February 05, 2015
AYY-ALKAREK — The revenge of the king will rain down from the heavens.
King Abdullah has left no doubt about Jordan"s immediate response to the brutal execution of pilot Muath al-Kaseasbeh, who was burnt alive by the Islamic State (ISIS). Two Islamists held by Amman were quickly executed, which was followed Wednesday by an air attack in the Iraqi city of Mosul.
The King gave the order shortly after returning from Washington. But he did something else upon landing back on Jordanian soil: he called the pilot's father, Safi Youssef al-Kaseasbeh, telling him, "Your son is like my son" — referring to Crown Prince Hussein.
Shortly afterwards, F-16s with the Hashemite star flew over the village of Ayy Al Karak where the pilot's family is in mourning, and from there they sailed towards the stronghold of Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi's would-be ISIS caliphate in northern Iraq. Abdullah promised his kingdom a "tough response against ISIS," and, according to news outlets, 55 jihadists died, including a local commander called the "Prince of Nineveh."
But, this is only the beginning, and nowhere could that be felt more than here in the pilot's home village. Al-Kaseasbeh"s father called for vengeance, referring to ISIS as "cannibals who spread underground like the devil, and the only way to destroy them is to stick together — the whole world must fight against them united."
Under the traditional mourning tent in this Bedouin village, Youssef Safi voices his desire for the entire country to react to the heinous crime. Before him, in single file, are dozens of generals, officers and ordinary soldiers of every army unit. Each of them, in full uniform, takes off his cap, bows, kisses him on the cheeks or hands, offering personal condolences to the family.
Also present is a crowd of sheiks and leaders of the Bararsheh tribe who participated in religious silence in solidarity for al-Kaseasbeh, who died in a cage of flames. Although the crowd are composed in their mourning, anger broods — cremation is forbidden in Islam.
Streams of teenagers run through the streets adjacent to the victim's house chanting: "Long live the King, death to Daesh ISIS." The air here is filled with desire to "go and look for them, fight, kill them wherever they are," says Maher, 27, a Jordanian who lives in Britain.
"The people are united," he says, "ready to do whatever the King asks us."
Earlier on Wednesday, a two-hour drive from Ayy Al Karek, at the entrance of the Queen Alia International Airport, thousands of people arrived to welcome King Abdullah on his return from the U.S. Young people of Amman draped in flags paraded behind banners that overlap images of the king and al-Kaseasbeh.
"Abdullah, our King," sing the choir, "Open the borders to Syria and Iraq, we want to go and find them, bring them death." Alongside them, a group of veiled woman chant, "burn Daesh, we'll burn them all."
A new role for Abdullah?
This is a crowd that reflects the different souls of the kingdom. Sheikh Mohammed di Maan, wearing a jalabya with a gold border, describes the pilot's murderers as "cursed by God and by men." Siam Ahmrimat is a 47-year-old lawyer and is here with her colleague Alia Shawaks "to show that Arab women want to fight too."
Omar, 21, is a Palestinian from the refugee camp and raises a giant sign of support to the King. "I am ready to give my life to fight the impostor who calls himself the caliph," he says.
Not far away, Zaid al-Sheik, an 80-year-old tribal leader, puts his hand on the Jordanian flag and makes a solemn public promise: "My youngest son will become a pilot."
"We are all pilots, death to Daesh!" responds the crowd in unison, as a procession of imams and faithful chanting Koranic phrases arrive, and it all culminates in an "Allahu Akbar" that infects the now overflowing square.
"Islam is here, we are the true Muslims," says Chalef, a university student from Amman. "Daesh is a false Islam."
These Jordanian scenes mark the first mass protest against ISIS in an Arab country. If the group's aim in exploiting the capture and execution of al-Kaseasbeh was to weaken the reign of King Abdullah — by fomenting friction between the tribes — the result seems to be the opposite. The people, Bedouins and Palestinians, have converged around their ruler and promised to "do whatever he asks," says a woman in her twenties wearing a coloured veil. "I am a Syrian refugee," she says, "I know these demons."
It remains to be seen what Abdullah's next steps will be. The hanging of female terrorist Sajida al-Rishawi — whom ISIS wanted in exchange for Japanese prisoner Kenji Goto — and al-Qaeda Colonel Ziad al-Karbouli are just the beginning. The King must decide how to "bring war to these cannibals," as al-Kaseasbeh's father put it. This means having to avenge the wounded pride of the tribes who support the monarchy. Abdullah's first move was sending jets to Mosul but he must quickly demonstrate greater commitment; at home against jihadist cells, as well as with the international coalition to truly weaken ISIS.
The Jordanian involvement marks the aggressive intervention of an Arab country, but it remains to be seen whether Abdullah is truly prepared to accept the risk. At the moment the most obvious result is that the he has shown his kingdom won't be pushed by the caliphate.
Amman had risked creating tension with the Bedouin leaders in early January, when the government reportedly first learned that the pilot was dead. They kept the news from his family, continuing to try to negotiate with ISIS for the exchange of terrorists. The tribe became suspicious that the kingdom was holding back information. But in the end, the grotesque way al-Kaseasbeh was killed has pushed the people and the crown together, putting Abdullah in a position to be the Arab leader to spearhead the offensive against the jihadist caliph.
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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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