Saturday, October 28, 2006

A Brief Taste of Prison

In 1986, fresh out of my medical internship, I headed to the Beirut airport to catch my flight to the United States to start my residency training. I was looking forward for a change. The civil war was bogged down in recurring cycles of violence with no end in sight. Besides, as a Syrian citizen, I had little long term prospects for a medical career in Lebanon. I checked in at the ticket counter and proceeded through the Lebanese immigration counter. As I turned the corner to descend to the departure lounge, I saw two men at the bottom of the stairway and my heart skipped a beat.

The men were short, scrawny, in ill-fitting suites and looking out of place. I knew immediately what they were. They might as well have had neon lights on their forehead flashing mukhabarat.
After a momentary hesitation, I proceeded down the stairs with an air of confidence hoping that I would pass without harassment. I was wrong. I handed over my passport to one of the men. He opened my passport then looked up at me with disdain and asked where I was going. After I told him, the dreaded question came up: “Wein daftar al askarieh?”-where is you military service booklet. I told him that I did not do my military service but that my family had left Syria when I was five years old. He frowned and fell silent. His friend whispered to him: “He’s a doctor just going to specialize, why don’t you let him go?” But he had other ideas. They both walked off to their officer who was sitting in the middle of the departure lounge looking like he owned the place.

I suddenly spotted a familiar face among the crowd of passengers. He was a family friend of my fiancĂ© (and now wife of 18 years), a businessman who appeared to be well connected. I inched over to him and told him that I needed his help. He looked back at me sheepishly and told me that you can’t mess with these people. With a casual wave of his hand, the officer summoned me. Looking bored, he proceeded to lecture me for the next five minutes about how it was my patriotic duty to liberate the Golan Heights. When he was done, he waved to his men to take me away.

I was driven to the mukhabarat headquarters in Ramlet el-Baida. On the sixth floor office, I was relieved of the contents of my pockets including my wallet and was asked to surrender my belt. I was told that when the senior officers returned later in the afternoon, they will interrogate me. I then followed one of the officers to the basement of the building. He opened the metal door, let me in and locked the door behind me.

When my eyes accommodated to the darkness, I made out the outlines of my prison. It was a long narrow space, dank from the water covering almost half of the floor on the right. Lining the left side of the cell, some sitting on blankets others standing, were about fifteen other prisoners. Some walked up to me to console me as I stood shocked and dazed. They were a mix of Lebanese, Palestinians and Syrians, in this predicament for various reasons. Some had been in for almost three months. I spent the next hours feeling like my life was being sucked out of me. Just hours ago, I was hopeful and happy looking forward to a new and promising start. Now, I was in prison, not knowing what will happen to me or even whether anyone knew where I was.

Late that afternoon, the officer who booked me showed up at the cell door looking annoyed and called me over. He let me out and as I stood there soaked in sweat and disheveled, he told me to tuck in my shirt. We took the elevator back to the sixth floor offices. I feared the worst. As I exited the elevator, two neatly dressed young men introduced themselves as bodyguards of Assem Kanso, the head of the Lebanese Baath party. They told me to look out the window across a couple of empty blocks to a building. They told that my fiancé and her mother were waiting for me there.

Unbeknown to me, the businessman had managed to give a Lebanese immigration officer the phone number of my fiance’s family home and told him to call to tell them what happened. When the call was made, my future mother in law sprung to action. A friend of a friend knew someone who knew the wife of Assem Kanso. Calls were made. The bodyguards collected my suitcases, and had the officer return my wallet. I was driven to Mr. Kanso’s home for a tearful reunion.

When I returned several days later to the airport, it was in Mr. Kanso’s Range Rover with two armed men sitting in the back. I felt like the prototypical Lebanese warlord that I loathed so much. At the airport, the hypocritical bastard who lectured me about patriotism was now apologizing profusely. He called his minions to carry my suitcases. One of Kanso’s men walked me down to the departure lounge and bid me farewell. I asked him not to leave until I am on the plane but he told me not to worry, that everything was “taken care of”. I felt relieved only when my plane was in the air. I did not return to Lebanon for another ten years and then only with a different passport.

