Former Egyptian prisoners struggle to move on due to terror lists
“The position my family is in, it’s all because of me.”
Emad Kamil, Egyptian businessman
Photography by Hossam el-Hamalawy
A scorching day inside Egypt’s Tanta Prison and Emad Kamil is straining to hear news from his relatives. They have been placed on one side of the hall with 50 other visitors. Emad is on the other side, over one metre away, with 15 other prisoners.
Two sets of wire mesh separate them, police officers patrol the space in between and Emad suspects there are informants present. A jumble of voices travel across the space. It’s impossible to get accurate information about the charges against him.
Instead, Emad relies on his fellow inmates for snippets about the outside world since the authorities have given him little information about why he was arrested and detained in 2013, beyond what he knows about a widespread crackdown that is underway against anyone with links to the political opposition.
Then one day, a cellmate delivers shocking news: Emad has been added to Egypt’s national terror list, his bank accounts are frozen, his property has been confiscated and several of his factories have been shut down. In the nine years that follow, Emad would go from being a successful businessman to living in exile in Turkey with little money, unable to speak the language or to provide for his family.
Emad is one of roughly 7,000 citizens who have been placed on Egypt’s national terror lists, according to figures given to us by the Geneva-based human rights organisation Committee for Justice (CFJ). Among the names is a prominent footballer, Mohamed Aboutrika, and a former presidential candidate, Abdel Moneim Aboul Fotouh. The late Mohamed Morsi was on the terror list, as are his children.
For an Egyptian who finds themselves on the feared qayma, Arabic for list, it has serious implications for their liberty, ability to earn a living and has had a devastating impact on families who have been separated with no reunion in sight.
Since President Abdel Fattah Al-Sisi rose to power shortly after the 2013 coup, there has been a significant rise in the use of counterterror legislation in Egypt, which has been criticised by human rights organisations as being broad, inaccurate, and ambiguous. This legislation has grown into one of the most powerful tools used by the government to target dissidents, activists, politicians, businessmen and their companies, notes a CFJ report published last year.
The Egyptian government’s official line is that adding people to the list aims to curb and cut off funding for terror organisations. Yet many of the alleged offenders are often not even informed they are on the list, let alone invited to court or presented with proof they have carried out the attacks in question.
“The Law Regulating Lists of Terrorist Entities and Terrorists allows the criminal court to issue its decision without obliging it to hear the accused or his defence,” CFJ’s Ahmed Mefreh told Al Jazeera. “It does not provide any fair trial guarantees that require this inclusion, in violation of what is stipulated in different legal systems.”
What’s more, the accused only have 60 days to appeal from the day their name is published in Egypt’s Official Gazette. “In practice, even if a judgement or decision is issued not to include or to remove someone from the lists, the actions that result from being listed on the terror list remain unchanged, especially for those outside Egypt,” says Mefreh.
Suffering in exile
In Turkey, Emad has struggled to carve out a life for himself. He cannot renew his passport or obtain official documents from the Egyptian embassy because they refuse. Back home it’s the same story. His family have two cars that have been gathering dust in the garage for years because they are unable to renew the road tax.
Even though Emad’s wife is not on the terror list, every time she tries to leave Egypt to visit him her passport is temporarily confiscated. This underscores the most excruciating implication of the list: the pain of being separated from loved ones. Then there is the unbearable weight of guilt. “The position my family is in, it’s all because of me,” Emad says, several times.
Shortly after the 2011 revolution, Khalid Nasser was elected as an MP in Giza, a traffic-choked city just southwest of Cairo. When the government collapsed two years later Khalid hid in another governorate.
As the crackdown intensified and the arrests skyrocketed, he headed to Upper Egypt then slipped over the border and into Sudan. It was here he received a phone call from a friend. “Khalid, you’ve been added to the qayma. I saw your name in the Official Gazette.”
Khalid was shocked. “I never imagined or expected this,” he tells us. “Having your name on this list is a big thing. I have no connection with terrorism, and I would never have expected this.”
As a further punitive measure, the government added Khalid’s brother and two cousins. “Luckily, they are abroad. If they were in Egypt they would have been arrested,” he tells us.
When he was just 17-years-old one of Khalid’s sons was arrested and sentenced to 25 years in prison. Another has been placed on probation, which means he must register weekly at his local police station. Whilst signing in, political prisoners placed on probation are regularly held arbitrarily for several days, or worse still, tortured.
Khalid, who is now in Turkey, spends his time teaching the Qur’an. Like Emad, he has not seen his wife, children, or family for almost a decade. They don’t even try to leave for fear they will be arrested at the airport. Even though he now has Turkish nationality Khalid is afraid to travel, especially to any country that has a good relationship with Egypt.
Khalid lived a modest life in Egypt, so the state was unable to confiscate his savings or property because he didn’t have any, however, Emad estimates that the Egyptian government has taken close to $2 million from him, raising serious questions over the government’s motivations. Is it political or financial?
The answer is, it is both. Whilst Emad and Khalid were once politically active, Egyptian businesspeople with no links to politics have been added. In one case, a prominent Egyptian businesswoman took her passport to the government administration building for renewal but when she handed it to the civil servant, he wrote the Arabic letter qaf for qayma on it and then informed her the passport wouldn’t be returned.
In another, an ecommerce businessman was informed by a bank clerk that his card had been blocked which is when he realised his account had been frozen and he had been added to the list. Without the ability to make online payments for goods, his business collapsed.
“Now it is not only the opposition in Egypt that are being targeted but anyone who has a business like mine,” Emad reflects. There is a pause as his voice breaks, and he struggles to get the words out. “I miss my family and my office.” Another silence. “I miss my neighbours, the pyramids, and the kind people of Egypt. These are the feelings of anyone who is in exile.”
Emad and Khalid’s names have been changed to protect their identities. The Egyptian government did not respond to requests to comment.