Dareen Tatour

MY THREATENING POEM
The Memoir of a Poet in Occupation Prisons
 Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2024

https://archive.org/details/mythreateningooeO000unse
 Dareen Tatour

My THREATENING POEM
The Memoir of a Poet in Occupation Prisons

Drunk Muse Press

 Copyright © 2021 Dareen Tatour
All rights reserved.
Translated from Arabic to English by Terrie Dawood
‘Resist, my people, resist them’ translated by Anon
Cover photographs by Dareen Tatour

Edited by Neil Young

No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by written, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval
system without written permission in writing by the author.
Published by Drunk Muse Press drunkmusepress.com
Printed by Book Printing UK bookprintinguk.com

Printed in Great Britain

Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the
publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is
any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of information contained
herein.
ISBN 978-1-8384085-0-3
 DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to each woman political prisoner, whether released or still
waiting for her freedom to knock on the door, who has suffered the chains and
constraints of imprisonment and has experienced the cruelty of its injustice. To
each woman who is lying in the ground and enwrapped in the soil of this country
after she has screamed, suffered silently, has been killed or has been forgotten,
I say, I remember you; I remember you; I remember you...
To all the women who wrote a new feminist history, a history of freedom,
equality and equity.
To all my female friends who stood by me during the most difficult times
and darkest moments, those who had the greatest impact on unleashing this
novel from the darkness of prison to the spaces of light: Ofra Yashua-Lyth,
Einat Weizman and Sameera Jamaa’t.
To my friend and brother, Yoav Haifawi, for whom this dedication cannot
be enough, yet it is the least I could offer him after his devotion and sacrifice
for the sake of this case.
To my dad who drew the outlines of my picture; to my mum who coloured
it in with the colours of life. To those who suffered greatly during my detention
period, yet of whom nobody heard. To my grandma, Khadyya, may she rest in
peace, who taught me what it meant to be Palestinian. Thanks to her I will,
forever, preserve my identity.
 INTRODUCTION

This story began from the first letter of an alphabet which emerged while in
prison and under arrest. This alphabet was invaded by the emotions and events
that changed my life and controlled my sensations, as they were more violent
and weightier than any natural disaster, be it an earthquake or a volcano. Thus,
it remained stuck deep within me — the memories that played with my heart and
rearranged the details of my thoughts, knitted that story.
In this book, I write about a world gone mad and a world exploited by justice
leeches and the monsters of authority, racism and occupation as well as political
tyrants and oppressors who beat a grudge against humanity, with one outcome:
the imprisonment of a female poet after charging her with composing the
threatening poem.
With this memoir, I experienced many kinds of constraints, chains and
restrictions and, because of that suffering, I challenged, defied and decided to
break them all. I decided to expel their darkness from my life and put out their
fires. My journey started at the Israeli authorities’ prisons, and it soon became
the prison of society, its customs and its traditions. After that, I was an inmate
in the prisons of my family and the male domination exercised over women,
depriving them of their self-determination and keeping them under the control
of men.
With this book, I entered yet another stage of a different struggle within
myself, primarily, which is how a true struggle should be, in my opinion. I
addressed myself saying, “My struggle must not end here in this prison, for when
a struggle starts, it should never end, no matter the citcumstances. My mission
now is not to succumb to despair. I must not to let the birds of my letters
abandon the nests of creativity; the birds sing the most splendid songs in cages.
All I have to do is adopt a different perceptive of my surroundings, and to
transform my previously-held interpretations of everything around me and
redefine them.
During the days of detention, the dark prison was transformed into a
woman’s revelation, and the bleak wall turned into a blank sheet waiting for me
to write my feelings on it, and pour the ink of my memoirs out during the very
tough circumstances and under the tight restrictions and bitter events I faced,
and which lived on with me.
It was not easy for me to take the decision to write and publish my memoirs
that reveal the details of experiences I had been through, and to be ready to
expose myself and draw out my feelings in public, especially given the attempts
of many people to restrict me, break my will and bury my writing alive. Their
efforts settled the matter, so I wrote this book and decided to publish it at any
cost. Nothing, in my eyes, is more precious than feeling free; and in writing, I
find my freedom.
With the first letter I wrote and until the very last letter, as well as a poetry
collection I composed during this period, all the handcuffs and chains were
destroyed before my eyes, and I witnessed my victory over everything, for, by
writing them, I have achieved self-sufficiency and broken free from all the
chains, restrictions and prisons by which they wanted to lock me up forever. I
ruined all their attempts to have my mouth shut and my voice amputated,
especially since I was prohibited from publishing my writings throughout this
period.
Another reason that contributed to my persistence in writing this book 1s that
there are very few writings about the experience of women political prisoners,
and women in general in the Arab world. By contrast, many male political
prisoners have told and published their stories. This entirely absents, silences
and pushes the female voice into the background. Women political prisoners do
not write about their experience in prison and detention, either because of
censorship, fear or shame. This blocks them from discussing the wounds and
pains of their experiences. So, the experiences remain unrevealed or in wait for
someone else to bring them up as they see fit, only from a male perspective, or
as they would want to address the issues and according to the conventions,
customs, beliefs and traditions that suit them. Thus, I decided that my bitter
experience in prison should not be just a memory soon to be forgotten, and I
wrote about it, bearing in mind that my goal was not to shed light on an
individual, or an exceptional story, as some might claim, but to be set free from
those chains that shackled and still shackle many of us, women political
prisoners. Perhaps, through this memoir, I would be able to break down that
wall of silence for Palestinian and Arab women so they could see the space of
freedom, and enjoy the flight towards it without fear of hitting a wall of any
kind.
Having the awareness of writing as a woman in general, and a Palestinian
woman in particular, is to be aware of the potential of our inner selves. When a
woman writes, not only does she achieve victory over the prison and the
ptisoner, but she can also end the siege of silence dictated by male authority, or
any other authorities.
My writing of these memoirs and the feminisation of language and memory
along with it, is the restoration of my being and inner self as a detained woman,
being transferred from one prison to another. Furthermore, it is a state of
existence which is different from what they wanted for me; it is liberation from
the prison of an authoritarian male cultural and social occupation.
I would also like to note that this is not an autobiography, as much as it is a
memoir about the period of imprisonment and the feelings I have experienced.
I have not discussed certain situations and events because revealing them would
not affect myself alone but my relationships as well with people with whom I
have severed ties forever, and people with whom my relationship is still intact.
I also kept to myself some other events for legal reasons and/or implications.

iv
Resist, my people, resist them

In my Quds I dressed my wounds,

Recounted my sorrows to God
And put my soul in my palm
For an Arab Palestine.
I will not agtee to a peace solution
As long as the poison is spreading
And killing flowers from my country,

I will never lower my flags

Until I take them out of my homeland,
I will defeat them when the time comes.
Resist, my people, resist them,
Resist the settler’s greed,
Shred the shameful constitution
Which carried the depressing humiliation
And prevented us from reclaiming our rights.

Resist them, my people, resist

And follow the caravan of martyrs.
They burned the innocent children
And they sniped at Hadil in public,
Murdered her in broad daylight,
They plucked Muhammad’s eyes,
Crucified him and drew pain on his body,
They poured hatred on Ali,
Set fire
And burned hopes in a cradle.
Resist the Mista’arev’s evil
And do not listen to the collaborators
Who tied us to the illusion of peace,
Do not fear the fire tongues of the Merkava tank
Vv
For the belief in your heart is stronger
As long as you resist in a homeland
Which experienced invasions and did tire
For Ali is calling from his grave.
Resist, my rebellious people,
Write me as parts of the incense branch
And you become the response to my remains.
 CHAPTER 1

As slow as molasses in January, time drags on for the prisoner. I still think
about it all, even the tiniest things that happened to me. Everything I was
surrounded by was worthy of being addressed. All of it. Closely, I had
started watching my only ‘cell-mates’ and companions — cockroaches and
bedbugs and their movements — at al-Jalameh Prison Centre, so as to keep
them off my clothes, let alone my body. Suddenly and without thinking
twice about whether or not I would one day put it on paper, I was simply
acting on it and making it part of my everlasting journals.
The restlessness of these cockroaches, unruffled by cold winters,
intrigued me. These constantly moving bugs were the only certain sign of
life in this gloomy prison cell. My growing estrangement pushed me to
redefine the tiniest details surrounding me, perhaps in unprecedented ways.
I thrived on discovering some novel emotional philosophy. Prisons truly
have such a philosophy which triggers visual memories, prompting any
prisoner to become an artist, a cultured human, a writer or a poet.
I will always remember that night. In fact, the thought of the moment
when the police, unexpectedly, raided my room is sufficient to chill me to
the bone. They didn’t only enter my room at that moment; they penetrated
my memory, my papers and my pieces of writing.
It was the night of October 11, 2015. I had barely fallen asleep after
turning off my computer. My mind was racing with thoughts, news clips
and images of soldiers shooting the young Nazareth woman, Israa’ al-
Abed, in Afula; a stream of images portraying violence, racism and the
_ tyranny spreading in the country and all over the region rushed through my
mind. The echoes of swear words and my cousin’s screams hurling at me
still haunted me as I tried to sleep. I fell asleep while I was still processing
and trying to wrap my head around what had been happening within and
atound me. How easy it had become for one human to kill and humiliate
another.
The rampant violence, those events and screams, made me picture and
relive some cruel moments from childhood which had haunted me for

1
 years. I went to bed dragging along those pitiful and disgusting details while
attempting to get some rest. And with that cumulative burden of a lifetime
holding me back from falling into deep sleep, it was almost 3.30 in the
morning when I woke up to the cries of my mum and dad: “They are here
to atrest you!” Panic-stricken, I got up, opened my toom’s door wide and
looked around to find policemen encircling me and about to arrest me.
“Are you Dareen2” four of them enquired as they approached. The way
they got into our house this time was a first. I could easily sense the fear of
everyone in my family at that moment as I looked at their faces; their eyes
_ said it all. They showed nothing but fear and worry. In a blink of an eye,
my whole family, even my siblings who lived on the highest floor of the
apattment building, gathered around me inside the house. They all
witnessed that scene. Until this very day, I still have no clue how that
happened and how they learned about it. It could have been my dad; one
phone call in the midst of that gloomy noise would have been enough.
Despite the surprise and fear that invaded me at those moments, I
somehow managed to peer at their facial expressions and hear the words
they uttered with such concentration that they are burned on my mind to
this day.
Combat helmets on heads, military uniforms, rifles and sophisticated
weapons, fingers on triggers. Four of them drew closer and closer to my
bedroom and stood still at its door watching every move I made, their giant
bodies mirroring me. Their eyes sparkled with fear, right and left their eyes
darted constantly. I had no idea what they were getting at, or what they
were searching for and expecting to find in my room. I could not
comprehend what they would want from me to begin with. I was certain I
had done nothing against the law. Had they come because I had taken patt
in protests? I had so many questions but they had yet to answer. As though
in a battlefield, everything around me was a mixture of surprise and
strangeness. Only two officers entered my bedroom. They looked at its
corners, eyeing each inch of my room. Astonished, one of them raised his
eyebrows while the other turned his head left and right while maintaining
eye contact with his comrade who then asked: “Does this guitar belong to
your”
“Yes, it is mine,” I replied.
 A few seconds passed. The surprise grew on his face as he teworded his
question. “Do you play the guitar?” he asked. Keeping my smile, “yes,” I
answered sternly. He could not help but raise his eyebrows as his comrade
asked me three questions at once: “How so? Are you sure? You play the
guitar?” Without hesitation, I said: “Sure, art is my whole life.”
At a glance, I could tell my room did not appeal to them; I could feel it
in my bones as I observed their expressions and their first reactions as they
entered it. What might they spot to begin with? A picture of me and my
grandma while I was embracing her before she passed away, hung on one
of its walls, and two others of the poets Fadwa Tuqan and Nazik al-
Malaika? A picture of myself when I was a child? Or that big picture I had
once taken during one of the annual return marches which later on turned
into an emblematic picture for those demonstrations? This room did not
match their expectations; it was full of artwork scattered all over the place:
pens, drawing books, a camera and its equipment, a guitar, an oud,
photographs, hanged paintings, crowded bookcases, French perfumes as
well as two Persian cats lying in bed.
The moment I stood right before them in my room watching their facial
expressions, and despite the fact they seemed to be perplexed during the
first few minutes as if they felt they were in the wrong place and had a
person who did not match their mental specifications, I smiled.
One of them demanded my computer, my phone and my ID card. They
held me and hand-cuffed me tightly and demanded I go with them towards
the car. Careless to all of the power surrounding me, I left the room assured
of the fact I had done nothing to be afraid of. I assured my mother in an
attempt to calm my family down and ease their worries: “Don't worry. I'm
coming back.”
Hand-cuffed and leg-cuffed, they got me into a Toyota police car, and
off we started. Through the window glass, I noticed a big transit vehicle
leaving my neighbourhood from the other end of the street. The car went
on for a mile or so until it was joined by another. That convoy arrived on
the main street only to be joined by a fourth vehicle. “What an arrest! All
that force was set up and deployed ta get me arrested,’ I couldn’t help but
think with astonishment. They drove me to al Mascobiyeh Detention
Centre! (Al-Muscovite) in Nazateth, and I was oblivious as to why I had
been arrested or the type of arrest.
 CHAPTER 2

The clock was about to strike 5am. I was standing helplessly in the yard. I’d
roamed the streets of Nazareth so many times. I’d organised several tours
to familiarise tourists with the city and its history. Often, I spoke of the
origin of this building and stones which encapsulated the history and the
uniqueness of the city. Many times I’d captured the alleys and old
neighbourhoods as memories on my camera. A pigeon standing on one of
the windowsills of this very building, the one right in front of me, was the
last picture I took of the place. I still remember that moment; I still
remember how that scene caught my eye. What a twist of fate! The moment
I captured that scene and this moment were worlds apart. I was now under
arrest in that very building. There was nowhere to sit in the yard. It was just
a parking lot for police and special unit vehicles which were everywhere.
Policemen in groups, leaning on their cars, muttered while looking at me,
smiling and laughing. Now, this place was the Nazareth Police Office and
I, hand and leg-cuffed, was and surrounded by about fifteen policemen
from the Yasam Unit? hurling curses and racist remarks at me. As anyone
passed, they would show their prowess by using racist language; it seemed
like an achievement to them. I listened but did not get carried away by their
provocations or their frivolous discussions about me. While I was relatively
calm yet worried, I wondered what sign this morning would offer me.
“You want a weapon to kill me? There. My gun. You, subversive.
Terrorist. Arab trash. You look like a subversive. You seem like a
subversive.”
These words came with many others like them. I was present in that
extraordinary scene. I couldn’t deny feeling scared and truly anxious, yet
the situation was enough to stit my courage and spirit to challenge them. I
sensed theit cowardice, wretchedness and helplessness as they held their
weapons against me, the hand and leg-cuffed. “Who is the weak among
us?” I wondered.
Despite the absurdity of the unknown, I started to train my emotions to
face various scenarios so as not to be shocked and get carried away to a
place where I did not want to be. I kept my cool, and I did not give them

5
what they had been after — that is, for me to unleash my anger or anything
that could later be used against me.
I stood still in the same spot for an hour; it was the longest hour I had
ever waited in my life. It was incessant. I let my soul wander off to befriend
loss and confusion; to look for the secret behind the harmonious fusion
between suffering and strength; to digest what these chains that shackled
me meant; to come up with a composure that transcended the limits of this
reality and reached the unimaginable; it might, perhaps, recognise the secret
behind everything that was happening to me.
Nothing changed until a female soldier turned up unexpectedly and
demanded that I move along as she escorted me. A woman dragging
another along. I started taking my first heavy and bound steps, confined to
the length of the chains. She began to walk at a faster pace, pulling me
along, which caused my feet to ache; groups of policemen followed her
down that long hallway. Afterwards, it was time for us to walk up the stairs.
I had to stop as the chains were very tight and causing unbearable pain.
Chains against my skin, rubbing and pressing hard. I was covered in scratch
marks. The more I moved, the more the pain grew and the deeper those
chains dug into my skin. I asked her if she could loosen them, but she
utterly rejected that. She ignored my agonised cry for help. Instead, “Go
on! Silently!” she cried.
As I walked along, I listened to their discussions, which boiled down to
the fact that the detainee reception office had no registration employees or
an interrogator to start the interrogation process. Anger and confusion
covered their faces, and they exchanged yells and curses. They were clueless
as to where they wanted to take me. They would arrive at an office, one of
them would enter to ask a few questions but in vain, and again they would
take me back to the deserted reception office; back to another room. It was
an endless cycle of toing and froing which lasted for thirty minutes.
The receptionist finally arrived and recorded some details, and then one
officer came into the room through the door. Later, I realised he was the
interrogator after calling on them to bring me into the room.
My chained feet and wrists throbbed with pain; I went into a room
packed with computers, cameras and some other strange-looking
equipment that I had never seen in my entire life. I was asked to stand in a

6
place where white plastic bridges irradiated some unnatural beams of light.
They forced me to take off my hijab. They took a photo of my eyes. A
mugshot, one front-view photo and one side-view; they photographed each
side. They demanded that I move my head in all directions. I didn’t know
where to look or the camera direction; up to that moment, I had never
before seen that device right before my eyes. They took my fingerprints as
well. The former was arduous; a severe electric shock left my left palm
covered with lifelong burns, not to mention the lost and forever erased
fingerprints. Even those highly-developed machines couldn’t identify or
record my fingerprint impressions.
The staff couldn’t enter the data into the system as they were instructed,
which forced them to discuss this issue for about thirty more minutes and
call in a specialist to come up with an alternative. He suggested using
fingerprint ink. Quickly, they fetched a bottle filled with blue ink, drowned
my left hand in it and took my fingerprint impressions, and then I had to
put them on every corner of several papers. They tried to enter the data
into the computer again, but it was another useless attempt, so they decided
to leave it mostly on paper for the time being. I could see my fingerprints
being printed on lots of their documents before I was called to the
interrogation room.
 CHAPTER 3

It was 6am and I was hand and leg-cuffed and sitting in a freezing tiny
room. It looked as if it might actually be the interrogation room; the air
conditioning vents were aimed at the metal chait where I was sitting and
the temperature dropped with every second. “I’m sitting in an ice mould,
not a chair!” I thought to myself.
These sudden cold sensations that take over a detainee’s body while
waiting for their testimonies in interrogation rooms wete not new to me;
I’d familiarised myself with that through intensive reading. I had always
thought that the descriptions of this stage were beyond exaggeration. From
my perspective, they were inevitable reactions that instantly arose due to
the stress a detainee was undergoing. At the time, I assumed that no
external factors played a role in producing those harsh sensations. Still, that
cold feeling was invading my body, and I came to realise why. My doubts
were removed as I found out that I had been wrong all along. The position
of the air-conditioner? Aiming it at the detainee? Well, that would explain
the cold eating away at my bones, affecting my mental state and wearing
away at my patience and tolerance.
The air-conditioners were invented to ensute people’s comfort and to
ease any suffering that may result from changes in weather or temperature.
Now that useful tool was exploited and abused; it was turned into a
pressure strategy. I was reduced to a body bound with metallic chains,
sitting in a bitterly cold room, fearing the unknown and surrounded by
policemen.
A few minutes passed and the quivering of my body worsened. My mind
was filled with questions and bitter conclusions. A policeman approached
me, sat on a nearby bench, put his phone in front of him, and played a
voice recording or a movie, perhaps. I knew that he turned up the volume
to the max as I watched his fingers moving against his phone screen; it was
within earshot and recognised it. It was one of Hassan Nastallah’s
speeches. After a few seconds, he addressed me directly saying:
“You're happy to hear this, aren’t you? You must love this voice. You
love terrorism, just like he does. No wonder. You're a terrorist just like he

8
is. Would you like to see him? Take the phone and look at him. You’re very
much alike and terrorism shows itself in you.”
He redirected the phone screen towards my eyes to force me into
watching it, but I brushed it off. I simply had a look in my eyes of utter
indifference and I gazed at his shirt to try to work out his name. ‘Maybe he
has a name tag right above his pocket,’ I thought. It was a fruitless search.
He hid it with a sly move of his second arm. I stayed indifferent, calm and
collected.
The voice coming out of the phone speakers vanished. A man wearing
civilian clothes and a winter jacket which radiated sensations of warmth
came into the room. I didn’t give it much thought because I soon realised
these were prearranged and calculated steps. This man was yet another one.
“You ate charged with incitement, violence and terrorism,” he said.
“Well, your Facebook posts indicate this,” he added. “You wrote that you
wished to be a martyr, and you posted a picture of that subversive woman
in Afula. So, what do you say? What’s your take on these charges?” he
demanded.
“T won’t utter a word without talking to a lawyer,” I said sternly.
“Alright, give me the lawyer’s phone number and I will call them,” he
said.
“Tt’s on my contacts list,” I replied.
He turned on my confiscated phone and asked me to give him the
names, and I did. Attempting to find the name I requested, he started to
sctoll down my contact list. Unexpectedly, my phone’s ringtone started
playing “The most beautiful feeling in the universe is when you're crazy in
love.” It was a ringtone from one of the Lebanese singer Elissa’s songs. A
text message. Astonished and perplexed, the interrogator asked: “What
kind of song is this? I don’t see how you have such a ringtone?” Question
left unanswered. He proceeded with his search. I had a female lawyer
friend, so he dialled her number fitst. She was completely shocked. I could
sense pain and nervousness in the sound of her voice. Surprisingly, she was
literally in pain at some hospital — in the delivery room, to be more specific.
She couldn’t offer any help and, in turn, I didn’t say anything, but I wished
her a safe delivery and I congratulated her in advance on her new baby.
 I admit I couldn’t help but laugh at the awkwardness of that situation
and this fate that would leave its unexpected marks on my life. I dug into
my memory, trying to find my next option, and I decided to go for the Law
Firm Office of Justice and Legal Advice, but no one picked up. I started to
question everything after I felt as if the whole universe had conspired
against me. I felt as if 1 had been part of a conspiracy theory and that fate
was against my will. What a frustrating start! Finding a lawyer seemed to be
unattainable, mission impossible. Everything was getting more complicated
for me.
These were my odds, omens of a different kind, I believe. I thought of
a third option, and my last ray of hope was calling an activist to help me to
find a lawyer, and that was what happened. I was determined I wouldn’t
break my silence until I’d sought legal advice from my lawyer. My first
interrogation was adjourned.

10
 CHAPTER 4

Two hours has passed and here I was in a room unfit for humans. It was
indeed a mortuary cabinet, especially with the low temperatures I had had
to bear until ordered to move to another room.
It was 9 am. I was surrounded by policemen who forced me to stay fixed
at the room’s entrance, waiting until I was called in to face questioning by
an interrogator.
A wooden door stood right in front of me and on one of its panels a
small golden sign was hung with the words, written in black, reading
‘interrogation room’ in Arabic and Hebrew. My foot pain was growing
worse because of the tight chains. Again, I asked them for them to be
loosened slightly, and the response was adamantly unchanged — my request
was rejected. “You are detained. These are the rules, and we have to abide
by them,” they replied. Soon they sent me into the room.
For the first time since my arrest at dawn, my hands were
un-cuffed. I sat in the chair and looked around, exploring and discovering
my surroundings. I could see a room packed with equipment. It was
diametrically opposed to the former one which was filled with computers,
cameras, a scanner, printers and numerous phones.
There was just one interrogator. He was sitting at his desk, facing me.
Then he introduced himself and began to talk while arranging some
documents. My body had almost reached its average temperature and |
started to get warmer. However, that didn’t last for long as he turned on
the AC. I asked him to turn it off or down but he refused explaining that
he felt hot and needed it.
It wasn’t long before he grabbed his winter jacket which was hung on
the back of his chair, and put it on. This drew a sarcastic smile to my face.
I thought of the meanness, cruelty and inhumanity of some people. I knew
for sure that I was in a teal battle with the contradictions that surrounded
me. After thinking what had been happening and replaying the day’s
incidents in my head, I decided to tell the truth and to expose their
accusations as false. I would tell them about what actually happened and
what my intentions were to begin with. “There is nothing to fear, and I

11
know that I haven’t done anything wrong or anything that I would hide or
deny,’ I reflected.
I was reassured after arriving at this decision and the only thing that was
still distressing me were those leg-cuffs after my handcuffs were removed.
Initially, the process of questioning consisted of a casual conversation as
my accusations — none of which I could recall — were explained to me. and
I, for my part, was responsive. I forgot about my lawyer since, frankly, it
no longer mattered to me; I was confident of my decision.
Then, I responded to his questions concerning the picture of the
Palestinian woman. I told him I couldn’t exactly recall whether I had posted
it or not and that it all seemed blurry. I only remembered watching that
video a few times, especially the moment when she got shot. I also
remembered some brutal childhood memory which started at the age of
seven and lasted for five more years. I might have posted that then
removed it. I struggled to recall details. It was all obscure. I explained to
him that sometimes I suffered from disassociation as a result of post-
traumatic stress and dissociative disorders; some moments simply went
blank as a result of this trauma. It was childhood trauma, after all. I gave
him the names of three people who had contributed to that as I attempted
to clarify the nature of the crime committed against me in the past. He
assured me that he wrote those names down and he would take care of it
and refer it to a specialised investigator.
As for the ‘I want to be a martyr’ post, I said that I had never written
anything of this sort before, and I didn’t recall this matter. A man entered
the room, gave the interrogator a handshake and introduced himself as the
lawyer who would defend and represent me in court. Shortly, after a quick
discussion between the two men, which I wasn’t able to catch or
comprehend, the lawyer asked me to consult with him. I reckoned it was
about my accusations. On a bench outside the interrogation room and
under the watch of the interrogator, we sat together and talked mote freely,
yet he addressed me:
“In legal terms, you may receive a six-year sentence for these charges.
There is a young Nazareth woman who is imprisoned in an anonymous
place; nobody knows what has happened to her. Visits are not allowed at
that prison. At the beginning she received a six-month administrative

12
detention because of her Facebook posts. In other words, you will have to
deny everything; simply say that your Facebook account has been hacked
and that you don’t know what has happened.”
He shook my hand and said: “Goodbye for now; see you in court later
today.” We’d barely spent any time together; in a two-minute meeting, he
rapidly recited his speech and left me even more befuddled. He also made
me feel extremely nervous to the point of fear. Meeting my lawyer was
supposed to bring me a sense of peace and confidence, but this produced
the opposite. Actually, meeting him distracted all my senses, as if I was at
a ctosstoads in my car only to realise the brakes didn’t work. I wasn’t in
control any more, and I was at a loss for direction. Perhaps that would lead
me to a safer place. In my case, crashing into something was inevitable; it
would happen eventually without a doubt.
I couldn’t rationalise things as Pd done before; that rationality that
helped me before meeting the lawyer. Everything I had in mind evaporated,
and all I could remember were his words. Every bit of me now was
wondering ‘How will I start to practise waiting? How come | can’t let out
a sigh loud enough to uncover what is happening deep down inside?’ I
returned to the interrogation chair while talking to myself. Despite this, I
was hoping that the interrogator's questions wouldn’t overwhelm me. At
that moment, I felt defeated.
We stayed there, but the interrogator asked me to take a different seat.
The interrogation started; he asked and I replied. He turned on my phone,
logged into my Facebook account and demanded that I look at it. Then he
asked whether that was my profile or not. It all went black at once, and I
was shocked by that sight. I didn’t understand what was happening. I
couldn’t recognise it, and I didn’t know how it went blank.
My name was there, but both my profile and cover pictures were blacked
out. I couldn’t remember that happening; was I really disconnected from
reality and had I deleted it? Was my account actually hacked as the lawyer
had said? I had been through that experience before. I knew of another
account with the same name, but I didn’t know who managed it. A stranger
had been impersonating me and updating that account until this day. I had
ttied to delete that account and reported it several times, all of which had
been dismissed.

ih)
 With each moment, my bewilderment showed more clearly and
everything became more confusing; all these situations and words were
tangled up. The lawyet’s words “six years” echoed in my head. I cursed this
situation I found myself in. I was so wrapped up in it that I would have
follow my lawyet’s advice and deny it all. My mind went blank. All ITwanted
was an explanation for what had happened to me. Was it a curse? Bad luck?
A conspiracy?
The papers were printed out and the policemen were called into the
interrogation toom again. They handcuffed me and took me back to the
cat. Black glass. That’s all I remember. We arrived at the courthouse and
they put me back in a prison cell to wait for my hearing.

14
 CHAPTER 5

A tiny square cell, a 15cm blue chain-link-fenced metal door, freezing cold,
a big hole in the wall where an AC was placed, red concrete flooring, and
dirty walls — too dirty to look at — empty plastic bottles scattered all over
the floor. Leftovers piled in front of the door. It was not a prison cell as
much as a landfill. Opposite the door there was an old metal in-cell toilet
and a faucet — both of which were disgusting, not to mention the
accumulated grime, mould and rust with which covered them. They were
surrounded by two 1.5m walls and two blue cubes of molded concrete
which were used as seats.
Watched and exposed. The unscreened, door-less toilet entrance could
easily be seen from the main metal cell door. A surveillance camera hung
on the ceiling. One would go to the toilet well aware of the fact of being
watched either through the camera, the cell door or both. Time passed
while I'm sitting here in this stuffy cell; a mixture of stinky and musty smells
filled the air. Sitting on a piece of concrete in this cold stinking room caused
my body to stiffen, so I tried to readjust my position every now and then.
I used each inch of my body to try to relieve myself from the cold and
rough feelings of concrete. Spasms. I couldn’t move any more. All I could
do was wait; ‘Patience, it is what it is’ was my mantra for this time.
I was extremely thirsty yet I didn’t drink a drop of water. And going
thirsty was easier than using that toilet; I would rather be self-tortured by
thirst than use that dirty unscreened toilet. One soldier brought me lunch;
he handed it to me through a tiny rectangular cuff port. He also said that it
would be the only meal I would get that day. The way it looked and felt
indicated it had been left in the fridge for two days at least. I knew it was a
pie stuffed with ‘mortadella’ when I smelled it. I took it and put it on the
second concrete seat right next to me. I did not feel hungry at all. There
were two mote reasons why I refused to eat it. First, ’m vegetarian, so I
don’t eat such food. Second, I was trying to avoid using that toilet at all
costs.
This cell was becoming bone-chilling and my body was worn out. I had
just been informed that my hearing was drawing closer. A female soldier

15
approached the door and demanded that I stick my hands out through the
small port from which I received my meal. My hands were shackled. She
opened the door and directed me to stand opposite the wall. Now that I
was facing the wall, she shackled my ankles. A male soldier joined in and
they both escorted me along that seemingly endless hallway to the
courtroom.
Red-painted, narrow stairs; there was barely any room for the soles of |
my shackled feet. There were ten of them at least and they led to a wooden
door. I had to walk down those staits while leg-cuffed. The design and the
colour choice suggested that psychology of torture was deployed to make
it more difficult for detainees and weaken them mentally.
We stood by the door for a few moments. She unshackled my wrists
again. While the female soldiet’s colleague rushed into the room to inspect
it and ensure the absence of any suspicious or forbidden things, she
remained there with me. I entered a wooden cage and I started exploring
the place. Around me, there were wooden seats intended for those in
attendance. Right before my eyes, I saw a glass wall through which I could
see the sky. I stood opposite the bench, which was an elevated desk area,
placed higher than the rest of the seats. The judge was sitting there and
another employee was sitting on another right below it. I looked around
trying to find my parents. No one.
After a few minutes, my lawyer came in, shook my hand and sat on his
designated seat. A policeman in blue uniform sat beside him as he
represented the Public Prosecution. It didn’t take too long. My detention
would be extended for two more weeks until the investigation was
complete. The lawyer had to approve. Wasn’t that his intended role? I
wasn’t surprised that he did; I saw that coming after all I had gone through
so far.
The view of the sky outside the window was enchanting. I longed for
natural pure colours which would provide me with the ‘resilience opium’ I
needed over the days ahead. I looked out of that wide window and briefly
enjoyed watching the colours of the sunset in the sky right before they let
me out of that hall. Wrists shackled. Back to the same cell.

16
 CHAPTER 6

It was 8pm. Time dragged so slowly in this cell that I couldn’t tell if it passed
at all. If not for my watch, I’d have completely lost track. I couldn’t tell the
difference between day and night; it was all the same to me. My watch was
the only truthful thing here.
Clanging chains, door knocks, exchanged curses among the Nahshon
Unit? members themselves on the one hand or the detainees, on the other,
and growing, expanding and immeasurable pains triggered all that was
buried deep inside of me. Patience. It was my last resort. Hands out
through the tiny cuff-ports, handcuffed, door was open, repeat. An endless
cycle. And now, the female recruit held my handcuffs and pulled me along,
so I asked her: “Now what?” She teplied: “Inspection then Kishon4
(al-Jalameh prison centte).”

She moved me from one room to another. The first room had a table and
two chairs intended for meetings between the accused and their lawyer,
while the other was for inspection. Inside I went. The female soldier asked
me to put my hands up and passed the body scanner over the lower part
of my body. Then she un-cuffed me and demanded that I remove my
accessories and put them on the table, and so I did. Taking my grandma’s
ting off my finger was tough. We had never been apart, not for a passing
second. The moment I had to pull it, to remove it, felt as though my soul
had been pulled out of me. I kept my watch, though, as I was familiar with
the rights of detainees and prisoners after following up on some political
ptisoners’ cases. First she asked me to take it off, but I told her that I had
the right to keep it. “Okay, you can keep it,” she said.
She put on some plastic gloves, and once again she used the scanner but
this time it touched every part of my body multiple times. She demanded
that I take off my shoes and put them aside, on a table. She inserted the
scanner into my shoes, took off the laces and got rid of them. “Extend
both arms out straight to your sides,” she ordered. Up and down my arms
she passed that detection wand. The device was passed between my legs at
an obtuse angle, over my neck, tummy, my chest, my inner and outer

vi
thighs. The wand did not seem to be enough for het, she had her hands on
me. She demanded that I take off my hijab, undo my braid, take my hair tie
off and wear my hair down, open my mouth and stick my tongue out and
let it move in all directions; move my head. When I lifted my head up, she
examined my nose. Closet. Touching my ears, sticking her finger into them.
My body felt like a maze, from an entrance to a goal, without diversion,
and she had to go through every point. She.saw nothing but my body. The
soles of my feet moved up towards her to spare her the trouble of bending
down; she inspected them. Her hands were moving closer to me and she
placed them on me. I felt suffocated, and I couldn’t stand it, so I backed
away a little. I tried my best to control my body’s reactions; I tried not to
resist or to push her hands off of me. I didn’t want to be accused of hitting
her or getting in the way of her duties. But all this had brought on traumatic
flashbacks from childhood. I backed away until I hit the room’s wall. Fate.
History was repeating itself, but the details were different. I wanted to let
it all out and tell her how that made me feel. Instead, I couldn’t utter a
word. Speechless. A second later, she demanded I take off my clothes. I
refused but she insisted and said she had to do it; those were the rules. She
said she couldn’t break the rules and I had to obey whatever she asked of
me. “If you don’t take off your clothes by consent, I will do that for you
by force and against your will,” she said.
My soul sank in the pool of my broken dignity. My thoughts froze.
Thinking was futile now. I'd entered a nightmare, hoping to see the light at
the end of the tunnel while stuck in the darkness of the unknown. I couldn’t
even recall how I carried out her command. I took off one clothing item at
a time until I had nothing left on my body. Strip-searched. All I remember
was entering a maze of disorientation, noise and emotional chaos. I was
struck by an awareness of living in times of violence, power and
inhumanity; a time in which I was born to fight against wars and invasions;
a time when nobody’s cries would be heard, nobody would empathise with
the misery of another. This was the world of the ‘’ and mere selfishness.
This pain crushed everything within me, and all that was left were the
killing screams of silence, and a smile that I had just started to seatch for
in this new reality; a reality invaded by hyenas and feral dogs to tear down
human dignity. I had decided to be steadfast despite everything I had been

18
 through. Maybe, just maybe I would find a miracle soon among these
nightmares.
When she finally finished offensively touching my body and toying with
my emotions, she demanded that I put my clothes back on and get myself
together so she could re-cuff my hands and ankles. Then she opened the
door and asked someone to fetch a deposit bag. One soldier joined in as
witness of her act. She took a picture of my belongings with her phone
while he wrote down a list of the items: a gold ring, a silver ring, a gold
necklace with a heart-shaped pendant, a key, an elephant and a bird
pendant. All of a sudden, he was tongue-tied, confusion all over his face.
He stopped writing, abruptly. He didn’t know what he should say or write
down when he saw the map of Palestine pendant or that of Handhala (the
symbol of Palestinian resistance). He said: “A chain with a map which ’m
not familiar with. It’s similar to the map of Israel but coloured red, green
and white. And some male figure pendant.”
I belly-laughed; it was the first time I’d laughed since my arrest; I was
ecstatic. Envelope closed. I signed it then we left.
I went with her and walked through three electric gates before coming
to an area where there were three white vehicles with ‘Prison Service’ on
them in blue bold font. These vehicles were intended for transferring
detainees from courts to prisons and vice- versa. For Palestinian detainees,
it was known as the ‘bosta’. A newly-manufactured Mercedes-Benz, it was
clean and nice-looking from the outside at least. The back doors were
~ opened and a Nahshon Unit soldier climbed in to check the seats. After he
got out he ordered me in. I was told to sit silently.
Once I boarded the vehicle he slammed the door shut and locked it.
Pitch black. I was in a metal cage with a 90cm wide metal seat covered with
tough stiff leather; it was as long as any typical rear bench seat and as high
as a typical car seat’s distance from its ceiling. The fact that I couldn’t see
anything round me heightened three of my other senses. A rediscovery of
the effectiveness of my smell, hearing and touch.
A vehicle divided into five sections: three cages, a compartment for
soldiers in the back seat and a driver’s compartment in the front seat. If I’d
seen it beforehand, I wouldn’t have guessed it was meant for human
transfer.

19
 The vehicle started off while I was in the cage. It was very similar to
those cruel cages in which where animals were kept. It would be better to
describe it as a moving tomb which had a small, chain-linked, metal
window which couldn’t be opened at the top, and it had very tiny holes.
Ice-cold ait was coming from the AC vents which couldn’t be closed or
redirected. I swung about. The direction of my swings matched those of
the car. I couldn’t stand still; my wrists and ankles were cuffed. The most
agonising part was when the driver hits the brakes; my body pushed against
the walls of this cage. When the dtiver mad a sharp turn, I either swing to
that direction or fell down. With every toad bump my body bounced, and
I felt as if my bones were falling apart.
I was anguished, but I tried to alleviate some of this agony by knocking
on the door using my cuffs and asking for the AC to be turned off, at least.
They turned a deaf ear. Most of what I did in that tomb was tty to clutch
onto the seat or wait for a beam of streetlights to shine through the window
so I could keep track of time.
It took five hours to get to al-Jalameh prison centre, although a trip from
the courthouse in Nazareth to the prison centre should only take thirty-
forty minutes. The vehicle made several stops during this arduous journey
to drop off some detainees at detention centres. At each stop, the soldiers
of the Nahshon Unit would rest, and the screams of detainees would rise
from the vehicle opposite the one in which I was caged. Sometimes, they
would ask to go to the bathroom, and other times they would bang the cage
doors with their cuffs so that the vehicle started to jiggle and might flip
over. Vain attempts. The soldiers would be drinking coffee, eating and
giggling. They would go to the bathroom and smoke their cigarettes in their
own time. And all we got was their silence. They didn’t consider us as
humans; we deserved nothing but to wait in silence for them.

20
 CHAPTER 7

These heart-wrenching and shocking incidents were not the first and
certainly wouldn’t be the last. My heart aches for human injustice; its
pounding filled with such sadness and moaning that the sounds penetrate
my eats. How could a human be so unjust to other human beings? I did
not yet know what lay ahead for me. It was 1am, the vehicle was moving
fast, yet it slowed down unexpectedly. It went over speed bumps and
stopped once. The soldiers got out after banging on the doors. I breathed
a sigh of relief when I heard them say al-Jalameh Prison Centre. Ironic.
Arriving at the prison excited me simply because the bosta suffering was
finally over.
Cage doors opened at last. I filled my lungs with fresh air and lifted my
head up with wonder to the starry sky. I smiled and at the sight of the sky,
I awaited breezes of hope despite the harshness of life. I plodded, my steps
were heavy. I was drained. And as I plodded, all of these unbearable
incidents, as dust, piled up in my mind. In spite of this pain, I had a strong
comforting feeling deep down which reassured me that life would
eventually shine through the cracks of my brokenness, a special
unprecedented light that I would still find, even if I had no reason to smile.
I found myself marvelling at my ability to smile amidst the severity of
circumstances.
Escorted by four soldiers, including one female, I went inside the prison
through a huge metal gate. She had taken on the task of holding and pulling
me towards the building. We stood in a big metal cage and waited for the
duty officer to receive the new arrivals, like me. A few minutes later, one
officer arrived, received my papers and ordered me to accompany him to a
side room to take booking photographs (mugshots) and register me in the
‘prisoner’ file. It wasn’t more than a reception room for detainees and
prisoners, yet it was divided into cages. The big cage was where detainees
were held until the end of the registration process while the second cage
was intended for the waiting Nahshon Unit forces. Added to this, there
was a small registration room and a photo booth for detainees. The two
cages wete separated by a large gate for post-registration processes. They

21
demanded that I stand at the entrance of the photography room, look into
the camera, a small webcam, ordinary and old. They photographed my face
and entered my data. From that moment on, I had a number. I became a
political prisoner holding number 9022438.
Paperwork was completed. The papers and photos were printed out and
I walked along with the same female soldier along the prison hallways. We
entered the doctor’s room for a quick check-up after which he recorded
some data, such as my height and weight, in my new file. And then I entered
watd 8, which was for women; the watden teceived my papers and
confirmed my identity. In a small corner, she un-cuffed me. Door closed.
She strip-searched me despite my efforts to explain to her that a colleague
of hers had just finished searching me. Another vain attempt. They came
up with such ways to humiliate human beings! She followed through with
the strip-searching in the same manner, which aroused the same difficult
emotions in me as before. She opened the giant blue door. I entered the
cell and my eyes wandered around that new place to explore it. I entered
the cell; foul odour emanated from those walls. My eyes went on a journey
to inspect this new place.
It was a tiny, narrow square-shaped cell which contained six beige-
painted metal two-tier bunk beds. On each bed, there was a dark brown
mattress; most of the mattresses were worn out with light green stuffing
poking through. The mattresses were covered with gtey blankets which
were rough to the touch.
Exhausted, I sat on one of the beds and I could feel its springs. I looked
up and I saw several surveillance cameras hung on all four corners. I was
almost suffocated by foul-smelling odours of smoke as well as the musty
smell coming from the toilet which was only separated from the cell by an
aluminum half-height door. The toilet was uncovered and there was no
sign of cleanliness or hygiene. To top it off, there was no window or even
a small hole that would allow some fresh air in.
It was late at night and I couldn’t stand staying in that place any longer
while it stank, so I called the warden to explain. At first she refused to listen
to my complaints. I bet on my persistence. After a conversation which
lasted for a few minutes, she told me she would do her best. She also told
me that she would give me cleaning supplies and equipment, only I would

22
have to clean the cell myself. Even though I was physically drained, I didn’t
reject her idea; on the contrary, Iwelcomed it as I would be the one sleeping
in that cell. I could adapt to almost any condition except filth and bad
smells, so I reckoned it would be one of the best solutions to help me cope
with what lay ahead.
The warden entered with all the cleaning supplies I needed. I cleaned
the cell thoroughly and let it soak in soapy water for over half an hour; I
was trying to get rid of that smell. Luckily, it worked. The warden then
returned to the cell and took all the equipment back. She handed a towel
to me, small shampoo bags, toothpaste and a handle-less toothbrush,
which was barely the length of a finger. The way that toothbrush looked
made me laugh again.
After those tasks, I could at least go to the bathroom while feeling safer.
I felt a little relieved, especially after Wudu (partial ablution) and
performing my prayers. I desperately needed to pray. Even though only
one day had passed without my performing prayers, it felt as though it had
been ages. I had always considered prayers as a haven of peace and quiet.
The moments spent performing prayers had always been exceptional; I
lived them in solitude, with myself and God practising my faith the way I
loved. I had to make up for the prayers I had missed during that long, tough
day, the five of them. I began searching for a clean surface that would
replace my prayer mat, yet I couldn’t find a thing. Everything there was
hopelessly filthy. I decided, then, to pray without one as I had just cleaned
the floor by my own hands. I tried to work out the direction of the qiblah
(the Kaaba in Mecca). It was impossible. The pitch-black cell would never
let me find the gibla direction or any other. I followed my heart and prayed
to God that my prayers would be accepted under such circumstances.
At first — and with the lack of normal sleep essentials including having a
clean bed, pillow and blanket — I couldn’t sleep. I decided to try, so I chose
the best and the cleanest mattress available. Then I pushed the grey
blankets off me; they were disgusting. I folded the towel multiple times and
used it as a pillow. I put it underneath my head — and started to have
flashbacks.
It was the end of 2014 when I started writing about my childhood
trauma, and through that I was able to break the silence that had

23
accompanied me throughout that period of time. I wrote poetry. Still, that
was not enough to fulfill my need and desire to express my pain, so I wrote
a short story in which I recounted the first time I was physically and
sexually assaulted, harassed and abused as a child. I spread the word on
social media and in print media. Many people showed interest and started
shating and reposting my story until it was all before the criminal’s very
eyes, my cousin. He started his fight against me by all kinds of ways; he
even incited my siblings and parents against me. One of my siblings beat
me up and pressured me to delete what I had posted on my online
accounts. Despite all of the pressure and the increasing agony, I stood
against everyone. I did not take down my story. Rather, I would repost it
every now and then. I also posted more poems which dealt with the same
issue.
On the night of my arrest, I heard that person shouting, cursing,
sweating and threatening revenge on me. He was there, right in front of
my window. He also told me that I would regret the day I wrote that story
and those poems. It’s true that I shut the window and I didn’t pay any
attention to his shouts, but now I was in prison. Did he act on his threats?
It seemed to me that he actually did and that he was the one who told on
me to the police so he could do away with my writing which threatened his
reputation as well as his position.
With all of these bitter memories, I was able to connect the dots and
come to the realisation that what had been happening was not simply a
number of random coincidences. I was almost certain that my cousin had
played a pivotal role in my arrest. Emotionally and physically drained, I
can’t remember how I managed to calm my racing thoughts and get my
mind off them. How did I sleep in this weird cell and this dark prison?
Lights on, suddenly. I woke up to the sound of my door being unlocked
and the warden’s voice addressing me: “Count Time, wake up, morning
count!”
I opened my eyes and looked at my watch; it was around 5am. I sat on
the bed waiting in order to figure out what was meant by ‘count’. The door
was opened and four guards (detention officers) looked around the cell.
One of them then said: “Why are you sitting down? Stand up for the
count.” I laughed. “How am I supposed to know that Imust stand up? I’m

24
new here. I’m not familiar with the rules. This is my first time in prison,” I
replied, expressing my astonishment. And so he explained to me that I had
to get up and get out of bed. He added that after my name was said, I would
have to say “yes” and wait until the count was over, and only then could I
sit down. I would face a disciplinary action if I didn’t stand up. That was
all. I found the process was funny, especially as it was being conducted.
Standing up for the count? These were merely manifestations of
humiliation. I stood up and I abided by their orders as well as the rules
imposed on me.
To a very great degree, prison rules and prisoners’ rights were talked
about, but that was mere ink on paper. The prison was a whole different
world with countless unspoken rules, lacking justice and humanity. I seized
the opportunity of waking up early to perform my Fajr prayers (the first of
the five daily prayers performed by Muslims at dawn). The exhaustion I felt
was agonising. I tried to go back to sleep, but all the noise around me got
in the way: screams of women in the neighbouring cell for the sake of
acquiting some cigarettes; prisoners calling for the warden; doors banging;
chains rattling and dogs barking. Noise. I buried my face in my hands and
began to think about my destiny. I contemplated everything; I had many
questions but no answers.
Time flew. It was 7am, the warden was calling out my name. It wasn’t
the voice of the warden I met on my first night here in prison; shifts were
rotated, apparently. My breakfast consisted of two slices of toast, a small
yogutt cup, a small peach jam container and half a cucumber placed in a
plastic plate. She then asked me if I wanted a cup of tea; I declined and
thanked her. Then I politely requested a bottle of cold water instead.
A few minutes passed before she brought me that water. Again, I didn’t
hesitate to thank her. She was a human, just like I was, and deserved
respect. It was true that her job as a warden didn’t accord with my
principles or way of thinking, but how would I not show her respect when
I was the one who once wrote “your personality is what makes others,
including your enemies, respect you” in one of my articles?
I sat on the bed and ate my breakfast quietly, carefully and
contemplatively. I was alone in this prison cell and I couldn’t do anything
but examine its tiniest details. I had to wander off from this tight spot with

25
my shadow to peek into myself and become nothing more than a shadow
of a picture that had unintentionally fallen from its frame, a painter’s
surrealistic painting where meanings of disappointment are carved and
mastered.
I looked around me. Countless words coveted the walls. They were
fascinating enough for me to examine: a variety of phrases written in
Arabic, Hebrew and English, names of people who had passed by, heart
drawings, Cupid’s arrow, initials, prayers and swear words. As I was
reading, a strong wave of mixed emotions hit me; some made me laugh
while others made me cry. I empathised with each one of them and I
wished that I had my camera so I could capture that unique work of art. I
had the urge to write; I was desperate for a pen.
I asked for a pen and a piece of paper but the warden rejected my
request. When I asked why, she had one excuse: the rules. I asked her about
the wall writings and where they came from, and she looked shocked and
surprised. A moment of silence. She repeated the same answer: the rules.
She added that it was forbidden to provide detainees with pens. “Especially
you,” she said before opting out of our discussion. She left me with
unanswered questions. I went back to bed. I was furious; her silly answer
and use of the rules as an excuse made my blood boil. At the same time, I
embraced my anger and controlled it. I realised that I had a different kind
of triumph, there and-then; I was able to manage my anger. My smile came
back and I felt ecstatic. The warden’s withdrawal was yet another triumph
in the face of this prison system.
The rituals of the count were performed three times throughout the day,
making them four as the clock struck 4am. Within a day, I also became
acquainted with the method the Israel Prison Service employed to inspect
a prison cell; it took place three times a day. Here’s how it went. Three ot
four policemen carrying a backpack and a chest pack entered the cell. One
of them held a wooden mallet which he used to bang on the beds, the
already shut bathroom window, particular sides of the prison walls and
various areas of the tile flooring.
As for lunch, I had one mandarin orange, burnt fusilli pasta, a little rice
which had nothing to do with the traditional rice I was familiar with, one
small bell pepper and two slices of toast. I had to try the food but I could

26
not really eat it; it was nasty and too dry to swallow. I only ate the mandarin
and the bell pepper. The day was almost over. Thinking, reading wall
writings, performing my prayers, listening to the prisoners in other cells
calling for the warden; those were the things I managed to do today. Night
fell. Noise filled the department. I overheard two wardens talking and I
understood that there were many prisoners, especially women and minors;
there were thirty of them up until that point.
Before long, the cell door was opened; five women entered, two of
whom were Jewish whereas the rest were Arabs. The two Jewish women
were in their forties. Within fifteen minutes, one of them addressed me
directly: “I heard that you wanted to kill the Jews, is that true?” Her words
tore me up inside, but I managed to let go of my anger and pain. “Had I
been that kind of person, they wouldn't have let you share the cell with me
or even sleep here, right?” I replied gently.
She was amazed at my answer as much as I was amazed at the words
that came out of her mouth; I never thought that my case was the central
topic of discussion between wardens and prisoners, and that it was their
way to make me sound intimidating at the same time. She didn’t respond
and I thought that I'd rather stay silent, too. Each one of them chose her
own bed.
As for the three Arab girls, they were somewhere around 19 and 20 years
old. They seemed extremely worried; their eyes were ted and puffy from
crying. I felt instantly that I was responsible for them, yet I made sure |
took a cautious approach.
I started a discussion with them and I learned that they were arrested
because they were in an area near the protest which was organized in
Nazareth. I also learned that they were accused of throwing stones at the
police or so-called “disturbance of public order and assault of police
officers.”
At the time, the atmosphere was tense: numerous protests were
organized in many Arab regions because of Israeli soldiers’ and police
officers' deliberate killing of Palestinians, and the closure of al-Aqsa
Mosque as well as banning worshipers from entering it to perform their
prayers. Hence the demands for the rights of Muslims to enjoy freedom of
worship and perform their prayers.

