|
After he was acquitted, picked up his belongings and said goodbye to his
friends, and came down from the jail offices, carrying his bag, they
shackled his hands and feet and put him on a vehicle, took him to the
edge of the Occupied Territories and threw him out in the dark with
neither his ID nor any money.
The servants of the
state couldn't care less that Muayed had been acquitted just as they
wouldn't have cared had he been convicted. The system does not look for
guilty men as if that were its purpose (and although guilt is relative,
what looks like guilt through one prism appears a just, moral act
through another). It would have conducted proper legal procedure based
on facts and investigation and evidence.
Muayed is Palestinian.
That is his extent, his essence. This is his appellation and of it he is
guilty.
Tammi and I first met
Muayed about two years ago at Checkpoint Qalandiya. He was then an
18-year old boy at the start of his construction engineering studies at
the university in Hebron. That was what his father did and he wanted his
son to follow him, although in fact Muayed really wanted to study
medicine. To help people, he said. He is from Beit Rima, and used to
pass Qalandiya on his way to the university.
I don't remember
exactly how we became friends.
I then found out what a
tender, profound and sensitive boy he was, how very wise. How he had
taught himself Hebrew at a very early age, on his own, just by watching
Israel educational TV where a song of his was even performed once, that
he had composed and written and performed in Amal Murkus' show. That was
how he met her. He bears the sorrows of this world on his shoulders,
writes songs of peace and letters of peace in three languages, and these
are no clichés.
I recall a conversation
with him after he had been in Hebron just a short while, away from home
for the first time in his life. It was his first year at school, away
from family and childhood friends. He had not gone out on weekends for
quite a while because of the checkpoints and the closures and the
Occupation's usual abusive restrictions. We spoke on the phone and he
told me he was terribly sad. I thought to myself, of course – how he
could he not be, an eighteen-year old boy who is not allowed to go
anywhere, and whom people can hurt as much as they want wherever he
goes, only by force of their being Israelis, without ever being brought
to trial, or even seen or reprimanded. Quite the contrary. And I asked
him why, not really asking, thinking I knew the answer. And he said,
because it is winter and gray, and I am lonely.
And I almost hugged him
for that – for sounding, for a short moment, just so normal and poetic
and youthful. And I also thought how limited I was to assume that if
someone lived under occupation, the extent of his life is that of the
Occupation, a thought which in itself is already an exclusion of sorts,
a flattening out. And a moment before I tried to find out what he felt
exactly and why, and what that loneliness was and whether it was
connected to something existential like many of his feelings or
something more specific, I was glad. I admit. Perhaps it was wrong of
me. But I was glad that he managed to be there in an island all his own,
personal and particular and independent and free. That, in fact, his
individual fate is a private event and not a mere function of his
official, public, symbolic condition, a boy under Occupation, be it as
harsh and dominant as it may in the life of the individual. It gave me a
strange sense of hope.
Still, more and more
the Occupation began to infiltrate every corner of his being. Again and
again he would say to me, "Why? Why do people do this to one another?"
and he cried, and cried some more, and wrote beautiful poems and
letters, many of them in Hebrew, because he is like that, talented. And
so I would be able to read them.
Not long before school
was out, I recall a moment when he was still in Hebron, sharing his
residence with roommates, and they had offended him. Never mind why,
it is personal and I
don't want to make it public. But he was terribly hurt and left their
home that night and went out in the dark, and there was a moon, he told
me the next day, and he sat under a tree and felt he had not a soul in
the world. And there were lights on in the mosque so he went in. People
there were kind to him and friendly, or seemed to be, and even helped
him find another dwelling, and he read some of the Koran and told me
some beautiful things written there about peace, about God.
And some more time
passed.
He hardly talked any
more about things like grayness and solitude. He spoke a lot about
checkpoints. And about why people talk and behave and kill the way they
do.
That he couldn't
understand. And I totally agreed with him because, like him, I really
cannot understand how it could be that people kill someone just for
having a slightly different skin color or belonging to a different
ethnic group. How they prevent a person from entering or exiting
somewhere even when there is no grounds for any suspicion, and what in
the world could possibly justify this. So we talked, and he was swamped
with exams and personal and existential anguish, and the seasons changed
and exams ended, and he wrote more and more poems and I suggested he
keep a diary, perhaps that would offer some solace. And nearly two years
had gone by,
I think. I read and
heard countless poems he wrote, he taught me songs I hadn't known, we
chatted several times via Messenger, and he looked up our website
Mahsanmilim and sent me a link to a site made by another Beit Rima
resident, about their community. And then it was summer vacation again
and he left Hebron to spend it in Beit Rima.
A short while before
Muayed was arrested, war in Lebanon broke out and we spoke on the phone
and cried, both of us, stunned, asking the same questions, having seen
the same photos of massacred people and houses devastated with people
still inside them, and people trying to flee in their cars and being
constantly sprayed with bullets. And, like me, he asked why, why, why
won't they exchange prisoners? What could be simpler? He said that
everyone has a mother, after all these are children, all of them.
Children, he said, more generous than myself, calling the soldiers
children. I am just not willing to do that. Soldiers are soldiers, I
say. He said this, and cried, and wrote another peace song and phoned in
and sent it to Israel's educational television channel, and because it
was summer vacation he looked for something to do and ways to be of
help, and created a summer camp for children at Beit Rima and taught
them English, and also looked for ways to collect food and distribute it
to people who were really hungry. He told me how amazed he was with what
he met, how guilty he felt for having enough to eat when others didn't,
and through Amal he tried to raise money for the hungry. She succeeded
in raising some, but then Israel people said it was for terror and that
funds couldn't be transferred to them.
