Do you read Quran?"

"Yes".

"How can you read Quran if you did not know Arabic?"

"This is common in the non-Arab Muslim world. We are taught to re-cognize the Alphabets, and trained in recitation without understandingthe language", I explained.

"Why did you visit Iraq?"

"For Ziyarat of Arba’een."

"And who sent you here?"

"Nobody. I came of my own accord, and at my own expense.

24

"You are lying. You must know that we are kind and considerate tothose who are truthful. And when you start telling the lies, we treat youlike animals-worse than that. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but I am telling no lies."

The interrogator left his seat and came closer to where I sat. This men-acing approach sent a chilling sensation down my spine, but nothinghappened. He asked:

"Are you Ayatollah?"

I was taken aback. Was I? This seemed to be quite far-fetched, and Icould not guess why they thought I was Ayatollah. I had no beard-it hadbeen perforce shaved in the cell. And then I remembered. In mybriefcase, they had found an Amaliyya of Ayatollah El-Khui, and some ofhis letters and receipts forKhums.

"No, I am not Ayatollah", I said.

"What are your relations with El-Khui?"

"He is my Mujtahid. I follow his rulings in Islamic jurisprudence andregulations".

"And with Khomeini?"

"No relations with Khomeini".

"Do you believe he is a crazy Mulla, responsible for the slaughter ofthousands of innocent Muslims?"

I hesitated. This was a tragic pause. The Muhaqqiq hit me on my jawswith his fist and I was on the floor as the chair tilted.” You areKhomeini's spy-and with that label I was sent back to the cell.

25

Chapter 10Chapter Nine

"Dawaam" started in the early hours of the day, and halted temporarilyin the afternoon. It resumed in the evening and continued till midnight.These were the hours of Tahqeeq, when detainees were called in for ques-tioning. Weekend began from Thursday afternoon, and ended tillSaturday morning. Things were usually quiet during the weekend. Fri-day was a good day, because each of us was given 'Baidh', a boiled eggin the breakfast.

Usual breakfast consisted of Shorba, a thick paste with an offensivesmell, and two half-baked Sammoon which was definitely unfit for hu-man consumption. The crust seemed to be brown and baked enough foreating. The inside of the bread was a sticky blend of flour and yeast,which choked as we tried to swallow. A boiled egg on Fridays was an in-valuable gift of God, treasured and valued. I remember when on a par-ticular Friday, we were only eighty-six in the cell, and the Haras openedthe window and asked:

"Kam Wahid" - How many of you?

And our headman, gathering all the courage retorted:

"Mitayn Wa Thdashar-Wallah". Two hundred and eleven. By God.

The Haras gave two pales full of eggs-and we had enough each to lastus for three days.

Our ears now turned to the outside noises. When the trolley carryinglunch approached, someone would announce-"Ghaza, Ghaza" - and askus to arrange ourselves in the Majmooa of tens. Plastic bowls were thendistributed to each Majmooa. It was the same diet everyday. Oily, half-

26

cooked rice in big plastic containers which resembled bath-tubs for ba-bies, and a slimy pungent curry which sometimes contained large squarebits of tough meat. The headman and his aids then filled our bowls.Bones in the meat, quite rare though, was an essential raw material. Wewashed it and then set down for hours and sometimes days rubbing itagainst the hard floor till it assumed the shape of a glossed round pin.Then we flattened one tip, and with a nail from the shoes on the rack, webore a hole in it. This was the needle. It was prohibited item just like therosary, but it could be conveniently concealed. And then we pulled outthreads from our tattered shirts and threaded the needle to stitch ourtorn shirts and pyjamas. It seemed Time had travelled backwards, for wewere using implements of the 'Bone-Age'. It was beautiful, this needle.Abu Fahd, a Druze from Syria treasured one dearly, and said, "I willcarry it with me when I am released, and place it in a Mathaf (Museum)."

"Dolkatukum Ya Ikhwan-Dolkat" - the headman always announcedwhen he knew tea would be served in the evening. A Dolka was a plasticjug, which was filled with black tea having strong aroma of camphor. Itwas very sweet. A jug for ten. And the same curry which was left overfrom lunch. If there were some crumbs, we dipped them in the offensiveliquid and ate.

The Dolka had another use also. Water from the taps was always sizz-ling hot. "No cold water, Sir, you are Mawqufin. You are not in yourhouses." This was the water for drinking, wudhu, washing our clothesand ourselves and for the toilets. Water was kept in the Dolka for hoursto cool down. In Hammam, it was collected in the trough till it becameusable for bath. And when a particular Dolka was ready, scores of in-mates quenched their thirst with small sips, which would at times onlywet their lips. During my four months and two days, cold water wasavailable for ten days when some anniversary was being celebrated inIraq. Mukhaberat seemed to be in a condescending mood. Wudhu meanta quick jerk of your palm below the water flowing from the taps-if youwere not careful, blisters formed on the palms. We could not wash ourtorn pyjama suits - because there was no spare suit. So we washed ourshirt first, shook it till it dried, wore it around the loins and then washedthe pyjama. And if the Muhaqqiq decided to call one right then, onerushed downstairs with the dripping suit.'Harval Ya Maloon, La UmmaLak' - the Haras would roar.

