Brazilian journalist tells about 4 days of Hell in Syrian prison

22/11/2011 - 10h02

I decided to leave Syria, that Sunday of harsh winter (November 6), after signs and advice that he was being closely monitored.

I was studying Arabic in the country for seven months. During this time I sent reports to Folha, using a pseudonym because I had a student and not a work visa.

The regime, accused by the UN of killing 3500 people since the start of the uprising in March, restricts the entry of the foreign press.

Despite having stopped the collaboration recently, to be with protected computer files and not having compromising numbers in my agenda, I knew that for the mukhabarats (Syrian secret police) suspicions were enough.

It was 7:30 PM when I packed my bags and caught a taxi in front of my house. "Garage Al Samarieh" I said to the driver, planning from there to take a car to Lebanon.

In the rear view mirror, the image of two men coming towards the car scared me.

A tap on the glass. The driver and I opened the windows at the same time and while one of them identified himself as an agent of the secret police, the other simply said my name. The taxi driver, pale, glued to the seat, didn't move. I made great effort to remain calm.

I got out of the car. One of them gave me his arm -- like we do with relatives or good friends in Syria -- and said he would very much like to see my home. We walked back and went in.

I offered coffee and tea and they argued between themselves. One wanted, the other didn't. The friendlier one was convinced by his colleague to refuse the offer and we went straight upstairs.

While they were both walking through the room looking at object in view, the doorbell rang. Within seconds, a third agent came up the stairs, not looking friendly at all.

As they knocked down shelves, broke bookcases and tore everything out, I asked what was happening. In reply I received a raised eyebrow accompanied by a "tsk" which is typical for "shut up" in Syria. I didn't push it.

After searching sheets, mattress, closets desk drawers and a half empty cereal box, one of them opened the fridge beside the bed and took two small trays of Syrian sweets. He smiled and offered them to his partners.

With the things packed -- from MP3 to shaver -- we closed up the suitcases and the house.

I was led to the car arm in arm, this time by the third agent. The other two, in front, gave instructions to wait a bit, talk and then move forward without attracting attention.

When entering the vehicle, the agent who accompanied me put one of his hands on my knee while he opened his jacket and pulled out a Kalashnikov with the other, resting the base of the weapon on the door and keeping it aimed at my face. With taps on the window, he showed the gun to traffic cops, who opened the way through blocked off streets.

IN SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

The first agent asked if I knew the street we were on.

From talking a lot with people recently released from prison, I knew that a positive answer could mean a tight blindfold. I said "not exactly".

But I did know exactly where we were. I had visited the Al Arsouzi park several times, named for the Arab nationalist writer, one of the great inspirations for the governing Baath party. But I had never noticed the building beside it, protected by high walls and plainclothes police with their Kalashnikovs.

At the entrance to the building, a flight of stairs with a door in the middle led to the basement. There, on a table, they put my bags and began to take everything out, asking questions about each object.

An officer asked for my shoelaces and belt, and then I knew the situation was as bad as it gets.

Taken to a long and straight corridor, I was put in a very small solitary cell, without a window, with two blankets and a long fluorescent light that was on all the time.

In the middle of the heavy iron door there was a flap through which I received a piece of bread. Then a plate of cold rice and two pieces of eggplant.

I could hear the doors of neighboring cells being opened, other prisoners using the bathroom, giving a knock on the door to say they had finished. They were guided, by a shout, to return.

I awoke with the jailer from the next shift telling me to get up.

Gesturing for me to leave my laceless shoes and the jacket that I had used for a pillow, he blindfolded me and led me to a room.

Seated, I heard an agent say in English that very disturbing information regarding me had been received by the police.

The way in which they asked for information about people with who I had been in contact with, talking about places and troubled regions where I had been and even detailing the conversations and specific opinions that I had expressed to very few people. They also asked standard questions and made some absurd claims.

INTERROGATION

"We know that you speak Arabic, but for some reason pretend that you don't," insinuated one of them.

They asked about the two Brazilian reporters who worked in Syria with government permission and my connection with them, my opinion about the events in the country, what the people I lived with said about the situation, sources of income, prior work in Brazil, countries that I had visited before, the reason for my trips to Lebanon and if I had set foot in Palestine or Israel.

The agony of the blindfold and the cold on my bare feet made me shrink more into my chair.

I talked about my previous jobs, said that I saved money for the trip and that I would like to visit the village where my family came from, but that I was waiting for the situation to calm down.

I told what I had heard from Christian friends: the stories of kidnappings, targeted buses, stray bullets, people killed when they tried to leave the house, abuses and mutilations committed by extremist groups from the opposition -- which in fact has been occurring since mid-August/September.

But of course I didn't mention the reports and pictures of government tanks firing on Sunni neighborhoods (also inhabited by other minorities), arbitrary arrests of at least one member of each family in neighborhoods with frequent demonstrations, very violent repression of peaceful protests, kidnapping and murder of youth and other atrocities suffered by opponents.

They knew of my incoming and outgoing calls and messages exchanged. Al the contacts I had deleted from my cell phone were recorded in the records of the local telephone carrier, in the hands of my interrogator.

Name by name, they asked for occupation, type of relationship, the reason to have contact with so many opposition members. It was an eternity until they released me.

"SORRY FOR ARRESTING YOU"

Pushed by the jailer, I returned to solitary, stumbling over everything. Once in the cell, the blindfold was removed and I went back to trying to find the least uncomfortable position possible.

Time didn't pass, and the fluorescent light punished the eyes.

Lying in the cell, the soles of my feet touched one wall and my head the other, a length of not more than 1.70 meters by 0.5 meters wide.

Hours later, they opened the cell door and told me to get up.

This time I put on my tennis shoes and jacket and was taken without blindfold to a large room, with two couches, a long table, a small picture of the former president Hafez Assad (who died in 2000) and a huge one of his son and current president Bashar Assad on the opposite wall.

A caricature of a citizen -- very tall, thin, wearing a suit and tie, a large mole on his cheek and lots of gel in his hair -- and the other gentleman, nearing 70, were talking. They got up when they saw me. They shook my hand and offered me a seat on the couch.

"Sorry for arresting you, Germano", said the caricature. "But we need information. You know the situation"

They began asking for information about some of my contacts found in the records of the phone company, spoke of amenities and insisted that they had information that I was in contact with people in the media. But with my denials and difficulty in communicating -- both spoke very little English and my Arabic is limited -- they gave up.

Translated by DAVE WOLIN