The Sun's not Coming
Egypt
“We need to know who this little Arab-fucker has been speaking to. Who he knows and what those people are doing. And what they will be doing. But most importantly we need him gone. He’s American. You know it’s hard for us to get bad press there, but even still his process could become news-worthy. If you can’t get him to leave try to mine as much information, as you can, to discredit him,” he began.
“So, you think we should make him wonder if he’s being watched, but not sure?” The man across the desk asked.
“Exactly. Don’t lead him to believe that you’re not with the Ministry of Interior, but make sure it’s not completely apparent that you are. This kind of thought process has been effective with the Arabs in Administrative Detention. We’ve extracted a lot of information this way. Most of them break after a few weeks.”
“How long do think I’ll be in there?”
“Depends on how good you are at your job, doesn’t it?! No, it doesn’t look like he’s had any extended stints in prison in the States. He’ll probably be easy to break; maybe a few days. If he doesn’t pop quickly, try to get close by offering him an escape from the isolation in there. He’ll bite.”
“Alright, let’s go.”
“We’ll get you a change of clothes”
Senegal
The night was still warm when I was taken. They must have been watching for quite some time. My schedule was fairly regular, but the coordination was evident. I was actually surprised that I had spent that much time living and working without a visa.
Sneaking over the border and then starting to teach children was impressive to my family. Especially the fact that I was paid for it. But really it was only learning the language that was troublesome. Teaching children, young children, is the same the world around. One just has to make them forget they’re learning and that the teacher is creating order in the classroom. The moment I tried to teach and create order was the moment I lost them. They would quickly conquer me then. I wonder if they missed me after I was taken. Or if their parents inquired about me or demanded my release to the authorities. Probably not. It was too easy to find people like me. Those trying to escape the dictators, the poverty, the madness.
Now my home is here. I live behind the barbed wire, the fences and the bars. My brothers are the fifteen other men that I share my cell with. They constantly change. Some fly home to Thailand, Mongolia or other places. Some receive asylum in England, if their war stories are bloodied enough. And some even stay here for a little bit. Their owners come to retrieve them and then they pick apples or lemons 16 hours each day until they make a mistake and lose favor with their masters. Maybe I’ll see some of them again. And some of them are like me they don’t leave. They haven’t left for months or years. They wonder, like I do, “when do I leave?” A dangerous and depressing question. One better left unpondered, because it has no clear answer. And those are my brothers. They come and go and sometimes stay. We have no sisters, but many fathers and a few mothers.
Our fathers and mothers keep a vigilant watch over us. The never tell us they love us. They only count us and lead us to food and water. Sometimes they show us the canteen. But they give us no money to buy the Dove products, the cigarettes or the coffee. So, many go without. I go without.
Perhaps I’m the only one who thought about this, but I’ve often wondered if we’re in hell or purgatory. It’s very difficult to make this distinction. You can’t escape hell. You realize that there is no proper escape.
I seem to have lost the thread. I was going to tell you about how I got here. I guess it’s not important. Maybe another time.
Eritrea
Five years. Twenty years-old. A quarter of my life. Just grab the bars. Maybe you can the Sun today. Hold tight. Squeeze. Harder. There’s the sun.
America
The Drums beat in their normal cadence as I approach the Al-Kurds. This cadence was lost as I reached the home. It quickly devolved into a beat that described not the jubilant emotions of collective resistance, but one of collective disdain and disgust. One person was being dragged by three police officers into the street; their clothes in tatters. The demonstrators quickly followed and rallied around and against the abuse. The situation was reduced to bedlam by the police officers. They were pushing, pulling, punching and kicking the demonstrators. As the police attempted to take the two demonstrators to the police station, nearly one hundred attempted to use their bodies to block the police cars. This attempt was in vain. The police grabbed protesters one by one (usually needing three officers for every person taken).
As I was in the back watching the madness, two border police grabbed me by my lapel and visciously dragged me into the usurped, front partition of the Al-Kurds home. The colonists had been here for nearly two weeks already, but the conditions were anything but inhabitable. A layer of water and mud covered the gutted home. This confirmed my suspicion that home take-over was not for actual living space, but instead a war-like act of conquering more territory.
We waited in the house for close to hour, seemingly until the police had cleared the streets of all the demonstrators. We were then hastily whisked off to the Jaffa Street police station.
I waited patiently for my search and found myself last in queue. There were three others in various stages of nudity. The door was slightly ajar. This left no respect for any semblance of dignity.
I was next in line, but was skipped due to another being dragged about by the police. He wasn't arrested with us. He was indigenous. The officer minding him had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head and was leading him about by the strings of his hoody. It was reminiscent of a farmhand leading cattle about by their bull-rings. The police had stripped him not merely of his clothes but also of his humanity; completely and utterly. As he undressed, I noticed why they had his hood pulled tightly over his head. There was a four inch gash on his right cheekbone. The police surely didn't want many people to be privy to their rapacious brutality. He was dripping with blood and he was in dire need of medical attention, but I felt he wouldn't receive any for some time. I looked at the other activist. The need for language disappeared. His eyes spoke volumes. Fear, guilt, remorse, disgust, helplessness. I wanted to scream and liberate this young man. Whatever he did wasn't worth this experience. Whatever he did wasn't his fault. Whatever he did was because of the conditions that the state had forced upon him, his father, his grandfather. He couldn't control his situation enveloped in injustice.
