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Marwan Hamadeh: Hafez al-Assad Told Us, ‘Forget Bachir Gemayel,' and he Was Assassinated 4 Days Later

Marwan Hamadeh accompanying Walid Jumblatt during a meeting with Syrian President Ahmad Al-Sharaa in December.
Marwan Hamadeh accompanying Walid Jumblatt during a meeting with Syrian President Ahmad Al-Sharaa in December.
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Marwan Hamadeh: Hafez al-Assad Told Us, ‘Forget Bachir Gemayel,' and he Was Assassinated 4 Days Later

Marwan Hamadeh accompanying Walid Jumblatt during a meeting with Syrian President Ahmad Al-Sharaa in December.
Marwan Hamadeh accompanying Walid Jumblatt during a meeting with Syrian President Ahmad Al-Sharaa in December.

For half a century, Lebanon lived under the long rule of the two Assads in Syria. Damascus held Lebanon’s fate in its hands, shaping its political landscape by producing and eliminating presidents and leaders alike. Former Lebanese MP and minister Marwan Hamadeh shares his experience with both regimes.

On December 22, a Lebanese Druze delegation, led by Walid Jumblatt, visited “the new Syria.” Marwan Hamadeh was part of that delegation, and the scene struck him. President Ahmad Sharaa now sat in the chair once occupied by Hafez al-Assad, then his son Bashar, in the People’s Palace, which had been built with the help of Rafik Hariri’s company.

The trip reminded Hamadeh of the fate of men who had defied one or both Assads, including Kamal Jumblatt, Bachir Gemayel, René Moawad, Rafik Hariri, and many others. The memories were even more intense because Hamadeh himself had narrowly survived an assassination attempt on October 1, 2004—an attack that left him wounded, killed his bodyguard, and injured his driver. At the time, the attempt was widely seen as a message to both Walid Jumblatt and Rafik Hariri.

Asharq Al-Awsat visited Hamadeh at his office at An-Nahar newspaper, where he has been based since the mid-1980s, to discuss Lebanon’s turbulent relationship with the Assad regimes. He recalled Hafez al-Assad’s chilling words in his presence: “Forget Bachir Gemayel.” Just four days later, the newly elected Lebanese president was assassinated. The perpetrator, Habib Shartouni, was a member of the Syrian Social Nationalist Party, which had close ties to the Syrian regime. Hamadeh holds Syria responsible not only for Gemayel’s assassination but also for the killing of President René Moawad, the disappearance of Imam Musa al-Sadr, and the assassination of Rafik Hariri.

When asked if he had expected Bashar al-Assad’s downfall or flight from Syria, Hamadeh replied: “I thought there might be a coup—a rebellion from within the Syrian army, perhaps by the Fourth Division breaking away from the command of its leader, Bashar’s brother Maher al-Assad. I believed this could happen out of concern for Syria’s sovereignty, which had fallen under Iranian influence. However, I did not anticipate the complete collapse we are seeing now, which has been evident in Syria’s failure to respond to Israeli attacks for more than a year. There hasn’t even been a statement about Gaza or anything before that. Daily airstrikes on Syria, and no reaction.”

He emphasized that the problem did not start with Bashar al-Assad. The Syrian regime has always sought to control two key decisions—if not two entire territories: Lebanon’s independent decision-making and Palestine’s independent decision-making. This, he argues, is why Syria has persistently opposed the establishment of a strong, unified Lebanese state. The dream of making Lebanon a Syrian province or western governorate predates the Assads and was not just a Ba’ath Party ambition.

Hamadeh explained: “There has always been something within Syrian political thinking that resents the separation of these districts from Syria in 1920 by France to establish Greater Lebanon. This sentiment is not just found among the Alawites. In fact, the Alawites might have accepted division, with one part for the Druze and another for different groups. But deep within Syrian national identity, this remains an unresolved issue. Even among those who see Damascus as the beating heart of Arabism and Syria as the embodiment of Arab identity on the frontiers of the Arab empire, there is this feeling. I sensed it especially during discussions about the Taif Agreement, and even before that, during the so-called ‘Tripartite Agreement,’ which I helped negotiate.”

Hamadeh recounts that the agreement was brokered between him and some of his fiercest adversaries at the time: Elie Hobeika, who represented the Lebanese Forces; Michel Samaha, later notorious for his involvement in smuggling explosives from Syrian intelligence chief Ali Mamlouk; and Assaad Shaftari, the intelligence chief of the Lebanese Forces under Hobeika. Also involved was Mohammad Abdul Hamid Beydoun, a key figure in Nabih Berri’s Amal Movement, who had previously been a leftist before shifting alliances. This shift was part of a broader migration from the Lebanese left, which had traditionally aligned with Fatah and the Palestinian resistance, towards Amal and later Hezbollah.

