Released Palestinians Describe Worsening Abuses in Israeli Prisons

Palestinian boxer Muazzaz Abayat, 37, holds his 2-month-old son Mohammed and daughter Mira, 5, at home in the West Bank city of Bethlehem, Wednesday, July 17, 2024, days after his release from Israeli prison, frail, disoriented and with no initial memory of his family. (AP Photo/Maya Alleruzzo)
Palestinian boxer Muazzaz Abayat, 37, holds his 2-month-old son Mohammed and daughter Mira, 5, at home in the West Bank city of Bethlehem, Wednesday, July 17, 2024, days after his release from Israeli prison, frail, disoriented and with no initial memory of his family. (AP Photo/Maya Alleruzzo)
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Released Palestinians Describe Worsening Abuses in Israeli Prisons

Palestinian boxer Muazzaz Abayat, 37, holds his 2-month-old son Mohammed and daughter Mira, 5, at home in the West Bank city of Bethlehem, Wednesday, July 17, 2024, days after his release from Israeli prison, frail, disoriented and with no initial memory of his family. (AP Photo/Maya Alleruzzo)
Palestinian boxer Muazzaz Abayat, 37, holds his 2-month-old son Mohammed and daughter Mira, 5, at home in the West Bank city of Bethlehem, Wednesday, July 17, 2024, days after his release from Israeli prison, frail, disoriented and with no initial memory of his family. (AP Photo/Maya Alleruzzo)

Frequent beatings, overcrowding, withholding of basic rations. Released Palestinians have described to The Associated Press worsening abuses in Israeli prisons crammed with thousands detained since the war in Gaza began 10 months ago.

Israeli officials have acknowledged that they have made conditions harsher for Palestinians in prisons, with hard-line National Security Minister Itamar Ben Gvir boasting that prisons will no longer be “summer camps” under his watch.

Four released Palestinians told the AP that treatment had dramatically worsened in prisons run by the ministry since the Oct. 7 attacks that triggered the latest war between Israel and Hamas in Gaza. Some emerged from months of captivity emaciated and emotionally scarred.

A fifth prisoner, Muazzaz Abayat, was too weakened to detail his experience soon after his release in July following six months at southern Israel’s Naqab prison. Frail-looking and unable to focus, he could only muster the strength to speak for several minutes, saying he was regularly beaten.

Now at home outside Bethlehem, the 37-year-old can hardly leave his armchair.

“At night, he hallucinates and stands in the middle of the house, in shock or remembering the torment and pain he went through,” said his cousin, Aya Abayat. Like many of the detained, he was put under administrative detention, a procedure that allows Israel to detain people indefinitely without charge.

The AP cannot independently verify the accounts of the prisoners. But they described similar conditions, even though they were held separately. While Abayat was only able to speak briefly, the other four spoke to the AP at length, and one requested anonymity for fear of being rearrested. Their accounts match reports from human rights groups that have documented alleged abuse in Israeli detention facilities.

Alarm among rights groups over abuses of Palestinian prisoners has mainly focused on military facilities, particularly Sde Teiman, a desert base where Israeli military police have arrested 10 soldiers on suspicion of sodomizing a Palestinian detainee. The detention facility at the base has held most of the Palestinians seized in raids in the Gaza Strip since the war began.

The soldiers, five of whom have since been released, deny the sodomy allegation. Their defense lawyer has said that they used force to defend themselves against a detainee who attacked them during a search, but did not sexually abuse him.

The Israeli army says 36 Palestinian prisoners have died in military-run detention centers since October. It said some of them had “previous illnesses or injuries caused to them as a result of the ongoing hostilities,” without elaborating further.

According to autopsy reports for five of the detainees, two bore signs of physical trauma such as broken ribs, while the death of a third “could have been avoided if there had been greater care for his medical needs.” The reports were provided to the AP by Physicians for Human Rights-Israel, an Israeli rights organization whose doctors observed the autopsies.

Facing calls to shut down the Sde Teiman facility, the military has been transferring hundreds of Palestinians from the base to the prisons run by Ben Gvir’s ministry.

