It was August 1988, a scorching summer day, desert weather, a new military prison built in the depths of the desert opposite the Egyptian border to incarcerate thousands of Palestinian prisoners in administrative detention after the outbreak of the 1987 Intifada. These were difficult days and the “enlightened” occupier was more creative than ever, building a military prison in the heart of the desert, at a considerable distance from the Occupied Palestinian Territory (OPT), in order to sever the detainees from their natural surroundings and to make access difficult for Palestinian attorneys from the OPT. Up until that time, the arrest of thousands of administrative detainees was conducted in the presence of one side only, and the moment the major general signed the administrative orders, they were accepted without question in the well-oiled justice system. Attorneys from the OPT did not arrive to visit or represent the detainees as a sign of political protest against the arrests and the judicial review committees.    

Finally, the request was submitted and the prison authorities agreed that we bring only underwear with us. The HRA raised a large donation for the purchase of underwear, including hundreds of pairs of colored underwear.

We arrived at the prison during the morning hours, and we were asked to return a few hours later because the prison authorities would not allow the clothes to be brought in. They asked for some time to inquire about the agreements we had previously reached with higher authorities. Sadly, we had to go to the local kiosk and “get a suntan” for many hours. We returned to the prison gate at 1 pm, looking like Victor Hugo’s hero Jean Valjean in his book Les Misérables: red eyes, parched skin and sandy dust covering our faces and clothing, feigning an atmosphere of splendor and dignity. Luckily, Riad and I had purchased hats at the open market in Be’er el-Sabe, which protected our heads from the relentless sun, while the bald patch on attorney Na’amneh’s head looked like a pot just removed from the flames.

They informed us at the prison gate that the prison authorities would allow us to bring in white underwear only, and that we had to return all of the colored ones – which were mostly red and blue. We stood our ground: everything or nothing.  

Finally, it was suggested that we present our arguments to the judge who presided over administrative detentions and we agreed.

The fate of the men's colored underwear luckily fell into the hands of a female judge (who was later promoted to the civilian court system, and Riad and I would appear before her in cases involving the laws of finance rather than the laws of underwear). We insisted that a protocol of the hearing be recorded as befits “due process.” Riad excelled in sarcastic humor, spiced with village wisdom, having spent long days and nights with the elderly friends of his father in the latter’s carpentry shop, learning from them cunning, laughter and a metaphoric style. Riad, who spoke Hebrew flawlessly, chose to speak in broken Hebrew and incomplete sentences, peppering Arabic words into his arguments. Riad chose to open his arguments with the natural right of a person to underwear and the occupying state’s obligation to provide clothing to its prisoners. The judge did not understand what we were talking about and occasionally rolled her eyes and her face reflected the cognitive distress that befell her.

The climax of the theatrical performance was when Riad took out a pair of red underwear from his briefcase, held it by its two edges and presented it to the judge, demanding to know why this underwear should be prohibited from entering the prison. He went on to passionately argue that international law does not prohibit the entry of red and blue underwear, and does not allow discrimination between colored and white underwear. At this point, the judge realized what was happening, momentarily lost her cool and screamed: “This is not the Be’er Sheva Theater here.” The two of us then stood up and asked for the right to respond. We tossed our hats on the shabby desk of the judge, who sat on a raised platform, and a great cloud of dust swelled through the room. This added a backdrop for the improvised theater, which lacked no element of the Be’er Sheva municipal theater: a judge, a military prosecutor, three attorneys and a complete army of colorful underwear awaiting a decision on its fate, and an outdated air conditioner whose noise weighed upon the atmosphere of desert justice. 

We then tried to make the case that it was indeed theater of the absurd, that the army was exercising an invalid and unbalanced consideration in discriminating between colors of underwear, without a reasonable and justified explanation. The judge’s distress was profound. It was her bad luck that she – a woman from the upscale Tel Aviv suburbs – was the one who must ban colored and colorful underwear that could bring cheer to a prisoner in the late hours of the night, a prisoner who has not seen his wife and family for months. In light of our “shrewd”   arguments backed by principles of international humanitarian law and to her great misfortune, the judge deviated from standard procedure and persuaded the prosecution to return to the authorities and to convince them to agree to treat all of the underwear equally. And so it was.

Riad, this was the person who had harsh and searing criticism for the system of justice and punishment, which he regarded as heartlessly pedantic and as an inseparable part of the octopus of occupation. He knew how to make fun of a distorted system in the same currency and to speak with it in a “clean” language. And in the words of this witty and dear person:  “This type of evil deserves such a response.”

Finally, something within us dies when loved ones pass away, and something else is born to new life. Something mourns within us and something says: If there were not a hidden hope in death, it is doubtful that our loved ones would have departed from us.