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From the gap we’d traveled, it appeared the main most likely vacation spot. Yusuf stored on apologizing, which simply made the placement worse. within the warmth of the van, I saved quiet and attempted to wish: Ya Allah, Ya Rabb al-’arsh al’-azeem, Lord of the majestic throne, supply me the power to cross this attempt of yours. I remembered my classes again in London, approximately how our fight wouldn't be accomplished with out laying off blood. Sacrifice used to be an honor bestowed on a selected few. i'm grateful to Allah for this chance to be proven and counted as considered one of His actual servants, for the opportunity to turn out the intensity of my eeman, my religion. Allah won't ever fail me: i need to now not fail Him in go back. there has been the noise of a urban now. The van stopped and commenced amid the hustle and bustle of busy streets. “Cairo. We’re here,” i assumed. the driving force pulled the automobile over, and as I swallowed demanding I heard the door of the van being opened. “Where are we? ” Yusuf requested. “Don’t you recognize? ” the shaweesh laughed as he started guiding us out. “This is al-Gihaz. ” Al-Gihaz. The identify despatched a shudder via me. Aman al-Dawlah headquarters in Cairo—“The equipment. ” “My brothers, pray that Allah involves your aid,” Yusuf struggled to talk, whereas his face replaced to a colour simply off yellow. “This position is a torture heart. ” A murmur. A groan. My fingers have been grabbed by way of a safeguard, my handcuffs approximately got rid of. A ghimamah was once tightened over my eyes back after which, unceremoniously, my fingers have been pulled in the back of my again and tied including one other piece of rag. one other rag, one other position of lawlessness. I winced because the fabric burned my wrists. respectable procedures—like the handcuffs—were being left on the door. Manhandled down a few steps, clear of the light and down into darkness, i used to be led into the underground cells of al-Gihaz to look forward to my destiny. bankruptcy NINETEEN Number Forty-Two I won't ever disregard al-Gihaz. it's the kind of position that is still etched in your reminiscence perpetually. this sort of position that also, a decade later, i will be able to keep in mind with worrying readability because it wakes me up within the evening, slipping insidiously into my desires. The piling of the our bodies. the warmth and chilly. The begging screams from the torture room on the finish of the hall. The ready. It’s one of these position that once you first input, you can't particularly think it exists. whatever from a movie. yet it’s genuine very well. If basically my brain may come to think that it wasn’t. Itnain wa arba’een. quantity forty-two. That used to be who—what—I’d develop into. My final vestige of identification and dignity was once stripped from me as i used to be shoved down these stairs. I heard with mounting horror my fellow prisoners being known as and brought down the hall, the crackle of electrical energy. I heard the prisoners being dragged again, the “schlump” sound as their near-lifeless our bodies have been deposited again in line, the faintness in their whimpers and murmurs as they lay there, recuperating. i used to be just a quantity. This was once the one order in that cretinous hellhole, the way in which the numbers referred to as out moved up, ever in the direction of my very own.

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