Authors: Raḍwá ʻĀshūr
But reflection does not last long in the thick of torture, and terror mangles images and thoughts into pieces when the body is inflicted with wounds and the soul convulses like a slaughtered bird. The inquisitors in their black cassocks surround you, and their eyes pierce your innermost being as they bombard you with questions and inflict upon you their instruments of torture. They chain you to a wooden staircase and squirt water into your body, water that quenches thirst, cool, sweet water from God, water that your soul savors, but then enters you like a burning fire. You fill up, you bloat, you suffocate, and you try to suppress a scream, but it insists and comes out like a rattle in the throat as though it is your soul exiting in pain. They stare at you. Their eyes are mute and their faces expressionless. Their hearts are armored with black cloaks. The hot iron prongs burn the bottoms of your feet. The scalding stone scorches your back, your stomach, and your buttocks. The wooden instrument, the essence of the pangs of hell, crushes your bones. You bellow like a slaughtered bull, and the heart inside of you is wrenched as though the hand of death is grabbing at it, and it dies. They stare at you without batting an eye. They throw you into a dungeon, into solitary confinement, where you can't even cry. But when you do, the tears gush out in torrents, not because the body aches, but because you're thinking about all those human shreds that you know you are. You cry for your own condition and for the abandonment of a Loved One in the highest heavens who left you alone to suffer excruciating pain never promised to His pious people. Alone in your dark prison, you are surrounded by solitude with
no light but the pale flicker of a candle whose shadow dances on the wall next to the phantom of the inquisitor who haunts you even in his absence. A feverish imagination exaggerates the ascending shadow on the wall, tracing the lines of the colossal vampire that spreads its blackness against the cold stone wall. Alone in your prison shared by rats you befriend because they're alive and they remind you of life. A few months later they remove you to a place where your loneliness dwindles, where you now have cell mates who share your nights and days. Sad hearts bond together, a source of light against the dark walls.
There were three of them. One was a Franciscan priest who, despite his advanced years, maintained his fiery eyes that scintillated with a vibrant deep blue like the waves of the sea. He spent long hours talking about Jesus as a young man, of his poverty, his beauty, and his suffering. He spoke about his mother who loved him deeply, and who carried him to faraway Egypt. He talked about his youthful days in Galilee, where he carried his message to a land that embraced him and denied him. He spoke about the cross he died on and his immortality. As the priest spoke, the blaze and purity of the sea gushed forth from the blueness of his eyes, and the dark dungeon opened up as though it were an open expanse along the seashore where the seagulls flew freely and the breeze of God softened the soul and warmed the heart. It wasn't just his stories that compelled them to him but something deep within him that filled their souls and created a space in which they dwelt in tranquility and peace of mind.
Even Antonio Solinas, the young Lutheran whom torture made more volatile and violent, and who fought for a reason or no reason at all, sat calmly as he listened to Father Juan Martin's stories. Antonio Solinas was as thin as a rail, ashen faced, and smiled rarely. He got into a fight practically every day with Muhammad BuSiddeeq, a young man yet to sprout hair on his face, who was accused by the inquisitors of practicing black magic and mastering sorcery that caused the death of his feudal master's livestock. The young man had eyes that flashed with a mischievous intelligence, and they sparkled even more whenever he outwitted Solinas. He would
laugh at him mockingly whenever Solinas flared up in anger, because that's exactly what he wanted to do all along. When the fighting reached a high pitch, they would grab each other by the collar until Father Juan Martin or Saad intervened. Saad was quite fond of Muhammad. He enjoyed his sarcastic quips and his sense of humor. He was amazed by his emotional strength, which was not shattered by torture despite his tender age. He always reprimanded him in public for antagonizing Solinas, but in private he always apologized to him, saying that he only wanted to stop the fighting.
"I know you didn't mean to insult me," Muhammad would say, "but I get great pleasure in picking a fight with that jackass. He thinks his blood is blue because he's a Spaniard. Actually, it may have turned blue because of his stupidity. Have you ever seen such a self-important ass?"
