Lebanon’s Prisons Are ‘Ticking Bombs’

Prisoners in Roumieh prison near Beirut. (AFP/Getty Images)
Prisoners in Roumieh prison near Beirut. (AFP/Getty Images)
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Lebanon’s Prisons Are ‘Ticking Bombs’

Prisoners in Roumieh prison near Beirut. (AFP/Getty Images)
Prisoners in Roumieh prison near Beirut. (AFP/Getty Images)

“We are dead, but we move between four walls.” With this expression, a prisoner described his condition with thousands of others that are held in Lebanese prisons.

Inmates are no longer dreaming of returning to freedom, nor living with their children and families under one roof. They are in a struggle for survival, and to avoid death in cells as a result of viruses, diseases, and even starvation.

One prisoner, who called himself Youssef Abdel Karim, told Asharq Al-Awsat: “Is it possible that 18 prisoners languish in one cell that can accommodate no more than five?”

He added: “The problem is not only with the tight rooms and the inability to sleep, but with the disgust that we are forced to accept and adapt to, from lack of hygiene, unpleasant odors from the toilets, and our deprivation of showers due to a water shortage, in addition to the rationing of food, and other problems.”

Abdel Karim, who declined to reveal his real name, is held in Tripoli and is being tried for attempted murder.

He told Asharq Al-Awsat: “What makes matters worse is the decline in family visits, due to the judges’ strike and the reluctance of public prosecutors to issue permits, in addition to the exorbitant cost of transportation… No one is showing any mercy.”

“Most of the prisoners are now sentenced to death, not as a result of court rulings, but because of viruses and the loss of medicine and food,” he remarked.

He revealed however, that some “detainees or convicts are held in 5-star prisons because they are affiliated with parties and politicians.”

Abdel Karim’s account represents a small sample of the prison crisis, which has returned to the fore, especially with the increase in the number of deaths as a result of the spread of diseases and viruses and the absence of medical services, amid an indifference of international organizations and civil society bodies.

This situation portends an internal movement that would perhaps extend to the Lebanese street, making the prisons “time bombs that are ready to explode,” according to the head of the Human Rights Committee, MP Michel Moussa.

Member of the Parliamentary Administration and Justice Committee, MP Imad Al-Hout, said the prison file was “thorny and complex and requires urgent action to limit its danger and repercussions.”

He noted that parliament was “studying a bill that stipulates reducing the prison year, allowing the release of a large number of prisoners, given the paralysis affecting the work of the judiciary and the absence of health care.”

A security source revealed that there were 25 official prisons in Lebanon, holding about 8,000 inmates. The largest is Roumieh Central Prison, which includes 3,700 convicts and detainees, while its capacity does not exceed 1,500.

The source added that the convicts serving sentences in all prisons ranged between 13 and 15 percent, while the remaining percentage (about 85 percent) is for detainees whose trial has not been completed.

Meanwhile, Minister of Interior and Municipalities in the caretaker government, Bassam al-Mawlawi, pledged to “seek to find clear solutions” to the prison crisis.

In a speech delivered on General Security Day, he said the issue “has two sides. The first relates to the weak capabilities, and the other and most important aspect is prison overcrowding and consequently lack of discipline.”

“Be patient,” he pleaded to prisoners.

The minister rejected criticism of the General Security, saying: “We will not accept an attack on public security, because it is a national institution… and its goal is to preserve institutions and build the state.”



Tent Demos Turn West Bank Eviction into Rallying Cry

 Activists confront a settler (left) near the occupied West Bank village of Beit Jala. (AFP)
Activists confront a settler (left) near the occupied West Bank village of Beit Jala. (AFP)
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Tent Demos Turn West Bank Eviction into Rallying Cry

 Activists confront a settler (left) near the occupied West Bank village of Beit Jala. (AFP)
Activists confront a settler (left) near the occupied West Bank village of Beit Jala. (AFP)

Flanked by smartphone-wielding peace activists, members of an evicted Palestinian family marched onto land seized by armed Israeli settlers, shouting "Out! Out!" as they livestreamed the confrontation on Instagram.

