There is one singular yearning that haunts the mind of every prisoner during detention. What unfolds beyond the cold walls that confine us, while we endure an oppressive solitude within? How have the streets we used to frequent changed, and what tales do they now whisper?
Does anyone remember who we are?
People who are not locked behind bars enjoy the freedom to wake up at their leisure, planning their days according to their personal preferences. Some decide to go to work, others savor romantic rendez-vous; whether opting for social gatherings or treasuring moments of seclusion from the busyness of the world, all find joy in observing the vibrant tapestry of life that surrounds them, enjoying the art, music, and culture that matches and enhances their mood at any given point.
In that same world, tucked behind concrete walls, a number of female detainees are barred within detention facilities. These confines consist of narrow chambers arranged in dimly lit, poorly ventilated corridors, that are further permeated with the nauseating smells of mildew, discarded refuse, and old food. Everyone there is subject to the dictum of the prison duty guard, and more precisely, to the directives of the National Security officer entrusted with the oversight of women political prisoners.
By sharing these memories, painful scenes, and often deeply-inked incidents with the outside world, I aim to resist the temptation to forget the past and the ongoing abuse of women human rights defenders and journalists in Egypt
This article is a glimpse of the everyday life of women prisoners, drawing from my own experiences as a former political prisoner in Egypt. The incidents I detail are not only my own, but also include documented testimonies from other female political prisoners that I have interviewed. These narratives unveil the profound impact of shared and painful journeys endured in various detention centers and women’s prisons across Egypt. Each former female prisoner released from these prisons carries with her new thoughts, traumatic scenes, and memories etched deep into her mind and soul. By sharing these memories, painful scenes, and often deeply-inked incidents with the outside world, I aim to resist the temptation to forget the past and the ongoing abuse of women human rights defenders and journalists in Egypt. This work is crucial, guided by the faith that women prisoners have in knowing that their stories deserve to be shared and documented. Everyone deserves to know how human rights defenders and women are viewed by the ruling regimes in our Arab countries, particularly in the case of Egypt.
Alia*, a former political prisoner who was arrested in 2020, shared her story with TIMEP. “I was forcibly detained and disappeared for 10 days, then I appeared before the Supreme State Security Prosecution, and was charged with the crime of joining a terrorist group and spreading false information. In my first detention period, I was detained at the Alexandria Security Directorate.” She adds: “Throughout this period, we were transferred several times due to the interrogation hearings before the Public Prosecution, which were scheduled every 15 days. However, I was kept in detention in the Habaskhana of the prosecution.” The Habaskhana, a detention cell, is one of the first stops for the accused when they are arrested and put on trial. It is one of the places of temporary detention in the headquarters of the Public Prosecution and the courts, and is usually underground with no sunlight, with the accused remanded there until being requested for interrogation.
“They would keep us there for about 12 hours with other prisoners, until late in the day. Then, the deportation van would head toward the Qanater Women’s Prison, only to be rejected by the prison’s administration due to the COVID-19 lockdown put in place at the time. The deportation van would then head back to the Alexandria Security Directorate, and every time we went back there, I had to get a blood test done to determine whether I had COVID or not. This back and forth was repeated for months,” continues Alia.“One day, the Qanater prison administration agreed to take me in, and I was placed in a holding cell, one designated to receive the prison’s newcomers. It was crowded with more than 70 prisoners pending political and criminal cases. On the first night, I couldn’t sleep, everyone was uncomfortably laid down in the ‘sword position’ [sleeping on one side of the body]. Sleep was intermittent, with some detainees sleeping for a few hours, while the rest stayed awake. We used to squat or stand up to allow space for others, alternating overnight, according to the orders of the prison guard that regulated the number of hours of sleep we could get. I stayed there about four months, until I was released. In early 2023, due to a new accusation, I was sent back to prison.”
There were no clocks, no vents, and no windows to distinguish between day and night. It was as if time had stopped, dominated by silence, the cold, and insects
Maryam*
Maryam*, another prisoner, describes her hardship during her arrest and imprisonment: “I was taken away from my home in 2020. Authorities forcibly made me disappear for several days. I was lucky to not be assaulted during detention. During my interrogation at the National Security headquarters, the investigator kept asking me the same question over and over: ‘Tell me, what did you do to get yourself arrested?’. I constantly denounced his question: ‘How should I know?’”
