Visiting Ishraka in Prison

Tuesday, I went to the Adlieh prison to visit Ishraka, a Sudanese/Eritrean woman from my church. She's been there for 20 days. The month before, she was in the all-women's prison in Verdun with her two-year-old son. When they moved her to Adlieh, they made her son leave. He is now staying with her Sudanese friend in the Mar Elias Palestinian camp where she's been living.

Two months ago, an Ethiopian woman came to Ishraka seeking help, having run away from the house where she was contracted to work. The girl had a phone and needed money, so they went to the neighboring phone shop and sold it to the man. The run-away's "mister" called the phone. When the man from the shop answered it, he told him where the girl was staying. The police came to Ishraka's house. The girl, however, had run away. Ishraka was picked up for not having legal papers. They took her and her son to the Verdun prison.

Last week another American woman went to go visit her at Verdun. But there was a problem--no one seemed to have her name or know where she was. After talking to as many people as she could, Debbie left in frustration. She called the pastor of the church who called Caritas. Caritas has established a special "watch-dog" group for this specific issue. Foreigners are taken to prison, and somehow get lost in the system. Sometimes people languish for months and even years because the authorities "forget" or "lose" them.

With the help of Caritas and another lawyer-advocacy group, Frontiers, they found that Ishraka had been transferred to Adlieh. I was the first person to visit her from the church, probably her first visitor altogether.

The prison is located under a bridge that serves as a highway. (During the July 2006 War, this was a big problem. The government had to figure out what to do with all these people when Israel was bombing all the major highways and bridges.) When I got there, I asked the General Security man where the nearest shop was. I bought her a gallon of water, bananas, apples, chocolate, Nescafe, and biscuite (cookies). When I returned, there was a long line.

The Egyptian man next to me told me I could go straight up to the front since I was Lebanese.

"Ana mish lubnaneye." And in that moment, I felt proud and happy that I wasn't Lebanese, that I wasn't part of a group that so often treats dark-skinned people like animals.

"Then what are you?"

I sighed, "Amerikaneye." That didn't make me proud either.

"Well, you don't have to wait here."

"That's fine. I'll wait."

He nodded and said, "America is like that. You have laws and systems. Everyone is subject to the same laws. It doesn't matter who you are. Here everything is wasta (connections)."

"Yep," feeling kind of proud of my background, but then deciding to fill him in about Guantanamo.

We talked some more. It turns out he was visiting a Sri Lankan woman who had been there for a couple months. Her husband and three kids were back in Sri Lanka, and if she doesn't constantly send them money, they don't eat. The man in line met her two years ago, while she patronized his corner shop.

I was so touched. Here he was--a man just helping out a family-less foreign woman, bringing her bags of stuff.

A couple of General Security guys walked by, and asked why I was waiting in line. "Lebanese can go straight up to the front."

"Ana mish lubnaneye."

Same third-degree set of questions. About five minutes later, they yelled at me to come to the front. The Sanyoura government likes to kiss up to the U.S. They're always trying to make us happy. (Not like Syria, who gives Americans a hard time.)

"Why do I get to come up to the front?"

"Do you want to wait in line?" The General Security guy retorted sarcastically.

"How long is it going to take?"

"At least an hour."

So I handed over my Texas Driver's License and a photocopy of my passport. They found her name in the book and registered my name.

After another fifteen minutes, I was herded down the stairs with about 20 other men, more than half of whom were Egyptian. We stood behind a metal perforated sheet with metal bars in front of it and a plastic window. The guards moved me out of the middle of the pack to the end where there was an open window, so I could look directly inside.

This made it much easier to talk to Ishraka when she came out. She was wearing a long red shawl that covered her head and her arms, a very Muslim/African sort of dress which I never recalled her wearing at church.

She cried when she saw me, and couldn't believe that I came to visit her.

"I am very, very sad here."

I asked about her son. She said her friend doesn't have a phone where I could call her. But my pastor's wife knows where she lives so I could go to the camp and track down her son--maybe take some pictures and a video and show it to her.

Then I asked what she needed.

Pijamas with long sleeves, shirts, bra, and underwear. Soap, Colgate, shampoo, Kotex. Picon (processed cheese), biscuits. Of course, the most important thing is water. An English Bible, and L.L. 20,000 ($13.33) for a phone card.

"There are many, many foreigners here."

"Are there any believers? Are you praying?"

"Yes, there are many Ethiopians." And she shrugged. I couldn't tell if that meant she was praying with anyone inside the prison.

The guards announced that the time was up. Since I was standing in front of the one open window, all the men came over and practically pounced on me. As I moved back, they started shoving their grocery bags and water gallons through the window. After pushing my stuff through, I told her, "God bless you and keep you". And then I walked up the stairs, and through the line of Egyptians, Nepalese, Ethiopians, and other foreigners.

Yeah, I felt guilty about my special treatment. But hey, I had to get to work, just like these people. Wouldn't they have gone up to the front of the line and avoided the hour long wait if they had the chance? Something else to feel guilty about. I guess I prefer guilt to depression, rage, and powerlessness in the face of injustice.