It lasted for three minutes. They fried us like dumplings of falafel, jumping in the air, some fainted so badly.”
On the second day, the young man is entitled to the electric chair.
They wanted to have information about the Free Syrian Army.
Every time I answered that I had nothing to say, they gave me a shot of juice.
Ghazi (alias) 22 years, has been tortured several times, including being hanged by the arms. The sequel is the doulab, a great classic of the Syrian jails. The victim, stuck in a tire suspended in the air, receives a volley of blows of stick on the soles of the feet. Another imposed figure of life in prison: the shabeh. Ghazi is hanged in his handcuffs, with the toes touching hardly ground, and then struck by means of a twisted cable. “I had the feeling that my shoulders were going to go off,” he recalls. On the seventh day is the bissat Al-rih, the flying carpet. The prisoner is tied to a wooden board, the ends of which are raised, causing unbearable back pain. “I ended up telling them everything they wanted to hear, and I was released a few weeks later, but shortly afterwards, as crazy as it may seem, I received a summons for military service, He said, with a smirk.
To avoid suffering, to maintain appearances: these survivors seem to have passed the word. In another apartment in Amman, Abu Khattab, a 49-year-old vegetable seller, begins his narrative in a detached tone. Imprisoned for distributing paint bombs to children to draw anti-Assad graffiti, he reviews the “slaps” and “lashes” he has endured. Then the mask falls, the look is veiled. The man with the beautiful white beard, dressed in a cap and a galabeya, which give him the look of a sheikh, curls up on his bench.
His son watches passively, clutching a flag, as he listens to his father say:
They forced us to undress,” he stammered, “a guard has pushed a stick into my rectum, he raped my honor, and then he put the stick in my mouth and told me to lick it. I blew my mouth, then he started laughing, saying he had deflowered me. ” He raises his eyes to the ceiling, as if to seek the strength to continue.
“I would have preferred to be in an Israeli prison, it would have been less shameful, they want to break us in two, to take away once and for all the desire to speak.”
For Najati Tayara, a retired philosophy professor, also a refugee in Amman, the regime’s obsession with torture is a political calculation. “Bashar and his clique want to lock us in the cycle of vengeance, to prevent us from acting rationally,” says the sixty-year-old with a cavernous voice, “all these humiliations are directed at one thing: the outbreak of a civil war. It is succeeding.”