The Tripartite Agreement emerged after the failure of the Geneva and Lausanne conferences, which had attempted national dialogue. Those conferences only succeeded in overturning the May 17, 1983, Lebanese-Israeli agreement, which Hafez al-Assad had called an “agreement of submission.” This reversal led to a coordinated offensive against the Lebanese government, President Amin Gemayel, and the multinational peacekeeping forces, with support from the Soviet Union under Yuri Andropov.

Hamadeh explained: “The core issue was the refusal of the Lebanese establishment—particularly the Maronites—to relinquish the powers of the presidency and distribute them between the legislative and executive branches, meaning the cabinet. This focus continued until we reached the Tripartite Agreement, which was the first joint initiative between Rafik Hariri—who was not yet prime minister and was acting as a Saudi mediator—and Syrian Vice President Abdul Halim Khaddam.”

He noted that the agreement sought to broker a deal between militias rather than parliamentarians. It effectively proposed a confederation with ministers of state from six sects, rotating leadership similar to the Swiss model. In reality, this meant a permanent Syrian presence, as the fragile sectarian balance required a strong external force to keep it from unraveling.

Elie Hobeika had by then chosen the Syrian camp. At the time, there were rumors that he had maintained intelligence ties with both Israel and Syria, which might explain why his role in Bachir Gemayel’s assassination was overlooked before he fully aligned with Syrian intelligence. Eventually, intelligence maneuvers brought Hobeika over to the pro-Syrian National Forces alliance, which included Amal Movement and other factions. However, this broad coalition later collapsed under its own contradictions. As the internal conflicts intensified, Hezbollah gradually overtook Amal and effectively eliminated the National Resistance Front, replacing it with what became known as the Islamic Resistance.

The Lebanese Resistance Against Both Assads

Asked about those who resisted Hafez and Bashar al-Assad, Hamadeh said: “The Lebanese people resisted both Assads at different times and to varying degrees, depending on the sectarian composition of different regions. However, in the end, no area was spared from the oppression of either Assad. No sect avoided their brutality, not even the Shiite at certain points. The case of Imam Musa al-Sadr is worth revisiting, along with Syria’s role amid the rise of the Islamic Revolution in Iran.”

He added: “I have both a strong feeling and information suggesting that the Syrian regime was involved in sidelining and making him disappear. Perhaps they feared an independent Shiite leadership that was more Lebanese, more aligned with the Arab world, and rebellious against the Palestinians—particularly the rejectionist front close to Syria. What I want to emphasize is that no one was spared from the wrath of either Assad. Take Kamel Jumblatt, whom we consider a mentor. He captivated us with his socialist ideas, his belief in Lebanese national independence, and his support for an independent Palestinian decision. He was ultimately punished for his positions—especially after telling Hafez al-Assad in their famous final meeting: ‘I will not lead Lebanon into your big Arab prison.’”

When Hafez al-Assad Said: “Forget Bashir Gemayel”

Hamadeh continued: “The hostility between us was well known, but let me take you back to the period after the siege of Beirut and the departure of Yasser Arafat and his comrades to Tunisia. Israel had Beirut under siege, and we were trapped inside. The city had little access to water, food, and electricity—until Saudi Arabia, through US President Ronald Reagan, secured minimal aid. That was when Rafik Hariri played his first role as a mediator.

“We warned the Americans that if Israel entered Beirut, we would be wiped out. The Israelis saw us as allies of ‘terrorists’ and supporters of the Palestinian resistance. In response, the Americans, through their envoy Philip Habib, arranged for us to leave Beirut safely via Sofar and then to Damascus, using vehicles from the US embassy and the Lebanese Sixth Bureau.

On September 10, 1982, we met with President Hafez al-Assad at 9 am Walid Jumblatt and I were there, along with Mohsen Dalloul, Abdullah al-Amin, and Hikmat al-Eid. At the time, I was still serving as a minister in Elias Sarkis’s government. During our discussion, Assad spoke about his ties to Soviet leader Yuri Andropov and his plans for a counteroffensive against the US and the multinational forces. He assured us that he would provide weapons to help defend the Chouf region.”

“At one point, Walid Jumblatt remarked that Lebanon had a political system and that a new president, Bashir Gemayel, had been elected. He suggested that we should deal with this new reality, as had always been the case in previous transitions.

Hafez al-Assad responded sharply: ‘Who are you talking about? Bashir Gemayel?’