I hesitated for several months before writing this piece. On the one hand I did not want to over-inflate the magnitude of what happened to me. After all, I was lucky enough to come out of it unscathed. On the other hand, it is more than just a good story, it is emblematic of what goes on in routinely in Syria and to a variable extent in other Middle Eastern Mukhabaratocracies.

What angers me most about what happened is its complete randomness. Your life, as a citizen, is completely dependent on the whims of single, all powerful individual. If the mukhabarat officer woke up that morning with an annoying itchy rash on his backside, then consider yourself screwed. If, on the other hand, his wife was good to him the night before, he may feel generous on that particular day. You as a citizen have no rights and the law is what THEY tell you it is.

I cannot claim, because of this event, that I know what Michel Kilo and other political prisoners feel during their long incarcerations. I do know, however, how it feels in the first few hours: the sudden and unpredictable loss of your freedom, the shock, the desperation and the fear of what is to come. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemies… I take that back, I DO wish it on that mukhabarat officer in the departure lounge and I want to be the one sealing his fate with a flick of my hand.

12 comments:

Anonymous said...

I'm so glad you decided to write this powerful piece. Most Syrians will have a personal connection to similar situations, as we all have brothers, cousins, neighbors and friends who went through this needless humiliating and terrifying experience. And every Syrian has experienced this sinking feeling in the heart when noticing one of these despicable mukhabarat on the lookout for a prey.

What makes it even worse, as you recount, is the fact that we all end up desperately seeking and needing the "wasta" from people we despise, the ones who have the power to help us selectively, hence perpetrating this archaic system. We all do it, and we all have no choice but do it if we want to get on with our lives.

Thanks for sharing this with us Abu Kareem. The more we speak about life in those damned "mukhabaratocracies," as you so aptly described them, the less fearful we will appear to them. And what scares THEM most is the loss of our fear.

Anonymous said...

Abu Kareem,

Consider yourself very very lucky and thanks for sharing with us this very humiliating experience that summarizes the life of so many people in the middle east.

There is no dignity or rights for people...and they can't now stand the sight of having a free Lebanon. THey are used to humiliating people and they don't want to let go...

Unfortunately I am seeing less and less hope as the neutral people have decided to look the other way and let us watch hopelessly as the situation get worse and worse.

Reading news these days is very depressing and I can't wait to take off to south America in few days for couple of weeks and forget everything .

Keep up the great work my friend, your story and other ones need to be told

Fares

Anonymous said...

Dear Abu kareem
Thank you for telling this story. We have all been through some sort of humiliating experience at one time or another.
To live in fear is not how we were meant to lead our lives. Unfortunately, this is the sad truth in the Middle East in general.
It's my personal opinion that it will take us a very long time to get out of the mud. The regime is clinging to power like a hound with prey in mouth. The expatriate "opposition", sadly, messed up when they lost their sense of priorities, had their own illusions of grandeur and shook the wrong hands.
So here we are the "neutrals" as we are called. We truly dispise ther regime and we don't trust the opposition.
Talk about being caught in the middle!

Ms Levantine said...

Good post Abu Kareem. Did you ever get to thank Mr. Kanso?

Rabi Tawil (AKA Abu Kareem) said...

ms L,

Mr. Kanso was busy with someone from the Russian embassy when I was delivered to his apartment. I hate to sound ungrateful, but this was probably all in a day's work for him. His ability to grant such favors is the source of his power and therein lies the problem. I was released not because I was innocent of a crime I was accused of, but because I had access to a "Wasta".

The Syrian Brit said...

