On Lebanon's Liberation anniversary, I thought it appropriate to share the following story, which I wrote back in the summer of 2000 ...
The wind was blowing – as if on a mission to vacuum clean the place of its history. The sun thought otherwise and shone brightly wanting to expose its notoriety for all to see. Windows of abandoned posts incessantly screeched open only to come to a thundering close interrupting a serenity begging to be heard. I was in Khiyam prison in the South of Lebanon.
Three weeks earlier a friend and reporter had been an eyewitness to infamous Khiyam prison’s liberation by Lebanese villagers and resistance: As the Israeli army began retreating from the different Lebanese areas expecting their Lebanese proxies to take over their positions, the Southern villagers, resistance, and returning refugees started marching on evacuated villages craving to return to their homes and land. In the case of the village of Khiyam, this march took a more poignant significance, as it indelibly implied entering and freeing the renowned and feared Khiyam prison. As the liberators reached the doors of the prison, the remaining guards threatened to shoot at the crowd. One of the liberators took the lead and asked the guards to leave in peace because they had no way of defending themselves against the masses. The guards hesitated. The crowd appealed to their senses. Soon, the guards began feeling the pressure. They eventually accepted to leave if they could be brought a car and assured a safety route. Their wish attained, they left the prison to the liberators, who marched in shouting and screaming. The prisoners locked in their cells did not know what was happening outside. They mistook events for Israelis coming to hurt or kill them before abandoning the prison. "Allahou Akbar" cries were heard all over the prison as the prisoners awaited their moment of deliverance. The liberators scrambled for anything they could find to break the outer locks left closed by the fleeing guards. Rocks, steel bars, anything they could lay their hands on. Soon they reached the cell doors. Tears flowed on both sides of the prison bars. Arms extended to assure the prisoners- some of whom fell to their knees overwhelmed. Emotions pushed on the liberators. Finally, the doors broke open… The prisoners were raised on the shoulders of the liberators ... That evening, no prison cries of torture or pain were heard by the town. Khiyam slept in peace.
Catching a cab in Beirut, I had one thing on my mind. I needed to go to the South to see the recently liberated Lebanese lands especially Qana and Khiyam. While I was not from the South, throughout the war years, affinity and admiration had grown for that part of my homeland. I needed to replace feelings with presence.
The road that the taxi took to Khiyam had given few if any signs of its notoriety. It could have been just about any other road leading to this or that Lebanese village. But it didn't of course. It lead straight to a prison that had epitomized two decades of Israeli injustice over Lebanon and in particular it’s South. As we arrived, a soft spoken young man wearing a shy smile and a resistance cap guided us to where we could park. We then proceeded to walk uphill for about half a kilometer where we were told was the entrance to the prison. There, a few men sat unobstructively on the side. Their bushy beards exposed a defiant manly demeanor. I asked to take a photo with them. Some of them respectfully declined, others covered their faces. All urged me to take pictures of the prison instead. It was humbling to see those that had accomplished this feat preferred to stay out of the limelight.
Walking into the prison gates, were guard rooms to the left. Interestingly, someone had made sure that the names of the guards that had been on duty were posted on a cardboard, lest they be forgotten. Sadly, they all seemed Lebanese names. The Israelis had made sure others did their dirty work for them. At the center of the prison was a courtyard with two high concrete posts connected at the top by a concrete beam with protruding steel hooks – to be used for torture or hanging. On this day, a cotton dummy dressed in an Israeli uniform was hanging, with barbed wire at the base making sure not even he could escape his fate. Due to the howling wind, the dummy was circling around with the clothes being gnawed at and punctured by the barbed wire. As my mind wondered how many real Lebanese had found themselves in the very same predicament, a man approached me.
Ali Himmadeh was an average height but thin man, probably in his mid-thirties. He carried a light beard and wore jeans and a striped shirt. He asked if I’d like to be shown around. “I do not expect anything in return,” he continued, “I was a prisoner here myself and I do this so that my people will not forget what we all went through.” As much as his story begged to be told, his honesty and easy demeanor beckoned me to accept. Ali had been incarcerated in 1992 because he had refused to aid and ebbed the Israelis. He would spend the next 7 years in Khiyam and not released until 1998 as a result of a prisoner exchange between the Lebanese resistance and Israel.
Ali guided us inside the first quarter and through a long thin corridor to the right of which were the cells. Each cell was about two meters wide, 10 meters long, and 3 meters high. Until 1995, the prison had only isolated cells, but the Red Cross had made the Israelis open up the rooms to these dimensions. Thus each of these rooms which housed some 6 or seven inmates had been 6 or seven cells prior to 1995. The rooms were dimly lit with a damp smell. At the end of the rooms, was a bathroom providing no minimum amount of privacy. Food was given through the bars and included meager portions: one egg with a piece of bread in the morning and potatoes for lunch. Ali explained how drinking water used to be bargained for. Anytime there was a shortage, the prisoners would go on hunger strikes. On this issue, Ali grinned. “We usually won these battles with more drinking water delivered.”
I asked Ali how it was the first few days in prison for him. He explained that the first 28 days were usually spent between solitary confinement and interrogation. They would put them in a room and during the day incessantly interrogate them. If answers were not obtained, they would use electric currents applied through the fingers or belts and other leather items to lash the prisoners. If they still received no information, they would then take them to a room with another prisoner. The other “prisoner” would be an undercover agent who would try to extract information by telling them some made-up story of his own resistance activities in the hope that they would fall in the trap by admitting some of their own experiences or information. “Now, if this method did not work,” Ali continued, “they would take us to the 'Amoud (the post) where the prisoner would have his head covered with a thick blue head cover, and then would be hung from the post with police-like hand shackles feet not allowed to touch the ground. Beatings, threats, and abuses would follow. Ali told us that once the jailers had been watching some boxing match on television while a prison inmate was blindfolded and hanging from the post. Once the match was over, the jailers came out and started practicing their own punches. "Five men I know of lost their lives on this post," Ali sighed looking down.
As we moved along the corridors adjoining the cells, several of the visitors that had begun following us began dropping out feeling either claustrophobic or unable to bear the stench. I tend to think perhaps this uncensored and grim reality was too much. Unfortunately, it would get worse as the tour progressed, for then, Ali guided us to the quarter of solitary confinement cells. In this quarter, cells were a meter wide, a meter long, and a meter and some high. Sleeping could only be done in sitting position. Mattresses were a convenience prisoners were not always given; nor were bathrooms, with buckets serving as convenient replacements. Prisoners could stay anywhere between one and twelve weeks in this type of confinement. Ali took us to the room where he had been placed the first four weeks. He then showed us the spot where he had etched his name using a rusted nail that he had found by accident.
By the end of the tour, I wanted to ask Ali a million other questions. I mean here was a man who had suffered a lot of injustice from his own people and from Israel, and yet displayed no visible signs of hatred. I wanted to know why and how he managed to overcome his ordeal. I wanted to know how he felt about people that had robbed him of a decade of his life...
Unfortunately, I also knew that it was important for him to share his story with many new arrivals. And so I bid Ali farewell …
As he turned his back and walked away, I could not help but think of the sacrifices that people in the South such as Ali had to face and for so long. I also could not help but admire the courage that he and the other men and women had mustered to tell their story in its ugliest truths, and within the very same walls that had and will likely continue to torture them for many years. These are brave souls. These are good souls. They are Lebanon's true heroes.
Source: Wissam S. Yafi records
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