27

28

Chapter 11Chapter Ten

A young Egyptian entered our cell with a wobble that betrayed his poorstate. Our headman squeezed him between the rows where he calmlysettled, talking to no one. As was customary, a group of friendssurround-ed him with the intention to know his case, but he did not re-spond. Right then the window flicked open and the Haras said: “WaynHuwa? Haza Masriy?" - Where is he, this Egyptian? The head answeredthat he was sitting comfortably with his Egyptian fellow men. "No oneshould talk to him-No one-do you understand?", he commanded, shutthe window and disappeared.

Two hours later, Majid, a young officer from the Amanaat, walked infollowed by the ever-present Haras. The Egyptian young man wassummoned, and a volley of questions started. Majid lit his cigarette, anddemanded: "Where did you get the dollars from?" "Wallah, Ma Adree," ByGod. I do not know, came the reply. "So you do not know eh?" Majid wasfurious. He slapped him and then hit him hard blows. "Wallah, Seyyidi -Ma Adree, " - By God Sir, I do not know. This time the boy was kicked onhis ribs, and as he tried to control himself from falling, blows and slapsfollowed. The boy cried helplessly. "Stretch your palm", Majid said. Theboy extended his palm, and the burning butt was extinguished againsthis palm. He gave out a cry of pain and bitterly wept. Caught by theneck, Haras pushed him out of the cell and the door shut. I thought theboy was in for trouble and that he would be half dead if at all broughtback. Instead he returned hail and happy. He told us that he had con-fessed, and supplied further names of those involved with him in the il-legal transaction.

Amanaat is the entry point and also the exit. My wife and I were driv-en from Baghdad Airport (Saddam Airport) under escort. I was given asmall white handkerchief to tie around my wife's eyes, and then they

29

blinded me with my own muffler. As the car sped along the main roadsof the city, my wife clasped my hand and asked, "Where are they takingus? Are we going to be killed?" My heart throbbed with fear; nervously Ireplied, "I do not know. But we are the guests of Imam Hussein. Allah iswith us-do not panic." We felt that the car was speeding down a ramp,and then, a sudden halt. We came out of the vehicle without the slightestidea of what destiny held in store for us. And we entered a place, whichlooked like a warehouse. For when the cloth was removed, we saw theplace full of various articles. There were clothes, shoes, trunks, arms andammunitions, knives, motorbikes, and heaven knows what all spreadaround, with a lot of dust gathered over them. "Uq-oud", a Harasshouted, but I did not "know". "Sit Down", and both of us complied. Wesaw Majid in a corner, seated on a wooden chair, writing. And then heapproached us.” Remove your clothes and all your belongings. Tell yourwife to go in the adjoining room and change. Come on, quickly", heordered. I was given the dirty torn pyjama suit; and my wife an olddress. We were then beckoned to the table where we signed the list ofour belongings. Just as we finished signing, Majid looked at me snarling:"Jasoos Khomeini? Khomeini's spy?" I made no reply for I did not"understand". "You will see the fire, soon, very soon", he warned. Earthseemed to slip from under my feet. For the first time I realized that I washeld under serious suspicion. My lips went dry with fear and my wife si-lently wept. But worse was to come.

The Haras put the shackles around my wrists, and blindfolded mywife and me. Then he pulled us in a zigzag manner giving the impres-sion that the alley was not straight. We came to an elevator. On thesecond floor, I was ordered out. My wife screamed: "Where am I going? Ishall die… . They will kill me… . please do not go… ." and the screamsdied down as the elevator shot upwards. I saw my wife again after fourmonths.

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Chapter 12Chapter Eleven

Intellectuals in Iraq are damned. Most of the youths condemned to indef-inite stay in Tawqif were highly educated, intelligent and politicallyaware members of the society. Their crime was that they were vocal andarticulate. Not all of them were votaries of Islamic state; but they were allunanimous in their condemnation of unjust, authoritarian rules in mostof the Arab states.

There was a young man who seemed to live on the wings of fancy.Alone in a corner, he spoke to himself, chuckled with a smile graduallydeveloping into a broad grin. Young in age, he had a face demure andsage. We thought he was mad, till one day I found out that he was apoet. He quoted several pre-Islamic literary giants, and recited their lineswith pride and admiration. At times, he read his own poetry to us. TheMuhaqqiq somehow knew that the fellow was well versed in metre andrhyme. Naturally, he provided us a good diversion in a dungeon wherethere was nothing else to do but to kill the parasites, stitch the tornclothes, wash ourselves, pray, brood over our weird fate, quarrel overtrivialities, remember our family and helplessly weep.

