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As All Toast Dutch Royals, The Saddest Princess Arrives On Rare Escape From Japan

Her Imperial Highness Crown Princess Masako
Her Imperial Highness Crown Princess Masako
Uwe Schmitt

AMSTERDAM- On Tuesday, Japan’s best-known prisoner -- Her Imperial Highness Crown Princess Masako – will after 11 years of relative isolation join her husband Crown Prince Naruhito’s at the coronation of Willem-Alexander in the Netherlands.

What would be routine protocol for most members of imperial and royal families will, for Masako, 49, represent a huge move outside the narrow borders imposed on her by a diagnosis in 2004 of “stress-induced adjustment disorder." Many have compared the emotionally ill Crown Princess with the tragedy of Princess Diana, and go so far as to say Lady Di was luckier because she died young.

The drama of watching Masako Owada’s transition over the years from life-loving, cosmopolitan Tokyoite – who in June 1993 wed Japan’s Crown Prince after seven years of hesitation – to prisoner of her own anxieties cannot be overstated: it is as if one were witness to a cruel, slow form of suffocation.

The charming, gracious daughter of a Japanese diplomat, Masako grew up in Moscow and New York, and graduated summa cum laude in economics from Harvard. As a young diplomat herself, she studied international relations at Oxford.

What Masako didn’t fully realize or perhaps didn’t want to face when she married was just how unprepared she was for the burden and claustrophobic rules of the role she was taking on, and the combined expectations of her husband, in-laws, a rigid imperial household, and Japanese society that she would bear a son.

Members of Japan‘s "Chrysanthemum Throne" don’t fuel the tabloids the way Britain’s Windsors do, and after Emperor Hirohito had to give up semidivine status after World War II, they have behaved with a certain amount of humility.

There’s no show here, albeit a great deal of ceremony. A Princess Di-style rebellion would be unthinkable. Divorce is a possibility, for as long as Masako isn’t Empress. But the loss of face would be unbearable, and might even lead her father to seppuku – committing suicide by ritual disembowelment. So the woman who was Masako Owada is effectively serving a lifetime sentence in a golden high-security palace.

Nobody knows when exactly the pressure started to make her ill. In December 1999 Masako lost a first child; the second, who was born in December 2001, is an adorable girl named Aiko. Her only drawback was that she isn’t a boy and hence won’t be able to succeed her father on the throne.

Masako’s “failure” to produce a male heir resulted in a slow swell of negative rumors out of the imperial household picked up by the media: she was leading the Crown Prince around by his nose, neglecting her duties. The fact that she spoke longer than the Crown Prince did at the press conference announcing their engagement suddenly took on negative connotations, pointing supposedly to a lack of humility on her part.

It is said that 13 members of the Crown Prince’s household quit within five years because of Masako’s domineering nature in the privacy of their home, and her refusal to meet her full share of public obligations. What was also considered her extravagance – a penchant for Bulgari jewelry, expensive ski trips -- also came in for a roasting.

Still: the couple went on official trips abroad, mainly to the Middle East. Masako’s sense of duty was still winning out over her anxiety. But then in 2002 her depression or panic attacks apparently started to alarm the imperial family, and she was seen less and less often on official occasions. In December 2003, she came down with shingles and spent weeks in hospital. In July 2004 the palace announced an official diagnosis of “stress-induced adjustment disorder.”

After nearly 10 years, during which regularly on her birthday in December the palace makes an announcement about how she’s doing – that despite the upbeat phrasing never sounds very hopeful – some specialists believe she may have dysthemia, or chronic depression. The princess is apparently treated with psychotropic drugs in “low dosages,” the principle therapy being to keep official appearances to a minimum so as to minimize her stress.

It would appear that Crown Prince Naruhito, 53, is unconditionally devoted to his wife. It is said that when he asked her to marry him he swore that he would protect her from the pressures of her new position. He has several times asked the public and the media for their patience and empathy.

Despite the appeals, it would appear that in Japan, Masako can’t do anything right anymore. In the whole of 2012 she only left the palace 30 times and never went beyond Tokyo city borders. In late March, a blogger claimed that on an incognito outing with her husband and child the family was in the train station when a man around 60 yelled at her that she was just a “malingerer stealing our tax money, get out of the imperial family!”

Some no longer hesitate to advise the Crown Prince to seek a divorce. Or as one hypocrite wrote, to give up the throne and "make his wife happier" – after all, his younger brother Akishino, 48, is already making many official appearances in lieu of their father Emperor Akihito who will be 80 this year, and he has not only two daughters but the all-important son.

If Masako is coming to the Netherlands for the coronation, it would seem to be because – since an invitation to visit from Queen Beatrix in 2006 that she and the Crown Prince accepted – she harbors a certain affection for the Dutch royal family and wants to see people she considers friends.

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Society

Harder Time: How Egypt Cuts Prisoner Communication With Loved Ones

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.

Relatives speak with defendants during a trial in a Cairo court.

Nada Arafat

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.

Arbitrary restrictions

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."

Photo of three women speaking with imprisoned defendants at a Cairo court

Relatives speaking with defendants at a Cairo court

Stringer/APA Images/ZUMA

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."

*Pseudonym


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