Saad would laugh and thank God that Solinas didn't understand Arabic, or else a fresh quarrel, fiercer than before, would flare up.
Despite the daily skirmishes between Antonio Solinas and Muhammad BuSadeeq, the four of them bonded together. Each one told his story while the others shared in both the sad and the humorous details. At times they told stories and at others they just laughed together. Once in a while they would feel defeated and retreat, each one of them, into the darkest chambers of his soul. Saad was a part of all of this, and he was able to bear his nights and days because they were there, and because that strange little box in the head held some sparkling gems that glowed in the darkness of imprisonment. The faces of those he loved came to him clearly, throbbing with life, as though they were the faces in those astonishing colorful pictures in which, God only knows how, light and darkness and radiant colors capture human faces. Those faces that seem as though they're about to come out of the frames hung on the wall behind some inquisitor or another, and exchange a word or two with you, alleviating the gloom of the investigation and softening the oppressive and stern look of the inquisitor.
Saleema's face came to him, with its leanness and olive complexion. Her blue eyes mesmerize as they gleam with a defiant boldness or perhaps only an incisiveness that claims to be defiant.
Her lips are full and luscious, and thick, curly hair cascades down her shoulders. In prison Saad saw Saleema more clearly than he ever saw her before. He envisioned her face and her figure, and a slight bend in her torso when she walked as though she wanted to race her own steps by any means. In prison he heard her voice as she talked, as she laughed, as she yelled in anger, and even when she didn't utter a word. He saw her as a child during Abu Jaafar's lifetime and as a young woman who occupied his heart and caused his sleepless nights. And he saw her as a woman who would approach and give, but then would turn away for no reason.
He pictured Abu Jaafar just as if death had not taken him many years ago. He saw him as plain as day, with his imposing stature, his flowing robe, and a subtle smile that could almost be detected on his lips. But it wasn't detected and it left something of his soul in the bewildering look in his eye, something between a kindness that came from the heart and a reproachfulness that reined in the excess flow of the heart's gentleness.
And the face of his friend Naeem came to him, bright, luminous, like the rays of the sun beaming directly on him, bestowing to him something of its glow emanating from his honey-colored eyes, the fairness of his hair, and the impetuousness of his walk, his talk, and his raucous laughter. In the solitude of your prison, you see your loved ones more often because in time there is spaciousness and because they come to you, lovingly, during your darkest hour, and they let you take pleasure in watching their faces as much as you want.
Regardless of the torture and confinement Saad suffered, he never betrayed his heart, and his tongue never betrayed him. He was careful in what he said, even to his cell mates. He never pointed to anything, close or far away, that could harm him. And when the sentence was passed down on him, it was light. The only proof against him was that he had left Granada and unlawfully associated with the inhabitants of villages near Valencia. The court cleared him of the charges of heresy, sedition, and apostasy that his inquisitors had filed against him.
21
H
asan was hoping on his way home from the inn that this journey would be a long one. His day had been heavy and cumbersome, and he was shut indoors all day long. He took breaths of the fresh, cold air and followed the lightly falling snowflakes as he settled himself along the bank of the Darro River beneath the hanging branches of the trees. His heart began to calm down in the silence of the snowy night. It wasn't just this day that wore him down, but day after day after day when a crisis or complication of the day before pales in comparison to the next. But these days accustomed him to latch on to a scrap of hope or a flicker of light, even one as small as the eye of a needle. He held on to it, looking forward, selling illusions to himself before selling them to his friends and family, telling himself that "patience is a virtue," that "tomorrow is another day." But what came after that was the gloom and the dark abyss of a drowning man. When they posted the announcement that non-Christians of Valencia must convert or face confiscation of property and expulsion, Maryama burst into tears and rebuked him with words and looks. She said, "You sold my daughters, Hasan. You said, 'I will marry them off to faraway Valencia so that they can live secure in their religion, their land, and the vast wealth of their husbands.' But now they have no religion, no land, and no wealth!" He scolded her and said she didn't understand a thing. He reminded her that the nobility were protecting the Arabs of Valencia, and that the wealthy and influential Arabs would be going straight to the Royal Court to overturn the edict. But
when the disturbances beset Valencia and the fires of anger and civil strife ignited, he kept the information to himself and hid it from Maryama. He followed the news through the Genoese merchants, the travelers, and muleteers who were constantly going back and forth. He sent his daughters five written messages and only received one back, orally. It said, "Things are not going very well, but we are all fine. You have become a grandfather to six healthy and happy children." Hasan relayed only the news of the grandchildren to Maryama, his mother, and Saleema. When Maryama asked their names, he replied, "I don't know." When his mother asked him if each of the girls gave birth to two children, or if only two had children and not the third, he replied, "I don't know." When asked if they were boys or girls, he also replied that he did not know. Maryama had nothing more to say, but she spent the next few days and nights in tears.