The poet once came back from the Muhqqiq badly shaken. His face redfrom the slaps and blows, his front tooth broken. The pyjama showedblood, for he had been mercilessly kicked in his testicles. In an hour anda half of incessant questioning, no respite was given to him as variousmodes of punishment were meted out one after the other. He was givena shock treatment, which sent him flying from the chair like fish out ofwater, tottering to the floor semi-conscious. All this because he wasasked to recite few verses of his own to amuse the Muhqqiq. Call it anaudacity or foolhardiness, he chose some of the most provoking linesfrom his notes, the pointed spikes against the inhuman Ba’thist regime,

31

and recited them with candour that was least expected. The Muhaqqiqflew with rage and then hell broke loose.

Faisal, who had been there for nine months, was a lecturer in Mathem-atics. He was from Jordan, teaching in a University in Baghdad. He leftJordan as a political dissident, unable to reconcile with the despotic rule,and came to Iraq to find a living. Here he married. A year after his mar-riage, when his first-born was only a month old, he was apprehended. Iremember how one morning he woke up with tears rolling down hischeeks. He had dreamt of his young wife and the newborn child. He sawthat the child was grown up-and in the arms of its mother, it gave atoothless smile, spreading its arms towards him as if to say: "Take mefather, hug me, fondle me, kiss me, please." Faisal cried for one hour. Hewas a Mathematician, and a human being. During my stay of fourmonths and two days, I never saw him go to Muhaqqiq. His ordealseemed to be over; but the protracted confinement tortured him further.What had he done? While lecturing on Mathematics, he at times di-gressed to touch the burning political issues of the Middle East, andfrankly castigated the monarchy and the despotic rules of Jordan andother Arab states.

He never realised that the government's secret agents and informerswere everywhere. His own students reported him, and one day, the icyhand of Mukhabirat descended upon him. "You cannot imagine howmuch they beat me," he once told me. "They seem to have softened downnow, for the beating I see these days is not at all comparable to what Ihave undergone. The rain of Sonda falling upon my body turned my skinviolet, then black and then violet again. I had a bloodbath" - he said.

The young generation of Iraq and many other Arab states is con-demned to decadence. Only those who choose to live aimlessly, whilingaway their precious time in frivolity and gain less pursuits, ostensibly in-clined to the prevailing rule, can survive. A young man who thinks, hasan ideology and original persuasions, is religious and a true Muslim,gives vent to his feelings and opinions, for him all roads point to the gal-lows. With every young intelligent Muslim Iraqi who is systematicallybrainwashed, wrecked, finally executed or banished, Islam incurs an ir-reparable loss of genius.

32

Yahya, a student of psychology, came from Kuwait. Common to manypsychologists, he had his own psychological problems. His wife haddeserted him accusing him of impotence, and it became impossible tolive in Kuwait. So he came to Iraq where a job awaited him. Human be-haviour was his subject, and as he discussed human traits, he cited ex-amples from history. The Ba’thist regime found him a suspect, and pre-empted his arrest before he could discuss the present insane rulers psy-chologically. He was rounded up in Kerbala, and was immediately con-signed to a dark vault, which had a revolting stench of urine and humanexcrements. Thereafter in a police cell, before his final transfer to our cell,the Haras sexually assaulted him. Needless to say that Yahya recalled hisexperience with profound bitterness. "They are beasts, these Haras", hewould say.

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Chapter 13Chapter Twelve

Kamal, the poet had now recovered from shock, though marks were stillthere to be seen. The speed with which he recovered was amazing, fornow as he recalled the intermittent blows and slaps, he giggled andlaughed. "I told them; yes, I told them what I thought of them and oftheir jungle rule." He was pleased with himself because he succeeded indisturbing the Muhaqqiq. Faisal asked him to relate the incident in detailand to recite the verses, which had proved offensive.

Kamal was ready. The poem he recited was too long for me to retain.Yet I managed to commit a few lines to memory. As a student of Islamichistory, I had always wondered how the companions of our Prophet andour Aimma, peace be upon them, were able to remember lengthy tradi-tions, sermons and supplications and to faithfully transmit them to pos-terity. Now I realized how when one is deprived of the tools, not able tojot down anything, then one relies upon ones memory, and memory sud-denly becomes more retentive. While in the cell, I remembered manymore lines; but just as I try to put them to paper after a lapse of months, Ican recall only some.

"I was asked to stand on a chair and recite. Right then, I could only re-call a poem by my Syrian friend who had written about Ba’thist regimein Syria, and I thought it applied to Iraq as well. So, forgetting that I wasbut a detainee, I began." - Kamal began.

Faisal, Fathi and I eagerly waited for him to commence. This wouldgive a mental transportation from the gloomy, dreary surroundingwhich beset us and an escape from a depressing attitude we had de-veloped towards Time, which ever seemed to stand still. Kamal was alsopleased to find that he had listeners, so he threw his Bataniya aside andsquatted, assuming a posture of a guru before the pupils.

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“History has never witnessed worse tyrants than them,

Not even in the injustice of Pharaoh nor of Haman.