We said: ‘Yes, of course, he was elected.’ Assad waved his hand dismissively and said, ‘Forget Bashir Gemayel. Forget him.’”

Hamadeh said that the conversation took place on September 10, 1982. Bashir had been elected just days earlier and was still celebrating his victory. Four days later, Gemayel was assassinated.

“We were still in Damascus at the time, while Walid Jumblatt had traveled to Amman to visit his family. That’s how we learned of Bashir’s assassination,” he stated.

The Wave of Assassinations

Hamadeh added that a wave of assassinations followed. Grand Mufti Sheikh Hassan Khaled was targeted, along with several Palestinian leaders. While Israel was responsible for many of these killings—pursuing Palestinian figures even as far as Tunisia—the Syrian regime also played its part, particularly in Tripoli and elsewhere.

Lebanese political figures were also targeted. Mohammad Shuqair, an advisor to President Amine Gemayel, was assassinated, as were Sheikh Sobhi al-Saleh and MP Nazem al-Qadri, who was gunned down while at a barber shop. Later, President René Moawad was killed.

Asked if he directly accused the Syrian regime of killing René Moawad, Hamadeh replied: “I do not absolve them at all,” he replied. “Others may have been involved alongside the Syrian regime—assassinations like these are often joint operations. This was also the case with the assassination of Rafik Hariri.”

The Trap Set for Samir Geagea

Regarding the church bombing, Hamadeh explained that Geagea had nothing to do with it. At the time, Hamadeh was Minister of Health and had accompanied Prime Minister Rafik Hariri to the site.

“We were among the first to arrive, and it was clear that everything had been premeditated—not just the bombing itself, but also an attempt to block the Nahr al-Kalb Bridge and tunnel to frame the attack as part of a larger terrorist operation, possibly to create a pretext for partitioning Lebanon,” he recounted.

Shortly after, an assassination attempt targeted Deputy Prime Minister Michel El Murr, and Geagea was falsely accused. Many, including President Elias Hrawi, warned him that he should leave Lebanon for his safety, but he refused, according to Hamadeh.

The bombing was orchestrated by Syrian and Lebanese intelligence, and Rafik Hariri knew this well. That’s why some people advised Geagea to leave the country—they were planning something against him. He refused, and as a result, he spent 11 years in prison.

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El-Mahboub Abdul Salam to Asharq Al-Awsat: Al-Turabi Tasted the Betrayal of his Disciples, Foremost Among them Omar al-Bashir

Al-Bashir and al-Turabi (right) after the coup (AP)
Al-Bashir and al-Turabi (right) after the coup (AP)
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El-Mahboub Abdul Salam to Asharq Al-Awsat: Al-Turabi Tasted the Betrayal of his Disciples, Foremost Among them Omar al-Bashir

Al-Bashir and al-Turabi (right) after the coup (AP)
Al-Bashir and al-Turabi (right) after the coup (AP)

Dr. Hassan Abdullah al-Turabi once tasted a bitter truth: that a man’s own disciples may one day betray him. It is almost a law of political life that students eventually turn on their teachers.

Al-Turabi had chosen the young army officer Omar Hassan al-Bashir to lead Sudan, perhaps imagining that he could remain behind the curtain as the guiding hand, a spiritual mentor presiding over the state, as Ayatollah Khomeini had done in Iran. But generals have their own instincts. Power is a feast that tolerates no partners. Soon enough, al-Bashir rebelled, and the master who had raised him was cast aside.

In 2017, a year after al-Turabi’s death, I interviewed Omar al-Bashir on that complicated relationship. When asked who had been the hardest person to deal with in his political life, he immediately named al-Turabi. He described him as a man of “immense charisma,” one who had long dominated the Islamic Movement and triumphed in every internal battle, until his clash with al-Bashir himself, when, for the first time, he lost.

Al-Bashir’s rule was marked by constant shifts and contradictions, none more telling than his oscillating relationship with Iran. In 1992, Sudan was under suffocating sanctions, short of weapons and ammunition, and isolated after Iraq’s decline.

Desperate for aid, Finance Minister Abdul-Rahim Hamdi traveled to Tehran to request assistance. The Iranians, however, demanded that Sudan first repay the debts left by the Jaafar Nimeiri regime. They explained that their priority was to help the newly independent Shiite communities emerging from the collapse of the Soviet Union, and offered instead to send books and sports equipment. Khartoum’s delegation was stunned. When Hamdi recounted the story to al-Turabi, the latter laughed bitterly and said: “Haven’t you read The Book of Misers? Most of it is about the Persians.”

