Free at Last: The Awesome Sacrifice of Palestine’s 30 Joans of Arc

by Maureen Meehan

Omaima Aghah had a normal morning with her seven children. She gave them breakfast, saw four of them off to elementary school, two off to high school and left her one-year-old son with a sitter. She then went to the Erez checkpoint, one of several heavily guarded entry points to Gaza, and stabbed an Israeli soldier.

That was March 3, 1993. Four years later, following February’s long-overdue Israeli prisoner release, 37-year-old Omaima tells why she risked her own life and her family’s well-being.

“The occupation was very difficult, we were frustrated, angry. I wanted to do something…He was an armed man telling us what to do in our country so I took the decision to try and kill him,” says Omaima, who learned that she was two-and-a-half months pregnant with her eighth child shortly after her incarceration in Israel’s infamous Telmond Prison.

Sitting in their modest home in Khan Yunis, about 10 miles outside Gaza City, surrounded by floral bouquets, messages of solidarity and congratulations, and a large photo of Yasser Arafat, Omaima’s two teenage daughters confessed they were initially angry at their mother following her arrest.

“I had to drop out of school to take care of the house and kids…I was mad at my mother and mad at the Israelis,” said 16-year-old Hebba, 12 at the time of her mother’s arrest. “I was upset because of the kids; we were deprived of our mother's care and tenderness,” added 17-year-old Huda.

Omaima’s 20-year-old son, Hanni, who like many prisoners’ relatives was prevented from entering Israel to visit his mother due either to previous arrests or closures, jumped into the conversation in his mother’s defense. “The occupation made people desperate. Besides, my mother’s stubborn. Once she decides something there is no changing her mind. That’s why she didn’t tell us what she was planning. But we’re really proud of her.”

Omaima’s stubbornness served her well when she, along with 29 other female Palestinian political prisoners in Telmond, participated in a protest in which they refused to accept an amnesty offered some of them as part of the Israel/PLO peace accord because, contrary to the original agreement, Israeli President Ezer Weizman sought to exclude five women from among them.

Weizman argued that the five women had Jewish blood on their hands as they were convicted of resistance actions in which Israelis had lost their lives. Although the initial agreement regarding their release did not specify any distinctions among the female prisoners based on their convictions, when it came time for their release in October 1995, Israel announced its refusal to set the five women free, thus provoking one of the most extraordinary events in Palestinian history.

“It was quite simple,” explained 23-year-old Manar El-Ghasan from Ramallah, who was serving a 12-year sentence for attacking an Israeli settler in Jerusalem. “Either we were all released or we all stayed in jail.”

“We barricaded ourselves into two cells, 15 in each, and refused to open the doors even for food. We also refused to cooperate with the prison procedure of roll-call, so they shut off the water and electricity for the first several days.”

The protest lasted 20 days, during which time male inmates, jailed across the exercise yard, hooked up ropes and pullies which they used to pass food to the women. At several points during the tense stand-off, which threw the entire peace process into an impasse, the women warned prison guards against dragging them out of their cells and forcibly expelling some of them from prison.

“We told the guards we’d set ourselves on fire if they tried to force us out. Wisely, they didn’t do it,” said Manar, who also recounted details of two previous successful hunger strikes in which the women fasted two and then later three weeks while demanding better conditions including the right to live together and not with criminals, the right to education and generally to be treated as political prisoners.

Having effectively convinced prison officials, as well as Israeli and Palestinian politicians, that they would not leave any of their number behind, they all remained in jail for another 16 months until their release on Feb. 11, 1997.

“Imagine, protesting not to get out but to stay in prison—this is the only place in the world where such a thing could happen,” said Hava Keller, a Polish-born Israeli grandmother who nine years ago founded the Women’s Organization for Political Prisoners and who has been one of the most consistent supporters of their cause.

“It was the right thing to do and they did it,” added Manar’s father, a tailor, who was sitting on a nearby couch. “But it was hard to accept that my daughter might sit in prison for 12 years when she could have walked out over a year ago.”

Manar, arrested with her cousin May, who subsequently was given a life sentence for allegedly murdering an Israeli-placed informer in their jail cell, was not affiliated with a political party at the time of her arrest in 1991. She says now she hopes to get a job with the Palestinian police, finish high school and then go on to college.

Also serving a life sentence was Lamia Maaruf, who was immediately deported to Brazil where she received a hero’s welcome and was united with her 12-year-old daughter. Convicted with her husband and another man of the kidnapping and murder of an Israeli soldier, Lamia, born in Brazil, returned to Palestine at the age of 17 and remained there until her arrest in 1986.

“We miss her and want her back. Israel has no right to deport her just because she was born in Brazilshe’s Palestinian,” said Abeer El-Waheadi of her former cellmate who, along with herself and May El-Ghasin, was among the five women initially denied release by Israel.

“If the other women hadn’t given up their freedom for us, we would still be in jail today, serving our full sentences,” said Abeer, who will return to university to complete a degree in civil engineering.

Abeer said she was especially moved by the solidarity considering that, in addition to Omaima, five other prisoners had young children “needing them and waiting for them to get out of jail.”

Following her arrest in mid-1992, two weeks of torture and six weeks of solitary confinement, Abeer still refused to sign a confession or reveal who had trained her. So, angered by her resolve, Israeli interrogators threatened her, her sisters and her mother with rape.