What fault is there in a drowning man latching on to a piece of wood or the branch of a tree? What crime is it to make for yourself a stained-glass lantern to brighten up the darkness of your days? Where is the sin in looking forward to a new day in hope and optimism?
Hasan saw it as a good sign the day Granada was bedecked in celebrations and fanfare, when the Alhambra Palace was awash in lights to welcome the emperor. Like many others, he went out to await the results of a meeting between the emperor and a delegation of the Arab community's most esteemed nobility. They met to review a list of grievances and demand an investigation into them. Until only yesterday, Hasan was still basking in the light of his lantern, clinging to its flicker of hope, when the town criers made the rounds announcing more restrictions added to the already existing ones. It is forbidden to use the Arabic language and Arabic titles, to wear Arab clothing and jewelry, or to patronize Arab bathhouses. All books must be submitted for inspection, and those that contain nothing harmful will be returned. It is unlawful for Arab midwives to assist in giving birth, and the bearing of arms is prohibited. All families must leave their door open on Fridays, Sundays, holy days, and feast days, to make sure that only the sanctioned practices are
followed. Adults must perform all the rituals of their new religion, and children must attend catechism classes to wean them from their fathers' religion.
Hasan was neither able nor willing to go home that night. He walked on until he felt his nose and his extremities turning to ice. He veered off the road toward a tavern and went in.
The patrons of the tavern were seated in a main hall, huddled around a wood stove that gave the place a warm glow. They were eating and drinking, chatting and laughing boisterously. There were three women in the hall, each one holding a tambourine. At times one of them sang alone, at times they all sang together, and sometimes the patrons sang along.
Hasan took a seat with some men he didn't know and joined them for a drink. His eyes were fixed on one of the three women. She was tall and full-figured, and her dress revealed her upper chest and arms. Her thick, wavy, black hair fell across her half-naked shoulders. When she got close to him, he began to trifle with her. When she set her wide, kohl-stained eyes on him, he told her how captivating they were. She laughed heartily and her laughter was music to his ears. When she finished her song, he pulled out a chair for her next to him. She sat down, and they ate and drank together. Then she invited him to her room. He followed her, leaving behind him his worries and his usual shyness with people he didn't know.
Back in her cavelike room, she brought him some more wine. He drank and laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. She flirted with him, and he flirted back with a boldness he never knew he had. She took off all her clothes and stood naked before him. Her body was hot and sumptuous, and it took his breath away. He ran his fingers all over her body, from the tips of her shoulders to the bottom of her legs. He pressed his face against hers, kissing and softly nibbling on it with his lips. She purred like a wild cat, arousing him with uncontrollable lust. He guided her over to the bed and covered her with his body as the fires of passion ignited inside him.
When their desire was appeased, they lay wrapped in a repose as though they were the first creation at the beginning of time. There
wasn't a sound or an echo, nothing old, nothing new, no recollection or memory, nothing except the mixture of orange and green. There was nothing but a silver liquid, a water or a sky, where the clouds touch. One cloud had released its water, but others were full and promising more.