Iran’s stance changed years later. After 2003, it supported the Sudanese army in the war in Darfur, established husayniyyas (Shiite centers), converted a small number of Sudanese to Shiism, and sent hundreds of youths for training in Syria. Iranian engineers helped build military industries south of Khartoum, and weapons were smuggled through Port Sudan to Gaza for Hamas, via Egyptian tunnels. Israeli warplanes would later strike those factories, exposing the secret routes.

I once asked al-Bashir whether he could ever enjoy life as a “former president.” He smiled and said: “Not only would it be easy - it would be a pleasure. People will still call you ‘Your Excellency’ in the street, but you’ll have no responsibilities.” Experience teaches journalists not to take such remarks at face value; similar words are spoken by leaders who never truly imagine leaving office.

Al-Turabi himself seldom condemned other rulers. He counted Muammar Gaddafi among his friends, saying their meetings were always frank and candid. He also believed that Saddam Hussein had undergone a transformation after the first Gulf War, symbolized by adding the phrase Allahu Akbar to Iraq’s flag. Such reflections revealed a man who, despite his ideological fervor, viewed other strongmen as peers in power and survival.

Among those who knew both al-Turabi and al-Bashir closely was Dr. Al-Mahboub Abdul Salam, a Sudanese politician and thinker who lived through the rise and unraveling of their shared project. In his view, the Sudan of today - torn apart by war and bleeding from within - is the direct legacy of that turbulent era.

Abdul Salam said that many Sudanese now live with the haunting fear of becoming people without a homeland. “This is not just a feeling,” he observed. “It’s a psychological reality. Some Sudanese have already begun to rebuild their lives elsewhere. The war has touched everyone - it has destroyed homes, livelihoods, memories, and the very sense of belonging. No one has been spared.”

He noted that the blame for Sudan’s collapse lied with the country’s elites, those of both the left and the right. “The Marxists, the Islamists, and even the centrist politicians share responsibility,” he said. “The military and civilian elites are two faces of the same coin. Tayeb Salih once wrote that in Sudan, some officers wake up one morning and decide to seize power by driving a tank to the radio station. But many civilians have the same hunger for authority. They just wear different clothes.”

Abdul Salam argued that politics became, for many, “a profession for the unqualified.” True politics, he insisted, requires training, study, and deep knowledge of the country and the world. “If you are Sudanese, you must know every corner of Sudan, its regions, its people, its contradictions. But many who rushed into power came from nowhere, driven only by ambition.”

He added that both soldiers and civilians failed equally. “What Sudan suffers today is the meeting of two failures, military and civilian.”

Reflecting on his own past, Abdul Salam admits that even before the 1989 coup, he doubted that the Islamic Movement was ready to govern. “We had capable leaders, scholars, and administrators,” he said, “but a state is far larger than any movement can imagine. Had we let the movement mature within democracy instead of seizing power by force, Sudan’s story might have been different.”

There is no doubt in his mind that Hassan al-Turabi was the mastermind of the 1989 coup that brought al-Bashir to power. “He designed it from start to finish,” Abdul Salam said. Al-Turabi had met al-Bashir only once before the coup, two days before its launch. “Go to the palace as president,” he told the young officer, “and I will go to prison as a captive.” It was a deliberate act of deception meant to mislead Sudan’s political parties and foreign observers into thinking that al-Turabi was uninvolved. For a while, the ruse worked. Egypt and other neighbors welcomed the new regime, unaware of its Islamist core.

Al-Turabi justified his deceit as a wartime tactic. He often said that the world would never accept an Islamic regime, whether it came to power democratically or through a coup. Therefore, he considered the revolution a form of war, where deception was permissible. But the disguise did not last long. The Gulf War exposed Khartoum’s Islamist sympathies when it sided with Saddam Hussein, and Sudan found itself isolated, condemned by its neighbors and the world.

Sudan also became the most vivid example of the “Sheikh and the President” dynamic: a spiritual guide wielding hidden influence while the official ruler executed his will. Al-Turabi and al-Bashir shared an office called the “Leadership Bureau.” Formally, al-Turabi was head of the movement and al-Bashir one of its members. In reality, the former commanded ideological power while the latter held the guns. That dual authority could not endure.

The rupture came on December 12, 1999, when the famous Mufasala, the Great Split, tore the movement apart. For al-Turabi, it was a personal and moral betrayal. He believed they were united by a sacred project to transform history, and that conspiracies could never achieve such a mission. But his own disciples, both civilian and military, had conspired behind his back. The “Memorandum of Ten,” drafted by his opponents within the movement, marked the beginning of the end.

