ভূমিকা

Shiavault - a Vault of Shia Islamic Books I Was Saddams Prisoner Chapter Three A young man sat at a far corner in the cell, looking down through his parted knees, dejected and detached. And then he lifted his head looking straight, 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. These never seemed to heal.

Mates next to him teased him, gently stabbed and prodded his body with their fingers, and cracked jokes at his expense. His response would be varied. At times he was irritated and enraged. He would stand up protesting, brandishing a warning finger at them. And sometimes he would make a rejoinder and add to the general joviality. It was evident that this terrible experience in Mukhaberat had had a telling effect 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, pursuing a course in Engineering, and spoke English and German with considerable ease. On his way back on vacation, he came to Beirut to meet his brother who was actively engaged in religious publication work, and was known for his affiliation with Amal.

As he crossed the border to Iraq, the devils of Mukhaberat apprehended him, promising a very brief and informal interview. He was now here for the past five months! Accused of anti-Ba'thist activities, of course. A small window carved within the massive metal door opened one day, and Haras shouted Waseem's name. The senior most among us had assumed headship in the cell, and acted as a transmitter. He looked at Waseem and said, “Harval” - Run.

And Waseem lept from his nook, answering "Na 'am, Sayyidi". A sharp merciless gaze from the guard shook him to his core, and then from through the window he was given a blindfold to wear. This was made of a black leather cover with a rubber strap. It covered your eyes and hung down crisply to your nostrils, and had the nauseating stench of human sweat. Then the door unlocked, two arms pulling him out like a doomed animal, and the handcuffs were fitted to his wrists.

The door was locked again, and we were now to wait for 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 no watch is allowed. It was appreciably long before the unlocking of the door silenced us all, our eyes frightfully riveted to it.