After two years she was finally tried and convicted in a military court and sentenced to 17 years and one month on charges that she was the head of a military resistance cell responsible, among other things, for killing a Jewish settler.

Two days after her conviction on April 10, 1994, her family home in Ramallah the construction of which had just been completed less than a month before was completely demolished. “Watching TV in prison, I saw the Israelis fire 39 rockets at my home then bulldoze the wreckage to the ground a home I actually never saw since I already was in jail when it was built,” said Abeer.

Abeer’s father, Dr. Mohamad El-Waheadi, an UN-RWA employee in charge of Palestinian refugees in the West Bank and Gaza, recalls how Israeli soldiers arrived at dawn and gave his seven-member family exactly five minutes to vacate the house in their pajamasnot even enough time to collect his diabetic daughter’s insulin supplies. In need of treatment, she slipped into a coma. Israeli troops refused to allow an ambulance to be called, but rather proceeded to arrest El-Waheadi and his wife.

“This was a punishment because of Abeer, but I told the Shabak [Israeli secret service], ‘you won’t break my daughter with this, she’s strong,’” said Dr. El-Waheadi, adding sadly that all the family’s personal belongings were destroyed. “Books, papers, photos, everything.”

Another cellmate of Lamia and Abeer was Rola Abu Dahu, a 28-year-old Ramallah resident who served 9 years of her 25-year sentence. Rola, also tortured while under interrogation, was convicted in 1988 for membership in a paramilitary group and for “military actions against the occupation.” Israel was not keen on setting her free either.

Surrounded by a large family and a constant stream of visitors, Rola’s charisma and political leadership are immediately obvious. She admitted that being out of jail after so long is wonderfulbut at the same time difficult, almost overwhelming.

“It’s hard being separated from the girls with whom I shared everything for years dreams, fears, hopes for the future. We helped each other survive in jail.”

Rola, two years short of a social work degree, says her main political activity now will involve raising international awareness about the plight of the remaining 4,000 Palestinian (male) prisoners in Israel and to pressure for their release.

“We’re just a drop in the sea,” said Rola. “There are still 4,000 more who should be released, including the administrative detainees being held without charge or trial.”

Rola explained that following their 20-day protest and throughout the ensuing 16 months, Palestinian leaders tried to convince them to accept Israel’s offer to set 25 of the women prisoners free while promising that the Palestinian Authority would keep pressuring Israel to liberate the remaining five.

Rola, like many of the women, was in jail when the Israel/PLO peace accord initially was signed in September 1993. She, like most, thinks the results of the accords generally have not been favorable for the Palestinians and barely address the issue of Palestinian prisoners. Hence, they decided they had better do things their own way.

“There was never any question about it,” said Nahala El-Falah, a former prisoner from Hebron who was visiting Rola. “I’ll never forget the look on the prison director’s face when we told him we were not leaving. He was astonished.”

When they were finally released 16 months later, Rola said the looks on the faces of the very Palestinians who had discouraged their protest were also priceless.

“A simple look at their faces showed they realized we had made our point and that they were proud of us,” said Rola. “But you know how difficult it is for men to acknowledge women’s achievements.”

Another former prisoner who finds herself disappointed by what she is seeing around her is Etaf Elayan, a member of Islamic Jihad and one of the longest-held prisoners in Telmond.

Sitting in her Bethlehem home where she receives guests who treat the completely veiled 34-year-old with deep respect, Etaf tells of the charges that landed her in prison 10 years ago, her 4 years in solitary confinement, and her jailhouse marriage.

“I was about to become the first suicide bomber in Palestine, but I was caught before I could ignite a car bomb that would have blown up an Israeli government office in East Jerusalem,” said Etaf.

Etaf spent from 1989 to 1993 in solitary confinement for reasons that she didn’t explain except to say that her Israeli jailers regarded her as “dangerous.” She was only let out of her cell once a week for exercise, and received visits every two months rather than biweekly like other prisoners.

Finally, after 43 days on hunger strike, she was moved in with the rest of the prison population, where she was able to participate in activities, see the sun and talk through the windows to the men incarcerated across the yard.

It was during one of those loud and not very private conversations that Hafez Kundus asked her to marry him. Israeli authorities refused the request at first, then relented after eight months. The wedding, attended by 20 family members, lasted about two hours. Her husband was transferred two months after they were married and she has seen him only twice since then. She is not permitted to enter Israel to visit him in jail, where he has 13 more years to serve.

On a note of optimism and with a clear assurance that she intends to work hard for the prisoners who remain in jail, she said now that she is free, she feels “like a newborn after so many years in prison.”

Speaking of newborns, Omaima’s daughter, Hanine, was born on Oct. 3, 1993 in Telmond prison where she spent the first year and 10 months of her life with “me and 29 other mothers,” said Omaima. “She was the joy of our lives.

“But the time came for her to leave, to live her life outside bars, to pick flowers and play in sand. Unfortunately she was never allowed back to visit me,” explained Omaima.

“After all, she’s considered a ‘former prisoner’ and therefore is not permitted to enter Israel. Can you imagine anything more ridiculous? Never mind, we’re together now.”