Palestinian prisoner Karim Younes, the longest consecutively-held detainee of the occupation, wrote a letter from his cell in Hadarim prison, to be released in advance of his liberation on 5 January 2023, after 40 years of imprisonment.
Karim Younes has been jailed by occupation forces since 6 January 1983. He was initially sentenced to death for resisting the Israeli occupation, which was later modified to a 40-year term. Younes, from the Palestinian village of Ara, has been repeatedly denied release in multiple prisoner exchanges and agreements, because he is labeled an Israeli citizen by the occupation — even though his treatment and conditions of confinement are equal to those of all of his fellow Palestinian prisoners. His release this coming Thursday is long-awaited by the Palestinian people.
The following is the text of the message, as conveyed by his lawyer Ghaid Qassem, after she visited him on Sunday, 1 January:
I will leave my cell in a few days, and fear seizes me at the proximity of a world so unlike my own. Here I am approaching a moment when I must pass through my old wounds and my old memories, a moment when I can smile at my old image without feeling remorse or disappointment, and without having to prove the obvious: what I have lived and lived through for forty years, to show that I can adapt to my new mirror. I am returning to sing again with my people everywhere the anthem of my homeland, the anthem of the fedayeen, the anthem of return and liberation.
Here I am, about to leave my dark cell, in which I learned not to be afraid of the dark, and in which I learned not to feel alienated or lonely, because I am among my brothers, the brotherhood of constraint and suffering, a brotherhood that united us under a single oath and a single covenant.
I will leave my cell, from which I have always wanted to leave, taking my freedom, accompanied by my brothers on this path and my fellow fighters in the struggle, imagining a reception that expresses victory and a great achievement. I find myself indisposed, trying to avoid the pain of separation and the suffering of the moment of parting with my brothers. I thought I would complete my life in their company, and they are definite constants in my life, standing like mountains. As the hour of my exit approaches, I feel disappointed and helpless, especially when I look into the eyes of any of them, some of whom have been imprisoned for more than three decades.
I will leave my cell and go, but my soul will remain with those who hold fast to the embers, who keep the embers of the Palestinian struggle as a whole, with those who have not and will not be broken, even as the years of their lives slip away, above them, in front of them, and behind them. Still they aspire to see the sun of freedom in the remainder of their lives, before their desire to live falters and declines.
I will leave my cell, and thoughts suddenly crowd and dance upon the threshold of my mind, confusing my mind, and so I wonder, uncharacteristically perplexed: How long can a prisoner carry his own body on his back and continue his life while death walks with him? How will this suffering and slow death remain his fate for an endless period? In the shadow of an unknown future, a blocked horizon, lost hope and heightened anxiety by what we see and observe of complacency and indifference to the oppression of the gangs that own a state of brutality, taking advantage of the abandonment of the world of a defenseless people whose life is being devoured every day, without them realizing that their wounds will not heal, and there is no hope for a calm and stable life, yet they retained the flame and the ability to continue forward.
I will leave my cell, knowing that our ship is being battered by international waves from all sides, regional storms from east and west, local earthquakes and aggressive volcanoes that are about to swallow it up, as it drifts further away from the shore its captain tried to anchor to over a quarter of a century ago.
I will leave my cell, emphasizing that we were and still are proud of our people, and our people, wherever they are in the homeland and in the diaspora, have embraced us and our cause all of these years, and have been loyal to our cause and the cause of our people, which always gives us renewed hope and a firm certainty in the justice of our cause, the sincerity of our affiliation, and the viability and essence of our struggle.
I will leave my cell, raising my hat to a generation that is certainly unlike mine, a generation of young activists who have taken the lead on the scene in recent years, a generation that is clear that they are stronger, bolder, braver and more deserving of receiving the banner. And those who are interested in implementing the demands, the commandments of our scattered and displaced people, to obtain their right to return and self-determination, so blessed is this rising generation despite the atmosphere of decay.
I will leave my cell in a few days, and fear seizes me at the proximity of a world so unlike my own. Here I am approaching a moment when I must pass through my old wounds and my old memories, a moment when I can smile at my old image without feeling remorse or disappointment, and without having to prove the obvious: what I have lived and lived through for forty years, to show that I can adapt to my new mirror. I am returning to sing again with my people everywhere the anthem of my homeland, the anthem of the fedayeen, the anthem of return and liberation.