But according to Abayat and the others who spoke to the AP, conditions in those facilities are traumatic as well.

Munthir Amira, a West Bank political activist who was held in Ofer Prison, said guards regularly beat detainees for punishment or often for no reason at all.

He said he and 12 others shared a cell with only six beds and a few thin blankets, freezing during the winter months. When prisoners had to go to the bathroom, they were handcuffed and bent over, and they were let outside for only 15 minutes twice a week, he said. Amira was held in administrative detention, apparently over his Facebook posts critical of Israel.

He said he lost 33 kilograms (72 pounds) during his three months in detention because of minimal food.

The treatment drove some to the edge: Amira recounted a day when he and his cellmates watched through their cell window as another inmate tried to kill himself by jumping off a high fence. He said they banged on their door to get help. Instead, he said, soldiers with two large dogs entered their cell, bound their hands, lined them up in the corridor and beat them, including on their genitals.

He said that when he was first arrested in December, guards ordered him to strip naked and spread his legs, then beat him into submission when he refused. During the ensuing examination, one guard prodded his genitalia with a metal detector, he said.

The National Security Ministry said in a statement to the AP that it was not aware of the claims of abuse from the five released men. It said it follows “all basic rights required” for prisoners, and that detainees can file complaints that will be “fully examined.”

But it said it has intentionally “reduced conditions” for Palestinian detainees “to the minimum required by law” since Oct. 7. The purpose, it said, “is to deter ... terror activities.”

Since the war began, the Palestinian prison population has nearly doubled to almost 10,000, including detainees from Gaza and several thousand people seized from the West Bank and east Jerusalem, according to HaMoked, an Israeli rights group that gathers figures from prison authorities.

Those detained include alleged militants seized in raids in the West Bank and Palestinians suspected in attacks on soldiers or settlers. But others also have apparently been detained for social media posts critical of Israel or past activism, according to a report from the United Nations human rights office.

All four former detainees who spoke at length said hunger was perhaps their greatest challenge.

Breakfast was 250 grams (9 ounces) of yogurt and a single tomato or pepper shared among five people, said Omar Assaf, a Ramallah-based retired Arabic language professor, also held at Ofer. He, too, said he was interrogated over his social media posts.

For lunch and dinner, he said, each person received two-thirds of a cup of rice and a bowl of soup shared with others.

“You didn’t see the color of fruit ... not a piece of meat,” he said.

Harsher conditions were imposed immediately after Oct. 7, according to Mohamed al-Salhi, who at the time was serving a 23-year sentence in a Jerusalem prison for forming an armed group.

Days after the attack, he said, guards stripped his cell of everything, including radios, televisions and clothing. Eventually, the number of inmates in the cell grew from a half-dozen to 14, and curtains in the communal showers were removed, leaving them to wash exposed, he said. Al-Salhi was released in June after completing his sentence.

A half-dozen Palestinian families gathered outside Ofer one day earlier this month to await their relatives’ release. As the gate slid open, several emaciated-looking men, with unkempt hair and rough beards, walked out before dropping to the ground to pray.

Mutasim Swalim embraced his father. He said he spent a year in prison over a Facebook post.

“The taste of freedom is very nice,” he said.

Others declined to speak.

“I just spent two months in prison,” one said as he staggered by. “I don’t want to go back.”



Lebanese on Edge amid Fears of All-Out Israel-Hezbollah War

A Middle East Airlines commercial aircraft flies near Beirut's southern suburbs as it approaches the airport runway on August 9, 2024. (AFP)
A Middle East Airlines commercial aircraft flies near Beirut's southern suburbs as it approaches the airport runway on August 9, 2024. (AFP)
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Lebanese on Edge amid Fears of All-Out Israel-Hezbollah War

A Middle East Airlines commercial aircraft flies near Beirut's southern suburbs as it approaches the airport runway on August 9, 2024. (AFP)
A Middle East Airlines commercial aircraft flies near Beirut's southern suburbs as it approaches the airport runway on August 9, 2024. (AFP)

Fears of a major escalation between Israel and Hezbollah have left many Lebanese on edge, exacerbating mental health problems and reviving traumas of past conflicts in the war-weary country.

