Amour Elliott-Setter

I walked through the prison gates, trying to console my hysterical daughter. As I turned back to look over my shoulder, everything seemed to shift into slow motion. The gates slammed shut, like the sound of thunder clapping through the skies, reverberating like an echo in a dark, dingy tunnel. I was still in utter disbelief. How could this possibly be happening to us? I don't remember exactly what we did for the first hour of our imprisonment. I vaguely remember being invited into an over crowded cell by some sweet young Indian girls, who offered us some biscuits. My daughter was clinging to me like a baby monkey. In the distance I heard a baby crying. The smell in the prison was overwhelming. I had never smelled anything like it before, so didn't recognize the odor. It reminded me of a mixture of sweat, urine, vomit and something else, which I couldn't put my finger on. It made me want to wretch. I couldn't bear to be in the overcrowded cell, so made my way back to the main prison gate where I remember sinking to the floor in despair with my daughter still clinging to me. I could see the prison warden's office from the gate, and I remember shouting "Excuse me!" to try to get some attention. My pleas got louder and louder. Soon enough a female prison warden appeared. "What?" she asked in a hard, cold tone. "I'd like to make a phone call please" I begged, still trying to console my crying daughter beside me. The warden walked back into the office. I knew we were stuck in prison for the next two days, as the lawyer had informed me telephonically while we were being escorted to Hidd Female Prison. All I wanted was to call Hussain to arrange for him to look after my son and to feed our cats. I kept telling myself that two days wasn't the end of the world, and that I would be able to cope with just two days. Twenty minutes later we were still sitting on the cement floor by the gate, waiting for someone to allow us a phone call. Suddenly a different warden appeared and started screaming at us in Arabic. I couldn't understand what she was saying. One of the inmates interpreted, saying that we were not allowed to sit at the gate and that we had to go into one of the cells. Then she invited us to join her cell. She said it was a mixed cell, with girls from Russia, India, Ethiopia and The Philippines. We followed her in like little lambs, still in total shock.

The girls in the cell were all warm and friendly. I vaguely remember them offering us a seat on one of the mattresses on the cement floor. My daughter was still crying. I whispered in her ear, over and over again, "There is a higher plan in action here, sweetheart, just go with the flow. Don't resist it, just surrender". I held on tight to my own pathetic words, and desperately wanted to believe what was coming out of my own mouth. There had to be a reason why we ended up in this prison. I looked over at all the girls in the overcrowded cell and caught the beautiful face of a young Filipino girl looking at us. She smiled sweetly at me. I smiled back, but my heart felt torn open. It wasn't a happy smile. Then the tears began rolling down my cheeks. I knew we hadn't done anything wrong, and I knew that this was a result of one mean person's retaliation. Then I heard more yelling in Arabic and saw all the girls jump up and run for the door. "Check name" said the young Philippine girl with the pretty face. We followed the girls out into the tiny courtyard, which was only ever unlocked for the afternoon roll call. The heat was unbearable and the ground was hard and dirty. Over 150 women and girls gathered in the heat of the courtyard and waited for the wardens to appear. Eventually two young prison wardens walked into the courtyard. They couldn't have been a day older than 18 or 19 years. They glanced across the courtyard with venomous eyes, waiting, it seemed, for the crowd to settle down. When silence eventually fell, you could've heard a pin drop. Roll call began. I listened in horror as surnames were called out, and women answered "Yes Madame". One by one the inmates filtered past us back into their cells. Sweat was dripping off me and I felt weak from the heat and hunger. My daughter was sitting next to me in a complete daze. We waited for about 150 names to be called before it was our turn. Eventually we could walk back into the prison where it was a bit cooler than the courtyard. As I walked down the corridor holding my daughter's hand, I heard a great deal of shouting behind me. I turned around to see the wardens screaming at some Ethiopian girls in Arabic. I couldn't make out what was going on. I later learnt that they were especially nasty to the Ethiopian girls. It seemed they hated Africans full-stop. As far as they concerned, we were all scum. As I approached the end of the corridor I saw a warden standing at the gate. I let go of my daughter's hand and hurried up to her.

She gave me a hateful look and said "Not allowed". Another term I was to become very familiar with over the next week. I felt hollow and crushed. We made our way back to the Mixed Cell. As we entered, the Philippine girl introduced herself to us as Alona. She was a petite girl with chiselled features and beautiful long, dark hair. She looked 18, but I later learnt that she was 32. We sat down on the mattress on the floor. A few girls were playing cards in the far corner (I later discovered this was the only set of cards in the whole prison). Eventually my daughter calmed down and stopped crying. We shared our pain and concerns for my son and our cats. We sat there on that cold floor, clinging to each other and hoping that everything would be okay. For a long time we sat in total silence, listening to the Ethiopian girls chatting. Their language sounded so soft and round, unlike the clicking sound of the Xhosas and Sothos where we came from. In another corner of the cell lay a beautiful Russian woman. Alona told us she was two months pregnant with her second child. She and her friend had gone to visit a sick lady who had just been discharged from hospital after surgery. As they sat sipping tea and listening to music, police apparently burst into the flat and arrested them both. They were hauled off to the police station and forced to sign something in Arabic, then thrown into jail. A few days later they were escorted to the courthouse, where they learnt they had signed a confession stating they were running a brothel from the flat they had visited! We were horrified. There were only a handful of Arabic girls there, three to be exact. Two were in for prostitution, one was caught drinking wine at a party. The forty or so Ethiopian girls were working as waitresses at a restaurant on visas for housework only.

