DAR ES SALAAM â€" Sitting on a stone bench, in a shaded back alley of the historical center of Stone Town, the capital of the Zanzibar archipelago, Ali Nassor Ali is making the most of his last day in the open air. Tomorrow, this 40-year-old man with a gaunt face and eyes reddened by years of drug addiction goes to rehab.
Of the approximately 1 million inhabitants on this island, located about 25 kilometers off the coast of Dar es Salaam, the economic capital of Tanzania, an estimated 10,000 are addicted to heroin. Ali Nassor Ali is one of the them.
Fifteen minutes away from here, past the UNESCO-designated monuments and tourist shops, a bumpy path leads to the entrance of a large house surrounded by a decaying gate. On the other side of the gate a dozen men are talking while smoking cigarettes.
Across the yard a workout session is being improvised. Two giants with sculpted torsos are lifting cement weights in a building that was opened in 2008 thanks to donations by a U.S. NGO from Detroit. It's here, in the Detroit Sober House, as it's called, that Ali Nassor Ali will spend the next few months.
The person behind the project is Suleiman Mauly, 32. Mauly did his own stint in rehab, in Kenya, following a nearly eight-year addiction to heroin. â€œBack in Stone Town, I wanted to set up a structure and I was backed by a U.S. NGO," he says. "At the time, there was no care center in Zanzibar and in Tanzania. Now, users come from the whole of Eastern Africa to receive treatment here.â€
Since the early 1990s, Eastern Africa has been one of the worldâ€™s transit points for heroin traffic. From Pakistan or Afghanistan, the brown powder is then resold on the South African or European markets. The rarity of sea inspections and the porosity of port infrastructures turned the region into a strategic crossing point for traffickers.
The United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC) reports that the drug is most often sent off on dhows from Makran, a Pakistani coastal strip. The small, traditional boats make their way from there to the African coast, carefully avoiding large ports.
Zanzibar is one of the gateways for the narcotic. The UNODC claims 22 tons of the drug flood the eastern African coasts every year. This massive influx of heroin made its consumption soar. The region now has more than 500,000 users, half of them in Tanzania, according to an UNODC study from 2011.
Médecins du Monde, a French NGO present in Tanzania, suspects that about 25,000 of Tanzania's 250,000 users consume heroin through injection. The situation isn't any better in Zanzibar. â€œToday, between 7% and 10% of the population is involved drugs and we count more than 10,000 heroin consumers. Low prices boosted consumption, especially in Stone Town, where a dose costs only 0.50 euros,â€ says Mahamoud Mussa, the drug commission coordinator in Zanzibar.
The archipelago, where issues linked to drug addiction have long been ignored by authorities, now has 11 detoxification centers that have together treated nearly 3,000 people since 2008.
The Recovery Community Zanzibar, the association Suleimane Mauly founded, operates three of those centers. Money is tight. The Zanzibar government helps a bit with rent costs. "But we still lack considerable means and subsist thanks to private donations and the volunteer commitment of former drug addicts," he explains.
The association follows the method employed by Narcotics Anonymous (NA), which is itself based on Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) method. The program calls for total abstinence, days rigorously punctuated with a schedule, and meditation and discussion sessions. And it discourages the presence of outside people: the supervisors of the center are exclusively former drug addicts.
"Here, I feel useful"
Seif, 45, has been living for almost two years at the Detroit Sober House. He previously spent five years in a Pakistani prison for drug trafficking. He admits heâ€™s not yet ready to face the outside world.
â€œI spent my life being a mule,â€ explains the former drug dealer, now a volunteer, whose jaw was destroyed in a car accident. â€œI went to Pakistan to swallow heroin. Then I'd come back to Tanzania. I also sometimes went to Europe to sell the merchandise, in Naples or Istanbul. To hold on, I snorted heroin. Iâ€™m scared of relapsing if I get out. Here, I feel useful.â€
Every evening, in the common room of the Detroit Sober House, with its walls yellowed by cigarette smoke, the patients gather in a circle. A theme is chosen in the NA book. Then, one after the other, the residents speak for a few minutes. They don't identify themselves. Anonymity is the rule. Instead they introduce themselves by saying, â€œIâ€™m an addict,â€ and then noting how long they've been sober.
