food / travel
May 29, 2018
BERLIN — Schloßstraße, a busy shopping street in the west of Berlin, has all the big city essentials: shops, restaurants, cinemas and a theater. And yet, for a brief period of time, things were even busier under the Schloßstraße.
Back in 2012, over the course of several months, bank robbers dug a 45-meter long tunnel there. They drilled their way through from an underground parking lot and at night, under the cover of darkness, removed tons of sand. Finally, in January 2013, they reached the vault of a nearby Volksbank and emptied all the deposit boxes. They disappeared using the same tunnel through which they arrived, and to this day, they've never been seen or heard from again.
Nowadays, only the entrance to the tunnel remains: a wooden frame, neatly screwed together. And it's open to public ... sort of. The entrance isn't in its original location. It's in a museum rather — in a winding old bunker, also deep underground.
This world of subterranean burrows and bunkers is all the more surprising given that the city is built on sand.
In Berlin there are interesting sights at every corner, which is why millions of tourists come here every year. Less known to most is how many places of interest there are below the city: sewers and tunnels, operating theaters from the war, the vault of the Berlin sewer system, even safe rooms that became night clubs.
Germany's first subway tunnel was excavated here at the end of the 19th century, modeled on the London Tube. There's also the last bunker of its kind, built in the event of a nuclear war — with kitchens, protective equipment, and densely packed bunk beds and special locks, so that the 3,000 people it was meant to accommodate wouldn't overrun each other. And yes, there's also what's left of the bank-robber tunnel, which the police gave to the museum.
This world of subterranean burrows and bunkers is all the more surprising given that the city is built on sand — a particularly humid variety of sand at that. Berlin owes its name, after all, to the Slavic term for "place in the swamp." These places do exist, however, and are now open to the public thanks in large part to efforts by an association called Berliner Unterwelten (Berlin's Underworlds), which has been developing underground Berlin for 20 years. As a result, visitors can now pick a place in the city every weekend, descend into the depths and see what's going on.
Stairs leading into the "Underworlds' Museum — Photo: Niina Meskus
There's the bunker in Humboldthain Park, for example. Below the surface, the subway rushes past long corridors, stairways, iron doors, gates, and crossings. Dietmar Arnold, the tour guide, asks everyone to stay close behind him. The danger of getting lost in this maze is too great.
On the walls, visitors can still see the phosphorescent letters that were once attached so that people could find their way out in case of a power failure. This was one of Berlin's 1,000 war bunkers. Arnold guides us upstairs, downstairs, past old signs, emergency beds and rooms with showcases. In between, he talks about the big city under the big city.
Gateway to freedom
In the past, one of the largest pneumatic tube networks in the world used to run through here, and while after World War II the city was divided into two parts above ground, the subterranean Berlin remained for many years united by the subway network or the sewerage system. After the Wall was built, many used them to flee East Germany.
Arnold stops in front of a massive manhole cover, one of the many exhibits that the association has collected over the years or received as a donation from contemporary witnesses. The lid lays in the eastern part of the city and would be lifted at night so that families could descend into the sewers. Many canals were initially only half barred, "so it was eyes and nose closed, and then through the shit to freedom," says Arnold. Afterwards, so-called "cover men" would go again to the entry point and closed the manhole cover, so as not to raise any suspicions.
Approximately 70 escape tunnels were dug under Berlin.
Arnold points to metal racks, from which huge spikes protrude. The "Stalin lawn," he explains. This was laid out by East Germany's Communist regime in the Berlin underground shafts to prevent people from escaping. Nevertheless, many, especially border guards, managed to reach the West part like this. In other cities, the underground stands for crime and shady machinations, just think of the "Third Man" in the Vienna sewer system. But in Berlin, the underworld has always been the gateway to freedom.
The tour guide opens a door at the end of a dark corridor. Suddenly there's a crowd in front of it — we've just landed on a subway platform. After a few stops, we resurface on Bernauer Strasse and from there we enter an old brewery vault. Brick walls, stomped ground and everywhere mounds of earth and little mine cars. This part of the "Underworlds' Museum is about the work that people have done underground to enable others to escape.
Approximately 70 escape tunnels were dug under Berlin, in most cases from a cellar in the Western part of the city and then under the Berlin Wall to the Eastern part. There, also in a cellar, friends and family of the tunnel builders would wait and crawl their way to freedom, sometimes a few dozen people at a time or an entire wedding party, sometimes only a few. Several tunnel projects were betrayed or discovered, and the tunnel diggers shot by the Stasi.
Time and again, Arnold tells us, older men contact him and say that they too had built a tunnel. Many shafts are indeed still to be found. Only last year, a tunnel was uncovered during construction works. Klaus Köppen had dug it day and night together with friends, a 145-meter long tunnel, six meters below the surface, to bring his girlfriend and child to the West. Even the wood with which Köppen had supported the shaft was still intact, the beams are now leaning against the wall of the museum, directly next to a reconstructed escape tunnel.
One sees the entrance, the lighting and the pipes through which oxygen was conducted into the tunnel. Construction-wise it's similar to the tunnel the robbers dug to reach the Volksbank vault. The only difference is that for Berlin tunnel builders of that time, freedom was a more enticing prospect than personal enrichment.
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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.
October 28, 2021
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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