Their era is ruled by the laws of jungle;

Where might is right, honoured by the rulers.

They have filled their cities with evil and sin,

And have rendered every place fraught with vices.

They destroyed the religious schools,

And smeared the purity of hearts and the dignity of youths.

The young and old among them have turned into pimps,

And their women, into whores, like mischievous monkeys.

And the modes of chastisement and torture

Have no precedence in the history of mankind.

Did you ever see a whip, which eats and drinks?

By licking the sacred stream of innocent blood?

Did you hear of a man whose skin is peeled of?

Or did you see the inner ear being pierced?

Did you hear of a man, whose bone is crushed?

And his teeth broken to pieces?

35

Did you hear of one whose flesh is broiled?

In a furnace, or in a hot steam or roasted in flames?

Did you hear of one, whose urge for passing urine is constrained?

And all his body apertures plugged?”

Qasam who had by now joined us was emotionally affected. He hidhis face with his palms and listened. We saw clear droplets trickleddown his cheeks on to the floor, and as was customary, we shook hisarms bidding him not to cry. He lifted his face, looking intently toKamal, pleading for more. Kamal was least moved. He perhaps expectedthis response.

He continued:

“And what could be expected of the mean, faithless people,

Those wretched, basemen of lower birth?

Noble and brave are never born of whores-who

Bring forth only riffraff of society.”

And then Kamal sat erect, proudly looked around as if addressing thewhole cell, and raising his voice, said: -

“I am a Muslim, and my bosom is full of pride.

I am a believer, and light fills my soul;

I rise high in glory among mankind.

I shall continue to announce my call with a challenge.

I carry the banner of faith and invite people to join.”

The massive door clicked again, and we realized that lunch was beingserved. This indicated that it was noon, so some of us hurried to the

36

Hammam for Wudhu and then stood to pray. This was a meatless day,and the rice, soaked in oil, was half cooked. Kamal's poetry had some-how elevated our spirits, and we ate food with relish and Thanksgivingto Allah for His ways, designs and wisdom.

37

Chapter 14Chapter Thirteen

The corridor to which I was brought the first day was dimly lit. As I saton the floor, I remembered that it was Friday night: "Laylatul Ju-mu’ah"… . and then my eyes fell on the handcuffs. I could not believemy eyes. Was this actually happening? Or was it a bad dream? Raisingmy head towards heaven, I sighed, and in a bid to control my emotions, Isaid: "Alhamdulillah - all praise be to Allah".

Unaccustomed to the ways, I pushed the irksome blindfold upwardsand managed to survey the surroundings. The corridor was occupied byscores of people, all handcuffed and blindfolded. A cry of agony, nowand then, pierced through the pervasive silence. I was terribly upset. Mylips were dry, my throat parched.

Looking towards the Haras, I raised my finger and asked for water. Heexchanged a glance of surprise with his colleague, and said: "Hear that?He is asking for water!" They both giggled. I had made an outrageouslyunusual request! But his colleague said: "Huwa Ghareeb", he is astranger, give him some." A small glass filled with cold water was givento me, with an admonition: "Next time you are thirsty, seek my permis-sion and go to the washroom. You will find water there." He was refer-ring to the boiling water from the taps; but then I did not know.

As dawn broke, men around me shuffled and woke up from theirsleep. And then one after another hesitantly sought permission fromHaras. "Sayyidi” no reply. "Sayyidi?" no attention. He now dares raisehis voice pleading: "Sayyidi?”… . The Haras turns his face towards himwith total indifference and shouts back "She Bek?" "May I go to the toi-lets?" "Go", the Haras shouts. This continues the whole day. No one is al-lowed to talk, and the blindfold must not be raised. Ah, the new Haraswho had come to relieve his colleague saw that my bandage was a little

38

higher. He came near and blurted: "Get it lower, and do not try to lookaround."

It is indeed difficult to describe the uneasiness and distress a personexperiences when deprived of vision, knowing full well that God has en-dowed him with the normal sense of sight. Blindness is different. The lat-ter is a state of resignation to fate, while the former always feelsthreatened and subdued. 0 God! What a horrendous experience it is! Un-able to sustain the perpetual darkness caused by the leather cover beforemy eyes, I kept on pushing it upwards, and then finding that the Haraswas not attentive, surveyed the corridors and its inhabitants. Carefully, Iplaced the cover back to its position before he noticed.

"Ya Allah Raham Kar… . Ya Allah… .", I heard. It was in my own lan-guage, the dialect seemed familiar. As he found his place in the corridor Imanaged to steal a view. He was middle-aged, with a luxurious growthof beard. I drew closer and asked: "Are you from Pakistan?" He wastaken aback, for he least expected anyone who could speak Urdu. With asigh 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 conduc-ted in soft whispers.