On Wednesday, September
6, 2006, he was supposed to stand trial. So we went to Ofer Military
Base, Tami and I. One never knows in advance whether a court session
will actually take place.
I mean, it's probably
known but the families are not informed. They arrive in the morning, as
early as possible. And wait. Usually in vain. Always for hours on end.
Perhaps there will be
trial, not too likely though.
Only two members of
each prisoner's immediate family are allowed. Muayed had his father
there and his sister Hulud. We are not Palestinians, so our presence is
not 'rationed', by the way. We can come and go as we please. Why us, and
not the father and mother and sister and everyone else? In the meantime
we entered the trials of others. There were the judge and court
recorder, and prosecutor and assistant prosecutor, several soldiers, a
translator, a defense attorney, and the prisoners brought in groups of
four, chained to each other at the feet.
Muayed enters, chained
to another young man, I see him furtively looking around, checking out
who is there. He sits down, looking around again, his eyes large and
bright. He has seen them. His sister and father.
Amal quoted his lawyer
as saying he is very fat. And it is true. He really is fat.
I was amazed at what
caught their attention.
Muayed, so we learn in
court, is accused of belonging to an Islamic organization at the
university. And that he was in the religion committed and in the culture
committee. The religion committee, according to the evidence, is in
charge of keeping the mosque clean. The culture committee, or as the
judge dismissively called it, the 'decorations' committee, sometimes
posts Koran phrases on the walls, and organizes discussions. Belonging
to this organization, we learn, no matter what one does there, entails
sitting in prison for at least thirteen months. And it was said that he
was seen cleaning the mosque.
He says he does not
belong to this organization, because he doesn't belong to it.
He also says that when
he sees filth he normally picks it up. The lawyer had questioned the
witness who made these claims, and he said he had indeed said this, but
was not telling the truth. And he explained. And said he doesn't really
know this. Everything sounds highly reasonable. Although in such trials,
sold in advance, this does not really make a difference.
The next court session
was set for September 27th, to hear the next witness. He
waved us goodbye and was gone. And that was that. He was there and then
he wasn't. It was terribly strange. We came to the court often
afterwards, perhaps nine times. We would arrive to sit in on his case,
which was not always heard, and during those days at court we saw
terrible things. We learned that in a military court, if you are
Palestinian you are held guilty unless proven otherwise. We learned that
everything is fiction.
A show. We learned that
Palestinian lives are there for the taking. That arrest has nothing to
do with guilt or suspected guilt, and that this entire system,
especially the General Security Services ever-present behind the scenes,
their jaws wide open, as well as many of the defense attorneys, all
serve the Occupation rather than the truth of what actually happens, or
exercising justice, even remotely.
This is an
Occupation-supporting mechanism, not a court of justice. The fate of
most of the people tried there is pre-determined, regardless of what
they did or did not do.
Or why they did it. For
it is not really investigated.
On December 14th,
after four and a half months in jail, he was released. Acquitted.
Released for all the wrong reasons, inherent to persecution and racism
and the Occupation. Not because he is less guilty than others, but
because unlike others, he is visible. Because 'worthy' people saw him.
Were with him. Noticed him. People of the 'right' race.
A soldier who is always
at the court told us that for the past three years, among the many
thousands of detainees arriving at Ofer he recalls perhaps only twenty
or thirty who were ever acquitted. Acquitted? Doesn't make sense, they
all said. The soldiers raised eyebrows while ticking away with their
SMS, or while trying to keep parents from talking with their children
whom they only get to see here. Acquitted! jumped the prosecutor, on
this – his first appearance at this trial. No, I object! But you haven't
read the file, said Naila. So what? I object. Not acquitted. Impossible.
Not acquitted.
"You know," Muayed said
to me a few days ago, "after Amal called and said she would be in
Jerusalem on Tuesday, and I cannot come to meet her, I wondered why
I couldn't come. What
was I guilty of? Only of being Palestinian. That is my guilt.
I could find no other
answer."
"It was Tuesday, dawn,
August 1st 2006. I was asleep next to my brother, my parents
in the next room. I woke up from sounds of a concussion grenade,
breaking glass in the house. Mother came into our room and told us to be
quiet.
Father went out. The
soldiers are here. And then father told us all to get out.
It was dark. They cut
off the electric current, and we were in our pajamas, barefoot. I felt
shards of glass in my feet.
We all went out and
stood there, in the bitter cold, myself and my father and mother and
four brothers and two sisters: Mahdi (16), Ahmad (11), Taqi (12), and
Shireen and Hulud and Jum'a. We didn't know what was going on.
I had a very strange
feeling.
Outside there were lots
of jeeps, ten or twelve. There was really loud banging on the door, I
don't know why. They woke up all the neighbors, the whole neighborhood
was up.
Then they said everyone
should get their IDs. The officer spoke Arabic, the soldiers Hebrew. We
went in and brought our IDs, and they checked each one. When it was my
turn, they said 'We want you.' My mother burst out crying.
I couldn't do a thing.
The officer said I did
something bad, and he was taking me away. I wondered what I had done, I
didn't do a thing.
