This is a series of articles written by Luna Watfa after her release from prison in Arabic first, and we are going to translate them all into English on our blog.
Seires title : In gloominess of the nothingness.. Here they are
Translated By : Basel Watfa
Prison is manifold where steps are iron bound, yet have to slosh through mud whose density is matchless, through hard and painful paths to grab some fugitive glimmer. Clock dials are millstone that burns those who walk there, harvesting what they lost and feed itself from their souls, days and dreams. Minutes echoed on the cell walls just to tell you that time means only two things: loss and abandonment.
To those whose crying roams the tunnel of darkness, cauterized by the flames of abandonment..
To my friends who still weave a freedom sun with threads of hope..
In gloominess of the nothingness.. Here they are (1)
I AM THE LAW
“ I AM THE LAW ” , said it with sneered smile loomed over his face, confident by limitless power given to him. It was Wednesday morning 29th of January 2014 at 10:30 when they ambushed and arrested me red-handed carrying money had to be delivered to besieged people inside Eastern-Ghouta in Damascus suburb.
I don’t intend to narrate a personal experience , rather I’m seeking to shed the light on an aggravated tactics being used to forcibly obtaining confessions inside the regime prisons; blackmailing motherhood in the most abominable sense of the term. How many female prisoners have been through such harsh choice under which I had been put that day, how many of them were threaten with harming their beloved ones; sons, brothers, parents in a way has gone beyond imagination and out of any legitimacy.
Since the very first moment of interrogation after reaching the security branch I have remained silent, the thing that drove the inspector out of mind several times and when couldn’t force me to talk after many attempts he told me : “ Now, two electrical shocks would persuade you to confess.. Take her”. Blind-folded I had been dragged by an agent, remembering what I had pledged to myself: be unflinching, don’t languish under their torture. Such a long way towards the torture cell, paved and furnished with enormous pictures of torture victims dwelling in my imagination since the beginning of revolution, yet every single picture would grant me strength and sustain my confidence not to submit to them.
“Lift your foot and get in” the agent said, I realized by then that the way wasn’t towards torture cell, it was a car and my home was the destination and time crossed 12:00 P.M. The fear of evidences they might find there wasn’t the notion my mind had taken hold of, rather the presence of my son at home had done at time. All I was hoping for during that grim trip a mean, any mean, to contact him and ask him to run away. Could a miracle happen now?!. Being a mother I just wished, knowing that they would not spare my 14 years old son as they did arrest teens younger than him. I usually can estimate the needful time to reach home but that day distance had prolonged as ever and time had been extremely goopy.
With a remarkable “security” way they knocked the door, someone wavering inside in awe to open for those whose horrific appearance he saw through the eye-door, then inspector shouted : “ tell him to open the door or..”. Very gruesome and painful details mightily grooved your memory, giving you no choice but to live them as they presently occur.
Having seized all what their hands could reach, either for looting purpose or gathering evidences, and against my persistent silence all that long the inspector said : “ well, you are going to collaborate with us to capture the others”, and as I denied that there had not been any, he ordered his agent to detain my son ahead of me. His face was swallowed by horrified gazes, his words beseeching when they dragged him hand-cuffed: “Mom, tell them I’m not involved” left me completely powerless. What boldness could withstand such condition?!. At the time, I exploded confronting the inspector with all I have learnt in law school about the legal procedures in terms of arresting suspicious and the necessity of holding a warrant to doing so and to enter his home at the first place, in addition not to seizing any of his properties for the sake of pressurizing him/her and how their practices were fully unlawful. He said “I AM THE LAW” with sneered smile loomed over his face confident by limitless power given to him.
“Mom, you shouldn’t be doing this, they might harm us”
“Don’t be scared son, I am taking the risk and shall hold the responsibility alone”
A conversation repeatedly happened between us prior to my detention. His terrified gazes thrust their claws into my memory refusing to vanish, his bitter words sting like needles reminding me of that promise I failed to meet.
Constant threat was going on for the first two days : “ Speak or we’ll torture your son ahead of your eyes”, I had given up then and confessed on what I know and I don’t, having strove my utmost of holding charges as crucial as they could be just to let them drop the others from their attention and somehow I could manage this point, the thing that pushed the inspector to tell me that they haven’t arrested my son but they ordered him to lock himself into the bathroom to complete the show.
“ I had been detained in the bathroom for hours daring not even to breath loudly as the agent threatened me not to make any movement may draw your attention” .That what my son told me after 13 month “my detention time”.
Many had been exposed to similar situation. Souad, a mother of 6 years old son whom they had beaten ahead of her putting a knife on his neck what pushed her to confess on her husband and her friend for the same case. That wasn’t the end of story, they called her old mother “aged over sixty” to come to the branch and take the kid out, when she came they arrested her as well charged by what the inspector said: “She who gave birth to such whore deserves to be here”. Both Souad and her mother have been in prison for more than two years, knowing that the old lady suffers many chronic diseases and already embodied in the amnesty decree issued in June 2013.
Samira, 50 years old lady along with her both sons have been arrested just because they originally from Deraa city. When inspector had failed to get them confessed, he started beating her till he gashed her skull while both sons watching what pushed the youngest son to confess just to protect his mother. Her wound had been left untreated but a piece of fabric by which me and my friend tried to stop the bleeding – A “generous” agent gave it to us.
“I AM THE LAW” a phrase whose details drawing the contours of the pain female prisoners have to live with, a moaning from which scourger derives the pleasure of his superiority. What I mentioned isn’t the beginning nor the end, legitimacy of no-law and the constitution of prison is a series written by wounds that left on both body and soul together.