Rooms lining the corridors were either single cells for solitary confine-ment, or 'Red Cell', "Ghurfatul Hamraa", where more than twenty wouldbe squeezed in at a time. Murmur of Tasbeeh, Dua-e-Kumail, and Adhancould 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 thecompany of fellow humans who had shared my plight. It was commonsuffering. Then one day, my name was announced along with many oth-ers. Six of us stood up. We were asked to line up, holding the shirt of onein front, so that "blind would lead blind." Ali Hussein was not to come,so he felt miserable. "Where are you going?", he demanded. Not know-ing what destiny held in store for me, I conjectured "I am being released-hopefully. Khuda Hafiz." Ali Hussein raised his shackled hands andprayed: "0 Allah, send me where this man goes!"

39

We were taken to a cell, which was on the fourth floor. As the dooropened, our blindfolds and handcuffs were removed, and the Haraspushed us all in. In spite of the cold outside, the cell was warm, and heatinside was stifling. There were more than three hundred unfortunate de-tainees swarming in this place, where hardly seventy or eighty could beaccommodated. Two days later, Ali Hussein appeared. He suffered frommyopia, with a limited visual acuity. I advanced to greet him. "SalaamunAlaikum, Bhai Ali Hussein," I said.

Recognizing my voice, he looked up and then after a pause, said: "Somy prayer was answered! I asked God to send me where you were go-ing, little knowing where it would be-and here I am, landed in this dun-geon Ya Allah Raham Kar."

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Chapter 15Chapter Fourteen

Wudhu was one of the most difficult chores. Water from the tap sizzledour fingers, and it was impossible to collect handfuls for washing theface and arms. But we liked assembling near the basins because itprovided an opportunity for private conversations.

Here, I met Yusuf, a Syrian Christian who had come to wash hiswounds. His chastisement had been the most severe, his wounds mostunsightly. Afraid of making any expression by words, lest an eavesdrop-per overheard me, I made a sympathetic gesture with my eyes to showmy feelings. Making a similar gesture, he said: "They say I am a spy,while in fact I am not. I am simple truck driver, regularly plying betweenKuwait and Iraq borders. They insist that I must confess. How can I, if Iam innocent? I would not, even if they gored my eyes, removing themout of the sockets."

This was the only punishment he could now envisage, because he hadundergone every other kind. In Ghurfa Amaliyyat, Yusuf had beenlashed all over the body till he bled profusely and then given a respitefor two days. A doctor usually stood by with a card in his hand. Whenhe mutely showed the red ace, it meant danger. It was a signal conveyingto the tormentor that the victim had had enough, and would die if pun-ished further. Yusuf could not sleep on Bataniya, because the roughlywoven blankets stuck to the raw flesh, and pricked him like needles.When he sat, the loose wool shreds would pull the wounds. If he slepton the bare floor, the cold surface rendered him uncomfortable.

After two restless days, Yusuf went to Muhaqqiq again, this time to betreated with electric shocks. With wire ends tied to his fingertips, toes,ear lobes, tongue-tip and glens, enough voltage was generated to sendhim flying, and down with a thud. Semi-conscious, he was led back to

41

our cell. And exactly after two days, he went downstairs again. Hisclothes removed, a flame was introduced across his bare chest, down tohis stomach and then to the sides of his legs. He came back to the cell in astate, which defies all description. In the following week of respite, hisskin peeled off, water, blood and pus oozed out with a revolting stench.

For ten days, he went without any food or water. Rawi, an EgyptianChristian, sat next to him consoling and tending his wounds. An inform-er within the cell once managed to convey this to Muhaqqiq and Rawiwas summoned and warned. Yusuf must be left alone.

A frequent visitor to Iraq is regarded with suspicion. Fear reins every-where in the minds of the ruled as well as the rulers. The outcome is gen-eral distrust among the Iraqis for each other. No wonder that Sabah, ajournalist, was interned with me because his estranged wife had repor-ted against him to Mukhabirat. He was so terrified in the Muhaqqiq'schamber that he relieved himself standing there. Pushing him back intoour cell, with his soiled and stinking pyjama, the Haras jeered at him "La'ana Llahu Abaaka Wa Unimak-Ya Qadhir" - God curse your father andmother-you dirt!

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Chapter 16Chapter Fifteen

The Iranians in the cell were a strange lot. These young men, all agedbetween twenty and twenty-five, were allured into Iraq by radio propa-ganda. Disenchanted by the strict Islamic discipline gaining ground inIran, they chose to believe in the Iraqi promise that they would be trans-ported safely to any point in Europe, where the streets, they thought,were paved with gold. Stealthily, they crossed the border, telling theirparents that they were out on a short holiday within the country. Someof them travelled without a passport, while others had Shanas Nameh,the identity card only. These defectors gave themselves up as Laje'en Siy-asi, political refugees, expecting a privileged treatment from the Ba'thistregime. They were all consigned to the hospitality of Mukhaberat.

These young men suffered from highly individualistic tendencies.Each thought that he suffered the most, and that his own plight was thegravest. Those who came in company of two or more blamed each other.Jabbar used to say: "Had it not been for that cursed Feeruz, I would nothave been here!" However, due to their common ethnic origin, ignoranceof Arabic language, affiliation with Mujahedeen and other dissidentpolitical parties in Iran, they were able to create a fragile fraternity with-in our cell. Khomeini, whom they mentioned as Aqa Jan only, was goodand pious before he assumed power, they said.