“I was detained in a dirty room. The guards used to open the door twice a day to allow prisoners to go to the bathroom, and to bring in food. I ate very little. I remember how cold the rooms felt. To create some semblance of comfort, I improvised with several worn-out chairs as a makeshift bed, and relied on a thin, moldy blanket. […] There were no clocks, no vents, and no windows to distinguish between day and night. It was as if time had stopped, dominated by silence, the cold, and insects,” she says.
She continues: “I appeared before the Supreme State Security Prosecution in the Fifth Settlement neighborhood in Cairo. The interrogations revolved around my university studies, my work, my political opinions, and for whom I had voted in previous elections. The interrogator’s questions angered my lawyers because the reasons behind my arrest were not clear. I was put on trial for joining a banned ‘terrorist group.’ I spent the first months of my detention in a small dirty cell at the Alexandria Security Directorate, and over time, we were six women prisoners put in one small cell. It was only after objecting strongly to the living conditions that security officers agreed to divide us into two rooms.”
Behind prison walls, we are just mere numbers
A profoundly distressing moment for Alia was when she was photographed holding her inmate information plate. “I held a rusty iron plate with a serial number written on it. Normally, we all like to take photos when we feel our best, but when I was forced to be photographed with that iron plate just like in TV series and movies I once enjoyed, […] I felt pain and grief in my heart. I felt confused, as if I was detached from reality. […] I am not a criminal!”
It was as if I stood before a mirror, reflecting the recent situation I had just endured—a haunting nightmare that, in retrospect, I realized I was still living through
Maryam*
Maryam had a similar experience: “It was as if I stood before a mirror, reflecting the recent situation I had just endured—a haunting nightmare that, in retrospect, I realized I was still living through.”
She adds: “But my anger was doubled when I was sent to Damanhour prison, perhaps because it was my second rotation, owing to a new pending case, days after my first release. My arbitrary detention was therefore renewed. It made me think about the privileges I had once enjoyed in the Qanater Prison, […] such as the access to the prison hospital, family visits, using the bathroom whenever I needed to, and most importantly, not having to inform everyone around me that I was menstruating.”
A lingering stench that never leaves you
Inside a blue armored iron vehicle, we were required to ascend three sets of stairs, gripping iron handrails on either side. Before entering what felt like an inferno—the closed trunk of the police deportation van—we passed through a small iron door, which forced us to lower our heads to pass. This marked the only instances during my entire detention period where I had to lower my head. Inside the cramped van, there were two seats, one on each side. In the scorching heat of the summer, the seats would burn, capable of dearing our bodies, whilst in the winter, the same seats turned bitterly cold, penetrating deep into our bones. Lacking both armrests or supportive frames, these journeys between the prison and prosecution office, proved to be long and arduous, devoid of any comfort or respite.
Each side of the box had two vents, supposedly set to ease the entry of fresh air and natural light, but these vents were covered with thin tangled wires, which completely blocked any sort of ventilation. In addition to the stifling air and inadequate ventilation, the interior of the van was strewn with discarded refuse. Most of us often suffered from shortness of breath due to the pervasive stench.
Smell was one of those things that both Alia and I remember from our imprisonment. When I asked her about the bad smell, which stuck with her even after her release, it brought us both back to that van.
Alia reflects, “Alongside these odors, the smells of emotions are etched in my memory as well. I could smell the feelings of tension, fear, and danger lingering in the air, particularly during moments like sudden inspections. The distinct aroma of sanitary pads also linger, a reminder that it was so incredibly hard to get a hold of these when I was menstruating.”
Maryam adds, “the walls were dirty, and the air carried the smell of old urine. A small bucket was in the corner of the cell to serve as a toilet. There was also a small vent at the top of the wall for air circulation, but it was too small to allow air through. Our cell was underground, and nothing would break the silence down there, or would manage to distract me, save only for the sound the transportation van would make outside. That was my life for several months.”
