I wake up to the rhythm of hard plastic on metal. High pitched and forebodingly fast paced. Even after all this time, my heart still races, joining the sound. By now, I should know what to expect from this place, but in my sleep I’m not here. In my dreams there are no executions between these walls. In there I don’t share a room with 36 other men. I don’t need to worry about my wife and son. My guard’s down. The guards know this. And that’s why the wake-up call works. I’m dizzy with anxiety.
There is a second round of pounding. This time accompanied by our guard’s frustrated voice. He believes it’s time to wake up. It’s not… I do find solace in the thought that he had to get up earlier than us, only to start shouting at a closed door. His frustration carries the rhythm of his baton on the iron cell door. There’s something wonderfully ironic about this situation. We know that his frustration will eventually crescendo into him kicking the door open. And yet we do nothing. Just to ensure that he starts off his day filled with rage. Feeling small. The tension is rising. His voice by now shrill and skipping like an old record. Our cell prepares for an onslaught of cold air rushing in when he eventually breaks, and the door handle forcibly meets its rightful place in the dent of our wall. But then silence.
Somewhat muted, we hear him talking to another guard. It’s these unexpected moments when I’m awake, that worry me. They don’t want us to get used to anything. Find a rhythm. To be prepared. I wish I were still dreaming.
A calmer voice now addresses us. His warm vocal timbre moves effortlessly through the metal. We hear that it’s time for The Disgrace.
The excitement in our room is palpable. And yet the act of the ceremony and our longing for it do not match. Outside of the prison, and according to The Writing, it is self-punishment for the death of a Messenger. An always benevolent Messenger, who somehow, now after death, expects violent acts of mortification of the flesh. Inside though, within these walls, the ceremony is the only time we’ll be in the same room as our wives. Our daughters, aunts, mothers. Female loved ones that share the same fate as us. This gives us hope. We open the door to both guards.
Immediately, we are welcomed by enraged, high pitched, hypothetical questions about why the door remained closed for so long. Our guard is feeling small. Smaller still, since we did eventually listen, but not to him. Mission accomplished. His childish punishment is to limit our time to wash up this morning. Five minutes instead of ten. But there’s nothing he can do that can affect our excitement for The Disgrace. For a chance to see “her” again. When we make our way downstairs, we all try to keep our energy as low as possible on this day of “mourning”. Out of fear for repercussions. Other sections of the prison join us in the morning rituals.
The temperature of the water always joins the weather outside. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter. It’s never the satisfaction we yearn for. But today we hardly notice the scalding water. We practice The Chants that we can remember from past Disgraces. It’s different every time, and each Messenger has His own special request. It’s hard to keep track, especially since we have no idea who we’re mourning today. But we practice nonetheless, it’s good to seem eager and devout. On the way back to my cell I’m reciting a Chant in my head:
“For as long as The Divine Spirit, is in the heart of this soil. Our enemies will not be allowed to sleep a single restful night. The arrogant have been disturbed from their long comfort. Soon everyone will hear the name of The Light”.
I arrive at the cell again, the guards have left. I should do my morning prayer now and be done with it.
I sit down on the wafer-thin sheet of carpet separating my thighs from the cold cement. We have to pray three times a day. Fortunately the praying has to be silent. As long as your lips are moving, they’ll approve The Sitting. I take the time to practice the most important part of The Chant: “When they attack, we will fight back. The Global Awakening is nigh”. As long as you shout the lines to the beat set by The Muse on stage you’ll be fine. The harder you shout, the better. Not just in the eyes of the guards, but it also makes it so much easier to seem filled with The Gift (of The Messenger). We used to call this taken by the spirit. Before they changed it. Practicing these lines without shouting them makes it clear how little time they had to update the jargon. They changed everything. Religious songs devoid of rhyme schemes and common sense. Written by men in the last 2 years, directly after The Awakening. Scrounging any religious literature for stories that could support their beliefs. Of course there were none. So here we are.
“The era of oppression will end. Ours is the flag that will be waved from the top of the world”.
I hear an unusual commotion outside. Multiple guards are shouting. It sounds chaotic. Men are screamed back in line. “GET OUT!”, our guard yelling from the top of his lungs into our cell. Without the other men in the room, the echo is fierce and lingers in my mind. The Disgrace never starts this early, but no one’s complaining. I jump up from the floor and join the men in the hallway. We walk slowly, down the stairs and to the right. The door opens to a scorching heat and blinding sunlight. Sounds of invisible insects in the midst of nothing but sand. Reluctantly, we cover our faces and look down. It’s clear not everyone was done with their morning ritual. Puddles of water form darkened patches on orange sand below our feet. The smell of it is a welcome intrusion. It takes me back. Away from here.
“KEEP! WALKING!”, our guard shouts.
We snake around the pool that we had to build as a publicity stunt. I don’t really understand what the story was, or what they were aiming to achieve. But at least we had something to do. And now it’s used as the prison workshop where we have to make things that no one wants. It keeps us busy though and it’s deep enough to shade us from the heated summers.