27
 One of the girls was dressed up and was wearing high heels; she was also
wearing make-up. It was obvious that she had nothing to do with protests
ot politics whatsoever; that became evident during our conversation too.
She just had a date with her fiancé at one of the restaurants close to the
protesters’ meeting point. When the police began throwing stun grenades
towards the protesters, she ran away, but they arrested het.
As for the other two girls, they were best friends. One of them visited
the other at her house which was down the street from a meeting point of
protesters. Out of curiosity, they left the house and stood in front of it. As
the stun grenades were thrown, they ran off and went back inside. Police
officers manoeuvred and arrested them.
That wasn't surprising. Just being present in the protest area could lead
to an arrest; this is what police officers did, whether that person was taking
part in the protests or not. Coincidences, in that scenario, were out of the
question; they were never acknowledged. Such coincidences would be used
as a convincing excuse for police to make arbitrary arrests. The stories of
these girls made that obvious. And now I could see why there were so many
new arrivals in the prison that night.
I didn't give up trying to get a pen and some papers for writing, yet they
didn’t change their mind. I was deprived of the things I considered dearest
to my heart. Time and again, I would ask. The only excuse I heard was “the
rules.” I was not exactly sure of the nature of those rules. What kind of
rules would forbid a human being from holding a pen to write? Where did
the problem lie in the first place?
I couldn’t just sit back and watch the Arab girls in that state; I couldn’t
stay silent or neutral. My sense of responsibility for them increased. It was
a chance for me to turn my helplessness and uselessness into an act of
service. Although it appeared to me that my legal case was far worse than
theirs, I somehow managed to alleviate their worry and explain to them
some of the aspects of the law I knew about. I convinced them their stay
wouldn’t exceed two or three days. Every now and then, I would make the
atmosphere of the prison more fun. Laughter replaced that sadness.
I cracked a joke to make them laugh; Ihugged them for a few moments;
I caressed theit hair to make them feel safe in this harsh place. Perhaps 1
would be able to keep them from despair. Having them around made me

28
realise what true sacrifice was. All I sought was to comfort them, which
was a great help in showing myself more self-respect.
Dinner arrived. It was similar to what I had for breakfast: yogurt and
bread. On the one hand, yogurt was served quite often in prison as it can
promote sleep. Serving the same meal on a daily basis, on the other hand,
seemed to be part of the punishment. It was a policy to sap the prisoners’
and detainees’ stamina.
I wasn’t annoyed with the two Jewish women’s constant shouting or
their calling out to the warden for cigarettes, even late at night, as much as
I was with their smoking in the prison cell which had no vents to filter this
foul air. The rest of us weren’t smokers. The smoke I drew into my lungs
would cause me violent coughing fits. Despite protesting against smoking
inside the cell and complaining about that to the warden and the police
officer during cell inspection, and despite explaining to them about my
coughing fits, it was all still ineffective. They told me there was no solution
to that problem for the time being, so I suggested separating smokers from
non-smokers. Turned down. The administration justified their response by
telling me that I had no right to discuss such issues since I was nothing but
a detainee there. Clearly, health had no value in that prison.
The two women cried out provocatively and ceaselessly for cigarettes.
They didn’t consider the fact that those cries might disturb us. I wanted to
talk to them about it, but on second thought I decided to seize the best
opportunity to get my point across indirectly; they might find it more
convincing. So I didn’t discuss it with those two women as I didn’t want
them to get me wrong amidst of that tense atmosphere. Bearing in mind
what they’d heard about me from the wardens, I made sure that I created
an atmosphere of mutual respect. I firmly believed they also had the right
to smoke; they weten’t to blame for the administration’s decision to allow
smoking in windowless cells.
They were talking to each other in Hebrew, which I was fairly good at.
On other occasions they would exchange some Russian words, which made
absolutely no sense to me. I learned that the first woman was accused of
drug dealing while the second, robbery. They belonged to a whole different
world from the one in which I lived; our principles were poles apart.
Helpless. I was destined to wake up, sleep, eat and drink with those people

29
who I would classify as a pathetic state of human beings. All I could do
was adapt to this situation.
I never desired to be an eavesdropper, yet | had no other choice since
the cell was narrow and the beds were closely spaced as well. I had to accept
it; listening to the other women’s whispers was part of it by default. In a
prisonet’s dictionary there was no such word as privacy; it simply didn’t
exist even in the tiniest daily life routines including using the toilet with its
half-height door.
Since privacy constituted a significant part in my lifestyle, I began to
think of some ways to reclaim a sense of it. I would listen to every
conversation they held and vice versa; they were able to listen to the
discussions among the four of us, the Arab detainees. There was only one
difference; I was good at Hebrew and I comprehended it quite well. In
other words, I understood everything they talked about while they didn’t
understand a word of what we said. I felt a pang of annoyance at the
thought of it. Violating their privacy felt as if I had been crossing the line
despite the fact that I had no choice in that matter.
Although I myself was a relatively new arrival, I somehow figured that I
had to do something to ease my consciousness. It could be my attempt at
seeking a new culture among the prisoners in this cell. Iwas straightforward
and I told them the truth; I told them that I overheard them whenever they
talked. I also told them that I could understand the Hebrew language well.
I then suggested that they use Russian if they didn't want me to understand
what they were talking about, so they could have some privacy. I humbly
and respectfully apologised for invading their privacy. I clarified my stance
on the topic. Our first conversation happened.
This unexpected conversation struck them with wonder; I was also
astounded with myself, my confidence and boldness. A smile spread over
their faces which in turn boosted my confidence. I was more relieved and
reassured too. Only then did I realise that they got the point.
Prison cells would be unfit for animals, let alone humans. Even farmers
took very good care of their livestock; they respected them and kept them
in a clean place. The prison’s administration, however, didn’t take the
humanity of its inmates into consideration: no ventilation, no food, no

30
 health care or cleanliness. Fundamental human needs did not seem to exist
in that place.
In the morning of the second day of my arrest, I bid the Arab girls
farewell and wished them luck in their hearings. Over and over again, the
— hours passed; the same incidents were repeated and my cough got worse.
Count, inspection, count, inspection, breakfast, lunch, dinner, non-stop
smoking inside the cell, unbearable noise from the outside, knocks on
doors and the rattling of chains penetrating my ears all day and all night
long.
I remained with the two Jewish women. During daytime hours, they
were allowed to go out to the yard, while I had not seen the light even once
since I first set foot in that cell. I asked the warden about the yard time I
was allocated; all I got in return was the bang of the cell door in my face.
They could leave the cell several times each day. I was denied that right.
Evidently, I was not treated the way others were in that place.
I was still with the two Jewish women, lighting up their cigarettes
through the chain-link-fenced window of the door using the warden’s
lighter, though now they stood by the door and puffed the smoke towards
the door holes. I appreciated their gesture and thanked them for that. One
of them told me: “Your positive attitude leaves people with no choice but
to show you respect,” while the other said: “This is the only solution we
have for smoking.” On hearing these words and that huge achievement of
mine, we exchanged smiles and started discussing different subjects.
Respect is never imposed. Respect is an ever-present and fundamental
principle of a person’s life; it is acquired through social upbringing in the
culture they belong to. ‘Humanity for all’ defines my cultural identity.
Entering and leaving, I watched the comings and goings of many
detainees and prisoners from my bed. Different classes, nationalities,
communities, cultures and crimes. Prisoners and detainees left for court in
the morning; some were released while others were convicted and
sentenced. The files of the latter were then transmitted to one of the official
ptisons, yet others returned to this prison until the investigation was
completed. I lived with these recurrent happenings day and night.
Every day, numerous incidents materialised right before my eyes in this
“prison. I had seen the unthinkable: all types of people, nationalities and

31
cultures. In spite of this, I trained myself to simply observe from a distance
without getting involved in any of it. I decided not to talk to anyone during
that period. It must have been a bad case of carelessness and indifference.
Observing in silence, thinking and talking to myself about what I saw was
enough.
One question lingered in my mind ‘What did I know about lay people
before I ended up here?’ the drunk, thieves, beggars, gamblers, addicts, the
un-consoled? In this place, these were the ones who suffered from injustice
and despair the most. Was it possible for me to love all of God’s creatures?
This was the hardest test ’'d ever gone through; I wouldn’t pass it, no
matter how much I tried.
I asked for extra clothing items because I had been wearing the same
ones since I was attested. Rejected. They brought me one item of
underwear only. I washed my clothes and put them back on while they were
still dripping wet, again and again. One of the Jewish women prisoners,
who had been arrested on criminal grounds and with whom I shared that
cell, remarked: “You are not turning this cell into a mosque!” when I started
performing my prayers. I didn't pay any attention to her comment; I
dismissed it and resumed praying.
Her attempt to steal my watch while I was asleep was the last incident I
could recall. That was a funny yet worrying situation. Although I laughed a
lot at it, I gave up the idea of sleeping, especially late at night.
Generally speaking, al-Jalameh prison centre was.a miniature of the
environment of every criminal prison in this country. I have seen with my
own eyes how drug dealing is spreading among detainees and how drugs
are smuggled into prison. I witnessed the ways in which cigarettes were
smuggled despite inspection. I have learned about some ways to deceive
and outwit the wardens. I have experienced fights and sharp conflicts all
day long, the cries of addicts as well as the misery of those who suffered
from mental health problems. The justice system itself is yet another
unspeakable tragedy, as it is completely out of the picture.
Every now and then, the female and male wardens would force the
inmates to scrub the floors of the ward as well as those of the empty cells.
They would show up, out of the blue, and announce it was cleaning time.

SP.
Iwas not one of them. It could be because they deemed me dangerous and
threatening. For me, that was a plus; I loved it.
I had never been so disappointed. The time I spent in that prison made
me realise that it was far from the age-old prison philosophy, and that the
mental health of the prisoners as well as their rehabilitation did not exist.
All the theories about prison life failed me in no time. I even started
wondering about the origins of the creator of the idea of imprisonment,
and I wondered who the first one to put that idea into practice was. Now
that I saw it for what it was, I realised that prison was a form of slavery,
the blunt authority of those who worshiped power. Crime rates increased
in communities and so did building prisons, so what was the point? The
theory was dismissed outright. I wished there could be some prison reform
to make a difference in the world of crime and punishment.

30
 CHAPTER 8

It was 2am, I was sitting on my bed in the cell. Here I was with prisoners
accused of criminal acts. They were sound asleep. The warden peeked
through the door and, unexpectedly, she called out my name. She told me
I would be transferred from this cell. Iwas thunderstruck and worried: this
was a sudden transfer.
“Now? At this hour?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied and opened the door right away. She let me out,
searched and handcuffed me. She pulled me along behind her.
“Where tor” I asked.
“Solitary confinement,” she said.
“But why?” I asked.
“T have been ordered to do so,” she said, “from now on you'll be
identified as a ‘security prisoner’> and you must live under different
circumstances.”
The moment the word ‘security’ came out of her mouth, I began to feel
that my real experience in prison was about to start and all the anguish I
had been through was nothing but a joke.
Down a long hallway we went, further and further away from that ward’s
cells as I walked with her until we arrived at an isolated cell. It looked
different. Unlike the rest of the cells which had blue doors, the new one
had a grey one. It was far removed from the cell where I used to stay.
The warden opened the door and I stepped into my new shell. She was
about to close the door when I asked her to provide me with cleaning
supplies. “There aren’t any cleaning supplies,” she answered.
It was a cell just like any other yet with harsher conditions. At 3x3, it
was much smaller than the rest. It had two beds, grey, smelly and dirty walls
and an unscreened door-less toilet. It was extremely humid and placed
under surveillance. Windowless. Dark. One dim ray of light could make it
into the cell.
I chose a bed and lay my head down on the mattress. I tried to get some
sleep; my sleep deprivation had led to accumulated tiredness. I hadn’t got

34
a moment of sleep since the theft attempt incident. I couldn’t sleep as my
sleepiness went with the wind in that new cell.
My days in that stone box dragged by and they felt like years. I would
call the warden but she didn’t respond; I wouldn’t even know whether she
heard me or not in the first place. Sometimes, I would have to push my
feet against the door for minutes before getting any response from the
watden. Even when she heard me and responded, she would delay my
requests, such as water or toilet paper until it was meal time. No matter
what happened, I got to see her three times a day only.
Even though I longed for some moments of peace and solitude, that
prison cell had a different type of silence to it. Gloomy grey walls. An
intrusion of cockroaches. I felt as if I was kept inside a horrifying stone
box. It was an enclosed gated world, far enough away from everything else
so that I couldn’t heat any noise outside, not even the cries of the prisoners.
Noise vanished. The only present sound was that of the leaking water
faucet. Drip drip drip. Day and night, it dripped ceaselessly, adding to my
stress. I couldn't stand it any more. I didn’t know whether that leaking
water faucet was placed intentionally, yet staying there under the weight of
that agitating sound was psychological torture.
I started my day with a dire breakfast and I ended it with the humiliating
count. Two times a day, three of the criminal-case prisoners showed up out
of nowhere and approached my cell door. They smoked, puffed the smoke
into the cell while cursing me provocatively and humilatingly. They left
once they’d stubbed out their cigarettes. Musty smell. Smoke smell. That
mixtute of smells which filled this windowless cell caused me persistent
coughing fits while the gnawing pain of ulcers worsened each day. The
result was that I now have persistent breathlessness and severe, recurring
headaches.
Little by little, I lost my dignity in that cell; I reached ultimate boredom,
frustration, despair and anger. Everything that surrounded me was about
to drive me crazy as I felt the emptiness of my existence and that my fall
and collapse were around the corner. I turned into a whole other person,
hallucinating and constantly talking to myself out loud. Sometimes I
shouted to ease my agitation about that leaking faucet. At other times, I
shouted to forget. I sang to forget about my illness and my cough. I danced

35
ot laughed loudly whenever those smokers came near my cell. They saw
how careless I was about what they did. I would hear them say “crazy, and
when I heard it I sang and danced mote. Strangely enough, I had not shed
a teat in spite of the pain which took over me whenever I was alone.
I could not endure that humiliation, emptiness and nothingness
anymore. My thoughts started pushing back that existence the prison
administration imposed on me. I started thinking back to the times when I
was free. I contrasted what I would have done at a similar moment had I
been free with what I experienced in that solitary cell.
I remembered how much I loved to walk, so I spent my day walking in i
the cell from the toilet area to the cell door, back and forth. I walked so as
not to surrender to the gtip of time or to fall apart in despair. I lived in a
world of make-believe pretending that the grey walls were the streets along
which I loved to walk in Nazareth until I arrived in the old traditional
market, i.e. the old souk. I walked back and forth for hours. The warden
would stand at the door and ask me: “What’s the matter with your” I would
say nothing and continued living in my own world of imagination in
Nazareth, so she would hurl the word “crazy” at me and leave.
On another day, I put my finger on the wall and started moving it slowly,
pretending to write. And then I started moving it faster and faster. I pressed
hard on the wall until I bled. I wrote on the wall with my blood. Every day
I would cut my finger on purpose so I could get some blood out to write
and express my anger. My writings made no sense; they were just words.
Still, |managed to break free from this place and reduce my stress by doing
so.
I also did yoga. I ran off towards my beautiful memories. Daydreaming
or living in an imaginary world was my only way to escape this reality and
beyond the boundaries of the grey cell.
In order to feel alive, my palms would caress every part of my body and
stroke my face to make up for all the longing and deprivation of a warm,
tender touch. I would tell myself: “I’m in prison for the sake of freedom,
yet I feel that freedom itself is imprisoned within me; it lives with and inside
of me.” Every time sadness, pain or distress got the best of me, I imagined
freedom as a woman standing before me. She looked like me. She was
wearing bright white clothes. She wanted us to stay together at all times. I

36
would start talking to her and then listen to her words directed to me: “You,
Dareen, are free.” I sang to her and to myself. I heard her response:
“Dareen, you are the voice of freedom. Can you hear the call of freedom?
You are the voice of freedom.” I talked to her so these draining emotions
shrunk while freedom grew bigger and bigger. I even saw my dead
grandma, and I felt as if she had been experiencing every moment I spent
in this prison with me; we talked the way we did before she passed. My
grandma, Khadija, was the woman who taught me all about politics. I
imagined her telling me the words which were left unsaid before her
passing. I heard her, speaking to me, calling me ‘rebellious,’ as she always
had. Her voice gave me with strength. In her tone, I could tell how proud
of my rebelliousness she was. I imagined I was in her house, the house I
had always loved and the only place where I would go to feel safe,
comfortable and secure. I brushed my hand against my finger and felt
deeply the loss of that ring she had asked me to give to the one who would
pteserve me and keep his love for me. Vividly, I recalled our last embrace
in the hospital after everyone had said that she passed. I sat close to her,
talked to her and asked her to talk back to me. I felt as if she had had
something to say, something to tell me. Khadija was that grandmother I
adored so much that I dedicated my first book to her.

37
 CHAPTER 9

They called out my name and told me they had come to take me away.
“Where to?” I asked. .
“Another interrogation,” they reply.
Searched and shackled, I was led into the moving tomb, the bosta
vehicle.
After a two-hour ride, they dropped me off and I walked with six
soldiers through a giant building with lots of hallways. I read the sign and
realised it was a psychiatric hospital. 1 asked why I was there, so one of the
soldiers replied: “Have you just learned of this? It is ordered you be
transferred to this hospital for a mental health assessment, to check
whether you can be brought before the judge in the court or not.”
I was taken aback by the soldier’s response. In those moments I
experienced a feelingIhad never expected before. I didn’t know who came
up with that heartless idea, yet I felt hatred towards whoever that person
was. Being labelled ‘unstable’ just to win the case when all I did was express
my emotions and opinion! “This is a silly idea; I completely reject it even if
that means spending the rest of my life in prison. I could never accept this,’
I thought to myself. That was one of the cruellest incidents ’d had ever
been through.
‘Yes, I do hit setbacks and this harsh reality makes me feel desperate,
because of childhood cruelty; it has scarred me for life and left me with a
post traumatic disorder, and I was not offered a real solution. I will not
accept this at all costs,’ I thought. I focused on the new interrogation which
would determine my future. That was my priority.
There were two interrogators in the room. One of them was sitting
across from me; he was at his desk and had a computer in front of him.
The second one sat on a side seat. The appearance of the room made me
realise that it wasn’t intended for police interrogation sessions, and that it
wasn’t well-equipped to serve that purpose either since it was outside both
the prison and the police station building. It seemed like a social worket’s
room; it looked nice, tidy, colourful and lively. It was a room which
stimulated optimism and hope, especially after being surrounded by the

38
blackness of al-Jalameh prison centre. A replica of The Starry Night
painting by Van Gogh was hung on the wall. I contemplated that painting
and the mastery of its rich blues. I also thought about the beauty of art, and
I started comparing the beauty and immortality radiating from the painting
and its blue colours with the blue colours which accompanied me in my
cell. Although they had the same shade of blue, they were drastically
different and contradictory. I imagined the developer of the self-
discrepancy theory, Edward Tory Higgins; had he been alive or had been
in my shoes, he would have enriched his theory with new details which
weren't written in his time.
The interrogator took out a camera from his bag to document the
interrogation. He turned it on and placed it on a shelf in front of me. Then
he took out his laptop. My journey with the colours was over; a new journey
of questioning was about to begin.
I asked for my lawyer before the interrogator started conducting the
questioning process. The interrogator did’t oppose the idea and called him
using his cell phone. He handed the phone to me and told me | could stand
at the room’s door and talk to my lawyer freely.
The lawyer repeated what he'd already told me during the previous
interrogation; he asked me to keep denying their accusations and say that
my Facebook account was hacked. “I’m in a psychiatric hospital,” I
responded. “I know,” he replied, coldly, so I asked him: “Whose idea was
that?” to which he replied: “Your dad’s, and I agreed with him.” I was
furious once I’d heard the truth and I told him: “TI do not approve of this.
This place and the label you are trying to attach to me do not fit me. I have
not done anything to be scared of. I will answer what I see fit and in a very
logical manner. That’s better than this total joke. I will answer depending
on what they present and I will clarify my perspective.”
The interrogation began. The interrogator showed me some pictures
and numerous documents ftom my Facebook home page. He finally
showed me what they had been accusing me of under the name of
incitement to violence and terrorism.
’ A picture of the young Nazareth woman Israa* al-Abed helped me avoid
further doubt and self-questioning; he showed me a picture that confirmed
the fact I posted it. I told him I couldn’t recall when or how I posted it yet

39
the document he showed me proved I posted it following the incident with
Istaa’ which deeply touched me: the deliberate shooting of her, identifying
with her story and showing that she was a victim, as I had become by
posting that picture.
He called her “subversive” and insisted she intended to commit a knife
crime. He repeated the word subversive enough times to make me say it
myself, unfortunately. All of my answers about that picture revolved
around the idea that I opposed those acts of violence. If she had really been
subversive
and wanted to stab someone, then I would’ve disapproved of
that. That didn’t reflect my way of thinking; it would be against my
principles. In that video, I saw a victim; she didn’t intend to harm anyone
and she didn’t pose any threat.
The second accusation was posting a black picture with a white
mourning corner ribbon and a sentence in the corner which read “I’m the
next martyr.” I explained to him that I used that picture for the first time
in June 2014 after the young Palestinian Khair Hamdan was shot by the
police and after the death of Mohammed Abu Khdeir in Jerusalem. I told
him that it was a picture that was used by hundreds of activists throughout
the country; it was a unified message and a means of condemning violence.
Each one of us might end up martyred, namely a victim, whether it was at
the hands of the police or the settlers.
What the interrogator showed me afterwards came as a complete
surprise. It was a poem I once wrote. The poem was titled ‘Resist, My
People, Resist Them’; it called for resistance to the occupation and putting
an end to the injustice practised against Palestinian people. The poem
talked about a number of martyrs which were the victims of the Zionist
terrorism and violence including the baby martyr Ali Dawabsheh and his
family, the child Mohammad Abu Khdeir, Hadeel al-Hashlamoun who was
martyred at the hands of some soldiers at a checkpoint simply because she
refused to remove her nigab (a piece of clothing which covers the face
except the eyes).
“Did you write the poem?” the interrogator asked. I was astonished, and
I was about to lose my mind after hearing his question. I rose. “So that's
what it's all about. My poem. Is that your problem? Why haven’t you made

40
that clear before?” I stormed. I didn’t think twice about it, and said ©
instantly: “Yes, it is my poem. I was the one who wrote it.”
I was very agitated when I realised I was accused because of my poem;
I couldn’t hold my nerve any more. I defended this poem, my platform as
a poet and my right to write in a democratic country. The interrogator
claimed it called for the spreading of violence and terrorism. He
bombarded me with questions: “In your poem, you are calling for
resistance. Resistance means violence! You want to resist the state? Do you
want to harm the Jews and the soldiers? Do you want to be a martyr? Do
you want to conduct a terrorist attack?” I rejected all those ugly accusations
against me. ‘No’ was my answer to all his questions.
From that moment on, I became a prisoner per se because I wrote that
poem and published it on social media platforms; that was the most
unexpected reason for my arrest, especially in the self-named only
democratic country in the Middle East. To be deprived of freedom is far
better than to be deprived of dignity, so after those accusations I decided
to make a new deal with myself and put the core of this case in its right
place. I was imprisoned and detained without a criminal charge. It was my
poem. And because of my political orientation and opinions which
opposed the Israeli occupation policy, I was imprisoned. I was imprisoned
for being a Palestinian Arab who decided to keep her identity and
nationality. I was imprisoned because I showed my support for my
Palestinian people and the Palestinian cause in my writings.
A five-hour war of attrition ensued, during which I was asked about
everything: my hobbies, religion, education, the party with which I
affiliated, my political inclinations and opinions, my laptop, my phone, the
gente of my poems, the poetry readings in which I participated, their
locations and times, their number and types as well as the photos I took
and.their type and the movies which I directed, filmed and produced. He
asked me about how I would identify myself. I told him that I was an Arab
Palestinian. He looked shocked, so he asked me again: “Wouldn't you
ptesent yourself as an Israeli?” I said “No.” He brought in some clips that
showed stabbing attacks. He made me watch them then asked me what I
thought of them and whether I was for or against such attacks. He asked:
“You belong to the Northern Branch of the Islamic Movement, don’t

4l
you?” to which I replied: “I support Balad and this time I voted for the
joint list,” so he said: “But, why ate wearing the hijab? Are you religious?”
I told him: “I pray five times a day and I fast during the entire month of
Ramadan. I don’t use the word ‘religious’; I am Muslim and I keep this
relationship between God and me.” I could no longer stand the questions
he posed, so I tried to explain to him that composing poetry was a form of
peaceful resistance.
I did my utmost to explain what my intentions were, and I tried to
explain the purposes of all of the documents they presented as evidence of
conviction. I wanted to clarify that their analysis of my poem.and the
pictures was just a non-existent misinterpretation and far removed from
the truth. There was some misinterpretation and miscalculation. I
suggested that I delete those posts if they claimed they were threatening
and simply end the discussion. I also suggested that they delete my
Facebook account and end the so-called threat. Vain attempts. I couldn’t
communicate my point. I felt as if I were a prisoner in their hands and that
all they were seeking was to pin it on me, frame me, making me a terrorist
in any way shape or form.
I often laughed at the silly questions I was asked, yet I wasn't completely
surprised. There was nothing stranger than the fact that I was just one of
those prisoners who were locked up for exercising freedom of speech and
expressing opinions. I was a prisoner and my main accusation was the
poem.

At the end of the questioning, the interrogator explained that my

childhood trauma case was not overlooked and it was still being processed;
a specialised investigator had taken on the case. The information, he
continued, would be checked and they would check with me, later, to take
my statement in order to carry out the investigation out and gather more
data so the police could do their job.
The interrogation was overt. The interrogator turned off the computer
along with the camera. He approached me. Chains back on. He said:
“Dareen, hear me out, I have read all the poems which you have written
and saved on your computer. I have also read the novel which you have
been working on, the one in which the story of your life unfolds. I have
also found many of your other poems online. You write beautifully. What’s

42
with the politics? Don’t waste your time on it. What a waste! Write about
love, peace, kisses, romance and feelings.” I answered: “I do write about
life, about reality, my experiences, what I see and how I feel. If I ever saw
your soldiers planting roses and flowers, I would write about that too.” He
remained silent.
They put me in one of the hospital’s units. I could see clearly where this
was leading: if I talked, I would be arrested; if I remained silent, I would
infuriate myself, I would die a thousand times while I was still alive because
of that torture, while being labelled as mentally-ill, with no control over my
actions. A deadly feeling. The question was: ‘Which death would be
harder?”
I remembered all those years I had to live while being silenced and
repressed. The meaning of my existence was killed. I decided not to go
back to that time no matter what; the death by imprisonment was
preferable to anything else. I turned into a lab mouse which had yet many
experiments to come; and my experiences always put my resistance to the
test. Prison was the ultimate price I would pay for the sake of moving
forward with that experience they forced on me. I decided to reject the
version of reality that others imposed on me, to fight for my stance and
face it bravely so I didn’t lose my self-respect, because if I ever did I would
never come to terms with myself again until my very last breath. That
would bebetter than living freely while being locked up in the prison of
self-alienation.
Once I arrived at the unit, the nurse put me in one of the rooms;
recorded my information and ran some tests. She asked me to take off my
hijab. I was astounded at her request and asked her to tell me why. “In this
place, everyone is equal. It isn’t permitted to show any form of religious
exptession through clothing,” she replied. She reiterated that those were
the rules which applied to all patients, with no exception, and they should
be respected. I made my response concise; I asked one question: “What is
the position within rules with regard to humans’ freedom of worship and
freedom of religion?” She became furious and didn’t answer my question;
she just said: “You’re here as a patient only. You have to follow the rules
without starting any discussions or asking any questions.” I didn't get into
that; it wasn’t because I was afraid. I was indifferent. What was the point

43
of starting a discussion with her, knowing well that it would lead to
nowhere? I wasn’t convinced by anything she said or her use of the rules
as an excuse. I took off my hijab and handed it over to her; I continued
filling in my information sheet and returned to the ward.
The unit was crowded with men and women who acted strangely. I was
terrified during the first few hours of my stay; I felt uncomfortable, as well.
The only thing I could do was withdraw into a corner and sit down;
whenever anyone approached me, I would choose a different seat away
from them. .
While I was sitting there thinking, one man’s voice was enough to stop
the voices in my head and that negative train of thought. He put out one
of his hands in which there was a Walkman, and he addressed me in
Hebrew saying: “Do you like music? There, enjoy listening to some music.”
I thanked him and I was really pleased with his offer, which I accepted
unhesitatingly. After hearing the first note, I was reminded how much I
loved music; it was as if Ihad been listening to it for the first time in my
life. For days, I only heard rattling chains, door knocks and door lock
sounds or profanities which kept echoing in my head. They didn’t leave my
head until those melodies enraptured me, and I swooned with joy at the
beauty of something again.
That incident was an enormous leap, from seeking to finding. It warned
me of the danger of falling into the trap of looking for answers to futile
questions. I decided not to allow my thoughts affect the way I perceived
people who were mentally ill, as a matter of principle. I would never push
them away or look down on them; each one of them must have gone
through some trauma or tragedy that led them here. If not for that, they
might have been artists, scientists or writers. After that incident, all my fears
vanished, and I decided to learn more about these people so I would have
learned many lessons by the time I left the place.
I used to read books on psychology and sociology, and I learned about
many aspects of these never-ending fields of study. Talking with this ward’s
inpatients brought to my mind one thing, though. It was one of William
Burroughs’ quotes: “A psychotic is (someone) who has just found out
what’s going on.” Those words touched me deeply, and I started to

44
appreciate that mentally-ill people were much more than the ‘crazy’ label
that society attached to them.
Certainly, this was not where I belonged. I would stay here for a few
days; this was the truth that no one could escape. Instead of just sitting
there crying over my bad luck, I would have to explore the strange and the
unfamiliar. I simply must make the best of this experience despite its cruelty
and hideousness; I sought nourishment not poison.
I was amazed at my ability to empathise and adapt. Besides, I was
astonished at my ability to overlook many things which seemed too
complicated to understand. I was surprised because I wasn’t the same
person I used to be. ’d changed and become a better version of myself. I
used to be too attached, and that attachment wasn’t a way of holding onto
my identity; rather, I used to be attached to what could have been one of
the root causes of my misery.
I let myself be, I went with the flow and I tried to reach safer and more
peaceful places. I met the doctor tasked with writing my case report to the
judge. I explained everything to him including the facts about why I was
there. I wanted to get my message across but not according to anyone else’s
version, whether it was my dad, my lawyer or whoever wanted to control
my fate in a way that didn’t correspond with the reality of my situation.
It hadn’t been long since I arrived at this psychiatric hospital, yet I had
met someone who dreamed about becoming a professional violin player;
someone who wanted to be a singer; someone who wanted to be a plastics
attist. Some dreamed of becoming teachers, engineers, and heads of
household or mothers. They talked about their dreams with great
enthusiasm and spontaneity. They looked fine, but suddenly they would
start behaving strangely, shouting and panicking. They would fall back into
the trap of their past traumas and live yet another shock caused by
techniques used by some doctors and nurses which, I believed, were
punitive and had nothing to do with treatment. One of the cruellest ones
was tying the patient down to a bed in an isolated, dark room followed by
parenteral nutrition or electroshock therapy.
I still recall the incident when a girl was transferred to the isolation room
where she was strapped down to bed for two days in a row after she opened
the bathroom water faucet; her bed and her room were drenched in water.

45
She wasn’t aware of what she was doing. The medical staff, which consisted
of five nurses, two females and three males, rushed into the room with an
otange wheelchair. Then they left the room and strapped that girl to the
wheelchair. Wide orange straps held her down in it. They all went inside,
but ten minutes later almost everyone left the room and locked it, leaving
that girl behind.
I could not resist my curiosity; I wanted to know what that room
contained and what happened to that girl. I walked towards the room.
Through a small clear glass door window, I saw her in a psychiatric restraint
bed. Hands and feet tied up. There was nothing in that room except the
tools required to carry out the so-called physical restraint. Dim light. The
room was under surveillance. Arms stretched out and legs spread open.
She was sleeping on her back. That was how she was strapped. A TPN
bag was hung there. I wished my curiosity hadn’t led me to witness that
harsh scene and see how cruel one human being could be to another; it was
a movie-like scene taking place before my eyes. Was this the era which the
following quotation described? “We live in times when you tell the stone
to turn into a human being, and it apologises saying ‘’m not rough
enough’.”
I could not find any excuse for the so-called ‘angels of mercy’ after
watching them apply that method of torture to mentally-ill people,
regardless of the medical law which allowed such a punishment. I could
not call it ‘treatment,’ as it was, from my perspective, devoid of humanity
and had nothing to do with mercy or treatment, let alone the miserable
state in which the patient was when she left the room after two days of
strapping and isolation. Worn-out body and a crushed, desperate soul. The
consequences of that experience were written all over her face. I could not
get the image of that crucified girl out of my mind. Wherever I turned, I
saw another manifestation of human rights abuse. How ironic! I witnessed
those acts of abuse in two places where rights and laws were supposed to
be most respected. I forgot about myself and what was waiting for me and
was preoccupied with the struggle of the forgotten. I wanted to know more
about that humiliating treatment, so I asked five patients; that seemed to
stit their emotions and they sounded horrified. Three of them had been
strapped and isolated during their stay. More than once. When I asked

46
about what they did when they needed to go to the bathroom, their answer
was: nappies.
Another incident bewildered me. The medical staff declared an
emergency and shortly afterwards announced the death of one of the
patients from an acute heart attack while he was asleep that night. The tears
of his fellow patients, the way they talked about him and their memories,
were extremely moving and striking. As for me and despite the fact that
emotions usually controlled my behaviour and my life in general, I was not
affected. I was the only one who did not cry or shed a tear over that sudden
death and that difficult situation. I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that I
was not moved in the slightest. I was stone cold. ;
The strangest thing, however, was that when I saw that person, the way
he looked, how stout he was, the way he walked, I was reminded of my
cousin. I couldn’t stand being anywhere near him. And whenever I saw
him, I was filled with dread. I never imagined that I would witness his death
before my eyes. Whether that was a mete chance or fate, I did not know.
He might have wanted to leave his mark on my memory in some different
way.
On another day, a Jewish woman was brought to the unit. She was
wearing a headscarf (Tichel) which looked very much like the one I was
wearing when I first entered the hospital. Her presence made me curious,
so I kept watching her to know what would happen to her headscarf.
Surprisingly, she was able to enter the unit without having to take it off.
What’s more surprising was the fact that it was the same nutse. I couldn’t
hold myself back; I went to the office and asked them to open the window
so I could talk to them. That nurse was there together with another who,
as I learned later, was the chief nurse.
I wanted to know what her take on that would be; I wanted to know if
she was awate of what was going on too. Without any introductions, I
asked her to give me my headscarf instantly, within the earshot of the other
nurse. She answered: “It’s not possible. It’s not allowed. The rules forbid
this.”
The happiness I felt with her response was indescribable. Deep inside, I
wanted her to say that, but it was not likely for her to do so. I was just like
a hunter waiting for a prey to fall into its trap, and I pointed to the Jewish

47
woman, and said: “What about that woman’s headscarf? Do the rules allow
het but forbid me from doing so? She looked perplexed and didn’t answer
my question. She simply closed the window in my face; she started talking
to her colleague for about five minutes, and they both looked troubled. She
opened a drawer which had my name on it and took out my headscarf.
When she gave it back to me, I put it on and left while feeling ecstatic at
that achievement.
My insistence on taking my hijab back was not a matter of religion as
much as it was about restoring a part of my existence which had been
sttipped of me and standing against those rules which they pretended
applied to everyone, while they were in fact a source of racism and
discrimination. That was what I detested the most in life and fought against.
I was even happier when an Arab woman saw me wearing my hijab and
said she wanted hers back too. I told her: “Go to the office and ask for it.”
I kept watching her until she took it back and put it on.
My stay at this hospital was very short, yet it left me with many questions
and much confusion. Tangled emotions. The untold stories behind the
closed doots of that hospital made my heart restless, even as I tried to calm
my emotional storm; many conflicted emotions were roused by those
stories.
Human dignity and patient rights were totally distespected. History
would never forgive those responsible for such acts. What have we come
to when people who shamelessly violated human dignity and patient rights
were working in mental health and at psychiatric hospitals? Did human
rights organisations know about what went on inside the rooms and the
hallways of this place? Were they absent from this? I vowed to speak up
and to ask those questions without fear; the voice and cries of those who
suffer from injustice, racism and violation must be heard.
During my stay, I had the chance to get changed, which filled me with
happiness. Pens were made available too. I would let my fingers hug a pen,
and even though I longed for writing and to pour out my feelings of anger
and pain because of what I had been enduring, I did not write; I learned
that I would not be allowed to keep anything I wrote after leaving the
hospital. I managed to borrow two books in Hebrew ftom one of the
patients there: they were two works of Russian literature. One of them

48
discussed spirituality while the other was a detective book. I devoured them
not because of their content. I missed books and I missed the letters which
formed those words.
My memories of this place were finalised by the time I was taken to
coutt by bosta and as I entered the red and blue holding cells inside the
courthouse.