Alia had two different experiences during her imprisonment: “In the beginning, I could obtain books, exercise, and even had access to television. However, after rotation, I endured around three months in isolation from the other prisoners. My days were spent lying in bed, enveloped by drapes aptly named ‘weeping curtains’.”
The situation was not much different from what Maryam went through: “I would spend my days either reading or listening to the stories passed on among prisoners about the guards on duty, or their personal stories that led them to detention. The queues were the hallmark of the place, we would stand in line to get water from the pump for bathing, food, and laundry, and to obtain our meals.”
The visit is a moment of restrained tranquility and reassurance
As prisoners, we had the right to a monthly family visit, with the possibility of an additional one during national celebrations. My own memories of these visits surfaced during a conversation with Alia.
On the day of the visit, I would wake up early. On other days, sleep was my only escape from the darkness of prison life. So, once monthly, I would wake up earlier and sit next to the cell door in the morning and listen to the guards outside in the prison courtyard. I would eagerly wait for them to unlock the prison’s iron door, symbolizing my imminent reunion with my family.
I would watch the guard walk back toward the security officer’s office and sit alert and apprehensive, fearing any unforeseen decision that would prevent me from my monthly visit. This anxiety would tighten its grip until the guard would say the words I had waited hours to hear: “You have a visit today!” I would then breathe a sigh of relief, and not missing a beat, would get ready.
I used to wear a clean robe and comb my hair to look pretty in order to hide the pain and fatigue we experienced every second inside those cells
Alia*
“I used to wear a clean robe and comb my hair to look pretty in order to hide the pain and fatigue we experienced every second inside those cells,” recounts Alia. “I used to tell my family that I was fine and that everything was going well, but we all knew that it was all an act.” Alia struggled to see her elderly father when she was in prison. “I saw my father only three times. He is an old man, and he used to come all the way from Alexandria to Cairo, just for those 30-minute visits in a crowded and noisy room; we couldn’t hear each other well, especially that the prison had set a barrier to separate us from visitors, a COVID-19 precautions at the time,” Alia adds.
“At that time, I asked my father not to come to visit anymore so that I could relieve him of this burden. It was a painful decision, but I had to take it,” she concludes.
The visiting room in the Damanhour Prison, according to Maryam, was “like hell”: it was a small room crowded with female prisoners, their families, and the guards. The visits usually did not exceed 30 minutes. “The families of about 22 prisoners would come to visit at the same time. The screaming and wailing of children and female prisoners was all one could hear. One day, I broke down crying, so my family quarreled with the female guards and the prison officer, asking them to improve visiting conditions. Nothing changed for six months. Then one day, I was surprised to see that the visiting room was not crowded. The chief of investigations back then had ordered a change in the timing of my visit so that I would be with fewer female prisoners, after hearing of my suffering. Minutes later, I was informed that my visit had been rescheduled to coincide with the visits of prisoners sentenced to death.”
“All the female prisoners sentenced to death wore red robes and were left in handcuffs, even during the visit. The scene was quite terrifying, and it took some getting used to, but I eventually came around. I forced myself to think positively, I could finally check on my family surrounded by fewer prisoners,” says Maryam.
In concluding these powerful testimonies, I raise my voice emphatically to elucidate the stories of suppression and challenges endured by female human rights defenders and political prisoners in Egypt. These resilient women have bravely shared their experience, providing us with a profound insight into the harsh realities of life behind bars in the country.
Despite the cruelty and challenges these women face, they were able, with great courage and conviction, to inspire us greatly. These stories are not mere individual narratives; rather, they constitute a collective call to the international community. It is urgent that they take decisive action to support human rights and justice in Egypt, and prevent the impunity of those responsible in these egregious, and unfortunately all-too-common, violations of Egyptian women’s basic human rights. May these stories serve as a mobilizing cry for a society that champions the rights and dignity of all.
Solafa Magdy is TIMEP’s ninth Bassem Sabry Democracy Fellow and her mandate focuses on women in Egypt’s prisons.
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