Riseup



The Sun's not Coming

Egypt

“We need to know who this little Arab-fucker has been speaking to. Who he knows and what those people are doing. And what they will be doing. But most importantly we need him gone. He’s American. You know it’s hard for us to get bad press there, but even still his process could become news-worthy. If you can’t get him to leave try to mine as much information, as you can, to discredit him,” he began.

“So, you think we should make him wonder if he’s being watched, but not sure?” The man across the desk asked.

“Exactly. Don’t lead him to believe that you’re not with the Ministry of Interior, but make sure it’s not completely apparent that you are. This kind of thought process has been effective with the Arabs in Administrative Detention. We’ve extracted a lot of information this way. Most of them break after a few weeks.”

“How long do think I’ll be in there?”

“Depends on how good you are at your job, doesn’t it?! No, it doesn’t look like he’s had any extended stints in prison in the States. He’ll probably be easy to break; maybe a few days. If he doesn’t pop quickly, try to get close by offering him an escape from the isolation in there. He’ll bite.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

“We’ll get you a change of clothes”

Senegal

The night was still warm when I was taken. They must have been watching for quite some time. My schedule was fairly regular, but the coordination was evident. I was actually surprised that I had spent that much time living and working without a visa.

Sneaking over the border and then starting to teach children was impressive to my family. Especially the fact that I was paid for it. But really it was only learning the language that was troublesome. Teaching children, young children, is the same the world around. One just has to make them forget they’re learning and that the teacher is creating order in the classroom. The moment I tried to teach and create order was the moment I lost them. They would quickly conquer me then. I wonder if they missed me after I was taken. Or if their parents inquired about me or demanded my release to the authorities. Probably not. It was too easy to find people like me. Those trying to escape the dictators, the poverty, the madness.

Now my home is here. I live behind the barbed wire, the fences and the bars. My brothers are the fifteen other men that I share my cell with. They constantly change. Some fly home to Thailand, Mongolia or other places. Some receive asylum in England, if their war stories are bloodied enough. And some even stay here for a little bit. Their owners come to retrieve them and then they pick apples or lemons 16 hours each day until they make a mistake and lose favor with their masters. Maybe I’ll see some of them again. And some of them are like me they don’t leave. They haven’t left for months or years. They wonder, like I do, “when do I leave?” A dangerous and depressing question. One better left unpondered, because it has no clear answer. And those are my brothers. They come and go and sometimes stay. We have no sisters, but many fathers and a few mothers.

Our fathers and mothers keep a vigilant watch over us. The never tell us they love us. They only count us and lead us to food and water. Sometimes they show us the canteen. But they give us no money to buy the Dove products, the cigarettes or the coffee. So, many go without. I go without.

Perhaps I’m the only one who thought about this, but I’ve often wondered if we’re in hell or purgatory. It’s very difficult to make this distinction. You can’t escape hell. You realize that there is no proper escape.

I seem to have lost the thread. I was going to tell you about how I got here. I guess it’s not important. Maybe another time.

Eritrea

Five years. Twenty years-old. A quarter of my life. Just grab the bars. Maybe you can the Sun today. Hold tight. Squeeze. Harder. There’s the sun.

America

The Drums beat in their normal cadence as I approach the Al-Kurds. This cadence was lost as I reached the home. It quickly devolved into a beat that described not the jubilant emotions of collective resistance, but one of collective disdain and disgust. One person was being dragged by three police officers into the street; their clothes in tatters. The demonstrators quickly followed and rallied around and against the abuse. The situation was reduced to bedlam by the police officers. They were pushing, pulling, punching and kicking the demonstrators. As the police attempted to take the two demonstrators to the police station, nearly one hundred attempted to use their bodies to block the police cars. This attempt was in vain. The police grabbed protesters one by one (usually needing three officers for every person taken).

As I was in the back watching the madness, two border police grabbed me by my lapel and visciously dragged me into the usurped, front partition of the Al-Kurds home. The colonists had been here for nearly two weeks already, but the conditions were anything but inhabitable. A layer of water and mud covered the gutted home. This confirmed my suspicion that home take-over was not for actual living space, but instead a war-like act of conquering more territory.

We waited in the house for close to hour, seemingly until the police had cleared the streets of all the demonstrators. We were then hastily whisked off to the Jaffa Street police station.

I waited patiently for my search and found myself last in queue. There were three others in various stages of nudity. The door was slightly ajar. This left no respect for any semblance of dignity.

I was next in line, but was skipped due to another being dragged about by the police. He wasn't arrested with us. He was indigenous. The officer minding him had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head and was leading him about by the strings of his hoody. It was reminiscent of a farmhand leading cattle about by their bull-rings. The police had stripped him not merely of his clothes but also of his humanity; completely and utterly. As he undressed, I noticed why they had his hood pulled tightly over his head. There was a four inch gash on his right cheekbone. The police surely didn't want many people to be privy to their rapacious brutality. He was dripping with blood and he was in dire need of medical attention, but I felt he wouldn't receive any for some time. I looked at the other activist. The need for language disappeared. His eyes spoke volumes. Fear, guilt, remorse, disgust, helplessness. I wanted to scream and liberate this young man. Whatever he did wasn't worth this experience. Whatever he did wasn't his fault. Whatever he did was because of the conditions that the state had forced upon him, his father, his grandfather. He couldn't control his situation enveloped in injustice.

He was merely an innocent actor in this twisted play that has been scripting itself for decades. We knew we would be out soon; safe and without any long-term consequences. The young man in front of us, on the other hand, was now a part of their "justice" system and likely doomed to unemployment and a constant cycle recidivism. The other activist and I could only look at one another dumbfounded and inept. It was my turn. The officer pointed to various articles of clothing and I took it off until I was completely naked. I was made to lift my penis and testicals and spin around. He mumbled something in his language that I didn’t understand and left the room. I stood there naked for a minute and began to dress after it seemed as if I was able. But the insecurity lingered as I was unsure if I was allowed cover my nude body.

…

We waited for nearly an hour and then we were taken to the entry-way, shackled, placed in a van and driven 50 meters to the courthouse. We were then taken out of the van, thrown in a cell, unshackled and met the rest of the male cohorts we were arrested with. We were split into two cells. They were very close to one another. The cell that I was not in had a monopoly on cigarettes, so we would have to reach through slats in the doors to get our fix. We passed the smokes to each other.

I think I may have seen the young man who I encountered the night before. Or did I? The one that was before me now, in the courthouse cell, had a bandage on the same part of his face. But he had many more; on the back of his head, on his neck. He looked thinner than the man I saw the night before. Had he become more frail and acquired a limp while in prison? I thought not. The beatings that the colonial police forces dole out must mirror one another with striking similarities. I fell into a deep sleep on the concrete floor.

Soon the arrested colonists let we internationals in on a secret. They had heard the guards discussing what their plans were for the foreigners. They intended to separate us from the rest, kidnap us, and send us off to the department of immigration.

We were to stay close to them and be a part of the first hearing, so the police were unable to split us off before the judge could make his decision and therefore, legally, we would have to be released. I was skeptical about what "legally" entailed in land run by fascists, but they knew better than we did.

After passing some moments with the other arrested colonists in the hallway of the prison cell, We were lead up the stairs of the courthouse and seated in the courtroom. Minutes passed and the judge entered to begin the trials. The colonists were first.

"The police are going to try to take; don't go with them!" He whispered. Just like clockwork, one of the police came to me.

"It's not your turn. Come with me," he said. I pretended not to understand. This was happening while the judge was addressing the other defendants. Twice more different police came to me and tried to drag me out of the court, telling me it wasn't my turn.

The judge was demeaning and condescending to the lawyers. I still didn't know what was happening beyond a heated argument between our counsel and the judge. Finally the lawyers stood and began to speak with restrained anger. The judge scolded them and they began again, but the anger and disgust was still apparent. The judge roared and the lawyers were broken.

They finished the sentence they began two times before, but this time they did without any show of emotions. Their dignity to be angry in the face of injustice was stripped from them. They exited the courtroom. The Police attempted to remove me from the courtroom for the last time. The judge noticed it now and scolded them. The police wore faces of defeat. The colonial defendant next to me gave me a confident smile. But that smile seemed to be too confident to me. I had no faith in these proceedings and the police began furiously texting on their cell phones. They were hatching some devious plan. As the texting stop, their faces of defeat morphed into solemnity. I surmised that we were proper fucked.

The arrested colonists left the courtroom and we internationals remained. We were without lawyers and attempting to free ourselves from this vile system. As our (the internationals) proceeding began, the police withdrew their request to arrest us. Then the judge began to question us. For each of us he asked if we would agree to be interrogated by the ministry of the interior. His questioning of each of us lacked cohesion.

"Your honor, I haven't had access to a lawyer, everything has been in a language I don’t understand, I don't have a formal translator, I don't know what's going on. I will not agree to an interview at this point. I will consent only after speaking to a lawyer," I said.

"How can I guarantee you will return for the Interview?" He asked.

"I can give my word," I replied.

"I'll need more than that."

"What can I give you?"

"Money or a colonist to sign for you." There was a woman who had been giving us legal advice through the proceedings and she leapt up upon hearing this. She returned with a colonist citizen quite quickly.

"I think this man will sign for me, your honor," I said, motioning to the man who had just entered. The judge silently filled out his paper work.

"You're free to go. You may be arrested again," the judge said and exited the courtroom. Pandamonium erupted upon his exit. The police nearly pounced on us and our lawyers burst back into the courtroom.

"You're free to go! Do not cooperate!" The lawyers kept shouting. Being that this was the first legal advice I had received, I was obliged to follow it. I sat on the floor as the police were shoving our lawyers about. One lawyer was shoved into the lectern in the middle of the courtroom. The lectern fell over with a thunderous crash. The police twisted my arm painfully and haphazardly put me in handcuffs. They did the same to the rest of the internationals. I was dragged/carried to the basement holding cell and thrown in with the rest of my cohorts. I feverishly explained the situation. They were convinced that we would all be deported.

We began to drive and the demonstrators followed us for a hundred meters or so. Then we entered a highway and drove and drove and drove. Mad thoughts raced through my mind: "Are they taking me directly to the airport for deportation? Possibly a desolate field for quick execution? Maybe an abandoned building for a session of brutal torture?" I didn't matter much to me at this point. What ever was to be would be very soon. At least the veil would be lifted and I would know my fate.

It looked as if we were approaching the metropolis after an hour's drive. We turned and turned some more. Finally, we approached an industrial zone and the concept of brutal torture seemed to become a reality. I'm still not completely sure where I was, but I think it was an immigration office of some sort.

Before we were interviewed, the man in charge of this madness came to speak with us. I relayed my confusion.

"The police withdrew," he looked confused, so I began again.

"The police took back our arrests and then brought us here. I don't know why we’re here and I haven't spoken to a lawyer," I said. I thought this was a good way to frame the interview and it seemed to make the wheels spin inside his head.

"You were released so you could be arrested again and brought here," he replied.

"But if our arrests were taken away doesn't that imply that the police made a mistake and were trying to rectify their misjudgement." This line of logic seemed to trouble him. He retreated to his office with a puzzled look.

We were called in one by one and interrogated. It was a fairly scripted interrogation. They began tough. At one point they shouted they didn't believe us and then they told us how tired they were and tried to convince the white-faced people to become citizens.

We were released into the morning air. We had no money, no phones, no passports, no possessions, save one person. It was 7:30am. The sun was low and cool, yet. But it was a welcomed sight nonetheless, as I hadn't seen it in nearly two days.

"Have a nice day," the officer said closing the door behind him. And that was all. Our freedom regained to a certain extent. Fatigue dragged my feet as we meandered through an industrial zone in Tel-Aviv. Was this defeat? Was this victory? I didn't feel either of those words fit my mood. But dawn had just broke. And although we didn't know where we were or where we were going or how we would get there, our legs were unshackeled.

...

I rose with the sun that Friday. Well-calculated plans to ensure I retained my liberty bounced through my head. But that was a day that no one could see the sun creep over the hillside in Sheikh Jarrah. The night had been filled with torrent and tempest. The streets held the evidence; rivers flowed through the habitually sandy roads, and in some places, it flowed onto the sidewalk. The rain ebbed during my short walk that morning and grew furious when I arrived at the Al-Kurds.

I saw him on my way. He had been watching me all week. He knew me. He was there when I was arrested the week before. He processed me. He scoffed at me. He was there in the court room devising plans to get me into the hands of the immigration police. But we both knew he could do nothing to me. It was his fault. Had he not withdrew my arrest I would have been subject to the same conditions as the colonists with whom I shared my cell. On more than one occasion that week past, walking home in the early afternoon, I caught his devilish smile. It came from behind dark sunglasses and a badge and a gun. That smile didn’t hold mischief and angst, but something much more sinister.

When I arrived that morning, I saw that the tents had not held up well against the wind and rain. Holes in the ceiling dripped water on my cold and sleepy comrades. The fire was dwindling, the rain began to fall in sheets and the flood spilled over into the yard. Yet their morale was unbroken.

“Will there be cigarettes and coffee in Heaven?” “Does anyone have a Grampy sweater?” “May I have a turn with the rain slicker?” “Are cabbies, bartenders and psychologists the same profession with different levels of education?” So on and so forth, until the morning expired.

As that calming morning left us, so did the rain. Soon the sun peaked through the clouds and folks in Sheikh Jarrah began to prepare for the demonstration.

I passed a few lonely hours by continually reminding the snoozing guard adjacent from me that his finger was dangerously close to his trigger and that his barrel was pointed at my testicles.

“We heard the guards talking; they want to release you. They said, ‘you’re a pain in the ass’,” one revealed. So, it was to happen again. I was surprised as much as I was demoralized. I knew now I would lose those friends I made in Sheikh Jarrah and elsewhere in this land and lose the work I had begun to aid their resistance. I relayed this information to a lawyer and he assured me they couldn’t and wouldn’t do that, but he gave me his number in case they did. Maybe I would have a chance if I could just see the judge, plea my case.

The Police streamlined the process since the week before and we were in bed by midnight. I didn’t even have to be naked this time. We enjoyed the same breakfast as the week before. Fresh peppers, good bread, cheese, tea and a little cake. It still impressed me. We passed the hours playing word games and attempting to master the parabolic curve gravity had on a flying object. We did get a short walk in the court yard with our comrades from other cells.

“This is a western democracy,” one man began. Although I fundamentally felt that states and democracy were mutually exclusive, I find listening to arguments, rather than interjecting one’s own, leads to greater understanding and confidence in one’s own positions.

“Yes, I’m arrested,” he continued. “But I’ll see a judge, there will be a judicial process and I’ll be out soon. It’s not like they can lock you up indefinitely here.”

This trip was much more intense than the one the week before. I was handcuffed to an agent of the Ministry of the Interior and shoved into a police car. They drove like cowboys; tearing through the streets trying desperately to get me to tell them where my luggage and passport were. Finally I told them that someone back at the Russian Compound may have it. They raced back there quite quickly and loaded me into a civilian car. I realized that they had no proof of who I was. My driver’s license was missing, my passport was secure with someone else. Wildly fearful and paranoid thoughts ran through my mind: “Would they merely take me somewhere in this unmarked vehicle and dispose of my body?!?! No, they couldn’t. Could they? Don’t show them your fear! They’ll eat you alive like a pack rabid and foaming wolves!”

I suppressed my emotions behind my pounding heart and asked the man I was strapped to for a cigarette. He was less than forthcoming. I was loaded into an unmarked, white van that I later found was a part of the fleet the Ministry of Interior had roaming around the usurped state. They took me to an office in the West and held me here for three or four hours. I began contemplating escape as they had no proof of who I was anyhow. Maybe I could get them to let me lie down in one of these offices, use a phone and get some people to come and block my movement to the metropolis. The windows couldn’t have been that high and I’m Well-adept at climbing…

These machinations were to no avail. We were waiting for someone to get to the office in the metropolis I surmise upon reflection. And the trip began long before dawn. I slept through the drive and we arrived at a desolate office. I was surprised they didn’t have some vampiric forms waiting all night to process people out of a state with borders that were so tightly closed. And then he appeared.

“Because you’re an American citizen, We will sponsor you flight home and you’re guaranteed to leave in 48 hours. Would you like to sign?”

“No. I think there’s been a mistake. I’m going to talk to my lawyer.”

Cote d’Ivoire

Ah yes, another day here. The walls and bars hold my body, but the Koran frees my soul. The man can keep me here. But he can’t take my smile or my prayers. He always brings me more friends. I don’t even remember how I got here. No, that’s a lie. I know how long I've been here and I remember the outside. I'll remember it until the day they take me out of it and put me out of here. Those were different days. Selling lemons by the sea, I never thought they’d catch me. I didn’t think they cared about a man from the other side Africa taking a bit of money from the tourists. But they did and I guess I shouldn’t have been talking too much to those guys, but they asked so I told them. And now, I’m here. Been here. Will be here. At least I don’t worry about where to sleep. Or if I sold enough lemons to eat. That doesn't matter anymore. The bed’s always here and the food’s always ... well, maybe not hot, but I eat. Even if the covers make me itch and the food has no taste, I’m out of the rain and never hungry.

I really don’t even think about what’s beyond my time here anyhow. I mean look at the others. Some of them have been here 4 years. They're trying to go to the United States or England or Europe, but with records like theirs they'll never get out of here. But they have cigarettes, coffee, a lock on their cabinets and if you need something you go to them. All they have to do is watch TV laying in bed and talk about Allah. Maybe that could be me.

And the outside? Well that’s out there and I’m out in here. Maybe I’d sell lemons again.

Senegal

I really wanted to be back with those kids. They were untainted, yet. They didn’t know about the society that surrounded them. Neither the world in which they lived. They didn’t see my skin or their friends skin. They didn’t understand the walls that were built. You could feel the tabula rasa when they looked at you. But it wasn’t empty though. It was filled with laughter and the urge to fill itself. In a sense, I liked spending my time more with these children than with their parents or their parent’s cohorts. Their slates were filled and they guarded what was written on them with a steadfast ignorance and staunchness. There wasn’t any laughter left in their souls. And when many of them laughed it was at the people under their feet. I couldn’t laugh with these people anymore. But their children laughed at themselves and with me.

Yet the same was true of my compatriots in Senegal. They had lost their laughter. But that was a slow process. It took a long time for the tears to come. The first time I saw my father cry I was quite a young man. We had a lovely farm. We were always able to welcome and feed anyone who came by. Friends and strangers, they always found my father’s smile just before they were made to sit at our table. The problem was that we subsisted on the milk we produced and sold in the market, but nearly 20 years ago now milk started to come from ships to our ports and then to our markets.

I couldn’t understand how the milk from these ships could cost less than the milk from our cows. And this is when all the prices were going up to the clouds. No one could buy our milk unless we sold it at a price so low we couldn’t feed our cows. So, we killed the cows and ate them. We invited all of our friends to help eat our animals. There was so much laughter and everyone was licking the grease from the fingers. But when the animals became a pile of charred bones and the last guest left, I watched my father looking silently at the remains of our cows. The tears rolled down his cheeks softly, but I couldn’t say anything to him.

Luckily we still had our groundnuts. We didn’t have very many nuts planted that year but it was enough. We ate. We were a little hungry from time to time, but we made it. And the next year we tilled the grazing land we had used for our cows and planted more nuts. That was a better year. We could always sell the nuts to the state and they would make oil and send it somewhere else in the world. My father didn’t cry for a few years.

I was a man the next time I saw his tears. I was working slowly to create a piece of land for myself and thinking about taking a wife. But that year we could no longer sell our groundnuts to the state. They told us that they had to “privatize”. And that year we had to sell to “private agents”. One of these agents came to our farm while we were feasting. He was very smooth and smiled white as ivory.

“I’ll tell you what,” he began. “I don’t need all your nuts right now. So, I’ll give you cash,” he pulled a big roll of francs from the breast pocket of his suit and waved it around. “for some of your crop that I’ll take today and the I’ll give you vouchers for the rest. The voucher means that I promise to come back to take away the rest of you crop and give you the money for it.”

My father was happy with at the sight of some money. Although he paid less than the state my father agreed to the deal. We didn’t know who else would buy the nuts from us anyhow. So, we waited and spent the money he’d given us. We couldn’t try to sell the rest of the nuts because we’d promised them to this man. But as we waited the nuts began to rot. And all we had were these vouchers. Our neighbors’ animals began to whither; no one had any money to feed their animals. But we began to whither too. We didn’t have any money to feed ourselves. All we had were these vouchers and we couldn’t eat them.

I caught my father looking at our rotted nuts one night by the light of the moon. He held the vouchers in his hand. He was weeping heavily.

“You have to go,” he began between his tears. “There’s nothing we can do. We have no way to survive anymore. Go to the city and find work there. Leave us to make our lives maybe we can find a way, but if not I want you to have a chance.”

So, I left. I found some work teaching, because I was good at reading and writing. The children were fantastic just like they were here. However, I could only make just enough to eat, clothe myself and send a little to my family. I had no home. And one day, one of my students’ parents saw my sleeping on the street and that was the end of my job. So, I came to this land. I was hoping to find a little bit more money. I wanted to have a room of my own and still be able to send my family a bit of money. I found that here. Until …

Ahhh, there they are again! Les cloches d’eglise. But which church. In the months, I’ve only heard twice before. The last time was at Christmas. No, it was New Year. I jumped on top of the bunks to hear them. I wondered how far off they were. Maybe 2 kilometers. Sometimes I like to think they’re coming from Jerusalem. I imagined that last time. I imagined that they were coming from the church of the Holy Sepulchre. I pictured the pilgrims stopping on the Via Del Rosa to listen. But that was too far from here. Just like my students and their laughter.

He was here then. For New Year’s Eve, that is. He didn’t care about the bells though. He just laid in his bed. Like he did most of the time. But who am I to judge. I didn’t leave my bed much either.

It was funny watching him come that first day. He hadn’t slept the night before, like most of us on our first day in here. He asked for a cigarette and Thailand gave it to him. It was funny though, you always hear that Americans don’t speak other languages, but he understood French alright, but couldn’t really speak it. I told him it was the language of my mother and that some of the others spoke French too. He was pretty excited about that. His Arabic wasn’t good and no one spoke English really well, but they all wanted to learn.

He was a rare breed though. Not many Americans end up in Ramle Givon. I mean they have America. They can do whatever they need there. Work, go to school, live. They don’t need to run anywhere especially to the other side of the world. He came from paradise. Why would he leave it?

That question was on a lot of the minds in our cell-block.

Cote d’Ivoire

My mother’s grandpa came from Mali. They’d been working in the coffee fields for years. Before that she had worked with the cocoa. I remember being strapped to her back during those sultry days of my early years. Well, they weren’t always humid but there were almost always hot. We’d walk and pick.

My grandmother wasn’t far from us. Her face resembled the skin of a tree. It was hardened by the sun and thick, fatty wrinkles ran down the length of her cheeks. When she smiled at me it was as if a happy caricature had been carved out of wood.

It was in the southeast and we’d find the beach when we had the time. That wasn’t very often though. But when we did, it was as if we’d found a paradise. The lagoons were a clear blue and the land would wrap around the water. The thick trees shaded the fringes of the beach and later in the day part of the water. I didn’t get to enjoy the shade very much. We had to work while we were there. We fished in the middle of the lagoons. The only way we could leave the fields on our holidays was if we brought the bosses back some of the fish we caught.

My mother always told me, “you’ll work doing this someday soon.” And she was right. I started to walk beside her and then I started to pick. It was always “yessir”, “nosir” to the bosses and the landowner. And we always ate. We always were out of the rain. But then the others started to come.

I was still somewhat of a boy then. It was slow, if I remember. They came and the bosses changed. The blancs in suits came too. They were talking to the owners; always talking to the owners. The bosses would shout that they couldn’t sell this low. But the blancs would say something about the “markets’ demand” and they would point to the forest when they talked about new production. But we picked on.

We picked until the new workers began to talk about “Ivoirité”. Then the bosses started to talk about this “Ivoirité”. We heard the word everywhere now. On TV, the radio, politicians, they all spoke about it. And they told us that we didn’t have it. They said we caused the blancs to be able to pay less and less for the coffee, the cocoa, pineapples and everything else. I don’t know why they didn’t talk about this “market demand” I always heard about. But, we had to leave or not work. So, we went north.

But we only found more talk of Ivoirité. I couldn’t understand this word, but many people were very excited by it. Then they began to find guns. There were bombings and bullets and the French came. But I didn’t want to shoot. I just wanted to be in the fields. So, I left after some years. I found myself here.

I also found another boss. It was “yessir” “nosir” again. I could sell his lemons and he would give me enough money to eat. I never did have too much shelter though. But that’s why I like it in here. I don’t have to pick anything. I don’t have to sell lemons. I just have to lay here and read. There’s no rain dripping on my head. And there’s always food.

Eritrea

They’re there too. Just like me. My mother, my father, all of them. Because of me. But I couldn’t. And what’s changed?

America

“Do you smoke?” The guard asked.

“I’m trying to quit,” I replied.

“Room 10.”

“Does anyone have a cigarette?” I asked. The English seemed to surprise many of the men. There was some chatter in a few different languages until the message was translated into a tongue that someone who could help understood. I could only guess at what was being said. When it arrived it sounded like the language of the occupiers.

“Thailand, you have a smoke for him,” is what I interpreted or supposed was said. But the man who was called Thailand gave me a cigarette. It read “Noblesse” on the paper and tasted like death when I puffed it. Soon I had a terrible headache from whatever was added to the tobacco.

The room held about 15 other men; bunk beds, two TVs, two toilets, a shower, two sinks and depression. All the men loafed in their beds. I found a dejected group; months and years in this place. A place where you could merely sit and feel your brain rot as the pictures moved across the screen in front of you. The sun would become a distant memory. We could catch a few minutes of sunlight each day that flittered through the razor wire and rebar above our heads. And we only caught these few amazing moments if we had the gumption to rise at the right time when the cell door was unlocked.

I noticed I was causing a bit of a fervor. “Who is this man? Why is he here? What will he bring to or take away from the ambiance we’ve created?” they seemed to be thinking. Although I was denied sleep for the better part of the past night I realized I had to explain myself a bit. I noticed Senegal’s friendly eyes and thought I might be able to bounce my personality off of him for the others to see.

“English, Francais?” I asked him.

“Oh, you speak French?” He replied.

“Well, I wouldn’t say I speak French, but I took a few semesters of it in college, so we can speak French together.” I didn’t think those who had conceived the liberal arts curriculum had anticipated their graduates to need their second language in detention centers abroad, but it was quite a useful tool for me at the moment.

“Well, this is the tongue of my mother, but I don’t speak English very well,” he replied.

“That’s ok, we can try French. It’s good practice for me. How are you?”

“Yes, I’m well and you?”

“Tired. Very tired. These whores of shit kept me up all last night, but it’s good to find a bed and know that they’re not going to kill me in some field somewhere.”

“Where do you originate from?”

“The United States.”

“America?! What are you doing here?!”

Unlike most of the other men there, I wasn’t escaping warfare or trying to find a place with opportunities my homeland lacked. So any true articulation of why I was in this country could damage my chances of liberation, of the continuation of the work I was doing here. My lips had to remain tightly sealed, lest the wrong person find out who I was and why I was here. I had to create a cover story that would satisfy my cell-mates and not rouse the suspicion of my warders should they hear accounts of my adventures from secondary sources. So, I thought I could remain fairly consistent if I stuck to the story I gave the Ministry of Interior.

“Well, I was a tourist. Seeing the sights and what not. But one day I went to a shrine and heard drums and music. I went to go see what was happening and some police officers grabbed me and arrested me. I was told that I was at an illegal assembly and would be deported. But I there’s been a mistake so I plan to talk to a lawyer, before I let them put me on a plane.”

“I see,” Senegal started. “There was another like you, from America, who had a similar story. He flew home after a two weeks.”

“I’m hoping not to fly home.”

“Everybody flies home or they stay here. No one gets outside the walls a free man.”

“Well, I was arrested illegally. I think my lawyer should be able to sort things out for me.” Senegal only laughed. “Umm, I’m very tired is anyone sleeping in this bed?” I pointed to a seemingly empty bed up above.

“No, you’re welcomed. They usually keep everyone awake the night before they’re brought here.”

I put out my cigarette, made my bed and fell asleep after a few minutes. It wasn't hard to find sleep. There was no fervor from my cell-mates. Their eyes were glued to the television set. It was their - and soon to be our - only escape for nearly 20 hours of the day. There was no discussion taking place. Only the droning of the television sets.

Cote d’Ivoire

“Wake him up,” I said to Senegal. “He’ll miss dinner.”

“No, look. He’s waking up now,” He responded. He was right. The kid was starting stir. I watched Senegal make his bed, grab his tray, spoon and cup, wash them and then get ready to go get the food. It had already happened to him. He’d only been here six months, but there it was. He didn’t bend his knees anymore when he walked. His legs kind of jutted out to the sides. It was a sort of hobble. We’d all got it or we’d all get it. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to move our bodies. The most exercise we got was when we got up to get our food. I guess if the food would have been brought to us, we would’ve lost the ability to move our legs at all. That’s life though, isn’t it? At least that was all we had to do.

“Cell 3!” Commanded the guarded. The sounds of heavy metal sliding and clanking together could be heard. It was a bit like a song that I became accustomed. Clank, clank, squeak, slide, clank, slide, squeak. I can’t forget its melody. It meant food was coming. As the door opened, America fell in line behind me.

“Did you sleep well, America?” I asked him.

“Yes, it was really nice. I needed it. What time is it?”

“Dinner time. Night time,” I said smiling.

“Yes, I guess so, huh?” He replied as they, “ the helpers”, (prisoners who served food and made sure we mopped the cells quickly each night) slapped some rice, a piece of meat and soup on his plate. We all walked in a line back to our cells. The ones who had been here the longest shared their table. The rest of us ate from our laps on our beds.

After I was finished, I took my nightly stroll in the courtyard. It was very big and if all 100 men on our cell block wanted to go out into the evening it wouldn’t have been possible. There was rebar and razor-wire above our heads which blocked an untainted view of the sky. Sometimes if it was the right time of month I could catch sight of the moon, but not very often. I found two of the men from Thailand from my cell. We had to use the colonizers tongue.

“Good evening, how are you all?” I asked.

“Yeah, good,” one said.

“I fly tomorrow,” the other told me.

“Where you fly?” I asked.

“Thailand.”

“You should stay. What’s the difference?”

America

This was a place where you could merely sit and feel your brain rot as the pictures moved across the screen in front of you. The sun was a distant memory. And we only caught a few amazing moments of sun if we had the gumption rise at the right time when the cell door was unlocked. I couldn’t do it at first. Sinking depression gripped my soul, illness gripped my lungs and head and constipation gripped my bowels. I wanted to be with my new found family in Sheikh Jarrah. I could give my life no purpose beyond laying in bed.

Unlike these men, I had a certain privilege that ashamed me. I could leave whenever I wanted. All I had to do was sign those papers and I’d be on a plane. These men didn’t have that privilege. And if they did, why would they want to go back to their lands they were trying to escape.

The days passed quickly and uneventfully. Some semblance of natural light filtered through the bars on our windows, then it would dwindle into darkness. And that was all; repeated over and over again. And then he came. He was close to my height, in his fifties and spoke perfect English. He didn’t seem to need much consolation, but he was very interested in me. His line of questioning followed the same order that the interrogator at the Ministry of Interior decided to take; perfectly the same. Was this man an informant? Was he so lousy that he didn’t even change the order of the questions? Did he want me to know that he was watching me? Inject paranoia into me? Was I just paranoid? Was I losing it? Is that what they wanted?

I decided to not answer any of these questions. The rational approach was to enter into a delicate, mental waltz with this man. Now I had a character to play; the ignorant and unassuming tourist caught up in something he didn’t understand. I answered his questions the same way I answered them when I was interrogated by the Ministry of Interior. No matter who he was he wouldn’t know who I was. But how long would he be here? How long would I be here? How long could I be that unassuming tourist? How long could I not be myself? The paranoia was inescapable. Mad thoughts raced through my brain. I had to calm my anxiety attacks in solitude that evening. But all they could deprive me of was my life and liberty. Somehow that brought me solace; knowing that it was definitive.

Egypt

“No, his story was the same. He was caught in demonstration in Sheikh Jarrah when the police took him. He seemed pretty natural and confident as if he'd done nothing wrong. I didn't think he was lying. I did ask him how he ate. He told me he'd been eating falafel for the past few weeks.”

“kshfuzeh, mmm mmm”

“What? I can't hear you! I'm on this fucking shitty prison phone! Hang on, I'm gonna fuck with a bit.”

…

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes, can you hear me now?”

“Yes, what were you trying to tell me?”

“Listen, go easy at first. Play the role of a religious man and try to get him to pray with you and join your study group. But let him come to you at first. Then enter into some kind of political discourse and see if he drops his guard. Find a way to polarize the conversation, so that anyone from anywhere on the political spectrum could agree with some of what you're saying and totally disagree with other parts.”

“Will do. How long do you think I'll be in here?”

“Not long. Maybe a little more than a week. He's been there for a few days now and can leave when he wants. He knows this and we'll make sure the judges know that you're there so they can pressure him to sign and fly. But he's from America, he's not used to living like this and he can't really speak to many people in there, so he'll crack soon.”

“Yeah, ok, but I don't much like it either”

“So, do your job and get the information, put pressure on him to leave and quit complaining! The faster he leaves, the faster you leave.”

“Yeah, yeah”

Senegal

I came back to the cell and started to eat. We were all there like usual, sitting in our beds, eating from the plastic trays. It wasn't much that night. Some rice, potatoes, a little bit of beans and some slab of fish. It didn't have much taste and probably no nutrition, but it was all we had. The doors were open now, but the sun had set awhile ago. It was the middle of December then and we didn't feel too much heat.

“Do you want my fish?” America asked me.

“No, thank you,” I responded. He continued to ask the others and finally Côte d'Ivoire took the patty of processed and fried fish.

“You don't eat fish, America?” Côte d'Ivoire asked.

“No, I don't eat meat,” he answered.

“But fish isn't meat, it's fish.”

“Well, I guess I don't eat animals then.”

“I'm a vegetarian, as well,” I told them.

“But you eat fish?” America asked me.

“Yes, fish isn't meat.”

“It's good the food tonight, isn't it?” Côte d'Ivoire asked.

“Well, I'm not so sure,” America said.

“It's fucking shit food!” I replied. “We never eat well here. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Well, at least we're eating.”

“Yes, but we're only eating to cling to life in this place. It's not a pleasure. We can't cook our meals together and then share them together. We merely eat the slop they put on our plates.”