After Israeli security forces turned them away, they retreated to their makeshift base: a fast-growing tent encampment for supporters of the family -- the Kisiyas -- that has spotlighted their plight amid widening settler attacks in the Israeli-occupied West Bank.

Violence in the West Bank has surged alongside the war in Gaza, with at least 640 Palestinians killed by Israeli troops and settlers since Hamas's October 7 attack, according to an AFP tally based on Palestinian health ministry figures.

At least 19 Israelis have also died in Palestinian attacks during the same period, according to Israeli officials.

Yet weeks of demonstrations at the tent near the Kisiyas' home in Beit Jala, south of Jerusalem, have made their story stand out, attracting anti-settlement activists, lawmakers, rabbis and Palestinians from other communities facing similar incursions.

The daily gatherings feature meals, prayer, singalongs and lessons on non-violent resistance, usually followed by a caravan to the site to demand that the settlers leave.

During one such encounter on Thursday, Kisiya family members grabbed whatever they could -- mattresses, electrical cables, fruit from a pomegranate tree -- while activists tried to tear down settler-erected fences.

On Friday, 70 Israeli Jews held Shabbat services at the encampment and spent the night there.

It is the kind of show of solidarity that was once more common but has become vanishingly rare during the war, organizers said.

"We will stay here until we get back our land," 30-year-old Alice Kisiya told AFP.

The settlers "took advantage of the war. They thought it would end in silence, but it didn't."

- 'Example to show the world' -

Some details of the Kisiyas' story have helped turn it into a rallying cry.

They are one of the area's few Christian families, and the land's stepped agricultural terraces sit in one of its few accessible green spaces.

Yet Knesset member Aida Touma-Suleiman told AFP that while the mobilization around their struggle might be unusual, the challenges the Kisiyas face are common.

"I wish we can be able to stand near each family like this, but maybe this can be an example to show the world what is happening," she said.

Earlier this month, Israel's far-right Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich announced the approval of a new settlement in the same area of the Kisiya encampment that the United Nations says would encroach on the UNESCO World Heritage site of Battir.

The news drew international outcry, with Washington and the United Nations saying the settlement known as Nahal Heletz would jeopardize the viability of a Palestinian state.

All of Israel's settlements in the West Bank, occupied since 1967, are considered illegal under international law, regardless of whether they have Israeli planning permission.

The Kisiyas have for years been threatened by settlement activity, and in 2019 the civil administration demolished the family's home and restaurant.

The latest run-in occurred on July 31, when settlers from a nearby outpost accompanied by soldiers "raided the land, assaulting members of the Kisiya family and activists trying to force them to leave the area", according to Israeli anti-settlement group Peace Now.

- 'Is it dangerous?' -

The Kisiyas joined with activists to form the encampment just over a week later, although it got off to a slow start.

"I wish there was a camera when we first started. We were just sitting with chairs, had nothing in here. And we were discussing, like, 'What are we doing?'" said Palestinian activist Mai Shahin of Combatants for Peace.

"The first week was really hard," she said, with people, initially hesitant to join the encampment, calling to ask her: "Is it dangerous?"

As it has grown in size, Palestinians from elsewhere have come to see the encampment as a safe space.

"I have a lot of trauma from wearing my own keffiyeh (scarf) and wearing my identity for everyone to see," said Amira Mohammed, 25, of Jerusalem.

In the encampment "we were able to actually be ourselves, wear our keffiyehs, sing our songs in our language with our Israeli counterparts".

But some activists point out that despite the energy in the encampment, the current Israeli government appears set on expanding settlement activity.

"No anti-Israeli and anti-Zionist decision will stop the development of settlements," Smotrich, who himself lives in a settlement, posted on X this month.

"We will continue to fight against the dangerous project of creating a Palestinian state by creating facts on the ground."

Activist Talya Hirsch said such statements leave her with "no hope for this land" and "no vision of a better future".

"But I don't move from this place. I have no hope but I have a high sense of responsibility."