49
 CHAPTER 10

My hearing was scheduled for 11.30am, yet I was surprised how early they
arrived; they took me out of the cell at 10.30 instead. It’s usually the opposite
when it comes to courts. I then realised that, rather than taking me to the
courthouse, they were leading me towards al-Moscobiyeh (Moscovia
Detention Centre) in Nazareth for questioning.
Ataround 11, the interrogator came in and was accompanied by another
man who, later, sat at a side desk. That was my fourth interrogation; but this
time I didn’t even ask for my lawyer; I did so based on a personal conviction.
Another thing was different this time, the interrogator was constantly yelling
at me and receiving the questions via his colleague who, for his part, was on
the phone. All he wanted to do was get the interrogation over with quickly,
before my hearing started. He was fishing for a confession; he wanted me to
say that I wanted to be a ‘marty’, according to their definition of the word
— the only meaning they sought and understood. I denied his accusations
categorically.
Unlike the other three interrogations I went through, this one was fast-
paced. The interrogator demanded that I sign my statement at the end of the
interrogation, so I asked to read it first. He refused and told me that the
typed lines were my exact words. “You can read the papers after the
interrogation is overt,” he shouted. “If you find something different, you can
report me; hurry up! Your hearing is about to start,” he shouted in my face.
I just wanted it to end. Papers signed.
They took me instantly back to the court, but I was ten minutes late; the
judge had already opened the session before I showed up. I entered the hall
and looked round for my family. That was my first time seeing them since
my arrest; my dad and brother were there, so I smiled at them to let them
know I was OK. The judge decided I was mentally stable, according to the
doctor’s report on my mental condition, which meant I could appear
before the court. I was very pleased with that decision as it was what I’d
been setting out to achieve. I wasn’t surprised; on the contrary, I was
confident about it. Although my dad, brother and lawyer seemed
disappointed, expressions of happiness and relief were written all over my

50
face, and I felt them deep in my heart as well. That decision did not upset
me.
The prosecutors presented new ‘evidence’ to the judge which consisted
of false accusations at which they had arrived based on my answers to the
questions during that quick interrogation which took place only minutes
before that session. The prosecutors demanded that I remain imprisoned
and be further interrogated after I was portrayed as the most dangerous
creature on planet Earth. That depiction was merely a figment of their
imagination, but they placed it in a well-fitting frame; the image they made
up for me was ready to be presented. The judge was told I was a terrorist
who wanted to carry out knife and hit-and-run crimes against the Jewish
Israelis. Detention time lengthened. That wasn’t unexpected, especially
after such statements, which were unrelated to what I was accused of, or
the type of the questions I was asked during the interrogations. All I did
was ask my family to bring me some clothing items to al-Jalameh prison
centre.
Nothing took me by surprise any more. I just smiled. I remained silent
as there was no point in talking. Yes, I was suffocated by those empty
words, but who would believe me if I said that I hardly even used a knife
in my daily life. I hated cooking and I hardly ever went to the kitchen, to
avoid catching the sight of that tool! If I ever had to use one, I would use
a small fruit knife. Who would’ve believed me if I’d said that even mention
of the word ‘knife’ made me worried, scared and extremely anxious; I
endured the feelings of a person with phobia. Israel remained as it was,
unchanged no matter what; it surpassed all in arrogance, racism, injustice,
oppression and telling lies. By now I had witnessed the best and the worst
of humanity; there was nothing left to surprise me any more.
The cell door was opened and, again, I went inside. I was astonished to
see a young woman sitting on my blue concrete seat. I could tell she was
an Arab because of her hijab, so I greeted her. With a lump in her throat
and weeping eyes, she greeted me back. I sat on the other seat and started
reading the court protocols to myself. Every time I went before the judge,
I would return with a pile of papers where they wrote down more lies,
fabrications and imagined things on my behalf. Whenever I read those
papers, I would laugh more. If Ihadn’t been the accused and read such

of
documents, I’d have thought they were meant for the most dangerous
criminal in the world.
While I was immersing myself in reading those papers, fully
concentrated, the young woman was crying. She didn't stop wailing. Her
crying took over my emotions; I couldn’t help but approach her; I initiated
a conversation by asking her some questions: Why are you crying? Why are
you here? She looked at me; het eyes were red and puffy from crying. “T
was in Afula and I was shot,” she replied. I exclaimed: “You ate Israa’
Abed!”
I didn’t give her a chance to respond, I hurried towards her, hugged and
kissed her. I told her: “Thank God for your safety. The most important
thing is that you're safe and sound.” I could not believe my eyes. Was that
a coincidence or some strange fate? I couldn’t think of anything else at that
moment; I just made her laugh for a bit after all she'd been through. I told
her jokingly: “Look, I’m here because I expressed my support for you. ’m
here because I shared your picture on my timeline. You’re not alone. ’m
here because I shared your picture and I was afraid for you.” She hugged
me tightly, so I patted her shoulder and said: “It’s a strange coincidence
irideed, yet it’s a very beautiful one.” She stopped crying when she heard
these words and she even laughed.
We had a short conversation about the incident she’d been through and
we discussed the moment she was shot. I learned what had really happened.
She told me that she had actually carried a knife, but she didn’t want to
attack anyone. She just wanted to be shot, to be dead because she was
desperate. Too frustrated. Suicidal. She told me she had been depressed;
she was miserable. All she wanted to do was put an end to that. She didn’t
even consider harming anyone. Our main lengthy discussion revolved
around her health as it was all that mattered under the circumstances.
She was suffering from episodes of excruciating pain. I already knew
that she was at the hospital at the time; she was in the ICU after undergoing
three operations. She was discharged three days ago, and today was her first
day in court. She was bone-weary, and scars from the gunshot wounds wete
visible on her skin.
She had a serious health condition; she wasn’t able to move due to two
injuries in her lower back and her waist as well as two more injuries in her

ae
abdominal area. She could barely sit down or stand up. Each side of her
body was injured, and regardless of how she moved she was still in pain.
With all her injuries, and the coldness of the cell, sitting down on a concrete
seat was the most tortuous part for her.
I did my best to ease her pain as she was emotionally and physically
destroyed. I also asked one of the Nahshon Unit soldiers for help, yet he,
initially, brushed me off and was dismissive about her health condition. I
didn’t give up. I kept trying time after time until I managed to receive two
ptisoner jackets to provide some warmth after feeling the cold biting into
out bodies. That might alleviate her pain.
While she was still suffering from episodes of agonising pain, I was
freezing, yet I didn’t pay much attention to that. My main concern was
Israa’s comfort. I folded the first jacket and placed it on the concrete seat
to make it less uncomfortable for her to sit down. It was too cold for her
wounds. I used the second jacket to cover her and warm her up. Fatigued
and in intolerable pain, she put her head on my shoulder and fell asleep for
quite some time until a female soldier came; she opened the door and
demanded that Israa’ step out of the cell to be present at her hearing. She
warned her of media representatives and, in a commanding manner, against
uttering a word or making any hand gestures even it was a greeting. She
barely managed to move; she walked slowly and was limping too. I was
even mote astounded when I saw that soldier shackling Israa’s hands and
feet even though she could barely walk.
‘How was that injured woman discharged and taken to courts and
interrogations without taking her health into consideration?’ I wondered.
Still, after reflecting on the inhumanity I’d witnessed, I realised that I would
nevet be shocked by anything I saw or experienced any mote. It was all
permitted here and used to exploit vulnerable and helpless people and to
contribute to their misery and pain. Dehumanisation, pitilessness and abuse
of the rules. There was no need for me to ask or seek anything about these
issues.
Her hearing was lengthy — it took around two hours, during which I
waited in anticipation, and I felt more anxious than I did when it was my
hearing. She returned to the cell as they decided to lengthen her detention

aS)
petiod. Meanwhile, her request to be held under house arrest was still under
review.
At 4 o'clock we were taken to the bosta. Luckily, it was the period when
detainees and prisoners in court holding cells were distributed among
detention centres, prisons and detention camps. Nothing changed about
the conditions of the journey in this moving tomb except that, this time, I
wasn’t alone; there was someone to talk to during those hours. Israa’s
suffering was vastly worse than mineas a tesult of her injuries which almost
covered her body. The two jackets that we’d managed to obtain managed
to insulate us against the cold caused by the AC vents directed towards us
— above our heads, to be more exact.
It took the bosta an hour-and-a-half to get started. Suffocating in the
airless moving tomb. As the vehicle passed by certain roads, I could identify
them; I was familiar with their bypasses and turns. I wanted to be sure of
where we were. I stood up and peeped through the tiny holes. Regardless
of how difficult that was, I somehow managed to recognise that place. I
told Istaa’ we were in Nazareth and were approaching the entrance of Yafa
an-Naseriyye. I noticed immediately how touched she was, the emotions
rising on her face. At a loss, she had mixed feelings. “I live in Yafa an- .
Nasetiyye,” she began to sob. On tiptoe, I stood once more, attempting to
locate our whereabouts more precisely. We were right at the entrance of
Jaffa, stopping for traffic lights. The moment she heard my words, she was
moved deeply; she looked anxious and terrified. She told me: “My daughter
is now at home with her father. I miss her. She scampered away from her
seat and tried so hard to stand and see that place through those small holes.
I stopped her and told her: “T’m afraid that you might fall or that your
wound might get hit. You'won’t be able to see a thing from here.” Touched,
she replied: “Help me. I want to see my house; my daughter may be in the
playground right now. I want to see it right now, Dareen. I don’t know
when [ll be able to see my house again.” Her words hit home. Her words
choked me. Het words overwhelmed my emotions. I helped het put on the
two jackets to protect her from the tisk of a fall and to prevent further
injury.
We were lucky. The bosta was moving slowly due to traffic jams. Busy
roads. I sat on the floor, moved downwards slowly, crouching, I asked

54
Israa’ to lean on me, and I supported her. I carried her. A few seconds
passed by before she called out her daughter’s name: “Leen! Leen!” She did
not stop and kept crying until her house was out of her sight. I took her
back to her seat and helped her to sit down. Silence enveloped the place
for a few moments. She looked at me, smiled and, once again, she drowned
in her own tears. I didn’t know what to do, but I soon found myself taking
her into my arms. I asked her to lay her head on my lap and sleep. I wanted
her to get some rest even if it was so little, for the road ahead of us was
long and difficult. She placed her head on my leg; I caressed her forehead
and cheeks. Her hijab was still on. I did my best to keep the handcuffs,
which were locked around my wrists, off her. Suddenly, making her feel
safe and comfortable was my main concern. She fell asleep. Ten minutes
had passed before the bosta took a sharp turn. I found nothing to grasp
onto in order to stay still. |moved. She woke up.
As we were trying to warm each other up, we heard some noise coming
from the cage opposite ours: one of the prisoners had thrown up. The foul-
smelling vomit made our suffering worse as the cage was closed and had
no ait holes. To top it off, there came swearing and curses, which then
escalated into violence and verbal harassment. Whether that came from the
prisoners or the soldiers, it had the same effect: emotional harm. Both were
shouting as if taking turns until the moment we arrived at al Jalameh prison
centte.
A few minutes past seven. The vehicle stopped as it arrived in the yard.
Doors opened; they dropped me off. There was only one female soldier
among four other male soldiers of the Nahshon Unit, and according to
their rules, one female soldier should accompany the female detainee; if
that wasn’t the case, then she should accompany one detainee at a time. As
a result, Israa’ stayed there, but she was guarded. The female soldier took
me to the same ward whete I used to be; I had to be mentally prepared for
strip-searching. However, I decided I would try to ask the warden not to
follow through with it as I had been tormented twice in the court holding
cells. I had been humiliated in that way numerous times, and every time I
found it more emotionally difficult than previously. I would try. I might be
able to stop such a humiliating searching process.

55
 The warden held me in the same corner and demanded I take my clothes
off. I asked her to believe me. There was no reason for searching me as I
had nothing in my possession. I heatd the same typical answer: “T can’t.
These are the rules,” she said.
This time I felt even more suffocated and I couldn’t hold it in any more;
I was deeply affected, so I explained to het my childhood abuse. I also told
her how strip-searching affected my mental state. I thought that she might
show some sympathy and spare me that process. She seemed a little moved,
but I was shocked when she said: “Then just lift your shirt and slide down
your pants; I will not touch you. I will just eye you from a distance.”
She believed that was an accomplishment on both personal and
humanitarian levels in this prison. She also assumed she’d alleviated some
of my suffering by her response, but my despair was only made worse.
Desperately, I shut my eyes and did what she demanded quickly to avoid
noticing her violating the privacy of my body; her eyes had finally finished
harassing my naked body. Staring at my body in such a forced manner
would also be considered sexual harassment. All the harm that experience
brought up would haunt me. Those very few seconds were enough.
The warden opened the huge blue gate for me, I entered the gloomy cell
and right before she locked the door I asked for cleaning supplies. The
prison cell wasn’t in a better state than how it was during the previous
times. In addition to all the filth, there were blood spots spattered over its
walls. I removed them using water and soap. I scrubbed the walls with a
broom brush so as to avoid constant vomit and nausea. I didn’t know how
long my stay would last. I was thinking non-stop until a wishful thought
crossed my mind: bringing Israa’ to this cell. That wasn’t what happened,
though, and I didn’t have a clue where she was.
I sat on the bed and tried to go to sleep, but I failed. Severe, unbearable
headache. I had to request one tablet of painkillers from the warden. One
hout passed before she gave me that yellow ‘acamol pill. I took it and went
back to bed; it wasn’t something I would normally do, but I started
examining that tablet and turning it over and over in my palms. Whenever
I tried to swallow it, I would imagine it was a pen, so I retreated. I needed
to write and a wave of longing for a pen hit me hard, an unfamiliar feeling
that crept inside of me as I held the tablet and attempted to write on the

56
wall. My attempt failed. I put the tablet back in my palm and continued to
contemplate it as if Iwanted a gush of ink to come out of it.
I felt a little cold, so I zipped my jacket only to take it off again and take
out the zipper pull; I attempted to write on the wall using it. It worked! My
name, the date and time were the first things I wrote. My hand jotted down
a flash prose piece titled ‘Feminine Cell Wall Engravings’ along with some
verses from my poems which I memorised by heart including the accused
poem which became the main reason why I was arrested; I wrote random
rebellious words and sentences to describe my personality ane the
circumstances under which | lived.
I was writing as if I had been looking for some language that resembled
my dream and embodied the horror I felt; I wanted to pull out my words
from silence and announce that they were like windows which look out to
the future. The letters inscribed in the wall were like some carved-out
pictures in which I kept my trembles, where I decluttered and gathered up
my dreams and wishes. I was isolated from everything. Alone. I had no way
to communicate with the outside world: no messages, no phone, no books
or magazines, no pens for writing, no radio or TV. At that moment I felt
that all was said and done, and even if the whole world imprisoned me,
stood against me, tightened its fist around my neck to choke me, it would
not shut me up. I would still speak up whenever and wherever I was.
I expressed my gratitude to that tablet for giving me such an
opportunity; it granted me the idea of using the zipper pull to write. I
completely forgot about my headache, so I didn’t take it. I put it in my
pocket, instead, and I put my magical pen back into its place. I fell asleep.
The next morning, I was led to Moscobtyeh in Nazareth for yet another
interrogation. I was placed in a cell next to the admissions office. It was a
chilly room, just like the previous one, and despite the fact that it was large,
it had no seats. I had to sit on the floor while being hand and leg-cuffed.
Evety now and then, I banged on the door to remind them I was there;
one of them would reply: “The interrogator hasn't arrived yet.” At other
times, I wouldn’t get any response so I tired of knocking and would go
back and sit on the floor. The door opened suddenly. A policeman entered
the cell while holding a feminine pink perfume bottle. Doors closed. He
started spraying me with that perfume and saying: “You're so pretty. Your

ay
eyes are beautiful. I will find you a good husband from one of my men.
What do you say?” I couldn't hold myself back, I shouted at him and cursed
him repeatedly but that still didn’t stop or deter him. I realised that shouting
wouldn’t serve me well; he seemed to be very confident of what he was
doing and it seemed it was all pre-planned. My chest was tight and I felt a
lump in my throat, so I backed away to be as distant as possible and keep
him from touching me. The cell door was closed. Closer and closer, he
approached me. He put his left hand on my face and his right hand — in
which he was holding the perfume bottle — on my chest. With my shackled
hands, I pushed him away and, at the top of my voice, I cursed him. I did
not cate any more. When I started to hit him, he backed away, left the cell
and slammed the door shut. He vanished. Even though it was a difficult
situation, I tried to work out what his name was, but his badge was not
pinned to his shirt.
After a few minutes, the door was opened again. Someone gave me a
sandwich and a water bottle, so I told him about what had happened. “I
have been here, sitting still, since the moment you were brought in; I
haven’t seen any policeman entering the cell. You’re lying and making
things up. It is not true,” he replied. I asked if I could go to the bathroom,
so he told me he would let a policewoman know and she would accompany
me. Going to the bathroom wasn’t my sole and main purpose: I wanted to
leave the cell for a few minutes because I might be able to find that
harassing policeman. I wanted to respond more effectively to his
harassment of me. After half an hour, a policewoman came along with a
policeman and led me to the bathroom; the policeman entered the
bathroom and inspected it. After that the policewoman told me: “You can
go in.” I asked her to unshackle my hands. She refused. And, in turn, I
refused to go to the bathroom while shackled; the policeman intervened
and nodded his head, gesturing that she could unshackle me. She did. I
entered the bathroom. She re-cuffed me and took me back to the cell. I
didn’t achieve my main purpose of that bathroom trip.
That policeman was nowhere to be seen. I was kept in that cell up ’til
4pm without being questioned. When I protested against that and asked
for the reason behind the delay, I was told the interrogator couldn’t make

58
it, so the interrogation was postponed. I was taken back to al Jalameh
prison centre.
Before I entered the cell which I had left earlier, the warden was
teplaced. I swore that I didn’t possess anything and requested that she
didn’t strip-search me and expose my body. She nodded and said: “I know.
My colleague has told me about your situation. I won’t search you.” I
thanked her so much for doing me that favour and her humane response.
We smiled at each other for some time before I re-entered the cell.
After that incident, I felt as if my language had deceived me; it could be
that something about the nature of those wardens was still unrevealed. I
couldn’t recall reading about a single incident where wardens treated the
prisoners well; they always talk about the worst. That incident occurred,
despite the fact that it could be rare, and proved that someone could still
be humane even if that person was a watden. Incidents here were just like
language which could hide more than the truth it might reveal. Therefore,
many people might misunderstand or misjudge one another. In a world
filled with mistranslations, it would be difficult to achieve clarity. That
being the case, we shouldn’t be too strict and stubborn because, in order
to live, we need to dive deep inside to get to hidden meanings. Every day
resembled the last one in this prison; the only thing that helped me break
free from my everyday routine was scribbling on the wall with my zipper
pull, my own magical pen!
The warden opened the door, Israa’, together with another young
woman, came in. I hurried in the direction of Israa’ and checked on her; I
helped her carry her stuff and sit on one of the beds. I learned that she had
spent that period of time in the women’s prison in Ramleh (Neve Tirtza®).
They both chose to sleep in bottom beds and avoided the top ones so
as to keep away from falling off while sleeping; they didn't even consider
them because of the difficulty of climbing up and down the ladder. I did
the opposite. I had chosen to sleep in the top bed because I knew I couldn’t
stand staring at metal bed slats; it was much easier for me to look at the
concrete ceiling in such an ugly cell.
The second young woman was called Huda. She smoked and used
obscene language when she talked to wardens; she was always shouting for
no treason. I managed to stand her behaviour for no more than half an

59
hout, then I decided to talk to her about it. I explained Israa’s health
condition to her, and I asked her to help me ease her pain. I didn’t have to
put too much effort into it before we reached an agreement to respect one
another in that shared cell; we also agreed to accept one another, despite
all our differences. She was a 20-year-old young woman; she was kind-
hearted even though her behaviour made her seem otherwise.
After a while, I was surprised to see her burst into tears in her bed. I
hurtied towards her thinking I was the reason why she was crying and
falling apart. I thought ’'d been too hard on het. I apologised, yet she
started unfolding her story and telling me about why she was detained.
I was touched by her story and her suffering. At first glance, I thought
she was a ‘bird’ (an undercover informer to spy on Palestinians in Israeli
ptisons) who was trying to mislead me, especially as I still had no bill of
indictment. I soon realised that my doubts were misplaced; she didn’t even
ask me why I was there or of what I was accused. I started talking to her,
making an effort to ease her pain; the situation soon worsened as Israa’
began to cry too.
I filled others up with a strength that I didn’t have for myself. I felt as if
I was having a breakdown; I felt weak, desperate and frustrated. I had every
reason to cry and I desperately needed a good cry, but I still couldn’t shed
a teat. I envied them for crying; it was a blessing. While I was laughing, I
told them: “How about you both sit on the same bed and cry? It would be
easier for me than moving from one bed to another.” They both responded
with a guffaw which filled the whole cell and the dark walls. Within a few
hours, without any notice or plan, we became three friends, and it seemed
as if we had known each other not for hours, but years. We had a genuine
affection for one another; we ate, drank, shared sadness and happiness; we
also talked at night and entertained ourselves. If one of us brought
something, she’d bear the rest of us in mind. I once told them about one
of my funny adventures as a photographer. I was in Nazareth’s old market
(souk) and I caught sight of an elderly man walking among a group of
foreign tourists while wearing the Palestinian traditional costume, a
quinbaz (a coat) along with a black keffiyeh (a traditional scarf usually worn
by Palestinians). Beautiful and inspiring. I wanted to take a picture of him,
so I approached him. After ’d chosen the appropriate angle for that

60
picture, he suddenly raised his crutch and started running towards me. He,
wanted to hit me with it, so he started chasing me while I was trying to run
away from him and explain to him the significance of that picture at the
same time. To my surprise, I found out that the tourists themselves were
filming me causing that scene. The tables turned. I was the one whose
pictures were being taken. Once I wrapped up the story, I heard Israa’ and
Huda laughing loudly. They laughed continuously about that incident,
bringing colour to that depressing place with their laughter. .
Israa’ went to the bathroom and asked me to help her change bandages
which covered her wounds, especially those on her stomach. A stoma bag
covered a part of her intestines which poked through as a result of gunshot.
The bullets that tore through her body left visible scars; there was no need
for questions or any explanation. I didn’t ask any questions, so as to spare
her feelings and avoid triggering her memory of that event, especially as
she started to feel peaceful and safe.
That scene was appalling, it was the first time I’'d seen such things. I did
my best not to show my emotions. She needed to change that pouch every
few hours; that was what she told me. We tried, without success, to put on
the new bag that had been given to her from the prison infirmary. The
stoma bag didn’t match the size of its flange which was stuck onto her
stomach. We hurriedly asked the warden and explained the problem to her.
I also sought an explanation as to why that injured detainee had to do this
herself without the help of a nurse or the prison doctor. She didn’t reply.
Nothing could explain that except torture and increasing the suffering of
the injured detainee. All the warden did was pass on the message to a nurse
who took so long to arrive and asked me what the problem was.
Meanwhile, Israa’ was in the bathroom trying to cover her open wound
with toilet paper; her wound was oozing discharge. It wasn’t supposed to
be exposed to air to avoid contamination or infection. We didn’t change
the pouch on the bed because the cell was under surveillance, which meant
there was no privacy.
I asked the nurse to transfer Israa’ to his clinic to assess her health
condition and so she could get adequate treatment. He refused point-blank,
so I had to hold the old bag that contained her wound drainage and show
him the difference between that bag and the new ones. He left and returned

61
 within a few minutes; he brought medical tape and told me that it would
solve the problem. I went back to help Istaa' change the stoma bag and
attached it to the flange. I was very worried because I wanted to be precise,
yet I didn’t want to cause her any pain at the same time. After finishing that
task, I thought about what would Istraa’ would have done if she’d been on
her own and how difficult it would have been for her.
I had no idea I could handle such tricky situations and empathise with
others. I doubt I had that capability previously. I think my prison
experiences had been transformative; they changed me nature well as my
lifestyle.
I still had no extra clothes. I would still wash the same clothes I was
wearing and put them back on while they were wet. I wasn’t alone. Huda
had the same problem, but she was new, so her suffering wasn’t so bad by
comparison. Israa’ was more fortunate when it came to this; she was able
_ to bring in some items which her parents gave her when she was at the
hospital. Our sizes were different, though. None of her clothes would fit
us.
The biggest prize for the three of us was her hairbrush. I realised how
precious a hairbrush was the moment I brushed my hair in al-Jalameh. I
never thought that I would be deprived of a hairbrush or that one day I
would write about its value. My first hairdo in prison helped me discover
that gem which I will always remember. I also realised how important my
hair was. I wore my hair down, and gleefully, I started combing it. Letting
out a laugh, Israa’ looked at me and said: “Is this the first time you’ve ever
combed your hair?” Huda overheard her; she laughed too and said: “It’s as
if you'd found the keys to this cell; you want to leave it and stroll around
the place, huh?” Her heartwarming words made me let out a hearty laugh
as well. Those moments we spent breaking the monotony were precious.
The three of us combed each other’s hair while sitting on Israa's bed. I
would braid Huda's hair; Israa’ would braid mine and then I’d braid Istraa’s.
One day, Huda told me that she’d been a keen football player; she was
yearning to touch a ball and hold it in her hands. Maybe her desire to play
with a ball paralleled my desire to write. Istaa’ was really engaged in that
conversation and wished they could play with a ball in the cell. Longing
and sorrow took hold of them; one could sense it in their voices. I took off

62
my jacket; I folded it, tied it and fixed it until it was a sphere-like solid
object. Then I threw it towards Huda’s bed, asking: “What do you think of
this ball?” Their faces glowed with excitement. We started playing and
tossing the jacket around as if it were a real ball.

9pm

I was pulled towards the interrogation room in Nazareth, and before

starting the questioning session I met my new lawyer and learned from him
that this interrogation was for another accusation, namely supporting a
terrorist cell. Our conversation didn’t last more than a few minutes; he was
also very surprised by that accusation. He gave me some advice and left
after shaking my hand and said: “See you in court tomorrow.”
A tiny room which wasn’t intended for interrogation sessions, it was the
interrogator’s private office. I could tell because of the many personal
photos which were hung on the walls, pictures with his wife and children.
He treated me respectfully; no shouting or pressure was involved. He also
asked a policewoman to un-cuff my hands and legs. Afterwards, he
explained the accusation levelled against me and the reasons behind it.
During our conversation, I came to realise that by ‘a terrorist cell’ they were
referring to nothing but a Palestinian faction whose post I shared and
quoted on my Facebook profile, the Islamic Jihad Movement. He said it
was a call for an uprising, which was deemed terrorist by the Israeli police
and authority.
That news item didn’t imply any support to that faction. It was just an
ordinary one; there was nothing different about it than the other news. The
same phrases would have been used by Israeli media, but the fact that the
word ‘intifada’ (uprising) was mentioned by a Palestinian Arab drew
suspicion and was considered terrorist — a crime for which I should be
punished severely.
After learning this news, I was certain they wanted to try to pin the
allegation on me no matter how and at all costs. They accused me of that
crime to cover up for the misunderstanding that started with my arrest.
They aimed to expand my case to add mote allegations to the bill of
indictment to make it worthy enough to be presented to the judge. The

63
interrogation session didn’t take long, yet the accusation was serious and
could lead to a long prison sentence reaching up to eight years. The
interrogator asked: “Do you know anyone from that organisation? Do you
support this organisation?” I told him that I only supported Balad and I
didn’t know anyone from that organisation. Then he asked me: “Then ?’m
pretty sure you support their work and activity, right?” My only answer was:
“No.” Sometimes, there are some activities which one can’t help but
support. Each human being does good deeds as well as bad ones at some
point. I only supported the good ones. He followed that by asking: “Which
of their work do you support?” He insisted on an answer. I replied: “For
instance, when there are demonstrations against the killings of the innocent
or children, I do support that, for sure. The death of Mohammad Abu
Khdeir as well as Ali Dawabsheh and his family. When that organisation
establishes nurseries for the poor, for orphans, I, without a doubt, support
such activities because they’te charitable and humanitarian.” I chose my
words carefully while answering him; I tried my best to elaborate on the
reason behind posting and quoting that news item as well as my intentions.
After the interrogation was over, he turned off his computer, looked at
me and said: “Listen, Dareen, I'll keep this between us, I know for sure that
you're innocent. ’m not content with the fact that I have just questioned
you. I had to do it. Be sure that I wrote each and every word you said
exactly. Word for word. This is all 1 can do.” I looked at him and said: “You
simply could have refused to interrogate me. Why did you do that?” He
remained silent. He opened the door; we left the room and headed to the
yard. I asked him to call one of my family members and ask someone to
bring me some clothes. I explained to him that I hadn’t been able to get
changed ever since I got arrested. He agreed without question. Very
unexpected. I was used to starting long discussions even over the slightest
things. I gave him the number; and he actually dialled it. My brother arrived
within ten minutes and we were allowed to hug and give each other a
handshake.
My brother gave me a bag of clothing items, yet the interrogator said I
wouldn’t be allowed to keep it; I was only allowed to get changed there. I
took the items I needed and he went with me to the bathroom entrance
and waited for me outside. I gave my brother the outfit I was wearing; he

64
said goodbye and left. I asked him to bring them to al-Jalameh. Only then
did I realise they had been trying to do so, but the administration refused
every time; the request would be postponed for no reason. Despite this, I
asked my brother to give it another try that night.
I was buoyed by the humanity displayed by the interrogator as well as
his politeness and respect in contrast to the rest of the interrogators I’d
come across after my arrest. I thanked him sincerely. I showed my
appreciation for giving me the chance to get changed, although it was one
of my rights as a detainee or prisoner. Those rights had been denied for
Palestinians under that racist authority; the only way to gain such rights was
by using unexpected tactics. |
The policewoman re-cuffed me and I was taken back to al-Jalameh, to
the same cell where I left Israa’ and Huda. Within a couple of houts, the
warden brought in a black bag of clothes. I was exhilarated. My struggle
with clothes was finally over. At last, I could take a shower and get changed.
I checked that bag only to realise that all the elastic was removed. I gave
Huda and Isra all they needed from what my family had sent me.
Despite the seriousness of our situation and how bad and depressing it
was getting, I would burst out with some funny lines to comfort myself,
Israa’ and Huda, in trying to adapt to those dire circumstances. I was trying
to survive.
My gut instinct told me they were about to leave this place and their
arrest would be over. I didn’t say so, though, as I didn’t want them to get
their hopes up. They would be shattered, devastated if that didn’t happen.
In the morning, I hugged them goodbye before going to court. They, for
their part, wished for my release.
I carried my clothes bag, which almost didn’t made it to my cell, I wanted
to take it with me yet the female soldier refused. She claimed it should
remain there and it wasn’t allowed in court. She said it would be well kept
and, wherever I went, it would be sent back to me. My name was written
on a yellow piece of paper which she took from the warden’s desk. Yellow
paper stuck on the black bag and left in a small storeroom, I stood there
watching each of those steps. Strip-searched and re-cuffed. Off we went.

65
 CHAPTER 11
November 2, 2015
3.30pm

Accused and leg-cuffed, I was standing in a wooden cage. A female soldier

and male soldiers were standing on either side, watching me, silencing and
paralysing me. I was forbidden from uttering a word or even giving my
family members a handshake. There, facing me, the judge sat and initiated
conversations and discussions with my lawyers and the prosecutors. Then
the prosecution announced the completion of the interrogation process.
While their conversation revolved around me, I looked around and
watched those in attendance. Sign language pervaded the courtroom — head
and eye gestures as well as smiles.
Crowded courtroom, almost full. Familiar and unfamiliar faces
sutrounded me; some had shown up to attend my court hearing while
others had nothing to do with my case. Some were there to show their
support, some relatives; my mum; my dad; my aunt, Hayat; my maternal
cousin, Bilal; my brother, Saher; my uncles, Mansour and Muwafaq along
with a group of friends and supporters. They are all anticipating the ruling.
Convicted.
They read aloud my charges:

Publishing my poem ‘Resist, my people, resist them’;

Posting a photo of the injured, Israa’ Abed, while lying on the ground;
Posting a picture which had “I’m the next martyr” caption;
Posting a news item regarding an uprising which was originally posted
by a Palestinian faction.

Based on that, the lawyer predicted a seven-yeat sentence awaited me.

My eyes were glued to my mum’s face which showed every bit of sadness.
I look at my dad’s face — tears, grief and pain filled his eyes. Rage, fear,
worry, uncertainty. What was yet to come? And yet I smiled at everyone in

66
the courtroom as though what had been going on, inside the walls of the
toom of lies, was not my concern and had nothing to do with me.
Suddenly, I call out: “Yemma, Yemma, have you picked the olives yet?
Do you need a hand?” The female soldier tried her best to shut me up, yet
she failed. Nothing could stop me. A laugh, everyone has laughed; that
laugh made the keyboard’s clicking sounds seem quiet and the judge’s as
well as the prosecutor’s voices fade into the background. This was what I
wanted. I wanted everyone to laugh so I could conclude this court hearing
on my own terms.
The above list recaps two accusations against me: an incitement to
violence and terrorism due to publishing a poem and two photos as well as
supporting a terrorist organisation by quoting one of the Palestinian
factions and posting it on my Facebook account. Consequently, the judge
decided to lengthen my imprisonment period until the court’s legal
processes were finalised.
I wasn’t surprised either by that charge sheet or the decision to extend
my detention period. My intuition told me so; I trusted my gut. I told
myself: ‘Is this a charge sheet or a certificate of honour?’ especially as one
of the items on that list was a poem. I was on cloud nine the moment I
realised how forceful my poem was; my words were powerful enough to
scate a whole nation. It was listed on both the charge sheet and the
protocols. Israel vs. Dareen Tatour.
Back to al-Jalameh and put in a cell. Alone. It looked very similar to the
rest of the cells in which Id stayed; only it was smaller. There were two
beds and a TV. First and foremost, I asked for my bag of clothes; the
warden couldn’t find it. Iwas on the verge of losing my mind. My rage over
such negligence and the drawn-out discussions we had led us nowhere. I
had lost the clothes which I’d endeavoured to obtain. I asked her for
alternative clothes to make up for the loss. After a long wait and much
struggle, she came back carrying one shirt and two underwear items.
I tried to turn on the TV but it didn’t work. I asked about it only to learn
that it could only be turned on by wardens in the warden’s office, so I asked
her to turn it on. She rejected my request saying: “You are also forbidden
from watching TV. Those are the rules.”

67
 Funny response. I replied: “Don’t blame the rules, it’s not the rules. It’s
the joy our torture brings you.” I didn’t give her the chance to respond. I
let her think over what I said. I moved away from the door and sat on the
bed. I took out my magical pen from its shelter, the jacket — my companion.
‘I didn’t keep that jacket to warm myself up but rather to be able to keep
my secret pen and scribble on walls. On one of the walls, I wrote a new
poem titled ‘A Poet Behind Bars’.
The next morning, at around 6am, I was taken out from my cell. I asked:
“Where to?” to which they replied: “To Sharon Prison’.” Searched twice.
Hand and leg-cuffed. I was led out of the building to a yard packed with
bosta vehicles, policemen and K-9 dogs. I was carrying a small black bag
where I kept the very few objects that I got to keep from that prison. One
of the policemen approached me along with his K-9. The K-9 started
barking at me at times, or near me at others. It stood tall on its hind legs
and seemed to be about to attack me with its claws. Once the soldier
uttered a word or made a certain gesture, the K-9 would completely stop
barking and jumping and would start sniffing at my feet. The K-9 would
be rewarded for that with a chunk of meat. The soldier would tell his K-9:
“You’re such a wonderful dog! What was that smell? Of course, it must be
the odour of terrorism. Hey, dog! Your being here is very beneficial, but
her and the people of her kind are useless, they can only incite killing. Keep
sniffing at her. You will definitely find something. Arab trash. She’s a filthy
Arab. ‘Ikhs’ (what a shame!) Disgusting! How could we allow her in the
car?”
Every time the K-9 was able to intimidate or offend me, the soldier
would reward it with some food to encourage it to keep going as if it had
been doing a good job. I am friendly to animals by nature; when I’m
approached or touched by one, I don’t normally feel frightened. I didn’t
feel the same way about that dog, though. Iwas horrified when it barked;
I jumped backwards involuntarily. I just wanted to keep my distance, but I
fell down because my legs were shackled. Luckily, I wasn’t hurt. As I was
collecting myself, three more soldiers came in my direction; they moved
closer and closer until I was surrounded by them and their dogs. The four
dogs started barking at me and another group from the Nahshon Unit
joined them. They mocked me, they laughed loudly. They also made some

68
remarks; the soldier who was holding the dog that caused me to fall said:
“You're horrified by this dog and you wish to be a martyr!” Again, he
rewarded his dog with an extra piece of food. He started petting him and
saying: “Good dog! You did exactly what you had to do.”
Another soldier added: “You want to kill Jews? You subversive! You
terrorist! It’s about time you knew what real fear was all about. You will
finally get what it means to say something against the Jews and Israel.”
The third soldier with a dog demanded that I put my black bag on the
ground so the dog would check it before we boarded the bosta. I told him:
“T could show you what I have in this bag myself,” yet he rejected the idea
and told me: “No, the dog is going to examine it. Not you. Open the bag
and put it down on the ground. The dog knows what to do.”
I opened the bag and dropped it on the ground. The dog began to sniff
at the clothes and walked all over them; it smudged them with its paws.
After the five-minute inspection was over, the soldier demanded that I pick
that bag up, but I refused. “I don’t need it any more,” I told him, to which
he replied: “That’s better. We don’t need any more trash in our vehicle.
You and people like you are more than enough.”
That dog didn’t frighten me any more despite the fact that its barking
increased and the distance between us grew less as the dog was incited by
the soldier. I didn’t react. I only smiled; behind that smile was a mixture of
contradictory emotions. After one hour of waiting passed in that yard while
surrounded by the constant barking of K-9’s, the female soldier held my
cuffs, pulled me and demanded that I enter onto the bosta vehicle.
The bosta looked different this time; it was similar to those public
transport buses. My cuffs held me down; my steps were restricted and I
barely made it to the bus. I was accompanied by one of Nahshon Unit’s
female soldiers. Two male recruits followed her to provide assistance in
guarding me. The dog and the recruit who held his leash were there as well.
And suddenly all I could see was a group of rectangular black cages. It
didn’t seem like a bus any more. The cage door was opened; the K-9 went
in to inspect every angle of the seat. Obviously that was why the fourth
soldier was there. The female soldier demanded that I sit down inside the
cage then they slammed the door shut; its sound echoed everywhere. The
loud bang would be forever stuck in my ears.

69
 There was a metal seat for two, yet it was a narrow cage. A surveillance
camera was hung on the ceiling; it was a windowless and unventilated cage.
I had been cuffed inside this tiny cage for about two houts before the bus
started moving away from al-Jalameh. The fact that it was a different bus
didn’t change anything about the hideousness of such a journey. I had to
endure the same conditions. In fact, it was even more brutal this time
because of its narrowness, not to mention the design of the 50 cm long and:
80 cm high seat; I had to be seated in a 90-degree upright sitting position.
Unlike this seat, those of the Nashshon members had fabric seat covers
which looked pretty comfortable. They sat next to big windows which
served as lookouts. They could travel at ease and in comfort.
This tortuous journey inside this cold metal cage took four more hours.
I noticed that the bus stopped three times in different areas. I couldn’t
locate ot recognise just exactly where. I heard chains rattle and bang against
the bus flooring as the detainees were treading, so I guessed that those were
either detention centres or other prisons. Through one of the cage door
holes, which resembled those of holding cell as well as cell door holes, one
of the soldiers passed me a sausage-stuffed baguette. I couldn’t eat it
because I was vegetarian. I was thirsty yet they ignored my request to have
a bottle of water. I wasn’t able to use the bathroom either.
The cage door was finally opened; a female soldier demanded that I get
off the bus. I wasn’t alone, there were numerous prisoners who got off
from several vehicles in the same area. They were small groups of people
guarded by some soldiers and K-9s. I was the only woman amongst that
crowd which consisted of Palestinian detainees except three who were
convicted of ‘criminal’ offences. I was able to detect those three by how
they were dressed. Palestinian detainees mainly wore a brown uniform;
some hardly ever wore street clothes. However, the rest wore an orange
uniform. The two gtoups were later separated and had different
destinations.
I entered an eerie building where I saw some silvet square-shaped, 3x3,
wite-fenced metal cages. Numerous detainees were shoved into the same
cage; they were all for men except one ~ it was intended for women. It was
filthy, sewage water was flooding in, so that my feet sank with every step I
took inside the place. I tried to identify it; after a struggle and lots of

70
eavesdropping I learned it was called Mibar el-Ramla, a place that was used
as a station to receive the detainees before they were either transferred to
prisons or court (a temporary detention facility). Hell on Earth.
I stayed in that cage for over five hours without food or water. To make
matters worse, I couldn’t go to the bathroom because it was a unisex shared
bathroom with a half-height door. Besides, there was a soldier to guard the
bathroom; he would make fun of the person using the toilet with obscene
language or by laughing with his colleagues. I decided to keep myself away
from that torment, so I didn’t use that bathroom for long hours. I even
stopped drinking water, despite being extremely thirsty, so as not to feel
the urge to go to the bathroom. I couldn’t go through yet more sexual and
verbal harassment. I'd rather suffer physically than emotionally: that
experience would mean accumulating more painful memories. Those
soldiers lacked feeling and morals. I envied the detainees because they
didn’t know any Hebrew; they couldn’t fathom the viciousness of those
words and sentences uttered by the soldiers. Deep down, I felt the need to
unmask the bitter truth, yet I was frightened for them. These soldiers tried
to provoke us by all means. They used power games; our torture was their
biggest thrilling victory. After thinking on the consequences, I chose to
remain silent. My helplessness pierced my heart. I couldn’t do anything to
stop their torture of my people. Now, I was just one of them;.I was just a
detainee.

5pm

I was transferred to a small bosta, but right before I boarded one of the
soldiers read my file thoroughly, contemplating each page and what was
written in there. Then he let the K-9 into the cage and checked the seat.
The bosta set off. Ten minutes after the inspection, slamming the door
shut and locking it, the soldier reopened the cage and let the dog in one
more time. He told me: “The dog left youa present.”
He gave it certain commands after which the K-9 urinated on the seat
opposite mine. When the deed was done, he petted the dog and gave him
a treat. He let him out of the cage. Slammed the door shut and locked it.

TA
 The tiny moving tomb started to stink. I couldn’t stand it. My body
trembled, I vomited, and I had a severe throbbing pain in my head. That
was the soldiet’s purpose after reading my papers, and he achieved it. He
must have come across the fact that I suffered from osmophobia and that
I was allergic to odours. He used my weakness against me; he took
advantage of my case to humiliate me. I asked for help yet the only response
I got was: “Why are you complaining about the smell? Do you think you
smell better? You smell like trash. No, even worse! That smell won’t harm
you.” I tried to seek another soldiet’s help and got a one-word response:
soneket.=
An hour had passed since we started that journey, then we arrived at
Sharon Prison. More than twelve hours of pain and exhaustion to complete
my transfer from al-Jalameh to Sharon. No food. No water. No bathroom.
That journey would normally take two hours maximum.

{03
 CHAPTER 12

6.30pm

I couldn’t stand straight any more; my body was worn out. I had a severe
headache. I walked along with one of the female soldiers, and we were
followed by three others in a long hallway and through many electric gates.
I was about to black out any moment. My headache turned into crippling
dizziness which affected both my consciousness and vision. Taking one
breath every now and then restored some of my resilience. ‘This nightmare
must end,’ I reminded myself. I still had hope. I was in a yard surrounded
by metal door cells, which were no doubt intended for prisoners, and
ordinary wooden door rooms for the prison employees. I was delivered to
a police officer by one of the Nahshon Unit’s soldiers; he went through my
papers and confirmed my identity. The metal door was opened, I was un-
cuffed. Into another cell. Door shut noisily with a bang.
A very dirty, stinky tiny prison cell with an unwashed toilet. It seemed
like it hadn’t been cleaned for quite some time. It didn’t take me more than
a few minutes to start throwing up in that bathroom. I felt as if I were
letting out all of the poison which had been overwhelming my body since
I was arrested. A very dim cell, there was no light around except for some
rays barely making their way from the yard to the cell through the door
hole. There were no seats, the walls were covered with rough concrete. I
couldn’t sit down or even lean on one of the walls. I had no choiee but to
sit on the floor and rest my head on my knees for two hours in spite of my
persistent attempts to call out one of the wardens. No response. Then,
suddenly, a warden came, opened the door and shackled my hands and feet
and led me to an office where one of the officers sat at his desk. His
questions indicated that it was the admissions office. After some time the
warden returned and took me to the doctor’s room for a quick check-up
and recorded some data in my file. At around 8.30 pm, I ended up in ward
2: Palestinian women political prisoners (as they are called in Geneva
Conventions). Now, I was in the hands of a new warden. The former
warden un-cuffed me while the second led me to the bathroom, used a

163
hand-held metal detector to search me the strip-searched me. She made me
stand by her side. Waves of sounds hit my eardrums. My ears picked up
some lines: “Girls! A new political prisoner has just arrived”; “We have a
new guest in this ward.”
The warden opened the metal door and ordered me to go in. Then she
called out “Lina!” and went straight back to her office after I was delivered
to Lina.
Lina al-Jarbouni was a political prisoner. I’d read a lot about her and was
acquainted with her case through pictures and online news. I was well
aware of her struggle and steadfastness behind the bars of that prison. We
stood facing each other; I was right in front of her, silent, astonished and
filled with emotion. She extended her hand, so I gave her a handshake. She
asked me to remain calm and go along with her for a quick chat in her
room.
I felt as if I was in front of an icon of resilience and determination, a
unique painting with daring colours. Suffice it to say she had spent 15 years
in that prison. I respected and appreciated her; I recognised her great
sacrifice. | remembered at once all the suffering Ihad gone through during
such a short period of detention and imprisonment. I realised that my
experience was as nothing compated to hers. I was nervous and I didn’t
know how to explain this sudden feeling to her, so I remained silent and
waited for her to talk.
I walked along with her in a hallway with rooms and cells on each side.
Numerous people were there; all eyes were glued to me. Everyone was
watching out of curiosity, they wanted to know who the new arrival was.
Their greetings kept on coming as well.
She wanted to introduce herself, so I told her she was well known, so
she didn’t have to. She began to talk about the prison and explain some
rules. She told me how things operated there and explained the general
rules that should be followed by political prisoners.
In this ward there were specific rules as well as general ones. The general
rules related to Prison Service included the head count as well as inspection.
The women political prisoners, though, had one spokesperson regardless
of their affiliations; the spokesperson who would mediate between the
political prisoners and the administration was Lina. Direct communication

74
with the administration was forbidden. In each room, there was a ‘SShawish’
(a cell boss) who would communicate our needs to Lina who, in turn,
delivered the message to the administration.
I was exhausted. I didn’t fully comprehend the rules and why they were
there in the first place. I didn’t ask about anything. She could tell I was
fatigued, so she wrapped up our chat by saying: “I will elaborate on our
lifestyle here first thing in the morning.”
I asked: “Will I share your cell and sleep there?” to which she replied:
“Tm afraid that my cell is already full, you will sleep in cell number 7.” She
asked the warden to open the door for me and asked my cell-mates to take
good care of me. She left.
Too crammed. Too crowded. It was a 15m? square-shaped cell, where
there was barely enough room for the inmates. One half-opened yet fenced
window. Neither air nor sunlight penetrated the room. There were six
bunk-beds, a grey old TV in addition to eight metal cabinets and a tiny
white sink, and a small rectangular mirror was hung on one of the walls.
There was also a white plastic wall mounted clothes hanger where four
towels were hung, and on one of the cabinets there was an electric kettle
and an electric stove.
The bathroom was very narrow. There was a water pipe hung up high
without a shower faucet. There was a toilet which was placed right next to
the pipe in an uncovered entrance, and which the prisoners later covered
with a yellow curtain.
~ I was the sixth political prisoner. After I greeted them, they introduced
themselves, one woman at a time. They greeted me warmly, politely and
courteously. By the time I got there, they had already prepared a dinner
for me which was fancy compared to what I used to have back in al-
Jalameh, at least.
A square-shaped white table was filled with all sorts of food: vegetable
soup, tice, Mulukhiya (cooked Jew’s Mallow), a piece of chicken and bread,
yogurt and a bottle of grape juice. It was a pleasing shock for me because
I’d almost forgot that type of food existed. Another liquid to drink other
than water — I’d almost forgot about that. I couldn’t see that I would be
able to see such food throughout my stay. I thanked them for their
generosity; I asked them to excuse me if I only ate a little. I was too

75
exhausted to eat and that throbbing headache crept into my body and took
over my senses. I begged their pardon and asked where my bed was. They
pointed to the only bed left. It had a pillow and a blanket. Fortunately, it
was a top bed and that was what’I preferred. I walked up the bunk bed
stairs. I slept until 5am. Count Time.
At 10.30am all the doors were opened. Fawra°, or Yard Time. That was
the name that the political prisoners gave to recreation time. The process
began to clean the cells. I suggested that I help clean up the cell along with
my cell-mates, but my suggestion was refused; I was still a ‘new guest’. We
would take turns; mine would be soon.
Yard Time was a period determined by the administration when the
prisoners were allowed to go to the yard for recreation and let their eyes
enjoy the sight of sunshine. I left the cell and took a trip around the prison
to learn more about the ward and the regulations. Besides, I wanted to get
to know the women political prisoners. I then met with Lina in a room
called ‘al-saf (‘the class’) which was a hall intended for meetings and
gatherings. The fact that there was a small library opposite that hall filled
my soul with happiness. There were a number of books, and in the far left
cotner was Lina’s own office, which consisted of one small table. She
would follow up her own matters as well as those of the other prisoners
from there. Behind her ‘desk’ was a wooden cabinet. In the opposite
corner, there were two shared mini fridges: a refrigerator, a freezer, and
another small table on which there was a bag of bread.
During my meeting with Lina, we discussed many issues, especially my
case. We also talk about the conditions outside and the changes that Arab
countries had undergone. Moreover, we discussed their economic and
political states. One of the things that intrigued me the most was her
question: “What is Facebook? I’ve been in prison for fifteen years. When I
was imprisoned that ‘invention’ didn’t exist.”
I tried to tell her about the developments outside the prison that she
would eventually find herself up against, but it wasn’t easy to describe
everything. Living in the prison for a long time, during which the world
outside had undergone a technological. revolution, would certainly make
any freed prisoner feel like an alien visiting Earth for the first time. They
would have to re-learn how to live. By contrast, anyone who had witnessed

76
 the technological advances who suddenly entered the prison would feel as
if they were living in ancient times; they would lack all forms of
globalisation and development.
She, for her part, elaborated on matters concerning the prison, including
‘the terminology and rules which were common among the female
detainees. She offered me some clothes and other essentials, such as a
towel, a toothbrush and a loofah sponge. I asked her for a pen and a
notebook; she gave me two: a small brown-covered one and a big white-
covered one. She also gave me two pens: a blue ink and a black ink one.
She gave me all I asked for.
My second station was, of course, the library (bookcase). It was a small
one with a limited number of books; it contained a hundred to a hundred-
and-twenty books. They were classified according to their subjects. I went
through them and found some books on religion while very few were
historical books. There were dictionaries of Hebrew-Arabic, and vice versa,
as well as an English-Arabic dictionary. Other books included those on
embroidery, cooking, handcrafts and so forth. The rest of the books,
however, were Arabic literary works, two of which were poetry collections:
Ahlam Mostighanemi's ‘Alayka Al Lahfa’ (“For You is the Yearning’) and
the other written by Dr. Ibrahim Abdullah and titled ‘Al-Arood Bayna Al
Asala Wal Hadatha’ (‘Prosody: Between Tradition and Modernity’). I asked
Lina's permission to borrow them. I took them to the cell.
And then I went out to the yard. It was a square yard with a wired fenced
ceiling through which the sky’s endless horizon seemed nothing but a
square. The ground was painted red. Looking out the fence was eye-
straining; my eyesight was restricted. It was a reminder for every one of us
that we were in prison; our memories would be jogged even when we
strived to forget about it. We were in prison. Despite that, I gazed at the
sky. It was the first time I’'d seen a square-shaped sky. A square. That was
how it seemed to me while looking at it through the wite-fenced ceiling. I
kept looking at the strange-looking sky hoping that a bird would fly over
it, but things didn’t go the way I hoped. I was shocked to see a scarecrow
hanging on the right side of the ceiling’s window; it was hung there by the
Prison Service to keep birds away. Observing the red flooring was like
stepping back to my school years. I thought back to the times when my

Ta
teachers marked my wrong answers with red lines and circles; I recalled
how my grades would be written in red. Use of that that colour alarmed
me, even if Igot a good grade.
I sat ona plastic seat in the yard and kept staring at the red ground which
extended beneath my feet. I lost my train of thought at once and started
having flashbacks. I thought back to the day when I was in, second grade. I
was a shy, well-mannered, smart and hardworking girl. My teacher asked
me what I wanted to become when I gtew up, to which I answered: “I want
to write.” I didn’t understand the words I uttered at the time.
I don’t recall how much of the second semester passed before the day
my teacher gave me my Arabic dictation notebook. It feels like yesterday.
When I got full marks three times in a tow, my teacher rewarded me with
two stickers: a red one which I stuck on my forehead and a green one which
I stuck in my notebook. She asked my classmates to give me a big round
of applause.
The sound of the students’ applause was echoing in my head as I held
my notebook firmly on my way home. My cousin saw me. Golden hait.
Two braided pigtails. He stopped me and I told him that I got ten out of
ten on my spelling test. He said: “Come along! I will get you a present.”
Off to the shop.
He held my hand tight and pulled me away from my house until we
arrived at an abandoned room close to his house. He let me in and shut the
door. He lit up a small flashlight which he carried with him. He took the .
backpack off my shoulders and slowly started to take off my clothes. One
piece at a time. I was waiting. I wasn’t aware of what was going on, so I
cried and screamed: “I’m scared! I want my mum!” That didn’t stop him.
The first thing he took off were my pants. I panicked and stepped back. I
whispered: “I want my mum.”
He answered me coldly. My child self didn’t comprehend that coldness,
but I fully understand it right there and then, standing in that red-floored
yard and in that prison. The room wasn’t large but I kept backing away,
trying to escape until I reached a corner. My pants were still half down,
stuck between my legs, and I was still holding my notebook. He came closet
and kneeled. His big hands were all over my small body after he took all

78
my clothes off. I was sobbing but he was stone-cold like a wolf preying on
a ewe lamb. “Don’t you worry. Let’s play a little then we'll go home.”
He didn’t leave a single part of my body untouched. While he was
‘playing’, I was losing myself in a world of fear, so I lost track of time and
I didn’t realise how much that brutal play continued. After he satisfied his
animal instincts, he started to piece together what he had already broken.
My notebook fell out of my hand.
I held onto my notebooks and pens tighter than ever. Now I was in this
ptison surrounded by many restrictions. I was only seven when my
childhood was stabbed for the first time; I was unaware of it all. I was a
child.
He composed himself. Clothes back on. Backpack on my shoulders.
Dictation notebook in my hand. He held a knife against my tongue; with
his eyes wide open, he stared at my face and said: “Don’t you date tell
anyone about this or else! I'll cut your tongue and kill you.”
He opened the door and looked around; he explored the place carefully.
He held me in his arms and started tickling me as if nothing had happened.
That memory sent shivers down my spine. I quickly looked at the
prisoners around me then up at the chained sky. I talked to myself and
screamed: “I’m not that kid any more!” yet I kept those screams to myself.
I stopped my memories from bleeding as if applying a tourniquet to my
bleeding soul. I went back inside to explore the place further.
Four washing lines made from strings as well as two plastic ones were
strung up on the right side of the yard. On the left side, there was a small
room which was divided into two sections: the first was designed for a
washer and a dryer while the second was a mini kitchen. There was another
room tight next to that one but separated from it by a wall; it was designed
for the administration.
The mote I mused on the colour of the blue metal doors in front of me,
the more I remembered the chained sky scene which could be viewed from
the yard. The strange part was that I had never experienced such feelings
before arriving at this prison despite the fact that I had seen the same
colours during my first stage of imprisonment, whether in al Jalameh or
other cells. My emotions seemed to be completely different.

uw?
 Yard time ended at 1pm; doors closed again and we all went back to out
cells. I was deeply attached to my bed because it seemed to be my own
property in this cell. I didn’t have to shate my bed with anybody, as
opposed to everything else. Even our breathing was shared; everyone could
heat the intake of breath and breathing out of the other cell-mates. I also
breathed in my fellow prisoners’ particles. The ‘barsh' servedas an office,
a seat, a table; it was where I read, sat, wrote and slept. I sometimes even
ate and drank while sitting on it.
Waiting became an obligation in this prison: everything was timed; every
move counted. One couldn’t do anything without the involvement of the
rest; it all depended on them. Our freedom was confined by a smothering
metal door. We moved within a very limited space; each one of us used her
bed as her own space to maintain the rhythm of her life: sleeping, sitting,
reading, writing, sewing and embroidering.
Everything in this prison was about waiting, even using the toilet; I had
to wait my turn for that. Turns had to be agreed on by all the cellmates.
The ward was just like a small village which represented the Palestinian _
society with all its social spectrums, blocs, organisations, traditions and
accents. Despite all the differences and social tendencies, it functioned as a
whole. The cells could be seen as the houses in this small village; the
political prisoners were family.
We performed our prayers in congregation and we prepared and had all
three meals collectively. We would take turns to do cleaning, de-cluttering
and organisational tasks.
On a tiny empty spot between the cabinets and the beds, a piece of paper
was hung; it was a weekly schedule which divided tasks and duties between
the cellmates. One of my cellmates took it down and added my name to
the list, and after consulting the rest, we agreed that this day would be my
turn to clean up the cell. My turn would be on Thursdays. The paper was
pinned up.
At 2.30pm the doors open again. It was our second yard period in the
afternoon; it lasted until 5pm. During this time, many seminats, social
gatherings and recreational activities took place.

