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<h1 class="gmail-reader-title">Palestinian Prisoner's Day: How I survived a decade in Israeli prison</h1>
<div class="gmail-credits gmail-reader-credits">Ameer Makhoul - April 16, 2023<br></div>
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<div class="gmail-content">
<div class="gmail-moz-reader-content gmail-reader-show-element"><div id="gmail-readability-page-1" class="gmail-page"><div><img src="cid:ii_lgo4kzjv3" alt="image.png" width="392" height="221"><br><p>Like thousands of <a href="https://www.middleeasteye.net/countries/palestine" target="_blank">Palestinians</a> who experienced arbitrary arrest and detention by <a href="https://www.middleeasteye.net/topics/occupation" target="_blank">occupation</a> forces, I was incarcerated in an <a href="https://www.middleeasteye.net/countries/israel" target="_blank">Israeli</a> prison for nearly a decade. As Palestinians mark <a href="https://www.birzeit.edu/en/palestinian-prisoners-day" target="_blank">Palestinian Prisoner's Day</a> on 17 April, I look back on my ordeal which began on 6 May 2010.</p>
<div><p>I was arrested in a pre-dawn raid by armed police who stormed my
house after jumping over my fence and practically breaking down the
front door. As soon as they entered, they separated me from my wife and
two daughters. I was surrounded by several security agents, some of whom
exposed their faces while others hid behind masks. At that moment, I
became a prisoner in my own home.</p><p>
A Shin Bet (Israeli Security) agent from Haifa named Barak (nicknamed
"Birko") gave me a menacing smile and said: "I told you months ago when I
summoned you for questioning that I would soon come and snatch you from
your bed and lock you in prison for a long time. And that I would do it
with a smile on my face."</p></div>
<p>And so it happened. The three judges of the District Court of Haifa
fulfilled a promise they made to the Shin Bet. And when one of the
judges was promoted to the Supreme Court, the Israeli media highlighted
his "achievements" - which included my case, over which the chief judge
presided and handed me a nine-year sentence.</p>
<h3>Physical and mental torture</h3>
<p>I would say that the first three weeks of my detention were the most difficult. </p>
<p>The torture I sustained in the interrogation rooms of the Shin Bet
headquarters was not only physically scarring, but was also meant to
break my spirit.</p>
<div><p>The Shin Bet refers to this stage of interrogation as "the vacuum", a <a href="https://www.addameer.org/sites/default/files/publications/webenglishbooklet_1.pdf" target="_blank">torture</a>
technique that aims to suck the souls out of prisoners' bodies by
subjecting them to physical pain so unbearable that it destroys them
psychologically.</p><p>
The conditions of confinement are equally considered <a href="https://www.middleeasteye.net/opinion/how-israel-high-court-enables-torture-palestinian-prisoners" target="_blank">torture</a> under international law. The Shin Bet cells were too <a href="https://www.middleeasteye.net/opinion/how-israel-high-court-enables-torture-palestinian-prisoners" target="_blank">cramped and narrow</a>
for my body size and the walls were rough, with sharp protrusions,
making it impossible to touch them let alone lean up against them. The
bare walls, dim lighting and foetid odour all contributed to the mental
torture.</p></div>
<div>
<p><a href="https://www.middleeasteye.net/opinion/how-israel-high-court-enables-torture-palestinian-prisoners" target="_blank"><img src="https://www.middleeasteye.net/sites/default/files/styles/read_more/public/images-story/palestine-prison-protest-22dec2021.jpeg?itok=zokN9dC2" alt="" class="gmail-moz-reader-block-img" style="margin-right: 0px;" width="392" height="245"></a></p><p><font size="1">How Israel's Supreme Court enables torture of Palestinian prisoners</font></p>
</div>
<div><p>The mattress was as putrid as the cell - thin and laying flat on
the cold floor - with a blanket but no pillow, forcing me to rest my
head on one of my shoes, which at least had a homely and familiar scent
to it.</p><p>
The air conditioner was constantly set to very low temperatures, making
the moments when they transported me to the interrogation rooms -
blindfolded and with my hands and feet shackled as I walked up a long
staircase - the only times in which my body did not shiver from the
harsh cold.</p><p>
Meanwhile, in the interrogation room, they employed the "Shabeh" against
me, a torture method that became known in the west as the <a href="https://electronicintifada.net/blogs/tamara-nassar/how-israel-tortures-palestinians" target="_blank">"Palestinian chair"</a> after American occupation forces infamously used it on Iraqi detainees at <a href="https://www.middleeasteye.net/news/abu-ghraib-and-decades-long-battle-for-justice" target="_blank">Abu Ghraib</a>
prison. I was forced to sit on a small child-sized chair, fixed to the
floor of the room - facing the interrogator - with my hands and feet
bound, incapable of any movement.</p></div>
<div><p>The agents took away the leather jacket I wore at the time of
arrest, saying I was not allowed to dress in better clothes than what
they were wearing. They use the freezing air as torture, blasting the
air conditioner above my head and back, until I feel as if I am fading
away or becoming numb. By then, my body and mind are breaking down
together, leaving me with agonising pain.</p><p>
