I was 20 years old when I went to prison.
I kept trying to run away on the first day, and each time Umm Zakaria would run after me and bring me back.
“What’s the matter with you? Will you keep trying to run away like this?”
“They’re going to hurt me in there.”
“Who said that?”
“The people in the car.”
“Go inside, and if anyone tries to touch you, just call my name.”

We were sent to the holding cell on the first day.
(It’s where all the inmates are kept until they’re assigned their individual cells.)
There was this crazy lady in the bathroom who tried to wear my galabiyya.
“Should I beat her up?” I asked Umm Mounira.
“Don’t let anyone bully you,” she said.
I went to the bathroom that day and a woman slapped me on the face.
Another one kicked me in the neck.
I screamed.
“It’s not like she shot you with a gun, woman!” said Randa.
“Come sit next to me,” another woman said. “Where are you from?”

“From Al-Sayyida.”
“Who’s your mother?”
“Samira.”
“Sit here. You’re from my neighborhood.”

I did everything in there.
I washed dishes, collected trash, cleaned the sewers, and mopped the cell.
I was sent to the laundry room where I would wash duvets and clothes.
I did every job there.
I didn’t need or want anything.
I told my mother not to visit me or bring me anything.
I would give her cigarettes to give to my brother in prison.
I got out 9 years later.