Some are able to weather the withdrawal alone. Others have so much trouble with the symptoms they need to be hospitalized. This past January, one clinic in Stone Town began offering methadone treatment, a heroin substitute prescribed to gradually reduce the consumption, before stopping completely.
Breaking the taboo
Heroin addiction doesnâ€™t only concern men in Zanzibar. Hundreds of women also consume the drug, although there are no official figures. â€œThe situation is worrying because women suffer a double stigmatization: some of them resort to prostitution to pay for their addiction. In our conservative Muslim society, theyâ€™re often rejected by their family,â€ says Kheriyangu Khamis, executive director of the Zanzibar drug commission.
Unfortunately, says Suleiman Mauly, authorities have done nothing to address the problem. â€œThe only two centers for women receive no help from the government,â€ he complains.
Located along an abandoned stretch cluttered with litter where underfed cows are grazing, the Malaika Sober House, which opened in Dec. 2014 and is also a part of the Recovery Community Zanzibar association, receives four women. â€œWe currently have a lot of trouble making drug addicted women come here because their care requires more means, such as the construction of premises that can receive children,â€ Mauly explains.
Several evenings per week, Abdulrahman Abdullah, a former drug addict who is now the association's secretary general, brings the four residents into town to attend the daily NA meeting. In a building opposite the slavery memorial, they meet up with some 30 people who are trying to stay clean outside the care facilities. â€œThere arenâ€™t enough girls, so we mix them with the men. We also regularly bring them to meetings at the Detroit Sober House,â€ Abdullah explains.
Sandra, in her 30s, is the mother of two children. Like all of the women here, she discovered heroin for the first time with her ex-husband. She has been in the center for three months and had no plans yet to leave.
â€œMy mother supports me and she's someone I trust. She takes care of my children and pays for my detoxification," Sandra says. "Many women donâ€™t have this chance. Left on their own, with no family support, the relapse rates are high and girls are exposed to violence."
Sandra sees her future in a detoxification center. â€œWhen all this will be behind me, Iâ€™d like to be at the head of a center and raise awareness," she says. "Thereâ€™s still a lot to do to break the taboo of womenâ€™s drug addiction.â€
Letters from inmates provide a crucial link with the outside world, and yet the process of sending and receiving them in Egyptian prisons is both arduous and arbitrary as an extra means of control.
CAIRO – Abdelrahman ElGendy says letters were a crucial lifeline for him during the time he spent locked up in five different prisons between 2013 and 2020. "Letters were not only important, they literally saved my life," he says. "I was only living because I was looking forward to them from one visit to the next, and I would read them over until the paper became worn and torn."
Last month, the family of imprisoned software engineer and activist Alaa Abd El Fattah — who had been held in remand detention for over two years until his referral to emergency trial last week — announced it would take legal steps to ensure that Abd El Fattah is able to send letters to them following a period when prison authorities refused to allow him any correspondence.
According to the family, besides prison visits once a month, Abd El Fattah's letters are the only way they can gain assurance of his condition, and when his letters are denied, that in itself is an indicator that his treatment in detention is worsening. The numerous legal requests and official complaints by the family have been met only with silence by authorities.
While letters provide a crucial link between prisoners and the outside world, the process of sending and receiving them in Egyptian prisons is an arduous one as a result of arbitrary restrictions put in place by authorities.
Mada Masr spoke with a number of former prisoners about their relationship to letters during their incarceration and the way prison administrators constrained their right to send and receive correspondence.
Two letters per month
The law regulating Egypt's prisons and the Interior Ministry's prison bylaws stipulate that prisoners have a right to send out two letters per month and that prison administrators may allow more than two at their discretion. Prisoners are also legally entitled to receive letters.
Those sentenced to hard labor — a type of sentence that in practice usually entitles prisoners to fewer visits — are allowed to send one letter a week, and prisoners in remand detention technically have the right to exchange letters with family and friends at any time. However, in all cases, prison bylaws grant prison authorities the right to monitor, censor and refuse any correspondence sent and received , a power the Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights deems a "violation to the personal freedom of prisoners, as it intrudes on their privacy."