Abdul Salam believes that al-Bashir began to see al-Turabi as a burden as early as 1993, when the latter demanded that the Revolutionary Command Council be dissolved and that the officers return to their barracks. This was the first real collision between al-Turabi’s strategic vision and the generals’ lust for permanence. Yet external pressures - international isolation and domestic opposition - forced them to remain together for several more years. “They knew any split at that time would destroy the regime entirely,” Abdul Salam explained. “Besides, al-Turabi still commanded loyalty even within the military.”

Over time, however, the state’s intelligence services began spying on al-Turabi himself. “They claimed it was their duty,” Abdul Salam said, “but we objected. We believed he deserved independent protection - just as Western leaders have their own special security apart from intelligence agencies.”

Looking back on Sudan’s modern history, Abdul Salam described Jaafar Nimeiri as a charismatic but authoritarian ruler. “A strong leader, yes, but a dictator nonetheless.”

As for Sadiq al-Mahdi, the long-time leader of the National Umma Party, Abdul Salam described him as “deeply intelligent, highly charismatic, but born into an environment that sanctified leadership.” Al-Mahdi saw himself as destined to rule, yet lacked the decisiveness of a true statesman. “He was a thinker, a lecturer, a man of ideas - more suited to opposition and intellectual debate than to governance.”

Abdul Salam spent a decade as al-Turabi’s chief of staff, witnessing firsthand the man’s ambition and complexity. “He changed the face of Sudanese politics,” he said. “Before him, the political arena was divided between two religious sects - the Umma Party of Sadiq al-Mahdi and the Democratic Unionist Party of Muhammad Uthman al-Mirghani. Al-Turabi broke that monopoly. He became, in a sense, the ‘third saint’ of Sudanese politics.”

When al-Turabi joined Nimeiri’s government after seven years in prison, some were shocked. He used to smile and say: “We are Islamizing the system, step by step.” His goal, Abdul Salam explained, was to ensure that his movement could organize freely in society - among students, women, farmers, and professionals - while cooperating with power from within.

He even likened politics to a “game” governed by its own rules and fouls. Nimeiri tolerated him, believing the Islamists would never rule until long after his death. But during those years of so-called “national reconciliation,” the Islamist movement built its real foundations.

For al-Turabi, prison had been a university. He said he never suffered from solitude, reading hundreds of books and writing new theories of Islamic jurisprudence. “He read four hundred volumes on economics alone,” Abdul Salam recalled. “He used prison as others might use a library.”

Exposure to Western thought also shaped al-Turabi profoundly. Educated in Britain and France, he brought to the Islamist project a rare sophistication. “He produced the most advanced version of the Muslim Brotherhood’s ideology,” Abdul Salam remarked, “one that tried to engage modernity rather than reject it.” Yet that same intellect drove him to think in terms of long-term strategy. He divided the movement’s progress into stages: secrecy, preparation, empowerment, and eventual control of the state - by elections if possible, by revolution if necessary. From the 1960s onward, he had already imagined that a coup might one day be the vehicle.

Sudan’s October Revolution of 1964, which overthrew a military regime, had convinced many - including Communist leader Abdul Khaliq Mahjoub - that the army would never again seize power. But when Nimeiri did exactly that in 1969, the lesson was clear: the temptation of power never dies.

According to Abdul Salam, the relationship between Hassan al-Turabi and Sadiq al-Mahdi combined intimacy with rivalry. Both came from Islamic traditions and shared views on freedom, women’s rights, and economic openness. Early on, they appeared almost as one political family. Al-Mahdi, confident in his vast popular base, saw al-Turabi and other intellectuals as tools to modernize the Umma Party and assumed al-Turabi’s role would never exceed that of a minister. But al-Turabi’s ambitions were far greater: he sought to found his own movement, a third force in Sudanese politics. Had that partnership endured, Sudan might have gained a powerful current capable of bringing lasting stability.

Features

Palestinians Recount ‘Black Hole’ of Israeli Detention

An undated photo from 2023 provided by a whistleblower shows Palestinian prisoners captured in the Gaza Strip at the Sde Teiman detention facility. (AP)
An undated photo from 2023 provided by a whistleblower shows Palestinian prisoners captured in the Gaza Strip at the Sde Teiman detention facility. (AP)
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Palestinians Recount ‘Black Hole’ of Israeli Detention

An undated photo from 2023 provided by a whistleblower shows Palestinian prisoners captured in the Gaza Strip at the Sde Teiman detention facility. (AP)
An undated photo from 2023 provided by a whistleblower shows Palestinian prisoners captured in the Gaza Strip at the Sde Teiman detention facility. (AP)

Denied contact with his lawyer for months, now freed Palestinian prisoner Shady Abu Sedo said he lost all sense of time while he was held in Israeli jails during the war in Gaza.