Time is meaningless in the interrogation cells. There is no sunlight or
darkness, no window and no key for the heavy metal gate, so the prisoner
steals a tiny beam of light from the key slot. Day and night are
meaningless underground. The light is constantly dimmed, by design.</p></div>
<h3>No Christian 'customers'</h3>
<p>One day, I asked the prison guard for a book to read. After asking
the investigators, he replied that no books are allowed except for holy
books. So that is what I asked for. After consulting with the
investigators again, he said there is only the Quran. I immediately
asked for it.</p>
<p>He again left to ask for permission before returning and saying: "You
are not Muslim, so you are not allowed to have the Quran." Accordingly,
I requested the Bible. The guard did his routine walk to the
investigators, returning maybe half an hour later (as I lost all sense
of time). He said: "There are no copies of the Bible. We don't have
Christian customers."</p>
<p>Twenty-two days later, I was transferred to the Israeli Gilboa
prison, a maximum security prison in Bisan, a town located in the
northeast of occupied Palestine.</p>
<p>Standard prison procedures meant an immediate and forced
interrogation with the intelligence officer upon arrival. I was then
given a prison jumpsuit, which wasn't even my size.</p>
<p>I was placed in section one of the prison, which at the time was reserved for prisoners from Jerusalem and other areas of <a href="https://www.middleeasteye.net/topics/palestine-48" target="_blank">1948 Palestine</a>.
Once I entered the unit and the gate closed behind me, all the
prisoners rushed to greet me - embracing me one by one - a tradition
among prisoners.</p>
<div>
<p><img src="https://www.middleeasteye.net/sites/default/files/000_9N36F2.jpg" alt="Palestinian prisoners mural" class="gmail-moz-reader-block-img" style="margin-right: 25px;" width="392" height="254"></p>
<font size="1">An artist works on a mural painting honouring Palestinian
prisoners who escaped two weeks earlier from Israel's Gilboa prison, in
Gaza City, on 18 September 2021 (AFP)</font></div>
<p><span></span>Moving
from the Shin Bet solitary cells to general population prison felt like
coming back home, although not the family one. With my fellow
prisoners, I began to feel the need to create meaning for my individual
and collective life in detention.</p>
<div><p>One time, in cell number nine, section one of Gilboa prison which was supervised by the prisoner <a href="https://www.middleeasteye.net/news/israel-palestine-man-freed-decades-police-ban-celebrations" target="_blank">Maher Younis</a>
- who was released in January of this year after 40 years of
imprisonment - I volunteered to prepare lunch or dinner. While making
mujadara, a lentil and rice dish I am good at, I chopped and fried all
four onions I found in the cell. When I was done cooking, I was proud of
myself and my meal, only to realise minutes later, to my horror, that I
caused a food crisis by using up all the onions at once, which were
supposed to last for another half a week for the eight prisoners in the
block.</p><p>
As the days passed, the Shin Bet guard's words continued to haunt me.
What did he mean by "we don't have Christian customers"? Why didn't he
leave it at saying there is no Bible, rather than mentioning the lack of
Christians? Nothing happens by chance with the Shin Bet.</p></div>
<p>The interrogators are trained to weaken the "customer", in their
words, by stressing that you are alone, there is no one with you, there
is no one like you, you are a stranger to the prisoners because you are a
Christian and so you will spend the prison term estranged from the
other prisoners.</p>
<h3>Caged holidays</h3>
<p>A strange scene is captured during the holidays in prison: there are
prisoners rejoicing in the yard surrounded by high walls, the Israeli
flag in the centre, and a roof built of iron grills that cut the sky
into small squares as though they were pieces of a puzzle needing
assembly to complete the scene. Zooming out, the prisoners are
celebrating the holidays in one big cage.</p>
<p>The Muslim holidays of Eid al-Fitr and Eid al-Adha are celebrated
collectively, and preparations for them begin days before the date with
the talent of making cakes from scratch out of what is available in the
commissary - showing hospitality to all 120 prisoners in the unit - and
cleaning the yard and scrubbing down the cells with soap and water.</p>
<p>The holiday would begin at 6am but by 7am it was already over. As a
social event, the feast started with prisoners going out into the prison
yard, shaking hands, embracing and offering wishes of liberation such
as "next year at home", "next Eid with your loved ones", and "freedom is
near".</p>
<p>The barber would shave the head of all the prisoners a day or two
before that, and each prisoner would wear his best outfit and any
available or smuggled cologne - only if it is of high quality. Some of
the old prisoners kept colognes for more than 10 years when it was still
possible for their families to bring them.</p>
<div><p></p>
</div>
<p>Finally, once all the prisoners arrive at the yard, the Eid prayer and sermon would begin.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, the jailers observe, record and make sure that the sermon
does not deviate from the text that the prisoners presented to the
administration before - under the pretext of preventing incitement.