There were many innocent girls who were thrown into jail by their sponsors, who did not want to pay their long over-due salaries of two years. This seemed to be the common story in prison. Next thing all the girls jumped up and ran out the door. We learned that dinner was being served. I was starving. We lined up in the queue. Stainless steel plates were being handed out. I wanted to wash my hands before dinner but realized I had no soap. Finally we reached the serving section of the small prison kitchen. Two of the inmates were dishing up. The food looked absolutely revolting. But I didn't really care, I was so hungry. I was dished up rice and dhal. I stepped away from the serving section, automatically looking around for eating utensils and serviettes. An inmate, whom I later met as Bathia from Morocco said "Welcome to Hell, here you eat with your hands!" I was shocked. I watched in horror as the prisoners began wolfing down their food with their dirty bare hands. As I watched in amazement a very humble little Philippine lady offered me her plastic teaspoon. I must have looked dumbstruck because she insisted I take it. I was grateful for that small mercy, as I felt dirty and grimy and would rather have gone without food than eat with my dirty hands. I felt like a caged animal. I turned around and almost bumped into a tiny Philippine woman clutching a baby. The baby was wailing and she was trying to comfort her child amidst the clanging of plates and chattering of prison diners. I sat down to eat and was told to hurry, as any girls taking their time over meals were punished. I couldn't even finish my meal. I felt too nauseas and left my plate as I made my way back to the cell. After dinner I desperately needed to shower. I wanted to wash away the day's horror and shock. I sat on the grotty mattress on the floor and told my daughter I desperately needed a shower. Alona overheard me and leaned over with a towel and a set of pajamas. I was so touched at the gesture and began crying. God, I thought, they have the wrong people locked up in here. All the bad people are outside; all the good ones are in here. She handed me a small plastic bowl containing a cake of soap and a tube of toothpaste. As I made my way out of the cell three or four Ethiopian girls offered me their sandals. I was so deeply touched by their kindness. I made my way to the bathroom and stood waiting in the queue. The other girls in the queue all smiled at me and began offering me shampoo and soap. I was overwhelmed by the love and deep concern for one another. A far cry from how I expected a prison would be. But then again, there were no hardened criminals in here. Most of these women were victims of human trafficking, I later discovered.

Eventually a shower became available and I entered. The first thing I noticed was yellow and green mold growing up the walls. The bathroom tiles were cracked or broken and there were huge gaping holes in the wall. The smell was overbearing. Slowly I removed my clothes and stood under the showerhead. As the water sprayed down on me I began to cry. I cried because I knew Hejris was probably enjoying the fact that we were suffering. I cried because I knew my son was going out of his mind with worry and anxiety; because I knew my daughter was suffering; because I knew we didn't belong here and that we had been thrown into jail unfairly. I felt as if all the pain I had ever suppressed was pouring out of me as my crying turned to violent sobbing. I was shocked to hear the sounds coming from my own body. They sounded like the cries of a wild animal caged. My whole life flashed past me and for a few seconds I had this overwhelming feeling that I might die inside this prison. I thought of my young son alone at home going out of his mind with worry. I thought of my older son back home in South Africa, who knew nothing of our imprisonment. I fell into a crying heap on the floor as the water cascaded onto me. Eventually my tears subsided. I couldn't think straight. My mind was a muddle. I felt violated yet empty; painful yet numb. I didn't want my daughter to see my fear and anxiety. I knew I had to be strong for her. She was going to turn 21 in just a few days, and I had to focus on getting us out of this prison before her birthday. I began washing my clothes under the shower with the bar of soap Alona had given me. I could feel my chest closing up from all the anxiety and remembered that I had my asthma pump in my handbag. I had to get it because I just knew all the anxiety would bring on an asthma attack sooner or later. I dressed quickly and gathered my wet clothes. Wearing someone else's pajamas felt strange. I walked back to the cell and hung my clothes up over the side of the bunk bed to dry. Then I made my way back to the gate to attempt to get my asthma pump. I was lucky, a warden was hanging around the office closest to the gate where the prisoners had their handbags stored. I called to her and explained that I needed my asthma pump. I remembered that my daughter was menstruating and needed sanitary towels too. She completely ignored me. I called again. Another guard came out and started shouting at me in Arabic, gesturing for me to go back to my cell. I tried to explain to her that I had to have my asthma pump and that my daughter needed sanitary towels, but the more I explained, the more she shouted. An inmate grabbed me by the arm and pulled me up.

I followed her back to the cell in a daze. Perhaps they hadn't understood me. I thought I'd try my luck again later. My daughter was crying. I sat down beside her and tried to comfort her. She asked me how this could be happening. I wished I had answers for her. I kept telling her there was a reason for us being in here and that we needed to trust that everything would work out perfectly for us in the end. It was only two days, I said, and surely two days would go by quickly. But they didn't. With absolutely nothing to do all day long, time moved by so slowly. Soon girls were organizing themselves for bed and Alona passed us a pillow and blanket. It smelt disgusting, but I noticed it was probably the cleanest blanket in the room. We lay on that thin, dirty mattress on the hard cement floor in total silence. We were both trying to digest what was going down in our realities. Soon it was time for "Check name" and everyone filed out of the cell into the corridor, only to be screamed at and insulted once again by the power-hungry prison guards. I heard two babies crying and looked around. Behind me was a young Indian mother with a very tiny baby. I later learnt the mother was thrown into jail soon after giving birth because her baby didn't have any papers or a passport. The grimy floor mattress was very narrow so we were forced to sleep side by side like spoons. We cuddled each other as we drifted off to sleep. I woke up much later to discover the lights were still on, but all the girls were asleep. The room felt stuffy and smelt sweaty. I realized the aircon had been turned off. Apparently it was normal for them to turn it off 4 to 5 times a day. I looked around at all the sleeping faces and wondered how their families felt. Did they even know these girls were in prison? I made a point of collecting stories the next morning and lay back on my narrow side of the dirty mattress. A million thoughts raced through my head. I wondered what my son was doing and if he knew where we were. I worried that the cats had run out of water. I thought of all the work I had lined up with Ali. Eventually I couldn't think anymore and I drifted off to sleep with tears running down my face, wetting the smelly pillow I was sharing with my first-born child.