The 35-year-old resident of the Palestinian territory was arrested in March 2024, five months into the war sparked by Hamas's October 7, 2023 attack on Israel.

Abu Sedo, a photojournalist, said he was arrested while working at Al-Shifa hospital in Gaza City and detained at Sde Teiman prison, a military facility in Israel used to hold Gazans during the war.

At the time of his arrest the Al-Shifa complex was at the center of the war, with humanitarian organizations accusing Israel of rights violations while Israel accused Hamas of using it and other civilian facilities as command centers.

Abu Sedo was held under Israel's "unlawful combatants" law, which permits the detention of suspected members of "hostile forces" for months on end without charge.

Abu Sedo said he was repeatedly confronted with claims from the Israelis that "they had killed our children, our women and bombed our homes".

"So, when I saw (my children), honestly, it was a shock," he told AFP by telephone after his release to Gaza on October 13 under the US-brokered ceasefire.

The truce, which came into effect on October 10, saw 20 living hostages returned by Hamas to Israel in exchange for approximately 2,000 Palestinian prisoners.

"Imagine, 100 days from five in the morning until 11 at night, sitting on your knees, handcuffed, blindfolded, forbidden to speak or talk," Abu Sedo said.

"You don't know the time, you don't know the days, you don't know where you are."

"After 100 days of torture, they took me for interrogation to confirm my identity. They tortured me without knowing who I was," he said, describing eye and ear injuries.

Then came a transfer to Ofer military prison in the Israeli-occupied West Bank, where he said conditions were "beyond imagination".

During his incarceration, Abu Sedo was able to speak with his lawyer only twice.

He said he hadn't been charged and that his detention had been "automatically extended" without explanation.

The Israeli military declined to comment on his case.

The Israel prison service says all inmates "are held according to legal procedures, and their rights including access to medical care and adequate living conditions are upheld".

According to the Red Cross, the term "unlawful combatant" refers to someone who "belongs to an armed group, in a context where either the individual or the group do not fulfil the conditions for combatant status."

The term emerged in the United States after the September 11, 200 It was introduced into Israeli law in 2002 and denies protections typically granted to detainees and prisoners of war.

Israel then amended the law at the start of the Gaza war.

Under the revised legislation, prisoners can be detained for 45 days without administrative process, compared with 96 hours previously.

Prisoners can be held for 75 days without a court hearing, up from 14 days, and this can be extended to 180 days.

In July 2024, Amnesty International demanded the law be repealed.

It said the legislation served to "arbitrarily round up Palestinian civilians from Gaza and toss them into a virtual black hole for prolonged periods without producing any evidence that they pose a security threat". 1, attacks, when the administration of George W. Bush used it to justify the detention of terrorism suspects.

In late October, Israel issued an order banning the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) from visiting prisoners held as "unlawful combatants".

In practice, that will make law the status quo that has prevailed since the beginning of the war in Gaza.

The ICRC says it has not been allowed to visit detainees in jail since then, save for pre-release interviews conducted under ceasefire and prisoner exchange deals.

Several rights groups have denounced what they say is a form of incommunicado detention for Palestinian prisoners, hampering the legal defense of detainees.

Israel holds around 1,000 "unlawful combatants" in military and civilian prisons, according to several NGOs.

For these detainees, "the lawyer is their only connection to the outside world," said Naji Abbas of Physicians for Human Rights.

The rights group says that 18 doctors and dozens of other health professionals from Gaza are still languishing without charge in Israeli prisons.

"It takes months to get an appointment. We visit them but we have a lot of difficulties," said Abbas, adding that such visits often lasted less than half an hour.

Several NGOs have appealed to the Israeli Supreme Court to grant the Red Cross access to "unlawful combatants", but no date has been set for the decision.

Features

El-Mahboub Abdul Salam to Asharq Al-Awsat: Al-Turabi Viewed Carlos as a Poisonous Present from Jordan

Carlos' wanted photos as released by Interpol. (AFP)
Carlos' wanted photos as released by Interpol. (AFP)
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El-Mahboub Abdul Salam to Asharq Al-Awsat: Al-Turabi Viewed Carlos as a Poisonous Present from Jordan

Carlos' wanted photos as released by Interpol. (AFP)
Carlos' wanted photos as released by Interpol. (AFP)

An attractive foreigner once entered a store in Khartoum. The owner never once imagined who it could possibly be. The foreigner noticed the portrait of a senior military figure hanging on the wall. The lady explained that she was his widow and had he been alive, he would have been the president of Sudan.

