Corruption rules in Saudi jails
In contrast to the bright lights and glamour of Mahmood Saeed shopping mall near the disused runway of old Jeddah airport are a number of nondescript buildings that look like warehouses. That they are high-security prisons escapes the imagination. Most commuters drive past the buildings without realising the sinister reputation such places have in Saudi Arabia.
My journey to the "unknown" began in Mecca where I spent the first six nights at the dreaded Mabahus (Saudi Intelligence) detention centre. The notorious building is located at the foot of a mountain in al-Nuzha district. The road is uneven and the place is not easily accessible; passers-by avoid it, motorists go past in high gear and the dusty street bears a desolate look.
My 11-day journey to two cities, 13 detention centres, and a 150-kilometre ride through the desert was no picnic by the Red Sea. This was an experience nobody need to go through but – call it a conspiracy or karma – I had no choice. I was thrown into a prison room barely large enough to accommodate 100 but some 500 persons had been locked in there, in the extreme desert heat.
The room was full of expatriates and some Saudis. As I entered, old timers rushed towards me – Egyptians, Afghanis, Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Indonesians and nationals of African countries – for news from the outside world. They were keen to know if there had been a radical change in the system or if there was any truth in the rumour that Saudi Arabia was going to have an elected parliament and that the kingdom would soon become a democratic republic. My answers didn't please them.
My first shock was the sight of a nine-year-old Nigerian boy sitting on his own crying aloud. He wanted to go to his mama. He had been separated from his family in a souk. For the police, he was an illegal immigrant and booked for deportation. Does the Saudi sharia law require a nine-year-old to be imprisoned with adults? This was not a funfair. Apparently Saudi law is blind when it comes to such subtleties.
My mobile phone and most of the cash in my pocket had been confiscated but inside I saw inmates communicating with the outside world. I was told phones were smuggled in with the connivance of the guards, cigarettes and what appeared to be addictive tablets of some sort were sold for cash. The business was brisk and cash turnover seemed high.
I paid five riyals for a call – to the British Consulate – that would normally cost one-fifth of a riyal. Cigarettes were sold for 10 riyals each whereas outside a packet of 20 costs around six riyals. I have no idea about the tablets and their Jeddah street-price but I am glad I am not an addict for I couldn't afford the habit.
One question that every inmate asked was: "What did you do?" Everyone had a story to tell, and with no television, radio or newspapers, the only pastime inside the prison is to talk.
There was this HGV driver from Peshawar who hadn't received his salary for six months and his employer wasn't keen to pay him either. The driver had paid 2,000 riyals to a Saudi lawyer to take his employer to court. But the employer terminated his service, revoked his sponsorship and reported the driver absconding. The driver's subsequent arrest and torture was a matter of routine. Despite his long stay in prison he is still optimistic.
The story of three burly carpenters from Cairo was similar. They had been made redundant as their sponsor went out of business. He allowed them to work elsewhere to earn money for their journey home. Later he changed his mind, reported them for absconding and got fresh visas which he sold at an exorbitant price.
A young man from Islamabad, a welder, had been offered a job in Medina but on his arrival was told that the factory had been relocated – some 50km down Tabuk highway. It was the middle of nowhere, the factory was an illegal set-up and this welder was the only worker. The little water and food that was delivered fortnightly he had share with the camels and goats.
He tried to talk things over with his employer but it didn't work out. One moonlit night the welder decided to call it a day, walked through the rugged terrain, reached the highway, hitched a ride and surrendered to the police. For a small fee of 500 riyals the police agreed to deport him. Six months have gone past but the welder is still waiting for a passage to Pakistan.
A Saudi-born 18-year-old Yemeni student whose father has a retail shop – in partnership with a Saudi – was a pathetic case. One evening the young man was helping his father arrange shelves inside the shop when the police raided and asked for his residence permit. Scared, the boy started to run but was caught. He was charged with breaking the rules – as a student he cannot work – and was hauled in for deportation. Yesterday I received an SMS from him that his father has secured his release. At what cost, he didn't inform me.
In Jeddah prison I met hundreds of inmates from Burma (Myanmar). Thousands of Burmese Muslims from Arakan – often called Rohingyas – were offered permanent residence in Saudi Arabia by King Faisal but with the change of rulers in Riyadh the rules underwent a change too. The haven of peace that was offered to these refugess is now nothing less than a chamber of horrors.
Sudanese, Nigerians, Erirteans, Ethiopians and Somalis usually go to Saudi Arabia for pilgrimage but with turmoil back home they overstay, do odd jobs, get caught and get deported. African inmates are usually the ones most aware of what's happening around the world. I spotted a number of "Man United for the Cup" graffiti.
Going back to "business" in Saudi prisons, the Burmese Muslims – having been there for around three years – had developed a good working relationship with the guards. They sold soap, shampoo, razors, trousers, shirts, painkillers, toothpaste and other items. Then there were "restaurants" offering biscuits, tea and coffee. Dare-devil young men would recharge mobile phones – for a fee of 10 riyals – by tapping into the electricity wires.
The Jeddah newspaper, Arab News, recently carried a report about the profitable business opportunities that Saudi prisons offer. Narcotic peddling under the nose of the guards, directing criminal activities over the phone from within the four walls of the prisons is common. The paper quoted Major General Ali al-Harithy, Director General of Prisons, saying that prison authorities have noticed that some inmates use mobile phones to run their criminal activities outside. Others use mobile phones to smuggle narcotics into prison premises.