I woke up needing to take a pee. All the girls were still asleep. I glanced around hoping to spot a roll of toilet paper. Nothing. I tiptoed out the cell, trying not to step on any sleeping beauties on my way out. A few girls were up already. The Philippine mom with the baby was emerging from the shower as I entered the bathroom. She smiled at me but her eyes were sad. I made a mental note to visit her later to get her story. I found an open loo and walked in, closing the door behind me. The smell hit me like a ton of bricks and I wretched. I turned around and threw up into the toilet. I burst into tears and sat on my haunches wondering how I was going to clean up this mess with no toilet paper. I noticed a water sprayer hooked on the wall. I used it to spray down the sides of the toilet and flushed the chain. It didn't work. I flushed again. Still nothing. I slid open the cistern lid and noticed that the inside had been broken apart. Little plastic bits were floating about. I still needed to pee so tried to find another toilet that was clean. They were all either blocked or broken. Eventually I settled for one that was semi-clean. Since there was no toilet paper I was forced to wash myself with the sprayer attached to the wall. I assumed this is what Muslim women used it for, but wondered how the hell they dried themselves? I pulled up the loaned pyjama pants and made my way back to the cell. The girls were all still sleeping. I felt dirty and wretched. I grabbed the towel Alona had lent me the night before, peeled my clean clothes off the side of the bunk bed next to me and made my way back to the bathroom. My clothes were still damp. The water embraced me with warm, comforting arms and I let the tears flow. I must have stood under the shower for the better part of an hour, crying and trembling. Nothing made sense. I couldn't stop thinking about my son. I washed the pair of pajamas Alona had lent me. I literally covered every tiny inch of the pyjamas with the cake of soap. I turned off the shower and began drying myself with the towel. When I arrived back in the cell the girls were all awake and folding away their bedding and mattresses. I realized that I was shaking uncontrollably. My chest felt tight and I wasn't sure if it was because of the humidity from the bathroom or because of anxiety. I made a mental note to try again for my asthma pump.

My headache was now gripping my head like a vice. I could hear the pounding in my ears. Doof, doof, doof. I wondered if anyone else could hear it. For a brief moment the people around me seemed animated. I wondered if I had started losing my mind. After breakfast a group of girls had gathered around Alona's bed. They seemed motivated to tell us their stories. Alona interpreted, as many of the Philippine girls could not speak English. We spent the next two or three hours listening to an interpreted account of terrible human atrocities. Many of the girls had been falsely recruited by so-called Bahrain employment agencies in India and the Philippines. Hired as teachers, secretaries and PA's, they were promised fantastic salaries only to realize upon their arrival in Bahrain that they had been conned. They would be collected by their employers from the airport and immediately taken home, where they remained under "house arrest" for the next two years. It was the common story. They were told they would only be getting their salary at the end of the two year period when the employers were supposed to send them back to their countries. It was the carrot that kept them going. Many of them were locked up in tiny filthy bedrooms in sub-human conditions. Most were severely beaten by their employers and made to work very long hours. They were terrified and did whatever they were told. Eventually the employers found some excuse to have them thrown in jail, conveniently only days before they were due to fly back home. Slavery, by all accounts was happening right here in the so-called first world. We were shocked beyond words. Then we began hearing stories of sexual slavery. A girl called China was recruited as a teacher from Asia. She was collected from the airport and taken to a flat, where she was beaten and forced to work as a sex slave. Every time she tried to escape she would get severely beaten. Eventually she made her escape and a Good Samaritan picked her up and took her to the Police Station. But instead of getting help, she was thrown in jail for not having any papers! China was small and fragile, her eyes filled with hope and she had the biggest smile I'd ever seen on one so small. I could only imagine what horrors she must have lived through. She didn't even know how long she had been kept in captivity. Her days just turned to months as she serviced men daily, battling to survive. I realized afterwards that the so-called human rights activists were all just "window-dressing". It sounds lovely to have human rights activists working in the communities, but when we tried to expose what we had witnessed in prison they were the very first people to viciously attack us by calling us liars and suggesting we had exaggerated what we had seen in prison. There was flat-out denial that human trafficking in the Middle East was "that bad" by the very people who are supposed to be fighting it. They don't seem too ashamed to be practicing it, but admitting it is an entirely different story. I didn't understand how slavery could possibly be so rife. Didn't the Police clamp down? If this was such a huge problem surely there could be measures in place for safety for these women? When they did eventually get to the police they were merely locked up and left to rot. I realized that the Human Rights Activists were not doing enough to combat the problem. I had remembered asking my new landlord's wife at Amwaj Island where I could find domestic help and she had said that I should never employ Philippines as they were disobedient and ran away too easily. I thought about the way Hejris tried to control and manipulate me and how he had retaliated by reporting us as "runaways" when we resigned.