They told me to put my
pants on, quickly. Three soldiers came in with me, pointing their guns
and torches at me, the rest of the soldiers stayed outside, my mother
came as well, to get me some clothes from my parents' bedroom. She
handed me some clothes to put on, my shoes were next to my bed so I put
them on. The weapons and torches were kept pointed at us the whole time.
I was too embarrassed to get undressed so I put on my street clothes
over my pajamas.
I took my wallet, too,
and money, and my university card. The family was already inside the
house. I came out and was alone.
They tied my hands
behind my back and blindfolded me. A car stood further away, and I was
told to walk faster and they pushed me. They spoke Hebrew but I could
understand. I was being pushed from behind, I don't know by how many.
In those moments I
couldn't think about anything. I told myself I was dreaming. I was in
shock.
They told me to get in
the car. It was large, the kind they use to pick up detainees. They
pushed and hurried me up. I was alone in the car with all the soldiers.
They tied my eyes with some white piece of cloth. I could see my feet
below, and where I was stepping. We took off and I had no idea what was
going on. The car drove on and I was waiting to see what would happen.
I was taken to some
place called Halamish, I think. Some twenty-odd houses. I was helped out
of the car. A soldier took me by the hand and I walked. We reached a
room, sort of a small trailer. They took me to see a doctor, I think.
I stood there,
blindfolded, and he asked me in some Arabic and in Hebrew whether I had
any illness. I felt it wasn't really practical. Just for the paperwork.
When they write down things but aren't really interested. I told him I
once fractured my right leg. And about some other injuries. And that was
that.
I was taken outside.
Waited for half an hour on a bench. And a soldier kept watch. He didn't
speak to me. We drove once more, I didn't know where. But I think it was
a place that is only for soldiers. Not far.
Again I waited, and a
soldier stood watch real close. Told me to sit tight and not look
sideways. I was blindfolded and he was telling me not to look anywhere.
I was seated outside
there for about two hours. On concrete. A bench. I'm not sure. I heard
them talking. They were near. They were saying very unpleasant things.
They said, "What shall
we do with this dog? Why did we all have to go all that way just for
him?" Things I don't want to remember. I felt they were abusing me, to
frighten me. On purpose.
Then they tied my feet
too, not just my hands. And we drove to Binyamin.
I didn't know where we
were going. I was only told that later by my friends.
They put me on the
floor of the jeep. Two soldiers sat in front, two in back, and I on the
floor in the middle. In the jeep no one talked. I was tied, and covered,
and once in a while they lit a torch to look at me. I wondered why they
were doing this. Perhaps they thought I'd run away. Perhaps they were
frightened.
My feet were tied
really tight, I could no longer feel or move them.
I told them I don't
feel my feet anymore.
They said, 'Wait, we'll
get there."
They cuffed my feet
with these plastic clips. It's tighter and stronger than steel shackles.
It hurts.
Then we arrived. I was
told to get off but couldn't move my feet. I no longer felt them. I
couldn't get down. No matter what they did. They unshackled my feet and
left the jeep. Waited outside. Half an hour later I felt my feet again.
Then they took me down. Or I got out by myself. I don't remember.
I was outside the
prison, but didn't know it then. They brought me into a room with a
woman-soldier. She took everything I had on me. A hundred shekels.
My student card.
Everything I had in my wallet. We talked. She gave me a copy of the form
she filled. I heard her telling them they were not bringing in some
criminal or terrorist, just a poor guy. Why? They did not answer her.
Then they put me inside the zinzana, the hold. A cell one meter
by two. Concrete.
I wondered what they
intended to do with me. Where they would take me.
I didn't know what to
expect.
Then they photographed
me and put me in Binyamin. Binyamin is the place where people are kept
until they are convicted. It's also called transit. There are three
tents. Two on one side, one on the other side. A fence separates them.
They asked me if I was Hamas or Fatah. I said I was not interested in
these things.
I am with whoever I
pray with. So they put me where they thought people are all Hamas. But
it's not true. There's everything there.
I went in, and there
were many people praying. I washed my face and joined immediately. After
the prayer they said I was in Binyamin and that 'we're all with you,
don't be afraid.' They asked how and why I got there. And went to sleep.
I had a bunk. Given to
me. And a mattress and a blanket. Some prisoners slept on the floor, for
there was not enough room, but on mattresses. And with blankets. I
couldn't sleep. I was in shock. I thought it would be over, quickly. And
every second felt like a year. Why am I here? And what's going to happen
to me? Why was I brought here? I was counting seconds.
In the morning food was
brought in, I didn't touch it. I didn't notice it. That whole first day
there I was in a state of shock, I think. Trying to ask why I was here,
and was told to wait. They don't know yet. That's how I got to know the
shaweesh.
We have this rule in
prison, that one of the detainees, an Arab, stands guard all night.
Sometimes two. Then they sleep in the morning. That's what we did. The
soldiers couldn't care less. So we would choose someone good who was
strong enough to argue.
He would wake people up
at 3 a.m. for prayers. Watch over anyone who was sick. Wake people up
for the headcount. Alert us when soldiers were around.
His turn came before
mine. Then he was convicted and sentenced to thirteen years in prison
and transferred to Ramle prison.
He made inquiries on my
behalf. I wanted to get in touch with my parents, but it didn't work.
Nothing was said. Nothing explained.