Waheedi, the most educated among them explained his views by par-ables. He said, "Once an Iranian from a remote village came to Tehran.Strolling in the fruit market, he bought one small, yellow peach. Hefound it extraordinarily sweet. When he returned to his village he relatedthis to his friends with great relish. During his second visit, which fell inanother season, peaches were not to be found. He looked for it every-where, and finally laid hands on overgrown yellow lemons, thinkingthat they were peaches. As he took the first bite, the bitter, sour lemon

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sent him reeling. With an understandable disgust, he said: 'Buzurg Shud,Kharab Shud… . It became big, and it became spoilt.' You know, powercorrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolute.”

The Iranians in my cell were neither subjected to any questioning norany torture. This total indifference to their state was enough to tormentthem. Sitting next to the unhinged door of washrooms, they would beweeping silently, remembering their families and their beautiful, belovedcountry. They were here for six months now, and none knew the fateawaiting them. Once they tried to contact a Muhaqqiq through theHaras, but the trained guard simply said: - “Antum Dhuyuf… .” - Youare guests… . do not worry.

Waheedi, Ali Reza, Feeruz, Jabbar, Darwesh and others sometimes satin a group, engaged in small talks, ridiculing the Arabs and their ways,cracking jokes at each other's expense-all in an effort to forget their wor-ries. Man's ability to contrive ways of forgetting the nagging worries is aprovidential gift. He does this sometimes by diverting his mind to othersubjects; but strangely, he succeeds in forgetting also by simply willingto forget. Difficult though it is to explain in words, the fact is I persuadedmyself that I had no past, no future. Voluntarily I believed that I wasalone, had no parents, no children, and no wife. Oddly enough, thisgreatly relieved me of the worries. When a faint voice within meemerged to remind me of the disillusion, I suppressed it.

They would recite verses from Hafiz, Sa'di, Qa'ani, Khusrow,Khayyam and other classical, ancient and modern, and thus while awaytheir time. They were highly critical of the Arabs whom they consideredinferior, inhuman and dirty. Jabbar had a very subtle sense of humour.Looking at an Arab inmate who had just been to Hammam for a bath,and then had sat in toilet to relieve himself, he said: - "Do you know acamel once dipped itself in a river and walking back on the muddyground, proudly announced to its companions: 'I have had a bath.' Thecompanion looked at it amused, and then one said: 'yes we can see itfrom your feet!"'. We both laughed. "You are in a good mood today, Jab-bar", I said. "Mood? Dile Man Danad, Wa Man Danam, Wa Danad DileMan… . my heart knows, and I know and so knows my heart."

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Chapter 17Chapter Sixteen

For eighty-four days, my wife sat on the floor on the corridor blind-folded and isolated from other ladies who were there. Disabled by thelanguage barrier, she would communicate with Haras by sign, pointingher finger towards the direction of closets, and go when allowed. As isknown, women nurse their tastes jealously, so to partake of the filthyfood, which was daily, being served was unthinkable. She went withoutfood for days till the Haras observed this, and reported to Muhaqqiq andthe "Doctor". Fearing that she might die of starvation, they forced her toeat. Some women, who actually were informers but were there ostens-ibly as detainees, cajoled her, coerced her, and ultimately managed tofeed her with milk, crumbs and butter brought as a special diet.

Sitting alone and unable to communicate with anyone, as this was notallowed in the corridors, she wondered what had befallen us. Not know-ing where I was, she felt insecure, and as she remembered our children,she wept for days on end till at last tears dried up. No one was there topity her or say a word of consolation. One morning she was taken toroom No.73 along with Iraqi ladies, where she spent the rest of her days.Soon her companions found out that she was a total stranger, and pitiedher plight… . "Allah Karim… . " - God is great, benevolent, they wouldtell her.

Here in my cell, thoughts about my wife tormented me most. Wherewas she? How would she put up with the situation so shockingly cruel?Unable to control my emotion, I burst into tears and my friends surroun-ded me pleading, "Do not cry; please do not cry." They did not know thatmy wife was also apprehended till I broke the news. They shook theirheads in disbelief, and I remember one Jordanian who walked awaywith moist eyes. "Why? -Why your wife? Why are these innocent womenbeing tortured?" Abu Ali asked.

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The Muhaqqiq sent for me for the third time. Today his voice wassharp and accusing.

"Say, who sent you here?"

"Nobody, I came on my own, for pilgrimage to the Holy Shrines."

"Have you been to Iran?"

"Yes

"Why?"

"For Ziyarat."

"Which Ziyarat?"

"To the Shrine of Imam Reza in Mashad."

And then the Muhaqqiq stood up, drawing nearer to me, and withevery step, which he measurably took, he asked:

"You are President of your community Federation in your country?"

