Global Courant
As Father’s Day approached, I would often tease my dad that every day is Father’s Day. He would laugh. On Father’s Day itself I called him, we had a chat and I told him that I am proud to be my father.
This Father’s Day there will be no teasing, no calling, no smearing and no laughing. This Father’s Day my siblings and I are praying that our dad will get out of prison safe and sound.
Our father, Said Ferjani, was detained in Tunisia on February 27. A member of the Ennahda Party, he is one of dozens of prominent opposition figures detained in President Kais Saied’s latest crackdown on dissent. No charges have been filed against him and he has not been formally charged with anything. His real crime – we suspect – is that he loves his country too much and opposes the return of authoritarianism.
It’s been almost four months since his arrest and we haven’t been able to speak to him. We know that he is currently locked up in a cell with 120 people in appalling conditions. Some inmates are brutal criminals and often attack the others.
My father started a hunger strike when he was first imprisoned, but had to break it because his health was rapidly deteriorating and he was hospitalized. After being sent back to prison, he developed bronchitis due to the damp cell conditions and the constant smoking of other inmates’ cigarettes. He was hospitalized again and then sent back with an inhaler he never needed before. This has really worried us.
The nightmare of the past four months has brought back memories of another – from more than 30 years ago.
I was three years old when my father was first in prison. It was November 1987 and Tunisia’s then dictator Zine El Abidine Ben Ali, who had just come to power in a coup d’état, had ordered a crackdown on the opposition Ennahda party and other groups, fearing that their growing popularity would undermine his presidency. would harm.
They came for my father in the middle of the night. I awoke to the sound of a dozen armed police officers fighting their way through the front door. They pushed my mother to the ground, handcuffed my father, forced him face down to the ground, and then ransacked our house.
I stared silently at my father who tried to give me a reassuring smile. I can’t remember how long it all took, but I do remember my oldest brother, Seifedinne, who was seven at the time, asking a creepy security guard, “Are you going to kill my dad?” The man picked him up and kissed him. My brother was silent in fear.
This was the first time I saw my father in danger and realized that he was not invincible and that the world was not safe. Before he was taken away, my father asked if he could kiss me. I walked over to him, bent down and let him kiss me.
Over the next few days I saw on TV how my father was accused of being part of a “gang of mayhem”. I saw a picture of a person they thought was Said Ferjani. It was taken in a dark room, with a flashlight shining on him; torture had changed his face so much that I could hardly recognize him.
I was always a “daddy’s girl”. My father never hid how much he loved me, how much of a special place I held in his heart – and I loved every moment of it. I often spent my mornings with him while my mother was at work. I enjoyed our time together, playing with him and talking to him.
He was always interested in everything I had to say; he listened as if it was the most important thing. I also admired him and wanted to be like him… to the point that I even once tried to shave like him and ended up with a cut on my lip.
I was consumed by my father when he was in prison. I looked forward to the few visits we got to have with him. Those were rare, because every time he was tortured, we weren’t allowed to see him for a while until he recovered.
On the way to the prison, I told bus drivers and taxi drivers that we were going to see my father, a hero who had been taken away by Habib Ammar, the then interior minister. I would sing “Said, the hero!” all the way.
I was so afraid he would forget about me that I tried to keep the same short haircut I had when he was arrested, even though I hated it and my older cousins made fun of it. I wanted to make sure he would recognize me when we visited.
After some time, families of political prisoners were told that some might be released. I went to wait in front of the prison with my father’s and mother’s good friend, Uncle Sahnoun Jouhri (who was later arrested himself and died in police custody).
Detainees were released, but my father was not there. On the way home I cried. Uncle Sahnoun tried to comfort me and said to me, “You know, in school, the students leave first, and then the teachers, well, these are students, and your father is the teacher.” Before he finished I yelled, “I don’t want my dad to be a teacher, I want him home!”
My father later told me that when my mother told him about this episode, he felt so much pain that he became determined to get out. It drove him to organize a prison strike to push for his release.
My father was finally let go in 1989. He came out in a wheelchair, the torturers had broken his back. The day he returned home was one of the happiest in my life. But we couldn’t go back to our life as before.
My father knew it would only be a matter of time before Ben Ali’s regime came after him again, so he decided to leave his beloved country for the UK. Soon after, we joined him.
Torture and imprisonment had left scars on my father’s body, but not on his soul. In exile he devoted himself to his family, but also to his country. He was an active advocate for human rights in Tunisia and remained an outspoken critic of Ben Ali’s regime. He often traveled the world campaigning for the release of Tunisian prisoners of conscience and raising awareness of the ruthless Tunisian dictatorship.
When the Tunisian revolution overthrew Ben Ali in January 2011, my father immediately left for Tunis. His party, Ennahda, was finally allowed to participate legally in politics and won Tunisia’s first-ever democratic elections.
In 2019, my father decided to run for a seat in parliament. He wanted to help lift his hometown of Kairouan out of economic stagnation and poverty after it had suffered decades of neglect. He won the seat and began traveling to the city every week in public shared taxis and holding meetings with his constituents.
Subsequently, in July 2021, Saied staged a coup in Tunisia, dismissing the government, suspending parliament and assuming executive and legislative powers. He brought the country back into the dark age of authoritarianism.
My father felt that he would soon be arrested. He knew he was on a target list and he was repeatedly detained for questioning by security forces. But he decided not to leave this time.
After returning from exile, my father made the decision never to leave Tunisia, no matter what. He returned as an older man and wanted to die in his country. Activism and advocacy in exile were for the youth, not him.
While living in the UK, my father waived his right to apply for British citizenship, even though he was entitled to it. He wanted to oppose Ben Ali as a fellow Tunisian, return as a Tunisian and participate in Tunisian politics without a foreign passport to serve as a “get out of jail free” card.
A few days before his arrest, my father told us something we already knew: that this is the life he has chosen, that his decisions are made based on principles and not fear, and that he wants to keep fighting for the freedom, dignity and rights that his fellow Tunisians deserve.
The day my father was arrested, I couldn’t breathe from the anger, pain, sadness and injustice I felt. I feel like I haven’t taken a full breath since. My childhood trauma from losing him came back to me.
One of the things that bothers me the most is that people like my father are easily dehumanized with the label “Islamist.” Their commitment to democracy and human rights is brushed aside and their imprisonment quickly justified and accepted.
My father is not a blind follower of a political ideology. He is a man of principle, a champion of freedom and a fearless advocate for democracy. He is also a tender loving father, singing songs to his children with their names; who bursts into a roar of laughter when we answer him wittily; who would cry if we didn’t call him enough; who encourages his articulate daughter to be even more daring and outspoken, even when she is critical of him and his party.
I am truly honored to know my father, to be his daughter, to see firsthand what a man full of wonderful contradictions he is: a man brave enough to challenge dictators, but gentle enough to weep at every sad story; a man who is highly intelligent and observant yet so deeply trusting to the point of naiveté; a man of strong convictions who is also willing to admit when he is wrong.
I have been asked if I ever begged my father to leave Tunisia when he knew his arrest was imminent. I’ve never done it and it never occurred to me. It’s like asking him not to be himself, to betray his beliefs. I love and respect him too much to do such a thing.
This Father’s Day I wish I was with my dad. I wish I could hug him, talk to him, hear his cheerful laugh. I miss him a lot. But I take comfort in the fact that, although physically locked in his cell, my father remains the freest man I know.
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial view of Al Jazeera.