Before I checked out from my cell I couldn't resist the temptation of leaving my own mark on the wall: "Corruption Rules. OK! (This article first appeared in The Guardian London)
My journey to the "unknown" began in Mecca where I spent the first six nights at the dreaded Mabahus (Saudi Intelligence) detention centre. The notorious building is located at the foot of a mountain in al-Nuzha district. The road is uneven and the place is not easily accessible; passers-by avoid it, motorists go past in high gear and the dusty street bears a desolate look.
My 11-day journey to two cities, 13 detention centres, and a 150-kilometre ride through the desert was no picnic by the Red Sea. This was an experience nobody need to go through but – call it a conspiracy or karma – I had no choice. I was thrown into a prison room barely large enough to accommodate 100 but some 500 persons had been locked in there, in the extreme desert heat.
The room was full of expatriates and some Saudis. As I entered, old timers rushed towards me – Egyptians, Afghanis, Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Indonesians and nationals of African countries – for news from the outside world. They were keen to know if there had been a radical change in the system or if there was any truth in the rumour that Saudi Arabia was going to have an elected parliament and that the kingdom would soon become a democratic republic. My answers didn't please them.
My first shock was the sight of a nine-year-old Nigerian boy sitting on his own crying aloud. He wanted to go to his mama. He had been separated from his family in a souk. For the police, he was an illegal immigrant and booked for deportation. Does the Saudi sharia law require a nine-year-old to be imprisoned with adults? This was not a funfair. Apparently Saudi law is blind when it comes to such subtleties.
My mobile phone and most of the cash in my pocket had been confiscated but inside I saw inmates communicating with the outside world. I was told phones were smuggled in with the connivance of the guards, cigarettes and what appeared to be addictive tablets of some sort were sold for cash. The business was brisk and cash turnover seemed high.
I paid five riyals for a call – to the British Consulate – that would normally cost one-fifth of a riyal. Cigarettes were sold for 10 riyals each whereas outside a packet of 20 costs around six riyals. I have no idea about the tablets and their Jeddah street-price but I am glad I am not an addict for I couldn't afford the habit.
One question that every inmate asked was: "What did you do?" Everyone had a story to tell, and with no television, radio or newspapers, the only pastime inside the prison is to talk.
There was this HGV driver from Peshawar who hadn't received his salary for six months and his employer wasn't keen to pay him either. The driver had paid 2,000 riyals to a Saudi lawyer to take his employer to court. But the employer terminated his service, revoked his sponsorship and reported the driver absconding. The driver's subsequent arrest and torture was a matter of routine. Despite his long stay in prison he is still optimistic.
The story of three burly carpenters from Cairo was similar. They had been made redundant as their sponsor went out of business. He allowed them to work elsewhere to earn money for their journey home. Later he changed his mind, reported them for absconding and got fresh visas which he sold at an exorbitant price.
A young man from Islamabad, a welder, had been offered a job in Medina but on his arrival was told that the factory had been relocated – some 50km down Tabuk highway. It was the middle of nowhere, the factory was an illegal set-up and this welder was the only worker. The little water and food that was delivered fortnightly he had share with the camels and goats.
He tried to talk things over with his employer but it didn't work out. One moonlit night the welder decided to call it a day, walked through the rugged terrain, reached the highway, hitched a ride and surrendered to the police. For a small fee of 500 riyals the police agreed to deport him. Six months have gone past but the welder is still waiting for a passage to Pakistan.
A Saudi-born 18-year-old Yemeni student whose father has a retail shop – in partnership with a Saudi – was a pathetic case. One evening the young man was helping his father arrange shelves inside the shop when the police raided and asked for his residence permit. Scared, the boy started to run but was caught. He was charged with breaking the rules – as a student he cannot work – and was hauled in for deportation. Yesterday I received an SMS from him that his father has secured his release. At what cost, he didn't inform me.
In Jeddah prison I met hundreds of inmates from Burma (Myanmar). Thousands of Burmese Muslims from Arakan – often called Rohingyas – were offered permanent residence in Saudi Arabia by King Faisal but with the change of rulers in Riyadh the rules underwent a change too. The haven of peace that was offered to these refugess is now nothing less than a chamber of horrors.
Sudanese, Nigerians, Erirteans, Ethiopians and Somalis usually go to Saudi Arabia for pilgrimage but with turmoil back home they overstay, do odd jobs, get caught and get deported. African inmates are usually the ones most aware of what's happening around the world. I spotted a number of "Man United for the Cup" graffiti.
Going back to "business" in Saudi prisons, the Burmese Muslims – having been there for around three years – had developed a good working relationship with the guards. They sold soap, shampoo, razors, trousers, shirts, painkillers, toothpaste and other items. Then there were "restaurants" offering biscuits, tea and coffee. Dare-devil young men would recharge mobile phones – for a fee of 10 riyals – by tapping into the electricity wires.
The Jeddah newspaper, Arab News, recently carried a report about the profitable business opportunities that Saudi prisons offer. Narcotic peddling under the nose of the guards, directing criminal activities over the phone from within the four walls of the prisons is common. The paper quoted Major General Ali al-Harithy, Director General of Prisons, saying that prison authorities have noticed that some inmates use mobile phones to run their criminal activities outside. Others use mobile phones to smuggle narcotics into prison premises.
Before I checked out from my cell I couldn't resist the temptation of leaving my own mark on the wall: "Corruption Rules. OK! (This article first appeared in The Guardian London)
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