We spent the better part of Friday listening to stories and asking loads of questions. The day passed in a blur. My wheezing got worse. I thought I'd avoid the bathrooms but my need to wash off the terrible energy clinging to me got the better of me. Clutching the pair of pajamas Alona had lent me, I made my way to the stinky, humid bathroom to take another shower. I longed to brush my teeth and could only imagine how bad my breath must have smelled. I thought about China and the shocking stories we had heard about her captivity. I thought about all the other girls who had become victims of human trafficking. I thought about how Hejris had used us and all his cruel retaliations. Now I understood why we were in this prison. We had refused to be his puppets-on-strings and this was the only way he knew how to retaliate. The same way all the other inmate's sponsors had retaliated when their workers had either disobeyed them or insisted on salaries. Prison seemed like the perfect solution. God knew there were enough workers in here suffering the same fate we were suffering. I washed my clothes and dressed into Alona's pajamas.When I could not hide my asthma any longer my daughter became concerned. I told her it was ok, and that it was just the humidity of the showers that made my chest tight. I later made my way over to the cell across the corridor from us to chat to the mothers of the tiny babies. One of the babies was sick and the Indian mother was crying. Apparently she had asked the guards if she could take her baby to see the doctor but was told she had to wait. The Fillipino mother kept sighing as she was trying to put her tiny baby to sleep. The child would not stop crying. I gently took her from her mother and burped her, then lay her in my arms and began rocking her to sleep. Within minutes she was fast asleep. Her mother was lying on the bed crying in despair. I learnt that her sponsor had her thrown in jail days after she had given birth, claiming she owed her money. A very familiar story in this prison, I began to realize. I looked at the sleeping baby and the crying mother and began crying myself. I couldn't understand how such cruelty was possible. Perhaps if I had not witnessed this with my own eyes I might never have believed that this could actually happen. To my right the young Indian mother was quietly weeping. I knew she was worried that her baby might die. I went over to her and put my arm around her to try comfort her. We sat there for a while, both silently weeping at the desperation of the situation we found ourselves in. I later learnt that the Philippine baby had lost 4 kg's in her first month in prison and that sometimes the babies went without their formula for a couple of days before being issued fresh supplies. I felt like we were in a concentration camp. I thought about my sons and what they were doing. I knew there were other mothers in here thinking about their children too. The beds were scattered with baby clothes hung up or laid out to dry. If the baby clothes were not packed away by dinner time the guards would confiscate them and throw them away. The Asian mothers in this room were terrified of the guards and constantly walked around in a state of extreme anxiety. The babies cried all the time. It was a desperate situation. I felt completely helpless. What does one do? The only thing that would get them out of prison was money. And lots of it. The sponsors wanted money to drop the false charges so they could raise money to pay for their tickets back to Asia. None of these women had money and no means to get their hands on any. Everyone in the equation knew it. It was a catch22 situation. I fell asleep that night worrying about our release. More and more I was beginning to realize what a diabolical situation we were in. We were not dealing with Westerners. Even if we, like many of these women, had any formal contracts in place, they would mean nothing. The Sponsor is King and the workers, well, the workers are just scum. I realized that we were, in a twisted sort of way, slaves that had tried to get away. There was no doubt in my mind that Hejris had fully intended on using us to make him rich, since it was obvious he was not prepared to do any work. You can paint it pink and call it any other name you want, it still boiled down to slavery. I tried to make sense of it in my mind. I thought back to his demands: we had to be at the office from 08h00 to 18h00 every day; he wanted complete control of the finances in the business; he wasn't prepared to pay us a salary; he wanted to run the business his own way and we were meant to bow down. It all just stank of modern-day slavery. Every tiny piece of it. I felt anxious. I didn't think he was going to let us get away with anything that easily. No, he had a very big score to settle, just like all the other sponsors who had had their slaves thrown into prison. I tried to relax, but my mind was running amok.

At 7am roll call the next morning I noticed another Caucasian girl. I walked up to her and introduced myself. She was a German tourist and told me her story. On Friday night she and her German boyfriend, who worked at the Bahrain International Circuit were enjoying sunset on the beach. She was on holiday from Germany visiting him. Next thing a group of police came up to them and told them to get into the van. No explanations. A police officer drove their rented car to the police station and they were ordered to sign papers, which they apparently refused to sign, and then were thrown in jail. I was horrified! No formal charges, no formal arrest, nothing. An Indian girl who'd overhead her telling me her story strolled over and said "No worry, you white girls, white girls never stay in long". We both looked at each other in shock. The German girl, whose name I never caught came to join us on our spot on the floor in the Mixed Cell and said she'd been coming to Bahrain for 5 years on vacation and had never experienced this before. She sat with us for about an hour, crying quietly. Then the prison wardens called her name and she was gone. Just before she left I made her promise that she would go to the media and tell them what had happened to her. I realized her embassy must have got her released. Where the hell was our embassy, I thought. Did they even know we were in prison? I felt anxious and somehow wasn't so convinced that we would be out on Sunday after all. Something felt sinister and dark.

My wheezing got worse. I made my way back to the gate to try get my asthma pump again. I called out to the guards, who again ignored me. I began banging on the gate to get attention and was still ignored. I began to panic and was overcome with anxiety. My face, chest and arms started going numb. I banged on the gate some more, yelling for someone to help me, to no avail. A few inmates had gathered around me, realizing something was going down. Bathia tried to console me. "Try to relax" she said. "This is the part of Bahrain that you never read about. When you leave I hope you will never come back to this piece of shit island again". I was really struggling to breathe. She called out to the guards in Arabic and told them I needed my asthma pump. They ignored her. My lips felt really huge and my face felt distorted. My heart was racing like crazy. I recall a commotion going on and eventually they opened the gate. I crawled out on all fours and they unlocked the door to the room where our handbags were stored. Bathia found my handbag and passed it to me on the floor where I lay. I couldn't find my pump and panicked, thinking I had left it at home. I turned my handbag over in desperation and found my pump. I sucked on it like a hungry baby sucking on a bottle. There was very little relief. A guard was shouting "Relax, relax". I remember thinking "Easy for you to say, you bitch!" I vaguely recall my daughter screaming in the background "Help my mother, help my mother". I gestured for them to let her sit by me. Bathia was hysterically screaming in Arabic. Next thing I remember Bathia and my daughter were carrying me to the police van and I was rushed to the hospital.

"Get out! Walk!" the one guard shouted at me when we arrived. I had been sucking on my pump all the way to the hospital and felt light-headed. My face, chest and arms were still completely numb. I supported myself into the hospital by holding onto the wall as I made my way inside. I couldn't stand up straight. My sight was blurry and my head was spinning. I realized I was still gasping for air. I was taken into the doctor's room. A quick conversation followed in Arabic between the doctor and the two guards. I felt like an animal. The doctor checked my blood pressure and said something to them in Arabic. I tried to speak. He shouted at me to be quiet. He checked my pulse and again said something to them in Arabic. "What is wrong with you?" he asked in a cold and brutal tone. I thought it was obvious. I showed him my asthma pump. "Do you have asthma?" he asked. I wanted to answer "No, you idiot, I'm constipated, can't you see?" but I just nodded weakly. I felt disgusted in myself. How could I be so weak? "I need something for anxiety, it makes the asthma worse" I managed to mumble. He said they wouldn't give me anything for anxiety but that he would give me some medicine for my chest. Then he shooed me away like an animal. I followed the guards to another room, still hanging onto the wall for support. People were starring at me and I remembered that I was still wearing Alona's pajamas. It must have been clear to everyone starring that I was a convict. They probably thought I was a prostitute. The prison wardens were guarding me closely. They shooed me into a small room where I was seated in a chair and a nurse shoved an oxygen mask on my face. I dozed off. When I woke up she was taking the mask off my face saying "Gallas" which means finished. I was relieved. I could breathe comfortably again.