I was afraid there
would be no end to this. That I was going to stay here for a long time.
I had no idea what was happening. And why me. I thought that if I had
known, it would give me some hope that I'd finally go home.
Then I went on a hunger
strike. I wouldn't rest. I said this is the end. So let it be the end.
And I did not eat. For three days. Because I wanted to know what was
going on with me. Some friends were already sitting in jail a second
time. And I can't go on like this. So I went on a hunger strike, to do
something with how I felt. And I had no one to talk to. Even if I did, I
felt I just had to do something.
I prayed and did some
other things. But I just didn't eat. And then one guy asked why I wasn't
eating. And I told him. And he said, 'I wish we were all like you. What
can we do. We must eat.'
At the end of the third
day they talked me out of it. They helped me. I remember I wanted to eat
something, and did, and then threw it all up. I also met many people.
From Jericho, Nablus, Ramallah.
So friends also gave me
some toothpaste, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, underpants.
So I could change.
The army gave us
nothing. Only friends did.
Just once, in Ayalon
prison, Ramle, after I had already spent about four months in jail, I
was given some toothpaste and a little bit of shampoo bottle and a
brush. It was barely enough for five days. Nothing. Not a real supply.
Breakfast is at 7:30
a.m. There was enough food… We'd eat on the floor. It's concrete. The
soldiers bring the food but we prepare it. Arrange everything. Clean up.
We have our regulations. I mean there are army regulations, and then our
own rules.
There's the headcount
procedure. Wakeup is at 5 a.m., morning count at 5:30 a.m. The
shaweesh
wakes the men up. Then there is a headcount at 1:30-2 p.m., and in
the evening between 6 and 9 p.m. At headcount we'd all stand outside at
the prison yard and they'd count us. There were about eighty of us.
Forty-two in our tent, and forty in the other. So everyone would get
out. Stand in lines of ten.
We had to take off any
head covering, caps, sometimes call out names, sometimes not.
And we'd be counted.
Two soldiers do the counting, and an officer.
Was there anyone ever
missing? Yes, they'd gone to the bathroom. Not serious.
Sometimes there were
searches. Not every time. Suddenly. They'd come in, send us over to the
other side of the tents. Search everything. Sometimes body searches.
With instruments. When we'd get back, we'd find everything messed up.
The beddings all thrown on the floor, mattresses strewn… Sometimes they
took stuff. We were not allowed to have mirrors. They said glass might
be used to injure soldiers.
And they'd take out all
sorts of things. Take them. Especially after visits by the Prison
Services.
Everyone was waiting.
No one knew anything. Kids. Some sixteen-year olds. Not criminals. Play
some, read some. Chess, backgammon. After morning prayers, waiting for
noon prayers. Waiting.
There's a fence around
all the tents. And the soldiers are outside. Two patrolling around. And
some in the watchtower. And then there's whatever goes on inside one's
heart.
On the fourth day I was
taken to the GSS. They came, called out a few names, shackled our hands
and feet and took us away. We waited all day. It was outside the
trailer. The sun was beating down hard.
We sat there from eight
in the morning until six in the evening. All chained to each other's
feet. We'd go in one by one. Stayed until the last of us went in.
We were hungry. Asked
for breakfast. They didn't give us any food.
Some people came to the
GSS questioning from outside the prison. They too were shackled and
blindfolded. We were told not to speak to them and not give them
anything. Even going to the bathroom they were kept shackled.
There I found another
friend, a soldier. He watched over us. A guy called Gordon, who had come
from Ethiopia.
I was the only
Hebrew-speaker among us. I walked over to him. I asked him, 'What's your
name, where are you from?' He asked me why I was here. I said I don't
know. It was four days after my arrest. And he said, 'When you've been
here for eight days, if there's nothing found against you, you get out.'
My second meeting with
him was at the court, in the third month. He entered the courtroom and
listened, and said to me: 'Is this what they're trying you for? This?'
He was amazed.
A soldier, your friend?
Yes. There are soldiers who regarded us as animals, and it hurt me. And
there were some who no longer did. People are both good and bad.
Everyone, no matter what they are. The good and the bad are there inside
in various measures. Some have more good in them. In different ways. And
he is like me, he's young, he has dreams. And he doesn't want to be
here.
Yes, a friend.
Finally I went in.
Around 3:30 p.m. And I was told that I belong to Al Qutla Al Islamiya,
and that a guy called Hamza Abu Sneina said so-and-so about me.
I denied everything,
said I did not belong to Al Qutl Al islamiya, and if I pray that doesn't
mean I belong to it.
The investigator wore
regular clothes. He let me sit, but not everyone. Some people who were
with me were kicked. All over. I wasn't. So he talked, and finally he
said some really bad things. He said, 'You Arabs, we're going to come
and kill you all, even the little ones.' Maybe he talked like that to
make me say something. I couldn't do a thing.
It all took about half
an hour. Then he told me to sign. I said I wouldn't sign. He asked, 'Did
they tell you, teach you?' I said, 'First of all, I'm not guilty of what
you're accusing me, and second, I don't know what you wrote down here, I
can't read Hebrew that well. In my place you wouldn't sign either, would
you?' He said, 'That’s right.'
He stopped and I had my
fingerprints taken and it was over. And he told me to go back to Ofer
Camp. And that we'd see in court. I told him I believed that if I hadn't
done anything, I'd be going home. 'We'll see in court', he said.