80
5.30pm

All the rituals performed by the political prisoners suddenly came to a stop.
The first one turned off the TV; the second one left the bathroom in a
rush; the third one put away the canvas she was embroidering; the fourth
one closed the Qur’an while the last one held her transistor radio and
moved about while tuning it in until she heard some noises coming out of
it. She didn’t change the channel, though, ‘Sawt Al Asra Broadcast’ (‘the
voice of detainees’) and left the radio in the corner where the signal was
detected; she turned it all the way up. Everyone went back to their beds,
including her. I was about to ask about what was happening but one of
them made a silence gesture; she put her hand over her mouth. I didn’t
finish my question. I sat and watched what was happening.

6.05pm

The presenter’s introduction started with Abu Arab’s “Hadi ya Bahar Hadi’
(Slow Down, Oh Sea, Slow Down’) melodies in the background; then he
announced the start of his programme: “Ala Janah el-Teir’ (‘on the wings
of a bird’). I learned that it was a programme to recetve messages from the
political prisoners’ parents. Things became less ambiguous as | learned why
the political prisoners showed so much interest. I listened intently to that
broadcast, assuming it was an interactional news programme which
addressed the political prisoners’ concerns and cases, discussed their issues
and presented their news with their parents. Everything was crystal-clear
with the first call. My pain increased as I saw one of my cellmates crying as
she heard the voice of her dad telling her: “At this moment, we are picking
olives. I’m standing right under your favourite tree which you once fell off
and broke your arm. Do you remember that day, love?” He paused and
then continued: “Hello, daughter. How are you, daughter? I miss you,
daughter. I miss the way the word ‘dad’ came out of your mouth.” He
stopped for a few seconds; she replied through tears: “I’m okay, daddy. I
miss you too. I miss you so much, daddy.” He let her know that he has sent
her some money and some clothes with another woman political prisonet’s

81
parents because her family visits had been denied — the Israeli authorities
refused to grant them a permit for security reasons. He said: “I wonder if
you have received them.” She was still weeping when she answered:
“Thank you, daddy. Yes, I have.”
He was communicating with her through that broadcast; he would ask
her a question and pause for a few seconds as if he were giving her time to
answer. He was talking to her as if they had a phone call; he was waiting
for his daughtet’s voice to come through but knowing all too well that it
was not happening. The call was over. She hugged her pillow and started
sobbing. One call at a-time, the broadcast lasted for an hour-and-a-half
straight without any pauses or commercial breaks. My heart ached and my
feelings were mixed. I had no idea where to get patience and endurance
when all I witnessed was suffering and misery. Yet again I was shocked by
the reality. No matter how much they talked and wrote about the struggle
of political prisoners, nobody would ever truly understand it. Whoever
lived outside those bats would never be able to fathom the depth of their
feelings unless they experienced it first hand. As time passed, I learned that
many political prisoners, both men and women, resorted to that
programme as a way of contacting their parents to hear their voices. That
was the ‘phone’ they were allowed to use inside the prison; the phone of
this era, the era of injustice and oppression. A one-way speaker; the sound
came from one direction. The other part could do nothing but listen. It
never eased the longing; rather, it intensified their feelings of pain and
helplessness.
A political prisoner could only contact their family merely by listening
to the radio. If I had not lived through this experience, I would never have
believed such things happen these days.
The whole world grew insignificant compated to this pain. This vexed
question had grown within me: “Why this brutality? Why do the Palestinian
people have to endure such cruelty?’ The voices I heard on the radio tore
me up inside time after time, yet I was still the same resilient woman despite
the deadly feelings taking over me. Around my cellmates, I kept my pride
intact and maintained my appearance of steadfastness, but I secretly grieved
and got lost in a harsh, loud, obsessive, strange and mad world. I lived with

82
the rest of my cellmates and with every passing day I grew. However, I
didn’t grow physically like a baby would. I grew sadder and more wounded.
Day after day passed, I was still in ward 2 in Sharon Prison and given
complete freedom to explore it, immerse myself as Iwished and learn about
its rules bit by bit. No discussions regarding parties or factions took place.
We didn’t bring up our accusations; we didn’t have the right to ask one
another as to why we were arrested or discuss the details concerning our
cases except with Lina. It was only a matter of time before I found out that
such rules could easily be broken. Secrets could easily be revealed in prison.
I would wait for late-night hours and the calm that pervaded throughout
the cell and the entire ward after the detainees went to bed. I would live
inside my head; I would write and read and I would let my imagination
break free of all the chains, locks and doors. I let it run wild. On the floor,
back against the huge blue door, I would sit so as to make the best out of
the tiny spot of light which shone in from the wardens’ room and travelled
through the door holes. My journey with words as well as the joy of
discovering the true meanings of freedom among all the chains would
begin. That was the right time to write poetry and read with love and a
mindfulness I had never experienced before.
In no time, I was able to gain the women political prisoners’ love and
respect. Moreover, I was able to bond with them in less than a week. Since
I was fluent in Hebrew, I started teaching it to them. I also organised
creative writing workshops. In the evening, right after the second Yard
Time, we would sit in a circle inside the cell and I would read some of my
poems and flash prose. I would be on top of the world when one of them
read aloud what she had written down about her feelings and emotions.
The 19-year-old Shorouk and I became close friends. We started talking,
discussing matters, laughing, crying and feeling joyful. Shorouk was a
bookworm. Every day she would come to the cell where I was and with a
beautiful smile on her face she’d say: “Dateen, Dareen, have you written
something new? Please read it out to me, please. I would love to hear you
reading.”
During ¥ard Time, I would start reciting the poetry ’d composed; she
would be so moved. She would always express that by smiling or,
spontaneously, clapping for me. Sometimes, she would say a word or two:

83
“So beautiful,” “Amazing,” while sometimes I could tell by her tears. At
the same time, I told her: “Shorouk, write. Write down everything you feel
ot experience.”
The next day, she rushed towards me, exhilarated, and in her hand she
was holding a pen and a notebook. She told me: “Dareen, I wrote
something and I would love to know what you think about it. I wrote
something and I want to read it to you.”
Indescribable happiness surged inside me; I hadn’t expected her to
actually write or to take my words seriously. I read what she’d written. To
me, her writing, despite its simplicity and spontaneity, was wonderful. She
simply talked about what she had been feeling. Later, we sat down, talked
and corrected her grammatical errors. Her first piece emerged from the
darkness of the prison. It overflowed with creativity, feelings and questions.
She had never written anything before; it had never even crossed her mind,
yet she did. On that day, she recited another flash prose piece about her
pain feelings in prison, her injury and occupation. From that day on,
Shorouk wrote a lot.
Shorouk loved drawing as well, even though she didn’t really master it.
Whenever she drew something, I would laugh hard. What bothered her
most were gossiping and noise, but what made her happiest was eating
Loacker wafer. Whenever I ate a piece, she would run in my direction
carrying another. She would force-feed me. I would tell her that I didn’t
like it but she would reply jokingly: “This wafer is the taste of life in this
prison. You'll be missing out on a big part of the meaning of life in this
prison.” Then we let out a laugh. And whenever I told her I was vegetarian,
she would laugh even harder and tell me in her Palestinian Jerusalemite
accent: “I wish I could understand what being vegetarian means. How’s
that working out for you here in this prison? As if we had so many options.”
Shorouk loved doing impressions and acting as well. A settler shot her
in the area between her shoulder and chest. It happened when she slapped
him with her bag so he would leave her alone and not take off her hijab.
She was arrested and was waiting for a verdict; she could be sentenced to
sixteen years in prison. One day, I asked Shorouk if I could see the injured
area and she, right away, uncovered it and placed my hand on the scar that
bullet left after it went through her body. At the moment I touched her

84
shoulder I wished I could take away all her pain, along with the painful
memories, and offer her everything she loved instead. Together, we read
Ghassan Kanafani’s “Men in the Sun’ and discussed its plot.
Shorouk was vibrant and skilled; she could write, challenge, live, be
hopeful, she had faith and morals. Shorouk had it all, knowledge and
creativity.
One should bear it all in prison yet there were some detainees who were
injured as a result of open fire; their wounds covered various parts of their
bodies and they were left without any medical follow-up or in need of
treatment. It was beyond intolerable. I had that experience with Israa’ in al-
Jalameh. Having to witness it repeatedly stoked my anxiety. It was hard to
live with the suffering and moaning of others while being unable to do
anything but express the pain you felt using some words of solace. They,
on the other hand, would live in pain inside and out.
One day I had some olives for breakfast and I was about to throw the
seeds away. One of my cell-mates told me not to. “We don’t throw olive
seeds away, we keep them in this box,” she said.
At that moment I realised that everything inside the prison was utilised;
the ward was turned into some recycling plant. Things were born from
nothing in this prison despite the simplicity and scarcity of tools: empty
boxes were turned into storage boxes or presents for family and friends
after being covered them with embroidery canvas; lids were turned into
‘scissors’ or ‘knives’ since both were prohibited in cells; seeds of fruits and
olives were turned into beads to make necklaces, prayer beads (rosaries) or
bracelets into which names were carved after washing, drying and filing
both sides until a hole was made using a concrete edge. The concrete edge
was at the bathroom door. In fact, it was the only area that was not tiled.
As for nylon strings, they were taken out from potato bags. And when it
was cold, plastic bottles were filled with hot water; caps weren’t replaced
until the bottles shrink. Then, women political prisoners placed the bottles
inside their beds to get some warmth: the administration banned the use of
heaters in cells. Being surrounded by these walls and staying among these
political prisoners made me grasp the proverb: “Necessity is mother of
invention.”

85
 CHAPTER 13

Once or twice a week I had to endure the exact same journey in the bosta,
back and forth. Never-ending, pointless hearings, three of which I chose
not to attend so I wouldn’t have to go through those hours of torture. I
signed some prisoner service consent paperwork. The papers stated that I
willingly requested absenting myself from those hearings.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

4am

I woke up to the sound of the warden calling out my name. She ordered
me to get ready, and when I asked her for the reason she told me I had to
attend a hearing immediately after the count was carried out.
An unscheduled hearing. I had no clue what the reason for that hearing
would be. The document I had signed confirmed that my next hearing was
to be held the week afterwards. I got ready, anyway. I waited until Lina
woke up so she could enquire about what was going on and make sure of
the unscheduled hearing. I also asked her to check whether I was able to
absent myself from the hearing and sign a consent form. I wanted to save
myself from being racked with pain in that bosta.
When Lina returned, she told me I would have to attend that hearing
because the list of indictment would be announced; my attendance was
requited by law. I learned as well that the hearing would be held the next
day. I would be taken to ‘Mivar!” al-Jalameh and would be brought back
to Sharon Prison on Sunday.
I left with the warden who turned me over to the Nahshon Unit after
conducting a strip-search and shackling my hands and feet. Into the bosta.
My journey began at around 6am. The bosta stopped at different stations,
and three hours later we finally reached our destination where I stared into
the eyes of death while I was still alive for four more hours. I was taken
back to the bosta. By 8pm, I had lived seven hours in that moving tomb.
Making a stop at four prisons before I reached my station where I was led

86
into yet another bosta. I was at some prison; the shift of the unit
responsible for my transfer was finished. I didn’t receive any water or food
throughout that journey; neither did I ask for anything, so I wouldn’t need
to use the bathroom. In fact, during the bosta journey, a bathroom trip
would be out of the question.
Many stops. Longest journey to date. Every time I asked what time we
would arrive at Sharon prison, all I got back was silence or an angry
“sheket”. After hours of this agonising journey that left me dead-tired, I
was finally able to locate the area. I saw a sign next to where the bosta made
a stop. I was in the far north of the country. We were in Qiryat Shemona
settlement which was established after the destruction and depopulation of
the Palestinian village, Al-Khalisa, in 1948. I was clueless as to why I was
there instead of being dropped off at al-Jalameh.
It was almost lam. The day was over and a new day had just begun. I
was still in that tomb. Another shift was rotated; another bosta with
another group in that unfamiliar place. I listened attentively to the
discussion taking place between the two groups of the unit. They’d
forgotten to drop me off at al-Jalameh. Forgotten! That was good enough
reason for them to giggle. Hurting another human being was merely a joke
that made their faces light up. The bosta started moving again after taking
on a detainee. Two hours later, it stopped. We were at Jalbou’ Prison. It
was almost 5am. I was still in the bosta. They were somewhere getting rest
and drinking coffee. They returned and said there would be no need for
them to take me back to al-Jalameh and they would drop me off at
Nazareth District courthouse itself. My hearing was at 9am. I didn’t know
how I could handle such news when I felt as if I was one step away from
death. With my cuffs, I banged on the sides of the vehicle. They said,
carelessly: “We’re setting off soon.” They put two more political prisoners
in there. Off we went.

87
Thursday
7am

I atrived at Nazareth district courthouse; they dropped me off there and

led me into the building. The soldier who was pulling me towards the
building and her colleagues were told there were no available cells. They
weren’t able to put me in the cells where prisoners in criminal cases stayed.
I was a ‘security prisoner,’ after all. They didn’t know where to put me, so
they led me outside the building. I asked: “What happened? Was the
hearing adjourned? Are you taking me back to al-Jalameh?” The female
soldier replied: “No, you will have to wait in the bosta until your hearing
begins.”
I yelled in her face: “What you are doing is illegal. I’ve been left inside
the vehicle for an entire day.” She didn’t budge. Cage opened again. Into
the bosta which was parked in a garage. Doors closed. No AC, nor air. No
lights inside or outside the vehicle. No ventilation; I was suffocating. Ulcer
pains were growing. A coughing fit. It was more than I could take; my body
had been tortured enough. I screamed, but all my screams were unheard.
Every half an hour, a soldier would check in on me. They would stand right
next to me and ask: “Is everything okay?” I would answer: “Absolutely not.
I’m suffocating. I need some air.” They would open the door for a few
minutes and say: “Here’s some air. Breathe. You can breathe now,” and
would bang the door shut. ;
As usual, my hearing was late. Another five-hour wait until I was led
there. As I entered the courtroom, my lawyer asked me: “Why do you look
so pale?” In brief, I summed up what had happened. My lawyer wanted to
tell the judge about it all, yet she stopped him, saying: “This hearing is
intended for announcing the indictment list only. If there is another
different or additional complaint, a special heating should be requested.
Anyway, I will let the Nahshon Unit know. They'll take care of it.”
It was a ten-minute hearing during which the indictment list was read
out loud. It was over. I was pulled back to the bosta, to my very special
holding cell. Despite the fact that.I wasn’t given any food or water until
that very moment, I had the urge to go to the bathroom. Not a single piece
of food or drop of water had entered my body for two whole days. I called

88
out and asked them to allow me to go to the bathroom. Nobody came. My
very simple request and one of my basic rights as a human being was simply
ignored. I tried to hold on a little longer until my last ounce of energy. I
was just too weak, it got the best of me. I wetted myself.
The bosta set off for al-Jalameh at around 6pm. When we got there, the
soldiers noticed my wet pants and started laughing at me. They hurled
sarcastic words: “trash”, “disgusting”, “you deserve this” and “filthy”. My
Ade 44

eyes had had of defeats. The soldiers looked at me as if they were

victorious. I, the one who didn’t know how to put on a big smile to retaliate,
was struck to hear myself singing at the top of my lungs:

In the Ansar Detention Camp Gather the detainees

When the sun rises It will promise the revolutionaries

You imprisoned the heroes’ bodies But failed to imprison their souls

Their souls as great as a mountain For we can bear those wounds

The sun of liberty is within us Who could lock it up?

The prison of an enemy Can’t shroud those suns

What could those prisons do? When the dawn is summoning us

The prison of the enemy can’t Shroud our homelands

We’re crossing to Palestine And we remain devout to it

The way they looked and laughed at me turned to astonishment. The

recruit then led me to the ward; I was handed over to the warden, yet I kept
singing. Strip-searched and mocked. She enjoyed the same hobby of

89
 humiliating me as much as her comrades did — “disgusting”, “stinky”, “I
have to search you,” she said repeatedly.
I didn’t tire of repeating that song until I was put back in the grey cell.
Only then I stopped singing. I instantly washed my clothes and put them
back on while they were still drenched. I spent the rest of the night
vomiting and coughing.
I stayed in the cell until Sunday morning. I was taken on another deadly,
gtuelling trip back to Sharon Prison. A hellish road trip. That was one of
the worst parts of being imprisoned: it was nothing but a method of
humiliation used by the Prison Service to crush the patience and endurance
of a detainee. The journeys seemed to be part of the punishment.
As soon as I arrived at the prison and entered ward 2, I hurried towards
Lina and hugged her for quite some time; I hugged all the pain away. She
_ was surprised and asked me why I did so, yet I didn’t respond. I entered
my cell to find my cell-mates had already prepared my dinner. We greeted
and hugged one another. I hopped into bed and fell asleep at last.
One morning, while I was with a Nahshon Unit soldier waiting for the
registration officer in the prison yard to record my departure time, I came
to the entrance of the yard only to see a group of soldiers circling a child,
one of the brave young detainees, who I estimated, based on his facial
features and overall physical appearance, to be around twelve years of age.
He was shackled with a number of chains: two handcuffs, two leg-cuffs
and a chain connecting those hand and leg-cuffs through a loop in the
middle. His left forearm arm was wrapped with white bandage which
indicated a recent injury. The boy seemed to be weighed down by the
chains. He could barely walk. Four or five steps. Pause. Take a break. Catch
a breath. Repeat. However, the soldiers forced him to move forward at a
quicker pace. They shouted at him using some heavily accented Arabic
words which translated as: “Come on boy! Move! Faster!”
He drew nearer and nearer to where I was standing. He was only a few
steps away from me when he tripped over the chains, lost balance and fell.
He started crying. My body, reactively and involuntary, moved in his
direction so as to help him get up from that terrible fall. The soldier held
my cuffs and stopped me: “Let me help him stand up; he needs help to
stand back up. Look at him, he’s an injured shackled child,” I told her. “He

90
is a ‘subversive’ and he deserves what is happening to him. You have
nothing to do with him,” she replied.
For the first time since my arrest I felt oppressed. I felt oppressed
enough that I actually considered acting on it by beating the recruit up. I
almost did. I regained my self-control. I have no idea how I managed to
gather myself and I suppressed the anger that was burning inside after
seeing a child in such a condition. I have always had a weakness for
children; I can’t stand by and watch them suffer. At that moment, I was
nothing but a helpless political prisoner. I couldn’t achieve that duty of
humanity. He was lying on the ground right before my eyes. I couldn’t find
a way to offer my help. Words were all I had. Loudly, I encouraged him
with some uplifting phrases. Mental support. I hoped he’d be able to
overcome that ordeal. “Stand up! You’re stronger than they are. Come on,
stand up! You will be just fine,” I reacted out of emotion.
He looked right at me. His innocent expressions and teary eyes were
smiling at me. Then he expressed his gratitude with a “thank you.”
He managed to stand back up after a long struggle. Soldiers immediately
started shouting at him: “Yalla walad! Lazim nroukh min hon! Yalla imshi
bsura’a, makhabeel (a Hebrew word for subversive) which would translate
as “Come on, boy! We have to leave this place! Walk faster, you
subversive.” After this he began to move away from my eyeshot. Still, his
shadows haunted me, no matter where I went.
Alone in this dark trench, I groped my way. I was trying to learn how to
be blind among the sighted, or maybe sighted among the blind. I failed in
both attempts. I had even started to ask the world around me questions as
if Iwere asking myself. I pleaded with my own conscience as if I were
pleading with the whole existence. All human languages were inadequate
to express the pain I witnessed in this spot. I felt as if Ihad reached the
peak of human tragedy, as if I were on some mountain-top where the
loudest waterfalls, scariest summits and darkest caves ate.
I arrived at the courthouse and returned with nothing but the image of
that boy stuck in my mind. Late at night, I re-entered Sharon Prison: ward
2, prison cell 7. The deep sea within me was raging and I got carried away.
I started to ask myself whether I would taste more intense humiliation or
that greater humiliation would feast on me.

91
 CHAPTER 14

Two weeks passed by since I first arrived at Sharon Prison; I was used to
its harsh environment. I prepared a daily schedule to benefit myself and my
cell-mates and make the most of our time. And just like the rest of the
political prisoners, I became a part of that ward.

Monday
Jam

Lina showed up at the cell door and announced the names of the female
political prisoners who had family visits. Surprisingly, my name was on the
list. However, three of my cell-mates didn’t get the chance to have visits,
for security reasons, according to the prison administration. For that
reason, I tried not to get too excited about my family visit. We
congratulated one another as if it had been some celebration. Those whose
visits were denied couldn’t hide their feelings — their facial expressions said
so much. It was yet another tale of a new struggle and grief. This was the
day I came on a new type of art: it was the political prisoners’ art of burying
theit pain and resorting to imagination. They would live in the hope that
family visit permits would be granted by the administration. Those
emotions were too painful; I felt as if there had been a dagger stuck in me.
That art had to be mastered by each one of us.
The Yard Time turned into a wedding-like scene: it was filled with
laughter, delight and the political prisoners’ spontaneous ululation and
hails. On hearing the news of their family visits, each one of those women
political prisoners picked out her best outfit and scarf. Many exchanged
clothing items, they mixed and matched colours to get the perfect look.
Some wore lipstick and eye kajal to look charming, elegant and composed
for their families. Those who were denied visits glanced at each other, cried,
or comforted themselves by praying, reading the Qur’an.
Up until that morning, I had been looking forward to my family visit,
yet my perspective changed as I watched those three political prisoners. My
heart went out to them. Neither silence nor speech would suffice. I started

92
my journey of introspection. Reality and memories began to get blurred bit
by bit. I needed some silence to make sense of my deep-rooted pain and to
live in the present moment while trying to reconcile myself to what was
going on. Only then, I thought, might I be able to put it into words.

12pm

The political prisoners lined up behind Lina, who was accompanied by a

warden, right in front of the wardens’ room. There were two more wardens
to help complete the task. One by one, we were allowed into the room. It
was my turn. I entered the wardens’ room then into the bathroom; I had
to cross the checkpoint which meant that I had to be searched with a
security wand then be strip-searched. Right after that, I was shackled by the
warden. Every one of the political prisoners had to go through the same
process.
We had to walk in long hallways and narrow corridors which resembled
prison cells as they were surrounded by high walls on each side. Some had
ceilings. Between one hallway and the other, there was a gate where we had
to wait for a few minutes until it was opened. It took me 15 minutes to
reach a small building. During that journey, I peeked at the wide-open sky
and the blueness of it that I missed so much. Once we reached the building
out wrists were unshackled. With shackled ankles, we entered the parloir
(prison visiting room). The officer standing at the door announced the
beginning of the visit.
From where I was standing, the room looked rectangular. It was
hallway-like with huge aluminum-framed glass windows on the side; each
of the blue aluminum frames (glass partitions) represented a booth
designated for one woman political prisoner to meet her family. Leg-
cuffed, I sat on a plastic chair right in front of a glass window with a narrow
stool. A very old black telephone with a beige base was hung on one side
of the window. From the opposite direction, families rushed in, scanning
the room and looking for their daughters. Each wanted to sit in front of
their daughter, yet they would greet whoever they passed. In came my
brother. I waved at him, he saw me and sat facing me.

93
 I picked up the telephone in my booth and made a gestute so he would
pick up his too. The audio quality was awful, it wasn’t clear at all. It cracked
and broke up, so I tried the other speaker. It was still bad yet a bit better
than the previous one. I was certain that all of the phone calls were
censored and recorded, so I jokingly smiled and told him: “Tt’s like we are
holding a phone call for real. We’re talking but we don’t know who is
listening.” My brother just smiled at me and nodded. I asked him how he
was treated when he came to visit me, so he told me that they bombarded
him with questions, very petsonal ones, about me. He also told me about
all the scenes of humiliation he had witnessed prisoners’ families had to go
through because of the prison administration. It was unbearably painful for
him to witness such humiliation of women, especially at the prison
entrance. He, too, had to wait for more than two-and-a-half hours in an
open yard where there were no seats or even a ceiling that would protect
those families from heat, rain or hail. I asked him if he was treated
differently compared to those who had come all the way from the West
Bank, yet he said: “We’re all Palestinians. I had to go through the same
exact process. Whatever they had to go though, I also did.” We mainly
talked about family matters, the prison, how I spent my time, life among
other inmates. From time to time, I would wander, pause and observe the
rest of the political prisoners.
“Dareen, this is my daughter. The one whose picture I showed you.
Come here. You can meet her in the flesh,” the woman political prisoner
who sat next to me called. I looked at her seven-year-old daughtet’s face. I
waved and smiled at her and I blew her a kiss from behind the glass, and
she did likewise. Looking around me, I glanced at families and women
political prisoners, one at a time. I could recognise one political prisonet’s
family from a poetty reading evening I’d attended, where I’d taken
photographs of them. Those pictured were saved on my computer, the one
which was confiscated by the police. I hugged that political prisoner and in
that moment I realised who she was. Her patents recognised me instantly.
I grabbed the phone and talked to them. They were astonished that their
daughter and I were together behind that glass; they said: “You’te also here,
in prison?” I returned to my visiting booth, just next to the political
prisoner who was talking to her daughter and mother. Her husband’s visits

94
were denied by the prison administration on security grounds. Her
daughter started to cry her heart out. Still weeping bitterly, she screamed
repeatedly: “I want my mum!” She went towards the officer in charge of
the visits and pleaded with him to grant her a few moments to hug her
mum. He brushed her off. The glass was sound-proof, but I heard her cries
through the phone that my brother held. Her cries pierced my soul; I wept
along with her as well as her mother. I wept in silence.
I watched another political prisoner talking to her mother through the
telephone while being separated by the glass partition; they could only see
each other. Untouchables. No hugs. No kisses. My eyes lingered on that
scene which captured my mind and heart. Deprived of family visits since
her arrest, that woman placed her hands on the cold glass window; they
longed for a touch. They kissed each other but were separated by that glass
window. In that booth and from behind that glass window, everything had
a different taste to it: meeting, yearning, kissing. Two forces attracted each
other but in opposite directions.
Forty-five minutes passed. The whistle was blown announcing the end
ofvisiting time. They said goodbye to one another. Wrists re-shackled. Led
outside that soul-draining booth. I vividly imagined a love epic of lovers
travelling to a wishful place: an open window through which they might
get a kiss, a touch or a hug.
Yearning was the political prisoner’s worst enemy; their oppressor which
drained them of their steadfastness. In spite of this, those political
prisoners’ capability to hide their pain remained, along with their
determination and resilience. It’s true that I endured pitched battles with
this bitter enemy of mine since I had my heart set on writing with my pen
mote than meeting my family. Longing for different things didn’t really
matter since it all led to the same result in the end — silencing our agony
and attempting to paralyse our thoughts while walking patiently along the
prison corridors.
It had been two months since I was arrested and one month since I
joined the political prisoners in Sharon Prison. I became a vital part of the
ptison. My relationship with the political prisoners there grew stronger as
we bonded more with each passing day. Their trust, amity and respect
increased and became our motto. During Yard Time, we had many political

95
and social discussions; we also discussed what the society deemed as
taboos. Initially, I struggled with criticism and rejection even from the
educated and the cultured ones. That did not hinder me, though. I kept
discussing those ideas time after time to the extent that the vast majority of
them became mote open to and accepting of my mindset. I did everything
within my power to contribute to their advancement.
Each day, they’d ask me about what I had written recently. One of them
would ask me to write a letter to her son for her, so she could send it to
him through the Red Crescent representative. Another would ask me to
write a love poem to express her yearning for her fiancé after telling me
about their love story. Iwould respond to their request without hesitation;
my emotions and theirs became one. I would write for them as if I had
been writing about myself and giving voice to my own emotions. With
time, I supervised creative writing workshops which were satisfying and,
above all, successful. I struggled when I realised there were some women I
couldn’t come in terms with by giving advice or by lending a hand. I came
to realise that some of their reactions should not be interrupted, including
crying, collapsing or having suicidal thoughts. Some psychosocial mindsets
struck me as peculiar. Sometimes, some of the inmates’ outlooks seemed
illogical, anomalous and beyond belief. At first, I assumed they were
pretending, diminishing, falling down or exaggerating, yet I remained silent
and accepted the drastic differences of opinion and perspectives. As a
matter of fact, 1 enjoyed watching and observing them in vatious
circumstances. They shaped a whole new culture of steadfastness and
resistance in this prison which I would never experience myself. -
After adapting to this lifestyle, I marvelled at my ability to smile,
sacrifice, tolerate, ignore, embrace, empathise and comprehend. I was
surprised that I was a brand new person. Things went on unchanged in
prison: routines, emotions, scenes and incidents. An endless cycle. The only
change was the number of inmates, which was on the rise. Crowded cells.
No more empty beds. Mattresses were placed on the floor to accommodate
the rest of the political prisoners which reached up to forty-three while the
capacity was thirty-eight. Five more wete either at some hospital or
detainee centre and they had to be brought together with political
prisoners.

96
 It wasn’t Yard Time yet. Doors opened at once. Lina asked us to go to
the ‘classroom’ where she broke the news of the latest Prison Service’s
decision to transfer some of us to Damoun Prison due to overcrowding
and the rise in the rate of Palestinian women’s detention and imprisonment.
The Prison Service administration and the Israel Secutities Authority had
decided to re-open Damoun Prison after having shut it right after ‘Wafa al-
Ahrar’ agreement, which was signed in exchange of the release of the
soldier ‘Shalit’. The agreement stipulated separating unsentenced detainees
from sentenced ones. Lina announced that the transfer would take place
the next morning; transfer would be done in two installments.
Startled by the news, it dawned on me how everything was temporary,
especially in prison. I had flashbacks of the things to which I’d grown
accustomed, such as the relationships which I had assumed would last
throughout my arrest period but were about to change. I realised that
nothing is permanent and seeking stability in prison is impossible. I also
learned that I needed to practise embracing the impermanence of places
and people as well as the things I had learned at any given moment.
I recalled at once a well-known saying by Moshe Dayan which I'd read
in a book on the history of Palestinian political prisoners: “Exhaust
prisoners by ceaseless transfer.” He was the one who devised that abusive
transfer policy. Political prisoners’ sense of stability in prison would turn
into a motivation for creativity and innovation. Stability would lay a good
base for setting up a mini society from which light could emerge amid the
darkness of prison. Ensuring our constant drain and burnout was the core
of the policy deployed in Israeli prisons against political prisoners; that state
would completely use us up, mentally and emotionally, leading to constant
anxiety. Persistent transfer was the means to that end. Stability was deemed
dangerous, according to the Israeli prison convention: it must be ended
straightaway. The most effective tool to achieve that would be unscheduled
and unforeseen transference.
After unfolding a paper, Lina read the first installment list of names;
mine was at the top of the list. She gave us enough time to answer all the
questions we had. I was one of those political prisoners who had so many
simple yet detailed questions. I don’t know why I asked so many questions;
it was the curiosity which took over my emotions and thoughts.

oF
 A few moments later, I was silent, so Lina asked: “Who would like.to
take on the tasks of a spokesperson of the detainees in Damoun Prison?”
No response. She asked me: “Dateen, would-you like to be in charge of
this responsibility?”
Despite the fact that I was utterly surprised by that suggestion, as I was
new and inexperienced, I couldn’t refuse. I said: “If everybody approves, I
will have absolutely no problem with that.” The ultimate surprise was when
they all agreed; none of them objected.

98
 CHAPTER 15

That Monday was supposed to be a family visit day, yet it turned into a day
of sorrow and parting. The warden distributed black duffle bags in which
we packed our possessions, including pillows and blankets, in a sombre
atmosphere. We said goodbye to one another and parted ways; it was tough
and harsh especially for those who grew on one another and became best
friends after spending months living together. The transfer took place
before Yard Time; the administration refused to open the cell doors to
allows us to hug and say goodbye. From behind the blue doors and through
the tiny windows, it was our last goodbye. Some of them sobbed for leaving
their best friends behind while others refused to look, as saying goodbye
was too painful for them. Instead, they covered themselves and buried their
heads in their pillows while hurting and drowning in tears.
We left the ward. Shackled. The ‘first installment’ was how the Prison
Service referred to us. Hand and leg-cuffed, we walked along carrying our
big heavy bags. We were walking towards the unknown, which we were to
experience in the corridors of a new prison.
A three-hour, arduous journey on the bosta. Luckily enough, it was a
non-stop transfer from Sharon Prison to Damoun Prison’? in Haifa. We
were all in the same boat. Together, we went through the same struggle and
details in that Ford vehicle; it had the exact same interior design and
measurements. The significant difference between the Ford bosta and the
previous ones was that the window holes were a bit larger — they were large
enough for us to be able to look outside and see the road ahead.
Every now and then, I would look outside the window holes, read the
signs and let the political prisoners who shared the same cage with me
know where we were. I would tell them the names of the cities we were
passing through. It was as if Ihad been in some history or geography class.
Eagerly, they would look outside the window, and with every name I
uttered they would ask me bitterly: “Are we going to see the Wall? Are we
going to cross a checkpoint? Are we going to stop at a crossing?” and they
would give rueful laughs. I didn’t reply to those questions since they already
knew the answers. They simply used those rhetorical questions as a

99
compass-point to the origin of the historical injustice we'd experienced and
its tragic proportions.
That continued until we reached Haifa borders where Mount Carmel
and the sea wete in view. I told them all that they could see the sea from
there. I was overwhelmed when I realised a yet more appalling tragedy
which left its mark on me: right at that moment, inside the cage and
through those holes, was their first time of seeing the sea. Ever. I saw their
eyes sparkling with eagerness. I could sense their emotions. I could feel the
desperate longing in their hearts. That hurtful truth hadn’t dawned on me
until that moment, although I already knew of it. With my chains, I banged
on the cage walls and loudly told the others to look outside the window
and contemplate the sea view.
A whole generation of Palestinians didn’t know what a home was and
what bordets were without the Separation Wall. That generation wasn’t
aware of what it would be like for streets to exist without checkpoints or
how moving from one city to another wouldn’t require passing through a
border. A whole generation didn’t know what the sea looked like despite
reading about it in geography books which state that Palestine is
sutrounded by the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, the Red Sea and the
Dead Sea; the books also mentioned that the Lake of Tabariyyah is located
in Palestine.
The vehicle stopped and the cage door was opened. One political
prisoner at a time, we disembarked while carrying our bags. One of the
officers opened a cell door adjacent to the vehicle’s parking slot. After the
recruit unshackled our wrists and ankles, we went in. Door closed.
It was an abandoned, very old cell; it seemed like it hadn’t been used for
a long time. It was very dirty as well. The bathroom consisted of nothing
but a hole in the ground; it was in one of the corners. I walked around and
explored each inch of that cell. It was divided into two more cells. There, I
noticed a red information sign hung on one the walls. It was written in
Hebrew and it translated as “The building is under restoration. Shut down
in 2010.”
It had been two hours, and there we wete, in the very same cell. Close
to the blue door, I stood still and watched the outside world go by through
the tiny fenced window. Two wardens arrived. One of them tried to unlock

100
the door, yet it didn’t work, so the second one gave it a try. She, too, failed.
The lock hadn’t been used in ages. It was obvious. The two wardens called
on a male warden to lend a hand; he came and tried to unlock it. At first,
the lock eluded him, but within a few minutes of constant pulling and
pressing, he managed to get it unlocked. It took them fifteen minutes to
unlock the door. In order to avoid facing the same problem in the future,
the male warden sprayed it with some substance.
I took on translating from Hebrew into Arabic to help the political
ptisoners understand; each warden would call for one of them and demand
that she accompany her to another cell. They would bring their bags along
with them. It was time for strip-searching and inventorying. The list of
items would later be given to the Prison Administration.
In a small cell, the warden started to strip-search me following the usual
pattern. Later on, she demanded that I open my bag and remove every
item. Meanwhile, she took out a pen and a piece of paper from her pocket.
She listed my possessions. She piled up the similar clothing items together
and classified them; she counted them and jotted the number down: shirts,
pants, pens, notebooks, underwear items, pairs of socks, the pillow, the
blanket and my watch.
The process wasn’t any different from the inventory of goods in stock
conducted before presenting them to tax authorities at the end of a fiscal
year. Inventorying my possessions didn’t take longer than fifteen minutes.
It was the fastest compared to the five other political prisoners since I
carried nothing but some clothing items which Lina gave me when I was
at Sharon Prison. Four consecutive hours of inventorying. Whoever
completed that step would go back to the cell and wait for the rest.
And then it was time for our information to be recorded so as to
officially finalise our transfer process from Sharon to Damoun Prison.
Afterwards, we walked through an entrance where we had to step through
a body scanner after which we had to go to another building. One by one,
we were required to enter a room and talk to a prison officer. There was a
consensus that we didn’t want to meet him individually in his office. The
administration, though, insisted on holding those face-to-face individual
conversations. The political prisoners asked me to discuss this issue with
the officer on their behalf. After a lengthy discussion, I managed to find a

101
solution to end the conflict. After I proposed my solution to them and got
their approval, I proposed it to the officer. I suggested that I go in with
each political prisoner and witness the discussion. Rejected. And, in return,
we also rejected carrying out any further discussion or yielding to them. We
were strong-willed. Our determination eventually prevailed even after we
had a long wait which lasted for more than one hour. While we wete waiting
for the ‘administration’s response, we agteed to keep our answers
abbreviated to cut the conversation short. Besides, we agreed not to discuss
any personal details or any information regarding this group. We agreed on
an eye gesture as a warning against answering a question. I alerted them to
the presence of an officer from Sharon Prison in that room together with
two more from Damoun; I told them what his name was as well.
Although I had never aspired to lead a group, i.e. to be in control of the
‘steering wheel’ of the group, there I was accepting that task, playing and
enjoying the role of a leader under the conditions imposed on me, forcing
my lifestyle and emotions to change. That role motivated me to put in more
efforts and sacrifice for the sake of helping the others; offering the political
prisoners’ services and alleviating the suffering that came with their
‘imprisonment. I hadn’t expected to succeed in that task; I surprised myself
by being capable of accomplishing it from the outset. I passed that humble
first test.
We were asked to move forward in the direction of the second, and last,
station so as to reach the new ward, the one intended for us. Two female
wardens took the lead. We walked behind them but were followed by two
more male wardens. We walked in a narrow corridor which was between
ptison administration offices on one side and a number of blue gates on
the other. After pressing a button, the gates opened automatically. We were
dragging our bags behind us with our hands and chains with our feet until
one political prisoner became exhausted and stopped. She was carrying two
over-packed bags, so she couldn’t bear it any more, especially with those
shackles and the weight of the two bags she was carrying along. Besides,
the corridor was too narrow and tough to walk down. I helped her to pull
one of her bags. Surprisingly enough, one of the two male wardens came
closer and carried the other one. We thanked him for his gesture. We
moved ahead.

