One morning, early, two militiamen knocked at my door.

Open up, they shouted from behind my door. When I opened, they stormed my house and pushed me against the wall. One of them put a gun in my face. The other two started to search the house.

What is it? I asked

Shut up, heshash, he turned and slapped my face.

You are coming with us. The commander wants to see you.

Let me get dressed, I said.

He started to push me.

I am coming, I said, do you want me to meet the commander in my underwear?

He pulled me by my shirt and said, Pick it up.

I led him to my room, grabbed my pants and a shirt. They led me to a military jeep.

Why are you taking me?

The man bounced from his seat and grabbed my hair.

One more word and I will make your mouth bleed, do you understand?

We arrived at a military base. They led me underground. They shoved me into a room with a table and couple of chairs. I sat on the chair and waited, two hours passed and I was still waiting. All I heard was the echoes of slams of metal door, a few steps, someone's moanings, and I felt the dampness of the moist underground, the cold walls, the vague urine smells, and the cement unpainted floor.

I sat down. I craved a cigarette. I heard keys twisting in the locks and the commander came inside, smiling.

Ah, here you are, he said from behind his sunglasses, and I wondered if he could still see me under that dim pitiful light.

Stand up, his bodyguard shouted and slapped the back of my head, stand up for the commander, Heshash.

I stood up, slowly, looking him straight in the face.

Kalb, stand up fast, and he started to slap me on the head and kicked my tibia.

I lost my balance and tripped on the floor. When I touched it, the grainy surface of the cement was cold and moist, and my clothes swept through it and picked up its grey colour and the soft sands that covered the rough surface of the uneven floor. I thought about a sloppy job of pouring concrete. Maybe that is why all the chairs wobbled when I was sitting down, I was thinking while Rambo's feet here landed on my face and pounded my morning eye.

I stood up, bleeding. The commander waved his hand, and the monster stopped.

Do you know what you did?

No.

Listen, I am a very busy man, and I knew your uncle. You speak, or I will keep you here with Rambo.

I have no idea what I did.

Why did you kill the old man?

What old man?

His wife said that there were things stolen.

Who? I have no idea what you are referring to.

Rambo came back and grabbed my hair, put his mouth in my ear and whispered.

Talk now or you would not be happy at all.

Ok, here is the story, little boy, last night Sayeed Khoury was killed in his apartment. A burglary took place, when we interrogated his wife, she said that she was at her sister's place in the mountains, and that diamonds were stolen.

Maybe she killed him, I said.

Do not interrupt the commander, Rambo barked at me and hit me on the head.

When we pressed her, she said that she suspected you. You pushed drugs on him. And lately you were hanging out with him. People in the neighbourhood have seen you with him.

People like whom? I asked in defiance.

The grocer Abou-Dolly told us that you took walks with him. We heard a great deal about you. Every one knows that you are a hashash. Where were you that night?

I did not do it.

Listen you little communist, you are a communist aren't you, just like your uncle, you tell me where you hid the diamonds or Rambo here is going to show you the womb of your mother again.

My mother is dead.

Rambo went berserk. Are you answering back the commander, Klab?

He started to beat me with his fist. I fell on that cool floor again, and his boots came and retreated like waves that splash on shores of mists and breeze, like black veils that eclipsed the sun from your eyes, like sounds of blasting drums in your ears, like lollipop drips on your chin, like the smell of plastic erasers in your class, and the dust flew like the powder chuck that was swept from the blackboard by that brown-nose Rachid. Oh!! And the slaps that flew like the rulers' blessing of that French Jesuit on your open palms, and your failing knees on those narrow long logs under the chapel benches, the smell of incense, and forgive me father for I have sinned and jerked that tree until the fruit came down, I broke that glass, I stole the candy and fumbled at that little girl, under the falling bombs, in the shelter, while her mother was snoring in sync with the news of war on the radio, and I waited until the candle was dead and then slipped my hand under her night gown to her newly acquired pubic hair, she never said a word and she followed me when I played, when I went up the roof, she followed me like a puppy dog, like my partridge bird. Ever since, father, she dressed louder played with her hair all the time, chewed gum with open mouth, danced flamboyantly to every jingle, she become jealous of my mother, of my young friends and then one day she was repulsed by my pubescent voice, my red pimples, my unfashionable shoes. You see, father, she grew up to hang out only with militiamen who came in stolen Italian cars, who waited and honked under her father's window and I, resentful of my age, of my poverty, resentful that she left me for older men, I would watch her rushing to their cars, to their golden rings, their dangling metal cedars that hung on their open chests, their French perfume, their loud music tapes dipped in their car stereos that blasted noises in our narrow streets… her hair, father, flew from the topless cars that drove them to their houses on the polluted beaches, the mountain chalets, and when she saw me, father, she smiled at me like the little man in her doll house, and ever since, father, I have always refused to go down to the shelter, even if Rambo here hammered me to a meat pie, I wouldn't go back to that dark place, I hated the underground and the little devils who dwell in it, who made me steal bread and lust for her skinny thighs, her newly acquired pubic hair, soft as the white powder in my nose.

Rawi Hage is a writer and a visual artist, born in Beirut, Lebanon. After having experienced nine years of the Lebanese civil war, in 1984 he left Beirut to New York City where he held various jobs in restaurants, warehouses and stores. In 1992 he crossed the border to Montreal and he's been living in the city ever since.