ভূমিকা

Shiavault - a Vault of Shia Islamic Books I Was Saddams Prisoner Chapter Five Once in a fortnight, the inmates were all hurdled out to what was known as “Shams" . One by one we were rushed to this room, which did not have a ceiling. Here we were able to breathe fresh air and enjoy some sunlight. As we passed through the corridor which led to “Shams", we saw the ladies with their children seated in captivity.

The guard instructed the ladies to cover their faces, while small babies fearfully clung to their mothers. The slightly grown up children played in the corridor, kicking the football, which was not there. They perhaps remembered their days of freedom and imagined things, which would help them, forget the plight of their mothers, or the torture of a passing-by male detainee.

We knew that there were some ladies in the corridor, for while we remained incarcerated in the cell, we distinctly heard hysteric screams of the ladies in the middle of the nights. Was it a nightmare? Or did she dream of her husband, her son or her youthful daughter who had either been captured or had disappeared never to be seen again? Or was it the pain in her ribs after having been mercilessly tortured in Ghufa Amaliyyat down below? One thing is certain.

Whenever these shrieks pierced through the dark of the night, a blanket of silence fell upon us all. The Iraqis wondered what had befallen their nation. Could there be any justifiable malice against an innocent woman who has apprehended because 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 exercise.

The guard stood there with a rubber hosepipe in his hands, and asked us to run round and round till we were breathless. And this followed by a vigorous exercise, which rendered everyone thoroughly exhausted. There were some who tried to avoid this gruesome drill under health pretexts. Some were spared, but not all. My Sudanese friend, Qasam, once sat down refusing to participate. He had been suffering from a nasty cough and a high temperature for sometime, and had not at all recovered.

Right then Abu Mahmood, dressed in his black attire, appeared. His appearance always heralded a misfortune, for his unseemly features were enough to frighten anyone who chanced to see him in an unlit alley. He looked around and found Qasam and his likes retired in a corner.