Anatomy of an Incarceration: The welcome party

“Anatomy of an Incarceration” is a multi-part series that focuses on different aspects of prison in Egypt by Abdelrahman ElGendy who spent more than six years behind bars, from October 6, 2013 at the age of 17 until his release on January 13, 2020, at the age of 24.

It’s 2 pm, and the sun is pouring its wrath onto the police truck. I once read that British prisoners call it a “sweat box.” We have been caged in here for hours. The truck’s metal is sizzling. Our skins are scorching in this inferno — we are being fried alive. 

I keep trying to wipe the sweat pouring down my skull with the back of my hand, a futile effort with one hand only. I eventually give in and let it flow.

My eyes burn as drops of sweat run down into them and I can taste salt on my tongue. A putrid smell invades my nostrils — a mixture of human sweat and urine, some of it sloshing around in the bottles people have used when they were decent enough, the rest glistening on the floor by my feet.

The truck jostles and those standing fall over each other, and over us, the ones sitting on benches. Some are pressing their faces to the wire mesh covering the barred windows, trying to make out any bits of the outside world.

We arrive and hear the shouts from outside — violent screams, vile curses, the slashes of whips, the thuds of fists connecting to body parts.

A welcome party is a way to receive someone into new surroundings, or to celebrate a return. It is a form of celebratory greeting, a way to orient someone to a new environment and new companions. It is an introduction. A rite of embrace. A beginning.

I focus on counting the sweat beads forming below my chin and dripping to the floor. Drop. Drop. One. Two. Three …

I don’t remember at what number the voices outside go quiet, and seconds later, the metal doors fling open.

The eruption from utter silence to raving fury is instantaneous. My eardrums are thrumming from the noise — the pounding on the metal from outside, the roar of curses and insults, the screams of our friends being dragged by unknown arms through the door.

Shock fades as I approach the open doors, and in its stead, terror settles in.

I glimpse outside and see my friends being thrown to the ground, face first, trying to rise only to fall under the weight of endless kicks and whips. Handcuffed to each other in pairs, they try to hold on to the plastic bags carrying their scant belongings with their spare hands, leaving their faces and bodies fully exposed to the assault.

Two long lines of soldiers facing each other stretch from the back of the truck from which we emerge all the way to the prison gate. This is the welcome corridor we must pass through. For a crazy moment I almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. What a show. The batons, whips, metal bars and belts; the tightening of fists in preparation. A grand opening sans the red carpet. A ludicrous theater of cruelty. 

Actually, this looks more like a videogame. Jump here, crouch there, dodge a whip with your shoulder and a punch lands on your chin from the other side. You fall to the ground and your partner in chains gets a vicious beating because you held him back, then your friends step over you to keep moving forward through the gauntlet, shooting apologetic looks to fallen comrades — don’t take it personally. Survival instinct kicks in, and it’s every man running for his life.

I inhale deeply one last time — and I am face down in the dirt.

Did you know that after a certain amount of beating, it stops hurting?

At first, I leave my fallen things to protect my face, then I start trying to balance between holding onto  what I can and dodging as many blows as possible. Eventually, I sprint and drag my cuff-mate along when he lags, indifferent to the falling fists, boots and whips. The gate is my destination and that is all that matters.

It is fascinating how they manage to turn the prison gate, the most daunting entryway of all, into something so desirable. We long more than anything to run through it. This is deliberate design. 

This is a welcome party, and in welcome parties, you must attend orientation. You are introduced to your new environment, to new rules, to new power dynamics, and your place in it all.

The rules of the game are set.

You are deprived of all that makes you human. Beaten, cursed, and tortured to be made to fully understand that basic humanity does not apply here. Goodness is abandoned with the first step into this place. Even a name, our most basic human identifier, is replaced with the tag “inmate.” Forced to strip naked, peeling off clothes, layer by layer, until there is nothing left to peel. Hands wander and violate your body with menacing entitlement, every touch a whisper: “I own you.” Your head is lowered to be shaved. You feel the cold blades zipping back and forth, deliberately cutting uneven paths on your now bald head, leaving you with the realization that you have no shred of dignity left to raise it back up again.

This is not random. This is design. And it elates them.

They devour the sadistic thrill of absolute power and control — of watching you hesitate between grabbing your plastic bag or protecting your face, and they relish the moment they punish you for your hesitation. 

If their laughter was a color, it would be vomit yellow.

If their laughter was an animal, it would be drooling hyenas.

If their laughter was a weapon, it would be the knife plunged in the back.

I wish I could say I stood up and resisted that day. I wish I could say that when they took my friend and slammed his head against the wall, I spoke up. I wish I could say I was unbent, unbroken.

I was not.

My moments would come. I would grow to speak up, to realize some things are more important than survival. Some things are worth dying for. But I was 18. And at the welcome party, I was a coward.

Resistance comes in many shapes and forms. It burns in the veins and transforms perspective. On that day, I did not stand up and resist. I did not scream or fight back.

I only had one trivial act of resistance.

Hatred.

I hated them with every fiber of my being. I decided to replace my fear with contemptuous revulsion, with abhorrent loathing. I fed on it. Thrived on it. It was the only thing that kept me going from that day onwards.

They broke me, humiliated me, tortured me, and left me utterly deprived.

They had all the power. All the dominance.

And in return, I had my hate. It was like acid rain falling on a parched desert. Toxic yet quenching. And with no healthier alternative, you drink it to survive.

I am a zombie moving through the halls. I am a spectral presence. I pass monotonous identical cell doors. I am pushed into one. The door slams behind me. I stare without seeing. My surroundings are all hazy. The welcome party is over and I am inside my head. 

And in my head, I am calm.

For as long as I hate them, fearlessly, they lose.

And I win.