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Shiavault - a Vault of Shia Islamic Books I Was Saddams Prisoner Chapter Twelve Kamal, the poet had now recovered from shock, though marks were still there to be seen. The speed with which he recovered was amazing, for now as he recalled the intermittent blows and slaps, he giggled and laughed. "I told them; yes, I told them what I thought of them and of their jungle rule." He was pleased with himself because he succeeded in disturbing the Muhaqqiq.

Faisal asked him to relate the incident in detail and 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 Islamic history, I had always wondered how the companions of our Prophet and our Aimma, peace be upon them, were able to remember lengthy traditions, sermons and supplications and to faithfully transmit them to posterity.

Now I realized how when one is deprived of the tools, not able to jot down anything, then one relies upon ones memory, and memory suddenly becomes more retentive. While in the cell, I remembered many more lines; but just as I try to put them to paper after a lapse of months, I can recall only some. "I was asked to stand on a chair and recite. Right then, I could only recall a poem by my Syrian friend who had written about Ba’thist regime in Syria, and I thought it applied to Iraq as well.

So, forgetting that I was but a detainee, I began." - Kamal began. Faisal, Fathi and I eagerly waited for him to commence. This would give a mental transportation from the gloomy, dreary surrounding which beset us and an escape from a depressing attitude we had developed towards Time, which ever seemed to stand still. Kamal was also pleased to find that he had listeners, so he threw his Bataniya aside and squatted, assuming a posture of a guru before the pupils.