Bahrain Mirror (Exclusive)
Bahrain - Ibtisam Saleh



Now I am not Rula Al Saffar, I am Suha Bechara. I will get out of here just as she did.” With these words Rula cradled herself as she faced her unknown fate in the middle of a dark, scary cell, at a time that could not be any worse for Bahrain, and no one knows the full extent of the oppression that awaits. There is no place for anything but revenge on the audacity of roses and free speech. Rula kept repeating these words, believing that like “Bechara” she will survive and walk out victorious.


In the previous episode, a famous Bahraini actor and a famous Bahraini director, an ex TV station director, a well known writer and a TV character, and a government human rights employee, took part in videotaping Rula's confessions and apology to the King. Rula Continues



Jail Clinic

I was the jail doctor, I came across more than seven cases where I had to give inmates first aid until the ambulance arrived. I continued my work in jail, providing medical assistance to any human being, no matter who he was. Once a detainee fell unconscious, so I asked for an ambulance. The policewoman was apathetic and unconcerned, so I yelled in her face "get an ambulance now or else you will be the one responsible if she die!”! She did not want to get into an argument.

I have examined babies newly born in jail and helped their mothers breastfeed them normally, and wash the baby. These were women of the night, but I do not care because the human instinct and these are my ethics, and it was my medical responsibility before the medical oath I took.

I asked Rula: "We heard that Jalila Al Salman had health issues in jail, namely heart problems. How did you deal with it?" She replied "yes she was unconscious two or three times so I assisted her by taking her pulse and what not. There was a nurse in jail but she was not qualified for her job, so I only used her medical devices. Jalila was under my supervision, along with another National Security prisoner, a pregnant woman in her sixth month. I took pity on her and considered her as my daughter and followed up on her. She got out before us. I wish to see her again. I miss her.

Once a policewoman who treated me badly came to me for consulting. She was worried about something related to her breast. I had her checked, and alleviated her fears about her health and advised her to visit a specific doctor, but that did not change the way she treated me. The other policewomen also came to me for advice about their health or their family problems, I would prescribe them medicine and give them my honest opinion. I do not discriminate against people. I do not walk away from responsibility wherever I was, in any circumstance. I worked with the other medics as consultants to every medical case that was brought to us, and earned the respect of some of the policewomen. There I knew that the doctors and nurses were of Syrian nationality and decent or nationalized Pakistanis or Indians that had low professional standards, even shallow.

Freedom Window Announces Rain

When I hear the call to prayer I get down from my top bed and run to the window. I would hold on to the bars, and gaze up in the sky. I am mesmirized by the blue squareness of that little window and what is outside of it. I would talk to God, in anguish, praying for the release of my colleagues and doctors. I would cry out of love for Bahrain. Call to prayer does not go unnoticed over there, I do not miss out on the ritual at all. As for prayer, it is an obligation that we waited for and practiced with most passion.

We called that window Freedom window. One day we could hear heavy rainfall. Without thought we ran to freedom window and held our hands out, sharing with other people one of the best things that can happen outside these bars. The moisture that nurtured our spirits with hope and mercy, hoping to see our families and loved ones. Rain was falling outside, and our eyes sparkled with it. We stuck close to each other, happy, tied to each other in solidarity and oneness, and our hands having fun soaking in that beautiful bliss, that surreal scene was unforgettable.

Spiritual Solitude..

I got a feeling I was kept somewhere, but not in Bahrain. What happened to me and to my friends could not have actually happened in Bahrain. That ugly face could not be placed on the kindness of Bahrain and its people. I would always say to my friends you would all walk out except two inmates, and I would be one of them. I would always joke by choosing someone to be the remaining inmate that would stay with me. I would laugh and choose someone else, and continue with my mischief and choose another person. I would say: “We will stay here for a long time, it has to be, so let’s think of this as recreation, a time for spiritual solitude and pondering, away from daily life and routine, away from phone chitchat, family and social responsibilities. Away from the Internet, take time out. Take this amount of time and think of yourselves that you're on a journey, and at some point the journey will end and we will all go home.”

My intuition was right, everyone left, and me and Jalila Al Salman were left behind. I was surprised that her intuition was the same as mine, even before she was brought in from the other cell to ours.

Innovating forms of life

During the month of Ramadhan at 11 pm I would call up my colleagues and invite them to play physical sports. This is where I would think of Suha Bechara where she took a pact on herself (she used to practice aerobics in her tiny cell as she was adamant not to get out of jail in a frail unhealthy body, and that is what she did.) I would say jokingly "wake up lazy heads. Its Rula Time" a reference to an aerobics and fitness lebanese TV program called (Haifa Time.) I would lead them in exercising and they respected me and followed my advice all the way.

Since the detainees were the cream of society, we distributed the roles. We had Quran recital classes. The most knowledgeable person on the topic was a doctor named Najah Al Haddad. Dental care was Dr Raja Khadem, Dentist. One day we opened a clinic for her. We brought a chair from the kitchen and she took a look at all of our teeth. We tried to revive a decent life in the inside as much as possible, compensating for what we lacked by force. My role was of health and fitness, and recreation. I would make sure no one slept with a heavy heart. I would put them to sleep with a joke and wake them up with a laugh. Ayat Al Qurmuzi took the role of reciting Quran, as she has a pure sweet voice and good recital skills. It was so good that one of the policewomen would enjoy her recitals that she hid behind the window listening to her, until she said "from where do you get a voice like that?"