102
 The blue gate opened when it almost struck 11pm. We walked through
that gate until we reached a large, high-walled yard with concrete flooring.
Above us there was the sky. Free, unchained and unfenced. It was bitterly
cold there. After taking a few steps, I noticed an open light-brown wooden
door through which I could see a man wearing a military uniform sitting at
his wooden desk. Up ahead, two blue cell doors caught my eye. And right
before me there was a white window through which I could see the head
of a male warden whose eyes were on us. In the centre of the yard, there
was a small square building with three concrete stairs and a white aluminum
door next to which there was a brand new white fridge; it was still wrapped.
A few minutes passed, the wardens unshackled us. The man left his
room and came towards us. He stopped at his room’s entrance. “I am this
ward’s administrator. This is your new ward in this prison,” he confidently
and proudly announced.
Lowering his tone of voice, he told us what his full name was. The sound
of his voice suggested how proud of his rank he was; he seemed to be
proud of his rank more than he was of his own name. He began explaining
a list of rules and clarifying some primary points as we were “new inmates”
in the ward. He drew a distinction between what was allowed and what was
prohibited, stressing that Sharon Prison was different from Damoun. He
started asking some questions of each detainee; he was anticipating some
specific answers to his questions. They simply pointed to me and explained
~ that I would be the mediator and their spokesperson. He didn’t look
convinced but didn’t really get into it. “We'll discuss this later,” he said then
demanded that I go into his office to put our heads together and figure out
how tidying and cleaning up the rooms should take place as well as how
female political prisoners were to be distributed.
I went along with him and had a long conversation on many topics
concerning us, the political prisoners. At the top of the list was providing
the basic requirements in our cell, including an electric stove and kettle. He
rejected my request and, as usual, his excuse was “orders” which prohibited
granting such a request. He said that getting those items would require the
approval of the Prison Administrator; the process would be lengthy too. I
was scared that if Iaccepted what he said, then I would never be able to
get the items in, so I didn’t take no for an answet. I insisted on my request:

103
“We won’t get into our cells unless we have those items which are of great
importance to us,” I said sternly. He picked up the phone and explained
the matter. After his phone call was over, he said: “The administrator
apptoved yout request to bring in those items but only if that would be at
yout own expense.” I answeted: “No problem. I have enough money to
cover those expenses in my personal canteen account. I will buy the same
items for the two cells and will pay for them.”
He didn’t.expect my response or the instant solution I'd offered. My
suggestion was bad news; his face said it all. He pressed some keys on his
keyboard searching for my name and he wrote down the number of my
canteen account. “While you’re cleaning and tidying the cells up, I will be
getting you the stuff you need,” he said. I added sugar, tea and coffee to
the list. Through a walkie-talkie, he ordered the warden to provide us with
the necessary cleaning supplies. He demanded that another male warden
bring six mattresses as well as a number of blankets. I left and told the
political prisoners about what we had discussed and agreed on.
Night colours took over. Darkness fell and ‘overshadowed the yard.
From the top plates, spotlight rays gleamed and spread over the yard. Light
poured into it from all directions. On a narrow edge sat three political
prisoners while two more were standing close to them. Eyes gazed up at
the sky. At first sight, they seemed like they had been watching some action
movie in the cinema. Slowly, I approached them. I was trying to puta finger
on it. What were they watching at those moments? What caught their
attention? Closer and closer, I approached them until I stood right beside
them. I looked up in the same direction only to find out who the
protagonist was: the moon.
None of us had even caught a glimpse of moonlight since her arrest.
The longest period of arrest was a yeat and nine months, and the least was
two months — that was mine.
Captivating and magical. Waxing crescent. And behold. I contemplated
its tiniest details and I sensed its glowing halo. It looked more beautiful
than ever; it seemed like I saw it for the first time and discovered its
existence in this universe. It was different scenery indeed. The moon didn’t
resemble the one I observed the night before my arrest as I was taking
pictures of it. |wished I had my camera to capture that moment for others

104
 to see. Then the outside world would see the real moon through the eyes
of the political prisoners and how it made them feel.
In front of us, we saw two male wardens carrying our mattresses. They
interrupted us while we were watching that one-of-a-kind movie. The
female warden followed them and gave us our cleaning supplies. We
probably would not get another chance to be out in the yard at that hour
and enjoy watching the moon. Yard Time ended at five in the afternoon..
Each in her own way said goodbye to the moon and went about our other
chores in the prison after I told them what the conversation between the
officer and I revolved around. They were completely satisfied with my
position.
We began to divide the cleaning chores. At that time, that ward turned
_ into our own new and sole refuge in that gloomy prison. The first cell was
small and contained four double-storey metal bunk beds; they were painted
light brown. In one of the cell’s corners, there were a sink and a square
shaped ceramic piece so as to place kitchen utensils as well as eight new
metal wall mounted cabinets. A modern TV was hung on one of the walls.
There was a toilet; it had a metal door which could be fully closed. The
second cell was almost identical except that it was larger and contained nine
two-storey bunk beds. All in all, the ward would accommodate twenty-six
people.
Shower rooms were shared as they were built outside the ward in a
building in the yard: that was the square-shaped building at the centre of
the yard. There were four shower faucets; the area was divided into squares
where each was intended for one faucet. Curtains separated each square
from the other. The showering system wasn’t the same as in Sharon Prison.
In Damoun Prison it took place during Yard Time specifically.
Our days in that new prison were passing by. With the increase in the
rate of women’s arrests, the second installment of the political prisoner
transfer from Sharon Prison as well as bringing detainees from detention
centres or hospitals into the Damoun Prison, the ward was full. We were
twenty-three political prisoners in total; in the small cell, there were seven,
so the eighth bed wasn’t occupied. We used it as a shelf on which we placed
the things which we bought from the canteen. Similarly, there was one

105
empty bed which was used for the same purpose in the other cell, as there
were seventeen inmates.
Same rituals. Ward 16 in Damoun Prison wasn’t different from ward 2
in Sharon Prison; the details and rules were the same. Our suffering didn’t
change at all, either. Being occupied with arranging the female political
prisoners’ matters and following up with the administration on
requirements took a lot of my time during the daytime. I would spend my
night-time in solitude with my pen, papers and poetry. One day, while I
was sitting on my bed and embroidering a piece of cloth, which I obtained
from Lina along with some threads, the prison administrator suddenly
opened the cell door. He said he was on a routine inspection tour. I put
away everything I held in my hands to see what was about to happen. He
looked instantly at the embroidery piece and yelled: “What is it that you’re
doing?” to which I replied: “I’m just embroidering.” Shocked, he asked:
“What is that? What is it that I'm looking at?”
Smiling as I noticed his reaction and anxious facial expressions, I held
the piece of cloth, and indifferent to his screams, I pointed to it and said:
“This is the map of Palestine embroidered with the colours of the
Palestinian flag, while this is an olive tree.” “This is incitement against the
state of Israel! This is a threat to its security!” he thundered.
As he said those words, I couldn’t help but laugh. I looked around at my
cell-mates who exchanged sardonic looks and laughed to themselves. He
demanded that I bring along that piece of cloth and go with him to hold a
disciplinary hearing in his office so as to record my violation and ‘punish’
me for breaking the prison rules.
I went along with him but couldn’t keep from laughing and smiling. Into
his office we went. He sat on his chair while I sat facing him. He began to
talk: “This time, I will only give you a verbal reprimand and take away that
piece of cloth from you. The flag of Palestine is an incitement against the
country’s security. You are not allowed to draw it in any manner.” As I was
laughing, I asked sarcastically: “What about the olive tree?”
He seemed perplexed. No answer. He walked a couple of steps and took
out a pair of scissors from his cabinet. Back to his seat. Embroidery cloth
cut. The olive tree was separated from the map of Palestine. He kept the
piece with the embroidered map of Palestine using the colours of the

106
Palestinian flag. Hearing was overt. I left his room and went back to the cell.
My cell-mates were waiting impatiently for me to know what had
happened. As soon as I stepped foot into the cell, I held the cut piece of
embroidered cloth up high and showed it to them. They all broke out in
laughter; it could never be put into words. Their laughter probably echoed
all over the prison and in every corner there. Had there been a laughter
measurement scale, ours would have been the strongest in human history.

107
 CHAPTER 16

Tuesday, December 22
6pm

I was about to climb down my bed to fetch something from my wardrobe.

The corner of my top bed formed an angle with another, so it was
impossible to use the bed ladder to climb up or down. Time and time again,
I filed complaints about it to the administration so as to find a solution.
They would tell me that switching ladder sides wouldn’t be easy and it
would be time-consuming as it required dismantling the built-in bunk beds.
The solution I suggested was less complicated than what the administration
made us believe it to be; my suggestion was simpler than the difficulties
and impossible scenarios they had told us about. I pitched an idea: bring a
new ladder and fix it on the opposite side of the bunk bed; nothing else
would be required. The ward’s administrator couldn’t bear the idea of my
outsmarting him or my ability to offer solutions. It showed on his face as
he was responding furiously to my clear-cut solution, saying: “I took note
of your complaint. We'll solve the problem when the time is appropriate.”
Two weeks had gone by and I kept following up on the process, yet every
time I received the same response: “Your complaint is still in process. The
problem will be solved soon.” In fact, it would only take them ten minutes
to fix the new ladder to the bunk bed.
The problem remained unresolved, so I had to use a citcular plastic table
to help me reach my bed or descend from it. It was just like climbing a
trunk-less tree. Then came the moment my right-foot toes touched the
table, I slipped, lost my balance and tumbled down the table. I felt shooting
pains in every inch of my body. Splintered ankle. I couldn’t move at all.
Shocked and worried, my cell-mates gathered around me; two of them
helped me stand up and sit on the closest bed.
My foot hurt so badly; I felt as if it had been detached from the rest of
my body. A spot on my ankle turned dark blue. My toes turned blue too.
And in a split second my foot had swollen up like a balloon. With every
breath I took, and with every passing minute, bit by bit, it got bigger and

108
bigger. At every moment, I imagined that it would blow up; the pain was
extreme. All the symptoms indicated that I had a broken ankle.
Through the vision panel, one of my cell-mates called the warden. When
she arrived, my cell-mate talked to her in Hebrew and told her that I had
to be taken to hospital to receive the necessary treatment. The warden, in
turn, told her she would tell the ward’s administrator immediately, the
doctor as well as the nurse. After ten minutes, the warden returned; she
said she had let them know and they would come to assess the situation
and do what was necessaty.
It took two-and-a-half hours for the door to be opened, at last. Four
people came in: two officers, a nurse and a female warden. “What
happened?” one of the officers asked me, so I explained the accident to
him in detail. “Are you sure you haven’t been beaten up by one of your
cell-mates?” I was about to explode. How silly! I had just explained to him
what had happened and from where I fell. The pain was getting worse and
I had no energy to discuss or even listen to his nonsense. I simply told him:
“T told you that I fell down.” The second officer asked the paramedic:
“How bad 1s her case?” The nurse approached me and looked at my foot
before he said: “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s not serious. I will bring
some medication from the prison infirmary.” Enraged, I told him: “My leg
is broken. I can feel it. What kind of medication are you talking about? I
need to go to be hospitalised and get an x-ray.”
He took another look at my leg and said: “Twitch your toes.” I replied:
“T can’t even place my finger on my foot and you’re asking me to move the
toes of my injured foot! I can’t do that. I’m in so much pain!” He said:
‘Don’t worry. Pll get you the necessary treatment.” They conducted the
Count and left the cell.

Another hour passed. Distressed, I was still waiting around for the
nurse’s magical solution that would heal the intensifying pains of my
broken foot. He came and gave me his advice and instructions through the
vision panel after he handed his proposed medical treatment for my foot
over to one of my cell-mates, and said: “Place it on your foot. You'll be just
fine by tomorrow morning.” My cell-mate handed over that magical
treatment the paramedic had talked. At that moment, it was in my own

109
hands. A rectangular blue ice mould and a painkiller, a white Voltaren
tablet.
Five political prisoners were in need of medical follow-up cate as they
were wounded after being shot. I was the sixth on the list, yet one thing
was different about my case: it was urgent. I would only get my treatment
by being hospitalised, getting an x-ray, and a cast for my fracture.
Any move I made would cause me intolerable aches and pains and
would increase my suffering. That was a rough night. I couldn’t stretch out
my leg in front of me while I was lying on bed; I couldn’t even put my foot
on the floor. Whatever came into contact with it would intensify the pain.
I did my utmost to elevate it and fix it up in the air with both my hands;
the seating pains tore me up inside. It was lam. All my cell-mates were fast
asleep. Too silent. It was tertibly cold outside which heightened my
suffering. Utter silence. I could hear nothing but my echoing aches and
pains. The warden walked by the cell door. She shone her flashlight on me
and said: “Why aren’t you asleep yet?”
It was the same warden, and she knew what had occurred all too well.
In spite of this, I answered her question so that she would stop talking and
my cell-mates wouldn’t be disturbed. “Extreme pain is keeping me from
falling asleep,” I said. “Do as the paramedic told you and you will fall
asleep,” she said back. With dismay, I shook my head. A few seconds later
she left and she wasn’t in sight until the Count was conducted at dawn.
Despite the fact that my cell-mates did their best to help me out, I wasn’t
able to stand up as I was expected to during the Count. I could barely
balance myself on one leg while standing right next to my bed. The officer
asked me why I didn’t do so, and again I explained to him what I had been
through; I reiterated my urgent need to get hospitalised and receive the
necessaty treatment. He replied sternly: “The paramedic said that there
would be no need for that. End of discussion. Only he or the doctor is
responsible for medical follow-ups.”
Humanity is not for sale; it’s not a material possession, yet it’s similar to
a currency, available for all. Some have lost it while others haven’t put it to
good use. Human communities, consequently, are chaotic: wars, disasters
and injustice have become the prevailing language of the century. In spite

110
of human poverty, humanity is still of value regardless of whether it is kept
in a safe or scattered underneath our feet like dust and soil.
Oh how I wished that only one member of the administration would
find such treasure, especially at those very moments and lend me a hand to
save me from the cruel pain and take me to some hospital to receive the
treatment I needed to heal the fracture.
Pleasure lasts but a moment, pain lasts a lifetime. That saying finally
clicked. Only then, when I was in pain but couldn’t find a cure. I didn’t cry
or scream; I suffered in silence and wished I was dead. The cries of my soul
became louder than ever. What were those voices that were toying with
me? Deep inside there is nothing but a large stage; I could hear Shakespeare
dictating to each of his plays’ protagonists their own roles. To me,
everything had turned into a scene out of Hamlet. It was happening right
before my eyes with all its tragic conflicts — evil, hate, malice, betrayal and
inhumanity. Groaning, I recalled the scene where death was described, and
I lived every detail of it. I could feel the noise of that scene and thought to
myself: ‘Did Hamlet go through the same experience as I did so that now
that his emotions resonate with me? Or did I only just discover the real
pain of humans during these moments? Or was my perception of
everything around me influenced by my pains and aches? I didn’t want
freedom — I wanted a treatment. I only wanted something to wash all that
pain away. Death would be more merciful than fighting my pains.’

Wednesday
12pm

Seventeen hours, full of suffering, had passed but to no purpose. All my

appeals and cries of pain were unheard. The administration took no action;
none of them wanted my agony to end. The women political prisoners were
getting ready for the family visits. I was told that I, too, had a family visit
and I would be taken to the prison medical centre for a doctor’s visit. I felt
a little happy to learn that I would be transferred to the prison clinic, yet
the news of having a visit was accompanied by burning pains shooting up
my leg; they took over my emotions and numbed all my other sensations.

iL
 Warden shifts rotated; the shift warden demanded that I move to the
doctor’s toom with her. I stressed the fact that I couldn’t move my leg; I
couldn’t even put it down on the ground. She believed me without having
to enter into further discussion. She asked me if I could walk on one leg
while leaning on her shoulder, so I replied: “Let’s give it a try.” I was
required to hop. One hop was enough for me to feel the pain shooting
through my leg; it was as if my leg was broken into tiny little pieces with
every move I made while I was hopping. The warden could tell I was in
great pain, and as soon as she realised that she took no further steps. She
stopped and helped me sit down, kindly and quietly. I asked her whether
there was an available stretcher, yet she said that there was none. At that
moment, she spoke quickly to another warden over her walkie-talkie and
asked her to dash into the ward so as to lend a hand. Within a few minutes,
the second warden arrived. With one warden on each side, I simply leaned
on their shoulders. And just like the stretcher, they used their hands to help
me move, slowly, one step at a time. They endeavoured to move me. The
route leading to the doctor’s room was long and difficult. I apologised to
them and extended my thanks for their help along the way.
Those two wardens were one of a kind; they were that gem in the prison
on which I had bet. That gem still existed despite the gravity of the tragedy.
They both created a beautiful picture which showed the true meaning of
being human. Not only that, they renewed whatever hope there was left in
me: humanity wasn’t non-existent in the face of it all.
They helped me to sit down on a seat in the clinic. A police officer then
joined them. The doctor came in and stared at my foot, which was swollen
and had turned black and blue. The doctor had a talk with the officer and
the two wardens in a foreign language. It might have been Russian. He
wrote a doctor’s note which stated the need to transfer me urgently to a
hospital. “Come to the visitors’ room. We'll head off immediately to
hospital,” the officer told me. And so the doctor gave me two walking
sticks to help me move around. I entered the room with my walking sticks
in which my parents had been waiting for me in front of the window. I had
to tell them about what had happened. I kept it short. I couldn’t endure the
pain for forty-five more minutes; I preferred to go to the hospital rather
than follow through with the visit. And that was what actually happened.

1i
 Supported by two walking sticks and guarded by five soldiers as well as
one female soldier of the unit responsible for transferring political
prisoners, I boarded the bosta. One of the soldiers took away my walking
sticks after I sat down. While in the cage, the female soldier approached
me, hand-cuffed me and was about to leg-cuff me. “How will you place
those metal chains around an injured leg?” I shouted.
She left without answering my question, consulting her colleagues and
getting their approval. She left my injured leg unshackled yet tied the other
one to the chair, then banged and locked the cage door as she left.
A broken leg and two shackled hands. A moving tomb and an increasing
pain with every move, stop and turn the vehicle made. The misery I had to
go through before doubled up with my broken leg. There were no words
for the pain, especially when it hit the metal sides of the cage. Luckily, the
journey of suffering lasted for only twenty minutes. Whatever patience I
had was exhausted, yet, at the same time, I felt happy as I was drawing
closer to some end to my pain.
The vehicle stopped and the cage door was opened. The female warden
brought me a wheelchair. She demanded that I sit in it while shackled after
descending the vehicle. I refused. Hands freed. With the help of the two
walking sticks, I managed to descend the vehicle and sit in the wheelchair.
Hands shackled. She also re-shackled my left leg and connected the chain
with the wheelchair. They started negotiating who was to push the
wheelchair in which I was sitting. Each would give the task to another. A
few minutes into the discussion, they finally agreed that the female soldier
would push it; she had to take on that task. We entered the emergency
room in Bnai Zion medical centre.
Sandwiched. Two soldiers walked behind me while two others walked
in front of me. The female soldier pushed my wheelchair. Everyone else
watched that scene of humiliation. Laughing, gloating faces and sad,
sympathising ones. I saw both.
My leg was x-rayed. The orthopaedic doctor examined the results; he
found out that my ankle was broken. I was transferred to the nurses’
station. The doctor asked me to sit on the bed. That was when the warden
un-cuffed me. I moved towards the bed and barely managed to sit on it.
The orthopedic doctor as well as his assistance, who was responsible for

aks)
applying the cast, came close to me. He looked at his computer screen
where my x-tays were displayed and then looked back at me. He said to the
female soldier: “Re-cuff her. I have to apply the cast on her leg.” It just
dawned on her that she had forgotten to put my hand-cuffs back on my
wrists. I deduced that the doctor was afraid to come closer to treat me
without my being hand-cuffed. And so, up to my knees, he placed a cast.
Back to the bosta. Re-shackled. Attempts to shackle my legs failed because
of the leg cast. The female soldier didn’t give up on the idea, so she shackled
my left leg and connected the other end to one of the wheelchair edges.
Inside the cage, and with the leg cast on, I was chained.
I could not move without those walking sticks. I came into the ward. I
rejoined my cell-mates, yet in a new reality, different from the one in which
I lived before. The ward’s administrator didn’t allow me to bring my
walking sticks into the cell. I insisted. As a matter of fact, the doctor
recommended that I didn’t bear my weight on my broken ankle at all at this
stage as it would make the fracture worse despite the leg cast. After the
discussion, he let me have them inside the cell, yet warned me threateningly:
“Never let anyone write anything on the cast. Doing so would be deemed
as incitement, a security violation and breach of the prison rules.” In spite
of the pain I’d undergone, my heart was filled with laughter when I heard
his words.
My cell-mates gathered around me and wished me a speedy recovery.
We began working on a new project of helping and sharing. Whenever I
was in need of their help to accomplish a task, they would spoil me with
their generosity and sacrifices to ensure my comfort and to ease the pain
caused by the cast.

Sunday, January 3, 2016

In the afternoon the administration let me know thatI had a visit. It wasn’t
the arranged family or lawyer visiting day, so I was taken by surprise. I
asked the ward’s administrator who the visitor was but he didn’t give me
an answer. He simply demanded that I move along.
With slow steps as I walked holding walking sticks, I was taken past the
usual lawyers’ visiting room, and the way we were taking didn’t lead to the

114
family visiting room. That was until we arrived at the entrance of one of
the rooms which belonged to the administration. I peeked in the room. To
my surprise, the visitor was Deputy Speaker of the Knesset, Haneen Zoabi.
Despite the fact it was unexpected and exceptional, it was the right timing.
I was allowed, for the first time since my arrest, to meet someone who
wasn’t behind bars as I was and who I got to shake hands with and hug.
No barriers. No timing. In a regular room.
I felt confident and at peace; being supported by decision-makers and
leadership at that stage would raise the cause I bore on my shoulders. We
discussed my health status as well as a few topics related to social matters.
Most of all, we discussed my case, the course of interrogation and
imprisonment. We talked about the poem which was also accused of
incitement and terrorism alongside the other accusations against me.
Additionally, we conferred about how the police’s strategy: they would
arrest a person first and then begin their hunt for whatever accusation they
could find to frame them. It was exactly what happened to me.
She gave me a hug that was loaded with feelings of warmth, amity and
pain, and I sat facing her. I could only move using the two walking sticks.
I looked into her eyes and at her face and saw the pain hidden behind them,
as if the pain I felt in my left leg made its way and reached her. She directed
her gaze towards my broken leg and saw my bluish freezing and pained
toes. She bent forward and brushed her fingers against my toes; her palms
embraced them, sensed their coldness and tried to warm them up. Suddenly
she removed the scarf which covered her shoulders and covered my toes
with it. Then she headed to talk to the ward’s administrator and told him:
“How can you leave her in such a condition! Her leg is freezing.”
That was the first time I’'d ever met the Deputy Speaker of the Knesset,
Haneen Zoabi, one on one; all the previous times she was either behind
podiums or delivering public speeches. What an exceptional meeting it was.
How fruitful and valuable our discussions were. It was a lot different from
the previous official meetings. It was personal, spontaneous and filled with
feeling which left a permanent mark on me. I felt as if I had been getting
to know a new Haneen, someone different from the one I had already
known for all those years. Her visit confirmed that I was not fighting alone

115
for freedom of speech; it was a battle and the fate of many of my people,
especially for the °48 Palestinians.
Our meeting came to an end and it was filled with laughter, hope and
positivity; I said goodbye and returned to the ward. My heart was charged
with energy, just in time. My resolve, determination and my commitment
to what was right were boosted despite all the hardships and suffering that
I and the other political prisoners had undergone. Haneen, her words,
embrace, compassion, gentleness, sweetness, humbleness, spontaneity and
humanity filled my heart with hope and vitality.
Ninety-six days had passed since I was imprisoned. As if I had been
through a mystery-coated journey. It was a journey of humiliation,
disrespect and, ultimately, cruelty. In the company of my fellow women
political prisoners, however, we turned that also into an enriching and
beneficial experience; we made the best of it. Its bitter memories, the
harrowing experiences and embarrassing situations had also taught us some
life lessons which would always be lie deep in our hearts and minds.
Life in prison could not be considered as life in the first place. It had
nothing to do with everyday life, yet we, as political prisoners, convinced
ourselves that we would live it to the fullest regardless of the bitterness. We
live it as ifit were normal. In prison, we felt happy, sang, danced, cried, had
celebrations, said goodbye, felt sad, held discussions; we disagreed and
fought. We sensed all those feelings which anyone would in their ordinary
life. In reality, though, all of those emotions were connected to one shared
feeling, which resulted from injustice and occupation. In this very prison,
we had one wish in common which connected us: attaining freedom in a
free homeland.
This deprivation of the political detainees — denied the enjoyment of our
hobbies, including art, sports, sports, drawing, reading and education in
prison — made us dedicate all of our time to politics. It was enough to have
a few political prisoners with various political backgrounds to assimilate the
rest into this culture and strive to raise political awareness among every
single one of us. Those who entered the prison with no political
background would leave with it after they’d served their sentences; they
would become politicised and pattisan.

116
 How funny was the policy of the Israeli Prisons administration towards
Palestinian political prisoners. To think for an instant that their policy of
repression might actually prevent the proliferation of political ideas! Didn’t
they realise that preventing marital relations, books, drawing tools, musical
instruments as well as education in prison would automatically and
eventually turn prisoners into grade-A political ones?
The trust which grew stronger between the political prisoners and me,
with the passage of time, gave me a chance to get to know them on social,
psychological as well as political levels. Each one of them hid a story within
her which encapsulated yet another aspect of the misery of a Palestinian
woman under the occupation in all its shapes and forms, including the
ptison where they ended up. I heard many stories about numerous
experiences and each had nothing to do with the other in terms of the
conditions, causes and consequences.
I was hurt deeply to learn that some of them chose the occupiet’s prison
and constraints as an escape from the constraints imposed by society and
the injustice of its traditions. The catastrophe became even greater when a
girl or a woman ran away from social injustice, her family or violence
towards another prison, yet a tougher and a mote complex one. They
would do that intentionally but at the same time because they were forced
to do so. One prison was exchanged for yet another, as she believed initially
that the Israeli occupation prisons would protect her or that they would be
more merciful than the prison of society, its traditions and domination,
only then to be shocked by the painful reality of being victim of an
environment which lacked the appropriate frameworks for solving the
social and psychological problems she’d been suffering from all along.
There would be no women’s societies or associations to address her
problems, and if she managed to find one she would still suffer from male
domination there. Male figures would be in control of decisions and would
pose a threat to her life and stability. From the yoke of the society and
traditions to the yoke of the land’s occupier. Same result. Women remained
the victim of imprisonment. Societies which were supposed to be the
producer of life, safety and dignity, became a source of humiliation, hurt
and violence. This was all as a consequence of occupying Palestine.
Violence, force and male domination were the allies of settler colonialism.

iwef)
The occupation’s violence wasn’t merely geopolitical against our homeland
but, with time, it developed into a psychological, physical and social one
that was inflicted on women.
As for the country, the authorities and the officials who were required
to protect women and their rights, and provide safety from such a danger
and threat, were often the primary guardians of transgression and violation.
A female was transformed into a bet and an effective tool of political
pressure during any internal or external conflicts managed by the Israeli
occupation government and its policy. Under such harsh social
circumstances and violence, as well as imprisonment and detention, the
question that echoed ceaselessly was which one encompassed the other?
Especially as the concept of violence which most of the women political
ptisoners expressed, included, from my perspective, an act of domination
which had left them with deep emotional scars and affected their mindsets
and emotional processing (defence mechanisms). This would interfere with
and impede the public or private social and political courses of their lives.
Any social practice which aimed to restrict the freedom of Palestinian
women, intimidating them or attacking their dignity or individuality by
social, familial or political pressures, was an immediate cause of the Israeli
occupation, and it served the existence of the occupation and its racist,
colonisation policies. It’s true that cultured, educated sections of society
were well aware of this reality and they showed amazing ingenuity in
diagnosing its psychological impact as well as pointing out the
consequences of the occupation and its deeds. Despite that, they lacked the
ability to confront any of it by developing effective and viable remedies to
the status quo. In prison, and for women political prisoners, discussing
psychological or social issues would be deemed abusive to struggle and
resistance, odd or something they would describe as shameful or religiously
forbidden.
Women constitute half the society. Therefore, depriving the society of
their capacity or potential squandered the opportunity for liberation, and
that was what Israel was seeking so as to entirely destroy Palestinian society
and gain complete control over Palestine: the land and its people. As long
as Palestinian women were under social, cultural, familial and political
occupations, out homeland, Palestine, would remain under Israeli military

118
occupation. True liberation, national independence, advancement would
not be achieved until Palestinian women were liberated from social
oppression and made them equal to men in terms of rights and decision-
making in varied familial, social and political fields. The Israeli political
strategy was based on a good understanding of Palestinian women’s
liberation as the only way to achieve freedom, and thus it spared no effort
in preventing Palestinian women from gaining their economic, social,
political and cultural liberation. Aside from that, Israel supported and
deployed the theory of women’s oppression by the Palestinian society itself,
so as to continue the Israel occupation. If women were taken over,
oppressed, enslaved, absented from social, political and intellectual
awareness; if they were paralysed emotionally, expressively and
intellectually, all aspects of life and reasons to hold onto our homeland, its
soil, air and water would end up paralysed as well, since women in Palestine
were the weakest link. Those women were the ones who bore the
consequences of the occupation’s crimes, and they, additionally, were the
first to be affected by its diverse forms of violence.
I had many discussions with the rest of the women political prisoners to
seek their support for this theory, as well as their contribution to change
their stereotypical ideas towards liberation and resistance, and to find ways
to achieve victory for themselves before anybody else, whether during their
ptison term or after they had served it. It was paramount to me. My mind
was restless, I worried and couldn’t seem to think about anything else but
that. I can’t say that I succeeded, but I was able to influence some of those
political prisoners whose perception of many things, including struggle,
resistance, the quest for liberation, getting out of trouble and facing
ptoblems without being ashamed of expressing emotions, instinctual and
sexual needs regardless of the circumstances as they were not shameful or
religiously forbidden: they were part of our human nature and an inherent
right for us all.

119
 January 13, 2016

I said goodbye to the political prisoners in the morning before 1 headed for
my hearing. The warden accompanied me so as to conduct a strip-seatch.
Physical and naked search. Afterwards, we moved towards the x-ray
‘baggage’ scanner. I had nothing but the two crutches, yet the warden
responsible for monitoring the machine demanded that even my crutches
be checked and that I walk through the x-ray body scanner. I did try to
walk but I couldn’t move without my crutches. My leg was still too weak
to put pressure on. Attempting to convince him to give up on that idea, I
said: “The warden has just sttip-searched me.” “I have no other choice.
You will have to do it. How do I know you aren’t hiding something
underneath the cast?” he insisted. As I was looking at him in despair, the
other warden intervened. “Let’s get it over with,” she demanded. “What
do you want me to do? Crawl?” I replied. “You don’t really have to do that.
You can hop,” she said. That argument smothered me. I couldn’t
comprehend such humiliation. I wanted to put an end to it immediately. In
excruciating pain, I took some slow-going steps. I was afraid it would cause
* more complications. I hopped. Every time I hopped, the sharp pain
intensified. Iwas moaning and groaning with pain when I heard them laugh
sarcastically. While she was laughing at the top of her lungs, she remarked:
“And now you have a leg similar to Lionel Messi’s.” Loud giggles filled the
place, louder than ever. Still hopping, I didn’t turn to look behind me until
I went through the body scanner and got my crutches back. Those
moments filled me with deep repugnance and loathing like never before; I
felt as though I was in dire need for revenge.
During my court hearing, the judge ruled that I be placed under house
arrest under severe restrictive conditions and circumstances, in particular
being under a guardian’s supervision 24/7, and being away from my house,
environment, place of residence and family. I had to wear a house arrest
tag which monitored and detected every move I made. I wasn’t allowed to
have access to the internet in the apartment where I had to stay. Besides, I
had to pay a 6,000 shekel bail and sign 20,000 shekel bailouts.
The judge’s final deliberation on such tough conditions was based on
the prosecution report, as my poem and I were accused of posing a threat

120
to the Jewish public and the conditions would act as a deterrent to harm
any Jew, incitement to violence or spreading terrorism. Just like that, the
prosecution office and the judge accepted that I be sent away to Kiryat
Ono, the Jewish town located at the heart of Tel-Aviv, as I posed a threat
to the state’s security and the safety of the Israeli public.
The courtroom was packed with people who wanted to champion my
cause, including intellectuals, media figures, activists, some of my
immediate family members and three of my relatives, deputy speakers of
the Knesset representing the National Democratic Alliance (Balad) as well
as the chairman of Higher Arab Monitoring Committee, Mohammad
Barakeh. They were all exhilarated when I was released to that exile and
under those restrictive, strict conditions.
Out of the courtroom. Back to the holding cell. The company
responsible for my electronic tag didn’t allow my release instantly so I was
to be transferred to al-Jalameh Prison immediately in spite of the judge’s
decision which stated that I was to be released from my cell but remain
under house arrest. After that, a Nashon Unit female soldier strip-searched
me and I was taken back to the bosta. I remained there for two hours, my
hands were shackled, my leg was broken and had a cast on while the other
was tied to a seat on a two-hour journey. I bottled it all up and buried my
pain. I arrived at al-Jalameh and entered it while leaning on the two crutches
I’d got at al-Damoun Prison. The warden in charge searched me. Again.
Then she got me into one of the cells there with which I was already rather
well acquainted and familiar.
Late at night, the warden opened the vision panel and shone the lantern
on my face while uttering the words: “Get ready, you'll be released from
cell into house arrest. We have already let your parents know and they’re
on their way to pick you up. This is what the judge has ruled. At midnight,
you'll have to be in Kiryat Ono where you will serve your house arrest.”
The paperwork relating to my release was handed in to me and they
demanded that I sign it so that I committed to my attendance at the
upcoming hearing and my confinement to my house until the hours
mentioned. One of the papers stated that I had the right to pay the doctor
one follow-up visit. And sign, I did. The gates were opened wide. Leaning
on my two crutches, I headed out, plodding towards the gate until they

il
stopped me. I was told I wasn’t allowed to leave while keeping the crutches
with me. I explained how difficult it would be for me to walk without being
supported by them. I asked that I keep them just until my family arrived,
and, immediately, I would give them back. They refused. “You have to let
go of them and leave them right here,” was their only reply. I suggested
that somebody accompany me outside and take my crutches once my
parents arrived. Without any justification or obvious reasons, that request
was rejected as well. I negotiated no more. I realised that what they had
been seeking all along was to torture me until my very last moment at that
place.
The weight-bearing was difficult for me — I could barely walk. The cast
hindered my movement and when my foot touched the floor, terrible pain
shot through my leg. I crawled; I had no other way of moving towards my
parents’ car. Slowly, I pulled and dragged my body along outside. My
brother noticed me as I was getting closer and he ran towards me. We
hugged one another, he carried me and took me to the parking lot. My dad
and maternal cousin were there; they, too, were waiting for me. I hugged
them yearningly. I arrived home and hugged every single family member I
had, one person at a time until I finally managed to enter my room. I went
in and closed the door. I hugged and kissed my cats, Cady and Simba. For
five minutes, I lay on my bed while I checked every corner of my room.
Gathered to see me, the room was filled with guests and well-wishers,
friends and relatives. They were all there just to see me before I was
released yet again into a new and faraway prison. I barely managed to eat a
bite of my Mujadara plate which my mum had brought me before the
electronic monitoring company contacted my brother demanding that he
hurry up, saying: “If you don’t arrive right on time, we will take her back
to prison tonight.” “You have just released her from al-Jalameh at 10pm.
How do you expect me to arrive at Kiryat Ono by 12am? Could you give
her more time so as fetch her personal belongings from the house? We’ll
set off right after she does,” my brother replied. For once, my brother’s
stubbornness worked, so they set another date, tomorrow at 3.30am. In
spite of the tough time I had moving around due to the cast, I greeted each
and every guest we had over, fetched some things from my room,
including: my debut poetry collection which was brought out in 2010, The

122
Last Invasion, as well as all of Fadwa Tuqan’s and Nazikal-Malaika’s poetry
collections, and some poetry collections by Mahmoud Darwish and Aboul-
Qacem Echebbi. I brought along some pencils and notebooks for writing,
my work backpack which I used to wear for work before I got arrested.
Everything I left was untouched: the last two books I’d read. One of the
books was written by Ghassan Kanafani while the other was by Ibrahim
Nasrallah. Besides,.I had my unpublished book titled Galilee’s Canary
Songs; it was expected to be published at the end of December, 2015.
There was also a novel which I was working on titled An Appointment
with the Whales, which discussed my childhood. I had a journal and some
drafts. I had my workplace keys along with the keys of my new electric car
which I’d bought just three months prior to my arrest.
From my room, I also collected some clothing items, my blanket, two
pillows, my headphones, my radio, my turntable record player, the
phonograph records of Fairouz, Abu Arab, Julia Butrus and Mayada
Bseliss, Mohamed Mounir. I also had some tape recordings of my close
friend singing as well as a picture I’d taken of us, my guitar, perfume,
toothbrush, hair comb, body lotion and shampoo bottles and a teddy bear
which I had received for my last birthday from my friend. I left.

123
 CHAPTER 17

When I arrived at my new ‘prison’ with my brother and his fiancée, it was
3am. It was an apartment which they rented so as to meet the requirements
of my house arrest and which was approved by the state prosecutot’s office
in Tel-Aviv in order to limit the threats my poems and writings posed to
the state’s security and the Jewish public. Those were their accusations my
defence lawyer went along with, as to get me out of the actual prison was
the priority, at all costs. My brother and his fiancée made some slight
changes to their lifestyle to carry out the court’s ruling. They rotated shifts:
one would leave while the other would stay to supervise me. I was strictly
prohibited from being left alone or unaccompanied,:even for a few
moments, as though I had been an infant.
After a few minutes of entering the apartment with my broken leg, four
soldiers wearing prison service uniform and two others wearing police
uniform knocked on the.door and came into the apartment. They fixed the
monitor on my left leg. It was a plastic electronic ring connected to a bigger
device which looked like a phone, and then they connected the phone line
to it.
One of them asked me to walk within the limits of the place until I
reached every corner. They wanted to determine the space within which I
was allowed to move. They finished setting the device up and tracking all
my movements. They left. I, for my part, began to map out my new prison
so as to help me face everything that was waiting for me in this exile and
this lonely, strange place.
The moment they left, I grabbed a plastic bag and covered my leg cast
with it and took a shower. At last, I was taking a shower with clean water:
it had been so long. In prison, I would take showers with yellowish water.
I submerged myself in soap and let the shower water pour over me for ovet
half an hour. I imagined the tap I would stand under to shower while I was
in prison, and then I thought of the women political prisoners who had no
clean water to shower. I applied body lotion then put on ointment to treat
my blisters as my skin was covered with them, not to mention the mosquito
and bedbug bites ’'d endured throughout my detention and imprisonment.

124
I recalled the time when I asked for proper treatment only for the warden
to laugh it off sarcastically, tell me it was nothing but scabies and they had
no cure for such blisters; laughing, she left me there. I put on my pyjamas
and threw myself down on the bed. I still couldn’t believe I was sleeping
on a clean, thick, comfy mattress which had nice, sweet-smelling bed sheets
instead of that smell of dampness. I looked at the walls surrounding me
and remembered the cockroaches and bedbugs on the walls of the prison
cell where I’'d been kept. Sometimes, with my hands, I traced the wounds
which the cuffs had left on my wrists and feet. The noises of the door being
knocked on, the chains and the nightmares I had stopped me falling asleep,
so I put my headphones on and listened to my friend’s songs. It wasn’t easy
for me to fall into deep sleep. My thoughts took me back to many places
and instants I experienced in prison, and yet again, sometimes, these
thoughts still haunted me here in my new prison. How was I to adapt?
Finally, my friend’s beautiful voice won the battle against those discordant
voices in my memory. Her voice comforted me. I fell asleep and granted
my body and mind calmness and serenity.
Three months had passed and I was still exiled. ?’'d been living with my
own thoughts. I couldn’t get accustomed to my brother and his fiancée;
they didn’t grow on me as we had extremely different lifestyles. Writing
and reading were my only refuge and that was how I let my time go by; I
was banned from leaving the house. No yard, no balcony, no fresh air, no
sky, sun or people, no internet, no sophisticated electronic devices and not
even an ordinary phone to stay in touch with my loved ones. I had nothing
but some books, notebooks, pens. A TV, a radio and some music. I had a
small window overlooking buildings which ached and burdened my eyes.
Suffocating and melancholic, I would look outside and immediately close
the window to return to my precious and delighting treasures.
I made up my mind: I wanted to be steadfast, that was my choice despite
everything. I accepted the current situation and began to create things out
of nothing. Life, the land and its people were dear to me and so was writing;
I wouldn’t accept any compromise of it. Confined and exiled in this house,
I needed to meet people, despite my love of writing and reading. I needed
to feel like I was part of human existence even if I had to do that within
these mute walls. Interacting and socialising with people, no matter how

125
limited, would have been of great help to me as it would stimulate me to
write and interact emotionally which, in turn, would inspite me deeper
when I wrote.
Indescribable happiness. As my case crossed all borders and turned into
a matter of public opinion, many supporters visited me during this
predicament. It all took place after the political activist, Yoav Haifawi!,
wrote about it for the first time in his blog ‘Haifa al Hurta’ which translated
as ‘Free Haifa’. It was hushed or censored as he brought it to light. It
became the hottest topic and word was circulated and spread widely.
The media took interest in my case and showed support. Many arrived
to pay visits and discuss my struggle, the case behind this home
confinement/exile, the extent of Palestinians’ right of self-expression and
Israel’s lie of democracy. The accusations filed against me in my list of
charges and my arrest proved the Israeli Authority’s democracy was limited
to one category only: it could be said that it was limited to Jews. There were
many visitors: authors, poets, artists, activists, intellectuals, Arabs and Jews.
Visits from all fields and spheres/communities: social, political, media,
artistic and intellectual, to which I wholly belonged, in addition to the
Deputy Speaker of the Knesset, Haneen Zoabi, and a group of youths from
Balad who would occasionally visit me to alleviate — even if a little — the
difficulties of this prison/exile.
Yoav Haifawi, Iris Bar and Ofra Yashua-Lyth™ followed up on my case
the most; they would always pay me visits. It wasn’t some temporary
friendship: we bonded and our friendship grew stronger. Their visits were
my only respite, especially as my family ceased their visits over this period
of time. I barely felt alive when I was with them. The two ‘wardens and
guardians’, my brother and his fiancée, started to play the roles of actual
wardens and guardians. Clamping down on me, they would ensure that
their tasks were performed perfectly. To top it all off, the conditions of the
prosecutot’s office and the court weren’t enough for them — they added
their own. They wouldn’t put any of my friends’ or family’s calls through
to me; they rejected any visits for personal reasons, reasons which didn’t
represent my mindset or conventions. It’s true that they were suffering too,
because they were restrained in this prison, yet they overcomplicated
things. They added yet another type of imprisonment to the home

126
confinement. Did they make my living with them impossible or did I make
theirs impossible? I couldn’t tell any more. With the house arrest and all
the conditions imposed on me, the mystery of it got deeper. Our
differences started to become more noticeable and with those restraints,
prohibition and suffocation, the disparity was growing. I had run out of
evety ounce of patience. I couldn’t bear to be under their control even
when it came to my simplest personal matters, yet I bottled it all up and
stayed steadfast.
I tried everything within my power to respect their privacy as an engaged
couple, especially when they were spending quality time together. I close
my toom’s door, put my headphones on and listened to music. I didn’t
allow myself to eavesdrop on their conversations. | managed to endute it
all except the interference with my visits; those was non-negotiable. Still, I
was hard on myself and made lots of compromises even when it came to
that matter. I convinced them falsely that I was the guest and they were the
owners, so they had the right to do whatever they wanted, even if it was
torturing me. I was nothing but a prisoner and all I had to do was accept
and tolerate it all.
And again my visits were denied; those visits were my only breather, and
they were the only source for me of a sense of belonging to the human
race. Through those visits I got the opportunity to practise my most basic
rights: to talk to someone about the restrictions imposed on me. I am a
vety sociable person: I enjoy socialising. I love people and I like
empathising and exchanging thoughts and feelings with them. Even when
I was in prison, a social life had existed and I was engaged in it with the
rest of the political prisoners. Being with these unique, modern wardens
hindered me from practising the most basic human right of meeting others.
Having people coming over to this place was the only feasible thing, given
the restrictions imposed on my movements and being forbidden from
leaving the house.
From the very beginning, I knew the road ahead was bumpy; I knew
that leaving the prison to home confinement wouldn’t be that simple, yet
it never occurred to me that what would made things worse would be
people of my own flesh and blood. Those who wete closest to me. And

127
although I had never pictured myself living in a social prison, what I had
truly been living in was harsher: family prison.
I wept. In fact, it was the first time I’d wept since my arrest. My overall
health deteriorated; I lost so much weight and became skinny. I vomited
whatever I ate despite the fact that I barely put any food into my mouth. I
spent most of my time in the bathroom to eject everything that suffocated
me: injustice, suffering, the tragedy I had been undergoing, the memories
which strangled me as well as the injustice and cruelty of fate. I saw nothing
but ghosts. I lived all alone. My shadows faded. I started talking to the walls,
the music, my notebooks and books. I began to read the poems I wrote
out loud. I read my books aloud too, so I wouldn’t forget the sound of my
voice ot how to make sense of the sounds a human would utter. I started
hunting any source of sound and listened to it to the extent that the sounds
of flipping through papers or book pages acquired some new significance.
My tight to converse with others was forfeited, so I decided to seek refuge
in music: it relieved the pain of my soul. Through poetry and music, I
stepped into the world of the unknown and I set on for my journey of
discovery. It felt as if music and poetry had been twins born from the
ptison’s womb and from the slavery of wounds. They both set me free. It
was the first time for me to find out that the deeper I sensed the notes, the
deeper I felt this life and acquired a greater level of understanding. I would
discover emotions within me I never knew existed every time I listened to
music. Despite all the chains surrounding me, music granted me moments
of freedom I had never had the chance to experience. At all.
I got the feeling that my brother and his fiancée were humiliating me
intentionally and that they weren’t any different from the wardens of the
prisons I'd been transferred to and from before I was on their watch. In
spite of these soul-wounding emotions, I expelled and constrained those
thoughts and made excuses for my brother and his fiancée. Learning to
adapt, control my emotions and accept living with all types of people while
I was in prison might have helped me. I was content and satisfied by nature
with what I had.
This home confinement turned into solitary confinement where I had
to live all those painful details. I started pretending to be sleepy, knowing
all too well that I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. I was lost and hurt living

128
in loneliness. I felt hollow. I was in need of someone who would empathise,
someone who would understand my feelings. Above all else, I was in need
of human beings. A paradise without people isn’t worth living in. Paradise.
What about being in prison without anyone around?
After a while I was able to obtain an old non-smart phone and a SIM
card. My dad sent it to me after consulting my lawyer. Through it, I was
able to make calls with those who I truly missed and loved. Maybe that
would ease some of my pain, even if the calls only lasted for a few minutes.
Talking over the phone couldn’t replace my need to meet people in the
flesh. I called my mum and dad first. After that, I called my friend and my
photography-buddy, Sameera, who I’d influenced to take up photography.
I told her about how much I longed to touch my camera and go out to
spend hours taking photos. At the end of the call, she promised she would
visit me soon. I finally called my friend, the singer whose songs
accompanied me throughout my detention period and whose voice was my
escape from the voices of my nightmares; she sounded astonished when
she heard my voice. “Dareen? Is that your” she exclaimed. “Yes, it is me,
Dareen,” I cheered, rushing towards my stereo, and I turned it up. “Your
voice has accompanied me at every moment of my arrest. I just want you
to know that you have always been on my mind in spite of all the distance
and the spaces which have kept us apart. Never stop singing. Keep
spreading this voice.” She said: “Dareen... I love you so much and I am so
happy for you, but I’m sorry. Forgive me. I can’t speak to you any mote.
We cannot keep in touch. Never call me again. I don’t want our friendship
to go on any longer.” Her words crushed me as though they were some
heavy mountain; I couldn’t breathe. I threw myself on my bed and to the
floor, I threw my phone. Our eight-year old friendship echoed loudly in
my head. I looked at our pictures which I had taken from my room. I
wanted to tear them all to pieces, but I couldn’t. I loved her still but I was
shocked. I wept. A lot. I cried and cried and cried. I buried myself under
my blanket and stayed there for three days; not a drop of water or a bite of
food entered my mouth. I couldn’t even get up.
I became weak. I started seeking salvation no matter how much that
would cost me. However, I didn’t give up on writing or poetry. I would
frequently ask myself where my lifeline and my God’s mercy were all this

129
time. I would wonder what I could have done to deserve such a
punishment from this life which had done me wrong all along, and it never
ceased to. A million questions raced in my mind, yet none had an answet.
There was but one witness to the details of my suffering during home
confinement in the apartment which I shared with my brother and his
fiancée. She was the only one I could meet in the face of the siege imposed
on me, whether by them or by the Israeli authorities. It took this witness
many lengthy discussions until she came to an agreement with my brother;
she would visit me on Fridays or Saturdays on a weekly basis and that
would be when his fiancée was not home. She was Ofra Yeshua-Lyth who
then became like a mother, a sister and a friend to me. Her presence made
up for the absence of the whole world. She even volunteered to give me
lifts to court for my hearings and to pick me up. Of course, my brother
would accompany us as well.