But after he said that,
I felt I had gotten in even deeper. I went out and we waited until
everyone had had their turn.
They brought us back at
around 5 or 6:30 p.m. We had supper and went to sleep. It was still the
beginning for me, and I thought it was all a mistake, that in two or
three days I'd be going home. But afterwards it really hit me. Hard to
explain exactly.
About three or four
days after the GSS interrogation, where they told me what they were
accusing me of, I was taken to court for the first time. On the previous
evening I was told I'd be going to court the next day. At 7 o'clock.
Breakfast is brought at
8:30 a.m. So there's no food yet when people are taken to court.
About four or five guys
from Binyamin were taken to court with me. Coming out of the tent, we
were shackled, hands and feet. Does it hurt? Your feet hurt when you
walk, your hands hurt all the time.
Then we were tied to
each other, in pairs. And put into a minibus. The door was closed and
they went away. It was at seven in the morning. We sat there, shut in
like that until 9 o'clock. Then we were taken to the hold. By 9 one had
to be at court. Sometimes we'd be taken to the hold earlier.
It's very difficult to
be in the hold. It's a tiny cell, dark, with a door and a small window.
And a shnees (everyone calls it shnees). A little opening
in the door, about 8 cm. by 8 cm., through which food and water are
brought. Something hangs on it, locking it from the outside.
As long as soldiers
watched over us, they'd take the shackles off while we were in the hold,
and put them on again only when they left. When the Prison Services were
in charge, we were shackled all the time. There's some light in the
middle.
But it's dim. And we
waited for a very long time. We'd get there before 9 a.m., and stay
there until 4, 5 or 5:30 in the afternoon, until everyone had been in
court.
The hold is 2 meters by
2 meters, sometimes there are eighteen people inside. Standing, sitting
on the floor. It was very crowded. Concrete benches. A concrete cell.
And extremelyi cold in winter. And I couldn’t breathe very well.
I remember during
Ramadan, I had a court session. We sat in the hold. They'd brought us
back to Binyamin late. We had fasted all day. And it was late. Past
6 o'clock. And we had
not eaten anything. And no light was turned on for us. Maybe on purpose.
On court days we'd eat
once before noon. Get water. Go to the bathroom once or twice. Sometimes
the soldiers would refuse us. And so we would not go to the bathroom at
all.
Sometimes a soldier
stood guard, but we didn't see him. Only sometimes they peep through the
shnees.
It's hard. One counts
every second that goes by.
Sometimes I was there
with people I don't know, at others with people I knew.
With people I didn't
know it was really strange. Especially as it was so crowded. Once I
didn't know anyone. I tried. It was hard. And I could hardly breathe.
Anyway, my first time
in court, I was put in the hold, waited until noon. Then I was brought
into the courtroom and found Naila Atiya, my attorney, saw her for the
first time. And there were my sister Hulud and my father. We waited and
then they said there was no charge sheet against me. In the meantime,
others were tried. But after about half an hour, we did get an
indictment. She was afraid that no indictment would mean a secret file.
And that would lead to administrative detention. I knew what that is, I
was told about it in prison. I didn't know before.
She told the judge she
needed to read and prepare the case, and asked for a two-week
postponement. The prosecution asked for an open case, which means one
hundred and ten days in which the file is not opened. For investigation
purposes.
Naila refused and
demanded fifteen days. Said this was a minor case, with no evidence. So
the Judge accepted this. And gave her the postponement she asked for.
So how did you feel?
Terrible. I had had faith, for I hadn't done anything. So I knew I would
have to be allowed to go home. That my arrest was a mistake.
That it was impossible
to be arrested just like that, without having done anything. I couldn't
believe what was happening to me. And after Naila said 'postponement'
and that I was staying in prison, I still couldn't believe it.
Not really. And started
counting the days.
The time I spent at
Binyamin felt like a whole year. I was like a felled tree. Or a fruit
that fallen to the ground. That's how I was. I didn't know what was
going on with me. What went on in the world. There was no radio, no
newspapers, and there were twelve and seventeen year-olds, even seventy
and eighty year-olds. The really young, I think, are transferred to Tel
Mond prison which is for boys under the age of eighteen. But there were
a few. Later there was Mahdi, seventeen years old, who was preparing for
his matriculation exams. From
Bitunia. He was
sentenced to thirteen months. About three months ahead of me. I taught
him math and physics. He talked with me. Maybe it made him feel good. Me
too.
I was in Binyamin for
twelve days until I was taken to 'the blocks'. Binyamin is the detention
facility for people who have not been tried yet. In the 'blocks' there
are both kinds. It's a little better. At Binyamin there's no fire, no
television, no electricity.
Just a mattress and
blanket. And there were mosquitoes at night. Thousands of them. Hundreds
of thousands, making sleep impossible. And little yellow lights. Not
real lighting. And cold. Very cold.
There were two latrines
and two showers but no hot water. We spoke up, we complained. They said
they'd fix it, but didn't.
At the 'block' which
was also a tent, there was hot water, electricity, television, hot stone
plates for baking. And lighting. But the wooden bunks were full of
fleas. And many people had sores. They complained. We were told it was
nothing. Me too. They gave us some ointment once, but it didn't help.
Nathan, the so-called
medic, would keep coming to us in the 'block', asking what the matter
was, if anyone was ill, but didn't do a thing. At times they'd take
whoever was ill for treatment, at others not. Sometimes a doctor would
be brought, usually not.
