Anatomy of an Incarcerationis a multi-part series that focuses on different aspects of prison in Egypt by Abdelrahman ElGendy who spent more than six years behind bars, from October 6, 2013 at the age of 17 until his release on January 13, 2020, at the age of 24.

Abdelrahman was moved back to Wadi al-Natrun prison. Come visit him there.

I scribble the line over and over on small shreds of paper from my notebook followed by my mothers number, my handwriting messy and hard to decipher. When I have more than twenty, I scrunch them into tiny skewed rectangles, and rush to the barred window.

I press my forehead against the metal mesh and squint, the diamond-shaped slits digging into my forehead. Numbness spreads over my eyebrows; I rest my hands on either side of the window to relieve the pressure. My cuff-mate, Moaz, shouts in protest as I absentmindedly yank his arm while raising mine.

The police truck slows down, and I instantly shove two of my messages through the slits to fall at the feet of a passerby. Deliver this to my mother please, brother!

I keep repeating this for the next thirty minutes, until civilization fades, people cease to pass by, and Cairo turns into a distant shadow behind us.

Their looks have never ceased to hurt me: the wariness, the hesitation to even look up, or worst of all, their firm stares forward, not acknowledging my existence. Like a punch to the guts, I realize that I stood in their shoes one day many years ago as a kid and acted the same I gazed up at the pairs of eyes staring from behind the barred windows with the metal mesh, and daunted I turned away with the first eye contact.

Who would have thought?

I throw the remaining scraps to the ground and fall back on the dirty bench. I grab my small towel from my pocket where I had stuffed it, dry the pouring sweat, and fight the nausea. Its Ramadan and we are fasting, which elevates the normally nightmarish trip with my car sickness into an unbearable torture: a sizzling hot transport vehicle, suffocating over-crowdedness and agonizing dehydration. A suffering that never seems to end.

A sweat-box, as British prisoners lingo accurately coins it.

Swallowing, I feel my dry throat itching for water, and I close my eyes and fantasize about the moment this day ends and I settle back on my tiny farsha in the cell. As I feel myself nodding off, I shake my head and try to regain focus I cannot sleep yet.

Phase two awaits.

I nudge Moaz, and we hurry towards the locked steel door. Some of our friends are already standing while one, Mostafa, is calling out to the guard outside. I bend and squint through the metal mesh and whisper: Hes not budging yet?

Still ignoring me, he scratches his beard, thinking.

Deciding to kick it up a notch, we start knocking on the door and raising our voices.

WHAT! he finally flings the metal cover open from his side.

My friend starts with the usual prison opener Where are you from?

He hesitates, then says: Gharbiya,

No way! Where in Gharbiya?

Toukh.

Mostafa and I instantly repeat the iconic Egyptian response: The best people, man the best people,

Then Mostafa hurries: Were homies then! Im from Kafr al-Zayyat! I hold back my laughter as he details where he lives its a lie. I know he comes from upper Egypt.

I join in: We didnt catch your name.

The same hesitation, then: Ali.

Amm Ali, we were abruptly moved from Tora and our families will go crazy worrying about us, why dont you lend us your phone for a couple of minutes so we can let them know where we are?

He smirks, he knew where this was going from the start.

It would be very risky, and definitely illegal. I could get in a lot of trouble for that, he says with an implicative gruff tone.

I promise you wont regret it, I retort in a similar voice, while Mostafa grabs two packs of local cigarettes from his bag.

He shakes his head: No no, those wont do,

Expected. I nod to Mostafa and reach into my pocket, taking out two Marlboro packs, and watch as amm Alis pupils dilate greedily. Bingo.

I drop them to the ground and with the side of my foot slide them under the door.

Now were talking, his smile widens to reveal crooked yellow teeth and wrinkles around his bulging eyes as he bends down to pick them up.

He eyes me as he takes out his phone: Five minutes only, you understand?

Sure, amm Ali. You will have it back in exactly five minutes, I reassure him, and Mostafa nods in earnest to back me up.

The small black phone slides from below the door. I crouch quickly and shout an apology as I accidentally almost dislocate Moazs shoulder one more time.

Our friends start crowding around us. We call for order and explain that each of us can only use it for a single minute. There are more than twenty-five of us, we have to make do.

I press the faded buttons, the noise and bickering are sucked into the background as I put the phone to my ear. My mothers voice shoots straight to my heart: warming, melting, soothing.

I quickly update her on the situation, learn when they are coming to visit me, hang up and pass the phone to Mostafa, asking him to be in charge of arranging the turns.

Moaz and I decide to sit on the ground between the scattered bags. He takes out his Quran from his pocket and starts to read in a low melodic recital. I fall into one of those derealization moments: I am imprisoned. I am handcuffed. I am in a transport truck. I spent more than an hour throwing scraps of paper out of windows and negotiating with a jailer just to deliver one line to my mother.