April 16, 2016

My birthday. For the first time ever, I spent that day alone with my
suffering. I used to go out with four friends. Very close ones. We would
escape to the embrace of nature and celebrate it together. Other times, I
would go out with no-one and nothing but my camera. I would spend my
day taking pictures in Akko (Acte) and around the sea. On this day, I
couldn’t do any of those things I always cherished. My friends would not
be with me. Going out was impossible. I held a paper and a pencil. I tried
to write. I couldn’t let out my feelings and jot them out on paper. My
fingers, suddenly, started moving along with the pencil and doodling.
Those doodles turned into a drawing which expressed my feelings during
those moments of loneliness and loss. I was surprised when I drew. If I
hadn't held the drawing between my hands I would never have believed
that I was the one who drew it.
I had loved drawing since I was seven yeats old. I would always draw a
picture of a jailed girl surrounded by countless squares and rectangles. I
would write my name in a square as if I had been besieged by something I
couldn’t name. It was probably my fear of the harassments I had been
experiencing and from which I had been suffering at the time. I also

130
remembered that, on one of my drawing quizzes, my art teacher once asked
me to draw a picture which would represent the winter season; my drawing
was very similar to the one I was holding at the moment, but with childish
characteristics. When she saw it and contemplated its details, she told me,
heartlessly: “This is not a drawing. This is mere foolishness.”
Then she held the paper and tore it up. Her high-pitched scream terrified
me. She slapped me on my face so hard that it hurt and made me cry.
Another paper. She asked me to draw again. I don’t recall what happened
afterwards; I don’t remember if I drew something else or not. All I can
remember is that art classes and that teacher scared me from that point
forward. The seven-year-old me didn’t enjoy having boxes of coloured
pencils any more and detested drawing. Around the same time, I could
remember that my dad hit me with a metal belt while my mum hit me with
a wooden stick because I got a low grade. Before they hit me, they locked
me up in a room and didn’t allow me to leave. It was the second term of
that school year. The words my mum uttered as she was hitting me are still
stuck in my head: “Even at drawing, you’re no good.” And ever since then,
I don’t recall holding coloured pencils or drawing something. Until this day.
I don’t know how my ability to draw re-emerged on this day: the day when
I experienced sensations of loss, deprivation and hurt.
On this day and with that drawing, I felt as if I had been reborn with a
new passion for challenge. I broke free from the memories that burdened
my heart; they stung me over and over and poisoned me with pain. On this
day, I discovered my ability to express myself not only through writing but
through drawing. I’d found a new friend that gave me a sense of freedom,
the freedom Id striven for in the midst of loneliness of arrest and exile.
Drawing had turned into a positive tool to vent my anger, worry and pain.
With time, I started drawing in various ways and the techniques and tools
became more professional: a pencil, coloured pencils, pastel, oil paint; I
even started using acrylic paint.

6pm

My face was too pale: it was as white as a sheet. Excruciating pain tore me
up inside. A headache. Unbearable, searing pains made my body ache all

tot
over. I trembled. Fever, dizziness and nausea. Feeble. Ceaseless vomiting.
I had to go to a hospital to get treatment. I couldn’t because first I had to
call the Israeli Prison Service and the security company to let me out of the
house so that the monitor wouldn’t record that I violated the terms and
conditions of the home confinement.
With the help of my brother and his fiancée, we managed to call them
and explain my condition in detail. Their only blunt answer was that I
wasn’t allowed to go, by car, to a hospital to receive treatment, and if I was
really in need to be hospitalised, then I should call an ambulance. We
disagreed. We made it clear that we had our own cart, so we didn’t need to
pay any ambulance emergency charges. We had a discussion with the office
which lasted for an hour; my pain was growing more intense. Then they
had a different reply; they suggested we make a house call and if the doctor
said there was a need for me to be hospitalised, then they would approve.
We had no other option; we accepted that offer as my health was declining.
I needed treatment.
It took the female doctor three hours to arrive at our place. She checked
my blood glucose levels as well as my blood pressure to find out they were
too low. She took my temperature only to find out that it was high. Later,
she asked me about my symptoms, so I told her about my cramping
stomach and how painful it is. She immediately wrote a report in which she
expressed the urgent need for me to be transferred to a hospital for
treatment and tests.
We called the prison administration office and told them that we had
the doctor’s note and permit since my case was an emergency, so they asked
us to send a fax. We had no fax machine at home! My brother suggested
sending a picture via WhatsApp. They rejected his suggestion. After thirty
more minutes of debating, they allowed me to leave under one condition —
we fax the document once we arrived at the hospital along with another
paper from the hospital which stated the time of my arrival and, similarly,
another which stated the time of my discharge once I left the hospital. A
police car was already waiting for us near the entrance as we left the rented
apartment, and at the moment we set off another car followed. When we
arrived at the hospital, a few policemen were waiting for us there as well.
They followed us wherever we went. Suddenly, I had to use the bathroom,

[32
yet in order not to be accused of breaking the conditions of my arrest, my
brother’s fiancée came into the bathroom with me and waited for me at the
doot.
I spent the whole night at the hospital and I received the appropriate
treatment for my case. I faxed the required documents.

May 13, 2016

Five months had passed since I was first put under house arrest. With the
judge’s ratification, the Prosecutors’ Office approved an easing of the
conditions of my house arrest. I was granted six hours per week to spend
outside the house for recreation, yet I had to spend those six houts in the
company of one of the guardians on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays
from 5 to 7 pm.
House arrest was still a complex matter, just like my case was. Its
conditions and system were tough. In fact, it served the Israeli authorities
and the Prison Service well in breaking Palestinians down and killing their
inner determination. Both of them worked toward the same goal — the
suffering and punishment of both the accused and their family. This was
an evident model of collective punishment policy not only through
detention or imprisonment, but also by exerting financial and psychological
pressure. That would also result in affecting family relations in general. I
was ttying cautiously to prevent the Israeli authorities from achieving those
aims. The circumstances under which I lived would often frustrate and
weaken me. My emotions might be affected by any change in my mental
wellbeing. Admitting that I had been suffering wasn’t a weakness: it was
the fragility of ‘human coal’ before turning into glowing diamonds under
the pressure of suffering.
I was worn out, my nerves cracked and my health deteriorated. My
mental health was worse than ever. There were times when I regretted
accepting house arrest instead of staying in prison. I wept and cried alone
so many times despite the fact that I hadn't weakened or shed a single tear
throughout my stay in prison. So many times, it would occur to me that I
should retutn to prison to reduce my suffering. Loneliness and
disappointment in those around me were soul-crushing, yet I buried it all

15
inside and decided to keep going. As always, writing was my only remedy;
it cured my brokenness.
Nobody could understand the difficulty of being under house arrest
except for those who experienced it first hand. Many people regarded it as
if it was normal, as I would serve it while I was with my family, but the
question then would be: What family were they referring to in such an exile?
It was a punishment far more difficult than being in actual prison. It was
merely arbitrary and politically discriminating; it aimed at extending the
petiod of the punishment and my sentence. |
Under house confinement, I felt like a bitd which, after being let out of
a metal cage, was allowed to stay only on one ttee covered with a glass
dome through which one could see a large garden and an open horizon,
and once the bird attempted to soar it crashed into the glass surrounding
the tree. Only then would the bird realise that nothing changed but the
shape of the cage.
Throughout this time, word spread of my case; it exceeded the limits of
time and space in which I lived. And so, my poem, which was accused of
incitement, crossed the boundaries of this prison. It, in addition to some
of my other poems from my collection, The Last Invasion, which came out
in 2010, was translated into various languages and proliferated. The more
I suffered in my prison, the more poetry poured out. That alone was
enough to maintain my resolve and to resist the difficult circumstances I
had to endure. I was paying the price of my relationship with poetry, writing
and defending their existence in my life. It was all worth it. They had been
the essence of my life.
True, the Israeli authorities could imprison my body in a prison jam-
packed with chains, but they couldn’t imprison my soul, the soul of a poet.
They couldn’t imprison my ideas and poems. I was imprisoned in body yet
my poems and thoughts were at liberty, and I broke my silence. My poems
and ideas echoed not only locally but globally. The tighter the chains, the
freer I feel. Free more than ever. Oh, how happy that freedom made me
feel!
Vigils in solidarity and many protests were staged against my arrest in
front of the Israeli authorities inside and outside the region. The most
prominent ones were in Jaffa, Haifa, New York and Washington, during

134
which my poems were tread aloud after being translated into many
languages including Hebrew and English.
With all of these sensations and the news which Ofra and Yoav brought
me, I started to adapt to the situation, although negatively, striving my
utmost to convince myself that the house was where I was supposed to be
rather than prison. I tried my best to convince myself I would soon be able
to leave and break free from all restrictions after serving my sentence, and
that I would carry on with my life to realise my dreams about writing,
poetry, photography and education. And in order to do so and succeed, I
had to suffer; realising my dreams, then, would have a magical taste to it
which I would forever enjoy. I had to endure this tragedy and overcome it
as true creativity broke out from the depths of suffering and pain. That was
what life had taught me in those times and throughout the hardships I’d
had to face since I was seven.
After writing, it was this solidarity — which I only had the chance to hear
about and which I hadn’t witnessed or lived first hand — that motivated me
to continue on the path of struggle and resistance; by myself and for myself,
I chose this path.
As for the support for my case by various political parties in the Arab
society, it was significantly related to the cadres, the youth and the leaders
of Balad, particularly the Deputy Speakers of the Knesset, Haneen Zoabi
and Basel Ghattas, who followed up closely on my case developments.
They would always call and check up on me; moreover, they would always
attend my ongoing hearings. So did some of Abnaa el-Balad activists as
well as Mohammad Barakeh, chairman of the Higher Arab Monitoring
Committee, and a few of the Democratic Front Liberation of Palestine
activists. Additionally, the Deputy of the Joint Arab List, Yousef Jabareen,
called me twice — unlike the rest of the members of the Joint Arab List,
whom I didn't hear from, although they would deliver rousing speeches
preaching the support of the Palestinian cause and political prisoners.
Ninety-six days of imprisonment were enough to turn my life around. I
spent six more months under house arrest and in exile in Tel Aviv, during
which I learned what cruelty, loneliness, separation and challenge were all
about.

155
 It had been six months since I last met my family members or my close
friend Sameera Jamaa’t, who I’d seen only once and waited for passionately.

136
 ‘

CHAPTER 18
My hearings continued. At this stage, the prosecution witnesses took the
stand. Those witnesses consisted of my interrogators as well as the officer
who translated my poem into Hebrew. Surprisingly, they also called my
youngest brother, Ahmad, and my close friend, Sameera, to testify against
me since they were on my Facebook friends list, in addition to another
friend of mine who organised a poetry reading on the anniversary of the
Kafr Qasim massacre to which he invited me and asked me to recite my
poems. It wasn’t long before the testimonies turned into some comedy
stage-play. Every person who attended my hearing and the prosecutot’s
interrogation of the other witnesses laughed along.
I hadn’t met him until the moment the prosecutor called him to take the
stand: he was the ‘translator.’ He’d served at Nazareth police station for
thirty years and he seemed afraid and confused as he answered the
prosecutor’s questions. He looked uncertain of himself but then admitted
it was his first time he’d ever translated a poem from Arabic into Hebrew
and he wasn’t a translator in the first place. He admitted he was chosen just
because he loved the Arabic language and had learned it throughout his
school years. He added that now he could point out some mistakes he’d
made while translating the poem and they were an oversight. An entire line
of my poem, he continued, was omitted inadvertently. He’d misspelled a
word. Other words were either unintended misspellings or typos. He found
some wotds confusing and couldn’t get their meaning, so he transcribed
those in Hebrew. Was he actually translating my poem or typing some
WhatsApp message while he was chatting with his friends? I asked myself
that question many times. At that moment I laughed at what I saw before
my very eyes and the words I heard.
Hearings where prosecution witnesses testified were over, and my
lawyer finally submitted a request for me to serve the rest of my coutt-
ordered confinement in my own house which was located in Reineh. The
support for my case extended to two-hundred-and-fifty public figures —
including authors, well-known poets, artists and cultural figures, some of
whom had been awarded the Pulitzer Prize — who published an open letter

137
which demanded my release. Among the signatories were Naom Chomsky,
Naomi Klein, Dave Eggers, Alice Walker, Kathryn Schulz, Richard Falk,
Jacqueline Woodson, Claudia Rankine, Kim Johnson, and activists and
supporters. There were seven thousand signatures from all over the
country and around the globe.
The letter signed by these public figures and that massive support filled
my heart with hope; it was certainly effective. Shortly after that, and after
the hearing which was intended for, prosecution witnesses, on July 26, 2016,
my lawyet’s request was apptoved by the court. From Kiryat Ono to Rineh,
I got permission to move back to my place to serve the rest of my sentence
at home, as I had had enough and couldn’t cope any longer. I decided not
to go back to the exile in Tel Aviv, at all costs, even if that meant going
back to prison. In fact, that was what happened. I had to stay one night at
al-Jalameh despite the fact my request was approved. The hearing reached
an end at around 4pm, and the judge ordered another for 9am the next day.
After my family members were made my new custodians, I signed all the
papers and was bailed out. The issuing of some paperwork by the security
company, which provided the electronic monitoring device services, was
delayed. Part of it was the lawyer’s dereliction. We couldn’t complete the
process by the due date set by the judge, so I had to return to prison until
all the paperwork was sent.
I spent that dramatic night at al-Jalameh together with another political
prisoner from Sharon Prison: she had to spend the night there waiting for
her hearing which was to be held the next day.
Time went by fast. It was an exciting night and it was full of emotions,
words, conversations and discussions. We talked all through the night
about everything related to prison and its conditions. We also discussed
some general news about the rest of the women political prisoners, as well
as her case and mine. I said goodbye to her in the morning and, after the
warden had searched me, the bosta transferred me to Damoun Prison. I
thought I was heading to the courthouse, but that wasn’t the case, .
apparently. I was surprised as I arrived at al-Damoun Prison. When I
enquired about it, I was told my hearing had been cancelled. The files
weren't ready. Worse, the administration of the al-Damoun Prison refused
to let me into the women political prisoners’ ward. They did not have the

138
slightest idea what to do about it. Deep within me, I’d wanted that to
happen; I wanted to get into that ward so as to check in on my fellow
political prisoners, yet since I had an indictment list I was not allowed to
remain in al-Jalamah, either — by law, I was not deemed detained. For an
entire hour, I waited in a small cell until I was taken to the office of the
officer responsible for receiving women and men political prisoners. He
could identify me in no time; he remembered who I was. As he was going
through my paperwork he asked: “Why are you here? Why did they bring
you here?” and right after that, he asked the warden to un-cuff me. He
made me sign a paper which stated that I was to be released. He continued:
“You are released. Keeping you here, in prison, is prohibited. Do you have
money to get back home? Do you have a phone on you? Call your parents,
let them pick you up.” I smiled and remarked: “A phone? How would that
be possible? I was in al-Jalameh. Since when do you allow detainees to keep
their phones?” He took my brother’s phone number which was the only
number I had memorised by heart, called him and told him that I was
released and they could come to pick me up. He opened the prison’s main
gate and asked me to wait for my parents outside.
I left and stood by the prison’s entrance gazing at all of my frustrations.
Up ahead of me, I noticed a K-9 dog cage which belonged to the Prison
Administration. Only then did I realise where all those barking noises came
from that my fellow women political prisoners and I would hear while we
were in our cells. My gaze shifted and I looked into the distance. J saw a
sign that read ‘wedding hall’, so I instantly worked out how that music,
from a distance, made its way to our ears while we remained in our cells.
On the horizon, I saw the Carmel Mountains replete with green trees. It
had always been known that it was there, somewhere around us, but none
had ever had the chance to actually see it. My electronic monitor was still
shackled to my ankle. What a silly system! They said I was dangerous and
threatening. They put me under house arrest and never let me have a
moment to myself unsupervised, and now they released me out of the blue
and there I am, walking down the streets all by myself. I walked anxiously
back and forth near the gate wondering what was behind such an act. Some
sort of a wicked trap to pull me down.

fale)
 My dad and brother attived and I got into the car. We set off towards
the house. When we arrived, not only did my brother receive a call from
the electronic monitoring company, he also received another from the
Prison Administration Services. Caprice. Although they had decided to get
the second monitor, which was in Kiryat Ono, they’d changed their minds
abruptly and insisted that I travel back there and take that device home to
Reineh where I would have to serve the rest of my house confinement.
Later they sent a representative to program and activate it, restrict my
movements and limit my permitted area to within the confines of the
house. My internet access was disabled and the electronic monitor was
connected to that company’s system. Once again, I was not allowed to step
outside the permitted area. I could pick a lemon from the tree in our garden
no more. I was released after all my paperwork had been submitted. Same
restrictive conditions yet a different place.
At last, I was in my room reunited with my cats, Caddy and Simba, and
with my family. Finally. After all this suffering and patience, I could now
meet others and have guests over. I could talk to people freely. I could
finally exercise my most basic right under this arrest. I could live and share
feelings with people; I could talk to them without restriction.
For many reasons, I reached a dead-end yet again with my defence
laywer. I couldn’t overlook his pile of mistakes any more. His greatest,
which caused my patience wear thin then snap, was when the hearing in
which I had to testify and had long awaited was adjourned for months to
come. I couldn’t bear such a silly mistake; it cost me three more months of
house arrest. Only then did I make up my mind; I decided to hire a new
lawyer.
My journey searching for a new lawyer began. This time, I insisted on
finding a female lawyer; a female defence lawyer would be my only choice
this time. After consulting closely with many, and the help Ofta as well as
my brother had offered, I was able to reach out to the lawyer Gaby Lasky!5
who specialised in human rights and freedom of speech. I talked to her and
showed her all my case’s paperwork. She was persuaded; she decided to
take my case. I didn’t allow. anyone to interfere this-time, despite the
opposition of my family, including my dad, who was still hung up on my
previous lawyer.

140
 In August, as since I was not allowed to leave the house, my new lawyer,
Gaby Lasky, came over to my house together with Ofra and another lawyer -
who worked with her in the office. That was the first time I gained an
Opportunity to converse with a private lawyer about my case. At 11am, they
arrived, yet on that day I was extremely sick. Every time I wanted to go to
the doctor’s clinic, which was close to my house, the Prison Administration
and the electronic monitoring company would make a big deal out of it and
made it sound impossible. They would always order that I have a private
doctor who would make house calls, but I had no job, no income. I didn’t
want to burden my family with the expenses; that would have cost me a
fortune. I would rather suffer and struggle with my sickness.
“You look so pale. What happened to you?” Gaby said after she first
saw my face, so I told her all about the harsh circumstances of my arrest. I
told her about the humiliation I faced to receive approval to go to the clinic.
I apologised to my guests a number of times before I left the meeting only
to rush to the bathroom and vomit; it was unfortunate that we met on the
day I was in such a difficult state of health, so our meeting went on like
that until the clock struck 4pm. Gaby asked to listen to me talking to her
directly about my case so she could understand the story of my arrest and
all the goings-on. The paperwork which she had acquired from the court,
the police or the public prosecution, was not sufficient for her. Up to that
moment I had replaced two lawyers. Gaby was the third lawyer and chosen
by myself. The first handled my case for three weeks only, while the second
took it up for eight months. Both of them had barely met up with me for
an hour. I would run into them either in court or meet up them before an
interrogation. Gaby was the only one who asked to listen to me, to my first-
hand account of my arrest story. That request was enough to give me some
peace of mind. I knew right then I was in safe hands.
Id finally found a woman to defend me who shared my convictions. At
last. A woman who would make a good fit to represent me and offer
proposals based on the principle of freedom; I was a female poet and I had
every right to write freely with no limits or restrictions, just like any other
artist — without discrimination, be it racial or national. Finally, ?d come
upon someone who would comprehend the significance of my dreams and
ideas, someone who would cherish and defend them in courts without any

141
patriarchal authority or domination. At that very moment, I felt was truly
set free from patriarchy: it was not intervening in my case any longer. I
started exploring a new meaning for freedom, a meaning Ihad long missed.
It has been a year since I was arrested; an entire year had passed with its
aches, pains, forced exile and my resistance to it all. I was still under arrest
and suffering from harsh conditions at home. The hearings at the
magistrates’ court of Nazareth was not over just yet. Voices were raised to
demand my release and on this occasion one-hundred-and-seventy people,
including authors, scholars, poets and intellectuals, signed a petition in
Hebrew demanding my release and that the charges against me be dropped.
They included Tal Nitzan, David Grossman, Sami Michael, Ariel
Hirschfeld, Michal Ben-Naftali, A.B. Yehoshua and Agi Mishol, to mention
but a few. Haaretz published that petition on visual and written media in
both Hebrew and English. They published an editorial on behalf of their
staff demanding my release.
PEN International adopted my cause and took it as a symbol of how
writers and artists were prosecuted and the policy of gagging them and
suppressing their freedom of speech. They held a conference in Galicia
which was attended by hundreds of representatives from numerous of its
centres all over the world. During that conference, and on the International
Translation Day, September 30, my poem ‘A Poet Behind Bars’ was
translated into eleven languages. I recetved many awatds from various
organisations and societies which supported art, creativity and poetty,
including PEN International, the poet Carl Scharnberg’s institution located
in Denmark, and the local Naba’a Society.
Jewish Voice of Peace (JVP) as well as Adalah NY’s activists set up an
online solidarity campaign on social media platforms calling for my release.
There were over one-and-a-half million tweets; it went viral. The campaign
was also acted on with various activities, such as protests, poetry readings
and letters sent to my post office box.
Roti Hiller, Ofra Lyth and Bilha Golan started a fundraiser. They called
for support from activists and free people all over the world. They were
able to collect the money I needed to cover the lawyet’s expenses and to
help me and my family’s financial burdens brought on by the case. We’d
been spending money non-stop since the day of my arrest so as to stand

142
up to the unjust judiciary system. I couldn’t go to work, so I couldn’t make
any financial contribution. All of the above had affected my soul and
scarred me.
My case was an inspiration to many writers, poets and artists who
specialised in multiple fields to express their own art too. I became a voice,
a scream which influenced many of the free people out there as well as
militants and revolutionaries around the globe to achieve freedom. I was a
scream let out in the face of the racist, dictatorial Israeli policy — a policy
that would suppress freedom of speech, poetry and art.
Those many events and incidents hugely impacted my life, especially
during that period of time. It was ironic and painful. I received great and
full support from the Jewish and Western communities through literature,
art and media. I also received financial as well as personal support. By
contrast, I recetved hardly anything similar or even close to that support
from Arab countries. Only a few people showed their concern and took
the initiative. As for Arab organisations and official societies, only two
offered their support. It was mediocre and very disappointing. The General
Union for Palestinian Writers had published one of my poems alongside a
statement of solidarity and a Karmel Union Writers and Poets delegation
expressed their support. They vanished after that.
The only source of support and motivation for me to keep up with my
writing was from Jewish and international organisations and I was
determined to keep practising this form of art, no matter what. Deep down,
I was certain I was not alone in that battle; there must have been thousands
of people fighting alongside me for the sake of victory. They believed I was
innocent and they would offer support. That was the most beautiful bit of
truth which eased the pain of my confinement. It was not over.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

I started yet another day of my confinement, as usual, with my morning

rituals in my bedroom: reading and writing. I left my room because I
wanted to take a shower and while I was out, my cat, Simba, went missing.
I looked for him everywhere and in every corner of the house, but I found

143
no ttace of him. I was extremely worried about him and then I was certain
he’d left the house, which wasn’t something he would normally do, but he
didn’t come back. And then came the electronic monitor. It shackled my
ankle and restricted my freedom to move around inside the house as I
pleased. I couldn’t even leave the house to search for my cat and get him
back. All I could do was move ftom one window to another and call his
name out; he might, I thought, hear my voice and find his way back. An °
hour, two and three passed but he was nowhere to be found. Helplessness
crept in and made me curse this arrest a thousand times as I tried to think
of what I could do. No matter what, I wanted to make sure he was okay,
to the point where I called the Prison Service Office, as well as another one
which was responsible for the electronic monitor and told them about what
had happened. I hoped they would grant me a few minutes to leave the
house to look for him. Cold and cruel. They didn’t budge. They did nothing
about my worries about my cat. The employee who picked up the phone
tidiculed my request. She let out a sarcastic laugh. I ended that call. It was
pointless. How did I expect them to understand being sympathetic or
humane? They were some creatures who worked at that office and who
hadn’t allowed me to leave the house and get hospitalised when I was
screaming with pain. What mercy would be shown by those who tamper
with people’s fates? I felt as if my call had been a decision I made at a
moment of foolishness. There is an Arabic saying which goes: “Those who
are in desperate need foolishly rush in.” I couldn’t put up with his absence
any more; my patience ran out and my anxiety level was out the roof. I
shouted and called his name at the top of my lungs and in every direction,
time after time. I checked every direction and let my eyes linger. I started
guessing where he might have been hiding; I would look around and call
out his name.
I entrusted the mission to my mum and brother; they looked for him in
vatious parts of the neighbourhood. In vain. As time passed, I didn’t hold
out much hope any more of his return. It was the first time he’d left the
house. Ever. I had nagging worties about him and was haunted by the idea
he might have been in an accident. It took over my mind and heart. Every
time my helplessness increased as a result of the restrictions, my worries
increased terribly too. I called a vet and asked him about the place where

144
cats might hide when they disappear and how far they could wander away
from home. I also sought his advice on what to do in such cases to get the
cat back. The solutions and advice he offered had one perquisite in
common: being free of restrictions and shackles. I didn’t give up. I thought
over the solutions and the instructions the vet proposed. I followed them
step by step in spirit, but my brother did that in body as he could move
freely. I kept calling out to my cat through the window. I gave my brother
the bells I typically used to play with the two cats to entertain them. From
one narrow ally to another, my brother moved and I, alternating windows,
called out to Simba. A six-hour debilitating search finally led my brother to
him; he was scared and isolated at the entrance of a house in our
neighbourhood.
Simba was back in my arms. I kissed and hugged him. I examined every
part of his body to make sure he wasn’t hurt. His beautiful, pure white hair
was dirtied; his eyes were filled with fear. That was all that had happened.
I instantly let him into my bedroom. I cleaned him, played with him and
petted him. And then I gave him a piece of ‘la vache quit rit’ cheese, his
favourite, to ease his worry and fear. He would feel safe again.
With all of those incidents and with the ongoing supportive events, on
November 15, 2016, a month-and-a-half after transferring my case to my
new lawyer, Gaby Lasky, my case was back on track. She submitted a
request to loosen the conditions of my home confinement. She succeeded.
First pleading. She defended me successfully and made removal of my
ankle monitor possible. I could also leave the house for work any time
between 11am and 5pm. I still had to be accompanied by a guardian and |
wasn’t allowed to use the internet at all. I was granted two more hours to
go wherever I wanted, yet again I had to be under my guardian’s |
supervision.
I couldn’t make the best out of that bargain and I couldn’t get back to
work. It was impossible to meet the requirements. No guardian would be
able to remain with me at my workplace. Well, so, at that point, the removal
of my ankle monitor after all of this time was the most significant event to
me; it alleviated so much stress. It freed me from some of the restrictions
of my home confinement, one of which was be the feeling of something
hung on my body. It had been with me all the time. It spied on every breath,

145
sensation, feeling, movement and word. The electronic monitor haunted
me just like that ghost of rape. It was raping me; in what way wouldn’t that
be considered rape? It raped every single moment of my days. The
sensation of having that weird device whenever and wherever I was and
having it against my will were enough. It always reminded me of the rape
and harassments I was subjected to as a child.
My imprisonment hadn’t changed. I couldn’t go to work or leave the
house except on very rare occasions during the two hours I was granted to
go shopping for my essentials from a close shop in my town. Accompanied
by one of my guardians. Always. Where could I go within a two-hour
timespan in the first place? What about the traffic jams in the streets of my
town and the towns around it?
The mote I held onto writing, the longer my sentence was going to be.
The more I was hurt, the more I would pour my heart out on paper. I didn’t
know that I had to pay that high price for defending my right to write.
Prison did not break my pen, nor did it hush my voice. It’s true I could not
publish any of my writing, but even that obstacle turned into a bigger
motivation to express myself. I was certain I would publish everything I
had written in this prison. I would spread the word and it would echo
through the ages and have a high value.
My soul didn’t lose its spark. The burning fires of my rebelliousness were
not put out despite all the strictures, restrictions, nervousness and stress, as
well as the fear of the unknown lying in store for me.
My nerves were on edge; nothing could put out the burning fire except
my pen. It would absorb all the lava of my anger. With my pen, I would
restore the balance of my thoughts and resilience. My pen. My words.
Those were the most loyal of everything and everyone that surrounded me.
What hurt me the most was having high hopes for many friends who
continuously let me down. Body flaws could be covered even with a little
piece of cloth, but friendships would be tested in difficult situations, and
once exposed nothing would ever make up for them. A broken friendship
cannot be mended. Oh how many flaws were exposed during this period,
even among those I once considered the closest, the most loyal and honest.
When I was imprisoned and exiled in Tel Aviv, I came up with some
excuses for them when they didn’t check up on me, especially given the

146
circumstances under which I lived. Now it had been five months since I
was first confined to the house in Rineh and, after aimlessly waiting around
for them, they still didn’t call or visit. They didn’t spare any time for me,
not even five minutes. The wait was painful. I couldn’t think of any other
excuse for them. With my arrest I had the chance to discover my true
friendships and become aware of the fake ones. It was as if I had put them
in some sieve which I could call ‘difficult times’; three of them were left on
the list of friends I kept in my heart. Salt and sugar do not differ in colour;
they’re both white. Their difference lies in their taste. The tongue of my
imprisoned self got to taste it all, experiences with all kinds of people, until
realising the difference between who was worth it and who was not. It was
a chance I seized to filter my memory and dust off the worn-out ones which
were beyond repair.

November 17, 2016

My hearing turned into a strange conflict among women which I hadn’t

evet witnessed up close. After my defence lawyer joined in, it became an
‘equation’ which only involved female elements: the accused, the defence
attorney, the prosecutor and the judge. That scene perplexed me. A woman
against another. I was pained to see a woman, my counterpart, exercise
psychological, emotional and financial stress so she would, eventually, gain
promotion or attain a higher position at the prosecution office. 1 laughed
the most when the prosecutor paid lip service to the principles of rights
during some of my hearings. I have no clue what rights she was talking
about. I was deciphering the nonsense of a woman oppressing another.
Paying close attention to the fact that she was only doing what her
institution dictated — that institution which stripped Palestinian women,
even ones who had Israeli nationality, of the rights their counterparts
enjoyed, including the right to free speech which had always been the most
salient in women’s struggles throughout history. I didn’t blame her
position, but I was puzzled. I knew she was only obeying the institution
she served and for which she worked. She was doing her job by her
obedience and her intransigent stance towatds me. She deemed me a big
threat to ‘the country’ and its security, with my poetry, and that poem, in

147
particular. She believed her compliance with the institution’s policy was out
of the righteousness and virtue of the existentialist discourse: to be of not
to be. That was what she was taught.
I finally stood behind the courtroom podium after my hearing had been
adjourned several times for various made-up excuses, the latest of which
was the lack of a Hebrew-Arabic interpreter, but I insisted on using my
mother tongue, Arabic, to testify. My oral testimony hearing began. The
judge, my defence attorney, the spectators as well as the plaintiff's attorney
were all in front of me. Everyone was all eyes and ears.
In front of everyone, I confessed I was the one who posted the poem,
the picture, and reposted that news item. I was as fully convinced as my
lawyer that I must stand behind that podium and defend my right to
freedom of speech. I must not fear anything.
The plaintiff posed an endless sequence of questions; my answers went
through a mixture of reactions. Within a few hours, I experienced emotions
that a woman might hardly go through in a lifetime. I felt happy, angry and
sad, then I laughed and felt nervous. I drank water to recharge and soothe
my dty throat due to the many questions I had to answer.
Four hours of my being under the spotlight; I was there as a witness and
an accused at the same time. Sometimes, I was even transformed into an
interpreter when the court’s interpreter failed to render some words and
phrases properly. I intervened immediately and put an end to that joke. The
judge didn’t know any Arabic and what the interpreter said was to be taken
down by the court reporter and transformed into an official certified
transcript. That was enough to make my task more difficult. I had no way
out; I had to answer her questions. I practised the hobby I’d picked up
during detention: controlling my impulsive reactions and emotions.
With every question I was asked by that prosecutor, she implied that the
hearing was coming to an end, yet it would go on instead. When my hearing
lasted until 8pm, there was no time to proceed any further; my case was
adjourned. The judge scheduled the next hearing for December 24. She
prohibited the circulation of any details regarding the case’s course and
developments. She ruled that I was utterly forbidden from discussing any
of the details with anyone. At the prosecutor’s request, she denied me the
copy of the written protocol: it wasn’t negotiable.

148
 A week passed and it was the scheduled hearing date. Again, I stood
behind the podium and the prosecutor bombarded me with questions.
Time was up. The prosecutor was not done with her questions. Another
hearing was scheduled to proceed with the interrogation. The next hearing
would take place a month later: January 26, 2017. Conditions repeated:
forbidden to discuss or circulate any details regarding the hearing.
I occupied myself with writing, and during my wait under this arrest I
found refuge with my pen, papers and books. I tried to inhale the meaning
of freedom with those who visited me, whether they were supporters or
friends, with discussions, dialogues and talks. As a result of this
confinement, I became more attached to my poetty, writings and books.
They were my only concern as well as the racing thoughts I had about the
case, its course and my testimony. It was time for my third hearing. I was
done; I gave my testimony before the judge, and it took me houts to do so.
Finally, the prosecutor ran out of questions, like a well running dry. That
scene was over. Moving on to the next: defence witnesses’ testimonies. The
judge set the date: March 19, 2017 and time: 11.30 am.
Match 19 was finally there. After a three-hour wait and enduring the
delay of the judge in opening the hearing, it finally began. I had no idea
who the witnesses that my defence attorney had chosen were; I knew
nothing about that testimony until the moment it was given. All I knew was
that a History of Hebrew Literature researcher would attend the hearing in
addition to a specialised translator who would translate the poem. Those
were the moments when I learned who the two of the witnesses were: Prof.
Nissim Calderon, a researcher in the Hebrew poetry, a lecturer at Tel Aviv
University and an editor in a literary magazine which specialised in poetry,
and Yonatan Mendel, a specialised Arabic into Hebrew translator and vice
versa.
Prof. Calderon took the stand, introduced himself and swore to tell
nothing but the truth. The prosecutor, as she would normally do,
bombarded him with questions.
She was talking about my relationship with poetry and discussing with
the professor whether I was a poet or not. For a few moments, that
discussion made me wander, and it took me back in time. With my mind
wandering off, I went back in time to the moment when I didn’t think twice

149
about ending an affectionate relationship, which lasted for two years, for
the sake of poetry and its significance in my life. I recalled everything that
happened on that day.
I had not been in a true affectionate relationship except that one; I
experienced it with all my heart and soul. It was the last and almost the only
experience I had with so-called love. It all happened four years before my
atrest. A relationship just like any other woman would experience in her
life: a beautiful, fun, exhilarating and an intensely emotional experience.
Then it ended in an unexpected way, with much surprise and strangeness.
Taking the initiative to end a strong relationship cold turkey and cut all ties
was even mote surprising as it was characterised by deep, passionate love,
mutual agreement, respect and faithfulness. Strangely enough, the existence
of writing and poetry in my life were on the alert for it.
Late at night, I was about to start writing a new poem, and then I got a
call from him. I picked up the phone but explained that I was swamped
with work. I simply asked him to call me back some other time. There was
nothing important for us to discuss, it was just an ordinary phone call. I
had already told him that, during my writing moments, I was engrossed and
no-one could distract me. He also knew that writing and poetry had always
been at the top my list; everything else would follow, including him. “Oh,
now, your poem is more important than I am?” he asked to which I replied,
unhesitatingly: “Yes. I have to finish writing my poem and then we can talk
as we please. My heart and mind are both preoccupied with the poem I’m
in the process of writing.”
After that night, I didn’t hear from him despite my several attempts to
call him. I realised he was upset. I completely understood his position
although it was nothing new.or strange; poetry came first. We had already
agreed on everything I mentioned during our last conversation. For two
whole days, he vanished, then he answered my calls and we met. I was
surprised when he said, as if it has command or order: “We are getting
mattied soon. If you want this relationship to continue, you will have to
quit composing poetry. Once we are martied, you will no longer write any
poetry. It’s either me or poetry. Make up your mind. Now.”
His last words on my relationship with poetry were shocking. I had
never imagined, not for a second, that I would face someone who would

150
make me stand at this crossroads: choosing between keeping poetry as part
of my life or completely giving it up. That topic was non-negotiable. It was
settled since the first poem I’d ever written; writing, in my life, was a
destiny, not a mere choice. I am a poet by nature. This is who I am. I was
born to be a writer, regardless of anyone’s opinion. No power could
separate me from poetry, even if it were the power of an affectionate
relationship or a love story. I asked him: “Is this your final word on the
matter?” to which he replied: “Yes.” Right away and without thinking twice
about it, I took off the ring he’d once given me as a symbol of our
relationship. I gave it back to him and said: “I choose poetry, for sure.”
We haven’t seen each other again ever since. Hearing that sentence from
him was enough for me to decide to part ways and end it. What drew the
line between us was how he dared to make me choose between him and
poetry, as well as his attempts to put me under the pressure of his certainty
of my love for him; he was sure I was a sensitive and a very emotional
person. He thought my feelings towards him would turn me into who he
wanted me to be, but he wasn’t aware of the fact that my feelings for poetry
were the strongest. I ended it all; I didn’t say goodbye. I left. I didn’t cry or
even feel sad for leaving him. Instead, I laughed and felt happier as I was
set free from the prison that he waiting for me. Deep inside at that moment,
I sensed the victory of poetry’s will against everything that surrounded me.
More and more, I held onto writing and this fate. My laughter and victory
on that day were similar to my laughter at those moments when I heard the
loud-mouthed prosecutor’s discussion about my relationship with poetry,
and her claim that I wasn’t a poet in the first place. Pause. I put these
memories on hold and, with a big smile on my face, returned to the present
moment: the atmosphere of the hearing.
What was the definition of a poet? What was the definition of a poem?
Was I a poet? That was the only concern the prosecutor had. All of her
questions revolved around the same idea, as if she’d been itching to’
formulate an exclusive theory defining poetry and poets, some theory that
would fit her beliefs and thoughts so she could scratch that itch. With her
questions, she laid down her own principles of poetry and applied them.
Based on that, she concluded that I wasn’t a poet. I wasn’t a poet in spite
of the fact that I’d written poetry using all the well-known rhythmic

lis
 structures of the Arabic language since I was a child! Poetry analysis,
atmosphere, imagery — both complex and simple — figurative language and
rhetoric: I employed them all. The fact that I brought out my first poetry
collection in 2010, containing numerous diverse poems, didn’t really matter
to her.
Had I known what her claims would be, I’d have brought in all the
poems I had written, published or not, and explained to her about their
structure and prosody, which took me many years to learn and master. I
would have analysed each poem I'd written, its metre, circles, original parts
and conventional ones. Had I known she would dare do this, I would have
ptesented my convicted poem and analysed each poetic foot and circle
verse by verse and line by line. I would have explained circle derivations,
the ‘hashu’ (tautology, or, literally, the filling), the ‘arud’ and ‘darb’ (the
forepart and the rear), not to mention the purpose that each served.
From her perspective, I was not a poet. If I was considered one, then
the whole hearing in which she pleaded against me would be a joke and an
insult for her and those she represented in this country which claimed to
be democratic. In democratic governance, and under democratic rule, a
. poet wouldn’t be brought to court, be imprisoned and arrested under the
accusation of composing a poem. She didn’t want me to be called a poet
by any means; she didn't want my poem to be called so. The professor
stood up and clarified that my poem would be classified under the
Palestinian national, political style and that thousands of poems adopted
the same style. He also explained that the poet was the only authorised
person to determine the genre of their poem. My poem, he added, had
verses, lines, a metre, musicality as well as rhyme.
For a few seconds, the prosecutor stopped firing questions relating to
this topic. She moved on to another. As if she had been firing or shooting
at the same target but from a different angle, she returned to posing other
questions. Aiming her gun at the witness who was standing before us, she
wanted to show the judge that he was not being objective and that his
testimony had to be discarded by court. How could she not? He
participated in left-wing literary evenings in the country, so his testimony
was nothing but subjective.

Nee):
 Uninterrupted, Professor Calderon’s interrogation went on for two long
hours, during which he spared no effort to explain to both the judge and
the prosecutor that, in a democratic country, a poet is and can never be
tried even if the poem is violent, crass or against the ruling system. He
provided a few instances of Jewish poets who composed clear and explicit
violent poems, more than mine, in different times, and yet they hadn’t been
held accountable or jailed since poetry is one of the pillars of art. It
shouldn’t be censored, especially under democratic rule. Again and
repeatedly, the prosecutor claimed that I was not a poet and that what I
wrote was not poetry, while pretending to have forgotten about what she
had said during one of my previous hearings. She, herself, said that I, being
a well-known poet and a recognised one in the Arab world, would be
extremely threatening since I influenced many people with my poetry.
Once more, the professor reiterated that what I wrote was a poem indeed
since it contained poetics and that whoever composes poetty is a poet.
After the professor’s testimony was completed, he stepped off the
witness-stand. Next witness. The specialist translator, Dr. Yonatan Mendel,
took the stand.
Questions were posed. The prosecutor called up the terms and words I
employed in my poem but were translated by a policeman, and she labelled
them an incitement to violence and terrorism. She presented them to the
translator and waited for his response: Who is the martyr? What does
“resist” mean? What is “resistance”? No matter what he had to say, the
witness was still accused and suspicious in her eyes if the answers didn’t
suit her or the police’s definitions. This was all it took for her to consider
Dr. Mendel as subjective. She brought some of the written work he had
published and in which he had expressed his left-wing opinions as well as
opposing the occupation. She didn’t like that either, and in her opinion his
pieces of writing were enough to deem his testimony unreliable and to
question his credibility. That specialist translator was there to present a full
translation of the poem, yet the prosecutor asked him about one line only:
“And follow the caravan of martyrs.” Dr. Mendel stressed that the word
“martyrs” obviously referred to the victims I had mentioned in the poem:
Ali Dawabsheh, Mohammad Abu Khdair and Hadeel al-Hashlamoun.

153
 Five hours. The questioning of Dr. Mendel lasted for five hours during
which the definitions of some of the terms I had used in my poem were
discussed among the team which conducted the heating and knew
absolutely nothing about the Arabic language ot its concepts, starting with
the court reporter who had to type up the transcription of those terms in
Hebrew, the judge and ending up with the prosecutor. The judge and the
prosecutor both admitted they didn’t know any Arabic. Bitter reality.
How could a discussion about an Arabic poem be held in Hebrew by
people who didn’t know the slightest thing about Arabic as a language, let
alone its literature, old and contemporary poetry? That question drained
my mind. Had they all mastered the Arabic language to begin with, and had
the proceedings of the court’s plenary taken place in Arabic, no translator
would have been required. Dr. Mendel wouldn’t have taken the trouble of
answering all of those questions, either.
Five hours went by without even discussing the whole poem with Dr.
Mendel. The only discussion was about the meanings of some of the terms.
Those wete proven to be translated inaccurately by that policeman and also
reaffirmed his errors and points of weakness. His mistakes were grave.
Consequently, and after a seven-hour round of questions, we were
provided with new definitions of many terms including “a poet’, ‘a poem’,
‘translation’, ‘martyr’ and ‘system’ from their perspective. This represented
their mindset only. Any definition from the opposing side would be
considered wrong and would be rejected. Whoever dared to say it or adhere
to it, would be deemed an outlaw, an inciter and accused. Most importantly,
she came to an irreversible decision: I was not a poet and what I wrote
couldn’t be classified as poetry even if the poem contained all the required
contemporary Arabic poetics and aesthetics. It all was insignificant. All that
mattered was being obeyed. She was adamant.
For seven whole hours, the hearing continued. Had it been possible to
film it, it would have been the most paramount absurd theatrical work of
the century, or it could have been adopted as an ideal university lecture
titled ‘Surrealistic Polemics in the Science and Art of Poetry: Approaches
to the Imprisoned Poem in the Corridors of Israeli Courts.’ How couldn’t
it be when calling experts in poetry, literature and translation to discuss
such topics was a first?