“Would you rather starve?”

“I wouldn't eat for ten days if it meant I could cook a meal with all of you and share it together.”

“You complain too much. I went many days without food trying to get here. But now at least I know I'll eat 3 times a day. Even when I was just outside these walls I didn't know that. At least now we know.”

“Yes, but now we can't leave.”

“Well, we always sleep inside. I didn't even have a roof over my head when I was out there. Just the food I could buy with the money my boss let me keep from the lemons I sold.”

“But this place is rotten. What about the cockroaches who come out at night to keep us company. We have no choice as to what we eat, when we sleep, when we can leave our cells. When was the last time you saw the sun? Do you remember?”

“Bah, you complain too much. Eat your food, sleep in your bed, talk to your friends the cockroaches. At least your belly's full and your feet are dry.”

“But really is there any difference between inside here and out side there,” America asked us pointing to the fences.

“Of course there's a difference. Out there we have a choice. In here there are no choices,” I replied.

“What choices are out there?” America asked.

“What to eat, when to eat, when to sleep, et cetera.”

“When did you eat and when did you sleep out there?”

“Usually after I finished working I would eat and after I finished eating I would sleep.”

“And what if you didn't work?”

“Well, I guess I wouldn't eat much, huh?”

“Haha, no I guess not!” America replied.

“So, you can sleep soundly with your cockroaches, Côte d'Ivoire. I want to get out of here.”

“It'll happen sooner or later for all of us,” Côte d'Ivoire said to me.

“I hope so, but look at Eritrea; 2 years; Hamdi 4 years. Sometimes I wonder.”

“Don't worry, just enjoy it,” he said. “Enjoy it?” Enjoy what? The isolation? The gruel? The arrogant guards? The shit they called film that passed in front of our eyes all day? My body and mind wasting away?”

He took the fish from America. I ate the rest of my dinner, as usual; my legs outstretched over my rough blanket on my bed, the top bunk only a few inches above my head. It was my little box within our big box. Almost all of us took our meals like that.

Eritrea

They think I'm taking my meals. I'll just lay here and watch the food. Maybe it will do something interesting. Maybe it'll move. Anything, but eat it. It has no taste anyway. Leave it for the cockroaches.

Côte d'Ivoire

“C'mon! We don't have all night!” They yelled as they threw the buckets of soapy water onto the floors of the cells. We had prepared about 2 minutes before. We didn't need watches to know it was coming. I could tell by how dark it was and how long it was after evening prayer. All the shoes, the few plastic chairs and the prayer mats had been put on the tops of the bunk beds. The frothy water overtook the floor. And we took up the mops and squeegees. The cell organization was spontaneous and usually the same people never did the nightly work two nights in a row. However, There's were some men who never scrubbed the floor.

“Why the fuck can't they come in and clean our cells for us?” Senegal asked to no one in particular.

“They do all the other work for the guards, including licking the shit off the administrations' asses,” he continued. “Why not clean our cells for us, too? What do they think? That they'll get citizenship if they eat enough of the guards' shit?”

“Take it easy, Senegal,” I said. “Just do your shit and then they'll turn out the lights and we can watch some movies in tranquility. There's no need to get upset.”

“Upset?! What the fuck are you talking about? None of us know when were getting out. I never raped anyone. I never stole anything. I never killed anybody. And if I had, I would at least know when I was leaving this shit hole. But now, barely any of us know. No need to get upset? Go fuck yourself.”

“You didn't have papers. You broke the law. So you're here.”

“What was I supposed to do? I couldn't make enough money to eat in Senegal. Should I've withered? I could eat and sleep comfortably out there. I just want my freedom, again.”

“Your freedom? What does that mean? Does it mean that you could walk a few more steps each day to go to work? You think that I didn't have the same problems? And did you care when you walked past my friends selling lemons ? Did you think about how their origins might have mirrored your own? Or did you just think about your “freedom”? Enjoy it in here. This is as good as it gets. Freedom, ha!” He was mopping and I had the squeegee. He had just finished scrubbing under the bunks closest to the door. Most of the water had begun to splish and sloosh under the heavy metal door and into the hallway of the cell-block. The guards' little helpers had begun to push the water pouring out from the cells to the end of the cell-block and out the door into the cool night. Senegal finished the last of the cleaning.

“I owned those few extra steps I took each day and that's what's important,” he said. I pushed the last remnants of the water under the door and Albania and I pushed our squeegees to the crack under the door to block the water from re-entering as the men on the outside pushed the water down the hall.

“Senegal, you only thought you owned those steps. It was the man who paid you owned those steps. If you didn't take them each day, you would have slept under the stars and withered as if you were back in Senegal.”

America

He was sitting in a plastic chair in front of his bunk. His bunk was a special case. It was directly in front of the television. He was on the bottom, so the top bunk completely obstructed his view of the streaming pictures. The lights had been put out a few minutes earlier and most of the men had been looking anxiously towards the door.

“Who smokes?” The guard asked. One of the men approached the the door. After some discussion the guard slipped more than a pack of cigarettes to the man through a space in the metal. Almost every man received two cigarettes, including myself.

I watched Senegal smoking silently for a little while. His neck was arched in an inhuman position to see the screen one meter ahead of him and two meters above him.

“Senegal, you want to come up here? You can probably see better,” I said.

“Yeah, thanks,” he replied. He got up out of his chair and walked over to my bunk in the corner. I sat up so as to make room for him on the end of my bed. He put his hands on my bed and his feet on the lower bunk. He attempted to jump up to my bed but it was in vain. His second attempt gave the same results but this time he flashed a frustrated smile. When he jumped up the third time I caught his lapel and pulled him up a bit.

“Ça va?” I asked.

“Ouais, ouais. Ça va, ça va,” he replied.

“It's been awhile since you've climbed one of these bunks, huh?”

“Ha! Maybe a little too long.” He leaned back against the concrete wall that bordered my bunk on one side and draped one leg off the other side of my bed. The glow of the television was the only light in the room and illuminated our faces.

“You have some fire?” I asked him.

“Yeah, hang on,” he replied. He dug in his pocket and then produced some matches. We both lit our cigarettes and I put the ashtray between us. We sat silently for awhile, watching the images pass before us, sometimes glancing at the 13 other men in our cell. They were lying silently and watching the images too, just like we'd done the rest of the day.

“What did you do before you were caught and thrown in here?” I asked.

“I taught children. Young children. They all learned together. The children of the colonists and the indigenous kids, too. They got on famously. It was their parents that were the trouble. The colonist parents were never really warm with the indigenous, children or the parents. You could feel the distance in their voices and their eyes. But the kids hadn't developed the sight their parents had. Everyone was just a human or playmate to them. And you, what did you do?”

I had a feeling that I could trust Senegal. His big eyes bled ingenuity.

“I worked with the indigenous folks in Sheikh Jarrah. In the center East of the big city. They're being evicted from the homes that the UN gave them after the Nakba. Now, the colonists are pushing them out either through legal processes or with the guns the government gave them.”

“C'est pas juste, c'est pas juste;”

“Yeah, I know. Sometimes there's less violence if there's an international presence. Sometimes it doesn't matter. But before I left the United States I taught children too. I know what you mean about them. They have a wonderfully blinding innocence, don't they? But they almost always become just like their parents. That's why I prefer to spend my time with the ones who resisted that hidden temptation, but those people are few and far between.”

“I know, that's why I don't search them. Haha! I'll just stay with the kids. Let them become their parents.”

“Yeah, but the problem is what their parents are doing. Ethnically cleansing a land. And even in the States it was the same. We're just more physically removed.”

“Well, what can you do?”

“What can we do and what needs to be done are two different things. We can stop participating in the madness, completely. We need to transfer the mentality those children have to the adults.”

“And how do we do that?”

“That's a good question and maybe that's why I'm in here.” His warm smile was illuminated by the television. We resigned ourselves to watching the images again. I wanted to express more about this question of “how”. But it seemed to dangerous. Besides, I don't think he would have cared.

“And your life in Senegal? Your friends, family and all that?” I asked

“Well, it's difficult. My family and I are farmers; were farmers. It was good when I was young, but it got worse and worse. And then white folks like yourself came. You all promised to buy our peanuts, but never came for them or to give us the money. After that we had nothing like many in our country. So, I had to leave. I was sending some money to my family, but now... Well I'm in here.”

“Yeah we white folks have a habit of doing that around the world. Thirty years ago, the man who came to your farm was probably just like those kids we taught. Maybe we should make an exchange. Switch the children we teach with the people who run this world.”

“The kids would run the world better and the adults would learn something about humanity! I like it.” We both laughed at his joke and garnered some disapproving stares from our cell mates.

“So, you planned on stopping here or it just happened?” I asked

“Well, when I left I was planning on go to France. I thought that because many of the ships that took the products from our country went there, I might as well follow them. But here it feels like what I imagine Europe to be like and I could make a bit of money.”

“Quand-même, it only looks like Europe here, because it's a colony.”

“Mais, quand-même, I had enough money for myself and my family.”

“Yeah, well the ships that take the products from here are going to the same place as the ships that took the wealth of your country.”

“I'm tired. I'm going to sleep.” He climbed down strenuously and without grace as I wished him pleasant dreams. I saw something moving to my left. The cockroaches had come out of my locker and were crawling up and down the walls. They must have been welcomed out of their dwellings by the darkness. I wondered how many crawl over our bodies and faces each night.

Egypt

“Do you have a cigarette?” The American asked.

“Yes, please sit down,” replied the Egyptian. He offered him a cigarette and they sat together on the wooden table.

“You know that I'm a political prisoner here?” The Egyptian began.

“No, I didn't know. How'd that happen and why here in a processing center for foreigners?” The other replied.

“I'll tell you. My family is originally from Egypt. I've been trying to become a citizen here for quite some time. They told me not to marry and to wait a little longer to become apart of their country. I've learned the language. I've been here for years. Well, I've recently started to talk about my opinions concerning the boy in our military who's been imprisoned by the indigenous population. The problem is we have thousands of the indigenous in our prisons. And they want us to release their friends and family before they release the boy they've captured.”

“Ok, but how has that made you a political prisoner?”

“Well, I've argued that we should release these prisoners so as to create peace. Then our boy will be free and there will be no war. You see it is in the interest of arms companies for there to be war, then their products will be consumed and they’ll make a lot of money. But if there is war we, me and my compatriots, will have to pay for it. All the surrounding states will want to make war with us. It would be a disaster. Someone told the government about my viewpoint and now I'm in here, waiting to see if they'll deport me to Egypt.”

“Oh, that's awful, but you feel that your government should just release all of these people and that's all, huh?”

“Well, we must let all the prisoners go free. Then we can monitor them. If they do anything illegal, then we can come in with helicopters and blow their houses up. They’ll know that if they go back to their militant tactics, then their homes and families will be destroyed. So, there will be no war. Only small attacks that don’t cost much money and aren’t War.”

“Hmmm, don’t you think that that course of actions may still lead to war? I mean, if a whole family is destroyed, it might breed more anger and enmity.”

“No, because they'll know that if that take this action against they, their families and their homes will be destroyed.”

“Ah, brilliant. Well thanks for the smoke.”

“No problem. Also, I'm leading a prayer group if you want to join us after dinner.”

“Thanks, but it's really not my thing.” The American left the table and went back to his bunk. The Egyptian stayed outside, smoking and watching the rebar that laced overhead from wall to wall.

Côte d'Ivoire

I couldn't help watching them that day; all of them. The door was locked after the second meal. As usual, the men with whom I shared the cell were too agitated to sleep, unable to move and too tired to leave their beds. So, we all watched the TV with blank expressions on our faces. They were all the same. But the ones who had been here the longest looked further passed the television. The men who stared the deepest and most blankly were also the ones whose gait most closely resembled the dead.

I had to just sit and wait for that. It would find me soon, I thought. I knew that there was no way out of here. Maybe on some distant day they'll send me back to Côte d'Ivoire, but I couldn't see that happening. So, I watched the light change each day. Six o'clock: Morning count; the guards enter, they count us, I piss, it's still dark. Breakfast: the light comes through the window, I eat and begin to watch the pictures roll in front of my face. Lunch: like breakfast, but with more light. Dinner: like lunch, but dark. Then I pray for the last time and finish watching TV until we clean the floors. They count us one more time and everyone gets their cigarettes. Then I fall asleep with the soft glow of the television. And so on. But I don't have to sell lemons.

“Lunch!” The guard yelled. The heavy sounds of each door opening only made us more hungry. The turn of the keys moving heavy metal parts inside the door. The iron bars sliding and slamming into the proper places that would allow us to enter the line to get our food.

“America, allez! It's time to eat,” I said. He wasn't accustomed to the schedule yet.

“Thanks. I'm still a little fucked up from being sick and the Ministry of the Interior keeping me up all night, the other day,” he replied.

“No problem. You'll get used to it in here.” He picked up his blue tray from his little locker next to his bed and followed me as we left the cell and fell in line behind the other men in the other cells who were let out first.

“Jesus! I hope I never get used to it,” he said.

“Oh, you will. We all do.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About two months. But you don't need to ask any of these men. You can tell just by looking at them. Watch. My knees still bend.” I squatted and shot back up for him. “Now look at Senegal.” I pointed ahead of us in line where Senegal was waiting to be served. “He's been here six months. You see how his knees don't bend when he walks. That's what happens when you lay in these beds all day. He's in a cell behind us, but when you get a chance look at Eritrea. He's been here for four years. He doesn't talk anymore. He just sits and watches TV or maybe grips the bars of the door leading to outside. I think he's trying to catch a glimpse of the sun. Or maybe just feel the rays on his face.”

“Fuckin' hell! This place is awful.”

“It's not just in here though. It's also your friends and family. You see we're from everywhere. Ramle Givon: detention center for immigrants. The people who want to visit us are very far from here. They call at first. But then it becomes less and less. You become a far-removed fact. He's in the detention center, he's been in the detention center, he's going to be in the detention center. Voilà, quoi. But don't worry, you're from america. You can go back there anytime you want.”

“I really don't want to go back there.”

“Girls, money, cars! Why not?”

“It's really not like that. I promise. Maybe there's more wealth, but it's not ours.”

We approached the table with the food. It was 5 big piles of different things. Rice, corn, lentils, beef patties and oranges. The guards helpers put a little of each on our plates and we scurried back to our cells to eat.

America

I watched the men saunter in and out while I was eating my dinner. The men from thailand still bounce as they walked. They arrived only a little before me. Most of the men from Africa had a different stride. It bled decrepity. They appeared to be twice their age. But their faces too had a strange aire to them. These faces carried a silence that pierced deep. A silence that was immobile and omnipresent. How long had they been here eating this food, lying in these beds, watching this TV and smoking these cigarettes? Months, years. How long would I be here? That was my decision though. I would leave how I wanted. I could wait to see if the government would except my appeal or if it became to long I could sign the paper and go back to the empire. Where it all flowed. These men couldn't do that. They had to escape their homelands. I had the choice to leave. Or maybe I didn't.

I had to leave the cell for a bit after dinner. The sun had gone down and the moonlight was evident in the little courtyard. Although we couldn't see the moon, the light shone through the rebar overhead and cast the gridded shadow on the ground and our faces. Normally, when Christmas was approaching it was never this warm, but I had never spent a Christmas this far South in the world. It was strange to see everyone in tee-shirts.

I walked around the courtyard a few times which only took 100 steps on each pass. The men all had conversations in different languages. I imagined that the topics mirrored each other. The question I was most asked was when and if I was going to fly. Maybe these men spoke of this. I didn't have much time and I wanted to help clean the floor tonight so I went back in.

When I entered the cell-block, I noticed him at the other end gripping the bars of the only door that led someplace other than the courtyard. It was never opened. Maybe that was why it was so attractive to him. I came within a few steps of him.

“Eritrea, would you like a cigarette?” I asked. I knew he probably didn't understand english, so I spoke slowly and held out the cigarette at the same time. He turned his head and saw what I was offering. He exuded malaise and shook his head “no” as he turned back to the tiny barred window. I walked back to my cell.

Some of the men had begun to put things up on the bunks to prepare for the little deluge. I picked up the mop as the water rushed in. Starting in the back I scrubbed the floor under the the bunks and then towards the bathroom, then the sink, bunks, bunks the little inlet of other bunks and then I moved to let the squeegee men do their work. The whole process took about ten minutes with the guards helpers yelling at us to go faster the whole time.

“America, how do you talk with your friends if you don't have a phone here?” Sudan asked.

“I borrow someone's if it's necessary, but really it's not so important to me.”

I don't know if that was true, but it was enough for him. It had been nearly a week since I first came here and no one from the organization I worked had come to visit me. How could they? I was infected now. Anyone who associated with me would be flagged and watched and never be able to come back here. They would catch the disease I had. So, better they let it eat me in solitude.

“Lights out!” The guard cried, I think. I never understood them. I merely waited for the other men to act and followed their lead.

The glowing television lit our faces; the dull glow on the zombies' faces. However, tonight the guard with our cigarettes was a little late. There was no clock so, I couldn't be sure how late he was. The men could feel it though and I could feel their anxious stares towards the metal door.

After another 10 minutes or so the guard appeared and slipped nearly two packs of cigarettes to the 16 year-old boy who was a refugee from Somlia. He told me he'd be here for at least six months awaiting asylum in the UK.

He distributed two cigarettes to each man who smoked. The room immediately became hazy.

I didn't go down to smoke with Senegal tonight. He didn't come up to smoke with me either. A sense of quiet defeat hung over the cell that night. The wasn't any reason in particular. The day had been normal like any of the others. Men chatted with eachother during our few moments outside our cells, we ate, we smoked, we watch the images flash before our eyes. Yet, the night was quiet and still, without chatter, without movement. The cockroaches were the only ones with enough gumption to move about that night. Up and down the walls, across our beds they went.

I laid back under my covers and finished my cigarette. The other men were doing the same. Some laid above their blankets, legs crossed. Others had drifted into sleep. But they all rested motionless with their eyes closed or glued to the TV.

After a few moments, my eyes drifted away from the images before. I found Senegal's eyes. But what had he become? A cockroach!

He wasn't aware of my gaze, so my eyes shot around the room. It wasn't just Senegal. All the men in the cell had become cockroaches, but retained their size and mass for the most part. Some were smoking. Others were snoozing. The giant cockroach that was lying in Albania's bed jumped down and shuffled to the bathroom in the same manner that Albania had always done.

“Jesus!” I thought. “What the fuck is happening?”

There seemed to be no problem between them. This transformation was accepted by all of them. They spoke to one another in some sort of cockroach tongue. This included the movement of the antennae and series of barely audible squeaks. My gaze found Senegal again or the cockroach in Senegal's bed.

“What's happening?” I demanded.

“Lie … it … will happen … for you … soon,” he answered in broken French. At this moment normal sized cockroaches exploded out of the walls and began to mingle on the bodies of my cell mates. No one was very much bothered by this. But waves of terror shot from belly to everywhere else in my body. I threw off my blanket and attempted to jump out of my bed. Upon ripping open my covers, I discover the lower half of my body had become rounded and transformed into that of a cockroach. I screamed as the small cockroaches crawled over my lips and eyes.

I awoke sweating profusely under my thin blanket. I looked around the room. There were no giant cockroaches in the room replacing my cell mates, only the small ones crawling on the walls and floors and elsewhere.

Senegal

Côte d'Ivoire's phone rang a lot that day. He spoke in French with them for much of the time, but with some Arabic thrown in at times. The courtyard was teeming with activity. Today was the day that we all met the judge. How many times was it? Twice a month? Less? I can't remember.

“Who were you talking, Côte d'Ivoire?” I asked.

“It was my cousin.”

“How is he? What's the news?”

“He's good. No news. It's awful like always. He's leaving soon and wants to come here.”

“You mean to the prison?” We both smiled. “What did you tell him?”

“What could I tell him? I told him it was hard to get here. It's hard to live here. And he should keep going. Maybe pass more Arab countries en route to Europe. That's the best I could do. I don't think it'll be much better there, but where is it better?”

“Anywhere, but in here.” I responded.

“Pfff, you want to go back to Senegal? Maybe you prefer Darfur? Come on. Stop complaining.”

I left the room as the door was open. The courtyard was filled with the men of our cell-block. Nearly all 100 of them were there. They all waited to speak with the three colonist lawyers.

I tried to work with them once, but they said they couldn't help. I really don't know why I still met with these prison judges. It was always the same.

Some of the men entered with lawyers, lots of them came out with dejected looks on their faces. Only a few came out smiling. But their smiles didn't come from a complete victory only from evasion. They would fly out of this awful country only to be plunged into the places from where they were trying to escape.

“Senegal!” The guard yelled. He waved me into the small white room that was connected to our cell-block courtyard. There was a sign that read something to the effect of “Officer of the Court of Justice.” It seemed rather farcical to me.

“Sit down, please,” said the man sitting across the desk from me. He didn't look up from his paper. He was balding and shrewd. The small room retained a lot of heat despite the cool air outside. He was sweating moderately because of this.

“Do you want to leave?” He asked.

“Yes, of course, I want to leave,” I responded.

“Do have some relatives who can send you some money to fly back to Senegal?”

“These are the same questions you asked me every month. Don't you have the answers written down there? No, I don't have relatives who can send me money. I was sending money to them. I had to leave Senegal because there was no money or food there. Now, I'm in prison. I would like to go back to my work. Here. Just outside these walls.”

“I'm sorry. That's not possible. You're illegal here.”

“What does that mean? What have I done that was illegal?”

“Your not legal to be here.”

“Ok, can you bring me to the northern border? So, I can continue my travel?”

“I'm afraid you're not legal there, either.”

“Where am I legal?”

“Senegal. You can fly there, if you have the money for the flight.”

“And if I don't have the money?”

“You stay here.”

He finished making some notes and then said I could go. As I passed the courtyard, I saw the men feverishly speaking with the lawyers.

“What do you mean I have to wait?”

“No, I don't have the money.”

“And the UN, have they sent any papers about my status ...”

“They said they were going to pay me more and there wouldn't be any problems with the documents...”

“Do you know how long I've been here?!”

So it goes. These were the exact same phrases I heard every time we had to talk with this man in his office. Their words were useless without money or an act of God. The ones with the money (or with ability to find it) were the ones who could leave. Otherwise, We were here. And would be here.

When I came back to the cell, America was using Côte d'Ivoire's telephone. It was strange to hear him speak in his mother tongue. It was so fast, fluid and coherent. There's a certain rhythm in languages that people speak well. Maybe it comes from their souls. But learning a language like he was with mine strips a human element of the person. They're thinking about each word that's leaving their mouths, instead of merely letting their beings express themselves. It's nice to hear this from him, even though I understood nothing.

“What did they say, America?” Côte d'Ivoire asked after America had finished.

“It was my lawyer. They can't come today, but they've arranged something special with the judge here. They're going to come tomorrow to speak with me and the judge.”

“Whoo, How did you find a lawyer like that? One who makes special visits and makes the judges come here on their days off?” I asked.

“I don't know. Someone likes me, huh? And you Senegal? What did they say today?”

“The same thing they said the other times.” I replied. I threw myself into my bed. It was hard to lay there with the mid-morning sunlight warming the walls around our cell, the heat of the day rising and the bustle in courtyard.

Eritrea

I couldn't see the sun, but I could see its rays hit the wall to the side of me. It warmed the air. No one sat with me although the other tables were filled and men were standing.

“!!!” Exclaimed on of the guards. It was my name, but with a bizarre accent of the colonizers' tongue.

I looked at him. He was a approaching me. There was no need for him to call my name. He knew where I was and who I was. I looked at him as he stood over me.

“You know what time it is. C'mon! Let's go!,” He said.

I turned my head away from him. He quickly grabbed my shirt and began to drag me to the office. I tried to break his grip, but he was much too strong and the struggling only made him grip tighter and in more painful places. He opened the door of the judge's office, threw me and slammed the door.

“Sit down,” the judge said. I was already seated on the ground and refused to take the seat across from him. I stared at the wall in front of me. He didn't exist. I had tried before, but I knew the time in this office would do nothing to bring me closer to the world outside.

He made some notes and then called to the guard in the colonizers' tongue to say I had finished.

The door flew open and the hands descended upon my body. I struggled, but he picked me and threw me out of the office.

I walked back across the courtyard and took my seat at the empty table, completely aware of the all the eyes pinned on me.

America

The afternoon meal had just finished. All the men in my cell sat silently digesting. It seemed the morning with the judges and, for some, the lawyers was quite trying or mentally draining. I loafed too. There was nothing in that day to make me fatigued, but the energy was infectious.

“!!!” The guard called my name at the metal door. He began the process to unlock the door. This came with all of it slamming and metal dropping on metal. But this time it wasn't connected with a meal-time. It aroused curiosity in the cell-block and a twinge of terror in me.

Why was I being taken out at this unusual time? They didn't have much respect for their own judicial procedures. Had they decided to sleight these normal processes and put me on plane to back from I came?

I hoped I wouldn't have to engage in any sort of physical resistance to a forced deportation. But for the time being I thought it was more intelligent to cooperate until I understood the nature of this strange call.

I jumped from my bunk and fitted my shoes on my feet. By the time the guard had finished unlocking the swinging piece of metal.

“Come with me,” he said in English.

I followed him to the end of the hall. He opened the door through which I had been brought on my first day here. I became a little paranoid that my suspicions were correct. But the guard opened the door just next to the entrance of our cell-block.

It was a small office with a computer a desk and a woman. The guard stayed just behind me as the woman typed. She asked my name, country of origin, things of this nature and then she made me described the situation that brought me here. I recounted the same story she could get from the Ministry of Interior. When I was finished the guard behind me immediately exclaimed,

“You have to fly then! Home, to the United States!”

“No, I think there's been a mistake. I want to see my lawyer,” I said.

“You haven't showered since you've come here. It's been 10 days,” the woman across the desk said.

“No, I haven't. It's true.”

“Why not? You don't have to have fear.”

I wanted to explain that the reason that I hadn't shaved or showered or shit or worn the prison clothes they had given me or generally moved at all from bed, was because it was the single act of protest I could make here. It was an external reflection of how this place made me feel internally. I wanted them to see it. I wanted whoever came here to see me to see it. But I couldn't say this. It lacked power when it was done only by me and not the others as well.

“I feel depressed here. I don't feel like showering,” I said. This was a piece of the truth.

“You need to shower. Would you like to sign this document that sends you on a flight back to the United States?”

“I'll wait to see me lawyer.”

“It can take a long time, these legally processes. You could be in here a while.”

“I prefer to wait to talk to my lawyer.”

She finished typing things for my file in the computer. I sat silently, waiting for her to finish. Then the guard told me to stand up and go back to the cell. The same clanking and slamming metal sounded my arrival, but this time without the guard calling for someone else. Curious eyes were cast upon me as I mounted my bed again.

Senegal

It was still morning, but after breakfast had been left in our cells. They began to call some of us into the hall-way. It was America, Côte d'Ivoire, the men from Thailand and myself from our room. We were told to clear out our lockers and take all of our possessions with us. We stood in the hall with clumps of clothes, soap, shampoo, toothpaste, towels, etc. in our hands. Other men from other cells were also standing in lines, backs against the wall, effects in hand, in front of their cells. Confusion seemed to be the pervading sentiment marking the mens faces, but fear was also present in a few sets of eyes.

The guards marched us out to the courtyard while the others remained locked in their cells. One guard unlocked the door in the courtyard that was never opened. It led to a room through which we all passed upon our arrival. It was a room for processing us. X-ray machines, metal detector and computers pushed from wall to wall. They opened another door that led to another courtyard that was smaller than the one we had left. The men shuffled through and were made to wait outside while the guards went into this cell-block where they had just led us. America found my eyes and walked over to me.

“Do you know what's happening?” He asked.

“No not really,” I responded

“They've never done anything like this before?”

“No, I've always stayed in the same cell and I don't remember any other groups leaving us like this. It's a little strange.”

“Ok, I see. And how long have you been here?”

“Six months.” I showed him six fingers to make sure he understood.

“Months!”

“Yes, six months.”

“Fuck me! And you talked to the lawyers who come here?”

“Yes, they said there was a way to get me out, but they wanted money. I told them that I didn't have any money. They asked me if my family had any money. I told them no. Et voilà quoi.”

“Those fucking blood-suckers! So now what?”

I shrugged and he shook his head. He didn't move away, but he couldn't hold my eyes any longer and his gaze shifted.

Silently, I hoped that the judge would take pity on me soon and either let me go free or send me back to Senegal. I didn't really think either of these scenarios were likely, but I knew that they weren't going to let me go free again in the colony.

The guards started calling men in groups. Our numbers dwindled and Côte d'Ivoire had left us in the beginning with some other men. America, the men from Thailand, myself and a few other men from some other cells were all who remained.

They called most of us now. America and I stayed together. We passed down the corrider that was nearly an exact copy of our last cell-block. Looking in the cells as we passed, chaos seemed to be a running theme throughout these rooms. When we arrived in our cell not much was different.

There were no mattreses on the bunk beds. Although freshly painted, the lockers were mostly broken and the layout of the room was strange and much different than the last cell.

A man burst in the room dressed in a uniform somewhat different than the other guards' uniforms.

“I'm the warden in this cell-block. I don't want any problems. And I want you all to tell me when you need something. There's is to be no food in the lockers or else there will be bugs,” he began.

The bugs he was refering to were cockroaches and one had already scampered by my feet to seek refuge under my bed.

“Now, I know there are no matresses, but they're coming in a few minutes along with your blankets. Now, what else do you men need?” he asked as he turned a page in his notebook.

“Toothpaste!”

“Soap!”

“And televisions don't work!” An odd silence fell over the room as one made this announcement. It affected the warden to as he looked up from his notebook without moving his head; his eyes peering above the rim of his glasses.

“Oh, they don't, do they?” The warden said. He moved to the two televisions and turned them both on revealing nothing but fuzz and static.

“Ok, I'll call the technician to come here tomorrow,” the warden said exiting the room.

Côte d'Ivoire

We had a lot more room in our cells after the move. I was only with seven other men. The space was nice and the morning light pushed through the bars of our window. Reading was easier now as there wasn't enough men to make too much noise yet. The TV was turned lower.

Ours wasn't the only cell with a capacity to hold more men. It seemed to be the same throughout the whole block. I imagined that our old cell-block was the same; only half-filled. Maybe some men had been freed.

It was nice to walk in our courtyard in the morning now. Although it was much smaller than the last the lack of men made it seem more spacious. Senegal was sitting, smoking by himself in the sun.

“Salut! Ça va?” I asked

“Oui, Oui, so-so. And you,” he responded.

“Well, it's beautiful today, isn't it?”

“Yeah, not so bad.”

“There's less men here. Having more space is nice.” He was silent for a minute.

“What you don't like having more space?” I asked

“Yes, but for how long? One thing is for sure these men keep coming. You know how many of my friends left Dakar before I did? And how many were talking about leaving? So many! I'm sure the same is true about your friends in Côte d'Ivoire. And just about everywhere else in Africa.”

“No, you're right. Almost all my friends wanted to leave or had left, when I did. How did you get here anyway?” I asked.

“Well, in the beginning I was pretty lucky. I found a truck that was going from Dakar to Tessalit. I asked if I could go with them, but they asked for too much money. I was trying to get to Tripoli and this was nearly half-way there. So, I remembered a story my friend had told me about getting through the controls in europe. He was deported from Italy back to Senegal. But he had strapped himself under a truck and went from Patra to Ancona like this. He said they searched the truck but didn't look underneath. Et violà.”

“You're lucky I lost a friend like that. The straps came undone on the highway in Germany.”

“Yeah, well … I'm sorry to hear. Did you pass Tripoli too?” He asked

“I followed my family lines north. Every few hundred kilometers more north I went the more distant the relatives became. And then I found myself without any more family. Then I found a guy who knew how to open the cargo containers. He put me in one that was nearly full. I had just enough room to stand and I didn't have very much to eat or drink. Just some crackers and water. I couldn't see the light but it felt like more than a few days passed. We finally stopped but no one opened the container for hours. I was scared and climbed to the top in the dark. I made all kinds of noise. I jumped out when I saw the first ray of light. I scared those guys so bad they didn't even chase me when I ran away. Imagine some guy leaping out of a container like that! They didn't know what to do.”

“You're lucky they heard you. Or you're lucky you made noise. I don't know if my cousin was smart enough to do that. But he suffocated in one of those between Libya and Greece.”

“Well … That was Tripoli. I tried to find work, but didn't have much luck. I fell in with some beduoins. Then Cairo and well here we are. Did you stay in Tripoli long?”

“No, I was arrested. And I met some mafia in prison. He wanted me to join them to help traffic migrants. He told me all kinds of awful things about the people he killed. Money, drugs, women. You know. He thought a big guy like myself would be good to work with.”

“So you worked with the mafia to get here?”

“No, I … I found some money for some beduoins to Cairo. And then here.”

America

Unfortunately, either through chance or device, Egypt had made his way to the new cell-block with the rest of us. Thankfully he was put into another cell, but he wandered quite a bit during the day while I resigned myself to my bed. After three days or so he found his way into my cell while our doors were open during the morning. I was laying on my bed looking out the window as the television had not yet been fixed.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, how are you?”

“Well, thank you. How is your process? You'll be leaving soon?”

“Oh, I don't know. I have some lawyers working on an appeal, but it should be a few more days before we get a response,” I replied.

“And where were you staying?” He asked.

“At a hostel near the gate down the hill after downtown. I can’t quite remember the name. Something with a tree.”

“Palm Hostel?” He asked. How did he know that? No one knew the name of it or where it was; cab drivers, locals, no one.

“Uhh, yeah. I think that’s it,” I replied. I wanted to flee. But he sat with me in my cell as I was trying to enjoy my morning tea and cigarette.

“Tell me, my friend. Do you know who the key-man is here?” He asked.“The key man. The intelligent man. The one who collects information about everyone in prison. What would you call him?”

“I guess you’d call him an informant. But you’re talking to the wrong guy. I’m not well-connected here.”

“Well do you know who I’d talk to find out?”

“I can’t be sure,” I began. I was keeping my cool despite the massive anxiety attack I was having.

“I think you’ve been watching too many movies. This is a place for people awaiting deportation. There are no criminals here. I think it would be a waste of time to have an informant in here.”

He continued to defend his point. I tried to hide my fear and pretend I wasn’t listening. Shouts from the guards arose from the hallway after a few minutes. It was time for everyone to return to their cells for the next few hours. Our time in the caged courtyard had ended for the morning. This meant Egypt had to leave as well.

