The taste of detention

Spotlight on a Sahrawi prisoner of conscience

25 years old this year, El-Ouali Amidane is another Sahrawi prisoner of conscience serving a five-year sentence in a Moroccan prison, which everyone hopes will end this October 2011. He was jailed for taking part in a peaceful demonstration for self-determination inside the Moroccan Occupied Territory, as an active member of the Sahrawi human rights organisation CODESA. El-Ouali has become passionate about writing short stories; below we publish two pieces shared with international campaign networks by his family.

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© Andrew McConnell

1) COMMEMORATING 20 MAY: THE TASTE OF DETENTION

Stop! Hands up!

A noise resonates very strongly behind me shattering my life. A large white car moving quickly towards me dazzles me with its light. I did not realise what was happening around me. I tried to understand but my thoughts scattered like pearls on a broken string. My heart beats inside from the force of terror ... my limbs freeze ... then paralyse completely ... In a fraction of a second, I feel a hand on my neck which catches me like a wolf catches its prey.

An electric moment that leaves me without resistance or objection. Quickly, the wheels of the cursed car turned with the questions in my head like the sword of a revolutionary led by a strong motivation.

- Who are you? You live where? Your name, your surname?

After a long silence, God helped me to get out of my mouth the answers as I have never spoken before.

The noise sounds again.
- Sahraoui! Your name is Abdel Aziz! Oh my God! You are a rebel then.[1]

My face was surprised because of his particular reasoning...
- No, I am Sahraoui.
The same resonating noise but this time it sounds more acute.
- Yes, you are Sahraoui, rebel and thug ...
- But I have not broken the properties or terrorized anyone, and I have never allied myself to someone rebellious. I want the good for everyone and I hate evil and war. I claim peace and I renounce violence.
- The dog looks at me! He would have us brainwashed with his poetic words, he said to another.
- They all say the same thing. Someone who did not know would be easily manipulated.

Something in me tells me that I am in the hands of the colonial police. It is them without a doubt. I know very well their method of oppression. I realize from the first second and I am never wrong when I meet them.

I went to find from the depth of my reserves of courage a word that can be described as heroic.

- Can I know why you stop me?

One of them laughed and said:
- What heroism!

And this heroism that he mentioned does not only signify the act that I made but also, in the Moroccan dialect, indecency and lack of respect.

The car suddenly stopped and the door was opened.
- Get out fine pacifist.

A mocking laugh rises but someone interrupts to say:
- Fine pacifist on the night of 20 May?

Laughter rises again but this time for real and no one interrupts.

The date of 20 May he mentioned made me completely shocked and made me search back in my memory what could be related to that date. It is a national date without doubt but for what occasion? May God curse the ignorance and indifference to the key dates in our struggle. The images of the streets of Laayoun reconstitute themselves bit by bit on my imagination in a strange way. I remember the women dressed in their black nilé cloth sometimes lined in white, men all dressed in their draa’a ... and me who notices all this while thinking that this is quite normal and unremarkable. Ah! No, now I can say it was neither innocent nor natural. Thus, it is possible that the city could hold events here and there. It is equally certain that publications, national flags and graffiti were made since it is the atmosphere in which one has become accustomed to over the past five years. A bitter taste through my throat and my only consolation is that prison is for men.

I escape with my thoughts ... I think of my mother, my wife and my children waiting for me. Each moment, they bring new prey, all Sahraouis naturally and time passes with a painfully slowness.

I ask for mercy every time I sense a little kindness and gentleness in one of them.
- My brother! Sir! I am very late to go home and you know how I am innocent!
- Do not move. This is the tenth time I tell you again. Do not tire me.
- But Sir, I am late and my family ...
- Do not move you bastard or I'll smash you.

Although he was the most kind, he treated me like a nobody, I asked myself if this was the worst and what more he would say.

It would be better for myself that I stay in my place so as not to cause more insults.
- Abdelaziz Sheikh.
- Yes, yes I am here.
- Follow me!

I followed him and joy filled me. Finally, I will be released.

In a darkened room, dirty and fetid, I found someone to welcome me. Not with flowers and hugs, but with punches and kicks.
- Aïe, Aïe ! What have I done? What crime did my hands commit?
- Who has distributed these publications?

Bom! I have fallen into the forbidden. What I thought and feared has indeed arrived.
- What publications?! I do not know. I am a pacifist. I am a pacifist.
- Of course, since the publications are distributed by peace activist like you.
- I am a peace activist, but I do not distribute the publications.
- So it was you who hung the flag on the wire.
- I am a pacifist, but I did not hang the flags.
- This means that you wrote on the walls
- I am a pacifist, I did not write on the walls
- Is there a peace activism that does not make these things that you are on the list for?
- Yes of course

All of them at the same time:
- Who ... Who ... Who ...
- Me.