Dr Raja Kadhem also had a beautiful voice with a different shade in reciting Quran. While we were there we prayed a lot, and recited many religious scripts and islamic teachings and stories. The days were dull but we offered each other moral support. We were all close sisters. We would stand up for each other in disagreements or maltreatment from the policewomen. We would discuss our social problems. We would laugh and joke around so that emotional depression would not creep in. We would lift our spirits up in the face of fear, the unknown, and speculations that lead to cruel uncertainty even more. We would bid each other at night "may you wake up released."

In the midst of care

Sometimes I would get carried away with care for everyone. One time I felt that Dr. Khulood Al Sayyad was staying away from us She would not share us. I went to her and she immediately was in tears heavily crying. I comforted her "do not worry. you will get out." Sometimes I would hear Dr Nada Dhaif (Dentist) or Zahra Al Sammak (anesthesia specialist) or Dr Nahid Al Shiraw (ICU consultant) and others cry.

I would embrace them, contain their grievance. I was the warm refuge they sought in the hospital and in prison. (Rula smiles) Just as Bahrain Mirror said Rula's embrace is Affluence of Care

I would cultivate positivity for myself and others by taking advantage of the opportunities as much as I could. One day I had a bright idea. I knew that the nursing students were upstairs in the first floor and at the time mingling with the prisoners upstairs was not allowed. I knew that there was a laundry machine in their kitchen. I made up excuses to the policewoman that I needed to wash my clothes there, although I washed my clothes by hand, and the policewoman agreed. I climbed the stairs and got in to see them in the kitchen. They looked at me and shouted franatically "Rula! You're still alive? You're here? We didn't know!" "Hush!" I said "Keep your voices down so the policewomen could not hear us. We hugged each other and I kissed them one by one. We were incredibly happy, as I could see it in their eyes. I later on said my goodbyes quickly, apologizing that I could not spend the longest time possible.

We would dismiss pain with fun atmosphere. Ayat had a major role in that as she was talented at creating poetry and creating Hosa's (Hosa is unique Iraqi cultural poetry). She would hide in the toilet and come out with her creative output that she performed in a funny satirical way. Whenever one of us left, we were neither sad nor selfish wishing we left before her. On the contrary, we would throw a going away party. We would clap and sing "take your belongings, take your belongings, and get out of here." We were adamant at creating an ambience of enjoyment in our cell so we could survive this tough, frugal existence. By cleaning our space, and praying, there was a culture of loyalty.

The ward and the cell

What's the difference between a ward and a cell? Is it a big cell split into wards? Or is it a big ward split into little cells? Jalila Al-Salman, Ayat Al Qurmuzi, Raja Kadhem, Najah Haddad, and Fatima Baqqali disagreed on the names, but we all agreed on calling them wards. As ill fate would have it we would become inmates in Isa Town Police Station for women. The main entrance would lead to a small lobby. On the right is a long bench that seats three people, and after that is a flight of stairs that leads to the first floor, where there is a kitchen and a laundry and other wards. Below the stairs is a mattress the policewoman on duty that night would sleep on. There is a small counter in front of the staircase with a computer on it. On the left of the main entrance there is an air conditioner. To the left of the lobby is an iron gate with bars that leads to the wards. The gate also had a blinding plastic sliding door that would be closed shut when there were visitors or detainees, especially the ones detained under the National Security. We could identify them from the blindfolds and tied hands.

We would enter the ward from the iron gates. The doors on both sides were numbered. On the right was the kitchen, and then ward No. 3. After that was the policewomen's office with their private closets and bathroom, and in the corner was ward 5. On the left were wards 1, 2, and 4. The wards were of different sizes, and usually would brim with inmates over capacity, which was typical. Everything was that way, but we made the best out of it to get on. At the end of the corridor was a small wooden door that was always closed. Through it we would go out to a small yard that we would walk around once a month; and through it we would walk to a new clinic that was hastily set up with new equipment before Bassiouni's visit. When we were first brought in it was not even there, but they had to build it because of the pressing need to attend to the torture victims coming from the investigations.

Our temporary stay was in ward number 2, which was 4 by 3 meters. When you enter you are faced with two double deck beds in the corners with a little window looking out to the wall of the complex. We could look out to the vast sky above. On the right is a bathroom with a toilet, a shower, and washing basin. Among the wards is a corridor, which was our little space. We gave the wards names like Resistance ward, Love ward, and Hope ward. Ward 2 was close to the kitchen and opposite to the policewomen's office. There we could see their movement in and out, and the visitors. It also kept us under close supervision. All over the building there were Intercom devices that the policewomen purposely irritating us with by discussing silly matters.

I am your mother's age

For added misery, we were forced to obey the policewomen's orders, as the daily procedure of checking names - the policewoman would come three times a day - 7 in the morning, one in the afternoon, and eleven at night, and call out our names. We would come out to the corridor where we would hear constant threats and yelling to our faces: I do not want to hear anything other than my heels. She would leave us fighting sleep often at night while she stayed in her office. When she had enough of giving us a hard time she would allow us to go back to our cells. Me and Jalila were the last ones that were allowed back.

What was even worse was inspecting us before going anywhere outside such as going to court or otherwise. Before and after. Two policewomen would ask us to strip naked completely, and then would ask us to fold our knees to make sure we were not carrying anything, and for further humiliation. One time I criticized a young policewoman after she cursed at us. I said “Shame on you. Have some self-respect! I am as old as your mother.”

• Link to part 1
• Link to part 2
• Link to part 3
• Link to the Arabic copy