The men shuffled in and a silence fell over the hallway. It had been bustling with conversation a few moments before, but was now except for the prisoners who worked with the guards. They brought things from cell to cell, chatted with the guards or did other mundane things.

The silence infected our cell as well. The men didn't read, they didn't talk. We were either sleeping (or pretending to sleep) or casting our gazes at whatever attracted our attention in the late morning.

The sound of the heavy locks sliding in and out place as the doors of the cells were opened and closed slowly approached us.

The metal started to slide and crash inside our door as they unlocked it. After two minutes the warden burst in followed by a guard.

“On your feet! Warden in the room,” the guard bellowed.

“Hello, hello. How is everyone today?” The warden asked. The was a general mur-mur throughout the room.

“So, do you all have everything you need. I was told that you were brought the toothpaste and soap. The technicians came yesterday to fix the televisions as well, no?”

“Yes, but they still don't work,” someone said.

“Oh really?” he began to play with the controls of one of the TVs revealing nothing but interference and fuzz.

“Well, I'll call the technicians again tomorrow. We'll fix it soon. Is there anything else you need? I want to make sure everyone has everything they should. Clothes? Bedding? Everyone should have two blankets. Does everyone have two blankets?”

There was a silence that seemed to indicate everyone had their two blankets.

“Nothing else, then?” He asked

As I was standing next to him, I thought I'd ask a question.

“Have you ever read about the Nazi doctor who worked a concentration camp? He gave extra asprin to the prisoners.” I said.

“No, no I haven't,” he replied.

“The funny thing was he never questioned the existence of the camp. Strange, huh?”

“Yes, yes that's strange. I have to read about that. Have a good day gentlemen.” He said. The heavy metal door slammed behind him and we returned to our beds.

Egypt

“Halo! Halo! Can you hear me?”

“Daddy! Yes, I can hear, but it's fuzzy. Can you speak louder?”

“No, I'm afraid I can't speak too loudly, but try to understand me, ok? I know it's difficult, but I wanted to hear your voice. I wanted you to hear my voice. How are are you, son?”

“I'm fine Daddy, but I miss you. When are you coming home?”

“Soon, I hope. How's school? Have you painted any more pictures?”

“Yes, I painted a picture of you holding your big gun and wearing your uniform. Mommy put it on the refrigerator. But it's been awhile, Daddy. We miss you.”

“Yes, I know. I miss you too. But it's very important that I stay here. I have to protect you and Mommy. I'm protecting all of the nation. You know how dangerous it is for all of us. We have to fight each day or they'll take our homeland from us. I'm fighting without a gun in here, but it's still important. Important for you and mommy and me and your friends and our neighbors. Don't forget that they're all around us and among us. They want our land. But we have to fight to keep it from them for ourselves. You know this, right? You understand why Daddy has to stay here?”

“Yes, Daddy I understand. They scare me when I see them. When I hear them speak their language. They're everywhere. Some day I want to be like you Daddy. I want to fight for our country.”

“You will son. Someday you will. But I'm happy you understand what I'm doing. Why I have to be here. I'll come back as soon as I can.”

“I hope so, Daddy. I miss you. Mommy misses you”

“I know. I'll be back as soon as I can, but I have to go now, ok,”

“Ok, I love you Daddy.”

“I love you, too”

Eritrea

No more showers. I'll lay here in this bed. I'll eat their food. I'll stand up so they can count me each morning. I wash the floors when they throw the water at my feet. But I want this place to seep out of my pores. I want them smell the stench they've created in my body, on my skin, through my hair. Whenever they pass, I want my rot to fill their nostrils.

America

Breakfast again. It was the same as the day before. Bananas piled high on the tray, some cheese on the side and 2 bell peppers for 15 men to share. Luckily, the men in my cell were honest and had a sense of community. Everyone ate the same amount even if it wasn't enough.

After half an hour the pile dwindled as the men roused themselves. The door to the cell was open so they found their way to the courtyard. I'm not sure why they made this trip. I preferred to stay in bed and pass the morning watching the movies we watched the night before repeated again.

Maybe the fresh air was good. But there was nowhere to run in that little courtyard. It was smaller than the last one. More men arrived each day and the space in which one could move dwindled. It seemed to me that these men wanted to retain some sense of normality. They washed their clothes by hand and hung them to dry in the courtyard. The little streams of water dripping from their washing striped the concrete floor out there. Maybe it was an important escape from the unjustice that was our life. In any event, I couldn't be a part of it. I couldn't let myself be a part of it.

I would force myself to take strolls out there from time to time. But there seemed to be no real reason to leave my bed.

The lawyers were back today. They were peddling their wares. They were selling freedom. Or maybe they were just selling escape from the walls that surrounded these men and myself. Most of these men couldn't afford their escape. So, they stayed on the rimmed the edges of the courtyard. I stayed near these men silently today.

We were all waiting for the judge to call us into his office for our weekly interview. The lawyers talked excitedly with some of them. In French? In English? Arabic? But mostly tongue of the colonizers. After all it was their mother tongue. The language of power here. Well, I guess that depended on if you spoke it with the right accent.

Sometimes, it seemed as if the lawyers had struck a deal with some of these men. They shook hands excitedly and then accompanied them into the judges office. Other times, it was clear that there was no help for the men with whom they were talking. The lawyers would shake their heads no and the man they were talking with would start to talk louder and faster.

One man began to scream and pound the talble. He was yelling in a language I couldn't understand waving his hands violently, pointing to the walls around him. In this case the need for language disappear. His desparation was evident. God knows how long he'd been here. But he just wanted to find a way out. The lawyers shook their heads no. The man wasn' calming down or leaving. They looked to the guards and nodded. The guards came to restain the man and put him in a solitary cell until he was “calm”.

“You,” a guard said while pointing at me from across the courtyard.

“Yes, you from the United States. It's your turn to see the judge now. C'mon.”

I walked across the courtyard and went into the small office that was connected to our courtyard. The man inside was different from the one in the old cell-block. He was fat and sweaty. A small fan attached to the wall blew in his face. He had just enough room for his desk, his chair, a computer and chair opposite him for the accused.

“Good Morning,” he began.

“Good Morning,” I replied.

“Well, you've been with us for a few weeks now, but you're from the United States. You know that our country will sponsor your flight home. Why don't you fly?”

“Well there's been a mistake and I have a lawyer. He's working on an appeal for me, so I'd like to wait and see what happens with that.”

“Yes, but appeals are very long processes. You could be here months. It's probably just better to fly home.”

“Well, you see my grandmother was of the blood of the citizens of this country. Maybe someday soon I'd like to be a part of this great nation. I don't want this mistake to bar me from living here.” I think he believed me.

“Well, maybe the best course of action is to go home and certify your bloodline with the proper religious authorities, then it should be easier to come back and be a citizen.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I prefer to wait to see what happens with my appeal.”

“Really, I advise you to fly home. You're not one of these men in here. And after some time they all start to crack. I wouldn't want you to be around one of them when they do. You can never know how they'll react. Why don't you sign the papers to fly home?” He pushed the papers across the desk for me to sign.

“Thank you for your concern. But there's been a mistake and prefer to wait for my appeal.” I pushed the papers back across the desk.

Côte d'Ivoire

It was a beautiful winter day. Although we couldn't see the sun, it indirectly heated ou cells and the courtyard. I took a walk through the corridor that connected all of our cells. I waved and greeted the others from my old cell that had been separated from me. And in the final cell I found Senegal.

The others in his cell were mingling amongst themselves, but he was lying in his bed watching the television.

“What are you watching? The same three movies you watched last night?” I asked him.

“Yeah.”

“C'mon. You want the sun to burn a hole in your head. Let's go make some sport in the courtyard. We can play ping-pong.”

“Sun? We can't even see the sun in here. It just gets hot during the day and cooler at night.”

“Ok, well let's go for some air. Allez mec!”

He started to rouse himself reluctantly, gather his affairs and put on his shoes. I hadn't seen out of his bed in some time. I wondered if he could still do it. But he waddled next to me to the ping-pong table in the courtyard. The men who played everyday had control of the table and there was a queue to use it. It was fairly mesmerizing to watch them play. Their dance was delicate. Back and forth rythmically. Every so often one of them would break the rhythm with a trick shot that would land short or bounce in an odd manner. Sometimes one of the would send the ball speeding at their opponent’s chest. But more often than not the other player would recover.

The player's finished and stepped aside to let another pair take the table. The players who had just finished didn't go very far though. They rejoined the queue, so as to start another game quickly.

“That was pretty impressive. You've been playing a long time?” Senegal asked the man next to us.

“No, not really. Just a few years. But I've been playing a lot since I started. There wasn't much to do in my free time in Iraq,” he replied.

“Oh, so you're from Iraq?” I asked

“No, no. I'm from India. But I spent a few of the past years in Iraq.”

“Just playing ping-pong there, huh?” Asked Senegal.

“No, I was woking for the American military. Well one of it's contractors at least. I served food to the soldiers for nearly two years. I made good money there. Well, more than I could make in India. But there wasn't much free-time, and when there was, there wasn't much to do. A bit like here. But there was a ping-pong table. So, there it is. If you play a lot you get better.”

“But didn't you feel strange serving these foreign soldiers invading Iraq and killing it's people?” Senegal asked.

“I didn't think about it too much. It's not too much different than what's happening here. Depending on which side of the wall you're on, you just don't see it.”

“Yes, but you were actively supporting the madness in Iraq,” Senegal said. The man shrugged and turned away.

“He was just trying to make a little money, Senegal.” I said.

“Yeah, but like that? Isn't there some limit do what you should do for money?”

“Nothing's pure. Even the work we did here. So, I guess you can go through life wondering where this money you receive is coming from. Or you can just accept it and not ask questions. But look at the bright side, in here we don't have to make money. We don't have to ask ourselves where it's coming from. We can just play ping-pong.”

“Yeah, well it's not just us. It's him and all the others on the outside who are doing work like him.”

“Ok, well if you want to go talk to all these people go ahead. And who's going to judge all of their jobs? And how are you going to find a way to make money without supporting something like that? You can't work without paying taxes. You think your government always thinks about ethics when they spend your money? Ha! Here take the padle, it's our turn.”

Senegal

The hot winter day seemed short. The deluge arrived to clean the floor of our cell. I didn't help tonight but preferred to watch the madness while laying in bed. The few plastic chairs and table were put on the top bunk of a bed. Shoes and other effects that normally cluttered the ground were lodged in the nooks and crannies of the beds or sometimes in lockers. The gurads helpers yelled at us to clean faster; constantly looking to their masters for apporval. Shortly after the heavy sounds of metal slamming could be heard slowly approaching our cell. Until it arrived also.

“Guard here! Everyone on your feet!”

Everyone jumped down from the top bunks or stood up from the lower ones. The guard's uniformed assistant counted us all and searched the bathroom before the guard listed all our names to which we were supposed to respond. This took some time because they struggled with the pronunciation of many of the names. They were all foreign to the guards ears and tongues. They counted us one more time before leaving our cell. They closed the heavy locks for the last time of the day.

Next was the hot water. The cart the guards helpers used was loud and squeaked as it found it's way to our cell. The water sloshed back and forth in the container as it sauntered toward us. The tone changed each time it left a cell as there was less water each time. Finally it found us and we had our final tea of the day. After that the guards helpers could be heard being locked in their cells. Their doors made the same sounds as ours upon being locked.

The final and most anticipated pleasure of the evening was next. The guard passed with two cigarettes for each man who smoked. America came down from his bed to smoke with me and share the ashtray. The television was turned to the news. The images were of fire and demonstrations in the big city.”

“It's impressive. The resistance to the occupation despite the repression. What are they saying about the events of the day?” He asked. He didn't understand the colonizers tongue.

“Well, they say that this justifies the need for the separation. These people are violent and are terrorists and all that.”

“Yeah, but look at the images. Who has the guns? Who's shooting? Who's invading? It makes me angry. And I bet most of the people who watch this believe it. Believe the justifications for the repression.”

“There's no justice here.”

“No, there's not.”

We watched the rest of the report silently. And then he mounted his bed again. Then his president was shown accepting the Nobel Peace Prize.

“Ah, you like this? It's your president.” One of the boys asked him. I couldn't pick up his accent yet as he was new, but he was from some African-Francophone country.

“No, this is really awful,” America began. “You know we give three billion dollars each year to this country to support the colonization and the occupation. Not only that but since he's been president he sent 20, 000 more troops abroad to occupy. And god only knows how many people have been killed by drones under his watch. And America still tortures and detains people without process in Cuba. The Nobel Peace Prize? Incredible!”

I don't know if the boy expected that response but he was rather silent afterwards. He continued to watch the news intently. Until the commercials came on.

Another boy, new to our cell, climbed the bunk near the TV and switched the channel.

“What are you doing? I was watching that!” The boy who was talking to America shouted.

The boy who had changed the channel yelled back in his mother tongue.

“Turn it back to the news!”

Another repsonse. This time the french speaking boy stomped passed my bed to confront the other who was still on the bunk.

He descended quickly. And the two boys met in between mine and America's bed. The din was immense as the francophone swung first. It was a wild swing the grazed the other's ear. At this point I sprang out of bed and tried to separate the two boys. Other men jumped up to restore order to our room and America had a hand on one of the boys from his bunk. The two went back to their bunks and after the news was finished we turned the films on.

Egypt

He found the American walking in the hallway as the morning had just begun

“The United States is the cause of all my problems,” Egypt began. “You see, I’m a prince, but I’m treated as a slave here. My family are the keepers of the keys to the pyramids. During the Camp David accords, the USA made sure that they would have access to the pyramids, so they could make human sacrifices. When they do this all the power in the world goes to their country.”

The American found his way to his cell and began to brush his teeth and wash his face.

“When will the United States stop oppressing me?” Egypt asked.

“I couldn’t tell you,” America responded.

“You see vengeance is the lord’s. He is angry at the United States. This is why they have earthquakes and hurricanes.”

“Yes well, with any state, one should make a distinction between the actions of those who wield the power and it’s citizens who are also subject to its control and decree.”

The American climbed up into his bed, laid back and began to watch television.

“Bin Laden was right in punishing the US, he was acting as if he were touched by the hand of god! But Vengeance is not mine it is the lords! The US will pay for what it has done to my life!” With this he let out a maniacal laugh.

“Praise the lord! Say it with me! Praise the lord!”

“It’s not for me.” Responded the American. His face was flush.

…

“When will the United States stop oppressing me?” Egypt demanded of the American.

…

“When will the United States stop oppressing me?”

…

“When will the United States stop opressing me?”

America

My thumping heart urged me to descend from bed after Egypt had left my room. His maniacal laugh rang in my head and pushed my heart to beat harder and faster. Luckily, Senegal was laying in his bed watching TV.

“Did you hear that man, Egypt, speaking with me just now?” I asked Senegal.

“No, I was watching television,” he responded.

“Yes, I guess we were speaking in English. He gives me fear, this man.”

“He's very very strange.”

“I don't know. He seems to think that America is to blame for his imprisonment in here. But he was talking about very bizarre things. He believes that his family has the keys to the pyramids in Egypt and the United States use these pyramids to sacrifice humans to maintain their global power. Very strange. I guess the problem is that I come from the United States, so maybe he wants to take this aggression out on me.”

“Yes, he's very strange. But we are many in here. I don't think you have to worry. It would be very difficult for him to try to do anything to anyone.”

“Yes, maybe you're right. I still have a cigarette left from last night. Would you like to share it with me.”

“Yes, of course.”

I climbed my bed and fished around in my mattress until I found the cigarette from the night before. Senegal and I watched one of the B-films we had seen the night before; silently passing the cigarette back and forth.

“How did they catch you and put you in here?” I asked

“I think they had been watching me for quite some time. They seemed to be waiting for me. I'm not sure if maybe someone from the school where I taught, one of the parents or the other teachers, had implied that I was illegal. In any event, I was walking home after work and three men in civilian clothes came at me from different directions. The all grabbed me at once. I thought I was being robbed, but then they started to ask for my documents. I explained that I didn't have any and they threw me into a car, but a car without police markings. I had no idea what they were going to do with me. I spent a night at the processing center in the city near the sea. I didn't sleep much in the chairs and if I started to sleep they would scream at me. They questioned me a bit and then brought me here. Et violà. That was six months ago.”

“Fuckin' hell! And really what did you do? What did any of these men do? They've broken the laws the occupiers, the colonizers have put in place? What does that mean?”

“I just want my freedom again.”

“Yes, but what does that mean? This place would still exist. The men in here would still be in here. The parents of the children, who are colonists, would still infect their children with the vitriole that enforces the belief that they are above the indigenous children. The ships would still carry your country's wealth to the occident. You would still have to send your family money, because they're impoverished.”

“Yes, but what can we do?”

“That's a good start. We can ask that question.”

Côte d'Ivoire came in the room and looked at my empty bunk.

“America?!” Côte d'Ivoire shouted. I stood up from Sengal's bed.

“Côte d'Ivoire, ça va?”

“Oui, oui, ça va. Someone's called for you.” he walked toward me and handed me his telephone.

“Merci!,” I said to him.

“Hello, it's Evy. How are you?”

“I'm well, still in jail. What's the word? Have you spoken with the lawyers?”

“Yes, they're doing their best. They've put in an appeal two days ago, but they're still waiting for a response. They think it should be another three or four days before they receive a response. But they said because of your illegal arrest that the appeal should be successful. You'll be able to be released and free to move about until your trial. How are you though? Do you need anything?”

“I just want to get out of here and continue my work again, in Sheikh Jarrah. If you can hurry that process it would be great.”

“We'll do our best.”

“How are the Al-Kurds?”

“As good as they can be. They have another trial concerning their eviction in about a week. So, we'll see, but it doesn't look good.”

“Well, with my personal experience, I can't really say that I have to much faith in the legal processes of this state. Especially concerning justice for the indigenous population and little more when it comes to my case. But we'll see.”

“Ok, hang in there.”

“Yeah.”

Egypt

“Hello, can you hear me?” Egypt said

“What did you say?”

“Hang on!” Egypt slammed the receiver of the telephone against the phone booth three times in rapid succession.

“Can you hear me?” Egypt asked.

“Yes, I can hear you. Can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I can hear you. What the fuck is going on? It's been two weeks now and this guy hasn't budged. I'm eating this shit food, in a fucking prison! And to top it off, I'm not getting any information from this fucker! Why am I here?”

“Well, try harder. Why isn't he moving. Isn't he afraid or tired of being in prison?”

“I don't know why he hasn't left yet. Are you putting pressure on him to leave?”

“Yes, of course I'm putting pressure on him to leave. But it doesn't seem to be working. He stays in his bed all day long. He seems unaffected by everything I do or anything else that's happening around him. And what about his appeal? Have they accepted it?”

“I'm not really sure. I know his lawyers have put in for the appeal a few days ago or maybe a week, but I'm not sure if it was accepted. But have you asked him?”

“Yes, but he doesn't know anything. He keeps telling me he's waiting for a response from them. And what about the judge in here? Is he on the level? Has he been putting pressure on the kid?”

“Yes, of course. He knows what's happening. And yes he's been putting pressure on him, but really it's up to you to get him gone. So, get going, huh?”

“Listen, it's been two weeks now that I haven't seen my wife or son. And you tell me to get going? Go fuck yourself!”

“Yeah, yeah, well you don't get out until he gets out. And we want him to leave on a plane and not take this to court, so like I said before, get going!”

“Like I said before go fuck yourself!”

“Eh, get going!”

Egypt took the receiver and repeatedly slammed against the phone booth. The noise filled the courtyard so that everyone stopped to look at the man. A silence fell over the men. The only noise was the ping-pong ball bouncing back and forth across the table. The players seemed unaffected by the outburst.

After a moment Egypt look around himself and realized that the men were watching his actions.

“My lawyer.” Egypt announced.

Côte d'Ivoire

It was another particularly beautiful day. There sun was bright and it's light shone on the far wall of the courtyard. The heat of the day rose up from the ground outside. And a slight cool draught pushed you out the door as you left the cell-block. Lunch had been better than normal that day and my full belly didn't hinder my will to circulate outside.

It seemed as if the other men felt the same way as the courtyard rang with the cacophony of voices; rising and falling; laughter and silence. Even Senegal had left his bed to come out and enjoy the weather. He was slouched against a wall smoking, when I approached him.

“What are you smoking for? You want to die faster?” I asked him.

“What else is there to do in here?”

“You didn't get enough pleasure from the nice lunch and the hot air?”

“No, it's never enough. Nice lunch? It's pretty hard to fuck up a hard-boiled egg and rice with vegetables from a can.”

“Yes, but even still, it was better than usual, no?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“You think we'll ever see Europe?” I asked.

“I thought you didn't care if you left this place.”

“Well, it seems that was where we were headed when we quit our homelands. I don't know. I'm just asking if you think it's possible.”

“Yeah, I know, but everywhere I stopped I wasn't wanted. Even here. I started teaching so I could make a little money to head north and then west into europe. But, fuck, I was tired. I found some money, a roof. It wasn't half bad. Really I had forgotten about the goal of my departure. In the sense, I had forgotten about where I wanted to go. France that is. It wasn't perfect here, but it was a little bit better. So, I don't know.”

“Did I ever tell you about the oil rigs in Libya?”

“No, I don't think so,” he said.

“I found some work in Libya working for an oil company.”

“I thought you didn't find any work in Libya?”

“It was only three days. Hang on, I'll tell you. So, I found a little work on these oil rigs, but it almost killed me. They really didn't know what they were doing. There was fire everywhere, it was loud, I think they were having problems controlling the pressure. So I was there for three days, almost shitting my pants with the fear of death every moment I was working. On the third day, I still hadn't found my confidence and the men I worked for didn't make me feel like I could trust their experience. So, about mid-morning on that day, they men came running to me and told me I had to leave. I asked about my pay and they said I would get nothing. They had these big wrenches they were threatening me with. And they kept looking back. I saw there were some other men who were examining the plant. I think they were from the government and would have found that I was illegal. So, I left without arguing further. I didn't sleep too far from the plant that night. And in the middle of the night I was woken up by a massive explosion! The whole plant was up in flames! I guess I was lucky. But really in that moment, I wasn't thinking about going to Europe any more.”

“Yeah, I guess that's what happens. You find a good thing and you forget about what you had planned to do. I bet you got into that job thinking you would use the money to keep going. Like I did with the job here. But then it just becomes what you do,” he said.

“Maybe, I don't know.”

“Ok, everybody back to your cells! We're locking up now!” Shouted one of the guards helpers. Some of the men didn't move right away. Niether did Senegal or myself.

“C'mon! Let's go! Get moving!” They shouted again as the guards looked on leaning against the wall.

“Why do you think they do the guards' jobs for them?” Senegal asked me.

“Well, they'll probably get out faster and have a good reference with the Ministry of the Interior.”

“Yes, but these are the men who have been here the longest.”

America

“Yeah, I know these processes take time, but you've told me a few more days every four days for nearly two weeks now,” I said to my lawyer.

It was a rude awakening this morning when Côte d'Ivoire burst into our cell shouting “America!” and pushing a cell phone up to my groggy eyes. Even so it was contact with the outside world. I always held hope when my lawyers called. Hope that this would be the time when the would tell me my appeal was accepted and I could know how long I had to wait in jail or if I would make bail.

“Yes, I know, but my legal team and I, we've written a brilliant appeal and we just have to wait to see if it's accepted. I don't know why the judge is taking so long, but we'll see … soon,” he replied.

“Ok, well, you really think fighting this process is worth it?”

“Yes, this could be a very big win for us.”

“Us?”

“Yes, for … the struggle … for a just peace here. If you win it could set a precedent for other internationals who are facing deportation. It could make you all more effective here.”

“Well, alright. Maybe you're rigth, maybe it'll help. I'll be here, but they're putting pressure on me to leave.”

“Don't worry. Just a few more days and you'll be out.”

“Ok, well, ciao … thanks.”

“Ciao, ciao.”

The sunlight didn't filter through the bars and windows at this early hour, but it's sterile, indirect light let us see. It was sometime after lunch and before dinner. The men had roused themselves for the most part. Walking through the corridor to find Côte d'Ivoire to return his telephone, I caught glimpses of the other men's lives in their cells. Most of them loafed on their beds watching television. Some were engaged in private and seemingly intense conversations.

I passed Egypt's cell. He was leading a bible study group with four other men. The were all the guards' helpers.

I found Côte d'Ivoire in the last cell on the right near the exit to the courtyard. He was laying in his bed reading his Koran.

“Thanks for coming to find me. Here's your phone,” I said.

“Who was it? Your parents?” He asked.

“No, it was one of my lawyers.”

“How many lawyers do you have?”

“Two I think.”

“What did they say?”

“What they always say: a few more days.”

“Relax, don't worry. Everything is taken care of in here. Have a nice vacation from life.”

“You reading about what's awaiting us after we leave this world?” I asked him.

“Yes, Paradise. It should be nice.”

“Lovely! What happens there?”

“Sun, beaches, women. You know Paradise. Relaxation, no work. Things of this nature.”

“Have you ever thought that you might be wrong? What if this life is all we get? You want to spend it in here, rotting?”

“Well, it's better than out there. At least I have a bed and food in here. I don't worry if I eat or sleep in the rain.”

“Yes, but you can't leave.”

“I couldn't leave that situation out there either. It was the same everywhere I went from Côte d'Ivoire until here. It'll be the same everywhere I go. So, why not just read my book and look forward to a life after this shitty one?”

“Maybe it could be different.” He immediately started to laugh at me hysterically after I said this. After a few moments his laughter subsided

“You know how the world works? You know what your country does to the rest of the world? And you think it could be different? You're silly.”

“So what do we do sit here and rot, while the rest of the world rots around the walls of the prison? Is that your answer?”

“Well, it sure is easier than being apart of it.”

“You're still apart of it in here.”

“Yes, but I don't have to do anything in here. Out there I have to answer to someone else to survive.”

“And in here you have to answer to the guards and their helpers. You have to do what they say you have to do when they say it. It's the same as out there, but now there's no way out.”

“Well, it's easier in here.”

“So, you choose confinement, because there's no possible way to change the way this world works. But wouldn't your life be more interesting if you did something out there. Did something against the giant machine that turns the world? Even if you failed miserably. Isn't that better than wasting your life behind these bars.”

“Maybe, but I don't have lawyers. I don't know how I'll get out or when. So, I'll just read about the Paradise that awaits me.”

Senegal

I had gone back to sleep after breakfast. The day was like the rest. We could tell it was day time but other than that we only knew it was between breakfast and lunch. His boisterous voice had woken me up from my pre-lunch nap. He was talking with the men who had recently arrived from Togo, believe.

They had been a part of a drum group performing here but their visas had expired before they ended their tour. They were hoping not to be here very long. But these men were talking with Egypt who rarely came into our cell other than to discuss with America.

I could see through my sleep-filled eyes that they were motioning in my direction while talking to this man. I closed my eyes for a bit longer, but I couldn't find sleep anymore.

When I woke up Egypt was standing at the foot of my bed with his hand on the top bunk watching the television across the room. It was the mid-morning news it seemed. Images of burning barricades and youth throwing stones towards those filming rolled over the screen. Every-so-often a grenade of tear gas landed near them. Sometimes it went whizzing passed their heads, like a large bullet. We could never see who was shooting though as the camera seemed to be just next to the shooter. I sat up and rubbed my face.

“Good morning,” Egypt said.

“Good morning,” I responded.

“Say, I was talking with your friends over there and they told me that you talk with America from time to time.”

“Yes, a little here and there. He's fairly quiet though.”

“Yes, I've noticed. Well, I was talking with the guard today and he told me that America can fly back to his home whenever he wants, but he won't sign the paper to fly. That's strange, isn't it?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Well, the guard is pretty interested in why he won't fly. He said that if I can find out why then maybe he can help get citizenship here. And maybe if people help me then they could get the same.”

“Hmm, well, I don't know. He said that there had been some kind of mistake when he was arrested and that he wanted to clear it all up before he left. So, he could come back if he wanted to.”

“Yes, but don't you think it's strange that he chooses to stay in here, in prison, rather than flying back to the US?”

“I guess so, but it's his business. Why don't you ask him?”

“I have and he's told me the same thing you told me. So, I thought that I'd ask, since the guard asked me. And maybe we could try to find out together. It could help us get out of here.”

“I don't really care. And I don't believe it will help us get out of here. The guard is probably lying to you. You can ask him if you want to. But I don't think it will help. He's told me the same thing that he's told you.”

“Well, if he says anything, we should talk to the guard.”

“You talk to the guard.”

“Right, well, see you later.”

“Yeah, later.”

America

Our door was open by the time I woke up and we were free to roam the courtyard. The somber gray light filtered through the clouds ever so slightly. But it's lack of direct contact with the air that surrounded us produce a fresh, light chill. The cellblock bustled with shouts and men walking back and forth. It was a canteen day. The men could buy cigarettes, coffee, soaps, tea, canned meat or whatever else the store held. I stayed in bed for most of that morning. Senegal and I sat in silence and watched the movies repeat that we had watched the night before.

Soon, the guards began calling men to visit the judge. Another trial was to begin, for most of us. I went to the courtyard to await my turn to see the judge. Although, I had already seen him three times in the 2 weeks I had been there, they always wanted me to talk to him whenever he came to pass some hours in his courtyard office.

The atmosphere was the same as always. The colonist lawyers came to visit, what they seemed to consider, the unfortunate migrants. Some men lamented because they hadn't seen the judge in more than a few weeks. Others were engaged in serious discussions in front of the canteen or next to the lawyers.

I was sitting silently smoking a cigarette and watching the folie. When I notice that two of the men were heatedly debating and pointing in my direction. When we met eyes, I nodded with confusion. One of the men started to approach me and waved goodbye to the other.

“Hello, you're from America, right?” He asked.

“Yes, I'm from the United States.” I responded.

“Listen, I have a problem. I've been here for some months now and it doesn't seem like I'm going to get out. You see, I'm a citizen of former Yugoslavia. I left before 1992 and came here. However, I never became a citizen of this state. I've served in the army here, but it doesn't matter. They won't let me out.”

“I'm really sorry to hear that.”

“Come with me,” he said.

“Ah...” He set off towards his cell rather quickly and I followed shortly after. Upon entering his cell. I waved hello to the rest of his cellmates as he rifled through a stack of documents he kept under his bed.

“Here, here. Look, this is from the UN.” He handed me a document with official stamps everywhere that certified him as a “state-less” person. It was hard for me to understand that these kinds of situations could exist.

“Jesus! That's fucking awful!” I said.

“Yes, I've been in here months and they don't know what to do with me. They won't let me become a citizen here and the can't send me anywhere because I have no state.”

“I'm really sorry to hear that.”

“Well, my wife and I want to go to America to live. But there's no way we can get in. Do you know how to get into America?”

“Listen, America's just like any other Western country or colony. It's not going to be any different there. We have millions of immigrants living illegally in the United States and there life is very, very hard. It would be the same for you and your wife.”

“Yes, but how do they get into America?”

“They come from South America mostly and cross from Mexico. But now there's really only one entry point and that's in Arizona. You'd cross into a desert. There's not much water and many people with guns trying to protect the borders they've already stole. It's a lot like here.”

“Well, can you help us?”

“I wouldn't know where to start. I'm sorry.”

“You can't do anything?”

“Don't go through the desert, please. That's all I ask.”

“Maybe it's better if we enter from Canada?” He asked.

“Yes, maybe going from Canada to Michigan or something like this is better.”

“Ok, thank you! Thank you! We'll try that!”

He opened his phone and called to his wife. He was rather ecstatic. But he was still in this prison and hadn't formulated his way out. I walked back to the courtyard.

Senegal

I was sleeping heavily after the meager breakfast. Something about the feeling of food in my belly always pushed me back to sleep. The men moved about around me and the TV played the movies again from the night before. But all of this was of little importance to me. The feeling of slipping back into a comfortable sleep was one of the few pleasures I really enjoyed now.

I awoke suddenly with the guard standing over me, shouting my name.

“C'mon! On your feet! Put your shoes on! It's time to speak with the judge!” The guard said.

“Are you sure there's no mistake? I just saw the judge the other day. I think he knows my situation.” I responded.

“No questions! Let's go!”

“Yes, yes. I'm putting my shoes on.” We walked silently down the corridor and out to the courtyard. It was an odd day. There was a lot of activity. The canteen was open today and some of us had to see the judge. Normally there were different days for these things. But that day the men weren't only arranging the wares they had bought from the canteen, but also, again, discussing their legal documents among themselves. This brought a strange mix of energies coming from these cells and in the courtyard.

The men returning from the canteen shared their products with their cellmates. Sometimes boastfully, sometimes with an aire of solidarity. They were surrounded by other anxious men trying desparately to revel in the hope that today would be different when they spoke with judge. Or those returning defeatedly after again finding no hope to leave this place or this country. Outside as always were the lawyers. But also the large clump of men in front of the canteen. The voices rose and fell as some of the men tried to skip the queue in order to buy their products first. Sometimes the men yelled and drove them back. Other times the men didn't care and let the man pass in front of them. It all depended on who they put themselves in front of. This was a strange practice that I didn't understand.

The canteen never ran out of products and the men never had to go back to their cells until everyone that was waiting in line had been served.

They guard open the door to the judge's office and waited for me to go inside and seat myself before closing the door and meandering about the courtyard.

“Good morning,” the judge began, “it's time for your trial again.”

“Good morning. I don't understand this. Why I'm here that is. I was just here last week and nothing has changed. Is this a different trial?”

“I just have some questions for you, that's all. You answer them and then you can go about your day. Do you want to leave here?”

“Like the last time I was here, I answered 'yes', nothing has changed.”

“Ok, Do you have some money for a flight back to Senegal?”

“I'm not answering this question or the questions that follow, because my responses will be exactly the same as the last time I was here.”

“You have to answer the questions.” The judge told me. I sat silently.

“Do you have money for a flight back to Senegal?” He asked again. “Please don't make me call the guard in here. Do you have money for a flight back to Senegal?” I continued to sit silently.

“Ok, I'll call the guard then. Guard!” The guard came in. He burst through the door as if he expected some sort of violent confrontation.

“This man refuses to answer my questions.” The judge told the guard.

“You have to answer the questions.” The guard said to me.

“He has my answers. Nothing has changed since the last time I was in here. I don't know why I have to answer the same questions if nothing has changed.”

“Listen, I don't want to have to make you answer the questions. But being in cell completely alone isn't fun.” The guard said as he moved his hand on top of his baton. We sat silently for a minut more.

“I have no money for a flight home. My family has no money to send me for the flight. I want to be back outside, working, teaching here in this country. If that's not possible, please bring me to the northern border and I'll continue my travels from there.”

