A Jewish Communist incarcerated in the British-run Jaffa Prison in Mandatory Palestine describes conditions, inmates, and wardens for the journal of the International Union of Revolutionary Writers.

‘Prisoners in Palestine’ by W. Stein from Literature of World Revolution. No. 4. October, 1931.

Twice a day the prisoners are counted. Twice a day the execution of political prisoners takes place. When they are being counted they all have to kneel down. The political prisoners refuse and so they are beaten and tortured. The officers and policemen beat them and incite the other prisoners to do the same. In the interval between the executions the long Palestine day passes. In the Jaffa prison there is a lot of work to be done. The lavatories must be cleaned, the cells must be tidied up, the yard must be swept, the officers horses must be groomed, rubbish and sewerage must be thrown out…At five o’clock in the morning buckets of excrement must be carried from the prison to the sea—several minutes walk. The buckets are filled to the brim, the warders drive us on crying “yalla, yalla” (hurry up, hurry up). We run as hard as we can—we get covered with it—the awful smell sticks to us all day, and then in the morning we start again…

They beat us. They beat us because we won’t let them bind us in chains when we are being led into court. They beat us because we refuse to put on prison clothes. They beat us because that is what warders have arms for—to beat prisoners, especially Bolsheviks.

There is a “cloak room” in the Jaffa prison. On one side hang the prison garments and on the other, parcels with labels on them—the personal clothing of those who have come in from outside. In the “living quarters” there are thick walls and a still thicker iron door. Here you may shout as hard as you like and your shouting will not penetrate the thick walls. Often, very often you can see the door close behind a prisoner accompanied by a policeman and see it open again 10 or 15 minutes later. The policeman wipes sweat from his brow, but the prisoner—blood. Nobody knows what has taken place there within that short period of time. Human eyes cannot penetrate through those thick walls, and a human cry cannot be heard through them.

The heavy door closes behind three prisoners and six policemen. They are experts. In a minute all three are laid out on the floor with fetters on their arms and legs. The police disappear and then three other fellow prisoners come forward—well known characters.

They are three Arabs from Egypt, convicts, and strong and healthy ones.

In every prison in Palestine there are a few “good convicts”. They are the right hand of the prison administration, they spy on the others and drive them to work (but do not work themselves) and when anyone’s bones have to be broken they show what they can do.

I am standing in the corner, my hands bound behind me, the “Egyptians” are in front of me. My two other comrades are not visible, as the place is divided up with screens. They can’t be seen but the echo of blows on the face can be heard and the cries of men in pain. Suddenly there is a strange cry and something heavy falls to the floor. It is Boris—a strongly built man—a dock worker. White as chalk he lies on the ground and writhes in convulsions; the result of a hard blow in the pit of the stomach. Boris was ill for a long time afterwards. Another person would not have survived.

In the “Russian Court” in Jerusalem there are one or two large buildings, the orthodox church, the district court and the central prison which caters for all Palestine. Before the war, Russian pilgrims used to put up in this building. England has changed it into a modern prison.

In the large iron gates a small wicket opens. To pass through you have to bend double. You find yourself in a scrupulously kept garden. The entrance to this paradise is guarded by a policeman with a carbine. In the middle of the green grass and the flowers the huge prison building rises up. At the entrance the policeman with the carbine enters up the names of the new arrivals. At one side of the gate there is a policeman with a bunch of keys who admits the prisoners through a small door, at the other is a policeman with a thick rubber baton in his hand. He beats the prisoner while he is being searched. The process of being searched is very painful. You have to strip to the skin. You come out with a wounds all over and covered with blood.

A long corridor with many branches. At either side small cells, doors with iron grating. Seven hundred men live in this building. There are two main categories—natives and Europeans. The majority belong to the first category.

On Fridays a mufti makes a religious service for the Mussulmen, on Saturdays a rabbi for the Jews; on Sundays a catholic priest comes.

The cell is an empty room without furniture; in the corner is a bucket (often two) and a boiler. Instead of a bench there is a piece of matting–and this takes the place of a bed at night. Here a whole collection of convicts are sitting; next to the bandit a ruined fellah who has been unable to pay his taxes, next to the defaulter a sixteen-year-old youngster who has stolen an orange in the market, next to the thief a communist. The cells are overcrowded. Where there is room for ten there are twenty to thirty people. At night they are troubled by the frightful stench.

Only the favoured are put in the European cells. True, swindlers, crooks, merchants of human ware are to be found here too, but then they have foreign passports on them. They are civilized people, Kulturtrdoger amongst the barbarians of the East and so it is only right that they should be given better living conditions. They don’t have to wear prison clothes. They don’t work. They sit on benches at a table, sleep on soft beds, have a stove for cooking and are not fed at all badly.

There is no special regime for the political prisoners. The “red” foreign subjects refuse to take advantage of the European régime and join in with the “reds” of Palestine in their fight for better prison conditions.

There are some natives in the prison who enjoy the European régime, and an even more comfortable one than is ordinarily allowed: five men who took part in the massacre in 1921 and were sentenced to 15 years imprisonment. No worse off are the rich effendis. Some years ago they gave information about a rebellion that was being planned in the prison and ever since they have been given special privileges. They wear different clothes, white trousers and white shirts, and walk about all day in the garden and sell cigarettes, though smoking is strictly forbidden. The privileged prisoners provide the others with tobacco and make a 500% profit on it.

The prisoners who, under observation, are serving their time, are kept in solitary confinement. It is a rule that they must not be used for work.

At five o’clock in the morning the warder calls the “all up,” wakes a few Beduins and drives them to work. The Beduins are slow to move. The warder has heavy boots on. He kicks over one of the buckets and then the other. In a moment the whole cell is flooded.

“If you don’t want to sweep the yard you can clean up your own cell instead.”

Mr. True is the governor of the Jerusalem prison. Mr. True is a higher police official. Mr. True is a loyal servant of his majesty, King George V. Mr. True’s chest is adorned with many ribbons. Mr. True is the hangman of the Jerusalem prison (the gallows is kept inside the prison), and gets L5 for every execution. Mr. True is a man of breeding.

One of the prisoners takes it into his head to try to escape but does not succeed. They catch him, put him in handcuffs and make him stand in the yard and explain to Mr. True his plan of escape.

Mr. True beats the old Arab, hits him in the face with his hand, beats him all over with a rubber baton, kicks him…He goes on beating until there is nothing left on the prison yard but a chained up heap covered with blood.

Mr. True is a man of breeding.

On the third day of the hunger strike two of the men who are fasting lie in the office of the prison. One of them is stretched out on the ground in fetters, the other has nothing on. A policeman is holding him firmly while the doctor feels his pulse. The policeman beats him on his bare skin with a cane, Mr. True is indignant. Seized with anger he snatches. the cane from the policeman:

“Have you eaten anything to-day?…” and Mr. True beats and torments. The place becomes covered with blood. Mr. True is a man of breeding.

The hunger strike continues.

Literature of the World Revolution/International Literature was the journal of the International Union of Revolutionary Writers, founded in 1927, that began publishing in the aftermath of 1931’s international conference of revolutionary writers held in Kharkov, Ukraine. Produced in Moscow in Russian, German, English, and French, the name changed to International Literature in 1932. In 1935 and the Popular Front, the Writers for the Defense of Culture became the sponsoring organization. It published until 1945 and hosted the most important Communist writers and critics of the time.

PDF of full issue: https://www.marxists.org/subject/art/literature/international-literature/1931-n04-LWR.pdf