There was one fellow
who had some nerve problem in his hand. He came after me. Had undergone
hand surgery in Jordan. He came here and was taken to prison. He said he
had a nerve condition and needed massage treatment and such but he was
not given anything in jail. And his body kept getting more and more
paralyzed. That hurt me.
There was a person who
had a bullet wound in his back. He had been treated in the hospital but
that was discontinued in jail. He couldn't sleep on it, and he wasn't
helped, not taken to hospital. He suffered everyday, everyday, and was
only given iodine. And the shaweesh asked for him to be taken to
hospital. And they kept saying they would but didn't.
There was a guy there
by the name of Mu'al Gazawi, who was dying. He was ill, a long time. He
was in very serious condition. He was an administrative detainee and was
given another six months of detention and was really ill.
Perhaps he recovered, I
don't know. Maybe he died. And there were many cases.
You know, I met a
person on a wheelchair at the Ramle court. He told me his story, that he
was beaten up. They did something really bad to him, and he lost his leg
movement. He could no longer walk. He was in court, sentenced to
thirteen months in prison. They said he was in the Al Aqsa Brigades, and
beat him like that in his interrogation, so now he could no longer stand
and walk on his legs. He is held in Ramle. They don't care about us.
At the the 'blocks' we
were about nine hundred and ninety. In the tent we were twenty-two. It
was a large tent.
I had one set of
clothes and pajamas, which I had on when I was brought in. They'd give
us soap powder. So one guy would stay dressed, and the other wash his
clothes. I was already in the 'blocks' when the Prison Services replaced
the soldiers. and then some of us got coats.
They came to our
'block', giving them out. I didn't take one. There weren't any left by
the time my turn came. I got pants and a shirt. They said there were no
more coats and they'll check. But they brought nothing more.
It's hard, but people
manage. We have these rules. Not the army's. I told you.
Like being woken up for
morning prayers at 3 a.m. Back to sleep at 4:30 a.m.
and then getting up at
8:30.
Eat breakfast. Then
people get tidied up, work in the kitchen. Bake bread. Some tidy up the
yard around the tent. If I was a good baker, I'd work in the small
kitchen. Whoever was good with books and reading he'd go to the library.
So practically everyone did something. Cook, clean up, guard at night. I
was in the library. I'd sort out the science books on one shelf, poetry
on another, keep track of the lists, note down who took out which book.
There were some books supplied by the Red Cross, others brought to us by
visitors.
In the 'blocks' there
was a shaweesh just as in Binyamin, but not just one or two.
They'd be changed every
day.
We had visits. Once
every fifteen-twenty days. When soldiers were in charge visitors could
bring us anything. Twenty kilos of food. And clothes. Except for cell
phones. And whatever was forbidden. Since the Prison Services took over,
we could receive nothing but olives and some thyme.
I had one visit.
Because at every visit date I had a court session. My parents came at
the Eid Al Fitr holiday. A one-hour visit.
Did they steal?
Sometimes they stole.
We would make nice things, handicrafts, like I made for you. Sometimes
they'd take them, but rarely.
Not all of us were
moved from Binyamin to the 'blocks'. Just a few. One, two. Some were
sent to the Negev prison. I was saying goodbye to people every single
day. It was difficult. I parted with hundreds of friends. First in
Binyamin, and then everyone would change and go either to Ofer, I mean
to the 'blocks', or to the Negev, or released. Not many. And so every
day I was losing family. Got to know them, got used to them, and then
they'd leave. It hurt me very much. Or that I'd leave. At Ofer there
were only myself and a few friends left. And there was nothing we could
do. Because everyone was imprisoned.
Since I was there about
five or six people have been released.
Some sat for two or
three years. One had thirty-one months of administrative detention. No
indictment. That's how it is. And there are children. I told you. There
were people from everywhere, even from Gaza. Abu Shamali.
There were two
detainees from Egypt that were done, but Egypt wouldn't let them in.
They finished their prison term but were forced to stay in mail.
Everything I liked and
got used to was gone. Every single person I eventually grew to like
would be gone. I felt that other inmates also sensed that. When someone
was taken away to another 'block' we would get closer to feel confident.
I even remember once
crying at Binyamin when we took leave of friends.
Myself and several
others lost friends. Not everyone.
I know two fellows who
were taken to the 'blocks' and I saw them three more times. Then they
were moved to Megiddo and Ashkelon prisons. And that was that. I didn't
see them again. Perhaps I never will. Some got six months'
administrative detention. Not yet tried. They would be moved just like
that. You know what that is, no trial, no indictment, no set time. Just
so.
First I really had
trouble breathing. My breathing is not good. There is a lot of dust in
the tents, and I had a hard time, and it was crowded. The hold was
scary.
As we waited for the
trial, in this 2 meters by 2 meters cell, with lots of others, smoking,
when I asked the guard to take me to another room he said there was no
room to keep me. I told him it wasn’t my fault. 'You're staying', he
said, and I couldn't do a thing. Almost from the beginning I told this
to the shaweesh and he put me on the sick list for the doctor
every day.
We talk to the
shaweesh and he gives the list to the army. They first received me
after three months' time. I went to the doctor. Before me was someone
whose arm was broken. When he got back with his arm in a cast, one of
the guards said to the medic to plastered it, 'You shouldn't have done
that, you're not a doctor.'