When they let me through the prison gates my daughter ran up to me and threw her arms around me, sobbing with relief. God only knows what she had been thinking while I was away. I felt angry and violated. My anger felt like a huge red ball of fire in the pit of my stomach and my solar plexus felt hollow and painful. I remember crossing my arms, trying to cover myself. My daughter led me to our dirty mattress on the floor. At least this was going to be our last night here, I thought. Little did I know how wrong I was. The girls began filing out the room for dinner. Just then we heard a prison guard shouting "South Africa". My heart started beating faster and I got excited, thinking perhaps our embassy had managed to get us out. No such luck. They had brought in another foreigner. An American woman. They wanted her to hang out with us. I introduced myself to Yolanda and noticed that she had been issued with clean bedding, a pillow, soap, toothpaste and shampoo. I was shocked. Was America high up on the list and South Africa at the bottom, I wondered? We took her to our Mixed Cell and made some space for her next to our mattress on the floor. She seemed in shock and was crying. I tried to console her and assured her she would be out by the next day. I realized that hope, even if it was false, was the only thing that kept anyone in here going. She eventually relaxed and explained to us what had happened. An American male friend of hers had just returned from Afghanistan and they were sitting in her car chatting about his experiences, when a police van pulled up and pulled them out of the car. They were driven to the police station and charged with having sex in the car. They were both shocked and horrified. Next thing she was taken to the prison. I learned that she was an American citizen of Mexican decent, who'd met and married a Bahraini 15 years ago. They had four children ranging in age from 11 to 4 years old. She was desperately unhappy in her marriage and wanted to divorce her husband and go back to the States. She thought that maybe her husband had been spying on her and had arranged for her arrest. We tried to allay her fears and assured her she would be out the next day. I focused my attention on helping her feel better and it was a brief respite from my own anxiety. At one stage we even shared some silly jokes to help relieve the tension in the cell. But beneath the surface it was obvious that nobody was really coping. We were all in extreme emotional agony. That night, as we drifted off to sleep, I held my daughter very close. I couldn't bear the fact that my child was being subjected to this level of emotional torture. Why had Hejris done this to us? Only a completely evil person would stoop to such levels of revenge. I could only imagine what a huge smirk Angela must have had on her face. The woman who threatened her was finally out of the picture and being punished.

I woke up feeling like shit. My heart was racing and I couldn't stop shaking. It was Sunday and I had a feeling we were not going to be released. I parked myself at the gate again, banging for some attention. I got the usual cold, brutal stare and disgruntled question from the guards. "Doctor", I said. Half and hour later I followed four other girls to the clinic a few meters away. It felt wonderful to walk into the clinic. Although white and stark, it felt cleaner and more welcoming than the prison cells. I will never forget how beautiful the starkness appeared to me that day. The smell of disinfectant was comforting. The floor was clean and the walls seemed to be glowing. I filled in a form and followed a nurse to the doctor's room. She took my temperature and blood pressure, and then took me in to see the doctor. A prison guard accompanied me. I was expecting to encounter another callous male doctor and was totally surprised to be face to face with a softly spoken Indian female doctor. My mind scrambled for a plan of action. She asked me what the problem was. I told her that I was suffering extreme anxiety because I didn't know if my 12 year old son was being taken care of. I exaggerated the situation by saying he suffered from Epilepsy and that anxiety could bring on an epileptic attack. I told her I was going out of my mind with worry. I also explained that I was on prescribed anxiety medication, which was at home and that the doctor at the hospital had refused to give me anything for my anxiety. She looked at the prison guard and said that they would have to allow me a phone call to check on my son and collect my prescribed medication. The prison guard, whom I assumed was the most senior, as she wasn't wearing a uniform, said simply "Not allowed". I looked at the doctor and the tears spilled down my face. She assured me she would do something. I was led back to the waiting room where I sat quietly crying. I felt completely powerless. I had been stripped of all my human dignity and was being treated like an animal. I watched two nurses filing paperwork in the reception. They were in stark contrast to the prison guards. Their white uniforms made them look almost angelic. One looked up at me and smiled briefly. I just continued to stare at her. After waiting for the others to see the doctor, we were all led back to the prison.

"I think I have a plan" I told Gabrielle. I explained what had gone down at the doctor's room and said we'd better pray the doctor takes pity on us and allows us a phone call. The fact was, it was already Sunday and we were not going to get released. By now we had come to realize that there was nobody left to trust on this island. We sat around waiting for something to happen. A few hours later we were summoned. "South Africa" was bellowed down the corridor by the same Bahraini prison guard that had called us that before. My heart skipped a beat. I thought maybe the attorney had got us released after all. We ran to the end of the corridor and through the gate. We were told to go to Madame Shaikha's office, the head of security. Madame Shaikha seemed far too glamorous to be head of security and wore the full black hijab. Her makeup was immaculate and her arms were adorned with beautiful expensive-looking jewelry. She was very softly spoken. Looks can be very deceiving. As we entered her office we noticed the Indian doctor. She smiled at us and I felt hopeful again. We stood next to her and she sneaked her hand around the back of her chair and grabbed my hand. She squeezed. I squeezed back. Maybe our plan would work. She explained to Madame Shaikha that we must be allowed to make a phone call to check on my son because he had a serious medical condition and that I needed to arrange to get my prescribed medication as she couldn't give me a substitute. Madame Shaikha said we could make a phone call. We were stunned. The only number I remembered off by heart was Hejris's number. Maybe this was our only chance to try negotiate our release. We dialed the number, but before we could say anything, Madame Shaikha grabbed the phone and started speaking to Hejris in Arabic. All hope drained out of me. After the very short phone call the lies started spewing. Apparently Hejris was taking care of my son and our cats. Of course we did not believe that. He told Madame Shaikha that he might visit us in prison later that day. Plan failed. We began crying as we knew our plan was not working. Then the doctor told us that we would be escorted to our house at 4pm by the police to check on my son and collect my medication. I had to think fast. I had to come up with another plan. We went back to our cell to think. I decided that we would go directly to Hussain's house, knowing that Sebastian would probably be there as Hussain was fond of Sebastian. We knew Hussain was aware of the situation, as we had also called him from the courthouse to inform him what was going down so we assumed that when he had not heard back from us later in the day he would have put two and two together. Four o'clock came and went. By six o'clock I was almost hysterical. The new shift arrived and I managed to convince one of the guards to call the Hidd police station to find out why nobody had been to collect us. She came back ten minutes later to tell me they were on their way.

