Zahra Khadraj

I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know anyone. Everyone there was a stranger, an enemy, a violent person, with hatred gleaming in their eyes without shame or fear. I was terribly hungry, having eaten nothing for a day and a half. I was thirsty, exhausted, and my whole body ached terribly. The cold gripped my joints and bones, adding to the pain. I was tense and withdrawn, yet I didn't pay much attention to myself. My attention was consumed by others: the people of Gaza, and my family.

How many martyrs fell today? How many wounded could not be reached among the rubble? How many children perished under the bombardment? How many women were burned? Did the spokesperson for the Ministry of Health in Gaza come out and give the daily report on the health situation there? Did the aid enter? Or are the officials in Egypt still being strict about the Rafah crossing and refusing to allow aid in and the wounded and sick to leave for treatment? How are the people there living in this bitter cold and constant rain? Does a tent protect them from the rain or lessen the severity of the cold? What is the condition of the hospitals? Have any of them stopped working? etc…

My family also never left my mind for a moment; what did my children do? Did they hurt any of them? Did they beat or humiliate Abdul Rahman after my arrest? Did they steal anything from the house? Did they smash its contents as they always do? And what did my husband do? Was he able to bear the pain and anguish of his wife being arrested in front of him in the dead of night without being able to do anything or protect her from them? How is he now? Did my family know about my arrest? How did they react to the news? Will my community accept this? Will they put pressure on my husband and children, especially since a woman getting arrested is still unacceptable?

I am fully aware of my husband’s consistently supportive stance, and I know that he will take over the family responsibilities in my absence, and will do his best to ensure everything runs smoothly.
But Yaqeen is in her final year of high school, and her final exams are just around the corner. How will she manage, especially since she's the eldest daughter in the family now? I'm sure she'll have to take on some household responsibilities like cleaning, doing the laundry, and tidying while her father is at work. No doubt, her siblings will help around, but the biggest burden will fall on her. Will this affect her studies? Furthermore, she's very sensitive. How will she cope emotionally with my arrest and absence from home? Will this cause her to fail?

And Juwayriyah, who is the youngest (and last of the family), will she accept the great change that has befallen the family and which she is now forced to deal with against her will? Will they support each other to overcome this ordeal? They must be very worried about me right now, I’m sure of it, especially since they all know about my health problems. I had no choice but to hold fast to the rope of Allah: (And whoever holds fast to Allah has certainly been guided to a straight path). My tongue never ceased to seek forgiveness, glorify Allah, declare His oneness, say "There is no power nor strength except with Allah," seek reward from Him, send blessings upon our noble Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, make duas, and reflect.

The verse from Surah Al-Baqarah kept recurring in my mind: (Or do you think that you will enter Paradise while such [trial] has not yet come to you as came to those who passed on before you? They were touched by hardship and suffering and were shaken until [even] the Messenger and those who believed with him said, 'When is the help of Allah?' Unquestionably, the help of Allah is near.) It filled me with a profound tranquility, a feeling difficult to attain in my situation. Indeed, the help of Allah is near; it is near, inshallah, but it requires patience and steadfastness. "They were touched by hardship and suffering... and were shaken..."

My Lord, is it really that bad? Yes! So what has befallen us then? Nothing compared to what befell the Messenger of Allah and those who believed with him, who are our role models in patience, steadfastness, and perseverance on the path of truth in pursuit of Allah's pleasure. I was accompanied by the story of the Messenger of Allah, his visit to Ta'if, and the harm he suffered there, may peace and the best of blessings be upon him.

At the medical clinic, the nurse asked the guard to remove my handcuffs, took my blood pressure, and then immediately ordered my hands to be re-handcuffed. The nurse gave me two pills for my blood pressure and stomach and told me to swallow them in front of him. I asked for a glass of water; how could I take my medication without it? He ignored my request and continued arranging the numerous papers that filled the desk in front of him.
I kept the pills in my fist and looked around the clinic; it was dirty and chaotic, its shelves were crammed with untidy papers. It was not worthy of being called a clinic.

What surprised me was that the nurse spoke fluent Arabic, just like me, but with a slightly different accent. I realized he was a Druze from the Golan Heights. I asked him, "Where am I?" He replied, "Didn't they tell you? You're in Sharon Prison. They're going to transfer you to another prison; you won't be staying here." He finished his work and, accompanied by the prison guard, led me through long corridors whose details I didn’t recall. But what I can't forget is that I was freezing cold, and the floors of the corridors were flooded with rainwater.

I dragged my shackles through the water, the shackles catching against my trousers as I walked. With each step and the distance stretched, my trousers became soaked, adding to the chill that pierced my bones and ached. They led me up a long flight of stairs and into a cramped cell. In one corner, I found a peeled clementine, still in its shell. I ate it; it seemed to have been peeled recently. I devoured it greedily, not bothering with its cleanliness. Hunger is the only voice that matters, and when it rises, all other voices are silenced.

I combined all the prayers I had missed, without knowing the direction of the Qibla, but Allah knows my situation. I found a thin blanket on the edge of a two-tiered iron bed. On the top tier was a thin mattress as well. I pulled it out and placed it on the bottom mattress, wrapped myself in the blanket, and laid down.
I don’t know how I managed to fall asleep, nor how long I slept, but I awoke to the sound of the key turning in the lock of my cell door. I was terrified and jumped to my feet. There were two prison guards standing in front of the door. “Come here!” One of them ordered.

I stepped forward. He took out shackles from his pocket and placed them on my hands and feet. They led me through several corridors and down a long flight of stairs. The darkness was eerie despite the bright flashlights that were everywhere. They opened a door, put me inside, and locked it again.

It was another cell. I was horrified by the sight of bloodstains scattered here and there, on the floor and walls, the spittle of sick people, the remains of feces. The place was very dirty. There was a filthy latrine in one corner on the opposite side of a ceiling-mounted camera, and an orange light switched on from the outside that remained on the whole time. The cell was completely sealed off—no windows, no door opening, no sounds. There was no iron bed, just a thin mattress no more than 4 centimeters thick, covered with a very hard layer of dirty blue plastic, and a thin, smelly brown blanket lying haphazardly on the floor.

I folded the mattress in two, sat on it, and leaned against the wall despite its filthy state. I wrapped myself in the blanket, and I don't know how I fell asleep. It was a truly nightmarish night. I slept poorly, plagued by terrifying nightmares, and my bones and joints ached with rheumatic pain. I kept waking up, stretching my stiff neck, sometimes struggling to stand, taking a few steps, then returning to my previous position and falling back asleep, and so on and so forth.

Sometimes I’d wonder if the Adhan for Fajr had been recited? I performed ablution with sand and prayed two rak'ahs of night prayer right there in my place before going back to sleep. When I felt that a long time had passed, I decided to pray Fajr. I didn’t know how much time had passed when someone came and unlocked the cell door. A prison guard appeared before me, and from behind the door. “Stand up.” He ordered me in broken Arabic. I obeyed, thinking he was going to move me to another place, but he only asked me my name, then locked the door and left. I had no idea what "number" meant. It was a very long, difficult night, during which many questions relentlessly and mercilessly plagued me.