He said this in front
of us. The other guy told him, 'Shut up, you don't know what you're
talking about. They understand Hebrew.' You see? Unauthorized, and he
did it. I was worried about that.
The whole time I was in
jail I didn't feel I really slept. Or rather, I slept but constantly
worried. You never know what tomorrow brings.
Time is money. We tried
to get whatever we could out of this time with which there was nothing
to do: study everything, get to know people, learn about life.
I even learned how to
cook there. And how to talk to people. All sorts of things.
There are so many
people. Teachers and doctors. These are not ignorant people. Not
criminals. All of them studied at the university. Not regular people who
don't understand anything.
You know, it's like I
don't feel my life. As though I'm not there. I do things that I don't
do. I think its me imagining that I'm not in my life. Sort of unreal. As
though my body there eats and I don't taste anything. I don't feel that
I'm in my body, as though it's a body without a soul.
A feeling as though a
person has no worth. Nothing, this whole life is worth nothing. Looking
at a person whose life is worthless.
It's hard for me,
looking like this.
There was something
there that was especially hard for me. That hurt me deeply. There was
this man from Jenin. His wife could not come to visit him, she had no
permit. He was under administrative detention for six months. Then it
was re-implemented for another four and a half months.
Administrative. Meaning
there was a court session and no indictment. No file. A lawyer can do
nothing. And he had one visit by his children, the first visit after six
months. His children could visit, they were only ten and twelve years
old.
The visiting spot is
this open place surrounded by a fence. Inside there is a fence between
the visitors and the detainees. A fence that separates parents and
detainees. It's a metal net on top and closed underneath.
The kids are small,
they couldn't see so they jumped, they were jumping up in order to see
him. And he told me he wept. He could not look in their eyes. So they
would not see him crying.
Once we had a little
party and all of us were gay and sang, and the soldiers outside the
fence told us to shut up and stop making noise, I felt they were upset
that we were having fun. Unhappy because we were enjoying ourselves.
Still we had fun.
I was taken to Ramle
sometime in the last two weeks. There was a problem between the Hamas
and Fatah people. They quarreled and all of them were moved to Ramle at
night, even those who were not involved. I had to leave everything there
- clothes, notebook. Everything. Had on me just the clothes
I was wearing that day.
First we were taken to
Ayalon prison. I remember the first day, we were twelve in one room, ten
bunks, no mattresses, no blankets. Some men slept on the floor, I was
one of them.
We said we wanted beds,
they said they had none left. 'We'll bring some tomorrow morning.' No
blankets either.
I didn't sleep all
night. Others, too, had no mattresses or blankets. Only bunks. The next
day, at noon, they brought a mattress and a blanket. The men who came
there with me went to different rooms, not with me. Just one from Ofer
was with me in the room. We were eleven. Again it was hard to part with
friends.
I spent two and a half
weeks in Ramle. First at Ayalon and later at Nitzan prison. In Nitzan
we had television, our own rules, books. Not like at Ofer. There's
walking time. But the doors are made of iron, closed electronically, and
it's hard. Eleven people in a room. In Ayalon we were twelve. Ayalon is
the transit station in Ramle. Nitzan is better. There's a cantine. At
Ayalon there's nothing. No tea, no sugar, no salt. Just what they bring.
We were hungry. I was there for a week and a half. And one week at
Nitzan. Approximately.
At Ofer we were all
together, not in rooms. Better that way. In Ramle we were in rooms. That
made me sad. But the good thing about Ramle was that we could all eat
and drink together. I would buy some bisquits for everybody, for
example. Everyone shares everythings. There's no private property. At
Ofer there was nothing.
There was something
really painful for me. When we were taken from Ramle to go to court,
there was an elderly guy shackled to me, and he told the soldiers it
hurt. They used to really tie us up tight. Really really tight. And they
said, 'So what if it hurts? Think you're at some resort? At home?' We
got out and there was this dog. It was the police dog barking all the
time, rearing to jump at us. This sight reminded me of the blacks, the
slaves. That really hurt.
The second time I was
in court, two weeks after the first session, I was already staying at
the 'blocks'. It was 8:30 a.m. and I was led to the hold. Until noon.
Then I entered the courtroom… The witnesses hadn't arrived. And you did,
and Hulud and my father. And then the judge put off the proceedings for
another twenty days.
I was stunned, what can
I say. When Naila said there would be another postponement, it was a
real disappointment.
It got harder every
time.
Then after twenty days
she didn't come. Another postponement, again she didn't come. And then
they postponed the session another twenty-eight days.
It was like that wasn't
really me there. Like a dream. And not a dream.
And at the next session
she arrived late, at the end. You remember. And the court attendant said
they must close at 5 p.m. And my father and mother weren't there, they
were not allowed in… I was terribly disappointed. I was supposed to have
a visit that day and missed it. And then came this postponement and I
was very depressed. At the fifth hearing, she questioned the first
witnessed. Hamza Abu Sneina. She told me to keep my head hidden so he
wouldn't recognize me and he spoke, and then they postponed the
proceeding for another two weeks. For the second witness. At the sixth
hearing , she didn't show up again. At the seventh I spent the whole day
in the hold and was finally taken back to jail without entering the
courtroom, I don't know why. When I said this to the soldier, he said
'Shut up, who do you think you are?' So I wasn't there and there was no
trial. At the eighth hearing, she added the records of the interrogation
of the witness who did not mention me in his testimony, and we finished
with the second witness. Then they postpone things until reading the
verdict, for eighteen days. Then she didn't come again, and we had to
wait another week. Then again she didn't arrive. It was a visiting day
so I went to the visit area but didn't find my parents. They were at
court so they didn't make it to the visit. At hearing number eleven they
forgot to bring me to court. That's what I was told. But Judge Amir
Dahan decided, and on November 15th again there was a
postponement, and the judge said that it would be finished the next
time. And then he acquitted me. Judge Amir Dahan acaquitted me.
