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Sri Lanka: One Island Two Nations
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Sri Lanka: One Island Two Nations
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Thiranjala Weerasinghe sj.- One Island Two Nations
?????????????????????????????????????????????????Saturday, May 13, 2017
Hours of insult for minutes with my brother: My monthly trip to an Israeli jail
Inas Abbad's brother is on hunger strike inside Gilboa jail. Here, she describes her ordeal to snatch a 45-minute visit
Palestinian prisoners sit behind glass during visiting at Gilboa prison in 2006 (AFP)
Inas Abbad's brother, Mohammed
Abbad, has been in an Israeli prison for 16 years, and is one of 1,500
Palestinians on hunger strike in protest at a lack of basic rights in
jail. His family gets 45 minutes a month to see him. Below is a
description of visiting day, its hours of waiting, its rigorous
searches, and the humiliations suffered by all.
I wake at four in the morning, knowing that I did not sleep well, like
every night before I have visited my brother in prison over the past 16
years. I've spent much of the night thinking about how to tell him news
about the children, his friends and family, what I should say and what I
shouldn't. I don't sleep.
How will the meeting be? What will I tell him? Shall I talk, or just listen?
But this visit was different. My brother, Mohammed Abbad, told me during
a previous visit that prisoners intend to go on a hunger strike to
claim their legal rights. Although this is not the first strike my
brother will take part in, there are special circumstances to consider.
I've spent much of the night thinking about how to tell him news of the children, his friends and family. Shall I just listen?
My brother is about to turn 40 and suffers from diseases caused by long
years of imprisonment and poor nutrition, in addition to the lack of the
basic health care that is supposedly guaranteed to prisoners in
international law. My brother is already in need of medicine, prolonged
treatment and water. A hunger strike may aggravate his illness and
weaken his already skinny body.
He didn't get to say goodbye to our father before he died. Before
becoming bed-ridden, my father's hearing failed - he couldn't hear his
son's voice even if he did manage to drag himself to the jail.
This is a common experience for prisoners. Walid Daqqa, for example, was
not allowed to contact his father, who was in agony for two months
before he died in 1997. Walid was heartbroken. Houssam Shaheen also was
not allowed to bid his father farewell before his death in 2016.
Boarding the bus to the prison in the early morning (MEE/Dr Inas Abad)
The journey begins
I pick up my mother from her house and we go to where the Red Cross
buses are parked on al-Zahra road. The shops are closed because it's
very early, and the only people here are those waiting for the bus -
children, women, elderly people, some of them in wheelchairs, all wait.
Tahany Maragha, the wife of Adnan Margha, is taking her two children,
Hisham and Joory, to visit their father. He did not witness their birth,
hear their first words, or see them grow up. Adnan is one of the
prisoners who was released during the Gilad Shalit prisoner exchange
agreement in 2011, but was re-arrested a few months later after he
married, and while his wife was pregnant with the twins.
The bus leaves at 5.50am for the hour and 40-minute journey to Gilboa.
When it arrives, visitors line up in front of the prison door, then
spend another hour waiting in the cold and rain.
During thorough inspections, screaming, complaining, and degrading
treatment from prison staff, one person is let through the door every
five to 10 minutes. They are lead to a hall without windows, with planks
of wood for benches under a roof that is not fully completed.
Identity cards are checked and visitors are either taken to another room, or simply turned back
At 10.30am, identity cards are checked and visitors are either taken to
another room, or simply turned back. This happens a lot - the family of
Houssam Shaheen, who was arrested in January 2004, was not allowed to
visit him for more than five years, only in military courts. Israel
never explained why they prevented the visits.
After calling our names, we enter into another room and we are
thoroughly inspected with am electronic device. When it rings out, as it
often does, we are forced to take off some of our clothes for a closer,
insulting inspection.
Then, we enter to yet another hall, this one without windows and
ventilation, but full of people eager to see their fathers, sons and
brothers.
Is all this waiting to punish their families? Is this why they persecute, oppress, and humiliate them?