Abu Kareem,
Thank you very much for sharing this touching account of your experience with the rest of us..
I have on a number of occasions come perilously close to being arrested, largely because of my big mouth while I was at University..
However, I have once been 'arrested', because I refused to pay a bribe to a traffic policeman who wanted to fine me for something I have not done.. After a night in a damp, cold, dark cell in the bowels of some God-forsaken building, I am ashamed to say that my spirit was broken, and I paid up.. I was hurriedly released after I paid up (triple the original demand!..).. I can only stand in awe of all those brave prisoners of conscience, whose determination and courage should inspire us all..

Sammy said...

Abu Kareem,

Sammy said...

Abu Kareem,

My story is a magnified account of yours: I was studying in the U.S (TAHT EL ESHRAF). I came back to visit my family in Beirut after 2 years absence during which I neglected to renew my military service deferral paperwork.One day we were riding our motorcycles through Bhamdoun and got pulled over at a Mukhabarat checkpoint. I produced my Syrian passport to the spick mounting the checkpoint and was asked about DAFTAR AL ASKARIEH. I told him it was not in order. He told me to get off the bike and told my friends to get lost. He then put me in his mercedes and took me to a nearby detention centre. I was shown to an empty room with few blankets on the floor. Later I could hear the guards hurling insults at few guys they had pulled over. Then the screams started. The guards were beating up whoever they had in that room. I kept thinking that I was going to be next. Later that day I was taken to Ramlee Al Baida. Level 6 for interrogation and then taken down to the same cell Abu Kareem was taken to except when I walked in I counted at leat 50 inmates. It was August, the room felt like an oven. I walked up to one of the walls and banged my head against it. Sudden loss of freedom left me completely dazed. Floor space was so tight we were unable to sleep on our backs: we each slept on our side effectively being sandwiched between the guy in frontand the one behind. Dinner consisted of one super bowl filled with rice and another filled with some red stew. It was put in the middle of the room for everyone to fight for their share. The next 5 days were a repeat of the first but I managed to strike conversations with the other inmates which helped pass the time. One day the guard comes in and asks me to go up with him to level six. I went in and found my parents waiting for me. We chatted for a while and before leaving my father whispered in my ear that things are being taken care of and I should be out of there soon. Before leaving they handed me a roast chicken with salad. I went back to my cell and sat on the floor ready to devour the chicken. I looked around and I saw couple of dozen eyes staring at my feast. I felt shame and asked them to join me. They all obliged. Anyway, the next sunday few of us were told that we will be moved to a detention centre on the lebanese-Syrian border. The building was effectively the customs building. All the offices had been turned into holding cells. On my first night, they shaved my hair and interrogated. Conditions here were a bit better,we were at ground level and had natural light. By that time I had accepted my fate: 4 to 5 years in the army, no going back overseas, no degree. I learned that the only way I am going to make out of there in one piece is to socialise and stop thinking about my loss of freedom. Every inmate had a story to tell (most of them are interesting). I think I was the youngest in the wole building (I was 19) and some of the inmates took it upon themselves to cheer me up and point out the bright side of things. Another bonus was that I did not get beaten up by the guards in any of the 3 detention places. Finally, on saturday (14 days into my ordeal), a guard comes in and asks me to accompany him. I was taken to an office where I saw some of the officers I'd already seen, my father and a decorated officer.Him and my father walked up to me and asked me if I were OK. The officer then pulled me to the side and asked me if anyone had beat me. My father then came to me and told me it has all been sorted out and I should be out of there in the next day or so. Next day (sunday) I was woken up at 6 in the morning and taken to the office where I was given back my posessions and shown to my parents' waiting car. The feeling of being free was truly undescribable. One week later I was back in the U.S. It took me fourteen years to set foot in Syria again.

You got to feel for those incarceratedin Syrian jails. I imagine their lot is not much better off. No wonder most who get a chance, end up living in western countries: the smart and the not so smart.

Sammy said...

