'And what are they doing there?' Mama asked, raising her voice.

Interrogations were always conducted in windowless rooms. Moosa said nothing, and I, fearing Mama would send me away to practise my scales, didn't look back.

The National Basketball Stadium was full. The camera panned the tiers; not one seat was empty. Most of the spectators wore something green: a shirt, an arm- or headband. Who are we playing, I wondered? Basketball wasn't a game I liked, but whenever Libya played against another country, no matter the sport or game, I was riveted, glued to the television screen. Once I sat for six hours watching a close chess match between a Libyan and a Korean at the International Chess Championship in Moscow. When the Korean won I almost cried with disappointment.

The camera finally turned to the court. A long table was positioned at its centre. Whoever put it there made sure its middle was exactly on the court's centreline. It was meticulously decorated in the style of a news conference desk: its top neatly covered with a white tablecloth and on its front, hiding the feet of the seated committee, a green fabric fell precisely to the floor. Three people sat at the long table, two men and a woman. A bottle of water and an empty glass stood in front of each one. A microphone was placed in front of the man in the centre. He tapped it twice, then began reading from a piece of paper in his hand.

'The consummate revolutionary leader of the world revolution for a new civilization, Muammar el-Qaddafi, the Leader of the Libyan people, the symbol of hope and freedom, the Son of the Desert…' He looked up, checking the mood of the crowd, '… because,' he said, raising his voice, pointing his index finger towards the sky, 'because it was in the desert where our Leader was born, in the desert where God spoke to Moses, in the desert where the prophet Elijah heard the still voice of God ordering him to face the tyranny of an oppressive ruler, in the desert where Christ prepared himself through fasting and prayers for a mission which was to shape Western history, in the solitude of the desert where the Prophet Muhammad contemplated the order of creation and the sad state of his own people' – Mama and Moosa didn't, but I said 'Peace and blessings be upon him' after each prophet's name – 'and it was also in the desert where our Leader, the Guide, the Saviour of the Nation, our Great Teacher and Benefactor, the Father of the Great el-Fateh of September Revolution, Muammar el-Qaddafi, was born, lived, dreamed and reflected.'

The crowd leaped up, cheering. 'Turn, turn,' a voice whispered, and the cameraman swung the camera on the happy and clapping spectators. Mama and Moosa were still and quiet. 'This purest of hearts…' the man tried to continue. He looked down and held his hand in a fist above him and pounded rhythmically at the air. 'This…' he was unable to break the jubilant howl of the spectators. 'This purest…' he said in a voice like a high-pitched siren, like Sheikh Mustafa's voice as it crackled with emotion during the Friday sermon. 'This purest of hearts, the emblem of single-mindedness, the symbol of courage, dedication and self-determination, our consummate Leader and Benefactor, who teaches us abundantly by example, has prevailed.' For a moment he lost his voice. The woman to his right poured him a glass of water. He took a sip and continued. 'People, masses, brothers, sisters, today is a day to relish. Today we have defeated the corrupt elements that tried to undermine our achievements and hinder our march.' The crowd came in, more jubilant and eager, desperate to express their commitment. Someone tried to say something to the cameraman. He couldn't hear and shouted, 'What?' Just then the chaotic cheering merged into a chant, even the cameraman and the one beside him joined in: El-Fateh, the revolution of the masses! El-Fateh, the republic! Chaotic shouting reigned again before another chant emerged: With our blood! With our soul! We'll defend our Guide! The camera moved, the picture blurred then focused on one of the basketball nets. It zoomed out quickly on to the backboard of the net, then moved down to where a man, seated on the shoulders of another, was struggling to tie a rope. Then he kicked his heels into the man beneath him and his bearer moved. When they were out of the picture the camera zoomed out a little and showed a rope hanging from behind the backboard, swinging with a loop at its end.

I looked back at the sofa. Both Mama and Moosa sat erect. Moosa's hands fell locked between his knees, and there was a sombre grimace on his face, whereas Mama's face was completely blank. I had never seen it like this before. Her face gave absolutely nothing away. I remembered Ustath Rashid once showing Kareem and me a book of very old portraits from Fayoum. They were beautiful, but something was odd about them. Then he told us how they were made. 'Because they didn't have cameras in those days,' he explained, 'when a family lost a loved one they got a painter to do a portrait of the deceased. And because no one likes to remember the dead dead, the painters did their best to make the person look alive. They gave them beautiful rosy cheeks, big round eyes and sometimes even a crown of jasmine or olive leaves.' Mama now looked like a Fayoum portrait, still, wide-eyed, beautiful, but lifeless. I recalled Ustath Rashid's peculiar statement: 'If you look closely you can see the shadow of death in the picture. They are unique in that each and every one of them is void of desire/

The crowd's chanting and cheering was so loud, so hysterical and constant, that it fused into a continuous hum, like the hum of a giant vacuum cleaner. When the people calmed down the camera moved on to the court again. A few metres in front of the committee, another man was now present. He had his hands tied behind his back and was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a microphone on a stand. He kept looking behind him at the rope.

'There he is,' Moosa said.

Then the camera zoomed in and we could see that the handcuffed man sitting on the floor of the National Basketball Stadium was Ustath Rashid. His forehead shone with sweat. His moustache too was moist, tears silvered his cheeks. He didn't cry honourably, he cried like a baby. He looked back at the rope, then at the committee who were to one side of him, and said something inaudible.

'Speak into the microphone,' the man in the centre ordered.

Ustath Rashid looked to one side and saw a man come from behind. He looked up at him, tried to say something. If I had to guess what, it would be something like: 'I kiss your feet, for God's sake, for your parents'

sake,' because when the man placed his hand on the microphone to adjust it Ustath Rashid tried to kiss it. When the man walked away Ustath Rashid looked back, searching for him.

'What do you have to say in your defence?' the man at the centre of the table said.

Ustath Rashid looked at him and cried again. He checked the hanging rope then turned to the man, raising his eyebrows, pursing his lips, pleading like a guilty child.

'We are giving you a chance to defend yourself. If you are innocent, speak,' the man said with a grin, leaning back in his chair and looking to the man and woman on either side of him, who seemed to understand his humour.

'Innocent, innocent… Innocent.' Ustath Rashid latched on to the word.

'But we have a confession here,' the woman on the panel shouted into the microphone. The crowd became excited. The man at the centre leaned towards her and seemed to be saying, 'Let me handle this.' She nodded gravely, straightened her blouse, then suddenly became surprised, pleased, waving at someone in the crowd.

'Are you saying you didn't confess?' the man asked, holding a piece of paper in his hand.

Ustath Rashid shook his head then nodded, contorting his face again, tilting his head to one side. 'I confess, I confess,' he repeated, then taking a deep breath he sighed, 'I confess,' as if under the harshness of the spotlights, sitting on the crisp, multicoloured plastic floor of our new National Basketball Stadium, which was designed to the highest international standards, he needed to hear it once more for himself. Then he seemed to wake up. He looked up at the panel. 'Mercy,' he said, tilting his head and repeating that word a few times, looking back at the hanging rope before crying again.