Prisoners, however, pay no attention to the jailers. Following that, the
prisoners come together in a big circle for the holiday greetings -
shaking hands, embracing and congratulating each other.</p>
<p>Then it is time for refreshments prepared by the prisoners or
purchased from the canteen, and thus the rituals come to an end. During
this time, the prisoners are able to visit each other in the cells, and
sometimes it is possible to organise visits between prisoners from the
different units if the jailers permit. The political factions also
organise delegations of their members to exchange visits and offer
official holiday greetings.</p>
<p>When the visits are over, the prisoners return to the cells and the holiday comes to an end.</p>
<p>I would participate in the whole event by going to the yard and
offering greetings. When I would pass by the prisoner Nader Sadaka, we
would start laughing, as I am a Christian from Haifa and Nader is from a
Jewish Samaritan sect from Nablus. He is serving a life sentence for
his role in the Second Intifada.</p>
<p>When all prisoners gather, there is room for joy. But Christmas hits
differently - no other prisoner celebrates Christmas but me. One day I
wrote to my family: "Before prison, I would wish for the holiday to last
for days, but here I wished it to pass as fast as the light or to not
happen altogether." Holidays are a time of happiness, but in prison,
they would fill me with sadness.</p>
<p>I was the only Christian, though at times we were two, so the
Christmas circle was meaningless. All I could think about on Christmas
Eve was my family: my wife, Janan, and my two daughters, Hind and Huda.</p>
<p>I was wondering what each one was thinking: my wife's feelings of
loneliness, how they'd spend the holiday, and how I could tell them that
they looked beautiful and dressed nicely.</p>
<p>I thought about how I wouldn't be there to prepare Christmas dinner
or breakfast the following morning - things I have mastered and loved
doing. But most importantly how would I hug each one? None of this was
possible except in my imagination. Nevertheless, I would remember the
Shin Bet guard's deliberate message of not having Christian "customers"
so I decided to celebrate Christmas.</p>
<div>
<p><a href="https://www.middleeasteye.net/opinion/israel-palestine-thirteen-braids-prison-escaped" target="_blank"><img src="https://www.middleeasteye.net/sites/default/files/styles/read_more/public/images-story/IMG_2299.jpg?itok=JLkjOeux" alt="" class="gmail-moz-reader-block-img" style="margin-right: 0px;" width="392" height="245"></a></p><p><font size="1">The thirteen braids that escaped an Israeli prison</font></p>
</div>
<p>My origin is from the village of Al-Boqai'a in Western Galilee, an
ancient village dating back a few thousand years. Its residents were
mostly Druze, as well as Christians, Muslims, and Jews (Arab Jews) who
considered themselves Palestinian.</p>
<p>The people of the village used to celebrate all holidays and visit
each other during all of them. This familiarity and solidarity between
people have deep roots in Palestine and the culture of its people.</p>
<p>For me, the Christmas tradition meant refraining from going out for
early morning exercise, which I adopted throughout my prison term, and
wearing the most elegant clothes - relatively speaking, as the prison
forbids shirts, belts, thick jackets, blouses with hats and even
interferes with shoes.</p>
<p>Contrary to Muslim holidays which were held collectively in the
morning, at noon on Christmas Day and without prior notification, dozens
of fellow prisoners from all Palestinian political factions would come
to my cell (which fits about eight people), to convey holiday greetings
with gifts they would purchase from the canteen and postcards with
greetings, designed by the prisoner, the creative artist, Samer Miteb,
from Jerusalem, who had been sentenced to 24 years.</p>
<p>Then, in the middle of the crowd, young men would start to raise the
sound of Arabic songs from an old tape recorder with headphones invented
by the prisoners, to make space for the singing and dancing floor,
celebrating Christmas and celebrating me, lifting the spirit and
bringing joy to the people.</p>
<p>One prisoner owned two smuggled candles that he held onto for 12
years. My friend Bashar Khateb lit the 12-year-old candles for a minute
and then blew them out, saving them for another future joyful occasion.</p>
<h3>'We are all Palestinians'</h3>
<p>In 2017, the Israel Prison Service dismantled what they called the
section of Arabs of Jerusalem and the Palestinians of 1948, and I was
transferred to the Nablus section. There is a story behind the naming of
the sections and the distribution of prisoners.</p>
