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Shiavault - a Vault of Shia Islamic Books I Was Saddams Prisoner Chapter Four The guard shouted from the window: “Jasim Hammud, Khuz Aghrnzak!” - Jasim Hammud, pick up your belongings, “Wa Hidhaak....” - and your shoes.... “Wa Raqamak....” - and your number “Watla'a” - and come out. This typical announcement meant the release, at least from the dreary cell. No one could predict whether the fellow was going home or to the gallows or before a firing squad.

The victim himself felt so uncertain that he would not be able to decide whether to celebrate or to mourn the departure. And what is the number? Every unfortunate one who enters the Mukhaberat is given a small wooden or plastic tablet bearing a number. "You are no more a human being; you are a number", he is told. The psychological impact of this must be experienced to be fully understood. One, for the first time perhaps, realises that he has ceased to be a human person-nor is he a commodity.

No-he is merely a number-as abstract as a number. And then 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 at times called by our names, and at times by the numbers. This meant that we had to remember our numbers at all times if we wished to avoid the calamity. A feeling of reassurance surged forth when I was called by name. At least, I existed.

But this was depressed when I was cited as a number. We had a Korean who did not know Arabic at all. He was taught to memorize the number, which he did after great effort. He failed, however, to show up when his number was called, and the Haras shouted: “Ayn Huwa-Ma Aku?” - Where is he, is he not there? Unfortunately, nobody else recalled that it was the Korean's number, so the head shouted repeating it. After a pause, the Korean responded. “Shi Bek?” - What is the matter with you?

The Haras demanded. Someone had to explain him that the poor man did not know Arabic, but the guard was not interested. He was roughly manhandled to the Muhaqqiq. Blindfolded and handcuffed, every detainee was pushed down the corridors, sometimes by the winding staircases, and alternatively by the lifts. The Haras caught him by the arm and pulled him till he was brought to the door of the room where his Muhaqqiq waited.

On some occasions there would be a panel of investigators, four or five or six of them, all lined up on a sofa.