Zeinab Mustafa was talking about her late husband El-Hadi al-Mamoun al-Mardi who established the Islamic movement in the army and served as a minister after the coup on June 30, 1989. He later died of an illness.

Zeinab did not realize the danger of the visitor and that international intelligence agencies were searching for him. France was seeking his arrest because back in 1975 he killed two members of its security force there and fled. The owner and the foreigner became more acquainted. He explained that he was in Sudan on an important political visit and wanted to meet President Omar al-Bashir or Dr. Hassan al-Turabi. He gave her a book by David Yallop called “Until The Ends of the Earth.” He requested that it be sent to al-Turabi's office.

Zeinab took the book and met with Dr. El-Mahboub Abdul Salam, head of al-Turabi's office. He sent the book to al-Turabi, who asked if Yallop was in Sudan. He replied, “No, it was Carlos.” He was shocked. It was none other than the Venezuelan Ilich Ramírez Sanchez, better known as Carlos the Jackal, who was guided by Palestinian plane hijacker mastermind Dr. Wadie Haddad to carry out the kidnapping of the OPEC ministers in Vienna in 1975.

Abdul Salam knows Carlos’ story in Sudan from start to finish. He was tasked with interpreting the discussions that took place between French and Sudanese intelligence that culminated in Carlos being turned over to France on August 15, 1994, where he now lies in prison.

A photo of Carlos seen in Sudan in 1994 and released by France during his trial. (AFP)

Throughout the 1980s, Carlos roamed all over eastern Europe to evade capture. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, eastern Europe was no longer an option. Baghdad was out of the question, so he landed in Syria, where Hafez al-Assad's regime used him for operations in France and Lebanon. He was later asked to leave the country as Assad sought to polish his image before the West.

Carlos then turned to Moammar al-Gaddafi in Libya. The leader eventually prioritized his relationship with Sabri al-Banna, also known as Abu Nidal, over the burdensome Carlos. Carlos turned to Jordan, which after a while turned him away, so he found himself seeking refuge in Sudan.

Following up on Carlos’ case is an exercise in patience. For two decades, French intelligence agent Philippe Rondot sought his arrest before he eventually succeeded. My profession has allowed me to interview al-Turabi and Carlos. The former told me that Carlos arrived in Sudan “from a country somewhere close to your part of the world” - meaning Jordan. Carlos told me that al-Turabi and Bashir had struck a deal with France for his arrest. Today, I am interviewing Abdul Salam to ask him about Carlos.

“I know all about Carlos’ story in Sudan because I was the interpreter for the Sudanese and French security agencies,” he told Asharq Al-Awsat. He had arrived in Sudan from Jordan in 1993. He entered through the airport using a southern Yemen passport and spent a year in Sudan.

“I had informed Rondot that the passport was fake, but he didn’t believe me, saying it was indeed issued by the Yemeni foreign ministry. Meanwhile, I insisted that Abdullah Barakat – the name on the passport – was not his real name. Sudan discovered that Carlos was on its soil. He indeed was a ‘poisonous gift’ from Jordan as al-Turabi once said. We spent nearly a year persuading him to leave Sudan,” recalled Abdul Salam.

Asked if he had ever met Carlos, he confirmed that he did twice in the final moments before he was flown out of the country.

Asked how come it had taken Sudanese agencies so long to realize that the infamous Carlos was in the country, Abdul Salam explained that his operations were connected to the Palestinians, so he was on the radar of countries that were involved with them, such as Jordan, Syria and Libya. Sudan was not, so he arrived in the country undetected.

Al-Turabi probably found out early on that Carlos was in Sudan, perhaps after his arrival, said Abdul Salam. “He visited our office and requested to meet al-Turabi. The guards at the door were not aware who he was,” he said. Ultimately, he never met with al-Turabi even after he realized that Carlos was in Sudan.

Abdul Salam could not confirm or deny whether Carlos met with Osama bin Laden while they were in Sudan, saying he did not have any information about the issue.

When I interviewed Carlos, he informed me that al-Turabi and Bashir “sold me out.” Abdul Salam said: “He believed that the Islamic regime in Sudan was the same as the one in Iran in that it was hostile to the West and that its leaders would be eager to meet with him and learn from his experience. The regime in Sudan was not like that.”

Carlos presented himself as a Muslim and he tried to offer his services to the regime, revealed Abdul Salam.