"I was. I have since retired."

"Our investigations reveal that you are a founder of a World Shiite or-ganization in London and also its President."

"I am one of its founders. I am no more its President."

"Why did you not reveal this before?"

"Because you never asked about my social or religious activities. I amsupposed to answer your questions only."

Four hard blows descended upon my lower lips, sending me totteringto the floor. As I gathered myself, the Muhaqqiq continued:

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"Do you love your wife?"

The mention of my helpless wife sent my heart bleeding. Controllingmyself, I managed to say:

"Naturally so."

"Well, you will never see her again. We know we have caught a bigfish. You will be executed."

The Haras was summoned to escort me back to the cell. I did not knowwhere my feet fell, as I walked with him in the alleys.

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Chapter 18Chapter Seventeen

Days rolled into weeks and weeks into months; my hopes for release andfreedom were diminished and denuded. Every time I returned from theMuhaqqiq, my companions would ask:“Waqq’at?” - Did you sign? I hadnot been asked to sign anything till when I was summoned for the sixthtime. Eight pages written in Arabic were spread before me to sign, withblindfold 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. Ex-tending their hands to congratulate me, they explained: "You havesigned. Your investigation is now over. "Inshallah Takhruj… . " - God will-ing you will soon leave. Two more months elapsed, and I was still there.A delay after having signed portended serious consequences, and myfriends began to doubt my innocence. Abu Mansoor whispered to hisfriend: "This man must have committed a big offence, else he would notbe here for so long after 'Tawqi'. He might go to Abu Ghuraib for acouple of years."

Early one morning, Muhammad who worked in Amanaat downstairs,lingered into our cell and called my name. As I entered the Amanaat, Iremembered my first day, and strange feeling overwhelmed me. There,seated on a small chair, I saw my wife after four months, but we werenot allowed to converse. Both of us were asked to put on our clothes andcheck our belongings. Muhammad said: "You are going home today. Behappy and smile." We managed a nervous smile, for here you dowhatever you are told to do. And then within minutes, an officer an-nounced: "Sorry, but the releasing officer will be late by two hours. Sochange your clothes and go back to your cell."

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This tormenting exercise was repeated on us thrice. Every time wewere brought to Amanaat, given back our clothes and suitcases, and thenunder one pretext or the other, were again thrown into our cells. The of-ficers seemed to enjoy this game of cat and mouse; though we could nomore tolerate the cruel joke. On the last occasion, the officer in chargemade us sign several papers, amid unprintable abuses, and allowed usout in their car. We were taken to another cell situated in the heart ofBaghdad. A room was given to us, where we sat to recall our experiencesfrom the first day, shed tears over each other's miseries so as to mitigatethe 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 in-mates, most of them totally deranged mentally, accepted us without anycuriosity. One of them beckoned us to an adjacent room, which weentered. My wife was taken to another room reserved for Iranian ladieswhile I stayed behind with some hard-core criminals who had been therefor as long as nine months. An Egyptian, Majid by name, politely wel-comed me and said, "Welcome to Sheraton. Feel at home, please. Andwhat did they tell you?" Nervously I answered: "They have asked me toremain here for a night." Giving a mischievous smile, he said: "Yes, theytold me so when they brought me here seven months ago." My heartsank.

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Chapter 19Chapter Eighteen

Misfortune seems to have descended like a whirlwind upon Najaf,Kerbala and other Holy cities. Where are those glorious days when thesacred Shrines teemed with visiting pilgrims, and the small windingstreets leading to numerous Mosques and Madressas were full of reli-gious students and Ulema? These Holy places are now deserted, and theMadressas have been reduced to destitution and rubble. Most of the for-eign students have been expelled, and the Ulema have either been ban-ished or eliminated.

Many would testify that these religious cities and their Holy Shrinesprovided an atmosphere so peaceful and pure, unsullied by the taint ofmaterialism and undue anxiety. I was here for Arbaeen, an event thatnormally attracted nearly a million Zuwwar every year. I was surprisedto see very few Zuwwar this year. Instead of peace and tranquillity, therewas fear and uncertainty everywhere. No young faces in Haram, exceptof those who were appointed by the authorities as spies and informers.

Just as I entered the Shrine of Imam Hussein A.S., and stood nearHabib b. Mazahir’s Zareeh, a young man leapt from the left anddemanded:

"Who took the photographs?"

"Photographs? Which photographs?" I expressed my total surprise andignorance. He regarded me threateningly and said:

"I saw a flash."

"I do not know. I do not have any camera on me," I said. He turnedand disappeared into the Haram. This unexpected encounter was

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enough to unsettle me. In the evening, I was entering the courtyard ofHazrat Abbas A.S. when I was suddenly stopped by a soldier:

"Where do you come from?"

I told him. With evident suspicion, he asked:

"Do you have Muslims in your country?"

"Yes, many of them," I replied.

