Reportage
Mocked, beaten and without water for two days in an Israeli prison
The testimony of Lorenzo D’Agostino, il manifesto reporter captured on the Sumud Flotilla.
We were intercepted at 1:58 a.m. on Thursday. Five Israeli soldiers boarded my boat, the Hio – part of the Global Sumud Flotilla mission – with their machine guns in hand and laser sights trained on us. It was exactly one month after our departure from Barcelona.
On board, the soldiers allowed us to use the bathroom, to eat, drink, and smoke. They diverted our boat toward the port of Ashdod, where we remained docked at the pier for a couple of hours. Before they let us off, a soldier spoke to our captain. He said, in a mix of English and Italian, “My friend, my friend, listen to me, questa ti piacerà (you’ll like this one): when dwarfs cast long shadows, it means the sun is setting.” That was the last thing he said to us.
As we were disembarking, I heard someone from another of the mission’s boats shout: “The police will be worse.” I set foot on the ground and, before I even realized what was happening, a policeman grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back, trying to cause as much pain as possible. Then they made us all sit on the floor, on a stretch of concrete.
That’s where they gathered everyone. Just before me, Greta Thunberg had disembarked. A twenty-two-year-old woman, brave and determined. They wrapped her in an Israeli flag as if she were a war trophy. They sat her in a corner, where a policeman told her it was a “special place for a special girl.” Other police surrounded her and took selfies with Greta, who was forced to remain wrapped in the flag.
Then they turned on another young woman, Hanan. They forced her to sit and stare at an Israeli flag they placed in front of her. They kicked people and ordered us to bow our heads and look at the ground. Anyone who looked up was forced to their knees. An older activist urinated on himself.
Any item that hinted at Palestine in any way whatsoever was ripped away, thrown on the ground and trampled. They tore bracelets from everyone’s wrists. One young woman was dragged along the ground because her bracelet wouldn’t break. It wasn’t even a Palestinian flag; it was the Somali one.
I sat on the concrete for a couple of hours; others were there for much longer, five or six hours. They called for the Italians’ passports and made us go through immigration control. There, an officer opened my backpack, and anything that had any connection to Palestine was taken and thrown in the trash. They also found a copy of the Qur’an in my bag and went berserk, as if they’d short-circuited. They became convinced I was Muslim, and for the next two hours, every cop who walked past me mocked me for it. In my toiletry bag, they found some pink wet wipes and jeered, “You’re a girl!” laughing and slapping each other on the back.
After the border check, they made me strip down to my underwear. I was subjected to two interrogations; a lawyer was present for only one of them. They asked if I wanted to be deported and then came the announcement: you’re going to jail. That’s when Itamar Ben Gvir, Israel’s Minister of National Security, arrived. He was waiting for us in Ashdod to make sure we were treated like the terrorists he considered us to be.
He shouted at us that we were terrorists. He was standing right in front of me. In his presence, the Israeli agents seemed determined to show how fierce they were. They blindfolded me and tied plastic zip ties around my wrists, extremely tight.
They forced me into an armored vehicle, wearing only a light t-shirt. The air conditioning was on full blast; it was freezing. In our vehicle, a Scottish activist managed to break his zip ties and, with the help of an Italian named Marco, loosened everyone else’s. When we saw our comrades get out of the other vehicles, their hands were purple. Some had been tied up since their boats had been intercepted, making the entire journey to the prison – from two in the morning until four in the afternoon – with their hands bound.
The first night, they didn’t let us sleep. Guards would come to wake us, force us all to stand up, or they’d make use of the loudspeakers. The second night, they moved us to different cells. They never gave us bottled water, only tap water that came out hot. We protested, banging on the iron doors, shouting “Free Palestine,” and singing “Bella Ciao.”
In the second cell with me was a man who had been Turkey's Deputy Foreign Minister under Ahmet Davutoğlu. His arm was broken and swollen. He had to bandage it himself because they wouldn’t give him bandages or even painkillers. No one was given their medication, not even a man who suffered from epilepsy. We protested and demanded a doctor.
On the second day, consular assistance arrived. The Italian consul asked if we had been abused and told us that if we signed the deportation papers, we would be sent back to Italy the next day. Many were persuaded to sign, but I don’t know what happened to those who refused; there are still fifteen Italians in that jail. I signed. It was a document which said I agreed to waive a trial and be deported within 72 hours. It didn’t contain any admission of guilt.
They conducted new interrogations. This time it was a judge asking the questions, with no lawyer present. We asked for one, but they said it wasn’t necessary, that it was “just a chat.” We remained silent. I only said that I was a journalist in the exercise of my profession and that I would not discuss anything else without a lawyer or consular assistance. They asked me why I wanted to go to Gaza and if I didn’t know there was a blockade. Others were asked more “political” questions, about the Muslim Brotherhood.
The following night, the guards were more violent. The Italian consul had just left, after collecting more “signatures” for deportation, when the special forces arrived. They threw open the cell doors, pointed their laser-sighted rifles at us, and did a roll call. In some cells, they set dogs on the prisoners. In one, they found the word “Palestine” spelled out with leftover pieces of pepper. To erase it, the police threw buckets of bleach into the cell, and the prisoners had to sleep on soaked mattresses.
That night, in retaliation, they packed the cells. We went from ten people to fifteen, so there wasn’t enough room for everyone. We turned the mattresses sideways so we could all at least rest our heads on them. In my cell were Maso Notarianni and a Democratic Party councilor from Lombardy, Paolo Romano. I felt like I was in a truly barbaric place, and I hoped that this barbarism would end soon.
Very early on Saturday morning, they woke us and loaded us onto the same armored vehicle. We assumed they were taking us to the airport, but we peered through the cracks at the road signs, afraid they might be transferring us to another detention center.
The journey lasted three hours. It was scorching hot; we couldn’t breathe. We asked for water, but they told us we were almost there. We were at the airport in Eilat. They put us on a plane to Istanbul. There, we were met with fanfare in true Erdoğan style: a member of his party greeted us with new clothes, shoes, and keffiyehs for everyone. Late that evening, we boarded the last plane, bound for Rome.
Originally published at https://ilmanifesto.it/derisi-picchiati-senzacqua-due-giorni-in-cella-in-israele on 2025-10-05