Half an hour later we heard "South Africa" being bellowed down the corridor. We ran to the gate. The prison guard who'd told us the police were on their way to fetch us was unlocking the gate for us. We were so relieved to see the Hidd police, we almost kissed them. We were led out to the van by another one of the guards on duty and discovered a total of three male policemen in the van. We were so happy to see the entrance to Amwaj Island. I drank in the sights like a thirsty child. The security guards at our entrance insisted on escorting the police van to our house, and for a split second I felt a bit safer. I didn't think my son would be home and so led them directly to Hussain's house a few rows down. Hussain opened the door and we burst into tears. We spotted my son and both pulled him into our arms, crying. I told Hussain what had happened and said we had to phone Hejris immediately to beg for our release. I knew it was our only chance. We walked into his study and he got Hejris on the phone. I spoke first. I was crying and begged Hejris to please release us. He laughed. Then my daughter grabbed the phone and also starting begging. Hejris told her that he had warned us he could get us imprisoned and deported if he wanted to. I took the phone back. I tried to reason with him, but he kept insisting we had brought this upon ourselves for making him angry and "hurting his business". I said we'd do anything, sign anything. Then Hussain took the phone and tried to reason with him too. Hussain handed the phone back to me and Hejris said that Hussain had threatened to destroy him. He said he demanded an apology from Hussain. Back went the phone to Hussain, who ate humble pie for our sakes, but I knew that deep down he loathed the man for what he had done. Hussain's wife Catherine served us chocolates, dates and tea. I smoked two cigarettes simultaneously whilst trying to negotiate ourselves out of the situation. Eventually Hejris agreed that he would drop the charges the next day and get us released. Hussain was calm and collected, the complete opposite to us. We were crying hysterically and begging him not to send us back to the prison. But what could he do? He wasn't the one who had us imprisoned. He assured us he would follow up with Hejris the next day to make sure we were released.

We arrived back to a warm welcome from the girls in our cell. They all commented about how nice and clean we looked and smelled. They were keen to hear all the details of exactly what had gone down on the outside. They gathered around us like eager little children ready to hear an exciting story. I realized how desperate they all were for a distraction from their boredom and anguish. After relating the events I felt completely exhausted and drained. I lay down on the grimy mattress and tried to sleep but began to feel too nauseas to get comfortable. The conversation with Hejris kept echoing in my mind. That evil laugh was like a stuck record in my head. I couldn't believe that he had actually smugly admitted to having us imprisoned because we had "hurt his business". What sort of human being does that? Being back in that prison felt like being back in hell. I lay tossing and turning on the mattress for a few hours, which couldn't have been very comfortable for my daughter. Twice the air conditioners were turned off and I lay there stewing in my own sweat feeling dehydrated. I hadn't had any water to drink in hours and felt weak and shaky. I made my way to the bathroom. I reached the toilet in time and threw up. No sooner had I got over the wave of nauseas, I pulled my pants down and had a bout of diarrhea. Earlier in the day I learned that one of the inmates was dying of Hepatitis C. Banished to her own cell, she was still using the same bathroom as the rest of us. In my anxious and paranoid state I began to panic. I slowly felt my hope slipping away. After vomiting a few more times I was trying to clean up the mess with the water sprayer but I felt weak and almost passed out a few times on the floor in the dirty bathroom. Eventually I made my way back to the cell and collapsed onto the mattress on the floor and passed out. I remember going to the toilet a few times during the night to puke and shit, which was spurting out like water. By early morning there was nothing left in my stomach and the wretching hurt like hell. All that came out was yellow bile. I kept washing my face and rinsing my mouth with toothpaste. I didn't want my daughter to know how ill I felt as she would start to panic. I lay in bed for the rest of the morning, slipping in and out of sleep. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion around me.

Some time later that morning my daughter said she had arranged for me to see the Prison Doctor. After haggling with the guards for her to see the doctor as well, they eventually let us through to the Clinic. We filled out cards and sat waiting for our turn. We held hands and silently prayed for this traumatic ordeal to come to an end. They called my name and led me through. I went through the usual drill of temperature and blood pressure checks. The prison guard in the casual clothes followed me in again. The same Indian doctor asked me what was going down and if I had seen my son. I said yes, that we might be released today, but that I felt very ill and thought I had gastrointeritis She examined me and asked me to stick out my tongue, then told her nurse to get me on an IV drip immediately. The nurse walked me to the back of the clinic and a prison guard accompanied me. I lay down on the bed which seemed to embrace me with a warm hug. The sheets were clean and the blanket smelled of fabric softener. Two nurses came over to me to try insert a needle in my hand, but they seemed to be struggling. Eventually the drip was up and I lay there praying that this ordeal would soon be over. A while later the doctor came in to check on me. "You are the most fortunate girl I have ever met in here" she said and explained that she had never intervened on anyone else's behalf to head of security before. She urged me to get out of here at any cost. She said that when my sponsor came to see me, I was to agree to any of his demands, and I was also to apologize for offending him in any way. Then she left, saying she would get into trouble if she was caught speaking to me. I awoke with the needle being pulled out of my arm. The nurse helped me up and I was led back to prison by two guards.