Within the Haram very few Ulema could be seen. How could places,which were virtually ruled by the clergy; where piety was the norm oflife, and the streets bustled with religious activities, fall victim to the foulleprosy of nationalism, communism and other infamous ideologies? Theinstitutions and parties, which spawned them, were there since long;probably the elements of complacency, decadence and tragic weaknessamong those at the helm rendered the region unprepared for the on-slaught subsequently unleashed upon them.

The Holy Shrines are controlled by the Mukhaberat. Young securityofficers, dressed in plain clothes, stand near the main entrance, near theshoe keepers, at the gates, surrounding the Zareeh, under the arches ofthe courtyard, near the Imam who is leading the prayers and at times,next to you like an inseparable shadow.

In this third place of confinement a young Kurdish listened intently asI conversed with Majid. Then warily he came near and whispered: "Ihave a gift for you. Take this." He gave me two small green pieces ofcloth and said: "I am from Samarra, these are from Askariyyan." A God-sent gift from an unknown quarter! But no sooner he did this, then theHaras apprehended him. Reprimanding the young man, the Haras said:"You still stick to these outmoded, obsolete baubles-you ignorant brute!Forget these. Remember: ‘Ar-Risalatul Khalidah’, the everlasting mes-sage of Arabism: wake up from your sleep!"

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Chapter 20Chapter Nineteen

Raising my palms towards heaven, I prayed vehemently: "O God, the or-deal seems to have no end. We are being transferred from one cell to an-other, each worse than the other. Have mercy upon your servants, O Al-lah!" This was Monday, two days after my arrival here. They had prom-ised my release the next day, but freedom was not in sight. Majid'swords rang in my ears: "Yes, they told me so seven months ago"; and theprospect of being incarcerated indefinitely in this gloomy environmentfrightened me out of my wits.

I recalled how earnestly I had prayed in the preceding days. Once as Iprostrated before my Creator, beseeching for mercy, I fell into a moment-ary trance. How distinct were the words, which were heard fromnowhere: ‘Verily, Allah is ever vigilant over His servants.’

I raised my head not believing that I heard the words. Alas! My pray-ers were answered. The horrors of detention in the Mukhaberat night-marishly haunt my mind even today, but I feel profoundly soothed andplacid when I recall how my communion with the Almighty was lov-ingly answered. A call of distress it was, which cannot be re-enacted indays of ease and plenty.

I had not finished my prayers when a car was seen at the door. It wasfrom Mukhaberat. I heard the frightened friends warning each other: "Itis from the Devils - It is from Mukhaberat. Heaven knows who is the vic-tim." Right then my name was announced. I stood up to prepare myselffor the departure, but I could not guess where I was transported. Was itanother cell? Am I going back to the cell No.58? My legs shook as I puton my shoes. It was all the more difficult to handle my luggage. Majidhelped.

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I saw my wife already seated in the car, and I arranged myself next toher. The officer politely informed that I was booked for London nextmorning, showed me the tickets and then said: "You will be our guest fortonight-in the cell of course. Keep ready tomorrow at six." As the carsped through the streets of Baghdad, members of the public regarded itapprehensively; for the infamous car was well known.

Back to the cell, we waited for the dreary night to pass, a night whichseemed long and endless.

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Chapter 21Chapter Twenty

"Fi Amanillah", the men from Mukhaberat blurted, and turned theirbacks. We were brought by them to Saddam Airport under guarded es-cort and handed over to Immigration. Moments later, we were in the de-parture lounge waiting for the announcement telling us to proceed to theaircraft. We were asked to wait as other passengers proceeded, andwhen none but my wife and I were left, my wife asked: "Are we reallygoing, or is it just another joke played on us?" "God forbid," I said.

Finally, the ground hostess led us to the aircraft. Our Passports weregiven to the steward with an instruction to part with them after the take-off. On our way to London, my wife kept on warning: "Do not talk toanyone, please. He could be a devil from Mukhaberat. They are capableof recalling us from the air. This is their national airline".

As we landed in London, the reactions to the torment I had undergonebegan to surface. My right foot refused to move; a severe backache andhigh temperature further disabled me. Surprisingly, my wife, who wasequally weakened, kept her calm and composure. She helped methrough the formalities, and we came out of the Airport.

No one on earth knew that we had been at last released. Emotion with-in me welled up, and oddly enough, I decided to keep my arrival a secretfor further few hours. My wife insisted that I ring our daughter and re-quest her to come to the Airport. I dialed the number.

Our daughter picked up the phone.

"Hello", she said.

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I could not respond. Words choked up my throat, and my tonguewagged nervously.

"Hello"? She repeated.

"We have come… . dear… . we have come." I managed to say.

"But who are you?" she queried.

"Your father and mum - we have come." She wept.

The sincere and earnest prayers by Momineen all the world over wereheard. How the menacing threat of execution was averted, and whichfactors contributed to our release, is a matter of anybody's conjecture.One thing is sure.

"Who answers the oppressed when they cry out to Him and relievesaffliction, and makes you inheritors of the earth. Another God besidesAllah? How little you reflect."

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