Abu Kareem,

My story is a magnified account of yours: I was studying in the U.S (TAHT EL ESHRAF). I came back to visit my family in Beirut after 2 years absence during which I neglected to renew my military service deferral paperwork.One day we were riding our motorcycles through Bhamdoun and got pulled over at a Mukhabarat checkpoint. I produced my Syrian passport to the spick mounting the checkpoint and was asked about DAFTAR AL ASKARIEH. I told him it was not in order. He told me to get off the bike and told my friends to get lost. He then put me in his mercedes and took me to a nearby detention centre. I was shown to an empty room with few blankets on the floor. Later I could hear the guards hurling insults at few guys they had pulled over. Then the screams started. The guards were beating up whoever they had in that room. I kept thinking that I was going to be next. Later that day I was taken to Ramlee Al Baida. Level 6 for interrogation and then taken down to the same cell Abu Kareem was taken to except when I walked in I counted at leat 50 inmates. It was August, the room felt like an oven. I walked up to one of the walls and banged my head against it. Sudden loss of freedom left me completely dazed. Floor space was so tight we were unable to sleep on our backs: we each slept on our side effectively being sandwiched between the guy in frontand the one behind. Dinner consisted of one super bowl filled with rice and another filled with some red stew. It was put in the middle of the room for everyone to fight for their share. The next 5 days were a repeat of the first but I managed to strike conversations with the other inmates which helped pass the time. One day the guard comes in and asks me to go up with him to level six. I went in and found my parents waiting for me. We chatted for a while and before leaving my father whispered in my ear that things are being taken care of and I should be out of there soon. Before leaving they handed me a roast chicken with salad. I went back to my cell and sat on the floor ready to devour the chicken. I looked around and I saw couple of dozen eyes staring at my feast. I felt shame and asked them to join me. They all obliged. Anyway, the next sunday few of us were told that we will be moved to a detention centre on the lebanese-Syrian border. The building was effectively the customs building. All the offices had been turned into holding cells. On my first night, they shaved my hair and interrogated. Conditions here were a bit better,we were at ground level and had natural light. By that time I had accepted my fate: 4 to 5 years in the army, no going back overseas, no degree. I learned that the only way I am going to make out of there in one piece is to socialise and stop thinking about my loss of freedom. Every inmate had a story to tell (most of them are interesting). I think I was the youngest in the wole building (I was 19) and some of the inmates took it upon themselves to cheer me up and point out the bright side of things. Another bonus was that I did not get beaten up by the guards in any of the 3 detention places. Finally, on saturday (14 days into my ordeal), a guard comes in and asks me to accompany him. I was taken to an office where I saw some of the officers I'd already seen, my father and a decorated officer.Him and my father walked up to me and asked me if I were OK. The officer then pulled me to the side and asked me if anyone had beat me. My father then came to me and told me it has all been sorted out and I should be out of there in the next day or so. Next day (sunday) I was woken up at 6 in the morning and taken to the office where I was given back my posessions and shown to my parents' waiting car. The feeling of being free was truly undescribable. One week later I was back in the U.S. It took me fourteen years to set foot in Syria again.

You got to feel for those incarceratedin Syrian jails. I imagine their lot is not much better off. No wonder most who get a chance, end up living in western countries: the smart and the not so smart.

Rabi Tawil (AKA Abu Kareem) said...

Sammy,

I chill ran down my back as I read you comment. I was suddenly transported back 24 years; some of the details of your captivity coincide with mine except that you obviously had it much harder than me. And yet, we both were extremely lucky. Who knows how "many many, haphazardly jailed without due process or representation, linger in jails in Syria. It has been 24 years since my arrest, how much has really changed? Do we really have a "kinder and gentler" regime or is it all a mirage. I would really like to know the answer to that question.

Rabi Tawil (AKA Abu Kareem) said...

Sammy,

If you don't mind, I would like to repost you comments as a new post on my blog. As you may have noticed, I haven't written anything in a long time but your story is compelling enough that more people have to see it to remind them about the state of our country.

Sammy said...

No problem Abu Kareem. Feel free to post it.