Back in prison my daughter collapsed into my arms. "I can't take this anymore, mommy" she cried. "We are never going to get out of here! Some girls have been here for three years". I shared her fears. What could we do but pray like mad that Hejris was going to get us released. I lay on the mattress on the floor, too weak to cry and too sick to really care. I literally felt like dying. I felt hopeless and felt like I had completely lost my way. I had arrived on the island with big dreams. I wanted to make a difference and felt that if I could give the young people in the Middle East a voice through filmmaking, I would be doing something positive for the world. Now I felt guilty that I had dragged my children into this mess. My daughter was days away from her 21st birthday and I was terrified she would spend it with me in prison. Where did I go wrong? I thought I was doing the right thing. Had I been so blinded by my desire to make a difference and provide for my children that I had walked into the bowels of hell instead? I didn't know what to think. I was confused and crushed. I knew there must be a reason for us landing up in this pit, but I couldn't see it. I drifted off to sleep, wishing I would just never wake up again. My daughter woke me. "They're calling us. Mommy, wake up." I got up and we walked down the corridor and through the gates. A prison guard informed us that our embassy was here to see us. We followed them out the prison to an interview room next to the Clinic. I was shocked to see Hejris and Angela and their South African friend Zane. What the hell was she doing here? I knew she didn't work for the South African Embassy. We sat down in shock. Hejris spoke first. He did his usual speech of how important he was, how he could do anything to us he wanted but that he was being severely pressurized by various people to get us released. Angela glared at me with daggers in her eyes. Then Zane spoke. She said she was representing the South African Embassy and that we had committed a serious crime. We had apparently fallen foul of Immigration laws. Up to this point we actually had no idea why we were in prison. We tried to explain to her that we were told by various people, including professionals at the Chamber of Commerce that we would be fine if our visas expired, due to the Immigration Amnesty. Besides, when we received the call from Hidd Police Station on Wednesday, our visas hadn't even expired yet. Zane gave me a hard stare and told me that I had completely screwed up any chance of working in Bahrain because we now faced deportation. She said she would organize for our tickets back to South Africa and would arrange for us to fly out on Tuesday. Our visiting time ran out and the prison guards requested for them to leave. Zane hung back, and then told us that we had upset a very good man (Hejris) and that I should have thought very carefully before dragging my children into this mess. My daughter was hysterical because Zane told her that she had contacted her father, who was apparently beside himself with worry. They left and we walked back to the prison in an emotional state. I felt disgusted and soiled that I had even come into close contact with Hejris and his groupie. How the hell could Zane actually believe that Hejris was a good man, after throwing us in prison? Was she out of her mind? Either that or Hejris had convinced her with his evil lies. I went back to my grimy little mattress and passed out. I was later woken by the noise in our cell. One of the Arabic inmates was yelling at the Ethiopian girls at the top of her voice, creating a huge commotion. I couldn't stand the noise or the negative energy that was going down, and crawled out into the corridor. I instinctively went into the cell where the mothers with their tiny babies were staying and passed out on one of the beds there. I remember my daughter crawling into bed with me much later. I didn't even attend roll call that night.

At ten o'clock we were called. We were dressed and ready to leave the prison for good. We asked if we could get our bags and cell phones and told we would be returned to prison to wait for our flights. I didn't like the sound of that and tried to insist. "Not allowed" was the usual answer we got. We jumped into the police van and were told that we would be taken home to collect our clothes and personal belongings. First stop was the Hidd Police Station, where we met Hejris and Angela. As usual Hejris seemed edgy and agitated. He shoved an agreement under my nose and said "Sign". I started reading through the agreement. "Hurry" he said and I told him I was not going to sign anything unless I agreed with it. The contract said I agreed to pay him BD2600 back for a "personal loan" and would pay it back within one month. I told him I would not be in a position to do so within one month, and since he was now asking for more money than he had previously asked for, he would need to give me an additional month to come up with the money. I made the adjustments in pen and initialed next to the changes. He grabbed the agreement and shoved it into his briefcase, saying he needed to leave. I stood up and insisted I wanted a copy. He declined, and began making his way out the door. I raised my voice and said again that I insisted on a copy and that he was not going anywhere until I received a copy. I was surprised at my own strength. A male police officer, who had sat down to supervise the meeting, then went and took the agreement out of Hejris's hands, much to everyone's surprise and hurried off to make a Photostat copy. As I stood by the door waiting for the officer to return I noticed Angie in the corridor. She was starring at me with intense hatred. She must have got an enormous thrill out of seeing me in such a state because I was such a threat to her before. Oh, her revenge must have felt so sweet. A few minutes later the officer returned and gave me a copy of the document I'd signed. Hejris then informed us our plane tickets back to South Africa had been booked and that the flight was leaving at 7pm that evening. We had exactly half an hour to pack. We hurried the female police officer along and drove directly to my daughter's villa in Hidd. She ran inside to pack and I couldn't believe what was unfolding before my eyes. The two males and one female police officer noticed one of the fruit trees in the garden and began shaking the tree. Fruit began falling all around us. They then ordered my son to get them a packet so they could gather the fruit. My daughter emerged less than ten minutes later with all her personal belongings in bags. I was told that I would not have time to pack, and that I should get someone else to pack for me. Just then Hussain's wife pulled up and I instructed her on what to pack for me. I realized that we didn't have much time, and said I'd throw my clothes on the bed and could she ensure my son packed it up for me. We drove to my house on Amwaj Island and I charged into the house, grabbing stuff as I went along and threw them onto the bed. I couldn't think straight. I thought I'd be coming back to Bahrain to work, as Hejris had agreed that he wouldn't have me blacklisted so I thought I'd just throw a few clothes into a bag so the kids could take more stuff back. I thought it was still winter in South Africa, so grabbed some winter clothes and threw them onto the bed. Five minutes later I was back in the police van, urging them to hurry before Immigrations closed. On the way to Immigrations they did a detour to a house in Hidd so they could drop off the bag of, fruit, knowing full well the time constraints we were dealing with! We arrived at Immigration and ran up the stairs to the Deportation office. The officer there had our plane tickets and passports and gave us a form to sign. I scanned through the form which stated that we had been given adequate time to pack our bags and that we had all of our belongings with us. I told her that I couldn't sign this, as I was not given adequate time to pack and neither did I have any of my belongings with me. She looked at me and said "What about the BD30 fine you have to pay?" The counters were closing in 15 minutes. I told her we were not permitted to bring our handbags with us and therefore had no cash on us. I asked if I could call my friend to bring us the money, and she reluctantly pushed the phone towards me, I called Hussain and quickly explained what had gone down. He jumped into his car and sped into town from Amwaj Island. At exactly one minute to two o'clock she shooed us out the office, saying "Too late, we are closed now." My daughter burst into hysterical tears and I felt completely stunned. We had come so close to leaving and here we were, going back to prison again. We met Hussain outside, who was out of breath as he had run from his car to get to the counter by 14h00.