One 29-year-old woman, who lives near the southern city of Sidon, said she dreaded the thunderous, explosive boom of Israeli jets regularly breaking the sound barrier.

"I feel the house will fall down on top of me... Sometimes I freeze... or start crying," said the woman, a contract worker for a non-governmental organization.

She was 11 years old when Israel and Lebanese armed group Hezbollah went to war in the summer of 2006, and said bombs fell near her house.

"Sometimes, unconsciously, you remember it," said the woman, requesting anonymity in a country where mental health issues are often stigmatized.

"These sounds give you flashbacks -- sometimes you feel you're back at that time," she said.

Since Hamas's October 7 attack on Israel sparked the Gaza war, Hezbollah has traded near daily cross-border fire with the Israeli army in support of the Palestinian armed group, sending tensions soaring.

Lebanon has been on a knife's edge since a strike on Beirut's southern suburbs last week killed Hezbollah's top military commander, just hours before the assassination, blamed on Israel, of Hamas's political leader Ismail Haniyeh in Tehran.

Iran and Hezbollah have vowed revenge, amid fears that retaliatory attacks could spiral into all-out war, with airlines suspending flights to Lebanon and countries imploring foreign nationals to leave.

- Panic attacks -

"I already had been suffering from anxiety and depression... but my mental health has deteriorated" since October, said the woman, who can no longer afford therapy because her work has slowed due to the hostilities.

"You feel afraid for the future", she said.

Before the 2006 Israel-Hezbollah war, Lebanon endured a grueling 1975-1990 civil conflict in which Israel invaded the south and in 1982 besieged Beirut.

The current cross-border violence has killed more than 560 people in Lebanon, most of them fighters but also including at least 116 civilians, according to an AFP tally.

On the Israeli side, including in the annexed Golan Heights, 22 soldiers and 26 civilians have been killed, according to army figures.

Laila Farhood, professor of psychiatry and mental health at the American University of Beirut, said "cumulative trauma" has left many Lebanese with stress, anxiety, depression and post-traumatic stress disorder.

"Individuals transmit their anxieties to their children as cross-generational trauma," she told AFP.

"What is happening now triggers previous traumas," causing some people to have panic attacks, said Farhood, who specializes in war trauma and its impact on Lebanese civilians.

On Tuesday, Israeli jets broke the sound barrier over central Beirut, causing intense sonic booms that rattled windows and nerves, just two days after the anniversary of a catastrophic blast at Beirut's port in 2020.

"I had my first panic attack," said Charbel Chaaya, 23, who studies law in France and is living with his family near Beirut.

"I couldn't breathe, my legs felt numb... in that very first moment, you don't know what the sound is -- just like what happened on August 4," he said.

- 'Uncertainty' -

Layal Hamze from Embrace, a non-profit organization that runs a mental health center and suicide prevention hotline, said people in Lebanon now are "more susceptible to any sound".

"Baseline, the adrenaline is already high. It's a stressful situation," said Hamze, a clinical psychologist.

"It's not only the Beirut blast," Hamze added.

"The natural or automatic response" is to be frightened, she said, and while "maybe the older generation... are a bit more used to" such sounds, they could trigger "the collective trauma".

Some on social media have urged people to stop letting off fireworks -- a ubiquitous practice for celebrations -- while humorous skits making light of difficulties like flight cancellations have also circulated.

With coping mechanisms varying greatly, some people are "going partying", while others "are reaching out to the community more", which helps them feel they are not alone, Hamze said.

Dancer Andrea Fahed, 28, whose flat was damaged in the port blast, said she panicked when she heard this week's sonic booms.

She said she felt "lucky" to be a dancer, because with her community "we laugh together, we move together... you let go of a lot of things".

But she said the "uncertainty" was a constant struggle, and now leaves her windows open, fearing another blast could shatter everything.

"Anything can happen," Fahed said.

"If it's happening with that intensity in Gaza, why wouldn't it come here?"