The Postcard

By Brother Patrick White

The postcard arrived unexpectedly in my Bethlehem University mailbox at the end of June. The address side of the card was unusual, for it had elaborate printed headings and instructions for the sender and receiver of the card in Hebrew, Arabic and English. I immediately picked out my name, Brother Patrick, for the rest of the handwriting was in Arabic. Next my attention was drawn to the column dealing with details of the sender of the card. The writer's full name, family, identity card number and then, to my astonishment, a space entitled detainee number and place of detention. The card was dated the 22nd of June 1991.

My curiosity was intense. Who was this Palestinian in an Israeli prison? The short message, written in English on the other side of the card, answered my questions.

Dear Brother Patrick,

Hello! How are you? I am at Al-Dahria prison. I hope you are in good health and all the staff of the university are happy and with good news. Please help my wife, who is alone now because my family are outside the country. I will be released on the 9th of November, 1991, and I hope there will be peace and freedom soon. I hope I'll see you one day. Thank you and God Bless you.

Your friend, Jamal Offendi

Jamal had been in my Shakespeare class during the spring semester at Bethlehem University. He was neither a criminal nor a violent young man, but someone who worked for his community, and was involved in efforts to develop its economy and quality of life. He had the courage to lead and to speak out against injustice in spite of the presence of undercover Israeli agents and the network of spies and collaborators in his oppressed community. I knew him as a fine young man in his early 20s, soft spoken, unfailingly courteous, highly regarded by his peers on campus, and an ardent believer in his Palestinian identity.

Jamal was married to Manal, a very attractive student in another English literature class I taught. In May he had stopped attending my class. I recalled seeing Manal that same day looking particularly distressed in class. She appeared to be in a state of shock. Where was her bright, captivating smile, her incisive class participation, her eagerness to answer, to challenge and discuss? I was slow to associate Jamal's disappearance with her distress.

I tried to catch Manal's attention in the class. Our eyes met, but hers were blank. I was an intruder in her private sorrow and evident wretchedness.

The next day, however, Manal came to see me. If you can imagine her pale, dazed face as she described in a smothered voice how they came at night, smashed in the door of their tiny home, and took her husband from their bed, you may begin to comprehend how obscene and merciless is this military occupation. And if you could hear her controlled, flat voice say she did not know where he had been taken, nor why, nor for how long, you would not be able to shrug and say there's nothing you can do. Nor later bear the helplessness I felt when she told me Jamal was in prison in Al-Dahria near Hebron.

A Cruel Euphemism

When at last she was given permission to visit him, she discovered when she arrived at that miserable place that the Israelis had transported him away to the tent compounds in the open cauldron of Ansar 3 in the Negev Desert. There the six months imprisonment without trial imposed on Jamal is euphemistically called "administrative detention." There Jamal joined the tens of thousands of Palestinians who have suffered unjust and illegal detention. He had been deported to imprisonment outside his country, an action contrary to provisions of the Fourth Geneva Convention.

The censored message on the Israeli prison post card did not tell me of Jamal's true condition. To visualize the treatment to which he may have been exposed as he wrote his message, one has to consider the experience of another of our many students who have been arrested recently.

This second student, while attending classes at the university, discovered that his refugee camp had been placed under 24 hour curfew. Since he was unable to return to his home, he was forced to find accommodation in Bethlehem for that night. The place where he stayed was raided by troops, however, and he was imprisoned. He was imprisoned solely because he was not at home in his camp.

His teachers were concerned because he would miss his graduation examinations and, therefore, lose the opportunity to go abroad to start an MA program. Fortunately, he was released after two weeks, but he returned to the campus visibly shaken. He had suffered long periods of solitary confinement standing in the heat in a small enclosed space. He was interrogated repeatedly and beaten severely in a manner that left no visible mark on his body. He also was subjected to electric shock torture and further intimidation to persuade him to become a collaborator. Because he did not, he will probably be issued a green card which will prevent him from leaving the immediate area of his refugee camp. Going abroad for this talented young man was now out of the question. Hearing of his experience, I could not help but be concerned for Jamal.

Jamal has been trying to complete his university education for more than six years. He has been arrested three times, has spent nearly four of the last five years in prison without trial, has hardly been with his wife since they were married three years ago, and has little hope of finding work.

Now he has lost what income he received from his father, who was employed in the Gulf, but, as a Palestinian, was dismissed from his job there during the recent war.

I have received hundreds of colorful postcards depicting sparkling beaches and salubrious mountain slopes in all parts of the world. These cards from friends and acquaintances luxuriating in holiday hotels were gladly received and lightly discarded.

I shall always, however, keep this white postcard from Al-Dahria prison. It is the only one I have received from the scores of my students who have suffered the arbitrary and brutal arrests that continue here. Detainee number 21,857, it says, a stateless Palestinian, a man without rights, not even the rights of this suffocating occupation. The absence of an identity number means he has no identity card. This is the card that enables him to move and to exist even within the restricted areas established on the West Bank during and since the Gulf war.

Looking at the white card again I noticed "Postage free" printed on its upper right-hand corner. How ironic! Was this the only gratuity remaining to Jamal except, perhaps, as a colleague of mine dryly observed, the right to the free bus ride Jamal endured, blindfolded and handcuffed, on his way to prison?

Brother Patrick White teaches at Bethlehem University in the West Bank. His book Let Us Be Free: A Narrative Before and During the Intifada is available from the AET Book Club.