154
 CHAPTER 19

I was done with the hearing testimony stage and moved on to a new one —
the writing and submission of the summary judgment of the defence and
the plaintiff — yet I remained under house arrest. All my requests were still
denied, and so were my defence lawyer Gaby Lasky’s attempts to gain
telease for me from all the restrictions. They would continue to be imposed
until the end of the legal proceedings. With every request, I faced more
intransigence yet some easing of restrictions.
With more than thirty hearings, 1 became more certain that the Israeli
Security Agency was in control; it was the one making decisions and
commanding the judges to give their rulings at the end of each hearing.
There were seven judges in total, three of whom were Arab, but from my
perspective they seemed to have no authority or say in the matter. The
judge was nothing but a pro-forma in such courts, particularly in Israel.
After my arrest, things became mote apparent. As if everyone in court had
been marionettes on a set of strings, the security agency was controlling
every aspect, especially when it came to we Palestinians. The cowardice and
weakness of the judges, and the security forces’ control of them, turned
into the most significant issue of my trial, as those judges played their roles
and followed the scripts which had already been written for them by the
country’s security agencies.
The restrictions were further loosened after nearly two years of my
arrest. The court had endorsed a permit allowing me to leave the house any
time between 9am and 7pm, yet I had to be accompanied by one of the
custodians. The rest of the restrictions remained unchanged, yet the time
during which I was allowed to leave the house did not suit any of the
familial custodians around me as each of them had their own work, house
and family to attend. My struggle with not being able to go outside persisted
until I was offered a suggestion: utilising this mitigation by increasing the
number of custodians, and so my lawyer filed to add the names of three of
my female friends, who followed up on my case, as potential custodians.
In fact, they kindly volunteered to undertake this daunting task; they did so
with all of their hearts. Although the prosecutor rejected the request, the

LoS
court approved it after the three of them were questioned by the prosecutor
and the judge. They made sure that they would be able to guard me, hinder
me from publishing any of my poems and reduce the risks my poems
posed. Those three friends were Ofta Lyth, Bilha Golan and Edith
Breslauer.
The fact that Ofra was one of the three custodians was, to me, the
highlight of this development. It was also the most effective change with
regard to a significant mitigation of my arrest conditions. Right after the
heating, she gave me some of her time. She allocated me a set time each
week, i.e. Tuesdays, to get me out of this house prison.
A year and ten months had passed since I was first arrested. I didn’t see
the outside world except through my bedroom window or the vehicle’s
windows whenever I was on my way to the courthouse in Nazareth for my
hearings. Throughout this period, I forgot what the sky, the sea, the streets,
people and cars looked like. I forgot how it was to feel cold or hot outside
the house. Outside my bedroom window, I would look longingly for the
world; it was as if I had never seen it before. p
It was Tuesday, August 8, 2017, when I first left the house with Ofra
after my arrest restrictions were eased. It had been a while. I woke up at
nine o’clock and got ready to head out for the first time, and not to the
coutt this time. At that moment, around nine o’clock, Ofra knocked on the
door. We hugged. We were not allowed to leave the house before nine, so
Oftra and my mom had some coffee before the clock struck nine. Ofra and
I left the house and headed to the car. Moments before we got in, I stopped
Ofra and said: “Are you sure you're giving a lift to a threatening woman
like me? You still can change your mind.” She laughed and I continued:
“Well, that’s your decision and you’re responsible for it. Just be wary. Make
sute I don’t write a poem while we’re on our way that would put your life
in danger.” Once those words left my mouth, Ofta couldn’t hold herself
back. She burst out laughing. We set off towards Jaffa.
She took me to Haifa; spending time with her for the first time on that
day, I explored my surroundings as if for the first time. Everything I saw
ot came across had some new definition and meaning, different from the
one familiar to me before my arrest. On that day, I was completely
different. I rolled down the car window and felt the ait blowing against my

156
face as though I was a curious child exploring the world for the first time
ever. Eyes closed. Air drawn down deep into my lungs. Oh how much I
missed the scent and taste of fresh air! Ofra didn’t like travelling with the
windows rolled down; I learned that from our back-and-forth trips to the
courthouse in Nazareth when I was under house arrest in Kiryat Ono. I
didn’t want to bother her so I rolled the windows back up a few moments
after truly living in the moment, a moment for which I had longed for so
long. The image of the women political prisoners was still stuck in my
mind; I still saw them before my eyes no matter where or when. Despite
all the joy I experienced at that moment, my heart was breaking; all of a
sudden, a wave of sadness engulfed me. Oh how difficult it was for me to
be able to breathe in this fresh air while they were still shackled in al-
Damoun and Sharon Prisons. I tried to run away from my thoughts but
couldn’t. They had become an integral part of my life.
I stared at everything I saw around me, everything within my eyeshot:
the ground beneath my feet, the sky, the clouds, the mountains, the cars,
the drivers’ faces, and though nothing out of the ordinary passed, I felt as
though it was my first time ever to see those things. Time passed as I stared
at the clock. I wished it would stop so I could stay outdoors. Time turned
into some devil that was haunting and chasing me. When we passed by al-
Jalameh and I read the sign at the entrance, I felt suffocated. The
information sign read ‘Kishon Checkpoint,’ and as I read those words I felt
as though an arm was wrapped around my neck trying to choke me. My
anger built up within me and memories came flooding back. All the
moments in that place. I relived the moments of my arrest, each and every
one of them. On the sign, and adjacent to the Hebrew lines, there was a
translation into both Arabic and English. I laughed at the mistranslation I
had been suffering from. For a moment, I wanted to get out of the car and
change what was written into something that would reflect the reality:
‘Kishon Detention Centre for Torture.’
We continued walking and passed Shatta Prison. My eyes were glued to
the walls surrounding that prison. Traffic jam. We drove by it at a snail’s
pace. I scrutinised all the visible axes and angles of that prison. Everybody
moved past it and merely saw the walls. I, on the other hand, saw it and
knew it inside out; I knew what really went on in its locked, shut cells and

157
within its huge metal gates. I saw the bosta parked in the prison parking
lot; I felt as though my body started shrinking like a piece of cloth. That
same bosta was yet again tight before my eyes! Once we got very close to
the prison, I called loudly to Ofta to sound the car siren. She asked: “Why?”
“Maybe the sound of the siren will reach the cells where the political
prisoners may be able to hear it. This sound will make them feel that
something is coming in from the outside.” And so she did. Meanwhile, I
was thinking to myself and praying for all the political prisoners, women,
and men, to be granted peace and freedom.
We arrived in Jaffa and Ofta parked her car in an old parking lot located
in the old city. My eyes darted from one old building to another; those
buildings which attested to the history of that ancient Palestinian city. My
camera and I had been there many times. I photographed those alleys,
neighbourhoods, the street and the blue windows. One day I came here to
take photos fora friend, a journalist and refugee who lives in Jabalia Camp,
notth of Gaza — he and his family are originally from that city but were
displaced in 1948. With the help of his grandfather and father who
described it to me, I managed to reach his house which was still in existence
and robust despite the disaster. Now, a Jewish settler lived in that house. I
took pictures of the house and sent them to my friend. I had a video call
with his grandfather and empathised with him. I felt his tears; I couldn’t
help but sob when he showed me the key to that house on the camera.
Until this very day, I don’t seem to be able to wipe that moment from my
mind; I can never forget the tears that old man shed or the longing that
spoke through his eyes. In 2014, when Israeli terrorists and the Zionist
occupation bombed his house, I lost my friend. He was a martyr along with
his family, eight of them. In one second, they were all martyrs. I tried to
escape from those harsh memories. A teat was about to roll down my face.
I wiped it. I continued looking around Jaffa, the bride of Palestine. As much
as I loved that city, as much as it pained me.
I walked along with Ofra until we arrived at the entrance of the port.
There, we went to “Basma’ (‘a smile’) café. It did not take long for my heart
to be filled with warm feelings as I entered it. I loved everything about it:
the smell of coffee, the food, Palestinian old tools which reflected theit

158
heritage and were gathered then hung on the walls to decorate the place.
Old pictures ofJaffa.
On that day, I met a group of friends who supported me and my case,
including Mohammad Kundos, Khaled Jabarin!®, Alma Cats!7, Shosh
Khan, Einat Weizman!® and Maysaloun Hamoud!?.
Einat sat next to me. She introduced herself: an artist and a director. She
also told me she was preparing for a support soirée that would take place
at Saraya Theatre, Jaffa, on the 30th of August. Without further ado, she
she turned to me and said she was working on a play called The (Political)
Prisoners of the Occupation and would be pleased if I told her more about
prison and my experience as. a whole. The moment she uttered the name
of the play, I remembered I had already heard about it and how it was
banned during the “Acco Festival’ that year; that was what I’d read in the
newspapers not long ago. During that meet-up, some of my friends came
over to me and asked me to fill them in. I tried to ensure that everyone got
my undivided attention and I left no one out, yet for some reason Einat
took it further. Our conversation was different, and from the bottom of
my heart I wished I could continue our discussions. Meeting her gave me
a sense of peace and comfort. Another woman whose voice they had been
trying to silence because her art was concerned with Palestinian political
prisoners. I had a feeling she understood me. I talked to her as much as
possible, gave her all the time I could and told her a little about the women
political prisoners. How I wished our conversation could keep going but
she had to end it. “If you don’t mind, could we email one another?” she
asked before she headed out. “Not at all. It’s a pleasure,” I replied.
“Texting, though. I have a non-smart phone,” I continued. We smiled at
each other. She said: “Then we'll stay in touch.” I gave her my phone
number in the hope that soon enough Id receive a call from her.
Returning home was too hard for me after that nice, emotional
encounter, especially as I knew well that I would be returning to the house
where I was confined and would have to wait until the following Tuesday
to be able to leave and breathe.
The next morning, I woke up at 8.20am to the sound of my phone
ringing. I looked at the screen and realised Pd received a text message from
an unfamiliar number. It read: “Hello, Dareen. How are you? This is me,

lest)
Einat. It was a pleasure meeting you yesterday. I’m still organising my
schedule so as to pay you a visit soon. I will keep you posted and will let
you know if it will work. I hope you enjoyed our encounter yesterday.” I
read the text. Twice. I did so because I was deeply moved. I had no clue
what the secret behind my sudden, extreme happiness was. Why her?
Throughout my life, I had never got along so well with anyone else before
and in such a short time. I replied instantly to her text message: “I honestly
feel extremely happy that we met. Detention is tough and harsh, yet I owe
to my detention the reason we met in the first place. I met you and I met
everyone else because of it. I will forever treasure becoming acquainted
with you all. You can come over at your convenience and I will truly be
happy. I’m eager to meet you. Thank you for everything.”
Einat’s face was very familiar, yet it took me some time to remember
where I had seen her before. Then I recalled that I once saw her
performance in a play called The Saturday Worker in Haifa’s al-Midan
Theatre. I didn’t like the play, as it was an awful story with a weak plot; it
didn’t reflect reality. I still remember those negative feelings. I wasn’t
certain whether Einat herself was that actress or not. Sadly, I could not
connect to the internet to verify it so I waited until our next meeting to ask
her and to confirm what I’d just remembered. On August 12", she texted
me again and told me she would pay me a visit to hear all about prisons,
my experience and my story. At 5pm, Einat arrived along with her husband,
Yoav, and Iris. She sat right next to me and struck up a conversation. At
the end of our meeting, I gave her a copy of my latest book, The Last
Invasion, and on the title page I wrote my dedication: “Poetry is the only
thing that is left in this world to keep humans human.’ Right before they
left, I asked Einat: “Are you that actress who was the main character in The
Saturday Worker play?” She said: “Yes, but how did you know that?” I told
her: “I saw that play but I did not like it at all.” My straightforwardness put
me in an awkward position, yet her smile relieved me as she didn’t get
angry. We walked to the car. My dad accompanied me because I wasn’t
allowed to leave the house without being under supervision. I said goodbye
and we hugged each other. She walked away. Standing a few steps away
from me; she turned around, looked at me and came back. She gave me

160
another hug and, before I knew it, I hugged her back and, oblivious to it
and for no reason, tears rolled down my face.
The support I received, whether international or from the Israeli
community, was still ongoing and broadening, yet that of the Arab
community was weakening little by little. Despite this, from time to time,
some interesting and unexpected events would take place. One day while I
was sitting in my room, I heard a man calling out my name: “Dareen!” I
looked outside the window and saw an old man leaning on a wooden stick.
“Yes, Hajj (a title given to an older man to show tespect),” I shouted back.
Immediately, I asked my father to go downstairs to help him upstairs. With
excitement written all over his face, he came in and looked at me then said:
“T am so proud of you, so proud of your position. I came here for one
specific reason which is to show my support. I would like to have a copy
of your poetry collection.” We sat in the living room, I went to my room
to fetch him a copy of my collection The Last Invasion and gave it to him.
Out of his pocket, he fished a paper envelope, asked me to take it, and
said: “I read about your case and I want you to keep fighting against the
occupation. This is not a charitable donation: it is my duty. I know that you
still have a long way to go. Yours is a thorny issue and in order to be able
to keep up the good fight against those institutions, you will sure need a
pile. This is small amount of money; giving it to you makes me feel that I
have helped, even if a little. You should know that you are not alone. You
have many people supporting and standing by you.” His words touched
me deeply. He brought my soul back to life and gave it hope. His words
were like a pump that injected more strength, defiance and persistence into
my heart. I thanked him for his words, his support and the strength he had
given me. I wrote my dedication on the title page and gave the book to
him. As he was leaving, he exclaimed: “Keep writing and annoy them all.
You’re the free one among them in their prison. They are the prisoners.
You are fighting for us all; you’re defending us all as well.” His words filled
me with some inexplicable strength. I had felt that long-awaited justice, the
justice I wanted to hear about from my people. The pressure of support
for my case was enough to break all the chains and restrictions were
imposed on me and to defy the oppressive powers and authorities. It was

161
also a clear message that poetry was ‘not a crime; no-one should be
convicted of writing poetry.
Einat came over to my house two mote times; she kept in touch with
me by text messages. Besides some of my court hearing transcripts, I also
gave her tons of information which was an asset in her work. She would
always update me on all the developments regarding the evening gathering,
for which she had set a date, August 30", and which would take place in
Sataya Theatre in Jaffa.
The details of my hearings, the discussions, conversations and questions
which took place in the court, the testimonies of Prof. Nissim Calderon
and Dr. Yonatan Mendel, in particular, as well as the testimony of the
policeman who translated my poem, turned into a source of inspiration,
creativity, art and writing. The ‘script’ of the hearings’ protocols, to my
surprise, was adapted into a stage play by the director and actress Einat
Weizman. It was decided that the play would open and be performed at al-
Saraya Theatre in Jaffa with the contribution of a group of supporters. It
was an evening gathering dedicated solely to supporting my case. The play
was titled Dawalt Israel Ded al-Sha’era Dareen Tatour (‘Israel Against the
Poet Dareen Tatour’).
On August 30, 2017, the evening gathering took place, yet due to my
home confinement and its conditions I couldn’t attend it. My father, little
brother, Ahmad, together with my seven-year-old nephew did, though. “I
want to go and film Dodo’s evening gathering,” my nephew insisted. Those
wete his exact words; he had always liked to call me ‘Dodo’. He took along
the camera I had given him as a birthday present two months before my
attest. Over that two-month period, I taught him about photography and
how photos are taken. He loved it; “I will film the whole evening gathering
so you can watch it.” Bittersweet.
Anticipating the end of the evening with mixed feelings, I was passionate
to hear all about it. The gathering included my dad’s speech as well as
Lasky’s. It also included readings of my poems which were translated into
Hebrew. Art and poetry interventions by artists, poets, Arab and Jewish
activists took place as well. In fact, they constituted most of the theatrical
play as readers of some of my trials’ protocols and in presenting my
convicted poem to the audience.

162
 The clock struck 11pm. Phones ringing non-stop. Calls kept pouring in.
The phone calls I received from my friends who had attended the gathering
evening did not cease until late at night. Many words of support after a
remarkably successful event. Through it, our message was conveyed; it
surpassed all expectations, including mine. Many people had attended. The
reading and the presentation of the protocols were attistic and professional.
The performance was dramatic. The truth of my trial was highlighted and
exposed. Hinat told me about the biggest surprise: my poem won strong
applause and had built up support.
After midnight, my father, brother and his little son, Tawfiq ‘Tootoo’,
returned home. My father was exhilarated and astonished at the amount of
support he’d witnessed. Eminently touched, Tootoo approached me. With
a voice filled with sadness, he told me, quietly: “Sorry. The memory card is
full. I couldn’t film the whole evening gathering. I forgot to take an extra
one.” I hugged him tightly, gave him several kisses and told him: “You did
a wonderful job! Thank you, Habibi, I will watch everything you’ve filmed.”
Three days had passed since the evening gathering. Unexpectedly, my
case started taking a new turn. Miri Regev, the Minister of Culture and
Sport, published a new translation of my poem on her page. Her translation
was filled with mistakes and misconceptions. She demanded that the
government sue al-Saraya Theatre as they approved of presenting my poem
which was accused of spreading terrorism and incitement to violence. She
also demanded that the funding for the theatre stop and that the ministry’s
budget allocation be cut. It was accused of putting on performances which
supported terrorism as well as other political performances against Israel
under the pretext of breaking the so-called Nakba law”.
Within a few hours, my poem’s number of views on Regev’s page
reached up to seventy-five thousand, and it was reposted three-hundred-
and-thirty times. Not to mention that her page was liked by thirty-one-
thousand two-hundted-and-eighty people.
Those incidents didn’t simply go unnoticed. They affected the course of
my case and my hearings too, as my defence lawyer used this incident, as
well as the fact that Regev had posted my poem, in court to back up my
defence. In front of the court, she presented this as evidence to prove my
innocence and to refute all the accusations against me. If the poem was

163
threatening and called for incitement and terrorism, as the police and the
Israeli Authorities claim, Miri Regev should be punished as well. She did
exactly what I had done.
As my lawyer, along with the Public Defence Office, were writing a
summary of judgment, and through their research they came on the picture
which was captioned “I’m the next martyr”, which I posted back in 2014
on my Facebook timeline. It was not removed. The lawyer asked to include
it, together with the poem posted by Regev on her page, as evidence in the
defence file. The prosecution refused. My lawyer set up a special court
instead to discuss the request before the judge. The judge, for her part, also
rejected including the picture as new evidence which would prove that I
posted it more than a year prior to my arrest. Still, she accepted the
evidence regarding Regev posting my poem.
On October 5, 2017, I received the most exceptional worldwide support
from PEN International since my arrest. Writer, poet and president of the
organisation Jennifer Clement, as well as Carlos Turner, the CEO, paid me
a special visit to strengthen the position of the organisation. They took up
my case and supported me; they, too, were against such an arrest. That was
the greatest message I had received during my continued arrest. That
honour would remain carved into my heart.
The prison gave me no choice but to fall in love with the experience —
despite its cruelty — simply because I wanted to be released with the least
amount of damage and loss. With all that support, I felt as if I had been
growing like a plant in the soil of new situations. Only time nourished me
with vitality. Iwas reborn. My body was teplete with memories. That very
visit in itself was like a new lung filled with the oxygen of hope.
Once a week, I would spend time with Ofta. And every time I did, I
would cling to nothing but the hands of the clock. The ticks of the clock
haunted me; I would hear it ticking loudly and I started to realise, more
than ever, the value of time. I would leave and return right on time. I would
carefully map out my way from home and home before leaving, regardless
of where I was going. Clocks triggered my anxiety.
After spending two years under arrest, my feelings were still chained
despite the fact that I, every now and then, spent time outdoots. I still
couldn’t be my own company. What hurt me more was that I could not

164
indulge my passion for nature photography. Two years had passed. I could
not embrace my camera which I missed dearly; my fingers missed its touch
and my ears missed the sound of its clicks with every picture I took. Two
years. My poetry and pieces of writing were prohibited from publication.
For two years. I was banned from taking part in any political or artistic
activities. | was forbidden from working and making a living. Two years
with no access to the internet. Deprived of meeting my loved ones and
going outdoors with them whenever I wanted for two whole years. I was
deprived of it all, things that I used to do before my arrest, for two years.
Repeatedly violated by the Israeli authorities over the past two years.
Suffering. My conviction was simply thinking outside that patriarchal box.
They had attempted to rape my identity and take it away from me. They
tried to seize my name, poetry, art and writings just because I was a woman
who stood up for herself and dared to say “no”. No to human oppression.
No to injustice and violations. No to rape. No to occupation. No to male
domination. No to silence. Yes to freedom. Yes to the treedom of our
Palestinian people and to social justice.
Until proceedings are over, every imprisoned person is not solely in
captivity inside a prison, or under the restrictions imposed on them, but ts
a captive for a time whose end is unknown. In reality, all 1 knew was that I
am imprisoned. Counting days without even knowing when this sentence
would come to an end or how many days left until it did. Time was the
unknown under the circumstances of my imprisonment.
Four walls, a blue door, a small window and iron bars — that is what
makes a prison cell. My home confinement, though, turned all of those into
loose terms. Everything that surrounded me was similar to the walls, the
shut doors and the bars. The whole household, in my eyes, was nothing
but a grey prison. I learned patience and hope. The letters became like a
spiritual window with a view of the writing oasis, my escape from all of
those chains and restrictions. It was where I sought refuge and it helped
me breathe true freedom and endure the hardships of the experience.
Writing, alone, opened my heart to horizons worth contemplating. Writing
charged my blood with determination; whenever I felt weak and felt the
harshness of the world around me, I would speak to myself. I would shout

165
at myself until I was encouraged to get my pen back and get inspired. My
reality was bad, but without writing it would be far worse.
Oren Ziv, the photographer, had started coming along with Ofra for
Tuesday visits to document my home confinement. Einat, on the other
hand, dedicated her Saturdays to pay me visits. During that period of time,
we gtew closet to each other and became best friends. We would go on
talking for hours; I felt as though I could talk to her about everything I
experienced and felt. Yoav and Iris visited me regularly too. Similarly,
Hanin Zoabi came over to pay me a visit and check in on me several times.
Alma, together with her husband, Yoav Birash, and two friends of theirs,
visited me for the first time. She was nine months pregnant; I laughed a lot
at her belly. We spent that evening in the house, talking. I felt the love that
connected us all; it was a nice feeling. After Alma had given birth, she,
together with her husband, Yoav, and daughter, Tamara, paid me another
visit. I cradled her baby and we laughed so much. Alma was extremely
thrilled. I told her: “When Tamara grows up, tell her that she once visited
a detained poet. Tell her that she fell asleep in my dangerous arms. I
stitched an embroidery piece, as I would normally do for those whom I
love and appreciate, and gave it to Alma. As for the singer, Danielle
Ravitzki, who visited me several times — she asked me to give het some of
my translated poems, both into Hebrew and English, so she could write
new pieces of music, compose and sing them. Those included ‘Resist, my
people, resist them,’ the poem that led to my detention.

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

Tuesdays were the only days when I was allowed to spent time with Ofera.
A typical tour of my neighbourhood. We didn’t decide on a place; we were
walking aimlessly. On the spur of the moment, we decided to go to Haifa.
On our way to Haifa, using her phone, Ofta checked which films were on;
she also checked what time each started. Letting out a laugh, she suddenly
told me: “What a coincidence! One French documentary will be on at 4.30.
It’s the only one. Would you like to go see that movie?”
I smiled and felt as if Ihad won a precious prize so I agree immediately
agreed and said “of course”. I had no expectations for that day, and allI

166
could think of was that I would get the chance to breathe some fresh air
outside my bedroom for a few hours. Last thing I know, we were at the
cinema watching a film. I didn’t even ask Ofra about that film, I didn’t even
know its name or what it talked about. Ofra mentioned its title, yet I didn’t
really listen as I didn’t concentrate. The thought of seeing a film at the
cinema was the centre of my attention. It had been a long time and the idea
took over my heart and mind. After all this time, I longed to be in a seat in
front a big screen and in a dark auditorium. That feeling reigned over my
emotions as if spending some time in that hall had become my main goal
of the moment. Nothing else was of importance then. We bought two
tickets. The auditorium was nearly empty: Ofra and I, along with four other
women who were sitting in the same row of seats.
I started contemplating the auditorium and its tiniest details, corners and
colours. It was almost entirely covered in red, which caught my eye. I
recalled at once that most of the cinemas and stages which I had visited
before used red in particular. Then I started asking myself questions I had
never wondered about before. I asked myself questions without even trying
to answer them. Why were the seats red? Why was the colour red used in
most of the furnishings of cinemas and stages worldwide? What was the
secret connection between that colour and the cinema? Was there a specific
rule or was it just a tradition? When I was a university student majoring in
media and film directing, those questions never crossed my mind. I didn’t
even think about reading the history of that colour or the secret behind it
being chosen as the standard colour of cinemas. Lights dimmed.
Background music began, announcing the start of the movie. I lost my train
of thought. The film was shown on a giant white screen right in front of
me. My emotions kept up with its scenes.
The ‘Faces Places’ movie turned the coincidence of that visit with Ofra
to indelible memory. Watching a movie which discussed photography,
murals and the effects photographs have on people’s lives, especially during
those difficult times under arrest and the strange, harsh circumstances, was
a beautiful twist of fate and an exciting one too. I myself was not allowed
to do what I loved most — photography — but that coincidence summoned
many meanings and sensations.

167
 How I needed to live a collective human life, with all its social strata and
different cultures, a life where the individual’s social harmony was evident
and society was connected to the individual, so that all burdens and
concerns were shared by everyone! How I needed to witness those
expetiences which emphasised the existence of true human beings and
humanity, especially now. The film gave me that chance.
For an entire hour, I felt as if I inhabited every scene of that film, and it
was enough to prove that I did the right thing by considering the camera a
lifelong friend and to stay loyal to it. I was not wrong when I once wrote:
“Until the day I die, the camera will always be my most valuable friend, and
my pen will always be my dearest love.”
With Agnés Varda and JR, with all those faces and places, I had come
to discover the creativity within the soul of photographers. I also learned
that such energy was only manifested through the stories of the people we
met and photographed, those whose stories we citculated and whose
emotions we captured in photographs. That film made me long to hold my
camera again and hear its clicks. I felt as if 1had done my camera wrong by
abandoning it through this period due to my arrest. I returned home
energised and deeply moved. I took the camera out of the bag, hugged it
and gazed at it..I blamed myself a lot, but then I let out a long laugh,
probably the longest in my entire life. I felt a genuine link between my laugh
and creativity, and as if the camera had been sending me a message saying:
“Let’s start redecorating this room and its walls.” So I took out all the
camera equipment from my bag and cleaned the lenses and started thinking
to myself how I could transform my arrest in this small room of mine and
between these walls into a message which would grant others a chance to
think and contemplate. I started thinking about how those moments I lived
under arrest would be turned into concrete ones whose pain would be felt
and whose face contemplated by others.
I studied the pictures I’d hung on the walls of my room before my arrest.
A lightbulb moment. An idea sparked: taking photos which would tell
about my confinement, documenting those scenes in artistic photos and
channelling the feelings I was experiencing under this confinement to
whoever might see them in the future. With these photos, I just might
prove that, to an artist, home confinement would be the most cruel form

168
of punishment inflicted by one human on another and the most hideous
way of suppressing an artist’s freedom and right to live and express
themselves.
Talking to myself, I said: “Yes. I will take photographs so that my eyes
will have their own voice too, they will be loud enough for everyone to
hear. Through this voice, I will express the pain of my arrest as well as that
of many other political prisoners from my country..Our screams shall
remain stuck in people’s minds and they will see them and hear them
wherever they ate.”
Many photography ideas rushed through my mind one after another. I
turned one corner in my room into a small studio to help me take the
photos I wanted. Doing so liberated my thoughts. I got back to
photography and destroyed yet another chain that smothered me. With
every thought, the difficulty of my arrest grew less and less. Then I would
transform the idea into a photo that would portray one of the painful
feelings I had to endure under confinement.
With every photo I captured, I would look at it and smile; my smile was
a mixture of happiness and pain since the pictures depicted a prison and
expressed my experience. I would smile while I was expressing my gratitude
to my camera and to Ofra for giving me that chance to restore the spirit of
photography within me.
This prison that stifled me also set me free; I broke free from many other
psychological constraints. It unleashed my dreams and emotions so that I
turned them into a lyric to be sung or a story to be told. With the birth of
each poem under this arrest, I would discover a new ability to be pleased
and inspired. I would then become more creative than I had ever been
before my arrest.
Although I had been under arrest for two years, it was not over and I
could not see its end around the corner. During those two years, my
perception of freedom had changed; the prison had become my freedom.
In it, I was able to realise my dreams of writing, so I devoted myself to it.
It couldn’t be denied that such a road was imposed on me and I had no
control over it. However, I was able to be productive, and so I put my
words out on paper. I created a timeline and I stuck to it despite the
unknown I had yet to face. In this prison, I found solutions to all the

169
problems I had been facing and all my emotional conflicts. I came to realise
that imprisonment and the very few options an imprisoned person might
have, as well as time constraints, made me more focused, determined and
daring. I was able to go beyond all limits of space in which I was placed. I
was placed in a tiny spot and I was expected to isolate myself in one of its
narrow corners. It came as a sutprise to everyone, including myself, thatI
was able to feel more free. I simply learned that during the time period that
was determined for me — and which was expected to be nothing but very
dark and strict — I became freer than I had ever been in the past.
The prison in all of its forms as well as the experience during all of its
stages became a solution. It ticocheted from one conflict to another with
unimaginable emotions. At first sight, the prison might have been no more
than a waiting point, yet in reality it was an endless war. I would never
forget any moment of it. No political prisoner resumed life the way it was
before the arrest. Having to live under arrest was a transformative
experience.
Over those years, I fell in love with my solitude away from my family. I
was more attached to writing. It was not because they didn’t keep me up
to date, but they didn’t provide me with any beneficial information in the
first place. With my isolation, and despite my deprivation and the
constraints which opened doors to despair, I discovered new sensations
which strengthened my relationships with others, especially my friendships.
I realised that deprivation, absence, longing and suffering were pillars to
strengthen relationships and lifelong progression. Such relationships were
opposite to those that began when life was easy and fun and which
eventually wilted and dried out when first put to the test. From my arrest,
I learned that the reason why those relationships ended was that they were
relationships built on meaningless compliments and apple-polishing. My
new friends, however, wete my ttue ftiends. With them, I knew what
genuine emotions were. I had missed and yearned constantly for them.
With them, and with full conviction, I realised the true value of living,
loyalty and sacrifice.
As in a football game, I was waiting for the whistle of the judge, a whistle
that would announce the end of my home confinement or my new
beginning. The final sentence was to be passed! Afterwards, I would enter

170
 a new qualitative game, an outstanding one. This match would be different
_ from all the others I’d taken part in before. It wasn’t about the thrill of it
but determination and decision-making. I was waiting to receive the final
sentence. I was certain I could still go on and win, regardless of the
outcome, whether I had to serve a longer sentence or be set free.
During that waiting period, Land Day as well as the Nakba Day 70%
anniversary were being commemorated. The national authorities had
decided to extend the protests and events starting from Match 30, Land
Day, until May 15, the Nakba Day anniversary. The most vehement of
these were in the besieged Gaza strip where the protesters were oppressed
by the occupation’s army by every means. That led to the martyrdom of
one-hundred-and-twelve people and the injury of thirty-thousand-and-
nine-hundred just because they raised the Palestinian flag and called for the
end of the siege and their return to the hometowns from which they had
been forcibly displaced in 1948. They were guilty of that.
Journalists, paramedics, people in wheelchairs, children, elderly people
and artists were martyred. The occupation’s army left no one unharmed;
those innocent people were shot. There was no deterrence either locally or
globally. Killing those innocent people publicly, directly and brutally, was
not deemed a terrorist act for which the criminals had to be held
accountable. On the other hand, my poem was the definition of terrorism,
according to Israel’s apartheid regime. I had to watch those scenes and ache
overt the pictures of those martyrs in order to express how I stood by my
people through my poems, drawings and pieces of writing. That would be
one of the ways I could defeat the helplessness I was going through during
my arrest.

171
 CHAPTER 20

My sentencing heating was continually adjourned for various teasons.

Sometimes an adjournment was requested by the prosecution,at other
times it was called by the judge. On a very few occasions, however, it was
at my lawyer’s request. Adjournment, to them, was a snap. Why wouldn’t
it be? They weren’t the ones under experiencing arrest; they went about
their lives without any constraints or conditions. For me, an adjournment
was the toughest of all the news I received. It bothered me a lot, but the _
more my hearing was adjourned, the mote patient and adaptable I became.
I had to escape from my circumstances, as if by some emergency escape
route to avert the fires of despair and frustration.
Every time I got news of the hearing’s adjournment, I would go to my
room. Headphones on. Classical music turned up. Heart and soul, I would
listen to it. Music was the only way to absorb my anger during that time. It
had become my only breathing space during amidst mental, social and
familial pressure. Besides writing, music — though strangely — was capable
of taking over me and helping me to vent my stress and anger in this grim
reality.
I couldn’t get enough of it as I immersed myself in its melodies for two
or three hours, or maybe more, without feeling bored or tired. After that,
I would feel comfortable, secure and refreshed. I would regain my
composure, then enter another stage of waiting — waiting for the judge to
set a new date.
The fact that my sentencing hearing was adjourned many times only
lengthened my period of confinement. It lasted for two years and seven
months. May 3, 2018. The date of my sentencing hearing had been set; I
would either be convicted or acquitted. I arrived at the Nazareth district
courthouse and I was overwhelmed by the number of people at that
defining hearing. The national support had expanded in an unexpected
way; the courtroom was packed with people who backed my cause; they
were from various social and political backgrounds, Jewish and Arab
people. Everybody was waiting for the judge to pass sentence. She read it
in an almost an indistinguishable voice, so I indicated to her that I couldn’t

ke
hear anything she was saying. Others did so too. Pause for seconds. She
said she was sick and she couldn’t speak up. People shouted as they
demanded she use the microphone in front of her. Broken microphone.
The funny thing was that the pitch of her voice got higher while she was
saying those words, her illness vanished all of a sudden. She proceeded with
reading her verdict: convicted. As if she had been whispering, she kept on
reading. We couldn’t make out her words, yet after we had received the
protocols we learned that I was convicted of all the accusations against me.
The judge set another date to discuss with the prosecution and defence the
duration as well as the type of punishment I was to receive. All this barely
lasted for ten minutes. I was given fifty-three printed pages in which there
was an explanation as to why I was convicted and the points she was
keeping in mind before passing sentence on me. From this moment
onwatds, I was no longer accused of incitement to violence and terrorism
of supporting a terrorist organisation. I became convicted. I — together with
my poem — still had to wait for the type of punishment and length of
sentence, which were to be announced by the end of the month.
The conviction didn’t shock me. I saw it coming. What would have
shocked me would have been to be acquitted. The logic of occupation. A
logic that was characterised merely by injustice and racism and started right
when the occupation first set foot in this land and took over it. How could
I be surprised when I knew well that I had been subjected to a hearing
controlled by the occupiet’s policy, and in a country that was established at
the expense of the Palestinian people’s rights? It wouldn’t be difficult for
an authority and a policy of a country which had been established after
confiscating all the rights of the Palestinian people — and was settled in all
of this land which was rightfully ours — to seize the rights of a poet, a
human being who expressed herself through speaking and writing. My last
hope of attaining freedom soon was taken away from me.
Despite all the pain I felt as a consequence of that conviction, I felt
happy somehow. I saw freedom approaching me. I heard the sound of
applause announcing the end of the play which had lasted for around three
years. All the systematic acting and the numerous manifestations of racism
and oppression were directed by an authoritarian political system which

173
controlled the country and was disguised by slogans of democracy, justice,
human rights and dignity. ;
That conviction didn’t stop me from smiling despite my anxiousness,
the deep feelings of subjugation and the enormity of the injustice which I
had borne in my heart, whether it was because of what had happened or
what was about to happen. I found myself firing a smile like an arrow
hitting their faces: it was a smile of daring and power. Keeping a smile on
my face in front of them at such moments was a victory. I also smiled at
my friends as if Ihad been asking them to rest assured and remain steadfast.
I smiled because I wanted to make them feel my love as well. Smiling at my
loved ones was the highest expression of my love for and loyalty to them.
Another smile. I sent that to my soul as I was speaking with it and giving it
an extra push to remain steadfast and proud. Unplanned, I spontaneously
smiled at everybody. My smile carried answers to all the questions
addressed to me by media reporters — a large number of them attended the
trial. I simply smiled; my smile was enough to encapsulate all that could be
said. Through it, I conveyed the most heartfelt message to the waiting
world in which I would have to live after the trial. In that moment, my
smile was the ecstasy of victory. Suffice as to say that with my simple,
spontaneous smile I didn’t fulfil the end desired by those who wanted me
to feel sad and regretful or to cry. It was a clear message: no power on
Earth shall silence my voice, my feelings, my poetry or writing. It was a
rejection of all those who attempted to do so, whether the Israeli authorities
or my so-called cousin who believed that by playing a role in my arrest and
trial he would forever silence my voice. He would be surprised. My vocal
chords were stronger than ever; they would keep echoing.
My smile did not express happiness deep within, yet it showed that my
poems made me mightier than the circumstances, accusations and
authorities. By smiling I was the toughest. Keeping a smile on my face, I
walked further away. And with every smile brought to my face, I felt that I
definitely was stronger; with that smile and with my poetry, I could go
further. The only weapons I carried in that battle were poetry and my smile.
With my smile, I turned my defeat to a victory and my conviction into
acquittal. Poetry dusted off. Poetry triumphed over the authorities that
encircled me. I had a feeling my smile made my enemies cry and lose theit

174
taste for the delusional victory they had pursued for all this time. It was as
if I had said and proved that my jailers were the convicted and guilty ones.
They wete the prisoners, not I. My smile proved that.
I read the guilty verdict statement written by the judge; it made her
sound as if she, overnight, had turned from a person who worked at the
Judiciary Service into a researcher in the fields of language and poetry. It
was as if she had become a language teacher or a poetry analyst. She
explained the poem from her own perspective, and she interpreted its
wording using her own lexicon and according to the positions taken by the
prosecution and the police. The most noticeable thing about her analysis,
however, was that she adopted the translation of Dr. Mendel, a translation
specialist. She said she hadn’t been convinced by his interpretation-and that
she was rather more convinced by the interpretation of the policeman who
translated the poem, as he was an Arab and Arabic was his mother tongue;
he was also raised in an Arab community to which I, too, belonged.
Another reason she was more convinced by his interpretation than Dr.
Mendel’s was that he would understand those terms and the intention
behind them, unlike the specialised translator whose area of study was
translation! Still, his first language was Hebrew. Besides, he was born and
raised in a different community and environment from the one to which I
belonged.
Many times and at different periods, I read and re-read my conviction.
Each of which left me more lost, looking for my lost pecin ainong all the
interpretations, analyses and mistranslations to the extent that I laughed
while I was reading the judge’s analysis and what she had based it on to
prove her accusations.
My conviction didn’t scare me as much as it thrilled me and spurred me
to think about what was ahead — the length of the sentence length the judge
would determine, and the necessity to plan ahead, no matter what was in
store. I would finally be able to see, with my own eyes, the end. It was very
close.
After spreading the news of my conviction, the minister of culture and
sport, Regev, issued a video statement on her Facebook page where she
expressed her joy over the decision of the Nazareth magistrates court. She
was smiling. Afterwards, and after she called me a “criminal terrorist,” she

ihe)
said that she gave the verdict her blessings as it was a right and wise one.
Once again, she incited everyone to turn against me and to sue Jaffa
Theatre for showing the play, which included the reading of my poem and
the evening gathering in support of my case, even though the prosecution
acknowledged that the event was considered artistic work and integral to
the right of free speech; the theatre could not be punished for that.
As I was reading the papers of my conviction, I suddenly remembered
that one of the local council employees paid me a surprising visit; his visit
was an attempt to make me compromise and not to proceed with my case.
He wanted me to apologise to the authorities, admit that I was wrong, sign
a pledge and submit a written one which stated that I would never compose
political poems any more or ever discuss politics in my writing. In return,
my case would be closed. One of my brothers who was a friend of his
seemed to like the idea; my dad was encouraged too. An irresistible offer!
They thought that would spare me and my family anxiety. They thought
that with that offer they were helping me. I completely rejected the idea; I
didn’t want to negouate it. I even verbally insulted that man, you could say
I almost kicked him out after mocking him along with all those who agreed
with him on such nonsense. Consequently, that offer to lend a hand, which
I rejected, resulted in writing a letter against him, and unexpectedly hit them
twice as hard.
When his face turned pale with shock when I refused. that nasty
compromise, resisted that new offer and refused to give up my rights and
abandon my poetry, my family pressurised me increasingly to try to
influence my decision. I ruined it all for them, and that didn’t affect me the
slightest. On the contrary, I clung to my opinion and held onto my rights
and resolve until the end, making it clear to everybody that I had endured
this entire period of my arrest, oppression and suffering and I wouldn’t
make a cowardly surrender after all that I had been through. I was
determined to carry on. I would finish what I had chosen from the very
start. I wanted to continue writing in a language of my choice and
employing the words which pleased me. I would use the expressions which
perfectly fitted the atmosphere of my own poem until my last breath, even
if that cost me years of imprisonment. I would never change my mind or
go back on my opinion as I was completely convinced of my right to

176
express myself freely, just like any poet. I was also convinced that this art
form should acquire immunity from the claimed democracy.
Thinking back to that situation and reading my conviction file were
other reasons to reconcile fully with my inner self again. After that, I felt
respect and appreciation for myself. I felt inner peace, which I had never
experienced before. My thoughts started flowing, as did my emotions
imagination towards mote poetry.
The inner peace I felt with each incident during my arrest, and with all
the things by which I was surrounded, turned into an inner explosion by
itself. It became the theme and subject of my poems. I tealised that being
at peace with oneself could not be reached unless one’s soul heard the wat
drums beating. Moreover, I realised that for my poetry to remain alive, its
genre had to be reserved. It represented me and reflected my reality.
After undergoing many forms of suffering while I was under arrest, I
was able to let go of everything that exhausted my soul. I stopped becoming
attached to things as I used to do. I shed the fake love of those I'd thought
wete loyal friends from my soul. I learned what true love was, the kind of
love for which my emotional bleeding was worth. I held tight to my dreams.
I explored and learned about myself more. I gave myself a chance for
introspection. I shed the habit of excessive nail-biting — a habit I’d got into
before my arrest as a result of living under stress. I hated it and tried to
break it so many times yet had always failed. In the hustle-bustle of it all,
and despite the stress and pressure, I did it. That achievement was another
victory against myself and my circumstances. I trusted my determination
more, and I reconciled with myself. I broke free from all of those
constraints and chains. I only had one left: this prison. I didin’t know when
I would celebrate my full freedom.

ies
 CHAPTER 21

May 31, 2018

liam

People packed the courtroom; their number exceeded all the previous
times. All chaits occupied. The guards wanted to force people who couldn’t
find available chairs out the courtroom. Lawyer Lasky, however, asked for
judge’s permission to allow them to sit in the front seats designated for
lawyers. Arabs and Jews, from various political and social backgrounds,
they all sat down. A picturesque scene! That image would forever be stuck
in the minds of the people there: the faces of people looking, worried and
waiting for the sentence to be passed by the judge. That image
communicated the true meaning of peace which none of us had
experienced before. What made it distinct was that it was a genuine feeling
shared and felt wholeheartedly by every person in the room. Not only was
that image beautiful on the outside, it also carried a great, higher message.
My poem and I were accused of incitement and terrorism according to the
racist judicial system, although, in reality, the poem could spread love,
friendship and amity amongst us all. That hearing, in my eyes, was like a
picture depicting the meaning of love which nobody had inhabited or
comprehended except for those who witnessed its emotional moment. My
threatening poem and I, the “criminal terrorist” poet, as I was called by
Miri Regev, were able to achieve love and peace which would always be
remembered.
The prosecution, famous for surprises, as usual, took me by surprise.
This time, she surprised me by the fact that, in writing, she had submitted
her argument as well as her claims for the type and length of the sentence
she requested of the court. We had no idea about the length of the sentence
I would have to serve until my lawyer, Lasky, took a break which lasted for
more than half an hour, during which she read the papers and revealed they
contained. We found out that the prosecution demanded that I serve a
fifteen-month to twenty-six-month sentence; she argued that prison would
be the only effective deterrent for people like me. Prison was the sole,

178
proper deterrent to limit the crimes I had committed. She also demanded
that I pay a fine, but she didn’t determine the amount. The prosecution
asked the judge to determine it instead, as the court saw appropriate for
such crimes. Restrictions would be placed on me after the sentence was
served, with a suspended prison sentence if I committed the same
violations in the future.
What was funny about her written pleading was the part where she
mentioned that I, up until that moment, hadn’t shown any signs of regret
for what I had done. The proof was that I didn’t regret publishing my poem
and hadn’t apologised for doing so or admitted I made a mistake. The
silliest part I read was where she mentioned that I showed no regret as I
didn’t delete my Facebook posts and didn’t take the initiative. Nothing
would ever make me laugh more than such statements. I had no access to
the internet throughout my arrest. The police had kept my mobile phone
and computer since I was first arrested up until that moment.
I laughed harder when I read what she said about how threatening my
poem and words were as well as her claims that my incitement to violence
and terrorism had not stopped since all of my posts still appeared on my
Facebook timeline. Could there be anything funnier than those desperate
wotds of hers? What she wrote only showed how the police and the
prosecution trivialised my case from the outset. When the police arrested
me and imposed restrictions on my exercise of freedom yet left my
threatening poem out there where everyone could read it or listen to it,
then by doing so did not put a halt to that purported threat. On the
contrary, they contributed to its spread; the police arrested me and
encouraged people’s curiosity about my ‘inciting’ poem. One of the most
trivial matters I had ever experienced or read about. I don’t think P’ll ever
read or learn anything that surpasses it in silliness. It should be called ‘the
joke of this time.’
In the written pleading of the prosecutor-general, J also came across the
exaggeration of my accusations. Lies and delusions. She included some
alleged instances of people who had been charged and convicted for similar
reasons, and who had been sentenced. Their punishment resembled that
which she demanded for me.

efi)
 Despite all the laughter, misery and the mixed emotions I felt as I was
reading the written pleading of the prosecutor-general, and at more than
any other hearing where my lawyer defended my being a poet, my right to
express myself freely, and poetry which I loved and mastered, I was deeply
moved by lawyet’s pleading. It had significantly and deeply affected me; het
wotds and expressions were loaded with genuine amity. She wasn’t
defending me simply because she was doing her job, she defended me
based on her being convinced by art, poetry, language and creativity. It
brought tears to my eyes when I heard her saying: “We’re standing before
a convicted poet. She has been standing in the corridors of this courthouse
for more than two-and-a-half years as a result of her creative product.
When we ask of the creative artist and poet to betray and renege on their
creativity, it would be as if their heart was ripped out of their chest.”
Her words were enough to cut right through and sum up my emotions.
_ They silenced the echoes I heard whenever I was blamed and reprimanded
by many people, including my family and friends, because of my writing
and publishing my poem. Her words transformed me with feelings of life,
hope and peace. They made me feel more confident, determined and
patient, at least.
The hearing ended. The judge asked me if I agreed to meet the probation
officer; she gave me a choice whether to accept or refuse that request. She
notified me that my approval would mean it would take at least three
months to set a date for sentencing. My lawyer asked me, but I rejected the
idea altogether because I realised that doing so would not add anything new
to my case; it would only be another form of lengthening my home
confinement with extra months which wouldn’t count if I was sent to
prison, no matter for how long.
The judge accepted my decision, and she addressed both patties: the
defendant and the prosecution “Keep me informed if you decide otherwise
regarding this matter.” Date of case set: June 24, 2018. 11am. Sigh of relief.
I would end the inner conflict of waiting that I’d lived through. I’d seen no
light at the end of the tunnel for too long.
I lived my whole life despising anticipation. Living in anticipation was
difficult and now was more difficult given that I knew what would happen
was out of my control. It was all in the hands of another power, an authority

180
which controlled my time. I, sighing with each passing day, waited yet
received no calls to let me know that there would be another adjournment.
With each passing day, despite how slowly days pass, my hearing
approached. I felt relieved, somehow. My relief was mixed with
anticipation, fear and nervousness as the end, which I had been waiting for
so long, was drawing near, regardless of the scenario they have constructed
for me.
Waiting. How agonising waiting can be! Prison environment. I was just
sitting there, in my bedroom, staring into space. Lonely and isolated. My
eyes wandered restlessly around the room. I still did my habitual rituals but
we were bored with one another — that is, my rituals and I. I played with
my Persian cats and I contemplated each one of their movements, their
exchanged looks and the way they played with each other one minute and
with me the next. I practised and tried everything that came to my mind to
pass my time. Waiting was killing me. My bedroom had turned into a testing
ground for my thoughts, emotions and sensations. As I stared at the phone,
in disapproval, the time dragged by. The names of those I missed were
running through my head and I was hoping they would appear on my small,
old phone’s screen and light it up. Throughout my wait and its anguish, I
had lived with my wishful thoughts and my longing heartbeats for hearing
my friends over the phone, those friends whose echoes of voices had
vanished since the beginning of my arrest. I waited. As I was waiting I
recalled my sweet memories of days gone by, and then I woke up to another
reality: phantom silhouettes of things that would never be realised. I looked
around. I tried to give myself some false hope. Even false hope was fading
with each passing day, hour and moment. I decided again that I would not
wait for any of them any more. I had made up my mind. I would never
look back on my love story and my friendship which no longer existed. I
would live only in the present and be with my friends who had been there
for me during my dark patch. Those wete the truest and the most beautiful.
In my heart grew another love story of a different kind, a story that I had
not known before.
Waiting was eating me up inside as if it were a flame burning down a
candle wick. It melted down, drop by drop. It had weighed me down,
together with my heart, especially as I didn’t expect anything good to come

181
out of my upcoming court appearance. I tried to make the best of this time
in every way possible, but those emotions accompanied me, no matter how
much I tried.