“Ok, perfect. You've answered the questions I wanted to ask. We can't let you out into our country because you're not legal. And you won't be legal in north of our border either.”

“I know.”

Egypt

“Listen,” the egyptian man began, “this makes another week that I haven't seen my family. Another week that I've had to eat this food. Another week the guards woke me up at six in the morning to count me. Another week in here! And this kid isn't telling me anything! What is the point to stay here?”

He hovered over the telephone epectantly as the courtyard bustled around him. He didn't seem affected by the noise or movement of the other men, the lawyers or the queue for the canteen.

“I know, I know.” The man on the other end of the telephone said. “You've been in there quite some time and it's not fun. But it's for the sake of national security. C'mon, he can't last much longer.”

“Well neither can I! I think I want to leave soon.”

“You can't leave until your mission is finished. We need names and places and we need this kid gone. Out of the country. When you do that you can leave.”

“And what if I want to leave before that?”

“Impossible. You have to continue your work inside.”

“What if I stop the work I'm doing here?”

“How's your cousin?”

“Fine. Why?”

“Well, I found a file about his citizenship status. It seems he served in the army and did well, but he never received his documentation to receive benefits or even live legally here. He's been in a legal limbo for neither 30 years. It looks like his case could go either way. He could receive his papers and his benefits or he could be deported. His family would have to go with him as well. Do you want that I call him? We could talk to him together?”

“No!”

“Well, like I said, his case could go either way. I have some sway as you know. Maybe if you keep working, when you come out he'll receive a surprise letter in the mail. What do you think?”

“Yeah, sounds nice.”

“Ok, then. You should see the judge soon. Tell him what you need, if there's anything.”

“Yeah, right.”

Côte d'Ivoire

I looked up from my reading to see Senegal pass my cell. He was going back to his room. I thought he was probably going to sleep or to watch television, but he crossed my cell again going to the courtyard.

My cell was rather empty that day. The guards had been taking men out throughout the morning and the men seemed not to want to return. The air smelled fresh, so I assumed the courtyard was more appealing than our cramped cells.

I watched a guard enter our room and look at me silently for a moment.

“Your turn!” He finally said to me.

“What are we doing?” I asked

“You have to see the judge today.” He replied. There was never any point to this interaction, but I always went anyway. It would be over after a few minutes and my situation would remain the same. I jumped out of bed and followed the guard to the judge's office.

“Do you have any money to pay for a flight back to your country?” The judge began.

“No, I have no money. It should be written there that I was living on the street selling lemons to buy food before I was put in here.”

“Ahh, yes it's right here. Ok, well do you have any family members anywhere who can pay for your flight home?”

“Unfortunately, no. I left my family because we had no money.” He seemed to taking careful notes of the interaction. He made these notes each time we talked. The others made the same notes each time I had talked to them. The file they had with my name on it was thick and had all the papers from each interview I had made before.

“All of this information should be written there in the dossier. Is something missing?”

“Ahh, yes. It's all here.” He told me as he flipped through some of the other pages.

“So, if you have all of the information, why do you ask me again?”

“It's procedure. We want to ensure that nothing has changed in your case. We want to try to get you out of here as fast as possible. So, we try to make these interviews often.”

“When do you think you'll let me out of here?”

“Well, as soon as you have the money to fly home.”

“I don't have any money.”

“Well, as soon as you family has enough money to buy you a ticket to fly home.”

“My family doesn't have any money.”

“Well, we'll see then. But we'll take care of you until we can find a solution for you case. I've taken careful notes for our next interview or in case you get a new judge. Ok?”

“Yeah, sounds great.”

“Until then you can enjoy the sun in the courtyard.”

“Well the sun never comes in the courtyard.”

“Ok, it's a beautiful day anyhow. You take some fresh air.”

“Yes, I suppose I can. Have we finished?”

“Yes, Have a good day.”

“The same to you.” The guard opened the door and let me out. I followed him as he went to search another person from a different cell to bring to the judge.

I thought about spending some time in the courtyard for a while. But there was a swelling madness there. The canteen was open and the lawyers were here.

There were shouts and yells coming from the queue of the canteen. Hands were fluttering through the air demanding their friends to buy some extra cream for their skin or whatever else they might need.

Heated translations were being made to facilitate communication with the lawyers. Sometimes three or four languages had to be used for everyone to understand each other. I wondered if they really were agreeing on the same things. But when the angered flared the speed of the translations augmented. And the threat of violence beaming through the guards' eyes was enough to subdue any disagreement.

I found my cell and closed the window to the courtyard.

America

Our cell was empty during the late morning. Only Senegal and myself stayed watching the films we had watched last night. We stared blankly and without words at the screen. We could hear the rumbling bustle just outside our cell door. It was a strange cacophony of languages that seemed to get stronger as one walked the long hallway to the courtyard.

Then a different sound arose. It was the guards keys jangling as he approached our end of the cell-block. I hoped he would stop before the noise reached our end of the hallway. But the sound crescendo and only stopped when the bald guard put half of his body into our cell.

His eyes found me. They were filled with intensity for no apparent reason. He pointed his finger at me and I slowly descended my bunk.

After preparing myself to walk the hallway and courtyard, he lead me to the judge's office. As we passed the other men's cells, it was apparent what today was. They all held papers which were assumably from the state that incarcerated them. They were speaking heatedly with their friends in their cells. They seemed to try to work out some impossible problem. The papers they held were the only clues to the solution.

But this was a repeated scene. Each time never seemed to bring any of these men closer to their solution.

The lawyers had returned and repeating their same ballet as the week before. But this week an odd event coincided with the arrival of the lawyers. The canteen was open.

There was a mob surrounding the canteen. Sometimes pushing or shouting matches would erupt, but they quickly subdued themselves. The men involved knew that there was the constant threat that the canteen would be closed if there was too much trouble. Or worse yet, there was always the spectre of the threat of violence hanging on the belts of the guards. The guards would sometimes merely cast a telling look at these men and slide their hands across the billy club or the pepper spray or whatever was strapped to themselves. This was mostly all that was needed to restore their order.

The guard opened the door and pushed me into the sweaty office with the fat, greasy judge.

“Sit down,” he said. I took the chair across from him.

“Well, you've been with us for another week now. Your lawyer's not here, but you are. Why don't you sign this paper and go back home. You don't belong here with these men.” He pushed the paper and the pen across the desk.

“Well, my lawyers have put the appeal in on my behalf and now I'm just waiting to see if it's acepted.”

“That could take some time.”

“Well, like I told you I think there's been a mistake and I want to try to rectify it.”

“What do you mean there was a mistake?”

“There was a mistake about me being arrested.”

“Yes, but how?”

“It should be in the file. I've explained this to many people.”

“Yes, it says here you feel there was a mistake, but why were they mistaken?”

“Listen, I was visiting Sheikh Jarrah when the police grabbed me and arrested. I returned the next week to ask the families why I was arrested and what was happening in their neighborhood. While I was taking tea with them and they were explaining to me. The police grabbed me, arrested me, held for hours, and then they charged me with things that happened after I was arrested. This was the mistake. And this is why I won't sign.”

“Well, that's a nice story, but I don't think it's going to help you. The police report says that you were involved in an illegal demonstration. You have to fly home and you can. Why not sign?”

“Because it would admit guilt to something I never did.”

“Well, you don't belong here with these men.”

“Yes, I agree I don't belong here. But why do these other men belong here?”

“Ok, you don't want to sign, we'll talk later. But this isn't a place for you and you should leave soon.”

“I'll try my best to get out quickly.”

Senegal

The cell was empty except for me. They had taken America to see the judge. The images rolled before me on the television screen. They were the same images as the night before. Normally, this didn't bother me, but in this moment it was different. There was no one else to share this lonliness, this repetition. However, there was a hum of conversations penetrating the cell from the courtyard. This noise was an alluring contrast to my solitude. I put on my shoes and went to the courtyard.

The scene hadn't changed much since I had seen the judge. The men were enjoying the things they had purchased from the canteen. Some of them shared with their friends. Others used the things they bought as tools of power and control over their friends.

The products they bought all had the same manufacturer. There wasn't much choice. This was the only place the men could buy what the needed, or more exactly, what they desired. But everything they bought was of the same brand. It was a monopoly this company had over these men who had no escape. And the only cigarettes, most of these men could afford were the national cigarette of the colony.

I was sitting near the end of queue to the canteen, when some men shoved ahead of those in the back. Some men said some things to the men pushed to the front, but as their voices rose the guard shot a curious glance in our direction and the dispute ended abruptly.

Côte d'Ivoire came out from the cell-block and saw me across the courtyard. We watchd the spectacle quietly for a moment.

“It's just like Africa. There's no justice. If they want something, they take it,” Togo said to us. I noddded.

“He's right,” said Côte d'Ivoire. “But it's not just Africa. It's everywhere, isn't it? We all just take. And if we don't then the others take from us.”

“Yes, but it's not their fault. It's all they've ever known. Why do you think they're here. Everything was taken from them. Their land. Everything that was on their land and inside of it. Maybe it would have been different had they not been made to flee and put in this awful place. And look it's not all of them who push to the front.”

“They would if they could. But they're being watched. They know they're being watched. This is how we work, how the world works. You take as much as you can, as fast as you can. Nothing can change that,” said Côte d'Ivoire.

“No, you're wrong. These men have been made this way. It's not their fault. And it could be different. Whether or not they're being watched.”

America exited the judge's office and walked over to us.

“How was it with judge?” I asked him.

“Same as the last time.” The same men began to push further to the front. One man's anger flared drawing a curious and menacing look from the guard.

“What an ugly scene,” America said.

“Yes, but it's the same the world over. You can see this in every corner of the globe. It's our nature. We can't escape who we are,” Côte d'Ivoire said.

“Why do you keep saying this? These men and all of us have only known struggle. Struggle to have just enough to live. So, they've had to squabble amongst themselves to attain it. If their lives had been different, they would be different,” I said.

“But how can we know? The reality these men have experienced is the same reality the rest of have experienced everywhere else. How can we know if these men would have been different?” Asked America.

“This can't be how we are, if were left to our devices. We're not this ugly,” I said.

“This is us. This is who we are. We fight amongst ourselves for the little bit we're allowed to fight for. The little these guards give us,” said Côte d'Ivoire.

“It seems to me that maybe that's the problem. We always fight over the little they give. We never ask ourselves why they only give us these scraps,” America said.

The guards started to close in on the canteen and herded us back to our cells.

The television had been changed. Images of stone-throwing youth in front of burning barricades streamed in front of us. These youth were in the distance. The soldiers shot and the youth scattered. One of them fell motionless to the ground.

Egypt

Egypt was waiting quietly in his cell, when the guard found him to see the judge. He led the prisoner down the corridor, through the bustling courtyard and put him in the small, sweaty room across the desk from the judge.

“Sit down,” the judge said. “So, what's happening? Do you have some information about the American?”

“No, I have nothing I can tell you beyond what we already know. Have you been trying to convince him to fly?”

“Yes, of course. Like they asked us, we've been trying to use subtle tactics of intimidation, trying to raise his level of fear. Have you been doing your part?”

“Of course. But I can't seem to get much of a reaction from him. He stays fairly silent for the most part.”

“With me too.”

“Can you do something else? Something to give me more access to him. Can we have more time in the courtyard each day? More time where the cells are open?”

“No, I'm afraid we can't.”

“Jesus Christ! Not just for what I have to do, but for my sanity too! Fucking hell, I've been in here for more than two weeks now! All we do is sit in these cells and watch the fucking television all day long!”

“Shhh!” The judge said. “They'll hear us out there.”

“I don't fucking care! I'm going mad in here!”

“Listen, we'll try to do something. But we can't open the cells for any longer. You just keep making your bible study group. We'll have the guards helpers come and study with you, so it's more inticing for the others. And we'll do our best to think of some other way to give you more access to him. Ok?”

“Yeah, ok. I understand. But you have to understand that I've been here for weeks, without my freedom, without my family, without my life. It takes it's toll. But the worsst thing is, I feel like i'm making no progress at all. He doesn't speak. He does become afraid. He tells me nothing about his process. I don't know what I'm doing here.”

“Yes, yes. We'll do our best to get you closer to him. You just do your best to do your job.”

“Ok, but you please realize that I don't belong here and I feel like I'm here for nothing.”

“You have no idea how often I hear that exact phrase.”

Eritrea

My cell was one of the last in the block and the smallest. I had only three other men inside with me. They were from thailand. I understand nothing of their conversations. And there weren't many men in here who understood the languages that I spoke.

The conversations droned on in thai around me. I just stared at the bunk above me. My hands behind my head and my legs outstretched. I would do nothing today like the days before and the days that would follow. I was amazed at how much noise there was in this place. The televisions blared sound from each room. Our cell was no exception. Although there was no one watching the TV, the voices of the actors or news anchors droned on. They apparently spoke for no one as the thai men listened to on another and I refused to look at the screen.

Clank! Clank! Three guards entered our cell silently and smacked their batons on the metal pole of my bunk. I turned to look at them without expression. They didn't deserve expression from me.

“You're turn to see the judge,” one guard said to me. I turned my eyes back to the bunk above me silently.

“Hey! Put on your fucking shoes and let's go to see the judge!” Another guard said to me. I didn't understand their words but I knew what they wanted from me. I wasn't going to go again. It had been the same since I arrived here. There was no point to go. The guards began to talk amongst themselves in their tongue and then they stopped, looked at me and put their hands on their bludgeons hanging from their belts.

“Jesus Christ he smells! When was the last time he showered?” One asked.

“Last chance,” one said. I laid silent and motionless. They looked at each other and then pounced on me. One guard took my lower and the other tried to pin my arms to my chest. I flailed my limbs to resist being moved. But I soon felt the sharp blow of the butt of the bludgeon of the third guard on the left side of my rib cage. My breath flew out of me. And then another blow to the same area and finally a third. With the final blow all went black.

When I opened my eyes again. I found myself sprawled on the floor of the judge's office. One of the guards was splashing water on my face.

“There you go. Bon jour!” The guard said. They picked me up and put me in the chair opposite the judge.

“Hello, how are you today?” The judge asked me. I stared silently into his eyes.

“Ok, no response,” he continued. “Do you want to leave this place?” I gave him no response nor did I change my piercing gaze.

“No response. Do you have any money for a flight home? Does your family have any money for a flight home for you?” He asked.

I didn't understand his words, but I knew the were the same questions I was always asked before. I stopped explaining years ago, that my family was dead because I left. He had all of this written there. I didn't want him to see the rage that was bubbling up within me. I didn't want him to have the pleasure of knowing he could affect me. So, I just held my gaze.

“No response. Well, this is no use. You might as well take him back to his cell. It's the only place he seems to want to be.” The three guards standing behind me moved towards me. It was very quick, because the office was much too small for the five of us.

I flailed my limbs again. I felt the blunt end of the baton slap the right side of my jaw. It quickly came back and hit the otherside of my face. The black washed over me again.

I awoke to find myself in my bed again. There was a pool of blood on my bed under my head. It was oozing from my mouth.

I turned over on my other side to escape the blood stain and groaned heavily in the process. My side ached from the first blows. The men from thailand turned to look at me.

I reached into my mouth to feel the injury they inflicted upon me. Each side of my jaw was sore, but a molar on the left side was almost completely dislodged. I took little effort to remove it and throw it on the floor.

I only had so many teeth. They could have them if that's what they wanted. And after they're gone what else could they take from me? My life? At least then I wouldn't have to feel these feelings. But they won't get the satisfaction of my speaking to them, or walking where they tell me to, when they tell me, and I wanted them to have to smell this stink everytime they wanted me to do anything.

That was their punishment. I payed with my teeth. But I wouldn't move for them, they wouldn't see my fear, and this is my freedom.

America

The grey rainy day felt right. Our doors were locked after lunch and the men laid lazily in their beds. Somehow the constant drizzle outside, the overcast sky, letting only the light to filter through opaquely, fit well with our silent room. All eyes fixed on the television. There was no need for anything else; neither movemnt nor speech.

Something in the gravity of the images seemed to escape the other men though. Maybe the didn't even realize the were watching anything, but their eyes gave no signs that they were affected by the scenes that passed before them.

Activists from the occident had gone to Egypt. They seemed to have wanted to march to Gaza from this neighboring country. The were apparently trapped in Cairo. The Egyptian power structure had barred them from leaving.

The images that we saw were those of Egyptian secret police dragging white-faced foreigners from intersections as the tried to block traffic. At one point, the demonstrators seemed to move towards Gaza only to be blocked by the police. Upon realizing their attempts were futile, the retreated to their embassies. They occupied these embassies in attempt to put pressure on their governments in order to put pressure on Egypt to allow the march to happen. In the end, their attempts would be in vain.

The heavy metal clanking and sliding roused the men from their hypnosis. The guards were opening our door at an odd time. The irregularity in routine piqued the interest of the men. One guard entered.

“Who's a christian in here?” The guard asked in three languages. About six men descended their bunks, including Senegal.

“Senegal, you're a christian?” I asked

“Yes, aren't you?”

“No.”

“Merry Christmas,” the guard began. “We have an activity planned for the christians today for your special holiday. Are there any other christians here? This is your last chance.” He said this in english and cast a strange stare in my direction.

“C'mon America. You can get out of the cell for a bit,” Senegal said. But I had no desire to pretend to be religious just to leave my cell.

“No, it's not for me.”

The men lined up and followed the guard out of the cell. I noticed three more had become christians. The metal slid heavily into place after the guard had closed the door. The cell seemed more silent than before. Even though none of us were talking. Maybe it was their respiration that my ears missed, but it felt more empty than that.

The rain pittled rythmically outside, lulling the men to sleep. I fell victim to it's seductive cadence as well.

The heavy metal sliding and shifting awoke me from my nap. The men filed in. I noticed night had fallen, but the rain hadn't let up. I found Senegal's eyes.

“How was it?” I asked him

“Good we went to another cell-block and sang songs, had mass and did some drawings.” He held up something that looked like a child's art project from preschool. I noticed that the other men had the same in their hands.

“Senegal, you're quite a picasso. Is it for sale?” I asked. He laughed as he mounted his bed. After ten minutes of talking (more or less interogations of what had happened outside the cell), the room fell silent again.

The same images passed on the television, that had passed when they were leaving. The pale activists trying to march from Egypt to one of the world's largest open-air prisons. We knew how this story was to end, but we watched anyway.

Clouds of smoke left the men's mouth as they laid in their beds silently smoking and watching.

Senegal

The led us christians out of the cell. We waited with a small group at the end of the hall as the guards fetched the rest of the men claiming to have faith. After the last door slammed shut, the guards took us into the courtyard. The rain was falling steadily and we were taken around the edges of the courtyard to the door on the other side. The eaves of the roof kept us dry.

We entered a large work-room were some 70 men were speaking to each other awaiting the start of something that was to take place on the small stage in front us. The men from my cell-block took their seats together as we were instructed by the guards.

After ten minutes mass started. Most of the men didn't understand what was being said, but the lead of the ones who did (or pretended they did). But a curious moment arrived when the priest first asked us to stand. Not one man stood up. It seemed as if none of us understood what the priest was saying. Finally he motioned with his hand and we rose from our chairs. A pause in his sermon insued when he asked to seat ourselves the first time as well. The next time he asked to stand one or two men remembered the command in the tongue the priest was using and stood. The caused a chain reaction and the rest got up from our seats. The same domino-like responsed followed the next moment when we were commanded to sit.

After we reccieved our communion and benediction, we were allowed a little break to eat cookies and drink juice. It was short-lived as the guards ushered back to our seats after 15 minutes or so.

A performance began after the props had been quickly put in place. The actors in the spectacle were light-faced colonists who recreated the birth of jesus. Unfortunatley, and strangely, the theatre piece was done in the tongue of the colonizers. Luckily, the men seemed to know the story and well and words were fairly unecessary.

We were fed more juice and cookies, and then led to an adjacent room with tables as well as chairs. The guards watch us as we took our seats. There were four people at the front of the room. One spoke and the others made translations in various tongues.

“Well, Merry Christmas to all of you,” they began. “We've put out some paper and markers. We'd like you all to draw some pictures of how Jesus has not forsken you on his birthday.”

I drew a picture of Jesus on the cross, but his skin color more closely matched mine.

“That's a beautiful picture,” a voice said from behind me. I turned to find Egypt.

“Thank you,” I replied. “I didn't know you were christian. I thought you were of the colonizers religion.”

“Yes, well, I talked with the guards and they understood that I needed some juice and cookies.”

“I see.”

“So, I was wondering if you had a chance to speak with the American anymore,” he said.

“Yes, I speak to him regularly.”

“Has he said anything about what his doing here?”

“No, he hasn't.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No, I've already had this conversation with him.”

“Listen, we don't belong here. We can get out if we can give some good information to the guard. Do you want to stay in here?”

“No, but the guard is lying. No matter what we learn. We're not going to get out of here. I'm sorry. Talk to America yourself.”

“You don't understand they're going to deport my cousin, if I can't find out about this American. I need your help.”

“I'm sorry, there's really nothing I can do. You'll have to talk to him yourself, but really I feel there's nothing to learn. And even if there is, I don't think it will help you.” With this he walked away quickly.

Our drawing time had ended. There were still some cookies that the let us take back to our cells. The guards led us out cell-block by cell-block. The rain persisted. And a steady set of metal clanking anounced our return to our cells.

Côte d'Ivoire

The rain pittered outside my window as the men passed my cell. There's was the last cell that the guards emptied. It was all the way at the end of the hall. I watched Senegal pass. There were quite a few of them from his cell. It looked like about ten men. I think less than five had left us. We were mostly Muslims.

The cell had fallen silent after the other men had left and the rain had lulled most of the men into listless sleep. They didn't move and some of them snored heavily. The images rolled pst the TV sceen; commercials about soap and tea.

I attempted to read my Koran. However , then sound of the pattering rain on the pavement just outside our window began to take it's effect on me. I caught myself slipping into a deceptive slumber.

Each time my eyes closed, I would immediately began dreaming that I was still reading my Koran in my bed, in my cell. I tried to stop this cycle, but it was nearly impossible. I wanted to read. It made me feel more sure about my next life. It eased the fears I had about not being accepted into Paradise. I wanted to be the best Muslim I could be. Therein lied my salvation.

I fought the sleep with all the ferocity I could muster, but it kept arriving just the same. My head slipping back or to the side accompanied by those deceiving dreams.

Finally, the call to prayer sounded from the television. The sound emanating the divine authority made me rise to my feet and find the sink. I washed myself; my ears, my face, hands, arms, feet. Everthing that needed to be washed to prepare myself to speak with Allah.

The other Muslims in the room roused themselves a bit to hear the call to prayer. The saw me washing and turned over to go back to sleep. Allah was watching us all the time and saw their actions. He took note it was sure. Maybe in the end they'd be forgiven. But I had fear that I wouldn't be forgiven, so I wanted to toe the line to ensure my salvation.

I put down my prayer mat and began to prayer. I was alone and the others slept. This is what was necessary, five times a day. And Allah heard me. He heard all of us. And he missed our voices when we missed a prayer.

After the prayer, the rain continued and the men still slept comatose. I returned to my bed and my Koran. I was more awake now and could read in a more focused manner after the prayer. The comercials kept rolling passed me and lulling my cell-mates into deeper dreams.

The sleep was starting to find me again, when the heavy clanking of the cell doors began. The men were returning from their christmas excursion.

Ours was the third cell to be opened and the men entered quickly. The guard entered and saw all the men sleeping.

“On your feet! Guard in the room!” He bellowed.

All of the men deep in their sleep roused quickly and jumped down from their beds. Their eyes were full of sleep and their brains were still in another place.

“Count them,” one guard said to the other. They counted us and called off our names until we answered. A count such as this one was odd at this time of day.

“We are always watching you!” The lead guard began. “Do not forget this! No one leaves here until we say they can leave. You might have certain privileges depending on the season, but you are all ours.”

With this the guards left the room. There was the heavy-metal clanking accopany their departure. As they left. The men began to mount their beds and slip back into the sleep they had just left. I picked up my Koran and began to the read. The room fell silent except the tapping rain, the men's heavy breath and the hum and hub-bub of the television.

America

The lights had already been turned off. It was fairly early for this to happen. We had just finished mopping the floors only a half an hour before. The men never really seemed to wake up that day, myself included. Silence filled the room except the incessant droning of the television who made the conversation for us. And the steady rain too, beating lightly just outside our window. The heavier sound coming from the water rolling off the roof and smacking the ground.

“Smokes!” The guard called through the bars on the door. The youngest of us, the boy from Sudan, hopped out of bed to get the cigarettes. He was handed about a pack and half after some debate. He distributed two to every man.

I jumped from my bunk to smoke with Senegal.

“Can we share your ashtray?” I asked Senegal.

“Of course.” He sat up in his bed to make room for me to sit. He put his ashtray between us.

“Did you have a nice Christmas?” I asked him.

“Yes, they gave us some nice things today. Cookies, time to draw, a performance; that no one understood.” We both laughed.

“You think they could have given you something better. Something like a lawyer or a get-out-of-jail-free card.” We only chuckled this time.

“Yes,” he was quick to respond. After this we smoked in silence like the other men. We merely enjoyed the sounds and images that came from elsewhere. After I finished my cigarette I lingered only a minute or two more before climbing to the top of my bed.

“Bonne nuit. Fait des bons rêves.” I said in parting. He responded with the same.

The hot water came quickly after I laid down. Many of the men sprang up to get themselves some tea, but less than usual that night. I never had an appetite for tea at this hour. The commotion this caused quickly died down and the sipping sounds subsided shortly-there-after.

The tea commercial was back on again. I had seen it for the third time that day. The absence of laughter or chatting in the room was hypnotic. The other men felt it too. I looked around quickly and sleepily. Most of the men were in some state of dozing. The snoring had started yet. I turned my attention back to the television.

I don't know how long after, maybe minutes or hours, I awoke to the heavy-metal sliding and clanking of the door opening.

“Was it morning already? Had the guards come to make their count of our heads?” I wondered. It didn't feel like I had slept that long. This interuption had a bizarre feeling to it. I searched the other men's eyes and could see they shared my confusion.

“Everybody out of your bunks!” The guard bellowed. He was speaking english and strangely everyone obeyed him. Another guard came in and made the count, calling all of our names.

“Well, you've all been here for some time now. It's time for the group trial. Everybody's coming together. Hurry up! Get dressed and let's go!”

The men obeyed again and scrambled to make themselves ready. I followed in suit. After two minutes all the men were dressed and formed in a line in front of the door.

The men shuffled down the hall. The guards tried to hurry us, but it was nearly impossible for some of the men to keep up. Their muscles in their legs wouldn't allow their knees to bend. The rest of the men from our cell-block were waiting for us near the entrance of the courtyard. The guards put on their raincoats and opened the doors.

The rain pounded now. They brought us to the middle of the courtyard and made us wait for what seemed about ten minutes. The guards faces seemed to express the acknowledgment of our misery. The also seemed to revel in it.

After this we were bought to the main gate of Ramle Giv'on. We were again made to wait as the rain soaked through our clothes to our skin. A bus approached after another ten minutes and we were ushered on to it.

The hour was well before dawn. Perhaps even in the middle of the night. I had no idea.

“Do you know what time it is?” I asked the man next to me.

“I have no idea. I think it's about three. Maybe not.”

“It's strange we're going to a trial at this hour.”

“Yeah, I know.”

The bus clunked along for what seemed to be an hour. We reached the city on the sea and maneuvered through it to the center. We found the courthouse. There were hordes of people outside. Some with signs of support: “No one is illegal!” Others with signs of condemnation: “They took our jobs!”

Police in riot gear pushed the demonstrators to form a little gauntlet for us to exit the bus and enter the courthouse. The guards shoved us out of the bus and into the madness. Bottles and other objects flew towards us. Some of them hit the police and some of them hit us. I'm not sure who were the intended targets.

The Courtroom wasn't much different from outside except the people inside were better dressed. In any event the were no less rowdy. Most of them started laughing as we entered. The cacophony of laughter was oppressive as it echoed off the walls of the chamber. We were pushed through this madness up the aisle in the center. Their laughter was incessant as we were pushed to the front of the grand room and seated in front of the judge's bench.

We waited some minutes and the laughter climbed and dopped, but never ceased. It seemed as if the were always finding something new to entertain themselves. It was undubitely us who were the butt of their joke.

My cell-mates and I looked at eachother completely spell-bound. We couldn't understand the nature of the joke nor why we were brought to such a circus.

The baliff entered to announce the judge's entrance. Everyone rose to their feet and an odd silence fell over the courtroom. Our anxiety and the spectators expectation could be felt, as the man in the black robe entered, seated himself and told us to do likewise. We sat down and he shuffled through the pile of papers that sat before him. He looked at us with scrutiny as he flipped through pages. The silence held while the judge organized himself.

Then he slowly gazed down at us; each one of us. His hands were folded and placed on his chin. He said nothing and barely moved for nearly a minute. The silence in the room was unbearable. Each of us men felt the anxiety rippling out of the other.

He broke his gaze quickly and picked up the first paper in the pile.

“Senegal! Stand up!” The judge said. Senegal quickly stood up.

“How do you plea?” The judge asked.

“How do I plea? What is the charge?” Senagal asked. With this the courthouse erupted with viscious laughter. The boom of that first wave rippled through our stomachs. Most of my cell-mates and I jumped.

“Charge! I asked you how do you plea!” The judge bellowed.

“I don't have a lawyer,” said Senegal.

“Lawyer! I asked you how do you plea!”

“I don't know why I'm here.”

“How do you plea?!”

“Not guilty, then. I don't know what to say. I've committed no crime.” With these last words of Senegal. The constant laughter turned into an uproar. It seemed as if the spectators had heard the funniest joke of their lives. The judge's face seemed not to be affected, though.

“Ok, we'll come back to you then. Stay there!” The judge commanded. The shuffled through his papers. He began to read, pulling his glasses to the end of his nose and putting his hand over his mouth.

“Côte d'Ivoire, how do you plea?” The Judge demanded.

“Guilty. I did it all,” Côte d'Ivoire responded. A strange silence fell over the room. The judge stopped reading and looked at Côte d'Ivoire. His look displayed not shock or anger but a slight intrigue.

“Very well. Take him away,” the Judge commanded. The baliff took Côte d'Ivoire out of the room. The laughter had morphed into whispers and general discussion. The judge banged his gavel three times and order was restored. A silence insued as the judge studied the next piece of paper. At the end a slight smirk flashed across his face.

“Egypt. How do you plea?” The Judge asked. Only giggles could now be heard intermittently through the silence.

“Not guilty, your honor,” responded Egypt.

“Are you sure Egypt?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Ok, wait there then,” the Judge commanded with a slight smile. The sparse giggling continued for another minute as the Judge read the next paper.

“Eritrea, how do you plea?” The Judge asked. There was no response.

“Eritrea! Eritrea! You have to plea!” The judge bellowed. Shouting erupted from the crowd. Eritrea poised himself and spit in the direction of the judge. Some men from the crowd grabbed him attempting to beat him, but stopped once they came close enough to smell his odor. The went back to their places gagging.

Guards entered the room amidst the chaos and began pummeling Eritrea. He fell to the ground, the Judge banged his gavel demanding order and a silence fell over the spectators. He continued to read the next paper. His appeared to be somewhat affected by what he read, if not slightly shocked.

“America! What the hell are you doing here? This isn't your trial! You have a different process. Baliff put this man in the audience,” the Judge Commanded.

The baliff came up to me and grabbed me by the arm. I piqued the interest of the spectators and there was a wall of heated conversation as the baliff took me to the audience. The spectators watched me with curiosity as I passed. I heard the fall of the gavel as the baliff diposed me in the middle of the audience.

“Thailand! How do you plea?” The Judge demanded.

“I don't understand. What's the charge?” Thailand responded. The laughter erupted again. But this time I was in the middle of it. There was one man next to me who wasn't laughing. He was screaming at the judge and the others.

“It's not funny! What's his charge?! He's right!” The man yelled. But no one more than three feet away could hear him. The judge banged his gavel and a silence insued. The Judge droned on.

“What are you doing here?” I asked the man in the suit defending my cell-mates on trial.

“We're here to support the immigrants,” he replied.

“We?”

“Yes, there's another woman over there and a man at the other side.” I looked for these two; they must have remembered that this wasn't my trial, because our eyes met and they smiled at me.

“More importantly, what are you doing here?” He asked me.

“Well, I was -” The laughter erupted again and the man attempted to shout, but was drowned out.

“I don't think they can hear you. Even if they could, I don't think they'd care,” I said to the man.

“We don't know what else to do,” he replied. Laughter erupted again. The man started to shout. I wanted to shout with him, but it didn't seem to be of any use.

I walked to the back of the courthouse, through the shouting and girating crowd until I found the exit.

When I walked out in the morning air, the demonstrators were engaged in about the same activities as those on the inside of the courthouse. They didn't seem to pay much attention to me. Without the company of my cell-mates. I didn't look to much different than them. I could have been any pale-faced colonist. But what caught my eye was the small group of black-clad youth at the corner of the building in back. They were just out of sight of the demonstrators. I was lucky to glimpse them.

They had sledgehammers and were using the crowd's shouts to hide the noise when they smashed their tools into the building. I approached them.

“What are you all doing?” I asked

“We're demolitioning the courthouse,” one responded.

“Because of the process of the immigrants?” I asked.

“Today yes, but myriad other reasons as well.”

“It's going to take a long time with just sledgehammers,” I observed.

“We don't know what else to do.”

“Dynamite?” Another suppined. They all chuckled. But they had made some progress. Large pieces of the façade were scattered about.

“Hey, what are you all doing there?!” A police officer peered around the corner of the building and began to approach us. We all started running towards a forest nearby. After ten minutes, the police couldn't give chase anymore.

“Fuck this!” One of them began. “I'm done. I'll stay here and leave that courthouse the way it is.”

“What about the men on the inside? The immigrants? The Indigenous?” I asked.

“I can't anymore.”

The others scoffed.

The heavy metal clanking and sliding shocked me out of the dream. It was six o'clock. It was time to be counted.

“On your feet, guard in the room!” The guard yelled. The men fell out of their beds sleepily. I followed suit. My eyes were still matted shut with sleep.

Egypt

“Daddy, I miss you. Are you coming home soon?” The fragile voice asked from theother end of the telephone.

“Yes, I hope soon,” Egypt responded.

The courtyard was full of men as were the telephone posts that lined the wall. The hum of voices filled the small space.

“How's your mother?” Egypt asked.