Blows with the fist, kicks and insults fall on me. They humiliate me until the very end. Then one of the others shouts:
- Stop!

He advances, advances until he arrives at my level. He approaches me, examines me, I even thought he was bending down to strangle me but he did the opposite, he offered me his hand, lifted me up and said:
- Listen my friend! And I'm not your friend!
- Let's say you are my friend.
- Okay, listen to me carefully and believe what I tell you.
- Okay, I'll believe what you tell me.
- Have you seen the flags?
- What flags?
- Flags of the Polisario.
- Yes, I have seen them

He turned to his friends, smiling cruelly as if he has conquered Jerusalem.
- Where did you see them?
- On television.

He became very angry:
- No, I do not mean on TV. I mean the place you have seen them on the street for example, or if someone had distributed them somewhere
- No, I have never seen such a thing.

They tried to beat me again but my friend-the torturer fortunately dissuaded them. But by leaving the room, he asked me to review my calculations and then it would be forced to break the bonds of our friendship. Then, leaving the room he told me to review my answers or he would be forced to break the bonds of our friendship. I did not move from my place waiting for the moment when our friendship would be broken without interrupting my prayers and recitation of the Quran.

After some few minutes, they came back.

- Get up! we are tired of you ... put him in handcuffs ... take the scarf and cover his eyes ... you, put the iron bar between his arms and between his legs ... He will curse the day he was born.

The voices blend together, turn into cries and disputes, not on whether to torture me or not, but on the way and the extent of my torture.

- Put him in the screw propeller, no! hang him in the manner of roast chicken ... no! falaka [methods of torture that consists of fiercely hitting the soles of the feet with a wooden stick"> will suffice.

I am drowning in a whirlpool of insanity, I see death only as my final consolation and my body beneath their feet like a rag while their voices echo around the back of the room:

- Put him in the propeller, no! hang him in the manner of roast chicken ... no! falaka will be enough

2) THE STORY OF MY NAME

‘Amidane’ is my surname and ‘El-Ouali’ is my first name. This name has a unique story but I never learnt the details until I turned six years of age. One day I saw the light of life after spending nine months in the darkness and the wonders of the womb.

The arguments between my parents were always strong and the disagreements even stronger. They fought one another with the fearlessness of Saharawi pride; they each took a different direction and approach. My mother wanted to name me ‘Walid’; the same as a hero from the soap opera she used to watch at the time. It turned out that the character had stolen her heart, and so she was determined to name her only boy as ‘Walid’. And it was inevitable.

But my father was a true nomad man by all measures. To him, any mentioning of soap opera or film is a severe sin that requires sincere repentance. This makes mentioning it on his presence worse than speaking of the Satan himself. However, this was not the true reason behind my father’s stubbornness and refusal. So, he did not even bother to put one or two possible names for the newborn boy; as has been prescribed by the customs and traditions governing the Saharawi society. Instead and for the first time, he completely ignored the customs and traditions, and turned his back to what people would talk about. So long as he is the head of the house, he has the final decision. And so, he decided: ‘I shall name my son “El-Ouali,” and will not abide by anything!’
As soon as my mother learnt of the decision, she was struck by sadness and disappointment. After all, she wanted to name the son she carried with hardship and gave birth to with hardship after her favourite and beloved hero. Instead, he was named another name; a strange name. ‘El-Ouali!’ Oh my god! What kind of name is that!

Meanwhile, my father was watching and listening to the women in the house, and did not tell them the truth about the name ‘El-Ouali.’ Who could its owner be?

It was the year 1986 and our country was beaten by the war, and the arrest campaigns against our people were at their highest. The atmosphere was fuelled, anyone who spoke out was destined to disappear and the silent ones were certainly in danger.

In any case, I grew up and the story with its funny details grew with me. But most importantly, the name ‘El-Ouali’ grew inside me. It grew every time I heard people say: ‘El-Ouali Mustafa Said, the founder of the republic,’ ‘the martyr of the determined people,’ ‘may his good soul rest with light, peace and compassion’…and so on. Then, I felt something strange, something sweet fill up my chest to spill out admiration and pride. To the extent that I thought all peoples‘ names were on one scale and my name ‘El-Ouali’ was another completely different scale.

In my early childhood, my dreams and aspirations intertwined, and the name ‘El-Ouali’ disappeared with its enlightened symbolism. I replaced it, instead, with names of football stars. Since sadly, all the international football stars did not have Arabs or even Muslims amongst them, I always had resentment for not being called Beckham or Ronaldo. Internally, I always blamed my parents for their ignorance and lack of expanding their horizon. And so, whenever I failed to study, which was often, my parents stormed at me with their anger and disappointment. They always assert by saying: ‘If you don’t succeed with pen, you sure will by foot!’ They would lose their temper and get angry, and then surrender repeating their famous saying ‘Oh God don’t grant us a corrupt seed.’