A form of punishment
Prison authorities often restrict prisoner letters as a form of punishment, a measure that came under the spotlight when correspondence from Abd El Fattah to his family was arbitrarily cut off for an extended period last month.
Mohamed Fathy, a lawyer, says that Abd El Fattah's family pursued all possible legal procedures to push for allowing the exchange of letters with him, the last of which was a report submitted by the family to the Maadi District Court. This was preceded by an official notice through a court bailiff to the head of the Prisons Authority and telegraphs to the interior minister, Prisons Authority director and the superintendent of Maximum Security Wing 2 of Tora Prison Complex. Abd El Fattah's mother, Laila Soueif, also sent official requests to the superintendent on a daily basis.
Outside the gates of Tora Prison
Aside from the legal procedures, Soueif spent over a week waiting at the gates of Tora Prison Complex in the hope of receiving a letter from her son, a circumstance that gained particular urgency after Abd El Fattah signaled he was contemplating suicide during a detention renewal session in September.
This marked the second time that Abd El Fattah's family has embarked on a legal campaign in order to be granted their right to exchange letters with him. As the coronavirus pandemic first gripped the world in early 2020, the family went through a similar struggle after authorities halted all prison visitations as part of its COVID-19 restrictions.
During this period, letters became the principal form of communication between prisoners and the outside world. The Interior Ministry halted all prison visits from March until it reinstated them again in August 2020, though they were restricted to once a month.
Gendy, who was released from prison in January 2020, one month before the outbreak of the coronavirus in Egypt was officially announced, says that even in ordinary circumstances, letters were of vital importance since only direct family members are allowed visitation rights.
He says he used to give his family around 10 letters during every visit, addressed both to family and friends. "I used to keep an open letter to write to my mother about everything that was happening because the visitation time did not allow me to tell her all the details," he says.
Even though the right to correspondence for prisoners is enshrined in the law, in reality, the process is an arduous one for both prisoners and their families due to the conditions of Egyptian prisons and arbitrary restrictions put in place by authorities, according to the accounts of several former prisoners.
It typically begins when the prison warden announces the visitation schedule for the following day. Prisoners hurry to pen letters before lights out, though some continue to write in the darkness. A prisoner who has a scheduled visit then gathers all the letters from his cellmates and hands them over to his visiting family members, who in turn give them to the rest of the prisoners' families outside, either in person or via WhatsApp if the family lives in another governorate.
In parallel, the families of prisoners who share a cell often create a WhatApp group to inform each other about visitation times. "Some families in nearby governorates send physical letters inside with the families that have scheduled visits. But those who live in remote governorates and who cannot afford to travel to the prison simply write letters and send pictures of them to the WhatsApp group," says Amgad Samir*, who was imprisoned for two years in Tora Prison Complex and was the facilitator for letter exchanges in his cell.
Marked in red
According to Samir, families would print out the letters sent via WhatsApp to deliver them to the prisoners, but the prison administration would sometimes not allow the entry of printed letters, so some families would volunteer to rewrite them by hand. "The sister of one of the detainees in Alexandria would rewrite dozens of letters in one day and would ask the children of some of the families to help her," Samir says. "Some families would send their letters with more than one person to make sure that at least one version made it inside."
Any letter being sent or received from prison is required to first be reviewed by the National Security Agency (NSA) officer stationed in the prison, who usually delegates a subordinate officer to read the letters before allowing them through or to "mark them in red," at which point the officer reads the letters himself to approve or deny them, according to Samir. After this screening phase is over, explains Samir, the officer hands over the letters to the mail facilitator, a designated prisoner, who then hands them out in the cell. "I would look at the faces of those who had letters sent to them, it was as if they had just been released," Samir says.
Khaled Dawoud, a journalist and the former head of the Dostour Party who was released from prison in April after nearly one and a half years behind bars, says that prison authorities tightly restrict prison correspondence. "Everything in prison is cracked down upon: food, clothes and even letters," Dawoud says.