We drove back to prison in silence. I think we were both just too exhausted and stunned to speak. I worried that there would not be any flights or seats available the next day. I felt sick with anxiety. We walked back into the prison, feeling depressed and angry. I couldn't bear the thought of spending another night in this pit. Later I began to suspect that there was more going on here than met the eye. I knew for certain that Hejris had allies at the Hidd police station and he was probably doing lots of talking to this bunch at the prison too. I wondered if he had offered them bribes of any kind to cooperate with him. Probably. I recalled the look on the prison guard's face when she accompanied me upstairs to my bedroom at Amwaj Island. Her eyes were huge and she kept looking around and staring at my stuff. I remember her saying it was a beautiful house. On the way back to prison she seemed to change her attitude and adopted a lot more respect towards us. That completely disgusted me. Before she knew our address we were treated like animals. Suddenly the guards were all talking about our home because that evening's shifts of guards were very friendly towards us. One even offered me some sweets! Insane, I thought, that they could be so easily influenced by perceived wealth! When I asked what was going to happen with our tickets, one of the prison guards pointed to the phone and said "Call your friend". I couldn't believe my eyes. We had been denied a phone call since our incarceration, and here they were allowing me to call. I grabbed the phone and called Hussain. Apparently the tickets were changed and we were booked on a flight the following evening. I felt relieved.

I woke up in a panic. My heart was racing and I couldn't breathe properly. Each deep breathe I took hurt, and I felt an enormous stabbing pain in my left shoulder blade. I kept checking the time on the orange clock that hung in the corridor. As I checked the clock for what felt like the hundredth time, I wondered why the hell they even bothered to have a clock in prison. It's not like the prisoners need to be anywhere. Pacing the corridor wasn't helping much. I looked at the clock again. Almost time for breakfast, I thought. What was I going to do during breakfast to pass the time? I thought I'd go into the Mother's cell and try to sleep. Just then the girls started filing out their cells into the corridor to line up for breakfast. I walked back to the Mother's cell. My daughter was folding away the linen. She seemed a bit cheery. I felt like shit. I couldn't shake this feeling of gloom and doom. She went off to breakfast and I lay down on the bed. My mind seemed to pick up where it had left off while I was pacing the corridor. It was only 07h30. We'd been told that we were flying at 23h00 that evening. I didn't know how I was going to last until then. I knew that we would have to get to Immigrations before two o'clock, and that if we didn't we'd face the same problem as the day before. My stomach was in knots. I began thinking about what I was going to do after our release. I was in a catch 22 situation. All my possessions and all my filming tools were here. So were my two cats. At least I had work lined up here. The next thing I heard was "South Africa," looked up and saw the guards calling me. I dashed into the mother's cell and woke my sleeping daughter. "Quick, grab your stuff, we're going to Immigrations". The look of relief on her face will be etched in my mind forever. We ran to the gate with what few possessions we had, excited that the time had finally come for us to leave this pit of misery. Not so fast! We were still going to have to come back and wait for our plane. We drove to Immigrations in silence. I think we were both nervous that something might still go wrong and that we would be delayed again. The same female police officer was in the van with us.

We arrived at Immigration and ran upstairs to the Deportation office. The same officer was at her desk. We signed the paperwork, paid the BD30 and went back to the police van waiting outside. We spoke Afrikaans all the way back to prison, as I vented and ranted about the injustices we had suffered at the hands of Hejris and Angela. I felt angry. I supposed it was better than feeling numb. We walked back through the prison gates with renewed hope. I walked around like a Zombie for the rest of the day. All the women kept coming up to me saying "Thank God you are going home today". I wondered what they must be feeling like, not knowing when they were going to get out. I was overcome by guilt that I was leaving but they were remaining behind. The rest of the day passed painfully slowly. Since there were no pens or paper allowed in the prison, I managed to tear the inner plastic lining off a fruit juice box. With Gabrielle's hairpin I managed to write the names down of some of the girls, including contact details for Alona's friend Susan, who periodically visited her in prison. I couldn't just walk away and have no contact with these women. I vowed to do something to try for their release. Eventually we heard "South Africa" being bellowed down the corridors. I hugged Alona and a few of the other girls. We were all crying. "I promise, I will not forget about you" I said. We walked through the prison gate for the last time. My daughter's luggage was locked in the room with our handbags. We grabbed our stuff and literally ran to the police van. I was so grateful to have my handbag back. I grabbed my cell phone and sent a sms to my friend, Michele in South Africa to let her know we were on our way back to the country and needed to be collected from the airport. She replied with a message saying she knew about our imprisonment. I called my daughter's landlord, Ishmael to tell him what had happened. He said he'd been feeding the cats, but had no idea where we were or that we were even in prison! My son was waiting for us at the check-in counter. We flung our arms around him and burst into tears. At last, I thought, my little family has been reunited. We checked in and were escorted all the way through to Immigrations by the police. At the last check-out counter we were told to pay BD40 for my son's expired passport. Last hurdle. But we were penniless. I didn't know what to do. I called Ishmael, as he didn't live too far from the airport. He was there within 10 minutes with his brother Ebrahim, also a police officer. They were so shocked that we'd been imprisoned. Ishmael loaned me BD40 to pay for the fine and promised to look after the cats and we were rushed back to Immigrations. As soon as we went through the gates, the police officers who'd escorted us abruptly turned on their heels and disappeared. We were now truly free! I was still trying to digest it all. It seemed so unreal.

AMOUR ELLIOTT-SETTER