I was happy with my
acquittal, but I don’t know, it felt weird not knowing whether to
believe it or not. I tried to be patient. I got back to Ramle and my
friends said that many people were acquitted and still not released.
Someone told me he too was acquitted and then placed in administrative
detention, and he's been an administrative detainee for three months
after being acquitted. So days went by and I was glad, and worried, and
asked the shaweesh (in Ramle he is the prisoners' spokesman) why
I wasn't being released. And I no longer believed I would be. Then, the
night they let me out, on December 14th, on that day I told
the shaweesh to ask what was happening, and he told me that at
six I would be released. I didn't believe it. Then he said, 'I'm telling
you the truth. Go get your stuff.' I said, 'What are you saying?' He
told me to get ready.
I had nothing. I had a
bag with nothing in it. Just a few things from the cantine. I said
goodbye to the guys in my room. They wouldn't let me say goodbye in many
other rooms. They said, go no now. It was also hard to say goodbye.
Glad that I was going
home, not glad to part with friends.
Then I went out to the
office, they looked at my papers. Asked my name, identified me. I took
the release note, went downstairs, they shackled my hands and feet, let
me wait outside, then they put me in a car and we left.
They said they'd drop
me off near Modi'in. They left me there. I said I have nothing on me, no
money, no ID. What cloud I do? 'Do whatever you want.
We can't help you.'
And they unshackled me.
And I walked. Didn't know my way around. Then I found a car near Beit
Sira, waiting for workers. I told them I had been in prison and wanted
to get back home, so the driver took me to Beit Rima.
It cost 150 shekel. My
parents paid.
Muayed is free. I
remember him telling me once about the drive from Ofer to Ramle, 'You
know, in the car to Ramle we crossed checkpoints and roads, and I
realized that if I were free I wouldn't be allowed to cross these
checkpoints, and now that I'm detained I'm crossing.' He found it
strange. In Ramle, he said, there was a hole in the wall or fence of the
yard, and he looked out for a moment and saw Ramle, that Ramle that he
is only allowed to see if he is in prison. If he were not a prisoner, he
could not see it.
It's true.
Much is still to be
told about Muayed. About his delicacy, his profound mind, his spirit,
his ideas about reality and where he stops and pays attention, and how.
Muayed is a young person who is now maturing, a fledgling world of
possibilities all aglitter. He is different and special by any standard
and in any context, among his peers and kin and culture and society,
standing there apart and alone, particular and enlightened.
But as for the fact
that on a certain Tuesday night, the forces of Occupation and oppression
came and frightened his brothers and arrested him and broke the windows
of his home and brutally snatched him away, took him like some object or
less and stuck him in prison for some absurd, prefabricated accusation
without a chance to be seen in his own specificity, in his deeds and
spirit and mind and identity, in this sense Muayed is just one of many.
Not different, not special, not a being apart. For in the eyes of the
conqueror Muayed has no individual identity. No proper name. Just a
flattening, negating, racist, evil appellation. The name that is his
national identity. Palestinian.
Muayed told me that
when he was moved from Ayalon to Nitzan, shackled hand and foot, and
apparently his data had not been forwarded from one jail to the next, he
had to run back and forth, pushed hurriedly to and fro, shackled, all
the while holding his one bag containing next to nothing, heavy and
superfluous, he was profoundly offended because the soldier who walked
next to him carrying nothing did not offer him any help whatsoever. Not
even to carry his bag at least.
'Then I realized why he
didn't offer me any help, his reason. And I was insulted. And that
hurt.' This is what Muayed said.
I think that the fact
that Muayed was so insulted by this soldier, so deeply hurt, is also his
own victory over Occupation and racism, his own very unique freedom.
Muayed , unlike
everyone who participates in the Occupation and therefore necessarily
seeing him not as a human but as a human principle – he, the occupied,
the trampled and flattened regards the unseeing one as a human, a
person.
He does not see a
symbol. Not an occupier per se. Not a soldier. He sees a man that has a
name, that is differentiated, apart from his title, that is himself. A
human being. One of many. And why, he wonders, agitated, why does that
certain human being not help me seeing me barely walking. For me,
Muayed's insult is also his radical demand for the soldier's humanity.
It's a possibility.
He refuses to see a
human principle, or be one. He does not see the soldier as the
embodiment of a soldier-defined identity. He insists on seeing a
differentiated individual that contains a possible specificity. A
possible humanity. Not a mere principle but one that has a face.
Had he seen a
principle, a mere soldier, he would not have been so stunned. For how
could he be amazed. And he, after all he is just a Palestinian.
His insistence to see
himself separate and specific and see the soldier as separate and
specific as well, this is Muayed's absolute humanity and his triumph.
And his very own special kind of freedom.
Translated by Tal Haran |
