Memoirs of a Political Detainee in Egypt. (4)
We arrived at Al-Haram police station around half past midnight. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a dedicated section for political detainees, so I had to be placed with the criminal inmates. The handcuffs were removed, and a guard led me to their most “prestigious” holding cell: Cell 10, their luxury suite. Later, I learned that police stations have cells specifically reserved for the "bikayet" (from the term pocket money), meaning these are for the wealthy detainees. Ordinary folks, like university professors, are not welcome there. However, due to overcrowding, even Al-Haram didn’t have such distinctions.
The guard opened the cell door and proudly announced, “I brought you a hotel manager!” A half-asleep, half-dazed man named Badr Ashour got up, pulled me by the hand without saying a word, and led me in after making me take off my shoes. To paint a picture: the cell was a 3x2 meter rectangle, followed by an “L-shaped” extension that was another 3x2 meters. At the end of the “L” was a squat toilet with no door, barely measuring 2x1 meters.
When you first walk in, to the left is an area they call “The Crossroads”, reserved for the wealthy. Two men were lying on top of ten thick blankets with a sheet over them, enjoying a spacious sleeping area that resembled a bed. Meanwhile, the legal space for each prisoner was about two palms wide—barely enough to lie down sideways. Sleeping like this is called “sword style” because you’re crammed like a blade in a sheath, unable to move or roll over. You’re stuck against the person in front of you, with someone else pressed tightly behind you.
Past The Crossroads is a gray area for the middle class—those who can afford to pay a little less for sleeping space. Beyond that, there’s a wall called “The Mirror”, the turf of the gang leader who controls the cell with his crew. They call him the "senior detainee", “chief,” or “night warden.” Finally, there’s the L-shaped extension, which is for the poor and destitute—an area nicknamed “The Village”. The toilet, which is the least desirable spot, was crammed with three people: two perched on overturned buckets, and the third lying down.
The cell housed 65 people—don’t ask me how. It was like a sardine tin, with bodies piled on top of one another, most in a semi-comatose state. Normally, a new detainee with no criminal history is placed in the filthiest spot, right next to the toilet door. Badr pulled me along, stepping over barely-living bodies, and said, “You’ll sleep here. That’s your spot.” I looked down to find a place over a pile of bodies near the bathroom. I yanked my hand away angrily and barked, “Are you out of your mind? Do you know who you’re talking to?” I stormed back toward the door, peeking through its small hole.
Unlike in prison, the police station cell had no mirrors or proper ventilation. I waited desperately for some kind of divine intervention. Badr, surprisingly, turned out to be a decent guy. He said, “I’ll let it go for tonight. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.” He handed me a bucket with a piece of cardboard on top and said, “Sit here.” He wedged the bucket among the bodies and left me there. I perched on it, trying to find space for just one foot. Eventually, I had to alternate between crossing one leg over the other and letting them dangle. I had no cigarettes, no money, and no energy left after the last two harrowing days.
I sat there, resigned to my fate. Slowly, I began nodding off, only to jolt awake each time I leaned or fell onto the bodies surrounding me. I forced myself to stay alert to avoid unnecessary trouble. At one point, I envied the two men sleeping peacefully in The Crossroads. This went on until around 2 PM when the inmates finally started to stir.
The man who had been sleeping comfortably introduced himself. “I’m Ahmed, a car dealer based in Al-Maryouteya. I like you, and I’ll let you sleep next to me and my buddy in this royal spot. What do you think?” I thanked him, and he said, “Alright, but you’ll need to send my daughter 2,000 pounds via Vodafone Cash first. That’s the weekly rent for a spot in The Crossroads. No bargaining.” I agreed and asked him to prepare the space. He quickly added, “No, the transfer first”.
I was in a bind—I didn’t even remember my own phone number. Then I remembered my friend, Counselor Fouad. I called him immediately: “Fouad, please transfer 2,000 pounds to this number. I’m exhausted and need a place to put my second foot down.” Despite the scorching heat, he complied, and the money was sent. Ahmed then ordered the space to be prepared for me.
Ahmed, as it turned out, wasn’t the real boss of the cell. That title belonged to the gang leader, Badr, who could kick Ahmed out of his spot whenever he pleased. Ahmed would then stand meekly, unable to protest. Over the next ten hours, I learned how the system worked. The three of us in the “elite” section paid 2,000 pounds each per week. Below us were ten middle-class inmates paying 500 pounds weekly for a spot under the fans or air conditioning, but they still slept sword style. Among them were a university professor from Zagazig, two doctors, two pharmacists, an accountant, and some young professionals.
Next were the gang leader and his 15-man crew. They ate and drank at the expense of people like us and paid the guards 400 pounds daily for various illegal activities. That left around 40 destitute inmates in The Village, crammed together like animals, unable to move or sit properly. One would lie sideways with his feet on the stomach of the person in front, who, in turn, had his feet stretched into someone else’s face. The stench of sweat was unbearable. They survived on the station’s basic meals—bread and cheese—unless leftover food from the wealthy trickled down to them. Access to the toilet required payment of two cigarettes per day, and anyone who complained or tried to roll over would get a brutal slap from the gang leader, silencing the entire cell.
In summary, it was a horror show that defies proper description. When the money came through, I finally got my mattress and a clean sheet. Just as I was ready to lie down, Ahmed said, “There are still some extras to cover. We just bought the AC yesterday for 7,000 pounds, so you owe 500 for that.” I sighed and agreed. “And the fan in front of you? That’s another 50 pounds.” I nodded again. “Plus, 20 pounds daily for the gang leader and two loose cigarettes for bathroom access. Agreed?”
I muttered, “Fine, whatever you say. Just let me rest already.” Back in the countryside, we used to say a great man is someone with “one foot on the ground and no space for the other.” But here, there was no greatness—just the crushing reality of being a prisoner.