Turning to Rondot, Abdul Salam described him as an “extraordinary” man. “It is said that he was born in Tunisia. He was of the ‘black feet’ (pieds-noirs) French colonizers in north Africa. He would occasionally visit during Ramadan and fast the entire month even though he was not Muslim. He once told me that he had spent 30 years on missions. He held a doctorate in sociology and his father was a major sociologist. He had close ties to the Muslim and Arab worlds. He had ties with all Arab intelligence.”

Rondot described Iraqi intelligence as being derived from ideas, while Algerian intelligence only saw what it wanted to see, meaning it was subjective, said Abdul Salam.

Rondot spent some 20 years pursuing Carlos. Abdul Salam told Asharq Al-Awsat that the process to turn over Carlos to France started around four months after he arrived in Sudan, which was in August 1993. “In October, Rondot came to Khartoum following a visit by Sudan’s chief of intelligence to France. Negotiations over Carlos took a long time.”

On how come he was chosen to act as interpreter, Abdul Salam said Sudanese intelligence does boast French speakers, but they wanted to keep the number of people involved in the case limited. Al-Turabi was aware of it and made sure that Sudan respected its agreements with Interpol regarding the arrest of wanted people.

At one point, recalled Abdul Salam, discussions were made over the possibility of returning Carlos to Jordan. Sudan was under international sanctions, and it was best that Carlos be returned to the country he came from. France contacted Jordanian authorities to that end, but they turned down its request.

Asked if Sudanese intelligence had questioned Carlos, Abdul Salam responded: “He was fully aware that the operations that he carried out in the 1970s and 80s were no longer possible. All efforts were focused on how to get him out of Sudan.”

“He was a burdensome guest. Some guests are difficult, but none more so than Carlos who captured the world’s attention and was wanted by a major power like France,” said Abdul Salam. “Several offers were made to him to leave for Uganda, Kenya or eastern Europe. He would say that it was dangerous for him to flee by ship or plane because it was impossible for him to reach Iran, Russia or eastern Europe without passing through regions that were dangerous to him. These discussions were held between him and Sudanese security agencies. It wasn’t that he was maneuvering, but that he was afraid.”

Eventually, Sudan decided that it was time to turn him over to France in line with agreements with Interpol and “preparations for his arrest began immediately,” added Abdul Salam. French intelligence agents soon arrived in Khartoum and French and Sudanese Interpol agencies agreed that the announcement of his arrest would be made six hours after his arrest.

“What ensued is an odd story. Carlos needed to have minor surgery that required follow-up and that’s what happened. The hospital director was unaware of who the patient was. The hospital was informed that the patient needed to be taken out of the facility. The staff were told that he was an Israeli and that he had AIDS. It is said that he was drugged so that he could be handed over to French agents without incident.”

“Throughout that day I was with the chief of intelligence. The tension was in the air until we learned that the handover was a success. I was there to act as interpreter between the Sudanese and French Interpol and saw Carlos as he was being boarded on the plane and that was the end of it.”

French intelligence agent Philippe Rondot. (AFP)

Asked whether Sudan received anything in return for aiding in the arrest, Abdul Salam said Paris provided modern training to its security agencies and also provided them with modern cameras and recording equipment.

Rondot later recalled in his memoir that Carlos awoke on the plane when he heard people speaking French around him.

Asharq Al-Awsat asked Abdul Salam about another “burdensome” guest called Osama bin Laden. He acknowledged that he first appeared in Sudan as an “investor”. Later, following his implication in the failed attempt on Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak’s life in 1995, Sudan decided that it was time to “get rid of this guest.”

Upon his departure from Sudan, he warned: “My exit will not protect you from the West and imperialism. You will continue to be targeted,” recalled Abdul Salam. Bin Laden had set up training camps for al-Qaeda members in Sudan, but their activities were “very limited.”

Abdul Salam said that Sudan “is now definitely paying the price” of harboring figures like Carlos and bin Laden. The militias that are now active in the country are definitely products of that point in time.

Carlos’ recollection of the ‘trap’ set up by al-Turabi and Bashir

Years ago, Asharq Al-Awsat asked Carlos at his French prison whether he had made a mistake in heading to Sudan. “Given that I was arrested there, the answer would be yes. I could have headed to various places on condition that I behave.”

“Sudanese authorities were aware that I was there. One of its ministers was on the flight that flew me from Amman to Sudan. He knew who I was,” he added.

He confirmed that Sudan had asked him to leave the country for “security reasons. I did not refuse to leave Sudan, but I refused to cooperate with a trap that was set up by al-Turabi and Bashir. I was alerted to their plan by some sympathizers within the regime in Khartoum.”

Moreover, he revealed that the “United States was the mastermind behind the trap that was overseen by some Gulf figures. The French only took part in the final stage of the operation.”