We would like to share with you a text written by a comrade, M. She writes about her visit to her friend and comrade Ali, a young Palestinian man who has been detained by the Belgian state for three months now at the Merksplas detention centre.
It had been a month since I had been able to come and see you. A month since I had found a free day between 11 a.m. and 6 p.m. to come and spend an hour with you from 1:15 p.m. to 2:15 p.m. Nor had I found a car to borrow, because the place where they have locked you up is, not surprisingly, not very accessible for visitors.
On the gps, I reluctantly type in the words I refuse to accept. ‘Centrum voor illegalen Merksplas’ (Merksplas Centre for Illegal Immigrants).
I can feel my anger stirring inside me, towards the violence of the state.
Setting off on the road to this centre is also making a wish. A wish that one day the term ‘illegal’ will no longer be a label they stick on you, or on anyone else. A wish that one day their old world will burn. And that we will dance together on the ashes.
On the road, I turn off the radio, put on some music, turn off the music, cry, put the music back on.
You call me, as you always do, to make sure I’m on my way. Impatience. It’s true that I’m always late everywhere, but when it comes to seeing you, I know I can’t be, or I’ll be turned away at the entrance.
I focus on my speed, because there are lots of speed cameras. But my heart and my body have already arrived at their destination. Impatience.
I focus on the road. Follow Antwerp then Breda, and then every time I take this route, the rest is different.
I park. Breathe in. Breathe out.
On the huge gate of the detention centre, a huge sign screams: ‘We are recruiting. Group leader or return coach’.
I feel my anger stirring again. Their language, their practices. Burn it all down.
From the end of the road, I can hear the guards laughing. Laughter that you’ve been forced to listen to here for three months. Constantly. No escape from their violence.
At reception, they take ten minutes to find your name. They make me repeat it, then again. Their double registration system is cool, though: the day before, you have to put my name on the visitors’ list, and on the day itself, I have to call to give yours and mine. It’s mandatory. And obviously completely useless. A strict and meaningless formality. He still can’t find it and blurts out, ‘Nationaliteit?’ Well, yes, why humanise someone when you can reduce them to a number on a list sorted by country?
At reception, drop off the items you asked me to bring. Go through the metal detector. Then wait.
In the waiting room, there’s a guard telling his colleagues about his holiday in Vietnam, and they’re all laughing together. Everything he says is unhealthy, racist, contemptuous, humiliating.
Sitting down, I look at the barbed wire and concrete walls, and I wish for only one thing: that he choke on his indecency.
To get to the visiting room, we take a different route than usual. The guards are very excited to discover this new space, marvelling at the route, at a button to press, at the use of a badge to open the multiple doors. With incredible enthusiasm, they test that everything works. I see them, they mark their territory.
“Oh look, what’s behind that door? ‘
’Wow, this new visiting room is great.”
You didn’t say anything about the new visiting room. You came in. You smiled. You rushed towards me and we hugged. It was only at the end of the visit that I asked you if you had been here before, and you said no, it was your first time. And that’s when you looked around. Because for you, the new room is not a big deal. There are other realities at stake. You have been literally deprived of your freedom for three months. You no longer have the opportunity to work and therefore to send money to your sick mother. So, frankly, one room or another is not the issue.
And no, this room isn’t great: the windows are too high, so you can’t see outside, the walls are grey, there are neon lights on the ceiling, it feels cramped.
The guards watch, listen, laugh. It’s cold.
No, there’s nothing great about this room.
We have an hour.
The clock is ticking.
We talked about your mental health. Time is long and it’s hard to keep your spirits up.
You told me that you still sleep in isolation and that there is no heating, so at night you huddle under three blankets. I make a mental note to talk to your lawyer about this. Also, an external doctor should be coming soon. Because your migraines are recurrent and they prevent you from sleeping. The weak paracetamol they give you from time to time isn’t enough. We talked about the progress of your legal cases. CGRA, Court of Cassation, European Court. Together, we are outraged, but we are trying to remain hopeful.
Information to pass on, questions to ask, clarifications in progress, papers to obtain.
The practical aspects are fine.
So then we took the time to dream.
Dreaming about what you want to do once you’re outside. Joyfully talking about the events we have to catch up on together. Then you told me that you often search the internet for images of traditional Palestinian dishes, which makes your mouth water and makes you feel good, even if afterwards it’s difficult to eat the food here. For a moment, it makes you smile, and that’s good for your morale. So we make a list of dishes for your release party. But the important thing will be to be all together, you tell me.
I see your smile, and it reassures me. These last few days on the phone, I was worried.
The guard interrupts this joyful moment. He approaches to say that the visit is over.
We head for the door, linger a little, and hug each other.
As always, I make you promise to take good care of yourself, to eat and drink plenty of water, to continue going out every day to get some fresh air even if it’s cold outside and the courtyard is inhospitable, to continue socialising even if it’s not your choice to be locked up between four walls every day with the same people.
You smile at me. We understand each other. You’ll do your best.
All you want is to get out of here.
They close the door. We exchange one last smile through the crack.
They ask each visitor to pass their left wrist under a black light. They had stamped us with UV ink at the entrance. It’s to check that those who leave are the same ones who entered. They don’t look when I pass mine. They watch closely when it’s the turn of two Arab visitors. Anger.
Grille. Key. More grille. More key.
It never ends.
My heart is heavy, my thoughts are confused, I’ve forgotten the code for my locker. The guard sighs.
Leave this place. Leave with a storm of emotions. Feel as if I’m leaving a part of myself behind. You stay there.
You call me.
– It was good to see you, thank you for being there.
– It did me good too, thank you for being you.
Hands on the car steering wheel.
Facing those infamous letters: KOLONIE.
Facing those high fences, barbed wire and walls that they want to be opaque.
Shouting loudly. Then wiping away my tears.
Finding a constructive rage deep inside me. The kind that allows me not to accept, but to endure with you and continue to face things together, to fight alongside our allies.
Turn on the music. Get back on the road.
See you soon, Ali.
Fire to the detention centres
Open the borders
End the criminalisation
of so-called ‘undocumented’ people
Visiting someone in a detention centre or prison is not always easy. If you don’t know each other from outside, you may feel uncomfortable or apprehensive.
It is useful to find out more, and there are several interesting collectives,
for example in Liège @cracpe and Point d’Appui asbl.
In Brussels, you can contact @gettingthevoiceout, which does remarkable work to fight against places of detention.
There are visits, but other forms of solidarity are possible.
You can make a donation to the Anti-Prison Fund to contribute to the relative ‘material comfort’ of those who are incarcerated.
Or you can write to someone who is undocumented and in a detention centre or prison.
Writing is an important way to send strength, because the morale of those in detention is sometimes low and isolation can quickly set in. Feeling supported is essential for maintaining mental and physical strength.
Receiving mail is also important from an administrative point of view in their legal proceedings.
You can find information on how to do this and the precautions to take via the Instagram account @lefac_be
You will be guided and informed
And to make a donation, go here:
Name: Marius Jacob Foundation
Account number: BE65 5230 8110 3896
Reference: FAC
