On November 28, Israeli soldiers stopped my car at the Jaba checkpoint in the occupied West Bank and kidnapped me. I spent the following 253 days in detention without charge, without ever being told why this was happening to me.
That morning, I didn’t want to leave the house because my wife and my three-month-old son were suffering from the flu, but I could not postpone an English language exam I had to take as part of my application for an MA programme at a British university.
As I was making my way back, I called my wife to tell her that I was coming home and bringing food. I could hear the sound of my son crying in the background. His cries stayed in my head for the next eight months.
At the checkpoint, the Israeli soldiers took me out of the car, handcuffed me, blindfolded me and made me kneel for five hours inside a military camp. I was moved from camp to camp until I was eventually transferred to a detention centre in an illegal Jewish settlement in Hebron.
I was not permitted any contact with a lawyer or my family, despite my constant requests. It was only after two months of detention that I was finally able to speak with a lawyer and learned there were no charges against me. I was under administrative detention – a legal measure applied to the Palestinian population that allows the Israeli occupation forces to arbitrarily detain whoever they want.
This measure has been used heavily since October 7, 2023, as yet another means of collectively punishing Palestinians. As of this month, more than 3,300 Palestinians are still being held in Israeli prisons without trial or charges.
As an administrative detainee, I – like the rest of the 10,000 Palestinian political prisoners – experienced inhumane prison conditions designed to cause maximum suffering.
For over eight months, I was starved, humiliated, insulted and beaten by Israeli forces. I was held with 11 other detainees in a small concrete cell meant for five. It felt like we were being suffocated alive, like we were being kept in a mass grave. It was hell on Earth.
The guards would walk around with heavy protective gear, beating us regularly with sticks, hands and feet. They would unleash large police dogs to terrorise us. They would bang their batons nonstop on the metal bars of the cells or other metal objects, not giving us a moment of peace. They would insult us constantly, cursing the women in our lives, degrading our mothers, sisters, daughters and wives, and referring to the detainees as subhuman. They would also insult and degrade national symbols like Palestinian leaders, slogans and our flag, trying to degrade our very identity as Palestinians.
We had no privacy, except for the brief moment we were allowed to use the toilet and we were not permitted to shave for the first six months. The amount of food provided was less than what is necessary for an adult to stay alive. I lost more than 20 kilogrammes while in detention.
We were watching our bodies change, kept isolated from the world without even knowing why we were there. The only way we got any news was from the new detainees constantly being brought in. This isolation was part of the psychological torture.
If I could hardly recognise myself, how would I recognise my son when I get out, I wondered. I kept imagining him growing, meeting milestones without me being there to support him and hold him. I also worried for my elderly father, who was ill and who I had been caring for over the last few years. I kept wondering who was taking care of him when he had seizures, and whether he was being taken to his hospital appointments.
During the time I spent in Israeli prison, it became clear to me that the Israelis use detention to try to break us, so when they release us – if they ever do – we are a shell of who we were, humiliated and broken. The release of detainees who hardly look like themselves any more, starved and unshaven, suffering from physical illnesses and psychological disorders, is meant to serve as a message to the rest of the Palestinian population, to break their will, resilience, and hopes for liberation, a dignified life and a bright future.
But this sinister strategy is meeting resistance. Crowded into our concrete cells, we would still find something to smile about. Smiles were our weapon against the Israeli guards’ brutality. Hope was our shield.
Thinking of my baby boy gave me hope. I imagined reuniting with him and looking into his eyes.
When I was released and called my wife, and the camera was pointed at my son, I couldn’t control myself and tears began to flow. I kept repeating, “I am your baba, I am your baba.”
The moment I came home and saw my son was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. I embraced him and looked at him, examining his eyes, his mouth, his hair, his feet. I was trying to memorise every detail quickly, to correct the image I had created of him in my mind over the previous 253 days. He surpassed the most beautiful image I had drawn of him in my head.
Israel tried to break me and destroy my spirit, but I emerged from this difficult experience tougher and stronger. My imprisonment is a wound that will remain with me, but it will not halt my mission in life.
Before I was detained, I had been working as the executive director of Aida Youth Center for five years. This organisation has provided essential support to the residents of Aida refugee camp near Bethlehem for years. The children and youth have benefitted from our education programme and music and sports classes, while the community at large has received humanitarian and medical aid during crises.
Now I am back at the centre and as a parent and a community leader, I am more determined than ever to continue working with Palestinian children and youth to make sure they realise their potential and build a brighter future.
Anas Abu Srour
Executive Director of Aida Youth Center