According to Dawoud, the NSA officer in Tora Liman Prison, another maximum security facility in the complex, would sometimes force prisoners to rewrite their letters after redacting sections describing things like prison conditions, for example, to avoid them making it into the press or being circulated on social media.
Disseminating information about prison conditions can even lead to further prosecution, as was the case with imprisoned attorney Mohamed Ramadan in December 2020, when he was rotated into another case by the State Security Prosecution after he was ordered released on charges of "sending letters from prison with the intention of destabilization."
Relatives speaking with defendants at a Cairo court
Fear of being forgotten
Banning letters is a form of punishment and pressure that authorities deploy arbitrarily against prisoners, according to lawyer former detainee Mahienour al-Massry, who has spent time in prisons. She tells Mada Masr that following the reinstatement of prison visitations in August 2020, after they had been halted amid the coronavirus outbreak, the National Security officer in Qanater Women's Prison told her she had to choose between visitations and letter correspondence, but that she couldn't have both. Massry refused the ultimatum, and after negotiating with the officer, was eventually granted "exceptional" approval for both under the condition that she only send two letters a month.
"Even though letter correspondence from prison is a legal right that is non-negotiable, there were always negotiations and struggles about sending and receiving them, about how many letters were allowed, and about their content," she says. "Prisoners inside for criminal offenses were in a different situation from political prisoners. The latter had a chance to talk and negotiate, whereas the former did not."
Massry recalls a situation when the NSA officer in Qanater took back some letters that she had initially been allowed to receive. "He said, 'I don't have a reason. This was an order from the National Security Agency. You could try next time, maybe they will go through.' They are moody like that," Masry says. The letters were returned to the family, who then delivered them to Mahienour in a subsequent visit without any objections from the officer. Another time, a letter was confiscated because it had the term "son of a bitch," which the officer deemed "foul language."
Looking for something to say
During an earlier stint in prison in 2016 in Damanhour, Massry did not receive any letters for a month. When she went to the officer to inquire after them, she found that he had a pile of letters addressed to her on his desk. She says the officer simply told her: "Sorry, I didn't have time to go through them all."
After the coronavirus outbreak in March 2020, letters to and from prison were banned for two months in Tora Prison Complex while visitations continued to be suspended until August. During this period the prison was overwhelmed with letters, as they were often the only form of communication with detainees. According to Dawoud, the National Security officer was unable to go through hundreds of letters a day, even with the help of another officer. After long negotiations, the officer finally approved the sending of letters to and from prison under the condition they did not exceed two passages.
Dawoud says that he used his letters to simply reassure his family with brief sentences. "Sometimes I couldn't find anything to say because on the one hand, I can't speak about prison conditions, otherwise the letter would be confiscated; and on the other hand I couldn't talk about personal issues," he says.
Despite that, the short letters were enough for Dawoud to check in on his father, who was battling cancer and eventually died. "One sentence was enough for me to know that he was okay. It was enough for me to be reassured," he says.
News about COVID-19
In certain cases, letters have taken on additional importance beyond allowing families and prisoners to check in on each other.
Samir says he was able to help out a foreign cellmate who was charged in a criminal case without the authorities ever informing his consulate or assigning him a lawyer. Samir was able to tell his wife about this prisoner in a letter, but he made sure to use coded language in order to evade surveillance.
Samir would also use coded language to pass on information about COVID-19 in prison that would otherwise be flagged and confiscated by the NSA officer. "We replaced the word 'corona' with 'mosquitoes.' I would write that someone had been bitten by mosquitoes yesterday, and my sister would understand what that meant," he says.
Using this simple code, Samir was able to communicate the prison's coronavirus situation to the outside world until the officer realized that someone was passing along information and pressured him to confess. "I had two choices: either lie and say that there was a mobile phone in the room, or tell him the truth. I told the truth," he says. As punishment, he was not permitted to exchange letters for a period before the officer finally allowed it again.
"The importance of letters does not just lie in their content," Gendy says. "They are also a testament that people outside still remember you, because the fear of being forgotten is every prisoner's worst nightmare."
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