A Palestinian man sits behind glass as he talks to his daughter in Gilboa prison, in 2006 (AFP)
'Daddy come to us'
We all walk down a narrow corridor covered with barbed wire
fencing. Each prisoner sits behind a window and we are separated by
thick, and sometimes dirty, glass so we cannot clearly see them. We use
two sets of phones to communicate, and sometimes, one of them doesn't
work. We sit on more wooden planks set up as benches.
The monthly visit with my brother is supposed to last for 45 minutes.
This one starts without words. My mother starts crying, and the children
of Adnan Margha begin to scream: "Daddy come to us, daddy come to us."
His wife begins tells them that daddy is not allowed to get out of
prison, but they don't understand and they don't want to understand. All
they want at that moment is to hug their father.
My mother starts crying, and the children of Adnan Margha begin to scream: 'Daddy come to us, daddy come to us'
Some may ask why prisoner Yigal Amir, who killed the Israeli prime
minister, Yitzhak Rabin, is allowed to stay alone with his wife and
family and hug them during a family visit, while Walid Daka, who is 56
and has been in jail for 31 years, is not allowed to meet his
47-year-old wife Sana.
Yigal's wife gave birth while he was in jail, while Sana Daka has been
struggling for more than 21 years in the Israeli courts to be allowed to
have conjugal visits with her husband, hoping for a child.
The paradox is that Walid Daka's case is similar to that of 14
Palestinian citizens of Israel who hold Israeli citizenship and who are
held in prison. When there is a political agreement or an exchange deal,
they are not included because they hold Israeli citizenship. When they
demand for their citizenship rights, they are judged as "Palestinian
terrorists".
Where is justice?
Women look at a mural of Palestinians held in Israeli prisons (AFP)
My brother tells us this: "I would like to inform you that the strike
will continue until we get our demands, and that you might hear that I
was transported and perhaps he might be in solitary confinement, I want
you to be strong."
"We might die during the strike, but, mother, I would rather die than
not hug my sister and her little son, who writes how much he misses
hugging and playing with him."
My children Houssam, 21, Lin, 18, Hala, 14, and Rami, 10, have not seen
their uncle for 16 years. My eldest daughter wants to see her uncle, as a
gift when she finishes high school. In the Eid holidays, Houssam always
tells his grandmother: "My uncle Mohammed is missing in the lunch
table."
"Our neighbour died a week ago," I tell my brother. "When I last met him
and he sent you his greetings and wishes you freedom. Your aunt Maimana
wishes to see you before she dies."
Why is our 71-year-old aunt not allowed to visit him? Isn't this in itself a persecution?
Fifteen hours for 45 minutes
The visit ends and tears born of oppression fill the eyes of my mother,
who remembers the death of my father, may his soul rest in peace, while
she was visiting her son.
"I cannot forget how I was unable to bid my lover farewell, the lover to
whom I've been married for 45 years after a love story that lasted for
five years," she says.
We greet other prisoners we know in our final moments in this room. But
45 minutes every month is not enough - it's not enough even for every
two weeks.
We leave the room the same way we entered, and collect our identities at
the last doors of the prison. From there, we get on the Red Cross bus
and wait for hours under the sun in summer and under the rain and cold
in the winter, until all are visits are finished.
But 45 minutes every month is not enough - it's not enough even for every two weeks
On the bus, parents talk of their sons, and stories of disease and
deprivation: Adnan Margha was in hospital twice with severe pain; Walid
is in the solitary confinement, he has lost 15kg, and his health is
getting worse. The prisoner Barghouti was moved from Hadarim to Gilboa,
but they got him back to Hadarim.
We arrive at Jerusalem just before sunset. The mother of a prisoner has
left her house before sunrise to return home after as many as 15 hours
has passed to visit her son for 45 minutes.
We all left home, carrying so much sadness and sorrow, but also
eagerness. We return with the same questions: why the collective
punishment? Why the racial discrimination? How long will this
persecution of prisoners and their families last?