<p>Over the course of five decades, the prisoners were held in prisons
without any geographical affiliations. Succeeding the Oslo Accords of
1993, the prisoners of Jerusalem and 1948 Palestine were separated into a
section of their own.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>I told a fellow prisoner that we are from the same people, culture,
affiliations, and the same Arab civilisation, so there are no
differences between us</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Later on, after building the separation wall in the West Bank and
surrounding cities with checkpoints, settlements and military bases, the
occupation sought to create local and regional Palestinian identities
at the expense of a unifying Palestinian identity.</p>
<p>As the West Bank formed one spatial and geographical continuity of
Palestinians, throughout the first and second Intifadas, and the borders
were relatively open to the Palestinians of 1948. Along the
construction of the wall, Palestinians became isolated from each other.</p>
<p>A whole generation has grown up after the wall and all it saw in
front of it was the wall and its narrow horizon. Seeking to engrave the
wall in the minds of the young Palestinian generations, occupier Israel
opted to create contradictory local identities, instead of one inclusive
identity.</p>
<div><p>This is the case in the West Bank, Gaza, and 1948 Palestine, and
this is the same in the prisons. Initially, the Prison Service
separated the prisoners of Fatah and the PLO movement from prisoners
affiliated with Hamas.</p><p>
In an effort to further isolate incarcerated Palestinians, the Prison
Service divided them by region: separate units for prisoners from
Nablus, Jenin, Tulkarem, Bethlehem, Hebron, and so on. This division
constituted a tool of control and hegemony by the occupier.</p></div>
<div>
<p>Palestinian Orthodox Christians struggle against two colonialisms</p>
</div>
<p>In the Nablus unit, my peers welcomed me warmly, as I them. There, I
maintained my daily regimen of morning exercise, reading, and university
education for the prisoners who were accepted to study in a special
course provided by Al-Quds Open University, as well as preparing a
number of them for the graduation exams approved by an academic
committee of prisoners.</p>
<p>Also, due to my knowledge of the Hebrew language and the Israeli
procedural system, I would help prisoners compose letters and
complaints, and challenge their cases and other abuses. A plastic table
outside became my "office" for such requests.</p>
<p>I never liked to be referred to by my sectarian or religious identity
- we are all Palestinians after all. Yet, the prisoners created this
identity for me in a positive, humane, and curious manner. Once, I was
walking with a 42-year-old prisoner who had spent 22 of those years
behind bars. He said to me: "No offence, but I have never spoken in my
life to a Christian person. In Nablus, they have become few, and I live
in a village on the outskirts of the city. So, excuse my question, but
are your habits similar to our habits in terms of eating, socialising,
joy and sadness?"</p>
<p>Honestly, I liked the question due to the sincerity of the asker. I
told him that we are from the same people, the same culture, the same
affiliations, and the same Arab civilisation intertwined with the
Islamic civilisation, so there are no differences between us. He thanked
me and started apologising, so I stopped him, and we then talked about
how the occupation and the coloniser wants us to have clashing
identities, not harmonious ones.</p>
<p>The prisoners used to call me al-Hajj Abu Hind, or al-Hajj Ameer,
which is a common tradition in calling elderly prisoners. I kept pace
with that and used to respond normally until the prisoner Salah
al-Bukhari from Nablus noticed that, and alerted the prisoners that I
was not a Muslim. He initiated everyone calling me "Father", out of
respect, as in the church tradition.</p>
<p>When I asked him not to repeat that, it was too late. The nickname
had already spread and I no longer had control over it. He still jokes
about it to this day inside prison, when calling me from smuggled phones
- a reminder of the reality of life in an Israeli jail.</p>
<p><em>T</em><i>he views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.<br>____________________________________</i></p><p>
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<div class="gmail-author-bio-content">Ameer Makhoul is a leading Palestinian
activist and writer in the 48 Palestinians community. He is the former
director of Ittijah, a Palestinian NGO in Israel. He was detained by
Israel for ten years.</div>
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