He was merely an innocent actor in this twisted play that has been scripting itself for decades. We knew we would be out soon; safe and without any long-term consequences. The young man in front of us, on the other hand, was now a part of their "justice" system and likely doomed to unemployment and a constant cycle recidivism. The other activist and I could only look at one another dumbfounded and inept. It was my turn. The officer pointed to various articles of clothing and I took it off until I was completely naked. I was made to lift my penis and testicals and spin around. He mumbled something in his language that I didn’t understand and left the room. I stood there naked for a minute and began to dress after it seemed as if I was able. But the insecurity lingered as I was unsure if I was allowed cover my nude body.
…
We waited for nearly an hour and then we were taken to the entry-way, shackled, placed in a van and driven 50 meters to the courthouse. We were then taken out of the van, thrown in a cell, unshackled and met the rest of the male cohorts we were arrested with. We were split into two cells. They were very close to one another. The cell that I was not in had a monopoly on cigarettes, so we would have to reach through slats in the doors to get our fix. We passed the smokes to each other.
I think I may have seen the young man who I encountered the night before. Or did I? The one that was before me now, in the courthouse cell, had a bandage on the same part of his face. But he had many more; on the back of his head, on his neck. He looked thinner than the man I saw the night before. Had he become more frail and acquired a limp while in prison? I thought not. The beatings that the colonial police forces dole out must mirror one another with striking similarities. I fell into a deep sleep on the concrete floor.
Soon the arrested colonists let we internationals in on a secret. They had heard the guards discussing what their plans were for the foreigners. They intended to separate us from the rest, kidnap us, and send us off to the department of immigration.
We were to stay close to them and be a part of the first hearing, so the police were unable to split us off before the judge could make his decision and therefore, legally, we would have to be released. I was skeptical about what "legally" entailed in land run by fascists, but they knew better than we did.
After passing some moments with the other arrested colonists in the hallway of the prison cell, We were lead up the stairs of the courthouse and seated in the courtroom. Minutes passed and the judge entered to begin the trials. The colonists were first.
"The police are going to try to take; don't go with them!" He whispered. Just like clockwork, one of the police came to me.
"It's not your turn. Come with me," he said. I pretended not to understand. This was happening while the judge was addressing the other defendants. Twice more different police came to me and tried to drag me out of the court, telling me it wasn't my turn.
The judge was demeaning and condescending to the lawyers. I still didn't know what was happening beyond a heated argument between our counsel and the judge. Finally the lawyers stood and began to speak with restrained anger. The judge scolded them and they began again, but the anger and disgust was still apparent. The judge roared and the lawyers were broken.
They finished the sentence they began two times before, but this time they did without any show of emotions. Their dignity to be angry in the face of injustice was stripped from them. They exited the courtroom. The Police attempted to remove me from the courtroom for the last time. The judge noticed it now and scolded them. The police wore faces of defeat. The colonial defendant next to me gave me a confident smile. But that smile seemed to be too confident to me. I had no faith in these proceedings and the police began furiously texting on their cell phones. They were hatching some devious plan. As the texting stop, their faces of defeat morphed into solemnity. I surmised that we were proper fucked.
The arrested colonists left the courtroom and we internationals remained. We were without lawyers and attempting to free ourselves from this vile system. As our (the internationals) proceeding began, the police withdrew their request to arrest us. Then the judge began to question us. For each of us he asked if we would agree to be interrogated by the ministry of the interior. His questioning of each of us lacked cohesion.
"Your honor, I haven't had access to a lawyer, everything has been in a language I don’t understand, I don't have a formal translator, I don't know what's going on. I will not agree to an interview at this point. I will consent only after speaking to a lawyer," I said.
"How can I guarantee you will return for the Interview?" He asked.
"I can give my word," I replied.
"I'll need more than that."
"What can I give you?"
"Money or a colonist to sign for you." There was a woman who had been giving us legal advice through the proceedings and she leapt up upon hearing this. She returned with a colonist citizen quite quickly.
"I think this man will sign for me, your honor," I said, motioning to the man who had just entered. The judge silently filled out his paper work.
"You're free to go. You may be arrested again," the judge said and exited the courtroom. Pandamonium erupted upon his exit. The police nearly pounced on us and our lawyers burst back into the courtroom.
"You're free to go! Do not cooperate!" The lawyers kept shouting. Being that this was the first legal advice I had received, I was obliged to follow it. I sat on the floor as the police were shoving our lawyers about. One lawyer was shoved into the lectern in the middle of the courtroom. The lectern fell over with a thunderous crash. The police twisted my arm painfully and haphazardly put me in handcuffs. They did the same to the rest of the internationals. I was dragged/carried to the basement holding cell and thrown in with the rest of my cohorts. I feverishly explained the situation. They were convinced that we would all be deported.
We began to drive and the demonstrators followed us for a hundred meters or so. Then we entered a highway and drove and drove and drove. Mad thoughts raced through my mind: "Are they taking me directly to the airport for deportation? Possibly a desolate field for quick execution? Maybe an abandoned building for a session of brutal torture?" I didn't matter much to me at this point. What ever was to be would be very soon. At least the veil would be lifted and I would know my fate.
It looked as if we were approaching the metropolis after an hour's drive. We turned and turned some more. Finally, we approached an industrial zone and the concept of brutal torture seemed to become a reality. I'm still not completely sure where I was, but I think it was an immigration office of some sort.
Before we were interviewed, the man in charge of this madness came to speak with us. I relayed my confusion.