Washington Report on Middle East Affairs, December 2001, page 24

Special Report

 

Palestinian Prisoners: Our Living Martyrs

 

By Samah Jabr With Betsy Mayfield

When I meet the mother of a Palestinian martyr, I don’t cry with her or ask her to show false pride and strength. I say instead, “Your child is in God’s hands, where life is more just and fair than the life we’re living.” Often, my words have proven to be effective.

When I meet the mother of a Palestinian political prisoner, however, I don’t know what to say. I choke with the dead words in my throat.

Israel is notorious for its political prisons, like Neve Tirza in Al Ramleh, Abu Kbeir, and Demona. While the Israeli government imprisons children as young as 14 years old in these jails, few Israeli human rights organizations consistently speak out against the inhuman conditions and physical and psychological torture these young captives must endure. Needless to say, the Israeli government has no interest in improving prison conditions in these prisons.

A month ago, I went to Neve Tirza to stand in solidarity with a group of women political prisoners who have been on a hunger strike. There were only about 50 of us—nothing like the massive crowds attending a martyr’s funeral or the hundreds who line up outside universities to shout their slogans and announce the latest protest strike. Some who might have joined us, I imagine, were turned back at checkpoints. Others had to make use of a day with fewer curfew restrictions to obtain what food they could. Office workers may have rushed to their jobs in hopes of getting a little work done before the mid-afternoon rush hour—the race to get home before a new curfew might take effect.

As I stood outside the prison with my sisters, eager to show solidarity with those in pain, the sight of our small group made me recall the sad words of Mahmoud Abu-Al-Sukkar, a Palestinian who has spent 26 years of his life in jail because he dared protest when Zionists came to take his land. “I used to think that if you call Palestinians to stand in solidarity with their prisoners,” he wrote, “the streets would be full of the thousands. But that was my fantasy and imagination.”

Abu Al-Sukkar’s expression of isolation and abandonment makes me aware of our peace negotiators’ neglect and disregard of the thousands of Palestinian freedom fighters who spent and are still spending the best years of their lives behind bars. What if, I wonder, the greatest among us are in these prisons, only waiting for the chance to lead? Is Palestine’s Nelson Mandela today languishing in an Israeli prison?

Standing outside Neve Tirza, I know the names of some of the prisoners, but there are so many. What woman or man of the people are we failing to recognize? When our prisoners leave their cells, will we Palestinians be ready to acknowledge the sacrifice they have made and open avenues of leadership to them? Given that we’re all virtual prisoners in our own homes, are we too close to each other to see the potential for leadership among ourselves?

Since the beginning of the al-Aqsa intifada, more than one year ago, Israeli (and Palestinian) prison populations have swelled. Given that 50 percent of the Palestinian population is under the age of l8, it isn’t surprising that many of the prisoners are in their prime, youthful, willful, wanting. We do not know what to say to the parents and grandparents of our young prisoners—especially when 13- and 14-year-old youths are captured by their own police and put away, out of sight and out of mind. We live like the creatures in George Orwell’s Animal Farm, where “some animals are more equal than others.”

While I was disappointed that our protest was small, I’m glad I stood outside Neve Tirza prison on that day not so long ago. With our presence, I and 49 others gave credence and visibility to the women the Israeli government hopes will slip into oblivion along with the rest of us. We may not have a Nelson Mandela among us, but perhaps we have better. We have thousands of political prisoners willing to sacrifice freedom and happiness for Palestinian independence. Whether hidden away in Israeli or Palestinian prisons or locked up under house arrest or in community bantustans, we are not giving in. We stand, “broken, but not bowed” in defiance of Israel’s might-makes-right mentality.

Samah Jabr is a medical student and lifelong resident of Jerusalem. This piece was written with Betsy Mayfield of Ames, Iowa.

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