But I have never considered my naughtiness and often misbehaviour as corrupt, instead, I thought of it as playful and fun. Sure, nothing would happen if I stole from the gardener in the neighbourhood, just one apple or an orange after a long football match under the burning Sahara sun. How about throwing stones at the door of that luxurious house, would the occupiers leave the homeland? Of course not! It won’t happen either if I beat that boy who is younger and shorter than me, nor if I break into the neighbours’ house from the rooftop or by pulling the tail of the dog’s newborn. This won’t change life, nor make it revolt against me. And that’s why I was rebellious and free-spirited.

Little by little, my life started to take strong turn based on firmness and attention about my actions and behaviours. For I have become a mature man, and my feet should not deviate from the intended path. This is what my father installed in me. My mother, however, insists that I am small, very small even if I was a thousand years old. They were two contradictory seeds that have formed the bases to my growing-up, and until today, they still determine my actions, my silence, my relationships, my disputes and for certain whatever comes next.

My aspirations have always changed; never consistent except for one aim. It never changed – steadfast like the firmness of a free man on his principles. This aim was to become one day a lawyer with his black suit, fair and honest. He would take it as his responsibility to fight for the oppressed and the persecuted. Unfortunately, I never wore the black suit, instead, I got dressed in a palace of handcuffs, and appointed lawyers to defend me whose intentions may be contradictory to the principles of law. Hence, the irony of life in its best form.

On the first instance inside the prison, I was told that the prison is just a tour and I became patient. And when I was tortured inside it, I was told to pray and say: ‘Oh God protect us from the oppression and subjugation of lesser men.’ And so, I prayed and whenever I prayed, I knew God. He was a merciful, gracious and generous god. Why not since He has granted me not just with patience but with patience and protection, goodness and obeying my parents. He also made writing as my passion. As for how did that happen? That’s another story.

BIOGRAPHY

El-Ouali Amidane was born on 26 October 1986 and is the third son of a family of 9 children in Layoune in the Occupied Territory of Western Sahara. He was named after a grandfather, El-Ouali Mustapha Sayed. Like most Sahrawi children, his first education was at a Qur’anic school. He then moved to a primary school and onto a secondary school which he successfully completed. He then entered college to finish his education, and at this time he was arrested and sentenced to prison in 2003 – he was not 18 years old yet. He was arrested because of his peaceful activism and his involvement in the Sahrawi civil society movement during the independence uprising which had swept through all corners of the Western Sahara.

In Lekhal prison, as a political prisoner, he underwent a complete change in his personality. He saw a lot, witnessed a lot, and survived a lot. He was set free after serving his sentence of eight months. Shortly after, he was arrested again on 12 October 2006 and put back in prison to serve a five-year sentence. He is using his time in jail to learn more and to broaden his knowledge. He also took the initiative to pursue his educational career to sharpen his skills and to strengthen his abilities. He is an accomplished short-story writer from inside the prison; most of his short stories talk about his inner self, his vision, and his daily life. It is very difficult for him to give press interviews or talk to international human rights observers.

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El-Ouali’s siblings are also human rights activists, his sister Rabab Amidane made many of the videos that recording the 2009 peaceful protests by Sahrawi students across Moroccan universities, in which Moroccan security forces can be seen responding with excessive force. Rabab also received a Norwegion NGO Peace Prize and has made many interviews to Western media to highlight Sahrawi student activism in human rights.

* Rabab Amidane speaks about her brother, El-Ouali, and Sahrawi human rights (April 2007)
* Rabab Amidane speaks to the media when El-Ouali goes on hunger strike in prison. (September 2007)
* Egyptian-made mini-movie about Rabab Amidane, which includes some of her video-recordings of Morrocan forces attacking student protestors (with the wounds and bruises they sustained) and the ransacking of Sahrawi university rooms.

Here are some of Rabab’s 2008 videos of her fellow university students uprising against the Moroccan police. (Rabab subsequently had to escape the security forces and managed to get to Norway):

Sahrawi student demonstration (Part 1)
Morrocan police fire teargas at Sahrawi student demonstration (Part 2)
Student rooms were ransacked (Part 3)
Saharawi students under attack (Part 1)
Saharawi students under attack (Part 2)
Saharawi students under attack (Part 3)

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NOTES

[1]‘Abdelaziz’ here means an insultingly Moroccan reference to the president of the Sahrawi nation-state in exile.