“She's good, but uncle Levi came here yesterday. He and mommy talked about something and were sad.”

“You mean my cousin Levi?”

“Yeah.”

“Is your mother there?

“No, just me and the babysitter.”

“Ok, I love you. I have to go now.”

“Daddy! When are you coming home?”

“Soon. I'll see you soon. Bye.” He hung up the phone and crossed the courtyard.

Egypt entered the cell-block and went to the guard's post. Inside were two small televisions. One that projected a split view of the camera in the cell-block; one looking down the hall of the cells and the other surveilling the courtyard. The other television was tuned to a copy an american game show broadcast in the colonizers tongue.

Egypt took a pen out his pocket and scribbled a small note to the guard. The guard looked up from his television to read the note on the counter.

“I need to be closer to the American.” the note read. The guard scribbled something under the original note and silently went back to his program.

Egypt picked up the note and exited the watch-room reading.

“What the fuck do you want us to do? We'll try our best.” the guard had written.

Egypt walked downthe hall towards his cell. He crossed Senegal and America going the other way.

“Any news from your lawyer?” Egypt called out to America.

“No, not at all,” America said in passing. Neither America nor Senegal slowed their gaite as passed

Egypt. They continued on and Egypt stood motionless watching them exit to the courtyard.

Senegal

There was no sun when clatter arose from the hallway. I half-opened my eyes, but I thought it would pass. We had already been counted that morning at six and the shouldn't have been opened for at least another few hours. The grey light seeped into our cell; the yellow sunlight blocked by the clouds.

The banging and sliding of metal signified that the doors were opening throughout the cell-block. But it was indiscriminant it seemed. Normally this sound had a patterned that approached our cell in a syncopated order. This time the cells opened close than far, closer and closer, farther and closer;

I couldn't understand what was happening, but the curiosity made my eyes open wider. There was chatter that accompanied the cells open and closing.

“Do I hear french?” I asked myself. The other men in my cell had been distracted by the television already and hadn't heard the noise. Maybe they just weren't paying attention. The others slept.

Finally the shuffling feet approached our cell and stoped alongside of the door. The guard began the process of unlocking our cell. Two men were pushed in with us.

They were african and were speaking in french amongst themselves. One was young; in his twenties or thirties and like a boulder. He wasn't too tall, but muscles bulged from his body. The other was in his fifties and wore a broad smile that seemed to signify he knew something that the rest of didn't. They approached my bunk while they were looking for a place to install themselves.

“Good morning,” I said to them.

“Good morning,” they responded.

“There is some space above my bed, if you like.”

“Thank you. I'll put myself there,” the older one responded. The younger man continued another 8 feet to find an empty bunk.

“What's your name?” I asked the older man as he was finishing preparing his bed.

“He's Shaman,” the younger man hollered from his bunk. He was wearing a sly smile when he said this and Shaman's face lit up with the same smile although he didn't stop his work.

“Would you like a cigarette?” He asked me after he had finished preparing his bed.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Mean bastards aren't they?”

“Yes, I guess so!” I chuckled.

“They almost didn't get me.”

“Really how's that?”

I had a beautiful lover. She was a colonist. She was from france. You know with that accent. Incredible. But she also had spoke the colonizer's tongue. It was perfect. Sometimes we would be controlled in the streets. But she had an amazing silver-tongue. Each time the police or even the military kids with their M-16's would demand our ID's she would have them smiling in 3 seconds. They always forgot what they were asking for. I never had to say a word. I think they assumed I was ethiopian as I nodded along.” I let out a chuckle as the man who accompanied him came to listen to the story.

“A few weeks ago, we were coming back from buying groceries and climbing the stairs to go to her apartment. She fell, the groceries were everywhere and her leg broken.”

“Jesus!”

“Well, it was so bad. We went to the hospital, she got a cast; that fucking cast! It went all the up her leg.” He stopped to chuckle. He lit up and a wide smile filled his face.

“So two days ago,” he began again. “We were going into her apartment, but they were controls at the apartments just down the hall from us. Some immigrants from I don't know where. We passed and they asked for our ID's. My girlfriend made a joke about her leg and then we went down the hall to her apartment. She took out her key and dropped it. It went into her cast.” He chuckled again.

“We tried to get it out, but started arguing. Arguing in french. Fuck! The police heard us and came again to demand our ID's. I think they knew I wasn't ethiopian.” We both laughed loudly.

“Well, know I'm here, c'est la vie, quoi. What are they doing there?” He asked pointing at the television.

There was a group of young men on the news who were dismantling a section of the wall that separated the colonists from the indigenous. He was about 20 feet in the air hang on a section of the wall. It looked as if someone was plucking a tooth from a giant smile that extended to the horizon.

Côte d'Ivoire

I thought I was reading the Koran when the second call to prayer of the day began, but I had fallen asleep with the book in my hand. The melody was coming from the television. We were deep inside the colonial land, so there were no mosques to sound the calls throughout the day at least not anywhere within earshot.

The TV casted the images of the holy sites. It was always a nice site to accompany the call. I was become accustomed to this visual call. If I had gone deaf the images alone would conjure the urge to prepare myself to pray. The feeling was becoming synonmous. The visual and the aural were joining themselves.

My gaze found the other muslims in the room who had or hadn't begun to prepare themselves. The ones who were descending slowly from their beds quickened their pace when the felt my eyes. We washed our ears, hands, feet, arms, everything that was necessary to pray, in the sink where we washed our dishes and brushed our teeth. It was just below the television that beckoned us to pray. We all prepared one of the two blankets we used to sleep as a prayer mat. Each man was lined up, one behind the other, in the aisles between the bunks. The christians and those of other religions in our cell, respected our prayer times and normally sat in their beds until we had finished. The time I was in the front of one of the aisles. Just before we started I noticed one of the guards and his helper peering at us. When our gaze met they turned slowly to themselves, began talking and walked away.

“Allah hu-akbar,” the leader said. And we bowed.

“Allah hu-akbar,” he said another time. We followed with the same movements.

We made our ritual. Eventually we ended up on our knees. And then the silence. I could speak with Allah, alone. My personal time with him.

…

After we had finished. We put our blankets back and chatted amongst ourselves. We then found our bunks. Most of the men watched the television again. The movies we had watched the night before rolled across the screen again. I settled in with my Koran. But shortly after the sliding metal sounded the opening of our door. It was strange and out of place. Normally, this sound began at the end of the hall and much later. The cells were to be opened first if it was lunch time. Not ours alone. Curious stares were cast in the direction of the door.

A guard and his helper stepped in.

“Côte d'Ivoire,” the helper called. A shot of adrenaline shot through my body. I stood up and went to the door.

“Yes, what's happening?” I asked.

“Nothing, we just have a proposition for you. Step outside the room for a moment.” We exited the cell and stood close to the cell's door.

“Listen,” the guard began in the colonizer's tongue. “You've been here a few months and seems like neither you nor your family has enough money to fly you home. We like your behavior and want to give you a little bit more freedom. In the end, you'll be able to walk through the halls and the courtyard when you like. But for right now we'd like you to start helping only with the food.”

“This sounds very nice. But will I still be able to pray when I need to?” I asked.

“I'm sure it won't be a problem. You speak our language well, don't you?”

“Yes, I've studied it for sometime. And it's all around me. We can talk tomorrow about my decision?”

“Yes, that won't be a problem. You can sleep on it. But it's a nice opportunity and it will help all of us.”

“Ok, thank you,” I said. I turned back in to my cell. The sliding and clanking sounded at my back. There were myriad of questions when I returned. I explained myself to everyone and then returned to my Koran.

America

Our afternoon meal was finishing. The men ate: some greedily others slowly sharing stories and laughter amongst themselves. I took my meals in my bed. On the top bunk I was nearly level with the television.

A movie played we had watched the night before. The car the protagonist had stolen was a rare relic from the States. It had caught my eye because it was the same car a german man drove who picked me up in the states. He took me from pittsburgh to conneticut in that antique. He claimed he was a part of a german biker gang and was going to make a mot of money when he shipped this car to Europe.

His story wasn't so important to me. The passing countryside of pennsylvania on that bright autumn day held my attention. I knew I wouldn't find massachusetts, my destination, that day, but the peaking mountains with the villages tucked at their feet was captivating. I had never made this trip before. I think that's why it was an aesthetic experience. This little corner of the world, this reality was new to me. I wouldn't ever pass there again.

I looked around the room as I had finished most of my meal. I found the eyes waiting for my meat that I never ate. They all knew this by now and waited for me to give it to someone. After I had done this their eyes found the television again. I tried to give the meat to a different person each meal. I didn't wanted to form any relationships too reciprocal. Maybe I would have given it each day to Senegal, but he didn't eat meat either.

The men were finishing their food now and beginning to move about the cell-block. Others came in and some men stepped out of our room. I climbed back into my bunk after I had washed my plastic tray and returned it to my locker. It waited for me until the evening meal. The images from last night rolled by me again.

“America!” Côte d'Ivoire said bursting into the room.

“Hey, ça va?” I asked.

“Fine, Fine. There's a telephone call for you.” He told me and passed me the phone.

“Hello, How are you?” My lawyer's voice said from the other end of the phone.

“Brilliant. And you?”

“Good. Listen, we have an appearance in court in the next few days. This is to find out if the judge has accepted your appeal or not. If he accepts your appeal. You can be released the next day. We're fairly confident that he'll accept your appeal. He's a fairly liberal judge.”

“Really? So that means I can be out by the end of the week?”

“Yes, we hope so.”

“Fucking hell! Great news! Thanks a lot.”

“Okay, we'll see each other soon. Ciao, ciao.”

I hung up the phone and noticed I had attracted some attention from Senegal as he was speaking with Shaman.

“What happened? Who was it, America?” Senegal asked me.

“It was my lawyers. They tell me that they're going to court in the next few days to learn about my appeal. So, maybe I can be out in a week or so.”

“That's great news, America! I'm happy for you,” Senegal said.

“Yes, go back to America. It's better there,” Côte d'ivoire told me.

“Lawyers! How many do you have? 3,000? Maybe you can share some with us.” Shaman joked.

“Yes, we'd like to leave next week as well,” Senegal added. Senegal and Shaman began laughing hysterucally.

“Maybe they'll send us to America,” Shaman added. This comment augmented their laughter. I smiled and handed the phone back to Côte d'Ivoire. He left silently. The laughter waned and the men who stayed in the room began watching the television again in slience.

Eritrea

If I sleep the days go by so much faster. How much can I sleep each day? Each night? Can I lay here in this bed without moving for 24 hours? Maybe I can stop eating and drinking. Then I won't have to leave this bed at all. Not to piss. Not to shit. Just lie here and sleep without dreaming.

Senegal

The night was waning. Well, our nightly freedom at least. It was during those strange hours after dinner and before we were locked down and made to wash our floors. Before the deluge of water soaking our rooms.

There was sometimes a strange energy in our cell-block at this time. After we had eaten. After the muslims had prayed. A certain buzz of energy and emotion was shared between us all. I could almost hear sometimes. It wasn't peacful and flowing. It was tense like the buzz of a loose wire. We had to expell it somehow.

Tonight the level and volume of conversation signified that this energy was building. I could hear it in the hallway. It was entering from the courtyard as well. A group of men had entered our room. They were fairly new and had arrived with the Shaman. Among them was Togo.

A group of men had congregated him and the project he was working. The were shifting about and speaking loudly in english. America had a good view as they were just next to his bunk. He was looking down on them curiously. I approached the other side of his bunk.

“America, what are they doing there?” I asked.

“I think they're making a chess board,” he replied.

“I'm not very strong in chess.”

“Me neither.”

“But I can play checkers pretty well.”

“Well, I'm sure it'll be pretty easy to use the board for both. Even easier to make checker pieces. I think he's almost finished.”

“You are all small players!” Togo exclaimed. “I am a big player! Who wants to be first to lose to me the big player?” There was an explosion of discussion and after a few seconds someone was seated across from Togo. He took a cloth sack out of his backpack and emptied the red and black checker pieces onto the board. They were fairly nice pieces. They didn't look cheap and plastic, but maybe they were made of wood with a shiny veneer coating on them. I couldn't tell from were I was.

“You are a small player. You will lose to Togo,” Togo said as they were arranging the pieces. After a moment or two everything was prepared and silence descended upon the room.

They began move the pieces quickly. The silence was broken only by the pieces sliding across the board. No one had taken a piece of the other but Togo broke the silence nonchalantly.

“You are a very small player,” he said cooly. After his opponent’s next move Togo took a piece of his adversary.

“Chop!” He exclaimed as he took the piece. Mur-murs sounded through the room. And someone whispered something in to the man across from Togo. After a two more moves Togo erupted again.

“Chop! Chop!” Togo exclaimed as he took two of his opponent’s pieces. My heart was starting to pound and the conversations in the room became louder. Togo's opponent took one of his pieces silently.

“It's ok. You are a small player,” Togo responded.

“Chop! Chop! Chop!” Togo exclaimed as he took three pieces and received a kinged checker piece.

“I told you, you are a small player,” He said. The room was against him now and all the men were shouting advice to his opponent.

“No, no, don't take that one!” I shouted. But my advice was lost amidst the voices screaming at the man who was playing Togo.

Togo's opponent's pieces dwindle faster than his. Each time he took one he shouted “Chop!” and then cooly remarked about his opponent's status as a small player. We were all shouting now. The room was alive.

Finally, Togo took the last piece.

“You see, you are a small player,” Togo said. The rest of the men groaned. We were smiling.

“Who is next to lose to the big player?” Togo asked. Many men wanted to play and as one sat down, the guard came in.

“Everyone to your cell! Now!” The guard called.

Togo quickly picked up his board and pieces and went to his cell. The other men followed suit.

After ten minutes the heavy-metal doors began slamming shut in a certain cadence that approached our cell at the end of the hall.

The deluge of water came soon after. And the slight madness that always accompanied it. The guards helpers called to us to work faster and after a few minutes all was clean. The men settled into their beds. The laughter was silenced and we watched the films without a rustle, like all the other nights, waiting for our cigarettes.

Côte d'Ivoire

It was beautiful that day in the courtyard. I had just started working with the guards a few days early, but this was the first days it was nice. Although the sun's rays didn't hit me, I could see the cloudless blue sky through the rebar. I felt the heat of the day rising. It was sometime after lunch and I imagine that my friends from my old cell were getting ready to pray. I thought maybe I'd like to be with them to pray together, but it was impossible. I had been transferred to another cell. I lived with the other helpers now. Our cell was nearly always open, during the day. We were still locked down at night. Even so, it was nice to wander about in the courtyard without the madness of the others scrambling to the canteen.

The silence was odd. It wasn't just that the courtyard was silent because the men weren't there. The all were within 20 feet. The buzz of conversation didn't exist when they were in their cells. This silence affected the whole block.

The guards knew that this was my timle to pray. So they left me alone without any tasks to finish in the courtyard. There wasn't much to do after lunch anyway. The other helpers weren't muslim, so I prayed alone. I wanted the other men to see me. The men I used to pray with inside my old cell. So I put my prayer mat in the exact middle of the courtyard. The window of my cell looked out at this place, so I imagined that the men could see me if they peeked out the window.

I began praying. It was strange to pray alone. I had done it before, but I had forgotten how it felt to not have the other voices responding with me nor the man leading the prayer. I tried to listen to the men praying in my cell. I heard their voices, but just barely. I responded with them. I prayed with them. But none of them looked out the window. They didn't know I was with them. I heard them laughing and joking as they finished. I picked up my mat and retreated to our room.

I passed one of the men, another helper like myself, talking with a guard in his office. The conversation was rather strange in that the guard rarely looked at the my colleague behind him. He uttered a short yes from time to time. The guard seemed to be more interested in his television series that rolled in front of him on his small TV.

I found the other helpers in our room. Our room was much more spacious than the cramped cells with the other men. The door was wide open as usual, but the men all huddled in their bunks just like the men who were in the locked cells.

“It's beautiful today. Have you all been in the courtyard?” I asked.

“Yes, real nice. I was out there not too long ago,” one responded. We were only 5 in this cell. And the collective energy was sometimes lacking. It was difficult to pull the men from their preoccupations in books and television.

The other men were watching the news. Sensational images rolled passed us. Flaming tires bounced and rolled down steep hillsides. The indigenous population was videoed from afar constructing barricades from stones and boulders. Their angry shouts and stones were thrown at the colonist soldiers.

“What's happening?” I asked.

“One of the new colonies took the well from this village,” one of them began. “So the indigenous villagers have been making a demonstration for some time.”

“Yes, I don't understand what these villagers think this will change. And why is this village so important to be on the news. The make these demonstrations all the time,” I said.

“Wait a minute. They've been showing this video a lot. You'll see,” He responded.

After more of this video. The indigenous popultaion of the village amassed themselves behind the barricade of boulders and stone. They were merely chanting. At this point a colonist soldier stepped out from his ranks. He was alongside the camera. He opened fire and one of the villagers fell. A group took the man backwards as all of the villagers began to run. Another shot rang out and another retreating villager fell and laid motionless in the street.

America

The sun beat down on the rooftops of the buildings across from our cell-block. The buildings there resembled something more like houses. I think this is where our captors kept the women with children. If they had come as families, the men were separated from the women and children. I can't be sure that anybody inhabited these buildings as I never saw anyone enter or exit; I had to climb on the bunks to get a look.

But today I wanted to see the sun. It was behind our cell. The rays didn't enter.

It was sometime after lunch and we had all been locked down again. Some men were dozing as the heat and digestion made a sleepy combination. Others were noticebly agitated by the rising afternoon warmth. I made party to the latter.

Despite the agitation, the room was fairly silent. We watched the same films we had seen the night before. Some men were shifting in their beds. Suddenly, the distinct noise of the door opening roused the men.

It had come from nowhere. Normally the sound approached our cell as the guards opened the other cells before reaching ours. But this had been done in solitude, in lieu of the others. A guard walked and called my name. A wave of anxiety washed over me as I responded.

“You have a visitor. Put your shoes and come with me,” he said.

I hopped down from my bunk and landed without grace. I readied myself as quickly as possible and exited the cell with the guard.

As we walked down the corridor, I wandered who could have possibly come to visit me. It had been weeks that I had been inside without a visitor. I knew my friends from other nations risked a lot if they came. And it would have been very difficult if not impossible for my indigenous friends to come.

I passed the open door of the helper's cell and said “bonjour” to Côte d'Ivoire. We exited the cell-block, and walked inbetween our cell-block and the house-like buildings that held the women and children. I was still in the shade, but was soon to step into the sunlight. I took careful note of our cell-block as we walked it's length. There was a window of some sort above our cells. But this was also above our ceiling. I thought that it was used to let the heat escape that could be trapped in the compartment above our heads. It didn't seem to be carefully secured and was less than 10 meters from the fence. The only problem was the guards tower. Wild thoughts raced through my head.

The sun touched my face and the skin on my arms. I hadn't felt it's warmth for weeks and turned my head to take a quick peek. It was short-lived as the guard pushed me into a small building with cabins, separated by glass windows.

The room was empty. There were no other visitors nor were there other prisoners. I waited alone for my visitor to be brought in.

She entered a few minutes after. It was Ripley. I hadn't worked with her very much. She was a part of an all female organization from the US. We hadn't spent one beautiful evening together in Sheikh Jarrah. She was rather sick and I made her an herbal tea of special medicines from the states. She talked of her family and I of my lost loved.

When she came in she looked at me as if I was her child, kidnapped and held without cause.

“Ciao, Ripley! What do you think you're doing here?” I asked with a smile. She forced one as well.

“Well, I wanted to see you.”

“It looks like you've succeeded.”

“How are you?”

“I'm fine. I'm growing a nice prisoner's beard. What do you think? A bit patchy, huh?”

“You've lost weight. And you're pale.”

“Well, there's not much vegetarian protein in here and we don't see the sun. Also, there's no place or time to exercise. Violà. How's everything out there?”

“Good. I've been moving around the occupied territories a bit. When are they going to get you out of here?”

“Always another two or three days.”

She started to cry.

“Ripley, don't worry. I can leave when I want. All I have to do is sign a piece of paper and they put me on a plane to the United States. The other men can't do that. It's my choice to stay here. Maybe it'll help. Probably not. But my hands are tied. This is the only way I can struggle with the indigenous struggle. So I stay.”

Egypt

The courtyard was full as the day was hot and sultry. Egypt saw America from afar, sitting at a table alone, smoking. There were other men around him and sitting next to him. The spoke in languages he didn't understand and couldn't use. He was alone.

Egypt approached the table and stood next to the American.

“Hello, how are you today?” Egypt asked.

“Fine. And yourself?” America replied.

“Good. Do you have any news from your lawyers?”

“They're waiting to hear if the judge has accepted the appeal. Other than that, I don't know.”

“Tell me, do you know when America will stop oppressing me?”

“No, I'm not sure. It's a big place. I think you'd have to ask a lot of people if you want an answer. Listen, there's a film on from last night that I want to watch. I'll see you later.”

“I'll walk with you. I'm going back tomy room anyhow.”

The two began walking across the courtyard and then down the corridor to their rooms. They stopped at Egypt doorway.

“Well, see you later,” America said.

“Yes. Tonight we make a bible study here if you like. The guards open or doors especially for this since it's their religion. Would you like to come?”

“No thank you. It's not my thing.”

The room was much more spacious than America's. And only one cell separated him from Egypt's cell.

Senegal

I had slept most of the morning. The sky was grey and there didn't seem to be any reason for getting out of bed. I managed to wake up for a little bite of breakfast, but fell back under my covers afterwards. I didn't want to leave them today, because they were my shield against the cold.

After lunch, the rest of the men woke up and there was a mild buzz about the room. I couldn't find sleep again. I sat up and looked at the television. The same movie we had watched the night before was playing again. There were a few men gazing listlessly at the screen. I didn't quite like the film and I became a bit anxious.

The door was open to our cell. It was usually like this after lunch. Today I needed to take advantage of it. I strolled down our long corridor and into the courtyard. There were very few men profiting from the opened cells. The only men I saw were the men who exited each time the could. These were the men who played ping-pong. I watched their finesse and strength with the paddles. Theirs was a very intense battle. They're were completely engaged in it. The saw nothing else around them. The only world that existed was that of the light white ball bouncing between them and their reaction to this ball. The men who waited to play next were engaged inactively in the same combat. They watched the men play. They studied their technique, because they would have to play the winner of the unfolding match. Nothing existed for them except the world of the ping-pong table. Soon they would have to go back into their cells but they would bring the table with them in their minds. Some of them even practice their techniques, in their cells, when we were locked down. Maybe some of them even dreamed about it. I wouldn't doubt it.

There was one other group of men in the courtyard and they would stay there after the others had been put back in their cells. They were the guards helpers. But I was sure that the wouldn't stay very much longer after had been put away. The day was ugly. So, they would wait just long enough to see us be walked inside and locked away. I would never know for certain as my cell faced away from the courtyard. But their smiles seemed to confirm this. Côte d'Ivoire's gaze strayed for his new-found companions and caught my eye. He smiled and walked towards me.

“Salut, ça va?” He asked.

“Yes, I'm fine.” I replied.

“What are you doing out of bed on a day like today?”

“I couldn't stay there anymore. I couldn't sleep. And the movies that were playing didn't please me. So I made a little walk.”

“You seem to be the only one not interested in ping-pong. Not so strong in this one or have you lost your skills?”

“No, I never played much ping-pong. So, how's the new job, boss?”

“Haha! Good. I get to move around a bit more and help in the kitchen sometimes. It's nice. You want to see if there's a place for you?” He asked.

“No, it's not for me.”

“Come on. None of these guys speak french. It'd be nice.”

“I don't want to.”

“Senegal, you're wasting away in that bed. You need to get out for some time.”

“What so I can be a dog for the guards! No thank you.”

“Do you actually think we're going to get out of here? There's no way.”

“That doesn't mean we have to work with the people who imprison us.”

“What else are we going to do? Sit in our cells and waste away?”

“So now you sit out here or in your cell with the door open? What's the difference? Now you do a little work for the guards?”

“I have a bit more freedom now.”

“You're still here. Within the same walls.”

“That's all i'm going to get. The best I can do. And it's better than selling lemons.”

“There were no bars when you were selling lemons.”

“They were just harder to see.”

“Well, I never going to work with the man who looks me and my friends away each day and gives us a bit of rice when he wants.”

“To your cells!” The guard called.

I walked inside as the guards helpers watched the line of men shuffle to theirs rooms.

Côte d'Ivoire

We didn't stay much longer in the courtyard after the other men had been put back in their cells. I wanted to relax a little bit before I had to help with dinner. There was no real reason to stay out there. The yard was silent and the grey light filtered through the bars above our head.

We found our way back to our cell. And we laid down on our bunks. The images of fire and conflict passed before us. I didn't what to se or hear about the colonists our the indigenous groups outside these walls.

“Why are we watching the news?” I asked generally.

“What do you want to watch?” Another man asked me.

“The films from last night.”

“You know they've finished and we're waiting for the new ones to begin after dinner.”

“At least turn it down a bit, so I can ignore it.”

He was right I had forgotten where we were in the day. I opened my Koran and spent the next hour or so reading silently. I had to pray as well before dinner.

We started our work a little more than an hour before serving the other men. We had some liberties to leave the cell-block to search the food from the main kitchen that cooked for the whole prison. We would meet the other guards' helpers from the other cell-blocks. I had ever talked to the helpers from my old cell. But now we all made conversation.

It was strange to see the hall of our cell-block so empty and silent as we prepared to serve dinner each night. But the oddest thing was the sound of all the doors being unlocked to let the men queue for dinner. This sound used to approach me from somewhere else. Now I watched this sound move away from me.

The men came and got their food. They retreated to their cells to eat. Then after they were finished the halls and the courtyard would fill up again. The level of conversation would rise. It always rose in the after dinner. Sometimes it wouldn't after lunch, but always after dinner.

That night I went to make the final prayer in my old cell with the muslims who were kept there. I stayed to chat a little while with them, but someone had already been assigned my bunk. This made me want to leave.

Most of the other helpers were gathered around the guards listening to their mundane stories. I found my way back to my cell and spent the rest of the evening reading. I knew it was nearly time to start the last tasks of the evening when the noise of the men talking had begun to die down. The knew that it was almost time to clean their floors. So they would enter their rooms and begin to put their shoes, their cheap plastic tables (if they had any) and anything else that they wanted to save from becoming wet up on the top bunks.

So after the guard gave them buckets of soap and water. Immediately after the doors were locked and the men had to start to clean their cells. We waited five minutes and then started at the fend of the hall to hruu the men.

They had to scrub the floors and then squeegie the dirty water out of their rooms. There was a little space under the doors that allowed the water to escape. I was with one other this night.

“C'mon! Hurry up! We don't have all night!” He began yelling with a grimace as he looked into the first cell. The men pushed the water out and blocked the opening in the door as we pushed the water up the hall-way with our squeegies. The next was Senegal's cell and he was cleaning the floor. They weren't anywhere near ready.

“C'mon!” I yelled in the cell. I looked up the hall-way and the guard was watching me with piercing eyes. He tapped the watched on his wrist.

“Senegal! What are you doing! Hurry the fuck up! We've got to finish now!”

“Sorry chief! I'm going as fast as I can!” He replied.

“Yeah, well, it's not fast enough! You want your tea tonight? Your cigarettes?”

“It feels good keeping that stuff from the men who don't work at your speed, huh?”

“Fuck off!” I looked up and the guard bore into me with his eyes.

“C'mon!” I said. The water poured out of the cell and we pushed it the hallway and out the door.

I went back to my cell.

“You help with the hot water tonight?” Another helper asked me.

“Put the film on.” I said as I climbed my bunk.

America

The day was the antithesis of the day before. There was no sun. Grey light pounced off the the pavement and the walls. I could barely walk. I realized that when I went to visit Ripley the day before, I had jumped down from my bunk. I had done things like this my entire life, but now every muscle in my legs were tight and on fire. I hadn't been using them in here. The muscles were withering away. Like had happened to so many of my cohorts in here.

I decided to stay in bed that day to nurse my legs. The doors were open after lunch and the men passed in and out.

“America,” Côte d'Ivoire began. “The phone for you.” He handed me the phone.

“How are you?” The voice on the other asked.

“Good...”

“This is your lawyer, you know? One of them at least.”

“Ah, ok. So do we have any news?”

“Yes. We have some good news. The judge has accepted your appeal. And he has made a bail offer. It will last for the next ten days. Your organization has just to get the money and your passport to Ramle Givon and you'll be released until your trial.”

“Wow! That's great news!”

“Yes congratulations! We've already called your friends. They should call you soon to organize your release.”

“Incredible! Thank you!”

“We'll talk soon to orgainise your case. Good luck. Ciao ciao.”

I gave the phone back to Côte d'Ivoire and laid back to enjoy last night's film again. The prospect of leaving this place in the next ten days kept me elated. But anxiety crept into my heart as the guards locked the men down until dinner. The people from my organization hadn't called yet. The films inched by my eyes.

“America.” Côte d'Ivoire said. He was standing in front of my cell door. I had forgotten that he was helping the guards now and he could move about freely while the rest of us were locked in our cells.

“The phone's for you again,” he said. I climbed slowly out of my bed and took the phone from him as he pushed it through the small slat at the bottom of the door.

“Hello,” I began.

“Hey, how are you doing?” The voice asked.

“Well, thank you. I spoke to one of my lawyers today. They gave me the good news. When are you all going to liberate me?”

“Well, that's the thing. After you were arrested. We lost all of your things. Including your passport. We can't get you out without your passport.”

“Excuse me.”

“Yes, we thought we had it, but it turns out your back pack with all of your things disappeared. We're sorry.”

“Fucking perfect. Can I get a new passport in the next ten days? After that my bail offer expires and I have to stay in here until my trial.”

“We'll try our best to talk with your embassy, but it's not sure.”

“Wonderful. Thanks for the news.”

“Yeah, and sorry again.”

I hung up the phone and passed it back to Côte d'Ivoire. I hobbled back up my bunk and laid my head back. A tormenting anxiety tore through my belly.

“How long can I stay here?”

I had a made a commitment to stay until my trial was finished. It was all I could do to aid, however insignificantly the struggle of the indigenous people.

“But what if I don't get another passport? How long can they keep me?”

I decided I wouldn't stay here after my trial. I would leave someway, somehow. But if I was to liberate myself it would take careful study and planning.

Egypt

The darkness had fallen soon after diner. Egypt exited his cell. America was making odd passes up and down the hallway. Egypt watch for awhile.

America would take all long step and touche the knee of his back foot to the floor before putting it far out in front of the other. He would then touch the other knee to the ground. He came up the hall and then moved back down with this motion. He stopped at the end of the hall near his cell. Egypt approached him.

“What are you doing?” Egypt asked.

“I'm making a little bit of sport,” America responded.

“So, do you have any news from your lawyer?”

“No, I don't have any.”

With this response America began to trot up the hall. With each step he kicked his own butt. Egypt followed alongside America.

“It's very strange that an american has spent so much time in this detention center.” Egypt said.

“Yes, well like I told there's been a mistake. So I'm waiting for news from my lawyer.”

America reached the end of the hall and turned around to go back. Egypt began to follw him again.

“Well, you're welcome to come to our biible study group if you want. It's the guards' religion and they like to see that we're intrested. Maybe you can be one of their helpers. Especially if you're going to stay here a long time.”

“No thanks. It's not my thing.”

America began to kick his ass faster and Egypt lagged behind. Egypt turned around and headed toward the guard's post. A small television captivated the guard in the room. There was only enough space for the two. The television which held the guard's attention broadcast a reality television series where a group of people were locked into house together for some months. This television was sitting next to another which was a live closed circuit broadcast of the hall of the cell. America could be seen making an exercise where he ran and touched his knees to his chest.

“What having you been doing?” Egypt asked.

“What do you mean?” the guard asked without looking up from his program.

“To get him into my cell.”

“Oh, that. Um, yeah, we'll try something tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? This kid has been with the terrorists. We need to know what he knows.”

“So ask him.”

“I have asked him.”

“And?”

“He hasn't told me anything.”

“Ask his friends.”

“He hasn't told them anything.”

“So what is having him in your room going to change?”

“Just try to get him in here.”

“Yeah.”

The guard burst out laughing as he watched the program.

America

Moving was absurbly difficult the day after the first workout. I hadn't felt this sore since my childhood. I knew that I had to rest that day, but the next I had to do the same exercises. It was lactic acid that was trapped in my muscles; burning. The only way to flush it out was to do the same exercises. But not today.

The images rolled passed my eyes the same images as last night. But I didn't pay much attention. I had started to make my body ready for escape, but I hadn't a clue as to how I would achieve the feat. There was rebar and fence around our window, but there wasn't a pane of glass. I would need a tool to cut it.

30 feet from our cell-block were the houses for women with the children. There was enough space to hide in between. I had about five or six feet in between the houses. I could climb to their roofs and jump over the barbed-wire fence. The houses were only 9 feet high and the soft, tilled field on the other side would break my fall. The problem was the guards post towering at the corner of the fence which separated all of us from the outside world.

I watched him intently that day at into the evening. No one seemed to notice my eyes moving from the television to the guard all that day. There were shift changes. Each guard seemed to watch TV throughout the shift and doze-off somewhere near the middle.

My day in bed was only interrupted shortly in the evening after dinner. Many of the men in the in the cell-block continued what had become somewhat of a ritual. They congregated in our cell for a tournament of checkers. The winner always continued to play the next challenger. For the most part Togo stayed in the same seat as challengers came and lost. He would yell “chop” whenever he took a piece. All of the men were against him and his arrogance with which he won each game. Many of the men would become frustrated and try to verbally engage Togo. Their was no match for his cockiness. When the men became affected by his voice their game falter. Sometimes it happened the other way around.

“You are a small player. You are all small players. I'm a the big player. Chop!” Togo repeated.

He was the ennemy of all the men. However, he also interested them. Without the theatre of Togo, I imagine that the men wouldn't have come each night to our cell.

The men seemed not to notice the news program that passed on the television. Scenes of a bulldozer escorted by soldiers of the occupiers approaching a house of an indigenous family were run. I couldn't understand the occupier's tongue. But it was clear what had happened during that afternoon.

White-faced colonizers accompanied by international activists had tried to block the bulldozer. The indigenous family tried to stay in their house. The bulldozer began to destroy the home and the family scattered. The scene was played out hundreds if not thousands of times before and their would be thousands more. I'd imagine that there were some arrests of idigenous people and of the activist colonizers and the international activists.