I am exhausted.

I wiggle a few inches forward, then lay back and rest my head on Moazs thigh, taking the usual sleeping position of handcuffed prisoners: head on thigh, left handcuffed hand across my chest and on my right shoulder, Moazs right handcuffed hand resting beside it. Its the most comfortable position prisoners have managed to come up with through trial and error and countless twisted numb arms.

Taking in the scene, my heart softens as I look at our friends scattered around the tiny windows, watching the street.

I know the turmoil bubbling inside them; I have experienced it for years.

Their countenance screams of longing, their eyes yearn to everything they are robbed of: the passing cars, walking down a street, standing at a kiosk with a couple of friends, smoking a cigarette, looping your arm through that of your loved one on a Nile-side stroll, or simply seeing the sun without bars obscuring it.

You marvel at things that remind you of home, car brands you see for the first time, that untaken left turn that you know leads to your beloved house

I inhale deeply, and immediately regret it. Laying on the ground, that close to the benches, the putrid smell of urine makes me gag. Some stains are still glistening, perhaps leftovers from the transport ride right before us, others form dark splotches with an intense reek, making you wonder how many years ago someone must have left his malodorous mark down there.

I pull my towel over my face my sweat is a more welcome smell than prisoners piss.

Relaxing, I let Moazs soothing voice combined with the steady vibration of the truck engulf me, lulling me into a state of limbo where I am neither asleep nor alert. He strokes my hair within the range of motion the handcuffs allow him to and continues his recital. His voice is melting butter, golden utterances thawing against my eardrums. The heat feels like its radiating from my own skin. Minutes pass as random memories float before my eyes: laying on my back on the basketball court at night watching the stars, rides in the school bus and the hysterical laughter with every stunt we boys pull on the girls, breathing the fresh air on our lovely balcony

A sudden bang and shouting at the door burst my dream bubble. I curse.

Hey! Wheres what-his-name who took the phone! The guard snarls.

I shout from my place: What do you
want, amm Ali?

Its been fifteen minutes! You promised youd return it after five! He shouts back.

Sorry, we need it a bit longer. Go file a complaint. I pull the towel back over my eyes as he bangs the porthole shut. He knows he cant do anything about it. If any officer finds out he gave us his phone it would be the end of him, and he knows we can lie through our teeth to exact maximum vengeance.

The fine line between the moral and immoral has become too hazy and intangible for me when it comes to dealing with guards and officers. I bribed him, smoothly lied to him, and now I am blackmailing him.

Not the slightest guilt.

My head throbs as I resettle into a sitting position. We are getting closer to Wadi al-Natrun prison. Ten minutes later, I ask for the phone back. I eye it with longing, resisting the temptation to make a last call to my mother, listening to her voice for one more minute before being utterly deprived for two weeks until her next visit. I cant though, it would make the others feel Im taking undue liberties. Amm Ali grunts angrily as I slide the phone back, but doesnt say anything.

Two packs of Marlboro and you dare complain, you fucker, I mumble.

The guys at the windows call out that we are nearly there. Moaz and I get up and dust off our clothes with our free hands, then make our way back between the sleeping bodies and strewn luggage to pick up our bags. Others are shuffling on the ground doing the same.

As the truck screeches to a halt, I throw my backpack over my free shoulder, bend and lift my large duffel bag with the free hand, then we both carry our remaining bags with our cuffed hands, trying to balance them as best as we can.

The locks clang loudly from the outside, and the door opens. I ignore amm Alis glares as I step down into the furious heat. Sweat runs down my back and chest and my T-shirt is clinging to my body under the rough prison-issued navy-blue convict outfit.

Waddling like penguins, we head towards the small gate. I cant believe its the same walk we took on the welcome party day, that parade from hell upon our arrival. We move back and forth each semester, sit for our final university exams in Tora compound, then travel back to our original prisons. Now, we go through the routine absent-mindedly: enter prison, lift our hands to be uncuffed, finally break free of the catholic marriage we were forced into for several hours, prepare for the search process by the guards, place packs of cigarette in our pockets for them to find and silently slip into theirs while turning a blind-eye to our little contraband luxuries: a small pillow here, a nail clipper there, a shard of a mirror maybe, or even miraculously, an earphone.

I drop my bags to the ground and sit on one to catch my breath. A guard yells.

The officer waves at him to let me be. Those are not newcomers! Theyre our children! He scoffs loudly. I laugh back and cry inside.

We are their children. I sigh as I bury my face in my stinking towel again and press my palms against my eyes.

Home sweet home.

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Anatomy of an Incarceration: Sweatbox | MadaMasr - Mada Masr