ভূমিকা

Shiavault - a Vault of Shia Islamic Books I Was Saddams Prisoner Chapter Seventeen Days rolled into weeks and weeks into months; my hopes for release and freedom were diminished and denuded. Every time I returned from the Muhaqqiq, my companions would ask: “Waqq’at?” - Did you sign? I had not been asked to sign anything till when I was summoned for the sixth time.

Eight pages written in Arabic were spread before me to sign, with blindfold pushed upwards to allow me to see the words at the end, "Al-Muttaham" - the Accused. No one was supposed to read the contents, even if it meant signing ones own death warrant. In the cell, I broke the news to my friends, and they were jubilant. Extending their hands to congratulate me, they explained: "You have signed. Your investigation is now over. " Inshallah Takhruj .... " - God willing you will soon leave.

Two more months elapsed, and I was still there. A delay after having signed portended serious consequences, and my friends began to doubt my innocence. Abu Mansoor whispered to his friend: "This man must have committed a big offence, else he would not be here for so long after 'Tawqi' . He might go to Abu Ghuraib for a couple of years." Early one morning, Muhammad who worked in Amanaat downstairs, lingered into our cell and called my name.

As I entered the Amanaat, I remembered my first day, and strange feeling overwhelmed me. There, seated on a small chair, I saw my wife after four months, but we were not allowed to converse. Both of us were asked to put on our clothes and check our belongings. Muhammad said: "You are going home today. Be happy and smile." We managed a nervous smile, for here you do whatever you are told to do.

And then within minutes, an officer announced: "Sorry, but the releasing officer will be late by two hours. So change your clothes and go back to your cell." This tormenting exercise was repeated on us thrice. Every time we were brought to Amanaat, given back our clothes and suitcases, and then under one pretext or the other, were again thrown into our cells. The officers seemed to enjoy this game of cat and mouse; though we could no more tolerate the cruel joke.

On the last occasion, the officer in charge made us sign several papers, amid unprintable abuses, and allowed us out in their car. We were taken to another cell situated in the heart of Baghdad.