We walk inside an old basketball court where The Disgrace takes place. A waist high curtain is drawn in the middle to separate the men from the women. Here’s our chance to catch a glimpse of our loved ones from the corner of our eyes. Eyes that are supposed to be facing down in repentance, yet are drawn to those abstract shapes across the room. Draped in black against a taupe background. We see past their shrouded appearance. X-ray vision powered by years of shared experiences and watchful stares every time she said goodbye. The uniforms try to hide the woman, but they only highlight her quirks. The rhythm in her step. The determination in her arms swinging back and forth. The way her curls peak out in defiance of the mandatory cloak. When we reach our places we slowly sit down on the floor. The curtain blocking our vision. I haven’t seen her yet.
The silence in the room carries the hollow sound of footsteps walking onto the podium. The Muse has arrived and will soon start today’s Chant. Somehow, he always seems overdressed, yet unkempt. Neglected somehow, like a 6 year old boy who‘s forced to get ready for school all by himself. The pants never match the oversized shirt. The shoes, yet formal, always seem cheap and uncomfortable. His hair always shiny with water, yet clearly greasy. Sweating without a reason and tired before he has even started. “In the name of…” He speaks into the microphone. He taps it. The feedback makes us wince. Clearly annoyed, he looks off to the side of the stage. Taps the microphone again and starts The Disgrace. Practicing The Chant before, gives me more time now to focus on finding my wife.
The build up of The Chant is slow and deliberate. We take this time to appear focused on our grief for our beloved Messenger. If we can manage to tear up this early on during The Disgrace, we have a better chance of convincing the guards we’re filled with The Gift. Thinking about the absurdity of all this always seems to do the job.
Surroundings slowly distorting through salty tears. My brain trying to make sense of how fast we moved from being happy and content to… this. This travesty. This caricature of a pious life. How did we get here really? All we wanted was freedom, a chance to live our own lives without interference. And now all we have is this… Shit! This absurd circus that is perpetuated by an onslaught of verbal, sanctimonious, violations! Day in, day out, time and time again, with no room to breath or even think, they force their agenda down your throat incessantly, forcibly without remorse, you are either with them or against them and are left to rot in this hell without even a whisper of hope, slowly but surely they steal your will to live and your desire to revolt and tell them to FUCK OFF! No. This can’t be. This isn’t real. The muse can go to hell with his idiotic chants and disgrace, I want to see my wife! They know. They know exactly what they’re doing, they understand that if they take away hope, they take away life as we know it, and then they can fill that hole with their own bullshit. They know this! That’s why the FUCK IT WORKS!
Blood is boiling. By now The Chant is screamed throughout the court. Our hatred and anger for The Muse, shrouded by us echoing his religious lyrics back at him. Barren walls make the crowded room sound empty. The echoes move through our body. We start moving back and forth, joining the rhythm. Open palms hitting the top of our heads, harder with each passing beat. Hands beating our chest, feeling primal, sounding wet. Our rhythmic dance brings us even closer together. We are one. It’s almost time.
The offbeat improvisations have already started. To the left, one man jumps up smashing his head with his fists, turning in circles, seemingly dying with grief for our beloved Messenger. Yet in reality his eyes are jumping across the curtain trying to find someone.
Another man pulls his hair and throws his arms in the air, shouting, what everyone assumes, is something “Disgrace-worthy”. And he too, is spinning. His eyes darting across the room, yearning for recognition. It’s time.
I start breathing more heavily, flexing every muscle in my body. With every breath, I start grunting. My eyes stare into nothing as if to imply i’ve left this world. This needs to be convincing. “The Disgrace has worked so well that I too, am losing control of my body. The Gift is present within me!” I jump up, screaming. The tears definitely help to sell the notion of my ascension. I start whirling, and with every turn there is a second I can see across the waste high curtain. Across the irrational border created by erratic men. Pitiful men who’ve underestimated us. On the second turn I open my eyes on the left part of the room, then close them again in feigned agony. On each turn I have a small window. For a second I scan the other side of the room, looking for hope. There is a fine line between scanning and staring. The next turn is more deliberate, I haven’t found her yet but I know where to look next. This time my timing is off, and I open my eyes too late and stare into the bitter stare of our guard. I forcibly press my eyelids down. And keep them down. Turning. I’m not chanting. I feel dizzy. I’m not chanting. Eyes shut. Heart racing. I’m. Not. Chanting.
“SING!” My ears pop, adrenaline rushes through my veins turning dizziness into extreme focus.
“When they attack…”
“LOUDER!”
“We will fight back!”
“Do you think I’m a fool?!”
“THE GLOBAL AWAKENING IS NIGH!” My throat hurts. The room is spinning. I need to sit down. I fall down.
“Get up pagan bastard!”
“The era of oppression will end…”
“I. said. Get. UP!” A kick in the stomach, with each punctuation. I can feel my insides turn. Throwing up would be the worst thing I could do now. I can feel myself being dragged towards the exit. Slowly at first. The guard having a hard time with my dead weight. Then, suddenly, gliding through the room, assisted by another guard. A third guard joins them. He’s trying to pick up one of my feet, which seems unnecessary. The speed at which i’m being dragged demands a more active participation of him. He gives up, realising that his assistance isn’t necessary. I feel the cold and wet floor of the bathroom on my naked back. I know what’s about to happen. A rhythmic beating of blood in my head. Slowly sounding like a powerful bass throughout my entire body.
Then darkness and silence. Until.
I wake up to the rhythm of hard plastic on metal. High pitched and eerily fast paced.