If there were, The idigenous folks might have been put in admistrative detention indefintely; years of their young lives. This was deemed “legal” because it was what the English had done when it was there colony. The new colonizers had decided this was a good law and held onto it.

Maybe the international activists would find their way here and I would have some company until they decided to sign and fly home.

And the activist colonizers would be freed after 24 hours and find their friends, families and beds.

The din of my cell waned as we were all locked down in our proper cells. Most of the men had left. The floor was washed. We were counted. The television was turned to the films of the evening.

But now Senegal and the Shaman sat silently playing checkers. I smoked alone that night. The lights stayed on until the wee hours of the morning and the slight sounds of the checkers tapping the checkerboard could be heard until The two men became tired and found their beds.

I only dozed slightly that night as I was watching the guard in the tower. His head bobbed up and down around 3 until his chin finally rested on his chest at 4.

Senegal

The night seemed still aside from the slight bustle of the cell-block after dinner. But this was something I had become accustomed to. It was the air and the night outside our bars that gave the sensation of tranquility.

It was quite a different world out there. Myriad times more different than the day that passed outside our cells. During the day the natural light filtered in. Althought the sun never pushed it's way into our environment, it found it's way in indirectly. The night however was different. Our reality was lit by the flourescent bulbs running the length of our room. Outside there was only black this night. The was no rain, no wind. Only the sporadic orange glow of the lights dotting the street leading to the highwayin the distance.

This was only punctuated by the guard's post towering 3 meters above the fence at the corner of the last barrier that separated us from the outside world. His little oasis of light was lit by the same flourescent bulbs as our room.

Perhaps that night felt so calm because the madness of the checker tournament hadn't begun, but It was all that held my thoughts. The evening would wax and wan in excitement. But for me it began and ended in the same way. Shortly after dinner each night, Shaman and I would sit down to begin playing checkers. That night was the same.

He was a formidable player. In most games he would beat me. However, there were times when he would make a mistake and I could capitalize on this to take the game.

As the din of supper still continued, we were able to play two or three games before the other men from the cell-block filtered in. In these moments, I was aneasthesitised to world around me. Perhaps this is why that night seemed so still.

Shaman had clear control of the board with three kinged pieces. I only had one. I didn't have many options as to the strategy I could develop. The only two moves were both risky and I would lose a piece or two either way. I decided to make the move that would allow me to get another kinged piece.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Shaman asked.

“Well, there isn't much else I can do is there, gros con de merde!” I replied. He smirked at the insult.

After three more moves I was defeated.

“Where did you learn to play anyway?” I asked.

“My grandfather taught me.” He replied.

“Same place I learned to play.” We smiled.

I look around and found that the group of men had gathered to watch us play and it was time we shared the checker board. I must have been well-focused on the game as I didn't hear any of them congregate around us.

“Well, you've won. Do you want to take on the first of the youth?” I asked.

“No, you go ahead. I prefer to watch a little bit.” The Shaman responded.

I was happy to play again. In fact I had no real desire to leave the situation of the checker board. The first to put himself across from me was Togo.

“Hello, small player! Are you ready to lose again?” Togo asked me.

“I beat you two times yesterday. What are you saying?” I responded.

“I don't remember yesterday. I'm the big player.”

We slid our first pieces across the board in fairly rapid succession. Togo was the first to attack. He yelled “chop!” as he took my piece. There was a low grumble amongst the crowd behind us. We continued more slowly. I took the next piece.

“It's ok. He's a small player.” Togo said in low voice. The crowd began to become more and more agitated as the more pieces were taken and Togo repeated “small player” and “chop!”. I thought I could win at one point but in the end the distraction jumping from Togo' lips was too great. He took my last piece and I shuffled out of the way to make room the next challenger.

Although, I had left the chair were the players played. I didn't leave the game. I watched intently as each player moved his pieces across the board. I analyzed each move. Thought about how the player could have reacted differently to win or why the loser lost. This continued for more than an hour and a half.

I want point the crowd stopped and shuddered at an odd point. Nothing had happened in the game. But at this moment the men weren't watching the game. Their attention was turned to the TV. The images showed flames pouring out of the middle of the road. It looked like idigenous people running about everywhere. The men playing had turned to look.

“Hey, you guys going to finish the game?” I demanded. The men put themselves back to the board.

The men were locked down. The floor was washed. And Shaman and I settled back into the game. It was quiet now. Only the sounds of the checker pieces sliding over the board.

“L'eau chaud!” Côte d'Ivoire cried outside our door. He brought the hot water for the men to make tea with. I turned slightly to catch his eye through the bars on the door. He watched me intently for a moment before I turned back to the game.

Côte d'Ivoire

The night was still. There was a slight chill to the air that carresed my bare arms. Most of the men I was with complained about it. But I was still hot from the work of serving dinner to the cell-block. I welcomed the cool air touching my skin.

It was an odd sight that I had become accustomed to yet; the couryard emptied of men. Only we, the guards' helpers, remained out there. Normally the dark, un-lit courtyad of the night was alove with voices of the men chatting or whooping at the ping-pong game. But all the men had been put in their cells. We congregated in a small corner of the courtyard and chatted amongst ourselves.

I quite liked my new job and my new-found freedom. Our cell was open for most of the day. Before and after each meal, we could move about the whole facility. The guards opend the doors for us and sent us to the kitchen. Sometimes I would help finish cooking or load the food onto the cart to bring to our cell-block. Then would have first pick of the food we were about to serve the men. The colonists religion restricted their eating habits just like Islam. I could eat everything. Sometimes I would eat two plates before we would serve the men.

One of the guards' helpers ate three sometimes. After, he would lay down before we served the other men. He could though. He had been the helper the longest. We and the guards didn't say anything when he did this.

“Hey you lazy sacks of shit! It's time to bring the hot water to the men. Some one has to go get it from the kitchen. We don't have all night!” One of the guards cried.

“Ok, ok. We'll send someone,” one of the men replied.

“Who wants to go?” One of my colleagues asked. A silence insued.

“Ok, Ok. I'll go,” I replied. I left the group and approached the guard.

“There we go. You know where going?” The guard asked.

“Yeah, Yeah. Just open the door,” I replied.

He unlocked the heavy door and I exited our cell-block. I walked between our cell-block and the houses for women and children. Inbetween each house I caught glances of the highway beyond the fence. The cars sped by. I couldn't see them that well. Their colors were tainted by the orange glow of the street lights. At the of the row of houses was the guard's tower. From below I could only see the top of his balding head.

I turned the corner and walked past the main gate to the kitchen. The hot water was waiting in big plastic dispenser on a cart. Another man there was from Côte d'Ivoire, but we never had too much time to chat as I had to get back with whatever it was I sent to get.

“Hey, Côte d'Ivoire! You're going to serve the hot water now, aren't you?” One of the other guards' helpers called to me as I entered our cell-block. They were still chatting in the courtyard.

“Yeah, yeah. Why not?” I replied. I began wheeling the cart down the corridor, calling “l'eau chaud!” when I stopped at a cell. The men would line up with their cups for me to fill.

Finally after nearly ten cells I came to the last two. They were opposite each other.

“L'eau chaud!” I called. It was Senegal's and America's cell. Senegal was sitting across the checkerboard from the Shaman. America was laying on his bed watching the films. Normally, Senegal took tea each night, but that night he only turned to look at me.

Finally, I found the last cell. There were some Fillipino men and Eritrea. Each night the Fillipino men took tea. But I had never seen Eritrea move from his bed. I wondered if he was alive. I Started to wheel the cart back to the kitchen.

“Not too fast now!” My colleagues yelled from the courtyard. The knew when I returned we would also be looked in our cells.

Egypt

Egypt picked up the phone in the courtyard. The low rumble of conversation didn't seem to disturb him as he dialed the number. It was before lunch and the men hadn't completely climbed out of their slumber. For some of them taking tea together in the courtyard was their means of digging their minds out their pillows. But this quiet hub-bub appeared not to bother the Eygyptian as he dialed.

“Hello,” the voice at the other end of the phone answered.

“Hello, honey,” Egypt responded.

“Yes, it's me dear. How are you?”

“Oh, I'm holding up in here. I'd much rather be there with you two. Hopefully soon. And you guys? Everything alright out there?”

“Yes, more or less. The little one's having some trouble in school, but I think it's just because he misses you.”

“Yeah, it's normal.”

“When do you think you'll be out of there? Soon?”

“It all depends on this american kid.”

“And how's that going?”

“It's not. I can't get any info from him. He's like a stone.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah … well …”

“well …”

“I was thinking the other day, about the collective farm we worked on. Where we met,” his wife began again.

“Yeah, those were nice times, huh?”

“Yeah, close to the sea. Those nights to ourselves. But …”

“But it's different now. Terrorists everywhere trying to take the nation that God gave us. I have to be in here to defend it.”

“Yeah, I know. For us, for our boy.”

“Exactly. You know, it's funny, I met another man from Thailand the other day. He was working on the same farm where we worked. There's no more hippies anymore. Just immigrants.”

“Like almost all the farms.”

“To your cells!” The guard called from the other end of the courtyard.

“I have to go honey. Back to our cells, they say,” the Egyptian said.

“Ok, bye-bye then.”

He hung up the phone and walked across the courtyard passing the guards' helpers.

“You're helping the guards now?” Egypt asked Côte d'Ivoire.

“Yeah, for a little more than a week now,” he responded.

“Well, congratulations! Enjoy your freedom!”

America

The rain poured down that morning after breakfast. It was so loud as to wake the men, but made just enough noise to push them back into sleep; their bellies full from the food they had just eaten. I drank a little tea and watched the images on the television. The movies hadn't begun again. The morning news flashed in front of my eyes. It was in the colonizer's tongue so I could understand nothing beyond the simplest words from time to time.

The images of that day's battles between the colonist army and the indigenous population hadn't been taken. And yesterday's images of the occupation forces suppressing the resistance of the indigenous must not have been strong enough to warrant a replay this following morning. I took this as a good sign. This probably meant that none of my friends had died or been arrested.

However, the images were of the politicians addressing the press. They pounded their podiums amidst the myriad of camera flashes. I'm sure their rhetoric mirrored that of the politicians who ruled my country and ipso facto the one whose prison I was in as well. So it goes.

I wanted for the small lump in my belly to subside before starting that mornings exercise. Push-up: 80. Sit-ups: more than one hundred. The rain stopped me from doing my pull-ups in the courtyard that morning. But I thought I could do them in the afternoon, if the rain let up.

I stretched my legs in the hall-way before beginning my lower body exercises. Then it was the regiment up and down the hall-way two times for each exercise. Butt-kickers, high-knees, lunges, sprints. By the second exercise the guards, almost the only people well-awake at this hour, became curious about my activities.

“Do you feel ok?” One guard asked.

“Yes. There's just no place to exercise in here.” I replied without stopping. He shrugged and went back to his office. They didn't suspect a thing. My careful plans had begun. I had heard somewhere “every muscle must be tight”. It became my mantra.

After I finished my work-out, I climbed back into my bed. I stared out the window, through the rebar, at the fence, the last obstacle to my freedom from here.

“How do I get there?” I thought.

I couldn't cut the rebar without some heavy tools. An escape through force, by subduing or taking hostage the guards, seemed to brazen for me. I wanted to find a subtle and silent way.

I remembered the small hole in the wall of my cell-block that I had seen when I went to visit with Ripley. But how to access it. I would have to be above the ceiling.

I saw no way getting through the ceiling from our sleeping room. I couldn't reach if I climbed my bed nor the lockers. And how would I break through the ceiling?

I went to the bathroom to search another exit. When I entered I noticed that the ceiling was a bit lower than in our sleeping quarters. And it was made out dry-wall. The very weak gypsum inside could probably be rotted or softened over a few days by spraying the water from the showers upwards.

It seemed that if I did this in the corner near the entry of the bathroom, the guards would never notice. Every night when the came in our cell to count us they never looked at the ceilings in the bathroom.

If I softened the ceiling, I could climb the partitions of the showers to access the hole I made. I had no idea what it looked like above this ceiling our around that little windo I saw, but I imagined I could access it. I was fairly light and could tread softly. It was merely a matter of breaking the weak metal cage around the windowand descending without the guard seeing. That promised to be difficult and the cage was secured with at least some screws if not anchors and the descent was about a three meter drop. I though this was about the limit I could jump without breaking any bones. Tuck and roll, but silently.

When I came out of the bathroom Senegal was stiring in his bed.

“Bon jour. T'as bien dormi?” I asked as he sat up.

“Good morning. Yes I slept well thank you,” he responded.

I watched him as he tried to stand up. He fell back down once before succeeding. He waddled to his locker and took out some coffee. After he went to search some hot water.

As I watched him, it struck me how decrepit his gait was. He could have been much older than 40, but he walked as if he was double his age; slow, waddling.

I thought about asking him to come with me. But I knew he couldn't do it. This was my liberation not his. If he wanted, he would have to free himself.

Côte d'Ivoire

I hated the tension I always felt just before dinner. Usually, the men were well-rested and anxious at this time of day. The afternoon's activities had normally made them hungry. Whatever those activities were. Ping-pong, discussions, lying in bed. It was all the same. Some of them knew that dinner was coming everyday. They waited near their cell doors. They heard the clang of the metal basins that held their food, the wheels of the carts rolling into position, the tables being mounted so as to make a platform for the metal basins.

Then the song started. The heavy-metal metal doors began to be unlocked and opened. One cell at a time. It had an odd cadence, but a cadence nonetheless.

The men arrived one cell at a time. That night I was serving the food, while some of the other helpers looked on our chatted with the guards. The men shuffled toward me with the trays in hand, on after another. They all retreated to their cells afterwards to eat in silence or in the company of their cell-mates.

I had already eaten with the other helpers. I ate two trays that night and was looking forward to the pause after I had finished this little work. I wanted to digest the lump in my stomach.

One of the last cells to be opened was Senegal's and America's at the en of the hall. They exited their cell with America in the lead and Senegal just behind. They seemed to be chatting familiarly.

“Ça va, toi?” America asked as he arrived.

“Oui, ça va. You hungry tonight?” I asked.

“Yes, but remember I'm a vegetarian.”

“Ok, I'll give you more fish.”

“No, I don't eat fish either. Can you give me an extra egg?”

“Sure.” I gave him extra rice and two eggs. He walked off to his cell, but his gait was more spry than usual.

“Bon soir, mon chef,” Senegal said to me.

“Stop with the bullshit. You hungry?” I asked.

“Yes massa'.”

“What do you want from me? I'm out of my cell more. It's better than absorbing myself into a chess-board.”

“Right, well, thanks for the food. I'll wash my floor extra fast tonight.” He waddled back to his cell to eat.

After the last had been served I hurried to clean up after dinner. The others asked me to return the metal basins back to the kitchen. After I had done that the work was don for a few hours I could enjoy the fresh night air in the courtyard with the other men.

I found America smoking alone on one of the benches in the courtyard.

“T'as bien mangé?” I asked as I sat next to him.

“Yeah, I ate well thanks. You enjoying your new job?”

“I'm out of my cell more each day. That's nice.”

I thought you didn't want to be out of that cell. You liked it there didn't you?”

“Well, I never said that. I just don't want to be outside these walls anymore. You see I never knew where I'd sleep out there. At least here I'm out of the rain. I know there'll be a roof over my head each night. So, when they asked me to help, I thought I'd take advantage of the offer of more liberty.”

“You still have a fence keeping you from your liberty.”

“It's worse out there.”

“So you want to stay here?”

“Yeah, it's more sure here. Besides, I'm not going to get out of here anyway.”

“Well, as you like, but I imagine that you didn't think you were going to stay here when you left Côte d'Ivoire.”

“That's for sure … How's Senegal? He won't talk to me anymore.”

“Yeah, he's ok. He's taken to chess quite a bit. He and Shaman are pretty good. Yeah, well, I think he's a bit upset that you hurry us now when we clean the floors, among other things.”

“Well, there's not much I can do about that. The guards are watching the whole time that we push the water out of the cell-block.”

“What do they say?”

“Nothing,” I replied. America shrugged.

“Maybe you should talk to Senegal,” he suggested.

Senegal

The food that night had filled my belly well. Côte d'Ivoire was getting into the habit of giving me a little bit extra. The downside of this was that I always became a bit comatose for an hour after dinner.

In these moments before I cold concentrate to play chess, I stared at the television. The films would start in about two hours, but until then we watched the news. Judging by the images that rolled passed me, it seemed to be a fairly intense day outside our universe of Ramle Gi'von.

I only caught bits and pieces of the explanation in the colonizer's tongue, but the images spanned throughout all of the Occupied Territories and the city that was so dear to the colonists and the idigenous populations.

Bulldozers razed houses to the south of the old city, soldiers drove tanks at the idigenous youth, and tires burnt between the two factions. It seemed a little strange that the idigenous youth used only stones against these bulldozers and tanks. Even stranger was the fact that sometimes, although rarely, this attack succeeded. It seemed to me that it wasn't the threat of physical injury that made the colonist soldiers turn their metal-shrouded vehicles in retreat, but the sound of the rocks pelting the machines.

When the idigenous population was enough the constant pinging of rocks against metal and their chants which seemed to indicate a certain fearlessnes in the face a large forbooding machine were enough to force the machines to retreat. It was rare yet impressive.

Côte d'Ivoire enter my room and approached me.

“Salut, ça va?” He asked.

“Yes, I'm well and you?” I asked.

“Fine, fine. What's happening here?” he asked pointing to the TV.

“The usual. It's fairly impressive today though.”

“Did you eat well?”

“Yes, more than enough, thank you. Do you enjoy serving us food? Making us wash the floors at your speed?”

“Listen, I'm out of my cell more now. Do you like sitting in your bed all day?”

“I thought you did. You didn't want to leave here.”

“I still don't. Where would I go? Back to the street again? Back to the lemons?”

“What about Europe, France?”

“It would be the same there, wouldn't it?”

“You don't know that,” I said.

“It's been the same everywhere I've gone. Why would it be any different there? I'll stay here out of the rain and out of my cell, for the most part.”

“Still inside here.”

“And you? You want to put yourself into the checker-board? How are you going to get out of here? You'd be better if you you accepted the fact we're here. We're not going anywhere. So we might as well make the best of it and take as much freedom as we can.”

“You told me that my boss owned my walk to work out there. Who owns your time out of your cell? At least we were out there at one time.”

“What's the difference? Here there's no rain on my head. Here you don't walk past me on the street on your way to work.”

“Bah!” I said as I stood up.

“America, a game of checkers?” I asked.

America

I found myself in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable position. I was sitting across from Senegal with the checker board between us. It was early yet and the normal crowd hadn't gathered around the table for their nightly entertainment.

“I haven't played in a long time,” I told Senegal.

“Don't worry. It'll come back quickly,” Senegal told me.

“Yes, maybe but after watching you all play, I believe that the rules differ from where we learned them.”

“We'll start and I'll go easy on you.”

I'm not sure if he was joking or not. His intonation suggested that he was but his face gave no hint of sarcasm. I tried my best , but after three moves it seemed that I was playing too conservatively and had made a deadlock.

“Why don't you fly back to United States, America?” Senegal asked me without looking up from the checker-board.

“You know why,” I responded.

“Yes, but it's been some weeks now. I remember the other American who passed through here; after two weeks he flew. Why do you choose to stay here?”

“I've done nothing wrong. I want to prove this in their courts. I can't let them unjustly accuse me of something I didn't do.” This was as close to the truth as I could come speaking to him. I wanted to explain myself fully, but I couldn't.

“Yes, but what does it matter? The United States is much better than here anyway. You could go, if you want.”

“Trust me it's not much better. And you, what do you want to do? What's your desire? If you could leave?” I asked. His eyes didn't look up from the board as he began his assault on my checker pieces. “Tap, tap, tap” was the sound as he took three of my pieces.

“Ahhh, I don't know anymore. I think it's very difficult for me to get out of this place. You know I miss teaching, but ...” he responded. He was distracted by a good move he saw on the checker-board and took another two of my pieces and received a kinged piece at the same time.

At this point, the television in front of and above me caught my attention. There was a commercial for tomorrow nights movies. It was a scene in a prison. The inmates began revolting. It was the Attica prison uprising. Samuel L. Jackson played a leading role. Against the Wall was the title, I learned at the end of the publicity. I couldn't believe that the guards had let such images pass before our eyes. I watched intently for a moment to see if the screen would go blank, but it cotinued on as if nothing had happened.

“America! It's your move,” Senegal said to me.

“Sorry. Did you see … nevermind. Ah … So how do you think you'll get of here?” I asked

“I don't think about it.”

“But what if they don't let you out for another six months or a year?”

“What can I do?”

“Yeah, nothing, I guess.” I looked at him, but he was affected at all by the conversation. His focus was completely absorbed on the checker-board. I don't kno if he really even gave much thought to words he said to me. The just left his lips automatically. They were accepted words that had no impact for him.

“No, that wasn't it,” he said after I had made my move. He proceeded to jump four of my pieces in succession and I had to king the piece he had used. I didn't have anymore of of his pieces, so we used a piece of paper to symbolize a kinged piece. I had two pieces left.

“I don't think there's much I can do,” I said. By this time a silent crowd had gathered around us.

“No, there's not. Good game though,” Senegal said to me.

“Right. You don't need to patronize me.” We flashed quick smiles to each other. Another man put himself quickly in my place and the the two arranged another game quickly.

Eritrea

The asian men with whom I shared my cell were making a lot of noise that night. Their cries of joy quickly followed shushing made me role over from my night nap before going to sleep.

They were watching the television. I looked and found a scene inside a prison. The film was in english, but looked as if it had just begun. The prisoners were preparing something. I didn't understand what at first.

They were preparing tools and hiding them from the guards as they passed. There was one who spoke very strongly to the guards. These guards didn't seem to take him seriously.

Soon, violence erupted. The prisons overpowered the guards in some places and the went on to free the other prisoners.

I couldn't communicate with the other men in my cell. I believe they were filipino. Nonetheless, as each guard was attack in the film, we, the men of my cell, shared joyous smiles. The need for spoken language disapeared.

I hadn't felt so good in a long time.

Soon, all the guards in the film were either killed or had traded places with the prisoners. I couldn't hide my joy as the images flashed before me.

Helicopters and police surrounded the prison in the film and the prisoners negotiated with those on the outside. However, it was all in vain. At the end of the film, The police on the outside raided the prison. The killed indiscriminately. The guards and the prisoners died side by side.

I turned over after the film with a smile. The asian men continuedd talking late into the night presumably about the film.

My dreams that night were the sweetest I had had in years.

Senegal

The doors had been locked and all the men of my cell had settled themselves into their beds after the water flooded our room and was pushed out again. I appreciated the little pause each night between the games of checkers. It let the atmosphere change. When the cell doors were open there was always a elevated and jovial sentiment that pervaded the room. The shouts of Togo winning or losing were infectious.

After the men had retreated to their cells, the games of checkers we, the men of my cell, were always more relaxing and quiet.

“Game of checkers?” I asked America.

“No, not tonight,” he responded. I looked at some of the other francophones around him. They shook their heads “no”.

“Shaman, come down from your bed and play a game of checkers with,” I said.

“Not tonight,” he replied.

“It's strange that no one wants to play tonight. Above all, you,” I said to Shaman.

“You haven't watch the commercials today, have you?” He asked.

“No, why?”

“The film tonight is about prisoners fighting the guards.”

“What do you mean?” I asked

“I don't know exactly, but it will start soon. I think everybody's been waiting to see it.”

“Smokes!” The guard called from outside our locked door. I walked over to him and took the cigarettes as no other man seemed to get up from his bed.

“Close the lights,” one man called to me as I finished distributing the cigarettes. I complied, closed the lights and found my bed.

“I come down to smoke with you?” America asked me.

“Welcome,” I replied. He hopped down from his bunk and we sat on my bed with the ashtray between us. The film began with a man having his long hair cut at the barber in a small town. They were speaking American.

“Ah, it's from the United States. Have you seen this one, America?” I asked

“Je l'ai jamais vu. Je connait l'histoire un peu, parcontre. C'était un petit souvelement à un prison aux etats-unis. Mais le truc c'est que c'était pendant un époque de révolte social là bas. Mais dans tout le monde aussi. C'est assez interessant cet histoire là. J'espère que ça va être bon le film. On verra.”

“Ok, oui, on verra.” The film progressed with the guards mistreating the prisons. It was very strong. Many tisks left the men's mouths in my cell as they witnessed the abuses of the guards in the film. I found myself making the same disapproving remarks as well.

At one point the guards attempted to take one of the prisoners by force. But the men around him resisted the guards and took their keys. My cellmates erupted with joy. And I heard other murmurs from other cells in our block. We quieted eachother quickly as the prisoners took over the prison in the film.

“I can't believe the guards are letting us watch this,” America said to me.

“It's very nice, isn't it?” I replied. In the film the prisoners took the guards to the courtyard and held them their. The began making weapons to defend themselves. Sometimes the men in my cell would point to the television and seemingly to discuss and drool over the manufactured weapons.

Debates and negotiations ensued between the prisoners and the men in suits. They didn't seem to make much progress. In the end, the police and military stormed the prison and killed many men The guards who had been taken hostage died next to the prisoners. The soldiers who went in to break up the rebellion, didn't seem to differentiate between guards and prisoners when using their rifles.

Egypt

Egypt entered the guard's station at the end of the hall.

“Did you see the film last night? Or did the guards who were here watch it?” Egypt asked the guard.

“Was it in english?” The guard asked. He didn't look up from the game show that rolled before his eyes on one of his small TV's

“Why does that matter?”

“Because the guards from last night don't speak english very. Neither do I. So if the film is english normally we don't watch it.”

“Well, that's great, but the film last night was about the Attica Prison uprising and now the men are all talking about it in the courtyard.”

“Oh, shit, really?” The guard asked.

“Yes really. It's going to play again today. I suggest you do something about it.”

“Yeah, well, we'll look into it.” The guard didn't look up from his television as he waved Egypt out of his box.

Egypt walked out to find more men than usual talking jovially in the courtyard. Their hands and expressions seemed to explain more than their words.

Americat

Everyone woke up early the next morning after Against the Wall. We took breakfast together. This was very unusual. Normally the men ate silently before retrn to the beds to sleep the morning away. But that day there were excited discussions. The men were laughing with their mouths foul of the bread and peppers. Each one was describing a different scene.

Sometimes one man would remember one scene in one language and then another men within earshot would hear a fragment of the description and begin recounting that scene in another language. I hadn't seen such a beautiful atmosphere since I arrived there.

The day promised to be beautiful although the sun hadn't fully come out yet. We wouldn't see, but would feel it's presence after a few more hours. After breakfast, the cells were empty. The men had properly cafeinated themselves with tea and coffee. We all congregated in the courtyard. The wall of conversation hit you as you left the cell-block. All the men had continued the conversations they had practiced in their own cells. They continued these with their friends from the other cells.

“Did you see the film last night?” One man, with whom I had never spoken, asked me. He spoke in english.

“Yes, of course,” I replied.

“What did you think?”

“Incredible, no?”

“Yes! Do you think we'll be able to watch it again today?”

“Fuck me! I hope so! But the guards have to know by now. I'm not sure that they really would let us watch it again. Do you?”

“I don't know,” he began. “We'll find out in a little bit, won't we? I think we have to be locked down after a few minutes.”

“I'll keep fingers crossed.” He walked off. I was sincerely hoping that instead of only livng through this film vicariously, these men would start to organise a little uprising like the one the watched last night. Their babaric yawp for their dignity.

A thought surfaced that had plagued me since I entered here. Why wasn't I working with these men to organise to demand mine and their dignities?

But I knew that I couldn't make too much noise in here. Any action I made could negatively impact my case. And long would I be here? Long enough to build the relationships and trust that were needed to make such organization effective?

I had no answer for these questions. Hesistation.

“Back to your cells!” The guard called. The men started to make their way back their cells. The conversations pittered out. No one was reluctant to head back inside. They felt they were going to watch salvation again.

We entered our cells and the loud metal banging signified our time in the courtyard was finished. Not many of the men perceived that sound this time. Thier eyes were directed to the television. Our movie hadn't started yet and wouldn't for another hour or so. The men watched the news.

This morning the idigenous population had demonstrated at Quilandia check-point. The cameras on the the idigenous side of the aparthied wall had taken some shots of the graffiti, seemingly after the demonstration. We caught a glimpse of one slogan which read in bold black lettering “CONTROL-ALT-DELETE”.

I remembered the other side of the wall. The colonists' side. It was bare of graffiti. Blank and silent. It was much more sinister on the occupier's side.

The scenes then showed the demonstration. The idigenous marched towards the check-point only to be met by the occupation forces. The soldiers began to shoot tear gas and rubber-coated steel bullets at the demonstrators. None of the demonstrators fell but you could perceive that the tear gas was crippling them. Some of them limped away as if they had been touched by a one of the “less-than-lethal” bullets. The next scene the news showed was the indigenous youth, few and sparse, throwing stones at in the direction of the cameras which were placed alongside the soldiers.

Suddenly one of the men, change the channel. The movie was about to begin. There was a sense of anticipation in the cell. Maybe it was anxiety. We all began watching the film together. It was different this time. The men's cries for joy, that were stifled last night, were less frequent. I heard no other such noises from the other cells as I had heard the night before.

Then a silence fell over the men half-way through the film. It was just after the prisoners had taken over the prison and were organizing themselves in the courtyard. Most of them turned over and fell asleep.

Côte d'Ivoire

“Côte d'Ivoire! It's time for tea. You want to go get the hot water to give to the men?” One of the guard's helpers asked me.

“Yeah, I'll go get it,” I replied. The night was rather beautiful so this demand wasn't too much to ask of me. The guard opened the door and let me out into the open-air. I walked around the other cell-blocks to the kitchen. All of the containers of hot water had been lined and were ready for all the other cell-blocks. The helpers from everywhere would come to search them soon.

I wheeled the cart back and found my cell.

“Hey, Côte d'Ivoire. We're watching a movie now. You can hand out the hot water, can't you?” Another one of the helpers asked me.

“Yeah, sure. No problem,” I responded. It was a strange night. I visited each cell and called out “l'eau chaud”. In every cell the lights were out, the me were smoking and watching the television intently. They almost all shushed me as I tried to give them water for their tea.

Every-so-often, I would hear a rumble of voices that emminated for all the cells. The were all enraptured in the same program.

I brought the hot water jug back to the kitchen. I didn't even stop in at my cell to see if there was somebody else who was willing to do it. When I arrived at the kitchen I found all of the other hot-water jugs still there.

“No one's come to get the hot-water from the cell-blocks?” I asked my francophone friend in the kitchen.

“Si, Si. They've just all come back already. And I imagine that yours is nearly full, just like all the rest of them, isn't it?”

“Yeah, strange. What's going on?”

“I don't know. I think the men are all watching a prison film.”

“Ok, bizarre. I'll see you later.”

I went back to my cell and the guard locked us, the helpers, down for the evening.

“Hey, what are you guys watching?” I asked my cellmates.

“I don't understand english very well, but these prisoners have beaten the guards and taken over the prison.” One of them responded.

“Yeah, we should tell the guards about this film, so they can censor it,” another said.

“Shut up! Like that will change anything,” yet another chimed in.

“Well, they whole prison is taken by this film. So much so, that no one took their hot water. All the cell-blocks returned their jugs parctically full,” I added.

No one responded. They all turned silently back to their program. I tried to watch for a little bit but it didn't interest me so much. I could hear the quiet rumbles coming from the other cells when the guards were beaten by the prisoners. But our cell remained silent.

Soon, I picked up my Koran, laid back in my bed and began reading. It was a little bit difficult to concentrate that night while reading. I always had to look up at the television when I heard the noises coming from the other cells. I must admit the end of the film broke my concentration.

The police decided to drop bombs on the men in the prison. After this the police came in with guns. Amidst the smoke it seemed that it was hard for the police to aim properly. The shot indiscriminantly and killed the guards and the prisoners together.

As the film ended, the men in my cell reacted cooly. The changed the chanel and silence fell over our room. However this was in contrast to the other cells. As the movie ended the mur-murs of conversation could be heard nearly throughout the cell-block. It aroused the suspicions of the guards and they began to patrol the hall with a curiosity.

“Do you know why the men are talking so much tonight?” The guard asked into our cell.

“There was a film about a prison that just ended,” One of the men responded.

“Oh, I see.” He returned to his post.

The mur-murs eventually died down. I was finally able to read in peace.

America

I had been wrong about the day. It had rained for most of the afternoon. It was hard and soaking rain. It pounded the pavement outside ou window for some hours. But this kind of rain was one that couldn't sustain itself. It was too strong. All the energy that the clouds held was released in one fell swoop that lasted only a few hours. By night time it had finished.

We had been locked down, counted by the guards and given our cigarettes already. The men in the room laid silently in their beds. It was a strange silence. It was the antithesis of the energy that accompanied the morning. Some men from another cell had taken the checkers and the board. I watcched the agreement being made. It was done without argument. The negotiations were simple. Senegal and Shaman had conducted them. Neither of those men had wanted to play checkers tonight.

It would have been a deafening silence had it not been for the television that droned on and on. The film was some B-comedy, but one that had aspirations to be something more. It didn't recognize its own stupidity.

Suddenly, one of the doors began to unlock. It was the guards opening the cell. But they had started at the cell just across from ours. This wasn't routine as we were at the end of the cell-block and when the guards began to open the cells for some routine they always started at the other end. The symphony of slamming metal always appraoched us. But this was just across the hall. Most of the men sat up in their beds with curiosity.

Just after the cell had been opened we heard two loud bangs, a sound that seemed to signify someone being throw about and some shouts from the guards. Senegal stood up from his bed and went to our cell door to look through bars and into the cell that was just across from us. He was joined by two others.

“Senegal, what do you see?” I asked.

“I don't know, yet. The guards are blocking my vision,” he replied. Then we all heard the sound of clothes being ruffled.

“They're taking his clothes off,” Senegal said.

“Whose clothes?” I asked.

“The clothes of Eritrea.”

I sat petrified in my bed. I couldn't understand what was happening or why the guards would be stripping that young men of his clothes.

We all heard some muffled thuds; the wooden batons slamming into Eritrea's body and then the patter of feet and hands smacking against the floor. Then we all heard the water splashing and the groans, loud agonizing groans that followed.

“Senegal, what's happening?” I asked.

“They're giving him a bath now. He's naked. When he stands up the beat him.”

“He's in the bathroom?”

“Yes, he's in the bathroom. He's sitting on the floor and they're throwing buckets of water on him.”

