“Good morning,” he would say.
“No, no, no: you mean good evening,” I’d correct him.
I tried to Americanize him as much as possible without him really knowing it. For example, every time he entered the room I’d walk over with a clenched fist extended and give him a pound. He loved stuff like this, and to further build our rapport I’d teach him words like “brother” and “homie.” It didn’t take him long to develop a genuine affection for me, one that came complete with privileges forbidden to other prisoners.
One time I had a dream about this girl who I’d picked up when I was in Europe a few years earlier. The dream was the messy kind, and when it ended it was a real inconvenience, because I wasn’t wearing any underwear. I had taken off my boxer shorts five days earlier to wash them in the sink, but it was so cold in the room that it had taken them this long to dry. Now I put them on, wrapped the quilt around my waist like a towel, and knocked on the door, holding my soiled pants. Yassine opened it a few seconds later.
“Yes, Jumu’ah?”
“Yassine, I need to wash my pants,” I said, and I rubbed the fabric together like I was scrubbing laundry while showing him the stain. “I spilled some piss on them.”
“Ohhh—Okay, Jumu’ah, one second,” he said, with a knowing expression. I don’t know why I tried to fool him. The kid was a twenty-year-old virgin; of course he knew what the stain was.
He left, but a little later the door opened again and Yassine took me down the hall to the bathroom. It was still early, and the building was dead silent. We were the only ones awake.
“You may see,” he said.
When I lifted my hat, there was a huge pot of steaming water in the middle of the floor. He had prepared a bath for me.
“I will lock you in here and you can bathe.”
I hadn’t washed since I was with the soldiers, and a hot bath was just what I needed. I grabbed the soap, stripped down, and crawled into the pot, using a cup to pour water over my body. As amazing as the hot water felt, I knew I had to hurry or I’d risk getting sick due to the frigid temperature in the room. I was also motivated not to soak too long by the need to keep my tattoos hidden—I was never sure if Mohammad had noticed the one in the photograph of me at Carnival, seeing as the transvestites were pretty distracting. After I’d finished up and washed my cargos I knocked on the door, and Yassine came at once to return me through the silent halls to my cell.
It was the twenty-third of January when I met him. I had been back in solitary for thirteen days by then, and had gotten strangely used to the shells falling right outside my window during the day and the fighting that raged all night. I was sitting wrapped in my quilt, still waiting for my pants to dry even though it had been days since I washed them. Abruptly, the door opened and I was ordered from the room. I grabbed my pants and moved.
An endless stream of rebels marched past me in the hallway, all wearing the same desert camouflage pants. One of them stepped out in front of me, blocking my path. He lifted my chin until we made eye contact from under my cap; he was letting me know that he knew I had my eyes open. The jihadi then pulled the cap down to completely cover my face until I could see nothing at all. A second later I was locked in another room. When I uncovered my eyes I saw I was back with the POWs. The Shabiha were all gone. Ali and Rias were the first to come forward and greet me. They were both wearing huge smiles and Rias kept rubbing my shoulder in an endearing way.
“We are so happy to see you again,” said Ali. “You make everyone so happy. This time you can sleep and eat with us.”
I told him I was glad to be back. He took my damp pants to hang up and I went over to greet Oqba, but he was asleep. All at once, the door opened, and everyone turned to the wall. Since I didn’t have any blankets to crash on I just stood with my face to a pillar. A crowd entered the room with flashlights that cut through the darkness and then I heard Mohammad’s voice.
“Jumu’ahhhh!” he said. “What is this?”
I turned to see him motioning to the quilt I was wearing. Standing all around him were men I had never seen before, armed to the teeth with Uzis and AKs. They looked around at the prisoners like animals in a zoo as I began to explain about my pants. Mohammad cut me off impatiently.
“Jumu’ah, come, come!” he said, beckoning me to follow him out into the hallway.
He was excited, like a puppy that could barely contain itself before being let outside; I didn’t even have to cover my eyes as he led me to the room next door. The rebels with the Uzis surrounded me as he turned the key, waiting to get a look as well.
“Mohammad, can I go get my blankets? Can I go get my blankets?” I kept asking desperately.
“Yes, yes, but you have to see!” he replied. Then he opened the door, launching himself inside to land in a crouch at the feet of the room’s inmate.
“Ahhhhhh!” screamed General Mohammad, practical joker.
A man shot up with his hands raised against the flashlights shining in his eyes, babbling something in Arabic. He was filthy, with a long gray beard, and a yellow scarf wrapped around his head. His face was a mask of terror as he jabbered at Mohammad, and the jihadis
