I now stand at the prison gate, holding in my hands a plastic bag containing all that remains of my life from “behind the sun.” I glance back at those iron doors that once separated me from the outside world, and I remember the yellow bird that was my only visitor, my friend who shared the secrets of my heart and my pain. I never imagined I would ever leave this place, this living grave, but the will to survive proved stronger than any prison walls.

I recall the first day I arrived here—how they dragged me out of my car as if I were a dangerous criminal and threw me into this cell. I thought I would die here, my fate unknown to anyone. But life finds a way, even in the harshest of circumstances.

I’ve often thought of turning my experience in the Al-Aqrab Prison into a story, but where to begin? How do I describe the suffocating feeling inside that narrow cell? How do I recount the endless nights spent trying to remember every detail, every word, every glance? Should I focus on the physical pain, or the deeper wound that never heals—the one in my soul?

In the end, I decided to present my experience in the form of reflections, capturing my emotions and impressions as they unfolded during each moment of my ordeal.

Messenger of Pain

“Through the iron bars that turned the prison into a giant cage, a messenger of hope arrived on the wings of a yellow bird. This little bird, with its bright colors, was like a ray of sunlight piercing the darkness of my cell, bringing with it tales of freedom and songs of life. It was as if fate wanted to remind me that hope can always find a way, no matter how insurmountable the obstacles.”

The small window in my cell was my only connection to the outside world. For most of my three years and six months in prison—plus an additional six months of solitary confinement—I was denied the chance to leave that grave. The bird perched on my window, curious about my cell. I tried to prolong its visit by tossing crumbs of bread, and my little messenger responded, staying to hear the stories I whispered for the world to hear.

In a soft voice, careful not to disturb my feathered friend, I entrusted the bird with messages of love and peace for my wife and children, whom I was rarely allowed to see. My words, filled with longing, soon turned to sorrow as I asked the bird to tell the world about the living grave where I was held. I pointed out the details of my imprisonment, which the bird recorded with its tiny eyes.

Here, my blood was spilled as I hovered between life and death. There, more than ten men attacked me, forcing me to receive intravenous fluids. Elsewhere, I was assaulted by a man wielding a thick stick, my hands bound behind me, my face pressed against a wall, with police dogs snarling nearby. My bird never tired of hearing these stories. In my imagination, its eyes welled up with tears as I recounted my helplessness and despair.

Sudden Death

The worst thing that can happen inside a prison cell is to start reliving your sorrows. In moments like these, the darkest memories come rushing back—memories so harrowing they can push you to the brink of severe depression, according to psychologists.

The weak sunlight that barely touched the walls of my cell reflected in my eyes, causing them to blur. A terrible silence fell over me, and my body trembled with fear, just as it had when I faced the shock of sudden death.

That day, I was driving with two relatives—one beside me and another in the back seat with his five-year-old son. As we climbed the on-ramp of the ring road in the Talbeya area of Giza at sunset, the night’s ravens seemed to be waiting for me. Suddenly, a car swerved in front of mine. Loud, harsh orders rang in my ears, commanding me to stop. The words, laced with foul insults, were made all the more menacing by the gun pointed at me, as though I were a dangerous criminal or a member of ISIS.

As soon as I stopped the car, bodies lunged toward me, pulling me violently from the vehicle. In that moment, a deathly shiver overtook me. No exaggeration—I felt as if the world had ended, that life had stopped, and that I was facing sudden death. My sense of the world and life itself vanished in those moments. This was the beginning of my ordeal in the dark corridors of what lay “behind the sun.”

I snapped back to reality as my bird flew off with my messages, leaving me with a heart heavy with the sorrow of my inability to fly freely like it.

Cell 11/2

Al-Aqrab 2, the high-security prison where I was held, consists of three main buildings: Block A, Block B, and the administrative building. These concrete structures, with their numerous rooms, are cold, lifeless cubes—constructed from pre-fabricated slabs with no bricks in sight.

My grave—my cell—was marked “11/2 B,” indicating it was located in Block B, on the second floor, in room 11 out of a total of 24 rooms per floor. Each floor was divided into two corridors. My corridor ended with room 12, while the second corridor began with room 13 and ended with room 24. There were 60 cells in total in each block. The first corridor had 12 rooms, while the second corridor housed a storage area for the prison. In Block A, half of the first corridor was designated as a lecture hall, although, during my entire imprisonment, I never heard of it being used.

The two corridors ran parallel to each other, separated by a narrow “courtyard” about two meters wide. Each room had two windows—one overlooking the courtyard and located above the cell door, and the other providing ventilation. Underneath these windows were concrete slabs that served as beds, each accommodating two prisoners. Additional individual slabs were also present, forming a sleeping area that, in many cases, held more than nine prisoners. The space near the courtyard window and the area in front of the bathroom often housed more prisoners, filling the cell to its maximum capacity.

The layout of the blocks played a significant role in many events, influencing how we communicated and formed social connections among the prisoners—stories I’ll delve into in detail later.

The cells in each corridor were arranged side by side, separated by equal spaces. Above the walls between them was the courtyard, where the two room windows opened. The iron gate that served as the main entrance to the floor marked the beginning of the corridor, with the cells numbered sequentially from room 1 to room 12, followed by rooms 13 to 24 in the second corridor. My cell was second to last in the first corridor, just before the public restroom, a filthy, rat-infested place that no one dared use.

Maximum Security Prison

The location or architecture of a prison does not define its true nature. A palace can become the harshest of prisons, and a grave can become one of the most humane detention centers, depending on the system and traditions that govern it. Certainly, the design of the cells and their structure added to the pressure and suffering, but they were not the most significant factors. The true harshness of Al-Aqrab Prison came from its rules and its brutal, maximum-security regime.

From the perspective of the repressive authorities, the 120 inmates held in the prison were considered extremely dangerous. As such, no humane laws or values applied to them. There was no leaving the cell, except for court hearings, urgent medical visits, or security interrogations—whether with the National Security officer stationed inside the prison or during an off-the-record trip to one of the National Security headquarters.

Family visits were strictly prohibited, with only rare exceptions for specific cases. There were no books, no radios, no television, and no newspapers. We were not allowed outside for exercise. The food was terrible. Complaints were ignored. Suicide was allowed, as long as it was done quietly. Dignity was nonexistent. The prisoners endured random, violent inspections, were completely cut off from the outside world, and faced beatings and abuse whenever deemed necessary. Complaints were met with solitary confinement or exile to another prison. It was best not to fall ill, as medical treatment was limited to painkillers and basic antibiotics. In short, it was a life without life.

Time Without Logic

As you read my reflections, you might notice a lack of chronological order. When I write these thoughts, I sometimes recall events from later stages of my imprisonment, and at other times I recount earlier moments from the beginning of my journey. This is because my mind and emotions guide me, demanding that I write in a way that makes sense to me.

As authors of novels diving into the waves of fantasy often say, time behaves differently in our narratives. The same is true for memory and the mind—our memories are triggered in ways that disregard the sequence of events.

My experience was a journey back from the grave, a descent into the depths of human suffering inside Egypt’s prisons. Each prisoner carried an ID card bearing a distinct label: “Political Prisoner.”