We would hear the splashes of the buckets of water hitting him and then his groans that would always follow each dousing from the bucket. Sometimes after one the groans we would hear Eritrea make noises of despair, panic, scrambling. I think he would try to stand up and flee, but these sounds were always followed by a soft thud or some soft thuds of the batons hitting his body.

The men began to queue to see the scene. It was something like the lines you see at the visitation of someones body. They all passed in silence and left with looks of disgust on theirs faces.

“Aren't you going to look at this?” Senegal asked me. He hadn't moved from the door since this began.

I shook my head “no”.

I pulled the covers over my head as the splashing and the groans continued. I had come to this land to bear witness to the atrocities and humiliation the occupying forces heaped daily on the idigenous population. I had seen the idigenous beaten, choked, humiliated, arrested, evicted in the few weeks I had worked with them. But I couldn't bring myself to witness this young man being abused. The sounds were too much for me to bear. I pulled the covers over my head and closed my eyes tighter and tighter.

Eritrea

The door to our cell began to make the heavy sounds it always did when the guards opened the doors. This sound woke me from my late eveing nap. Normally, the sound approached us from the other end of the cell-block, but tonight it was only ours. I decided long ago that I would ignore their intrusions into my cell if it was outside their normal times of entry. I laid in my bed silently as they entered and surrounded my bed. I gave them no attention and pretended to sleep.

One of them pounded his baton twice on the metal rail of my bed. I wouldn't please them by given notice to his threat. They spoke amongst themselves and then one of them jabbed me in my ribs with his baton. I turned to look into his eyes.

He was pointing at my bed sheets and speaking in his colonizer's tongue. I couldn't understand his words but I knew what he meant. The stains on my bed became ever more pronounced with each day that had passed. I saw that another guard was holding new sheets.

I didn't acknowledge their presence, but instead turned back over and pretended to sleep again. I heard them scoff and say a few words to one another. Then one of them grabbed me and threw me from my bed. I hit my back on one of the filipinos metal bed rails.

One guard pulled the sheets off my bed and threw them out of the cell. He then tossed the clean sheets on my bed. The guards all approached as a mass in three. One swung his baton and caught my left shoulder. I flinched and rose my right arm. Another baton fell on the rightside of my ribcage. I cringed and the guards picked me up and threw me into the bathroom.

I slapped the ground and the guards approached me again. I flailed my legs and arms. I felt another blow of the baton on my leg. This stunned me for a minute and the guards took a hold of my pants and underwear and pulled them off. I continued to flail, nude from the waist down. Another baton fell on my left cheek. I saw a flash of light.

They took advantage of this moment and pulled my shirt off. I was naked there, in the bathroom. Blood was dripping from my mouth. The guards said a few words to one another and then one of them quickly exited the cell coming back twice as fast with a bucket. They filled the bucket with water and mixed in a powder that made bubbles in the bucket. The threw the contents of the bucket at me as I sat naked in the shower.

The were taking my smell from me. No longer would they be forced to share even the slightest amount of my misery. The misery that this place brought to me. When they passed the would no longer sense it in the slightest. The could now ignore me.

With this thought I let out a yell and stood up to try to flee. One of the guards took his baton in both hands and slammed it into my chest. I fell backwards into the corner of the shower again.

They prepared another bucket with soap and water. Again they threw it on me. Again I let out a magnificent groan. After this bucket of water I stood up, naked and dripping. Two of the guards were preparing the bucket and only one saw that I had stood. I approached him. He was smiliing.

When I was close he wound up to swing his baton at me. I waited until the last second and pulled his target, my head back. His swing was packed with all his power. His baton slid passed me and found the nose of the guard holding the bucket.

Blood exploded from the face of the guard. The bucket hit the floor along with the guard. The two other guards looked down at the fallen guard in shock. I took advantage of this moment and kicked the guard, who had just swung at me, in the testical. His body was turned as he stared at the other bleeding guard on the floor. It was an easy target.

Just after I dealt the blow to the guard, the filipinos, all three of them tackled the last remaining unscathed guard. They all fell to the ground with the filipinos pummeling him. I gave the other two guards a few kicks to the head until they were properly subdued.

After the three guards were unconscious, we four, all of the men of my cell, looked at each other in awe. I dressed myself and pointed silently to the other end of the hall where the guards station was.

The three filipinos ran there, only to find it was empty. The guards from our cell-block had all come to humiliate me.

We took their keys and opend the rest of the cells. The men came pouring out. All of us met in the courtyard in a euphoric state. The rain pounded down on us as we danced there. It was a warm sweet rain.

We realized we had the keys to the door that lead to the command center of the prison. It was attached to our courtyard. We entered and surprised the sleepy guards there. We entered each cell-block one by one. In three hours the only men in cells were the guards.

Senegal

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The kid from Eritrea took out two of the guards by moving his head and kicking one in the testicles. The scene that played out in front of my eyes through the bars was truly inspiring. After the filipino men had subdued the other guard they ran passed all of the cells to check the guards' post. I wondered what thee rest of the men thought. They only heard the sounds. They were probably waiting by their doors trying to glimpse a little piece of the action when shwah! The filipinos went running by! Ha! Incredible!

“What the hell's going, Senegal?” America asking coming out from under his covers.

“Well, it looks like Eritrea and his cell-mates have knocked-out the guards and are trying to see if there are anymore,” I replied.

“What the fuck are you saying?” He replied.

“Have a look.”

He jumped down from his bed and stared across the hall at the unconscious guards lying on the floor in the cell across from us. The door was left open and Eritrea was standing triumphantly over them.

The Filipinos came running back and gave a thumbs-up sign to Eritrea. Eritrea took the keys from one of the guards belts. He crossed the hallway and open our cell. The loud metal slamming aroused suspicion in the rest of the cell-block. A chorus of men began shouting from every cell demanding to know what was happening. One by one, we opened all the cells and the men came pouring out with exuberance. What a scene.

The last cell and the one closest to the guards' post was that of the helpers. Luckily, they had already been locked down. We opened their cell.

“We're staying in here. Lock the door and go about your business,” Côte d'Ivoire said to us, the group of men who opened the door.

“What are you saying?” I asked him.

“No, what are you all doing? What do you think is going to happen? That after this we're going to leave this place? We all be freed? We can stay in this country? We can leave to another country when we want? They're going to kill you all. Or at least, when this is over you'll still be here,” he responded.

“You know nothing. You don't know what's going to happen. Maybe we will get ot of here. Maybe this prison will be emptied. You can't see the future. In reality, if we do well, we'll empty this whole prison before anyone on the outside even knows we're out of our cells.”

“Has this ever worked? No, It hasn't. You're making your problems bigger.”

“You have no idea. And neither do we. But we're doing something. We're seizing the opportunity. And you all want to stay in your cells?”

“Yes, it's safe in our cell. We know that no matter what happens, at the end of it our cells will still be open more than all of yours. That's for sure.”

“You'd all rather sit idly in the safety of your cell while we take the prison, instead of joining us? Even though you have no idea what's going to happen? What if you're wrong? What if we all leave? Then there will be no one to come to unlock your cells.”

“Bon Courage! You know your enemy is too strong. None of you will leave this place of your own volition.”

“Bon courage à toi,” I ended the conversation there.

We dragged the guards from eritrea's cell to the cell of the helpers. The guards were still motionless on the floor as we made the symphony of the slamming metal to enclose the guards together with the helpers.

We all met in the courtyard to start our revolt. The rain pounded down on us; a warm sweet, rain.

Côte d'Ivoire

I filled up a cup with some water and went to the guards. I splashed some it on their faces and gave each of them a little tap on the cheek until it looked as if they were going to come around. One started to rouse before the others with some groans.

“Wah, what happened?” He asked as he sat up.

“Well, you were attacked by the men in the last cell. They knocked you all out, took your keys, put you in here and now, I think, they've take the command center of the prison. Not a very good evening for you all,” I replied. He looked around at his surroundings as he regained his sense of reality.

“Fuck!” He said.

“Yes, fucked,” I replied.

He began to rouse his cohorts. He spoke excitedly in the colonizer's tongue. They other two came around after a few more moments. They seemed to be in good health although two of their heads had small dribbles of blood streaming down their faces.

“Ugh,” one of them groaned.

“Water,” said the other one.

“Here fill this cup again,” I said to one of the other helpers.

“What happened?” One of the newly-roused guards asked me. I explained again.

“Well, shit! What do we do now?” One of the guards asked to the others.

“Hey, why aren't you all out with your friends?” One guard asked us.

“Well, we know what's going to happen,” I began. “They're not leaving this place unless their killed, so we thought it was better to stay here. After their little temper-tantrum is over, We'll still be able to help you all and have the extra time with our door open, isn't that right?”

“Yes, you were smart not to go with them. But what do we do now?”

“Well, we could have these men go out and try to phone the outside, so we can have some back-up before they start leaving this place,” another guard said.

“No, that won't work. We've already told them that we won't participate. If we change our minds they'll know something is wrong,” I replied.

“He's right,” one guard began. “But, fuck, they'll have this whole prison liberated in a few hours. If word doesn't get out, they'll all leave.”

“Ahhh, but wait. Don't worry. We have the Egyptian,” another one replied.

“Shit I almost forgot,” another said.

“You think he'll know what to do before it's too late?” One guard asked.

“Yeah, he knows what he's doing.”

“What are you guys talking about? What's Egypt going to do for all of you?” I asked.

“Never mind,” One replied.

“So we just sit tight and wait for the police to raid the prion?” The second guard to wake said.

“Yeah, sounds good to me. And you all,” he was addressing us the helpers. “Don't you all worry. We'll be sure to put in the report that you all decided not to participate in this madness. We might even be able to get citizenship for some of you, depending on the judge.”

“That means we can leave here?” One of the other helpers asked.

“Yeah, that means you can leave,” he replied.

Egypt

Egypt walked through the rain in the courtyard. He pulled his collar up in a futile attempt to shield himself for the rain. Most of the men of his cell-block danced jubiliantly, although quietly around him. He found the bay of phones. A long queue had begun. He picked up the reciever.

“Hello!” Egypt said into the phone.

“Yeah, hello … Who is this?” The voice on the other end asked.

“You know who it is. Your man inside.”

“Why the fuck are you calling at this hour? Do you know what time it is?”

“Of course I know what time it is! Do you think I'd call you at this hour if it wasn't important, fuck-head?”

“No, ok what is it?”

“The prisoners have taken over our cell-block. I'm listening to their conversations around me. It sounds like they're going to free all the cell-blocks and escape together.”

“Don't worry one of the guards in one of the cell-blocks will be able to call the command center of the prison and they'll alert everyone to lock down the whole prison.”

“That's the problem. My cell-block is connected to the command center. They're planning to go there now to capture them guards. After that they can go to each cell-block without being seen by the guard tower. I think in a few hours they should have the whole prison.”

As Egypt said this he saw the guards being dragged from the command center door to his cell-block.

“They've just taken the command center. The guards are being locked up in my cell-block. What do we do?”

“Ok, listen. I'll call the authorities. You should have some time before they attempt to escape. I think we can get some cops there before sunrise. Try to gather as much information as you can.”

“I'll do my best.”

Egypt hung up the phone and circled the courtyard. He found America dancing with some other men.

“America, how beautiful this is! But what do you think that your lawyers will say?” Eygpt asked.

“I'm not really sure. I haven't asked them. Senegal!” America responded and walked off.

Egypt made his way through the scene. Most of the men were headed in the other direction. They were funneling through the command center into different cell-blocks to subdue the guards and free the men. He entered the abandonned hallway of his cell-block. Streams of toilet paper and other rubbish were scattered about.

“How are all of you?” Egypt asked into the cell where the guards were being held.

“Fine, don't worry,” one of the guards replied.

With that a cry of jubilation arose from the all around them. It sound like hundreds of men.

“What's that?” Asked a guard.

“I think they've just freed the last cell-block,” Egypt responded.

“They went throught the command center, didn't they?” A guard asked

“Yeah,” responded Egypt.

“Are they going to leave the prison?” Asked the guard.

“I don't think so,” Egypt replied with a wink.

With that he walked off and joined the other men.

America

The rain was starting to slow as the night began to close. We had freed all of the cell-blocks by that time. I had stayed with Senegal. I was worried about his body during the action. Not only his but some of the other men's bodies. I couldn't imagine in the beginning that their withered muscles could be capable of such strenous and prolonged activity.

I was wrong though. Senegal and I had helped liberate and two other cell-blocks by subduing the guards. He, along with all the other men I was with, held up very well. I think we all were powered by a massive dose of adrenaline. Our collective spirit kept this chemical pumping through our veins. And with each cell-block we liberated our hearts pumped more and more. They sweet taste of freedom was intoxicating.

As the rained turned into a drizzle, we all became more quiet. The men whose cells had views of the four guard towers watched these towers intently. We had made careful and collective plans to attack these towers swiftly, so as the guards above wouldn't have a chance to alert the authorities concerning our imminent escape. We decided to make a short rest before finishing the job to assure our liberation.

“How are you, Senegal?” I asked.

“I couldn't be better! And you?”

“I'm ok. Now that we have a chance to rest. I'm beginning to think a little. I'm nervous about this last part. I'm not sure if we're going to make out.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I'm afraid someone has told the police. And that they're on their way here.”

“No, don't worry! We've taken care of all the guards and we have all their cell phones. They never had time to make calls. The guards in the towers have been snoozing through the rain and aren(t aware of anything. We're almost there.”

“I hope you're right. I hope I'm just being paranoid. But maybe there's someone among us who called the police. Let's just finish the job and get out of here. I'll feel better then. Where are you going to go?”

“North. I want to go to Europe. To France. But I'm leaving this country and never coming back.”

“You don't want to go back to the children that you taught here?”

“No. Children, yes. Here, no. I'll only be put back in this prison.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear you'll leave this country. But what if you find the same situation in the north or in europe?” I asked.

“I'll keep going. I'll just keep going. Something will find me along the way.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“And you?”

“Well to be honest with you, I was in here because I was working with the idigenous resistance. Doing international accompaniment.”

“No, really?”

“Yeah, it was dangerous for me to talk about, but I wanted to stay because my lawyers thought it would make internationals more effective here. But I can't continue my case after this little uprising. I imagine that my friends will have to smuggle me to the south, over the border. And I'll go back to the US.”

“But why did you help us? You could have stayed in your cell. Or with Côte d'ivoire.”

“What's the difference between the situation of the idigenous population and the men in here? Different walls? Different bars? The time I spent in here probably wouldn't have effective the situation of the idigenous population too much. Maybe slightly in a legal sense. But what does that mean when you're in a land where they have no regard for even their own laws? I'll be free anyway. Either with you all or when their judges decide that having me in here isn't a good political decision. I'm American. Who do you think funds this occupation? My country. So, I leave with all of you.”

“T'es fou! Hahah! T'es fou!”

I shrugged. The men swirled around us and we knew it was time to go. We leapt up and met with a group of men at the door of the command center. We organised ourselves, the different groups who were going to attack different guard towers, with walkie-talkie. When the signal came, we all leapt out of the door and climbed the tower.

Four men arrived on top of the tower at the same time and then another four and another four. The guard put down his gun without firing a shot. We looked around and saw that the other towers had done the same. The guards peacefully descended and entered a cell. A cry erupted from the prison. Triumphant.

Dawn was just breaking now. And all of the men of the prison gathered in the space between the cell-blocks and the fence that separated us from the outside world. All the families had been reunited.

On the horizon, streaming with the purple hazy light, was a caravan of police cars. Their flashing lights were still brighter than the sun's rays as they had yet to piercce the sky. The talking stopped and everyone looked on in dread.

After a moment or two, Eritrea came pushing through the crowd and threw himself against the fence. He began to climb furiously. Shouts arose, calling him back as the police surrounded the prison. He jumped from the top of the fence onto the muddied field below. He stood up and began running to the east as the sun broke over the horizon.

The police stopped their cars and exited. They shouted something at Eritrea in the colonizers tongue. Whatever it was, he couldn't understand. Soon they began shooting at him. He fell and the shooting stopped.

He sprang back to his feet and attempted to flee limping. But the shots broke out again. And once more he was felled. He was squirming now. Inching always towards the east. As the sun broke free from the horizon, his body became motionless.

Côte d'Ivoire

We were dozing when the sounds of the sirens started their approach. Their screams began softly in the distance and drew ever closer. One of the guards hopped up on the bunk and looked out the window.

“What do you see?” One man asked.

“All I can see is the flashing blue and red bouncing off the building. I can't see beyond the fence. There's a building blocking our vision.” He responded.

“Shit! Well, in any event, this should all be over soon. The men outside will storm the prison and then we'll be free,” a guard standing on the ground said. “Well, not you all,” he continued refering to us his helpers. “But you know we'll be back in control of the prison.”

A silence ensued and we all mulled around the cell for a minute. Then we heard an explosion of gunfire. There's was a brief lull and then it started again. Finally, it stopped all together.

“What do you see? What do you see? Are they in prison yet?” One guard aske the other who was on the bunk.

“No, I don't see anything. There doesn't seem to be any movement. I'm not sure what that was,” he replied.

We turned the TV on to search for the news about the incident that was unfolding, but there was none. We finally settled on the films from the night before. Not many of us had watched them because of the action of last night. The guards found a checker board and began playing.

“Hey!!! I'm hungy!” One of the guards began shouting through the door at one point. But it was to no avail as the cell had been emptied.

A few hours passed this way, but we kept turning the channel of the television to search the news. Just before noon there was finally a report about what had happened.

The images reminded me of most of the images I saw on this station when they played the news. There were slight differences such as the setting. It was here. Not the occupied territories. The people were different, as well. They were a mix of colors and origins as opposed to the idigenous population that we normally saw on this news broadcast.

What we saw was the prisoners amassed at the fence of Ramle Gi'von. All of them looking on. The flashing lights were at the sides of the camera. We watched some police approach a body in the field that separated the road, where the police were, and the prison fence.

The covered the body with a white cloth, put it on a stretcher and brought back past the camera. By the time they passed with the body, the blood had already soaked through and stained the white cloth. I couldn't tell who it was.

“Those must have been the gunshots we heard,” said one of the helpers.

The guards continued their game of checkers as the report had finished. We the helpers looked at each other rather blankly as we laid back in our beds.

“You all hungry?” America asked from outside our cell.

“Yes, give us food!” One of the guards replied.

America was accompanied by about five other men and one of the began to unlock the door. America entered with a cart of food and began to serve everyone in my cell.

“We want the the news from out there!” One guard demanded in English.

“Eritrea's dead,” America replied to me in French. “They killed him as he tried to escape just after we took the guards' towers. We've just made an assemblea to discuss our options as how to proceed. We've decided to discuss our options in smaller groups and come back in two hours to take a collective decision. I'll return to let you all know what we've decided. You can tell the others, Côte d'Ivoire?”

“Yes.” He left and the door was locked again.

“What did he say?” One guard asked.

“They've killed Eritrea. Those were the gunshots we heard.”

“Who's Eritrea?”

“The boy who you tried to wash last night,” I replied.

The guards exploded with laughter.

Senegal

We all watched in silence as they came to retrieve Eritrea's body. They took it passed their line of cars with the flashing lights. News cameras had assembled next to the police cars. As the body disappeared into an ambulance, it felt as if there was a collective realization of the gravity of the situation. I almost felt a wave anxiety flux through all of us as the reality of the police formation hit us. The shock of Eritrea's death faltered and gave way to the shock of the actual situation.

“I think we should make an assemblea to discuss what to do,” America said.

“Yes,” I replied.

“You can make an anouncement in french and the occupier's tongue? I can make one in english. And I imagine we can find an arabic speaker who understands french or english, no?”

“Yes, someone will understand us.”

“Ok, then we can set up little translation corners and hopefully we can all understand each other fairly easily,” he said before we began.

The prisoners jumped on the idea of the assemblea right away and the translations easily solved themselves. After fifteen minutes everyone was situated next to someone who spoke and least two languages. I imagine the sight was rather strange for the police.

“Well, I have a proposal,” America began after a few minutes of preliminary discussion. “I say we prepare ourselves to leave this place on our own recognizance. We prepare some shields of metal, so as to be protected from bullets, we open the doors and leave together. I don't think that they'll open fire on all of us with all of the news cameras here.”

“But where will we go!” Demanded one man.

“To the next closest prison. We'll free the prisoners there and keep heading north until we're out of the country. And we can stop at all the prisons on the way. We'll stay close to the sea, so as to not get caught in the desert.”

“You're crazy! They'll kill us. Or they'll put us back in here. But that will never work!” Another man shouted.

“It's our only choice. Hopefully we can gain some popular support and we'll have some mometum, but we can't ever stop. If we stagnate we'll wither. And yes if we take to long they'll kill us in here or make sure we stay here. We've taken action. Let's see the action out until the end.”

Some of the men, not many but some, seemed to see the mad logic in America's argument. I didn't but I translated his words anyway.

“This man is crazy!” Egypt began. “We will all die if we take this course of action. Their military is too strong that we can reach the border. The only thing we can do is hold our ground and negotiate with the police for leniancy. Let's tell them we want to talk and let a small group in here to do just that.”

This argument started a fierce debate that lasted more than an hour. Each side had his turn. But a decision didn't immerge. We decided that it was better to make a two hour pause, feed the guards, have discussions in smaller groups and then reconvene to take a collective decision.

“Finally, should we speak with the press?” America ask of the group.

The decision was that we should.

“Who will speak?” He demanded once again. Egypt volunteered himself, but America argued vehemently against this. The group asked America to speak. But he really didn't want to do this. In the end he was convinced to do so because of he spoke english. They thought this was an effective way to communicate ewith all the world.

“Yes, but what will I say?” He asked me as the assemblea concluded.

“You've been here some weeks. You know our stories. You know what happens here. Just tell them that.”

“I don't like telling others' stories.”

“Well, you have to. I imagine that no matter what happens you'll get out of here. We will probably stay.”

He walked to the fence where the cameras and the journalists had congregated. He began speaking in his mother tongue, one I didn't understand. After he went to serve food to the guards.

Egypt

Egypt walked across the courtyard of his cell-block. Men from all the cell-blocks mingled where they pleased. The queues for the phones were slightly shorter than normal. Many of the men were taking advantage of the facilities normally reserved for the guards and staff of the prison. Egypt picked up the phone and dialed his superior.

“Hello,” the voice on the other answered.

“Hello, it's me,” responded Egypt.

“How are things inside there? You know the news crews have arrived?”

“Yes, we've all seen them. Things are ok. But listen, we've just finished an assemblea in here. The men are planning what to do next. They wanted to leave on their own in small groups before the police arrived here. Obviously that's impossible now. So, they're trying to find a graceful way of exiting this situation.”

“Ok, so what are some of there ideas?”

“That's what they're discussing now. We've decided to make a two hour pause to discuss the two dominant proposals. The first, was mine. I proposed that we start negotiations with the police on the outside. This would allow us to open the doors and let some of the police in. I'm sure you all could organize yourselves accordingly if this proposal gains enough adherents.”

“Yes, I think we can.”

“But the other proposal is that we organize ourselves to leave en masse. We would do this by constructing metal and mobile barricades. This would protect us from the gun fire. Those who support this proposition want to head north and liberate the other prisons on their way to the border.”

“What? Are they crazy?”

“Yes, but fairly convincing. The debate is raging now. Listen, I can give you descriptions of these people. If we eliminate the opposition, I think we can show the others our force while at the same time rid ourselves of the silver-tongues who are opposed to our happy ending. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand what you mean,” the voice on the other end of the telephone replied. “What do these men look like?”

“Men? A lot of them are women with families.”

America

I didn't think that we had a lot of the prison on our side when the assemblea began, but I knew some of the other folks had done well in convincing those on the fence that our idea to leave forcefully was much better than negotiating with the people who put us in here. We all knew that that had an interest in keeping us in here. They wanted to make sure we weren't going to become a part of their society. This line of logic seem to ring true to the vast majority of the prisoners in Ramle Gi'von.

However, fear seemed to grip when those rallying behind Egypt spoke. They played this card well. They argued that the safest bet was to negotiate with our captors for god-knows-what. Better conditions? Better food? Release?

Most of us could intuit that this course of action was futile. Then again so was our escape. They only thing I hoped was that we could overcome this fear collectively.

We assembled ourselves to take our decision. The same groups of translations gathered together in more or less the same corners. We were in the open air. The police could see us and hear us if we wanted. We had nothing to hide anymore. If they wanted they could hear our plans. And whatever our decision was to be they would have to react. Whatever that decision be, their reaction would be difficult to make. Our numbers gave us some security.

The arguments were made by either side and it seemed that our coalition, who advocated self-liberation, had garnered more support in the two hour pause. I stayed silent because I like to listen to the collective more than speak to it. It's general direction was pleasing to me. So why did I need to assert myself.

But then he began to talk and talk. It was Egypt. I really felt he was working for this awful government, but I couldn't prove it. So, I could accuse him of it. The problem was that he was very convincing. I could the group start move in his favor. I knew I had to speak soon.

“My friends,” Egypt continued. “Look to the fence. You can see all the police ready and waiting to kill us. What do you think they're going to do? Let us walk by? Let us march to liberate others? Let us cross the border? This is crazy! We're going to be killed!” He paused. “Listen, I ask you all to reflecct on this course of action for merely a few moments. Is it worth your life? Really is it worth your life? This course of action isn't worth my life. If you all go, then go, but I stay here to reap the consequences.” He stopped for a moment. And I asked to speak.

“Egypt is right. We have to ask whether this is worth our lives. But we also have to ask ourselves what kind of life will we lead. Mostly likely if we negotiate with these police, we will live. But what kind of life will it be? A life behind these bars. Constantly caged. Constantly waiting for others to feed us, to give us food, to count us like animals! Is this the life you want to save?” I paused for a moment.

“Well, the outcome of Egypt's proposal is rather clear. We know we'll keep our lives. And we know our lives will be passed in here. We know that we'll all share the same condemantion for the same crime; the crime of existing … merely in this state. A sentence without a definite end. But the torturous part of this sentence will be the knowledge.”

“What knowledge?” Someone shouted.

“The knowledge that we were presented with a situation where we had our liberty in our hands. At least we had the opportunity to take the liberty only from this prison. What awaits across the border, I don't know. But to free ourselves from this prison, we had the oppotunity to attempt it … And if you listen to Egypt you'll never know how far we could have gone. We'll return to our cells. That's sure. We'll have our lives. But now it what only be the bars that torment us, it'll be the knowledge as well. The constant wondering of how far we could have gone. How much liberty could we have stolen for ourselves? These will be questions never answered if we listen to this man. So the question we must ask ourselves is: can we live with this constant wondering?”

I was happy there was a reflective pause after this. Egypt seemed to be contemplating as to how to combat these words. The others seemed to be taking them to heart.

Then suddenly gunfire erupted from the police lines. I flinched ever-so slightly as I watched a man to my left fall.

Then the sledgehammer hit my head

Senegal

America's mind exploded in red all over my shirt. I had been translating for him and some others into french, when there was a language I understood. He wasn't alone though. The little open space surrounded by the fence (the last bastion of our imprisonment) became filled with blood. I think fifteen or twenty people were killed. Many of them were women. The children of the parents xho were killed wandered around the courtyard screaming. The younger ones couldn't understand what had happened. Amidst the chaos of the prisoners scrambling to put order to the situation, to save the lives of the people clinging slightly to life, I saw the youngest of the children desparately trying to wake their dead and bloodied parents. They didn't understand the permenance of death.

We dragged the dead and dying back through the command center of the prison and into one of the courtyards. The guards were shooting over our heads now to hurry us along.

When the last prisoner had died, we stared blankly at one another for a moment.

“You see what happens! You see what they'll do to us!” Egypt broke the silence. We all looked at the bodies. They were mangled. The heads of some tore in half. Tendrils of grey-matter were all that connected some of the pieces of brain to their bodies. Others were missing pieces of their heads all together. Bullet-holes that had once vomitted blood revealed only bloodied stains on the clothes that surrounded them.

We all looked and Egypt didn't need to make his argument any further with words. It had been materialized for him.

“We must negotiate,” he declared. “It's our only chance to leave this situation alive. If we try to escape, we will be killed like these people. Are your lives worth this vain attempt to escape? Mine isn't. Make what you will, but I'll stay here, in safety.”

There was no one left to argue against him. I looked around the group. Those who had vehemently and convincingly advocated escape had all been killed. It was decided quite quickly that we would negotiate with the police outside the fence. Egypt volunteered to talk with them.

In the course of these negotiations, Egypt was told that some of the negotiators would like to come in to sit down with us. They wanted to hear our demands face to face. Egypt convinced us that it was a good idea.

We all amassed at the gate to meet the negotiators. As Egypt opened the door, a stream of soldiers or police, I don't know which, pushed throught the opened gate. They were dressed as if they were prepared to put down a riot. Once again the courtyard was filled with blood. The pools that had been left from the morning's slaughter had not yet dried. They were refilled by blows from batons and rifle-butts.

We quickly found ourselves handcuffed and bleeding. We were put against the wall as the guards of the prison were freed and we took their places in the cells.

Teams of paramedics came to visit us in our cells, after we had been put back there. We were all badaged and wrapped before the evening had really settled in. I looked silently out the windo into the courtyard that we had occupied. The freedom we had experienced was no longer sweet, but tinged with the metallic taste of blood. I watched the prisoners, who had been brought in from the normal prisons, as they scrubbed the pavement of the courtyard under the bright moon-light. The were cleaning the blood that had been cooked and caked-on the asphalt by the sun.

The next days were long and silent as our wounds healed. The terrible memories of the death and slaughter of our friends would haunt us for even longer. Somehow, in those days that followed, the walls were pushed tighter against us, the sounds of the cell-door slamming and clanking shut were louder and we all tossed and turned after the guards counted us at six in the morning. The morning sleep that had come so easily was now the most elusive thing.

Côte d'Ivoire

“On your feet!” The guard called to me as he entered my cell.

“What's going on?” I asked him. He approached me menacingly.

“I have something for you.” His hand slid down towards and passed his baton. His other hand jerked up and I saw a file of papers which he opened.

“What do you have there?” I asked him.

“Congratulations! You've become a citizen of our state. You're being released today,” he repsonded.

“You're joking,” I said.

“No. not at all. Gather up your things. You're leaving today. You're going to be housed in a building built by the government. They'll help you for a little while until you can find a job. We'll give a good word for you. Hopefully, you can find a job serving food like you did here. I imagine it should be to difficult. The tourists are many and there's a position like that open.”

“Wow. Where am I going to live?”

“Well, it looks like they'll put you in one of the colonies. But don't worry … they're well-protected and the transport is very safe from the cities to the colonies. Pack your things. I'll be back in a bit to let you out of your cell to say good-bye to the others in the cell-block.”

I hurriedly packed all of my things and began to wait expectantly at the cell-door.

“You looking our that window isn't going to get you out of here any faster, Côte d'Ivoire,” One of the other guards' helpers said to me.

“It won't slow it down either,” I responded. “I think you all will probably get out of here after a little bit as well. It's our reward, isn't it?”

“Yeah, I suppose it is,” the same helper responded. “Well, in any event, you be careful out there.”

“Yeah, will do.”

The guard's footsteps approached and the sound of the door opening began. I exited the cell with my bag and the door was locked behind me. I started to walk dow the empty hall, alone. I made the trek to the other end of the cell-block stopping at each cell to say good-bye.

“Ciao, amici!” I said into the cell that I had stayed in before I began helping the guards.

“Where you go?” One of my old friends asked me.

“Well, I gained citizenship. So, I'm leaving.”

“Where are you going to live?”

“The government has given me a house in one of the colonies.” With this they started laughing.

“Go on then. Have a good time being a colonist!” He said to me through his laughter.

I continued do the cell-block until I finally reached Senegal's cell.

“Senegal,” I began saying through the bars of his door. “I'm leaving this place now. I wanted to say good luck to you.” He approached the door. The scabs on his head had not completed healed yet. They were remenants of the baton blows he had received a few weeks before.

“Where you go?” He asked me.

“I go to live in a house the government's given me. In a colony,” I said. He smirked.

“Well, bravo. So you'll leave us now … to go to live in a colony. You going to sell lemons there?”

“No, I think those days have finished.”

“Another job then? But what's the difference?”

“I'll have a roof over my head, now. Like I had in here. But I'll be out there.”

“Well, go on then, Mr. Freedom, casse-toi. Fuck off!” With that I started to walk down the long corridor towards the guard.

“You'll never be free! There's going to be guards all around out there, too. You know that?” He yelled. He began shaking his cell-door, clanking and rattling the metal.

“You'll never be free! You'll never be free!”

“Neither will you!” I replied.

I reached the guard and we began to exit the cell-block.

“What's he saying?” The guard asked.

“Never mind,” I said.

“One more thing. You'll have to check in with the Ministry of Interior each week. You just have to go to the city by the sea and have them sign a piece of paper.”

We left the cell, but somehow the shouts of Senegal became louder and louder as we got further away. They devolved into something that resembled primordial yawps.

America

When I awoke sweating perfuously, I found that the yawps weren't coming from Senegal. He was still standing at the door watching the horrible spectacle that was taking place in the cell across from ours. These yawps were coming from Eritrea. The bucket of soapy water were still being throw on him. The yawps were his.

Normally, I don't dream to be other people. But this one was intense. “Did I die?” I couldn't remember.

Senegal watched and tsked with two or three other men. I still wasn't able to bring myself from my bed to bear witness. The humiliation or torture continued for another ten minutes. The yawps turned to cries and became always louder.

“They've finished now. Eritrea's been thrown, wet and naked, on his bed,” Senegal anounced.

We heard the guards walk out, close the door and make the precedure to close the door. After this the eerie silence that fell over the cell-block was only broken by eritrea's continuing cries. There were no words only sobs. They went on for more than an hour.

It didn't seem as if many of us slept that night. I know I couldn't find sleep for quite a few hours. But we didn't share any words either. We only had the rustling silence.

…

It was broken after a few hours. I'm not sure if I slept. I know I was unaware of reality when the guards entered at six in the morning. But maybe it wasn't sleep that found me.

“On your feet! There's a guard in the room!” One of the guard who entered the room yelled. The men fell and rolled out their beds. Many of them didn't open their eyes as the guards counted us.

We lined up to piss as the guards began locking the cell-door again. Then the men fell back into bed.

“America, wake up! It's time for lunch,” Senegal said to me. I had missed breakfast. We all shuffled out of our cell to line up and take the food from Côte d'Ivoire and his friends. I watched the other men eating in their opend cells as I passed. When I returned, I looked into the cell across from ours. The filipino men had lined up to be let out. Eritrea was no where to been seen. I thought he was lying in his bed.

We all ate silently. The films from the night before were about to start.