Thursday, June 21, 2018

I woke up at 8am. Eyes fixed on the date. I put a big smile on my face as I
was telling and reassuring myself that this day would pass, and that since it
was the weekend there would be no further adjournment this time; I was
not informed otherwise. I sighed. I felt as if 1 had been approaching, bit by
bit, the moment of truth. It would be the end of my battle with waiting. I
received numerous calls from people who wanted to attend the hearing as
it meant something to them. Those people supported my position and
would stand by me during the hearing. They called because they wanted to
make sure that the hearing’s date hadn’t changed; they wanted to confirm
the time and the date.
At 3pm, the phone rang. Lasky’s name appeared on my blue screen. I
took a deep breath and answered her call. The news hit me like a bullet.
Case adjourned.
I felt extremely dizzy. The whole world spun around me. I fell on my
bed and couldn’t wrap my head around that news. It was almost impossible
for me compared with the previous times. It was as if a bullet had suddenly
hit me while being at a wedding. I felt as if my heart was about to stop any
moment. I couldn’t speak or hear a single word uttered by anyone. All the
patience I had been building and restoring through time had crashed down
on me out of revenge. I detested everything around me. I cursed
everything, even the thoughts in which I believed. I cursed my patience,
my strength, my decisions, my luck and my fate. No place for hope left in
my heart. Everything was broken into little pieces, all the beauty and logic
I had within. Shocked. It was a real shock which was carved into my heart
and mind.
I could not comprehend what was happening; it was as if death had been
coming my way. I wished it would take my soul away and save me from
that pain. I weakened and felt that everyone was toying with my emotions
and kicking them as if they had been playing football; they would kick the

182
ball against a tough wall, filled with pins. They took turns to kick me around
mercilessly. They waited until I burst with pain and oppression. I was
terrified of my reaction as I was shocked, nervous and angry. I was scared
that it, too, would be a curse that would fall on everyone else, including
those who had nothing to do with this. I decided not to discuss this topic
with anyone because I didn’t want to hurt anyone by my words or.
emotions, just like others had been harsh on my heart. I remained silent
and didn’t bring the news up in front of anyone, my close friends in
particular. I didn’t want any word to slip out of my mouth and make them
feel hurt. My one and only call. I had to call Ofra and briefly keep her
posted. I asked her to spread the news by telling my comrades and friends.
Phone turned off.
For a second, I wished that I had the ability to practise my old rituals
when I was in distress, as I used to before I was arrested. I used to publish
a poem on my blog or post it on Facebook. 1 would be occupied with
following up on the replies. I spent time outdoors on my own and standing
still for hours in front of the sea, which I adored. I would do some of my
favourite sports, such as swimming and running on the beach, or I would
go for a walk in the neighbourhoods and on the streets of Nazareth, all by
myself. If not in Nazareth, I would spend time in Acte, its port and walls,
with my camera while my headphones were on. I would be listening to my
favourite music to cleanse myself from all that pain that washed over me.
I wished I had been able to get out of the house on my own to let out all
the anger I felt by taking photos, the hobby I was passionate about, my
saviout whenever fate decided I was to feel lost. 1 made so many wishes
and then woke up to reality, a reality which imposed the failure of realising
any of my wishes or anything that I liked, loved or wanted. Doors locked.
Windows closed. Curtains rolled down. Darkness in my small toom.
Headphones on. Music turned up: Mozart. I had some hope that some of
the notes might have the ability to absorb all of my anger just like the
previous times.
And just like that, with a few words uttered by the judge, I, yet again,
returned to another deadly dull, long waiting show. I had to wait for the
sentencing hearing. The reason for adjournment, as it was written in the
decision, was: “Upon considering and reading the defence (pleading) of

183
both parties with regard to the punishment, the big picture of the convicted
still can’t be seen. In order to do so, receiving the report of the probation
officer would be needed.” The date was set: July 26, 2018. It would be the
deadline for submitting the report while July 31, 2018, would be my
sentencing hearing date.
After spending a few hours with myself and keeping in mind the new
date, I felt more resentful. The judge, by adjourning the trial, in my opinion,
was punishing me, just like the system which managed my case.
I felt as if I had been treated like a number or a file. The fact that I was
human was completely forgotten; some parties would overlook the fact
that a human being had been standing, waiting and had suffered incredibly.
The new set date was another anxiety trigger since it was determined after
the judicial vacation had begun. During my arrest, two of the hearings
which were set by the judge had been adjourned over the past two years —
two or three days beforehand — until the end of July, due to the refusal of
the prosecution to work over holidays. And if the judge rejected the
prosecution’s request, she would justify that by making some excuses,
including alterations or emergencies, a day or two prior to the hearing. I
was scated the scenario would repeat itself this year too. I was almost
certain that it was what had actually happened.
These misgivings took over my heart and mind, so I thought of a
solution to cut short the torture of waiting. After thinking it over, I made
a decision to end that conflict by getting back to prison, instead of staying
under home confinement, so as to start my countdown for my sentence.
That would make this counterclockwise time pass easier for me. I wanted
to end the art of the inhumane torture show.
I could not bear any more pressure. Feeble and fallen apart, I had no
power or strength. I thought of other solutions, but lack of motivation
hindered me. I couldn’t get over the despair of the wait. I felt they had
drained all the energy I had, and that the only way to finish the house
confinement would be what I first thought of — that period that wouldn’t
count when the judge passed sentence.
This time, I would write the end; I’d do it my way. This time I had
decided not to wait for the torture lying ahead; I wouldn’t wait for either
the judge or the prosecution to adjourn my heating once more while they

184
only dealt with my case as a folder left on the shelf or a mere number saved
on some dumb computer. I was the only one who was suffering under
these harsh, restrictive circumstances. Everyone else was going about their
lives freely. I was the only person whose emotions were being toyed with
without any humane restraint.
This is how I wanted my case to take place on this day and by my own
decision, despite how difficult it was, as it connoted weakness and
surrender, both of which resulted from a loss of hope in a fair and just
decision by this racist, fascist, Kafkaesque court. I was determined to take
action as soon as possible without seeking anyone’s consultation. I waited
for the right opportunity to tell my lawyer about that tough decision after
the weekend.
For three nights in a row, I tossed and turned. Three sleepless nights.
An empty stomach, I had nothing but some water. Despite all of the
feelings I had, having made my decision, | composed a new poem. That
poem alone, one Sunday morning, was able to bring a smile to my face, a
smile that had been suppressed and vanished for the past three days.
By doing so, I brought this poem to light, it made me feel at peace and
it communicated the message for which I had been waiting; it was the most
important of all to me. The message reassured me that, in spite of making
that painful decision, I would never stop composing poetry, even under the
harshest circumstances. Amidst the stress I was under, poetry was the only
thing that retained its special place in my heart and I hadn’t lost faith in. It
had become mote effective during those tough times and given this harsh
decision.
On Sunday, June 24, 2018, instead of standing before the judge, I went
along with Edith Breslauer, one of the assigned attendants as well as Yoav
Haifawi, to meet my lawyer. Some supporters of the case, who were also
vety close to me, joined us.
I announced my decision in front of everyone. My lawyer didn’t agree
with me; she was discontented and rejected it. She described it as surrender,
especially as we were almost through. She clarified some points and she
assured me that this move wouldn’t work in my favour. It would cause
more damage as it would give the green light to the judge to simply pass
her sentence against me, and I would certainly go to prison. Such an

185
impulsive decision ruled out any chance, no matter how small, of avoiding
imprisonment. It was still possible and was argued during the decision-
making process. I looked into the eyes of those who were present to feel
their despair and sadness for me. I realised I was selfish by making such a
decision. The stares of my ftiends killed me and so did the words of my
lawyer, as if some arrows pierced my heart deep inside. I cried on the inside.
I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer, nor could I stop myself from
collapsing. I was at my weakest; I was burdened. I took off, trying to escape
those states. For a few minutes, I stood outside the office in tears. I was:
lost and desperate. Einat followed me. Het eyes tearful, she stared into my
eyes and I stared back. Alma joined us afterwards; she came closer to me
and took me into her arms. Einat and Alma tried to alleviate the pain. I
could never cause them to feel miserable, so I looked at them and said:
“T’m fine.” I looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. I was sad and
desperate. !
Yet again, I convinced myself, maybe falsely this time, that I was wrong
to make such a decision, and that I had no right to give up at this point. I
went back in. Smiling and thinking that a smile might bring tranquility to
those anxious, anticipating faces. I went back in and changed my mind. I
reversed my decision.
I told everyone who gathered in the office: “T will follow through with
this strict house arrest and under the harsh conditions under which I live.
But if the hearing is adjourned once more, I will not carry this through.”
Back to the unjust home confinement. Waiting, anticipating, scared and
anxious.
I returned home only to live with the nightmare of waiting again. It was
the most difficult of all times since I had to go back on my decision. I had
a feeling that I was the one who shackled myself with the ropes of despair,
weakness like a triple fisherman’s knot after this setback. The first knot was
when I decided not to complete my time of home confinement and
announced my defeat at that stage. The second knot was when I went back
on the decision I myself had made and.considered to be a logical one, and
a decision that would save me from these circumstances I lived under. I
knew all too well that the sentence passed by the Israeli Judiciary would not
do me justice. The third knot was when I hurt my friends in one way ot

186
another and broke out in tears in front of them without protecting their
feelings. During those three situations, I considered myself weak, collapsed
and selfish as this case was no longer a personal one. It included everyone
who was there for me and showed their support, and those who had stayed
and never left me alone throughout my house confinement period. I felt
that this time I was my own prisoner; I shackled myself with chains and
emotions I had already let go of during my home confinement. Those were
the emotions I had fought so hard to escape. Succumbing to this weakness
and constraining myself was similar to the Israeli Authority’s shackling of
my freedom, preventing me from publishing my writing, and living a
normal life despite my need and desire, more than ever, to publish and live
a normal life. Another chain. As if I had surrendered to society, family and
male domination.
I couldn’t kill my fear, as I had to begin another journey of waiting. I
lost my strength; I couldn’t face those tough moments. Time dragged by.
This time was a world away from the previous ones. I didn’t have enough
courage. I started a new battle with waiting and with time. I tried to be in
control of time, not let it be in control of me, yet waiting had got longer as
my lifetime was shortening. Even by waiting, nothing was guaranteed. |
began to doubt I’d survive until the moment the sentence was passed: death
might sneak up on me before the sentence, making its word the last in this
story of mine. These were the emotions I had started to experience.
Nothing was ever guaranteed in this life; my life itself wasn’t guaranteed by
this home confinement. With all of these feelings, I came back to my
attempts to keep myself busy with the things I liked and was allowed to do.
I didn’t want to waste any of my time, which was still was in the hands of
the judge. I wanted to do things of use; things that would add something
to my life something and would eventually leave a mark, whether for me
ot for the others.
Bleak day. At noon I received a call. I learned when the date of my
meeting with the probation officer was set: Wednesday, June 27, 2018 at
11am. I was ill-prepared. I didn’t prepare for any questions or responses. I
hadn’t received any preparation or notification from my lawyer concerning
that meeting, although she had promised she would guide me through it to
get it done with the best possible outcome. She did not. I, for my part,

187
didn’t call her or enquire about the matter. I was careless and nonchalant.
All I had in mind was that I wouldn’t utter a single word of apology or
regret for what I had done, no matter what happened and regardless of the
outcome. I was convinced I had not done anything wrong.
I sat holding a book in a waiting room. I was reading and I felt at peace.
I was waiting for the meeting with the officer to start. Fifteen minutes
passed before a thirtysomething man came in, confirmed my identity and
asked me to accompany him to his office.
He made a gesture with his hand to show me my designated seat. He sat
at his desk while I sat on the chair. I looked around the room and explored
each of its corners until my eyes were glued to a big photographic portrait.
It was hung on a wall close to my seat and right before my eyes. It was the
photo that Steve McCurry took of the Afghan girl, Sharbat Gula. I looked
at her glowing, magical green eyes, and I looked deep into her sharp,
piercing gaze whose strength and daring were inspiring as they overflowed
with pain, anger and agony. There was some interconnection between what
I had been feeling and those emotions in the portrait, especially since the
start of my ‘threatening poem’ case. That photo of Sharbat, which was
taken in 1984 while she was at an Afghan camp during war and which, later,
turned into a symbol of the suffering of Afghanistan under what the West
called the Soviet occupation, transformed suddenly into a reflection of my
story. My story of a long-lasting battle with the Israeli authorities, who
invaded my life, stole my right to express myself and took my right to
compose poems and publish them freely.
I left my soul there to have a conversation with the photo. For a second,
I felt as if what was standing in front of me had been a friend who was
close to my heart, if not the closest. I pictured the photo sending me a
message which everybody else failed to deliver. She read to me a line from
my convicted poem which went like this:
‘Do not fear the fire tongues of the Merkava tank
for the belief in your heart is stronger’

Suddenly, I came to a decision. The meeting would record our victory

without giving up my poem, principles or position. There would be no
weakness or going back this time. That meeting had been imposed on me

188
and it was taking place in a moment. My job then would be programming
it and turning it into a football match. I was the defender and I was about
to score a goal for myself and my team, yet it would be an own goal, a well-
taken one, during stoppage time, into the net of everyone who’d had had a
hand in my torture from the first day of my arrest until the very moment
of the adjournment of my sentence and the abominable wait.
To reconcile with myself one more time and forget what had recently
occutted, I had to sweep to victory at this meeting, no matter how, and to
turn it into motivation to keep me going until my sentencing hearing
atrived.
I wore a wide smile on my face and exchanged glances with the Afghan
girl Sharbat Gula in the painting; I stood in front of my dear and lovely
friend to express that I was looking forward to meeting her. I imagined her
speaking to me: “Let your story be just like this painting; it became part of
history by chance and without planning.” I pictured the moment when
McCurry took that picture after being taken by surprise when the girl came
up to him and asked him: “Would you take a picture of me?” He took that
photo without him stopping to think that it was the photo which chose
him and made him yield and would be the photo of his lifetime. The photo
he took in 1984 and published as the cover page of the National
Geographic magazine in 1985 was life-changing and guaranteed he won the
‘Capa Gold Medal’, after the photo’s aesthetics in the glance of Sharbat
were admired by so many. That affection turned to compassion for the girl
and the misery of her people too. To this very day, the effect of that photo
hadn’t vanished. At the time, I thought to myself that my poem and I
deserved a photo that would perfectly fit our suffering so it would be
etched in our memory. Right away, I decided to take a picture of myself
that was not any less beautiful than the beauty that stood steadfast before
me for all of those years. A picture of myself that I would never forget; it
would live on in my heatt; it would be as enduring as the glance that was
hung on the wall. A picture that I would gift to my friend who had been
waiting in anticipation to hear some news about me; it would alleviate, even
only a little, her anxiety and fear for me.
That message marked a decision I had to abide by; I urged myself to
implement it to reach my desired goal. In light of it, I promptly initiated a

189
 conversation with that officer so he would lose the chance to pose
commonly asked questions, and listen to my side of the story — the truth
behind my threatening poem, the truth that he hadn’t and wouldn’t find
any trace in my case paperwork written by the prosecution and the court. I
wanted to provide him the information I needed to convey my own
perspective before he formed an idea of me from what he read in the
paperwork, indictment list and conviction record. True victory in such a
match couldn’t be realised unless the opposing team was manoeuvred to
score a goal. Sticking to the plan.
Inspired by my friend and reminded by a line from my poem, I knew
that the beginning was about how I really felt. So I started the conversation
thus: “Just so you know, I am sitting here in this meeting before you by
force. This meeting has taken place without my will or approval. I am here
today just because the judge has decided that the report which you will
write about me is necessary. My trial has been adjourned due to the lack
thereof. She asked me if I agreed, yet I utterly refused. And the reason
behind this is my distrust of this system which is managing my case,
meaning that it’s the same organisation you work for.”
Our conversation lasted for three hours. I mainly talked about my
relationship with poetry and photography. I also discussed freedom of
speech; I had the right to express myself freely through the form of art I
mastered. Additionally, I addressed my writing experience, so I talked
about how it all came about, i.e., the beginning of my writing journey, the
poetic movement with which I identified and to which I belonged as well
as the first poem I wrote and its topic. I described my case status, which I
referred to as illegal, racist and far removed from the democracy which the
Israeh authorities claim. Moreover, I explained to him the support I’d
received from all over the globe and gave him the names of the societies
that supported my case in several countries. I mentioned some names of
writers, poets and artists who signed a petition calling for my release.
Finally, I told him more about my case and its political, social and cultural
dimensions in addition to the reactions to it from the outset until the news
of my adjournment.
As for the officer, he tried to get me to apologise for what I had done
* four times. He strived to make me utter a single word of regret for writing

190
the poem. I insisted on my position and made it clear that I didn’t
experience any feelings of regret and I was convinced that what I did was
right since all I did was express a feeling that I had experienced through
composing a poem. In other words, I transformed my human emotions
into a work of art.
Our conversation ended with one sentence on his part. He told me: “I
cannot send a human like you to prison. In all honesty, I will recommend
community sentence over prison. Prison is not for people like you.” I felt
I had achieved my aim at this meeting, the outcome of which was still not
guaranteed. After what I had suffered for around three years, I couldn’t
trust anyone in this system. I felt tranquil and balanced: my true victory in
this contest that had been imposed on me. The officer’s opinion was yet
another victory, although I didn’t really know whether he would write his
report based on what he had told me. However, it was enough for me to
feel that I’d been able to introduce a differently-detailed decision to the
coutt.
I cleared up the blurry picture to the judge and kept my promise to the
friend I loved. I fulfilled my instinct by interpreting photos and my love for
photography. Three factors instilled and inspired me to such an ability and
power to stand before that officer and talk confidently to him. I sensed that
my poem would win against all unjust authorities and brute force, even if I
had to wait for so long. My yearning for freedom was greater and stronger
than any tyranny on Earth. Because rights are beams of light, they shine
mote brightly with every passing day, and they lit up every cell in my body,
expelling all gloominess and distress. The three inspiring factors had been:
my love for my friend, poetry and photography.

191
 CHAPTER 22

Writing was the hope I clung to every time I was about to fall into
loneliness, despair and pain. Writing helped me to rise above it all and save
me from a certain fall. The poems I wrote when everything inside of me
was screaming in despair, were the only hand extended to pick me up and
help me out when all my old friends abandoned me and gave up on me.
Losing my past relationships was what affected my social life for the most
part, especially now that the end was on the horizon. The more the
sentencing hearing approached, the more I thought about the beginning of
my new life in all its details. This arrest altered everything.
I was certain that after gaining freedom, I would be all alone and would
statt a new life as if I were a newborn. I would start looking for new
relationships and friendships. I would start a new lifestyle since all my old
friends and acquaintances, most of whom had vanished after I got arrested,
would not be with me. Only three of them were left, yet I didn’t hear from
them after the verdict was delivered. They'd also given up on me; they
didn’t call on the phone as much as they used to do. We used to talk on the
phone on a daily basis. Now, if I called them, the response was cold, or
they would come up with an excuse to end the call as quickly as possible.
As time passed, they stopped picking up the phone. I then decided that I
would never call them because I didn’t want to be such a burden on anyone
or to impose myself on them. I decided to respect their decision to keep
me at a distance, although it stabbed me in the heart. The Israeli authorities
could not frighten me, but they were able to frighten those who around
me, my acquaintances and friends from my activism and writing. At the
same time, though, these people had widened my horizons and allowed me
to see the world differently. As the end was drawing near, my only hope of
my beautiful past before my arrest vanished, and everything that connected
me to my friends was gone. That arrest caused my ties with them to be cut,
yet I couldn’t erase them or the way I felt towards them. My longing for
those friendships, which brought us all together for a whole decade, would
lead me to open our photo albums where I collected all the memories we
shared, and to contemplate the love we’d had for one another until this

ihe
ending. Everything was nothing but a memoty. I ctied bitterly in silence.
Only my heart could hear those echoes with every picture I saw which
reminded me of a beautiful memory we had shared. My pain, grief, loss and
deprivation tore me up inside. Silent screams. Not even for a moment did
I regret the path I’d chosen. Despite my home confinement, I was able to
make new, unique friendships, which granted me the true love I needed
and had always wanted. They gave me attention, hope and sacrifice. Still, I
couldn’t deny the fact that this reality hurt me. I couldn’t hide my pain from
myself even if I managed to hide it from others. The pain of my past
memories with my old friends wouldn’t leave my memory alone especially
during the last days of my wait. I was worried, grieving and longing. The
mere thought of my future without them caused pain that squeezed my
body and soul so tightly. Sleeping to one reality and waking up to another
was very difficult. I was used to that reality but had been completely cut off
of it for three yeats.
Three years had passed and changed everything about my life, no matter
how big or small the details were. I still thought my life would undergo
further change once I gained my freedom. I had to get myself ready for
facing this reality so as not to be shocked or ruin the taste of success which
had taken every ounce of energy to achieve. Everything was about to
change: my friends, work, place of residence, lifestyle, how I treated others,
emotions, feelings, ideas, my economic situation, and so forth. In a
nutshell, I would start my life from scratch. I would have to live a life where
evetything would be different from what I was used to before and during
my attest. The only nice yet scary and exciting thing during this period of
time would be that I, now, was a well-known poet; a number of my poems
had been published and translated into several languages. Many people
were waiting for my next literary work to be published. How should I
behave with that unexpected fame for which I had no plan, as it had never
been my goal? It was something I hadn’t taken into account, especially
amidst such difficult and unusual circumstances.
One of the principles I uphold is that I don’t let anyone down,
patticularly when it comes to poetry and art, so I had decided to deal with
my new life in a way that would serve poetry, my future and my message
as a poet only. The only thing that remained unchanged in my life was

193
composing poetry and being attached to it. That was the life I chose to live
on telease; that craft chose me as one of her offspring. With poetry and
writing, I was revived. Taking this path would make me soar like a bird, but
without it I would be lock up in myself, isolated in the cage of a meaningless
life.
I had one more thing which was no less important. It had evolved over
those three past years of arrest and in all its stages, in prison, confinement
under house arrest and in exile: hold tightly to feminism more than ever. I
almost held a grudge against the Israeli authorities, patriarchy, male
domination and tribalism — those authorities that caused my suffering and
I fought against with every ounce of enetgy despite the lack of available
means. I’d faced a multi-framed masculine system. All of those authorities
gathered to shut me up and pressured me so as to weaken me and force
me to retreat from my right to express myself freely. With my long-held
belief in that right, and all the support I had received, I transformed such
pressure into an ally which helped me to stand stronger. I held onto my
beliefs even more and so my resolve turned into resentment against those
authorities which I watched before my eyes become subject to my
determination, resilience and decisions. They gave up their position when
I refused to be a passing thing after all that they had put me through. I
rejected the way they treated me and their ceaseless attempts to ratify and
objectify me. That was something I utterly refused.
Feminism became my main concern. I started planning out my life ahead
after my release. I even set myself a programme to develop this movement
and change it; I wanted to contribute to it so I could make it happen. I
decided not to be that female who only adhered to principles and called for
them. I wanted to be an effective element for the sake of women and their
usurped rights in general, and the Palestinian women and the marginalised
women political prisoners in particular, those who suffered from all types
of male political, social and familial oppression. I believed I could make a
difference in the Palestinian and Arab female communities, and to see
through and finish what other iconic women had started, including the
Italian Christine de Pizan, the French Simone de Beauvoir, the Swedish
Maria-Pia Boéthius, the American Betty Friedan, the Australian Germaine
Greer, the Moroccan Fatema Mernissi, the Egyptian Nawal El Saadawi, the

194
Yemeni Amal Basha, the Tunisian Mongia El-Swayhy and the Algerian
Ahlam Mosteghanemi. They inspired me to excel at writing a different
history for a group of women, on a national level at least, in this era, and
to strive my utmost to record the changes I was looking and hoping, for
me as well as for the other women. That is what mattered.

ES
 CHAPTER 23

Tuesday, July 31
llam

Surrounded by numerous media figures and reporters, I entered the

courtroom with a troop of freedom of speech fighters of various
nationalities and from different ages, cultures, social statuses, Arabs, Jews
and foreigners. We all sat there waiting for the judge to pass her judgment
and read it out.
The judge asked me to stand before her so as to hear the verdict. I took
a few steps away from my wooden bench and stood next to my defence
lawyer, Gaby Lasky, waiting to hear the end of the final scene of the play:
‘Threatening Poetry and its Story’. As usual, the judge started off by
whispering the verdict. She used abbreviated words in a shaky and
confused voice that the text of the judgment was long, yet she would sum
it up by reading the last few lines. Struggling, along with everyone else to
make out what the judge said, I heard that I would serve a five-month
sentence in prison and I would be jailed for stx more months if I had
committed the same violation, suspended for three years. She also
mentioned another part which I didn’t quite comprehend due to her low
voice. Inside, I was screaming. Those screams were more prominent than
all the sounds that surrounded me. I was not surprised at all. Iwas sure that
I would go back to prison again as a result of this case and this battle. The
length of the sentence was what surprised me though: five months with the
reduction of the time I spent in prison at the beginning of my detention,
i.e. ninety-seven days. That meant I would have to serve a two-month
sentence.
The judge asked me about when I would be ready for my prison te-
entry. I asked her to grant me one week to be well-prepared and say
goodbye to my friends and comrades. August 8, 2018, was the date I chose
to turn myself in and go back to prison. I didn’t choose that date randomly
or by coincidence since it was a date which left a mark on my heart, a mark
which I would never forget. It was the day I, for the first time, went out

196
with my close friend Ofra Yashua-Lyth after my arrest restrictions had been
loosened a year ago. That date was special to me and moved me deeply, as
it stirred feelings of a great and distinctive love. I decided on this day
because it filled me with its beautiful memory. On that very day, I also
entered the prison. I chose it as someone who was completely confident,
persistent and hopeful. This memory would be the day’s theme; it would
erase the memory of entering the prison. |
The judge’s decision, in my opinion, encapsulated the trial which had
been going on for a good three years. It only proved that Israel, its
government and policies were nothing but discriminatory and racist in full
view and hearing of the whole world. Especially on this day, the Israeli
court proved that it lacked justice, reason, democracy and equality. That
was not a new fact yet the media coverage of my case had exposed that
policy to all. All masks slipped: the so-called democracy. It proved that
democracy only applied to Jews; it was a tiered democracy. It was fake and
deceitful, especially against the non-Jews. The democracy of racism was
practised even in the simplest and most significant principles of democracy:
the freedom of speech, art and poetry.
I left the courtroom after the trial holding a twenty-six-page judgment.
On these papers the judge wrote her analysis of the decision as well as her
motives. She passed the sentence, wrote it and ended the play’s last scene
with some other new play when she concluded the trial with her final
words: “At last, and after conducting an examination of the length of the
sentence and the type of punishment by both parties, and the balancing of
all considerations, I find that it is vital to set an appropriate punishment for
such crimes, whether on the level of danger, status or existence. Therefore,
I will impose the following sanctions on the defendant: The defendant is
sentenced to five months with sentence reduction of the period which she
had spent behind bars in detention; she is given a six-month suspended
sentence; it is conditional for three years should she commit any of the
crimes of which she has been convicted.”
I started talking to the media reporters and giving my comments on the
sentence, until Oren Ziv, a teporter at the court and one of my case
supporters, asked: “What is the first thing that you will do after being
released from home confinement?” 1 looked at him and was surprised by

7
his question. Without giving the question any attention or care I said to
myself: “What kind of question is this? I am not released yet,’ leaving the
question unanswered. I left the interview and started talking with my
friends until Oren, again, said: “Where are you going now?” I looked at
him again and then I looked around and, with more surprise, I replied: “I
don’t have anywhere to go except my house to wait until it’s time for my
prison re-entry.” He replied: “But you were set free from home
confinement.”
I couldn’t believe what Oren said at that moment. I hurried towards my
lawyet who, after enquiring about it, assured me that I was released from
home confinement, only to find me leaping with happiness. I automatically
started dancing and at the top of my lungs I said: “I am free now. I was
released from home confinement. I am not a threat to the national security
any more!”
My laughter made everyone else who witnessed that scene applaud; they
were happy for me. I was granted a week of freedom before re-entering the
ptison. The thingI hadn’t been able to hear in court was my confinement
release, while everything else remained unchanged, including having no
access to the internet, not being able to take part in any political events and
being denied entry to the West Bank and crossing the 1967 borders.
I couldn’t completely comprehend the sentence — this authority was
racist towards all things Palestinian yet the judge had granted me release
from home confinement until I turned myself in and went back to prison.
Out of the blue, at 11am that day, I didn’t pose a threat to the public or to
the national security any more. I was allowed to move freely and unguarded
under those conditions. At those moments, and after three years of
restrictions and claims of my being a danger to the public, security and the
world as a whole, and after I had been sentenced to five months, that
danger vanished without a trace. The irony was what made me laugh the
most during this cynical, racist play, and as the Arabic proverb says: “The
one that causes laughter, is the most tragic disaster.”
After confirming my home confinement release, I laughed a lot and I
was happy. I finally would had chance to taste freedom for just a week after
spending a long time behind bars and under confinement. Additionally, the
end of the arrest was not obscure any more and neither were the place and

198
 time: two months after entering prison. Spending a week in freedom was
my opportunity to re-energise and recharge my emotions with the elixir of
strength and resilience so as to face the upcoming two months in prison. I
knew exactly what was waiting for me there: injustice, loneliness, darkness,
restrictions and agony.
The Basic Law?!: Israel as the Nation-State of the Jewish People was
passed and enacted by the Knesset, the U.S Embassy was relocated to
Jerusalem, demonstrations aid the Great Return March protests took place
on Gaza’s borders, there were numerous martyrs, and a week later came
the end of the story of my arrest of the threatening poem: a five-month
imprisonment after three years of home confinement and house arrest, and
after that I had remained under the threat of the sentence being lengthened
to six months, suspended for three years.
I hugged my comrades, friends and family who couldn’t hide their
shock, unlike me, so I gave them my smile as a gift to reassure them and
send them my calmness and amity. I left the courthouse and made up my
mind: I decided not to return home even if keeping some distance would
not last for more than a few days, and then I would go to prison again.
Acre was my first station during my week of freedom. There, I embraced
the sea which I adored, ate up all my past memories and wrote a new history
which I would remember. Afterwards, I went to Tamra village where my
friend Sameera Jamaa’t lived. I spent a few hours with her before I went to
Jaffa where I spent three days with my friends. I walked alone down the
streets of Jaffa for the first time after two years and ten months of arrest. I
began discovering the meanings of freedom anew. With those meanings, I
started wondering and living in confusion more, especially as it was short-
- term and after which I had to go back to prison again.
I sat on the beach, together with the sea; I was contemplating the
significance of the life which had passed me by, and then I started walking
by myself. In my head, I had so many unanswered questions. While I was
wandering, a guy’s voice interrupted my train of thought as he said: “Could
we get to know each other?”
And then he tried to capture my attention by saying similar things, so I
stopped walking, looked at him, took off my sunglasses and, with a smile,
I told him: “Yes, we can. I’m Dareen Tatour.” He looked back at me and

199
his facial expressions-changed in shock. He said: “You are that Dareen who
is talked about in the media?”
“Yes, that’s her. I’m the poet Dareen Tatour. On Wednesday, I’m
turning myself in and returning to prison.”
Confused and frightened, he looked at me and then he took off while
stuttering: “Bye... bye... bye.”
I laughed a lot as I watched the young man stutter and run off like a flea-
bitten man. Fear took over him after he recognised who I was. That funny
incident was the joke I needed, to sense some humour after all the stress
and pressure I’d been through. From the bottom of my heart, I thanked
that man because gave me moments of genuine laughter I was in desperate
need as a gift. He granted me true feelings of happiness, as simple as that
and without him knowing. I continued my stroll on the beach looking for
a new meaning for freedom.
I also met up with my friend Einat Weizman for the first time since we
were introduced to each other. The two of us sat in a café. Those moments
were beautiful and very touching; that meeting was one of the dreams I had
hoped to realise. It was impossible when I was under a long period of home
confinement, yet it finally came true without planning ahead.
I stayed another night at Ofra’s, yet I couldn’t bear spending a long time
at her place. For a moment, I felt as if Ihad been confined to my place. I
couldn’t really express my feelings to her, mainly because I didn’t want to
bother her after all she had offered me. I was certain she would understand,
yet I preferred to leave her place in silence and leave her a note in which I
expressed my gratitude and love. Then I headed to Alma Cats’ place. I
stayed the night there and tasted a new type of freedom at her place and in
the company of her husband and daughter.
I entered the house and sat on the couch. I suddenly heard a strange
sound. It sounded similar to crashing waves, a sound I had always loved
and missed, so I began to look for its source. At first, I assumed it came
from the runwell turntable in front of me. Alma and her husband came in
and asked me to go to the balcony. They opened the windows. The sea.
The sea came into view and the sound of its waves tickled my ears. It was
the sound of the sea, not the music. I laughed at my naivety; my reaction
and happiness made them laugh too. The surprise was very unexpected and

200
delicate; they offered it to me for only one night before I re-entered the
prison. Falling asleep while listening to the sound of the sea, after a long
period of imprisonment and yet another lying ahead, was amusing.
I wanted to return home after my journey of freedom had ended, but
some of my friends were worried about my moving around while
unaccompanied. They opposed my idea of going back home by myself
using public transport so as not to be harassed by Jewish extremists, as I
could be identified by anyone after news on my case spread along with my
name and picture in print and broadcast media. I was insistent, though.
Before anything else, I wanted to challenge myself and my emotions; I
wanted to challenge the circumstances under which I had been living as
well. Although, to tell the truth, deep inside, I was examining the same fears
my friends were, I hid it and defied it. I wanted to live in the present
moment without surrendering to any of those fears.
Alma accompanied me to the central bus station in Tel Aviv and, once
I got there, I had a panic attack; I had never experienced such an intense
panic attack before. All my memories started to rewind in my head. I
recalled again the moment when Israa’ al-Abed was shot at the central bus
station in Afula, especially when I saw a number of heavily armed soldiers
standing close to me as they were waiting for their buses. I saw her before
my vety eyes, lying on the ground and covered in blood. I remembered the
instant I was arrested. I remembered the Special Unit members and the
police as they raided my bedroom. And my suffering scenes in prison in
addition to the mistreatment of the Nahshon Unit started to replay in my
head. I imagined those scenes again and again as ifIrelived them. My heart
trembled and I was bewildered, yet I smiled and looked in a different
direction. I convinced myself that everything would change. Alma was
standing right beside me, so I held her hand and gave her a heartfelt
handshake. I thanked her for everything, gave her a hug and said goodbye.
I was torn up to the point of crying. I got on the bus and yet again I relived
the harsh memories of the bosta experience, that ceaseless struggle which
ended only while I was standing in line to buy a ticket and was surprised
when I saw a woman driving the bus. That woman impressed me when I
asked for a ticket to Nazareth. My heart sank as I saw her gazing at me. I
realised that she recognised me and I thought she would harass me. “You're

201
very beautiful. Your eyes are beautiful too,” she remarked. I looked and
smiled at her, leaving all my worries, fears and doubts aside. I thanked her
for being nice to me and gave het a handshake. I sat in the front seat. With
love, I contemplated my way back home after a week of freedom. I heard
nothing but the passengers’ clicks on theit smart phones. I alone did not
own one.
My freedom vacation was over; I packed my bags. Once I was done and
left the room for a few moments, I came back only to see one of my cats,
Simba, sitting inside it. He wetted it and spoiled all the clothing items I had
packed. That strange act was a first. I laughed but felt so much pain overt
the message that cat had just conveyed. I was really affected because I had
to stay away from my cats, hurried towards Simba and held him in my arms.
I petted him and gave him plenty of kisses. I apologised for my absence. I
also found out that my cats could understand what was going on; they also
refused such a sentence. It wasn’t only humans who did so. The cats didn’t
want me to go back to prison and tried to stop me or delay me. I washed
my dirty clothes, cleaned my bag and re-packed. Bag closed. Waiting for
the next day. Going back to prison.
My friends and family hosted an evening gathering to say goodbye or to
charge me with extra steadfastness as a preparation for my prison term.
Numerous friends, comrades and supporters attended the gathering.
Artists, too, took part as they sang for freedom. Others played musical
instruments to protest against my sentence. There were politicians as well
as activists; they delivered spontaneous speeches about my case. On that
night, my front yard turned into a stage where many forms of art were
performed. I also read some poems I’d written while I was in prison. Most
importantly, I read my threatening poem. I read it in front of all who were
there to renew my loyalty to poetry, writing and my unwavering principle:
I did not regret and would never regret composing that poem or publishing
it. We celebrated all the meanings of freedom which the Israeli authorities
wanted to lock up and confiscate, and all the support that surrounded me
and the emotions which lit up the darkness on that difficult night dispelled
much of my pain and the ache I felt about going back to prison the next
day. |

202
 On the morning of August 8, 2018, some of my very close friends, some
political leaders from Balad, along with my family, accompanied me to the
prison door. I dragged my bag out of my bedroom and I went downstairs
after saying goodbye to my room, cats, books, notebooks, guitar, oud,
pictures, drawings and all the things I loved and was going to miss. I put
my favourite perfume on; I even sprayed it on my white clothes. Weighed
down by pain, I plodded towards the prison. Right before I got into the
cat, I remembered my blue ring. I’d forgotten to take it off my finger, so I
removed it and put it on Einat’s and said: “I won’t be allowed to keep it in
there. Look after it for me.”
We stood in a line in front of the door of al-Jalameh Prison Centre. I
was already exhausted from what was yet to come. Despite that, my smile
didn’t leave my face. Keeping a smile on my face wasn’t something I did
intentionally; rather, my smile and I clung to each other even during the
cruellest and most difficult moments. Ofra read my poem again right in
front of the prison and addressed all those who were there. She kept it
short. Without hiding my smile, I hugged everyone. I didn’t want them to
be pained if I let out the grimace of someone entering a prison, let alone
the pain of parting and that moment’s dread. Waving at everyone with both
my hands, I walked towards the prison door, said goodbye and let my eyes
embrace them. I looked up to the blue wide sky above, looked back at them
and again at the sky. I wanted to see their faces; my eyes were glued to
them. I started moving backwards. My eyes still on them. The huge blue
door was opened; I was escorted inside. Door closed. Behind it, I stood
still. The officer re-opened the door; they were still standing in front of it,
so I waved at them and glanced at each one of them. Einat Weizman was
the last one I glanced towards. The glimpse of goodbye, until we meet
again. She was the closest to the door and she was waving at me with both
hands. The door was closed again and the warden arrived. She approached
me closer, took the duffle bag and put it aside. She took me to a tiny room.
Strip-searched. A process as harsh and abhorrent as ever. I drowned in my
memories and pain, but this time those were mixed with some memories
I’d made with my friend Einat. I remembered the time I recounted my
story in prison to her and opened up to her about how I felt. Despite the
pain, I could still remember her words to ease the control of that search

203
which no one would understand except me and her in that instant. Hands
and legs shackled. Double chains. I asked: “Why two chains each?” to
which she replied: “You ate a security prisoner and you pose a threat to us
and to the country as well.” I smiled at her and she escorted me towards
the cell. As soon as I entered the cell, I dashed to see whether my wall
carvings, which could date back to 2015, were still there. I saw them. I
smiled, went to the top bed and held some pieces of writing in my hands.
I looked up at the ceiling and smiled at it. I tried to I drown out the
recollection of all that had passed. I didn’t wake up until the warden and
officer both shouted near the door: “Wake up! Count Time
he?

204
 EPILOGUE

On May 16, 2019, I was summoned to hear the decision of the Court of
Appeal. To my surprise, I was acquitted. I was cleared of all the charges
relating to the composition of the poem. Although my charges relating to
the poem were dropped, the charge of posting the picture captioned “I am
the next martyr” and reposting that news item remained imposed on me.
As surprising as the decision was, it was also strange to me. The poem was
fully acquitted, but the poet remained accused of terrorism. The poem was
innocent yet the poet remained a terrorist!
From my perspective, this decision was a further confirmation that the
state was racist, an entity full of rage against everything Palestinian and that
the true victor in this case was not me: it was poetry, artists, poets and
defenders. But for me, nothing changed since the beginning of my
threatening poem trial until the end. My memory was refreshed; all the
memories were revived and brought back to me each day as I wrote poetry.
My trial had helped my poem yield a new sense of victory which lay in the
defeat ofIsrael, as it is not and has never been a democratic state.
By its verdict, Israel managed to snatch and take away my space and time
from me, for three years, by its ruling power and its military authority’s
superiority Over me as an individual. It conducted my trial within equations
written from its subjective perspective. When I imagined I was facing my
destiny in this trial, when I was almost isolated, reality proved otherwise.
By the three judges’ new decision, Israel was unable to detract me from my
will, memory or poem.
I stood up in Israeli courts for my rights to write and express my opinion
until I attained them — despite the attempt by Israel to portray itself as a
democratic state through this decision, and to exploit the appeal to its
advantage when it told the world who followed up on my case that ‘Israel
is democratic and the poet is a terrorist.’ It failed because I did not give in
to its decisions and plans, and I was satisfied with the idea of sacrificing my
life for the sake of others. What I did was send a message to all the
Palestinians who agreed with me or opposed me, who stood by me and
supported my position or those who stood against me, to all the free people

205
in the world who supported me. The message expressed was that for their
sake, and so the flame of peaceful resistance does not die down and cannot
be extinguished, for the sake of Palestine, and for the air my poetry
breathes, I had to fight.

206
 Notes
" Moscovia (Moscobiyeh) is named after ‘Mascob’ which is a name the public use to refer
to the Russians. It dates back to the 1857 and was a compound built by the Russians to
serve their interests. It featured a hostel for pilgrims, a hospital, a church, courtyard and
a prison, all of which had distinctive architecture built from local stones. Al-Moscobiyeh
did not remain the same. After the Israeli occupation it was turned into a police station
where Palestinian prisoners were subjected to innovative methods of torture.
? Yasam Unit is a special section of the Israeli police tasked with maintaining security,
controlling riots and performing special operations. Its soldiers and officers are selected
from the Israeli army and the border guards. The uniform consists of a pair of pants, a
grey shirt and a black cap. This unit, in particular, monitors and controls the movement
of Palestinians; its elements have carried out numerous field executions of Palestinians.
3'The Nahshon Unit is the combat unit of the Israeli Prison Service. It was established in
1973 and was named after Nahshon Amminadab, ‘the hero’, whose name is mentioned
in the Jewish Bible, which states that Nahshon was the first to jump to the sea before it
parted, so was known for his boldness and courage - hence this unit’s motto: “Nahshon
Unit - because we chose to lead.” This unit represses and abuses Palestinian prisoners
and detainees, raids and searches their rooms, accompanies and transfers detainees and
prisoners to various courthouses, prisons and detention centres.
4 Al-Jalameh detention centre Kishon is located at the al-Jalameh junction on the main
road between Haifa and Nazareth in the north of Palestine. It was reopened during the
Al-Aqsa Intifada. It has twenty detainees, security is tight and prisoners are held until the
completion of their interrogation.
5 A ‘security’ prisoner in Israel is jailed for committing an offence that has purportedly
damaged the security of the state. The term is an internal management concept used
among prison administration. Although it is not defined in law, it is defined under
delegated authority. This term is used only for Palestinians. Identifying a prisoner with
the ‘security’ label impacts the conditions of their imprisonment in several aspects: prison
location, visits, prevention of holidays, banning phone use, the ability to reduce the
sentence period, the prevention of access to lawyers and closed and limited family visits.
6 Neve Tirtza Prison is the only women’s prison located in Israel intended for civilian
females who were imprisoned on criminal grounds, Jews and Arabs. It is located between
the cities of Lod and Ramla; it is part of the Ramla prison. Its establishment dates back
to 1968. The prison contains a section used to isolate women political prisonets.
7 Sharon Prison: A detention centre which holds number 455, in the Sharon region, south
of Bnei Yehuda settlement. It is intended for Israelis convicted of criminal charges. It is
one of the largest prisons in Israel and has wings designated for high-risk, powerful
offenders. It can accommodate approximately 400 prisoners; it also includes a section for
security prisoners and another for Palestinian prisoners.
8 Sheket is a Hebrew word, an instruction to be quiet.
9 Fawra, which translates as Yard Time, is a word which has been circulated among
prisoners from the outset of the Palestinian Captive Movement. It is a restrained outing
for political prisoners who can only go out in the yard at specified times and depending
on the mood/temperament of the prison administration.
10 Al-Barsh is a term used by the political prisoners in occupation prisons to refer to the
beds in which they sleep. These ate different from regular beds.

207
11 Mivar is a Hebrew word that is common among political and criminal prisoners; in
Arabic, it means ‘the passage’. These places are not intended for long stays. Rather, they
are places where many prisoners and detainees meet in order to appear before the coutts.
The most notorious of them are the Ramla andJalameh transit centres.
12 Damoun Prison: This prison is located in northern Palestine in the forests of Carmel
in Haifa. It was built during the British Mandate and used as a tobacco warehouse, so it
was constructed to ensure it was humid enough to preserve tobacco leaves. After 1948,
Israel took over the building and turned it into a prison. The prison has a section for
women Palestinian prisoners and a section for young prisoners, i.e. ‘cubs’. The rest of
the prison is intended for Palestinian workers from the West Bank and Gaza Strip who
were arrested in the occupied territories of 1948 for not obtaining a permit.
13 Yoav Haifawi, a political activist in Hirak Haifa, has been a member in Abnaa el-Balad
Movement (Sons of the Land or Sons and Daughters of the Country or People of the
Homeland Movement) since 1984. He has also been a blog editor of “Haifa al-Hurta’
(Free Haifa) since joining a left-Marxist movement (Workers’ Union) in 1972. Haifaw1
fights for the return of Palestinian refugees and the establishment of a secular, democratic
and free Palestinian state all over historic Palestine. !
4 Ofra Yashua-Lyth is a political activist, journalist and writer. She is the author of the
book Politically Incorrect: Why a Jewish State is a Bad Idea. She is also a member of the
Secular Democratic State in Historic Palestine Committee.
15 Gaby Lasky is a Jewish human rights lawyer, feminist, social and political human
rights activist. As a lawyer, she documents torture cases in prison as well as police brutality
in Israel, Gaza and the West Bank. She is one of the most forthright defenders of the
children of the stones in court.
6 Artists and political activists.
17 Poet and political activist.
18 Actress, writer, theatre director, and political activist.
19 Director and political activist.
20 The Nakba Law, which was endorsed by the Knesset in March 2011, authorises the
Minister of Finance to reduce government funding or support for institutions which carry
out any activity that opposes the definition of the state of Israel as ‘Jewish and
democratic,’ or which mark the state’s independence day or the day of its establishment
as a ‘day of grief and mourning.’ Palestinians classify and commemorate Israel’s official
independence day as the national anniversary of mourning and, thus, they organise
various memorial activities. The law affects/violates the rights of Palestinians, restricts
their freedom of speech and damages cultural and educational institutions. It also
entrenches disctimination against Arab citizens. The Nakba Law undermines the
principle of equality as well as the rights of Arab citizens to maintain their history and
preserve their culture. This law deprives Arab citizens of their right to commemorate the
Nakba anniversary, which is an integral part of their history.
*! A law enacted on July 19, 2018. The Israeli Knesset passed the law by a majority of 62
for, 55 against and 2 abstentions. This law defines Israel as a ‘national state for the Jewish
people.’ According to this law, ‘the right to self-determination is guaranteed only to the
Jewish people,’ which excludes 1948 Palestinians and marginalises their political and
social roles in the country.

208
Ss
defiant— in
itis (
memoir, Dareen T:
recalls her arrest, !
trial and imprisonment in
Israel in 2016 for the
YUNG
esnyl
ssodg ‘crime’ of writing and
_ sharing a poem, ‘Resist,
“my people, resist them’.
This remarkable memoir,
published for the first tintedn F
describes the routine brut: its meted but ine)
Palestinian women prisoners, while issuing a
courageous call for solidarity, justice and
humanity in the face of an apartheid regime.
Uy. i peer it is a testimony of the penues of