• Middle-east
• Visit Article Link

• Aljazeera
• Sun Jun 1 2025

After almost a month in that metal hell, I was moved to a restrictive housing unit where inmates charged with serious crimes like murder, kidnapping or armed robbery were held. The occupants mingled but were kept separate from all other units. I was beyond happy to get out of my tomb.

The relief didn't last long. In August 2003, I was thrown back into C-1-W due to an institutional infraction. I was accused of concealing a drill bit, cigarettes and a cellphone, which were found in the light fixture of my double-bunk cell.

I was initially sent there for 30 days, but then the area supervisor informed me I was going to remain in C-1-W for "some time". I was devastated. I felt like I was going to die there.

After 60 days, I was allowed window visits. In the visitor's room, I looked at my brother through a dirty Plexiglass pane and spoke to him via a mounted phone. He asked how AdSeg was. I changed the subject.

As time went by, I was allowed a few paltry freedoms - a handheld radio and plastic pouches of fish I could use to make soup (my only hot meal) to eat with the often cold, soggy jail food. Every 31 or so hours, I was let out for an hour of ?recreational? time when I could use an electric heating coil to boil water for soup. I lost weight, dropping nearly 18kg (40lb).

But it wasn't just physical changes ? I felt like I was losing my mind.

I developed a habit of pacing back and forth from the time I got up until I was tired enough to sleep. I only stopped for prayers, food and to use the toilet. I couldn't sit still. I even fidgeted when I wasn't walking, shifting side to side, bobbing like a penguin. I started compulsively washing my hands.

Solitary is a lonely journey during which a person loses their humanity. I equate it with being lost at sea, losing hope with every crashing swell. You feel abandoned by the law, by society. A never-ending cry reverberates through your soul.

There's always noise, even in the silence. My ears started to ring, and, at times, I would almost answer to the sounds.

I wanted to talk, wanted to be heard, wanted to be noticed. I wanted to matter. It reminds me of the film Castaway with Tom Hanks, whose character, in his isolation, comes to depend on and talk to a volleyball he names Wilson.

Before I knew it, I was muttering things, simple stuff, but inane all the same. "What are you looking at?" I would ask my reflection in the hazy mirror.

Sometimes I would just curse at my face.

I was so angry at myself for being there. I slapped my face and even tried to punch myself. I would punch the walls until my knuckles were sore, and then I would punch some more.

'Just you and the darkness'

My hair and beard grew. The jail provided us with razors for half an hour every Monday. I'd often look at those cheap, flimsy razors and think horrible things.

Many might deny it, but I believe most who have suffered solitary for prolonged periods have considered ending it all. Some lose the fight against that urge. Their deaths haunt me because they remind me of how close I came.

I remember this Dominican kid who was brought to my lockup unit when I was thrown back into C-1-W.

I was 26 at the time, and he was around 18. He was also facing a murder charge and would often break down in his cell, sobbing uncontrollably. I consoled him as best as I could. I told him to live day by day, to just get to the trial, to live to be with his family - the very hopes I held on to. A few weeks later, he was moved to another county jail.

After a month or two, a kind officer came to my cell door. "Tariq,? he said, ?that kid hung himself."

Sometimes I'm ashamed to say that I understand why he did it. In solitary, hope is a fleeting thing. You need to hold onto it every single moment, or it leaves you. Then it's just you and the darkness.