“America, phone for you,” Côte d'Ivoire said as he entered our room.

“Hello,” I said.

“How you doing in there?” The voice at the other end said to me.

“Pops! Not too bad. And you?”

“I'm ok. But you've been in there nearlly a month now. When are you getting out?”

“I'm not sure. It could be tomorrow. It could be after some time. It's not so sure. We're waiting on the appeal my lawyers have put into the judge.”

“Well, we'd like to know, because we're on the other side of the world. We feel a bit helpless and we don't have a lot of information either.”

“Yeah, I know. Don't forget though, I can sign a piece of paper, if I want, and I'd be on the next flight home. The other men can't.”

“Ok, why don't you do that?”

“We'll talk about later, dad. What are you doing? And why are you up so early?”

“Oh, you know. The same old. I go to work. I come home, eat, watch some TV, have some beers and go to sleep. But today's saturday.”

“Oh, is it?”

“All day. So I got up early to watch this film. Rambo 4. They're playing it at seven here. And I thought I'd give you a call as it's a fairly good hour over there.”

“Oh, thanks. So what are you going to do with your saturday?”

“Well after this film, there's another on. So, I'll probably pass the day here on the couch. Listen to this though. Mom and I order this thing to record he shows that are on while we're at work. It even changes the channel as well. Now when we come home, We can watch everything we missed during the day.”

“That's great dad.”

“Well, this film is starting, so I'll let you go. Let us know when you're getting out.”

“Yeah, will do.”

My film was starting as well. The room was silent despite the sun beating down outside. I had seen the room this silent before, but usually only when it was raining. It seemed that we were all making up for the sleep we had lost the night before. The film wasn't so interesting either.

I fell asleep. But I awoke the sun was setting. The time of the year had made the sun able to penetrate our cell. The golden-orange light would filter through the rebar that blocked our full view of the sky. It crept lower and lower until the shadow of the rebar on the window came out of focus, but the light passed through the fan near the wall and perfectly preserved its silhouette.

It was a colorful and idyllic picture that reminded me of sunsets in Western Wisconsin the spring before. An odd combination of emotions flowed through me during that trip; liberation and isolation. The wind pushed me along my only companion, that wonderful Italian bicycle. The freshly sown fields were in the foreground and behind them, the streams flowing gently. This was all on the backdrop of climbing and sloping ridges and coolies. It felt like liberation. Although I was born and raised in the apex; where all the wealth flowed. I couldn’t have made that trip if it hadn’t been for the slaves in the Philippines sewing a backpack to carry my possessions. I wondered if some of the filipinos here had crafted the backpack that carried my possessions on that trip. Nonetheless, those thoughts of perpetual motion and seemingly completely liberated moments brought me solace. At least I had those feelings. This was more than most of men I shared my time with could say.

“America, phone again,” Côte d'Ivoire said through the bars of my cell-door. I got up and took the phone from the other side of the locked door.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello, this is our lawyer. How are things there?”

“Good. Do you have any news for me?”

“Yes, we have some good news. The judge has accepted your appeal. You'll be released on bail until your trial.”

“Well, great! What do we do? How do I get out of here?”

“We'll fax all the necessary documents to your organization. After that they can come to get you out. You have ten days, starting to day, before the bail offer expires.”

“But you know they lost my documents. What if the can't get new documents for me before the end of the ten days?”

“Then you have to wait inside until the trial.”

“Really? Can you do anything to help them to get me out?”

“Listen, we've done what we can. Your friends have to get you out now. Good Luck.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Côte d'Ivoire

Night had fallen. It was after dinner and the wind was completely still. I managed to see some stars between the rebar in that was placed over the courtyard. That night when I brought the empty trays back to the kitchen to be washed after dinner, the serenity of the cool evening made me happy my colleagues were exploiting my labor. While they sat in the courtyard, I could enjoy the view of the night sky un perturbed by the metal lacings overhead, albeit for a very short time. I dared not stop along my route to and from the kitchen for fear of being caught by the guard and losing this post that allowed me this view. But I did try to walk ever-so more slowly. I don't think I was seen.

When I returned, I wasn't sure if their would be another task for me. I didn't want to do anything right away, so I passed the courtyard, where the other helpers congrgated, and went directly to the other end of the cell-block. It was Senegal's and America's cell. And it was the furthest from the courtyard.

“Bon soir, America,” I said.

“Bon soir, ça va?” He replied looking away from the television or the thoughts in which he was immersed.

“Oui, ça va,” I replied.

“What are you doing this night?” He asked me.

“Well, I just make a tour before we're all locked down.”

“Sounds nice. It's a good night to make a tour.”

“Yes, when I went to the kitchen tonight, I saw the stars without the bars between us.”

“Yeah, it's been awhile that most of us haven't seen that.”

“Yeah, I know.” With this he turned back to his television program. It was in the colonizer's tongue. I don't think he could've understood.

I walked over to Senegal's bed. He was doing the same thing as America; looking unresponsively at the television.

“Ça va, toi?” I asked Senegal.

“Oui, et vous?” he responded. I was a bit shocked, but I didn't have time to respond. The Shaman came over with some friends.

“Senegal, look at this,” said the Shaman. They both held the cell phone as a group of men began to gather round them. I couldn't quite see what was happening on the video, but Senegal was chuckling at some points.

“America, come to see this,” Senegal said. America looked over and jumped down from his bunk. Some men made a little space for to come see. He looked for awhile. At first he seemed to be confused, then he shook his head with a grin.

“I really don't know how you guys smuggle these telephones in here. And with videos like that as well,” he said. He walked back to his bunk just after learning what it was that he was watching.

I found a little bit of space for my head and leaned in.

Some man had smuggled in a fairly advanced telephone. It opened in half to reveal screen the size of the telephone. I was confused at first, but finally realized that it was a pornographic video that interested these man. I wasn't so interested but could tell that a lot of these men were. I could understand. None of us had done more than see a woman in the past months let alone touch, smell or make love to one. There was one female guard who was rather attractive, but that was the limit of our sexuality in here. I imagine there was salt peter in the food to deter us further from thoughts like this. If there hadn't been I'd imagine that there would have been even more romances between the men. However, this video did remind us all that we had a sexuality.

“Ohhh, disgusting! I can't believe he's doing that!” The Shaman exclaimed.

“What is it?” Asked America.

“He's licking the cat,” replied Senegal.

“I'd never do that!” Said the Shaman. After this there was a call and response from most men in the room attesting that they had never done anything this disgusting.

“I did once,” admitted the new man very Venezuela. “But it was disgusting!” He qualified.

“Me, I do it all the time. I really like it.” America added as the men in the room groaned.

“Well, we does sex end?” America asked the men.

“When I've finished,” the Shaman responded to a chuckle that rolled through the men.

“Ah, well, I assume that if we view sex as something in which pleasure is shared, then maybe all the parties involved would be happy. Also, there's a lot of women in the world who don't orgasm from inside. Oral sex is a good way to make external stimulation. Maybe if these women that you make love to felt more satisified at the end, then they would want to come another time or other times,” America said.

The room fell silent.

Senegal

After we had been counted, given our cigarettes and hot water, the room settled in quite quickly into their beds. We had been waiting all day for the film. Normally, the films were something that we all watched merely to pass the time. Sometimes they were good. Sometimes they were shit, but we watched anyway.

Tonight was special though. They were playing Rambo IV on the evening movie channel. The film promised lots of action and fighting which was something that always helped to keep our attention. But the real reason for our captive interest was the setting. It was to take place in Thailand.

This was so interesting because we had some men from Thailand in our cell. Silence fell over the room as the film began. But we didn't have to wait long for the action to begin. And it was nearly unbelievable. Bodies and heads were exploding everywhere.

“Jesus! Is it really like this where you come from?” Someone asked Thailand with a laugh.

“Yes, we make this for everyone,” responded one of the men from thailand.

It was difficult to hold discourses with the men from thailand because we always had to use the colonizer's tongue. So, as the film progressed we started to only yell “Thailand!” when the bodies wound explode from bombs or bullets.

The film waned and so did the conversation. By the end of the credits most of the men sat silently in the beds or had begun to doze off.

We stopped sharing our laughter for the evening. But we didn't normally do this either. That night was a bit of an exception.

“Shaman, do you want to play some checkers?” I leaned out of my bed and asked to the Shaman who slept above me.

“No, I'm sleeping now.”

“Ok, well maybe tomorrow then.”

“Yes, maybe tomorrow.”

I layed back in my bed, in the dark room, that was only lit by the glow of the television and the sterile light coming from the hallway that pierced the bars of the door.

Egypt

Egypt walked hurriedly across the courtyard to the telephones. He dialed a number quickly and looked at the group of men surrounding America. They were talking with the American exitedly.

“Hello,” the voice at the other end of the telephone said.

“Hello, it's me,” responded Egypt.

“Yes, what news do you have for us?” Asked the man at the other end of the phone.

“He's leaving today. He's some how being bailed out.”

“Well, what information has he given you in the past days? What has he said about his lawyers?”

“He's been saying the same thing for the past two weeks. That his lawyers are working on his appeal. Don't you all have any legal information surrounding his case? You must have been following it, no?”

“Well, uh, I'll have to look into it a bit more. Listen, go talk to him and see if you can get some more information, in the mean time. Call me back after you've talked to him.”

“Listen, they're going to put us back in our cells soon. I don't have much time to talk with him.”

“Don't worry. Do what you can.”

“Hey, when he leaves, I can leave too, right?”

“When he leaves there will be no use to stay in there.”

“Great, we'll talk soon.”

With this he hung-up the phone and walked to the group of men surrounding America. He waited patiently for a lull in the conversation so as to try tp mine some information.

“So, you leave us today! I am happy for you,” Egypt began nervously. “Tell me how did this happen? What did your lawyers do?”

America seemed to be rather distracted, aloof to Egypt.

“Yes, well, I don't know. I guess I made bail,” responded America.

“Yes, but how?”

“My lawyers said everything was set.”

“Everyone to their cells!” The guards called. With that America walked off hurriedly to pack his things.

Côte d'Ivoire

I had heard the news about America. I hadn't had a chance to talk with him yet, but I fihured he'd have to pass me on his way out, if I stayed in the courtyard. Our courtyard was directly linked to the command center of the prison, so the guards usually passed through the courtyard to sign the prisoners out and to bring them in. It was fairly rare that the men were released. Even more rare that they were released on their own reccognizance. Most of them were taken directly to the airport. I wondered how he had done it.

The sun was shining brightly and I had found a little place in the courtyard where I could catch a few minutes of it warmth as it shone throught the rebar overhead. It was a short few minutes, but each day soon after the men had been locked down after the morning meal, the sun hit the pavement in the courtyard. Sometimes the other helpers would come., but not so often. They were occupied by their own devices.

I waited fo quite some time. The sun had long left me in the shadow when he appeared with a guard at his side. I walked over to him.

“Listen you can't leave unless we have your passport,” the guard said to America.

“Yes, I understand, but I talked with my friends this morning. They've gone to my embassy and have a new passport for me. They should be waiting for me outside.” The guard stopped a little dumbfounded.

“Ok, wait here. I'll go check on this,” the guard said.

“Sounds good. I'll be here.” The guard walked off. He passed through the door that led to the command center.

“You sure that you're leaving today?” I asked America.

“Nothing's ever sure in this country, is it? At least when the law is concerned,” he replied.

“Yes, but that's true almost everywhere, isn't it?”

“I guess so. So, you must be pretty content with your new position in here. You can wondered about most hours of the day even when the other men are locked down? C'est pas mal ça.”

“Yeah, it's not so bad. I think it's the best I can do, at least.”

“You have to pass a lot of time with the guards, though. It's been said that 'thing which are alike, in nature, grow to look alike.'”

“Yes, but I'm here and I'm going to be here.”

“Where did you want to be when you left Côte d'Ivoire?”

“I guess I was a bit like Senegal; I wanted to follow the ships bringing our cocoa to France and Europe.”

“And now?”

“I've learned that it's going to be the same, no matter where I go. I'll only find myself in another prison, in another country. Why should I go through the hunger, the fatigue, the pain of the voyage to arrive at the same end?”

“Do you really know? Can you really know?”

“I can be pretty sure.”

“But you'll never really know. So you accept this place and let it become a part of you and you become a part of it.”

“What else can I do?”

“Never stop.”

“Ok, everything's in order. Your friends are here with your passport,” the guard called from across the courtyard. America looked into my eyes and nodded. He walked across the courtyard, met the guard and they walked through the door leading to the command center. It was shut and locked behind them.

Senegal

The guards had locked us down again after our morning freedom in the courtyard. America was a bit of the hero today as he was being released. The men gathered around him as he packed his things. They were talking incessantly. It was envy that drove their interest. They wanted to be outside these bars as well. He was now a symbol. He was just like all the other men who had come and then been able to leave. They were examples that it was possible.

“How long did you stay here?” One man asked America.

“About four weeks now.”

“That's a long time.”

“C'est rien,” America replied. “Look at Senegal. He's been here more than six months. There are other men who have been longer. Some of them have been here years.”

His comments, though true, seemed to kill the atmosphere these men were creating. A silence ensued. After he had finished putting his clothes on. He seemed to be finished packing.

“Don't you want these clothes and these the prison has given you?” One man asked him.

“I don't want any of it. You can take what you want.” With this some of the men began going through the sack that he left. He was prepared to leave only with the clothes he was wearing when he came in and a beard that had grown signicantly in the weeks he passed here.

He came over to me.

“Well, Senegal I'm off pretty quick here. But I left a little present under your pillow.” I looked and found a pack of cigarettes.

“Thank you too much! That's very nice!”

“My pleasure,” he replied. “Well, you still want to get out of here to teach the children in this country?”

“Yes, I think so. What else could I do?”

“Continue on the path you began.”

“Yes, well, why? The people that I'll meet will be the same as the parents of the children that I taught.”

“You've had to have met some adults on your journey who still resembled those children ever-so-slightly, no?”

“Well, yes, but very few. And if I did find them what would we do?”

“Talk?”

“Yes, but that doesn't pay the rent nor keep my belly full.”

“No, I guess it doesn't, but even still … Staying here in this country … You could do it?” He asked me.

“Yes, I think so.”

“But you know that these children will grow up to mirror their parents.”

“Maybe some of them won't. And what do you expect to do with the your friends who kept that mentality of the children?”

“I … guess keep going.”

“Where?” I asked him

“Maybe we'll find out.” We both started laughing

“Good luck,” he said. He made kisses on both cheeks of mine. The guard was waiting for him at the door.

“Thanks for the smokes,” I said holding up the package.

“You have cigarettes!” Venzuela said from across the room.

“Yes, they were a present from America,” I replied.

“I need some cigarettes,” he said approachin me. “If they were a present could I have 10?”

“Ahhh …”

“C'mon, I really need them.” I started to give him half of the pack.

“What? Are you going to smoke them all now?” Shaman asked him.

With that America left. He took his energy with him. I missed that silent presence smoking next to me each night. No one like him has since passed through my cell.

He looked back at me through the bars on the door as the guard was locking us in again. He nodded gravely, and he seemed not to be able to hold my eyes with his.

America

After meaving the courtyard, I was put into a small cell in the command center. The bunks had no mattresses on them. It seemed like it was a point to hold us inbetween our cells and being released. But the small bare cell worried me. I wasn't quite sure where I was headed and I didn't have much faith in this country's justice system.

They had given me my possesions back that I was made to leave in the command center upon arriving here. The most prized possesion was a knitted hat that a friend had made for me in Washington, D.C. It had followed me around the world. Now it gave me comfort like the presenceof an old friend. I didn't have much else.

After several minutes, three men from thailand were brought in. They didn't speak much english but I was able to ascertain that they were to go work on a farm. The money that the farmer would give them in return for their labor was next to nothing. But in their country it was worth more. I offered them each a cigarette. Shortly after we lit our smokes, the lights in the building all went out. I could only make out silhouettes now. I could only see the most vague features of their faces when the puffed their cigarettes. Their cherries illuminated their eyes ever so much.

There were a series of cries at one put followed by the slamming of a cell door. It rustled us all a little bit.

After an hour or two, my name was called. They made a medical check of my body, more photos of me and again they took my fingerprints.

I was sat down in a small office across from a man with a folder containing information about my case.

“Ok, you're being released on bail,” he began. “Every monday morning between nine and noon you have to this address in the city by the sea to check in with the Ministry of the Interior.”

“But I live in the capital. Can I do it there?”

“No. If you fail to check in you will be brought back to Ramle Gi'von and lose your bail. There's only one more restiction. You cannot go to Shiekh Jarrah.”

This was the only place I had been before I was put in Ramle Gi'von. They were the only people I knew. I didn't know what to do and I couldn't argue against this restiction. It would become evidence against me. I signed the paper and was escorted out of the command center and to the gate of the prison.

When I came to the gate, the day was coming to a close. The sun poked throught the clouds that had, more or less, control of the sky. The gate opened to let me and the men from thailand out into their world. The men from thailand were greeted by their new master and whisked into car that sped off.

I was greeted by a woman I had never seen before who had secured my new passport from my embassy. She gave me sweets and took me to a bus station. From there we would go back to the capital, that the indigenous and the colonizers both claimed as their own.

“There's a concert of resistance tonight in Sheikh Jarrah,” she told me on the bus.

“Oh, that's too bad. It's the one place I can't go.”

“Yeah, that's life.”

When we reached the capital, she accompanied me to the hostel, where I had been staying. I found my bag with my passport after a few minutes. The last week I spent inside was pointless. I could have been freed with the passport my friends couldn't find in the hostel.

I found myself alon in this hostel. The people from my organization who I had worked with before I was jailed had returned to their countries of habitation. I knew no one. I had to flee.

I found myself on the streets of this capital. It strived for a european atmosphere. There were bars and clubs and people. I striking feeling of agrophobia grimped me. I began talking to random people about nothing at all. Their stares showed their fear of men. I was treated liked a madman. This freedom and isolation in these crowds was overwhelming.

I ate a sandwhich with meat. The first time I had eaten meat in two years. After that I began to drink heavily. I couldn't talk to anyone about what had happened to me the past few weeks. They might be working for the colonist government. I could only be drunk, very drunk and cry. I must have been an awful sight. I realized that even though I had come to exploit my privilege as a citizen of the occident, the idigenous enjoyed one privilege I couldn't here. They had their communities. If and when they were freed they found their loved ones. I had no one expect whisky.

Eritrea

I heard the door of the cell across from mine open and close. I could tell it was the American who was leaving. He spoke french to another in his cell. There were sounds of metal crashing against metal as the door was locked secure. Then I heard the footsteps of the guard and the American walking further and further away from my cell. The sound of the footsteps grew ever more faint until they turned the corner and walked into the courtyard.

“There goes another one,” I thought.

It was never going to be my turn though.

I turned over in my bed to search more sleep. It was difficult to find though. My sheets were fairly fresh as the guards had changed them when they stripped me and bathed me the other night. My smell had disappeared as well. I still felt naked. It was as if I had never put my clothes back on after that night.

“But soon it would be different,” I thought. “My odor will return, and they'll have to smell it.”

I slipped into a dream that I can't remember. I never remember them anymore. I don't know if I ever did.

The sound of my cell opening startled me awake. I was sweating. The lights had been turned off and the only light in the room came from a small window up in the corner. But it didn't come directly from the sun. It was reflected; bouncing off the pavement or elswhere. In any event it didn't light the room very much.

The guards banged on my metal bunk. I laid still without flinching. They banged again. They fell their batons more times and harder. I still didn't move. Then one of them lost control and banged furiously in a fit of rage. I didn't offer the slightest movement. I smirked as my head was turned away from them.

Finally, one of them pulled me from my bed and threw to the ground. I kicked at him as he appraoched me again. I didn't hit him, but it made it so the blow from his baton fell short of my head.

Another swung his baton and caught my left cheek. Their was a flash of light. I maintained consciousnes and used the momentum of his blow to swing and land a strike against his calf. He hopped away in pain.

With this, another baton blow hit my cheek. When I came to, I was being dragged down the hall-way of the cell-block. One guard was at each of my arms and my feet slid across the floor. Blood was dripping from my mouth. My toes were being dragged through the droplets of blood and smearing them on the floor.

The guards didn't know I had regained consciousness. They weren't prepared for any resistance from me. I jerked my arm and put my foot in front of one of them. He fell to the ground, but the other struck me with his baton.

When I awoke, I was in a different room. They through my into my new cell. It was bigger and I was alone. But there were still no lights. I would come to learn that I was in the command center after some days. This was to be my new home.

The lights outside the cell came back on, but inside it remained dark. The lights were only turned on for some hours each day.

Shortly after the lights came back on, I saw the American outside my cell getting ready to be released. He was stopped just before the door leading to the prison gate. I saw his profile. His eyes showed fear as he looked directly at the guard ahead of him. The guard seemed to be explaining something. The American nodded. I heard the door open and he walked out.

I am still here now. In this cell. I've lost track of the years. But I'm always older.

Sometimes they bring to the judge. I say nothing. Sometimes the come to wash me. I lose my smell. But I never go with them easily and I never let them strip me without drawing blood, theirs or mine. And my smell slips through these bars. I doubt they can forget that I'm here. Neither can the men who pass throught the command center when entering or leaving. The guards and the prisoners always look in my cell as they pass.

Egypt

The two men were sitting across from one another in the office. A table was between the two. A small fan in the corner, where two walls and the ceiling met, buzzed incessantly as it blew hot air down on the two men.

“Good work in there,” the man across the table said to Egypt.

“Thanks, but I didn't really do much, did I?” Egypt asked.

“Yeah, well, you stayed in there didn't you? That's fairly difficult in and of itself.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, that little arab fucker has to stay in our country for awhile, but we can keep an eye on him. And no matter what, he can't go visit his friends.”

“Well, I guess that's good.”

“And as for you … Why don't you take a week with your family?”

“Sounds great, they've missed me.”

“You speak arabic pretty well, don't you?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I'm just thinking about your next mission. We're going to put you in of the prisons for the arabs.”

“When?”

“After your week with your family.”

“How long will I be in there?”

“As long as it takes.”

“But, Jesus! I've just come out!”

“That's why you're taking a week for yourself and your family.”

“And my cousin?”

“I'll hold on to this letter. He'll keep receiving his aid, but It could still go either way for him.”

“I really don't want to go back into a prison again.”

“Don't you love this country? Don't you want to defend it? Don't you want your son to have a good, safe and free life here?”

“Yes, but is this going to help that? I mean me being in there?”

“Of course it will. And you've done such a good job last time.”

“I didn't learn anything about him or his story other than what he told to the ministry of interior.”

“Yes, but you made him afraid.”

“But he still stayed in the prison until his appeal was accepted.”

“Well, I have some work to do. But we'll see you next week.”

Egypt sat for a moment looking at the man across the table who had begun to shuffle through the papers on his desk. He then rose and left, shutting the door behind him.

America

I woke up that morning with a an unshakable fatigue. No matter how many cups of coffee I took, it didn't seem to want to leave me. My feet dragged wherever I wandered. I didn't really know how to use these days of freedom the state had awarded me.

I had been free for some weeks now. I spent the first week smoking. I smoked cigarrette after cigarette. The worst was when I was in the indigenous territories. Here the cultural occupation seemed to waiver, but at the check-points between the conquered territory and the occupied territories the dehumanisation of occupation was the most apparent. The idigenous, who had special passes, were herded through the bars and gates like cattle. They were made to undress in front of their companions for “security reasons”. I smoked one cigarette after another. I, too, felt the fear of returning to prison. Was it an irrational fear? Probably. But you never know what a state who respects no laws, even its own, can and will do. So, I sucked down cigarettes ad inifitum. The other indigenous people did the same. I now understood why.

I could still go between these two places. Or I should say, legally, I was allowed to do this. But the problem was, I couldn't go back to Sheikh Jarrah. It was the only place where I felt, and had begun to construct, the smallest semblance of community so far from home.

My weeks were rather schizophrenic. I mean, I had to shift between completely disparate realities. In the beginning of the week I had to be at the colonial city on the shores of the sea. This city had been conquered for some time. The militant gentrification was complete and one was hard-pressed to find an idigenous community or hear their language. I spent two days here to check in with the ministry of the interior so my trial could continue.

After this I went to the capital which was uneasily shared by the two cultures. There was no doubt that the colonists had the power and would use it to grab more territory when they wanted. I taught english to the idigenous population in Silwan, a neighborhood just south of the Old City.

At the same time, I would sell things I had written to tourists on the street. This would allow me just enough money to go to the occupied territories for the weekend to attend demonstrations against the occupation and the ever advancing colonies onto the idigenous farming land.

These demonstrations were brutal. The normal formula of each demonstration was something to this effect: the idigenous population of the village would commence their march from their mosque to their fields. They would either be met by colonist soldiers or the colonists who were armed with the weapons of the military. The soldiers, if they weren't already there, would come and beginning by firing tear gas, then shoot rubber-coated steel bullets, then sometimes the would enter the village with armored vehicles. These vehicles were almost always equipped with a sort of “launcher”. This “launcher” could throw forty canisters of tear gas in a matter of ten seconds. The fields became shrouded in choking gas and everyone was teary-eyed and gasping for breath. Some passed out.

The idigenous would throw stones at these vehicles. Some regard this as a violent act. But for me it seemed impossible for anyone inside the vehicle to be injured this hail of stones. In my opinion, it was more a less a symbolic act; using the the earth they were defending to attempt to drive out the occupying forces advance.

This would go on for hours. I remember sometimes thinking that both of the sides had lost grasp of the reasons for being there. From my outsider's eyes it seemed they both had devolved into a two groups opposing one another devoid of reason, but merely for the sake of the opposition. The idigenous would stop trying to go their fields and the colonist soldiers would stop trying to invade the village. They would both be stopped in limbo, between the fields and the village, trying to hurt one another.

But behind the idigenous resistance there was a very real fear and imminent fear. If the colonist soldiers were to enter the village, they had a habit of shooting tear gas inside the homes were the children and the elderly took refuge from the choas outside. Sometimes they had to evacuate themselves through second story windows before being taken to hospitals in ambilances. The occupiers had a habit of blocking these ambulances from time to time. And there were awful stories of infants dying of tear gas inhalation en route to the hospital.

More often than not, the demonstration would sputter out near sunset. We foriegners would be invited to dinner at one of the idigenous' homes. We would smoke shisha with their families. This

madness became their lives. Sometimes gunshots could be heard in the distance as we settled in to their homes. The last remenants of the demonstration being persuaded to go home with rubber-coated steel bullets or percussion grenades. The idigenous didn't stop recounting stories of times of resistance passed, or critiques of the capitalist system, who many of them blamed above all for the terror that pervaded their existence.

They struggled through their english to make us feel welcomed and comfortable. They succeeded fairly well.

After dinner we would return to our apartment our organization paid for. All of us returning from demonstration in different villages. The morning before we left our laughs were tinged with a sense of nervousness. We didn't know what we were to see. Or if we would all make it back in the evening in one piece.

Many times the intense flames of the demonstrations were fanned by the occupation forces wounding one of the demonstrators. If the soldiers were far enough away, when the rubber-coated steel bullets bounced off the heads of the idigenous, it would make a loud and hollow “doink”. This would be follow by blood streaming down the face of the unfortunate person who caught one.

One time the soldiers were too close to be using this weapon, but shot a young boy in the head irrespectively. The rubber-coated steel bullet entered his skull. I was 10 meters from him when this happened. Blood spurred out of the wound and he began vomitting almost immediately. He would be blinded in the eye below the wound and never have the same cognitive abilities. He was 14.

Many times the occupation forces would shoot tear gas grenades directly at demonstrators. One time I was putting a boulder down to stop the soldiers invasion of the village. When I looked up, a tear gas canister was barrelling towards my head. I jerked and it passed through the triangle made by bent arm and my head. Others weren't so lucky.

My friend lost her eye after receiving a canister directly in her head. It could have been worse. Many have died.

After a day in the apartment for us occidental activists, I would go back through the inhumane checkpoints into the coloists' state. And start the process all over again. And this was my life for some months. I was moving between these surreal situation; the moanufactured occidental oasis of the colonist state and the horror of an occupied land and people. One was oblivious to the madness that was the life of the other. They prodded into consent to this situation by the use of fear promulgated by the state. The other trudge on through the atrocity that was their lives. Somehow they found the strength to resist.

Maybe that's why when I woke up that day, I couldn't really leave the sleepy feeling of my bed, my coccoon. I wandered through the streets of the colonists' area in the capitol. I watched the tourists. I sold some writings. Then I wandered to the idigenous part of the city. Although there was no wall, the division was striking.

I didn't know what else to do with myself. So, I went back to the hostel and sat until night fell. As the sun fell and then disappeared a mounting feeling of uneasiness grew inside me. I had nothing. I needed to feel something to combat the isolation I felt. I decided to go to Sheikh Jarrah. I knew if my identity was controlled in Sheikh Jarrah, my trial would be nullified and I would either find myself on a plane back to the U.S. or back into Ramle Gi'von. I didn't matter though. I had seen any of my friends who lived there for nearly two months and the constant drifting through one insanity to another completely alone was no longer bearable.

I packed some for walking to the neighborhood and then some clothes to change into once I had arrived. I sent off to the east of the city.

When I arrived I immediately circled around the neighborhood to look for control points. When I saw none, I found a little corner to put on a hoodie to cover my features as best I could. I hopped a fence and was approaching my friends' homes.

Not much had changed. One family, who had been evicted from their home, was still living on the street across from this home. The colonists inside their home had put up nationalist flags and pronganda on the walls of their conquered territory. And the idigenous family watched their home each day as the colonists went in and out.

The other home across the street was half occupied by colonists and half occupied by the original idigenous inhabitants who had lived there since the home was built jus after the Nakba.

I approached the bon fire where the men of both the homes were sitting and discussing as one the nightly custom. I stood silently behind them for a minute before the became curiously suspicious of my presensence. The turned to look at me slowy with an aire of anger. Slowly the realized who the figure was underneath the hoodie. Their expressions changed to those of elation.

“What are you doing here ...” He almost said my name, but one of the patriarchs of a family stopped him.

“Yes, John, what are you doing here?” Abu Kharim asked me.

“Well, I couldn't stay away. You all know how it is,” I replied.

“Come, come. You are welcomed. Do you want some tea? Some coffee? Some soda?”

“Some coffee, please,” I replied as it seemed everyone was indulging in coffee. We sat and passed several beautiful hours talking and laughing. My presence seemed to be appreciated. They shared stories about their own imprisonment. I did the same.

Slowly their was a changing of the guard. The older men wandered off to sleep and the younger men, the sons, found their way to the fire. The were just as happy to find me their as their fathers. The women had their own fire but there were strict rules about men and women mingling at this hour of the evening. I would have liked to have said hello to them but it was socially impossible.

As the young men settled into the chairs their fathers had occupied, the level of english conversation rose. None of these young men seemed to speak the occupier's tongue so well, but their level of english was quite impressive.

“How the fuck did you learn to speak english so well? You sound like your from the east coast of the States,” I said.

“We listen to Wu-Tang clan, Trribe Called Quest and Tu pac a lot,” A young man replied. “It helps especially if you start listening when you're young. And then you foreigners are always here. And the one thing you all have in common is that you don't speak arabic very well, but you all speak english.”

I laughed a bit with this remark.

“So, what do you think is going to happen here? Is there any hope? Has anything changed since I was last here?” I asked. He looked at the fire for a moment.

“No, the case for our house keeps going. But in the end we'll lose. I'm almost positive. Sometimes, I don't know why I'm here. You know I haven't spent much time on the other side of the Wall. You know, The Separation Wall. One reason is because everytime I pass the check-point, the guilt that boils up within in me is so intense, I don't know what to do with it. Do you know how many of my family and friends can't pass that check point?”

I nodded silently. And he was silent for a moment as well.

“But when I pass that wall and the check-point appears in the mirrors behind me, it's so clear that that wall was only the first one. Everytime I jump one wall, there's another one in my way. It's like that here. I can't keep jumping these walls, they'll never end. I want to leave.” Another silenced ensued.

“But you think that if you leave, there will be no more walls?” I asked.

“They've got to end somewhere. Look at you, you're from the states. Life's easier there. Money, women, cars. Everything.”

“I promise you, that's all lies. Life there is awful for almost everone except a few. The walls exist there as well. There only different.”

“So, where can we go?”

“There is no place, in my opinion. I think we can only try break these walls or jump over them.”

“Yeah, but until when?”

“For all our lives, I imagine,” I replied.

“But that means there's no end to these walls, so why do we jump them?”

“What else can we do? Live inside them?”

“I mean,” he began. “Is that all we can ask for out of our lives? Constanly running? Constantly jumping? Constantly breaking these walls or at least trying to break them? That's madness.”

“What's the alternative?” I asked. “To live inside them?”

“Ok, but what if one day we find the last wall behind us and only the wide expanse of the sea? Surely we can stop running, jumping, breaking? No?”

“It seems to me you might be fairly lonely on the sea shore. Maybe trying open the holes of the walls wider would be a good activity. This way the other could make their exit more easily. And besides, what if there's more walls in the sea? How can we really know if we've come to the end or not?”

“But the sea is a scary place. I don't think there would be too many people who would want to to live there lives constantly charging away from land into the barren sea just to search for more walls,” he replied.

“Yes, but aren't these the most dangerous walls to keep ourselves behind. The ones we don't know exist. The ones that make us feel comfortable. Imagine how many people are settled into their walls. They decorate them. The begin to love them. And then they forget what's happening just outside of these walls. The screams of the atrocities that are happening just beyond these slabs are stone are muffled, stifled by those decorated walls. So, I'll keep going into the turbulence of the sea.”

“I think after all that escape, I'd be tired. And you too. We could meet there and spend our lives fishiing if you want. I'll buy the bait.” We laughed together after he said that.

“No, I don't think you or I could forget the madness that we saw during our escape. I think we might enjoy some fish from time to time, but I can only see us doing one of two things. One of two things between or fishing: infiltrating these walls that enclosed us to break them ever-wider. This way maybe the people still behind them would see them for what they are; prisons not refuges.

“Otherwise, we would keep going try to discover if there were other walls. We might still be trapped in a prison that we consider a pardise. We could still be controlled by machinations we can't understand. Aren't those the most dangerous of walls. The walls that bring us comfort. The walls we grow to love.”

With that the first call to prayer began to ring. The sun would soon be rising. The fathers awoke with this sound. They came to the fire and called the young men to accompany them. My friend I was talking became confused as to what language he was speaking and began to respond in english shifting his glance between his father and me.

“Well, … I … want …”

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