Egypt's revolving jailhouse door: One pre-trial detention after another

CAIRO (NYTIMES) - When the University of Washington doctoral student was arrested in Cairo while researching the Egyptian judiciary, he asked the prosecutor for the accusations against him.

Joining a terrorist group, he was told, and spreading fake news.

"I was pleased for a second, because these are so absurd, there's absolutely no evidence. It's very, very easy to refute," said the student, Mr Waleed Salem, 42.

But as he found out, "once you're slapped with these labels, you go into the black box".

In the black box of pre-trial detention, Mr Salem was never tried or formally charged with a crime. Instead, every time he maxed out the legal pre-trial detention period, a prosecutor extended his imprisonment in a hearing that usually lasted about 90 seconds.

"The first five months, you're trying to convince yourself it's just five months," Mr Salem said. "But after five months come and go and you're still there, now you start to fear the worst."

United States President Joe Biden's meeting with Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman on Friday (July 15) was a conspicuous U-turn for Mr Biden, who once pledged to ostracise the prince over human rights atrocities.

But Mr Biden was set to meet another Arab leader in Jeddah on Saturday whose human rights record he has also denounced: Egyptian President Abdel Fattah al-Sisi.

Egypt holds tens of thousands of political prisoners, according to rights groups and researchers, their ranks swelled by Mr al-Sissi's crushing campaign against dissent.

The crackdown has caught up Egyptians of every stripe, branding them as enemies of the state for even the mildest criticisms.

One case involved the arrest of a politician mulling running against Mr al-Sissi; another, two women on a Cairo subway overheard complaining about rising fares; yet another, a young conscript who posted a Facebook meme of Mr al-Sissi wearing Mickey Mouse ears.

Some political prisoners have had trials, if only perfunctory ones, and have faced harsh sentences. But pre-trial detainees are not granted even such cursory justice.

In the special terrorism courts where the al-Sissi government funnels political opponents, the authorities do not file formal charges, present evidence or, in many cases, allow detainees to defend themselves before locking them up.

No public records exist of how many people are held in pre-trial detention. But an analysis by The New York Times of handwritten court logs, painstakingly kept by volunteer defence lawyers, shows for the first time the number of individuals detained without trial and exposes the circular legal process that can keep them there indefinitely.

In just the six months from September 2020 to February 2021, the Times estimates, about 4,500 people were trapped in pre-trial detention. The true total is probably greater than the Times' estimate, which is only a partial snapshot of the system.

The estimate leaves out detainees who were arrested and released before the five-month mark, the first time a court appearance is required. Nor does it include Egyptians prosecuted outside the capital.

And there is no public accounting of prisoners held off the books in police stations and military camps, or those who have simply vanished.

"More and more ordinary people have been swept up," said Mr Khaled Ali, a rights lawyer.

Pre-trial detention is supposed to give the authorities time to investigate cases, he said. "But in reality, it's being used as a punishment."

Human rights groups estimate that Egypt holds 60,000 political prisoners, a number that includes pre-trial detainees as well as those who have been tried and sentenced, terrorism suspects as well as those accused of simply having wayward political opinions.

Egypt has long denied holding any political detainees. People arrested on accusations of criticising the authorities, officials say, are threatening public order.

"Even protesting - there's a law against it," Mr Salah Sallam, a former member of Egypt's government-appointed National Council for Human Rights, said in an interview. "I can't call someone who's conspired against the state a political prisoner."

In the past few weeks, however, some officials have begun to acknowledge the practice of imprisoning people for their political views, saying it was necessary to restore stability after the turbulence of Egypt's 2011 Arab Spring revolution.

"There are times when the country is going through rough periods, like a period of terrorist attacks or economic reforms, when measures have to be taken," Mr Tarek el-Khouly, a member of Parliament, said in a recent interview.

The legal framework of pre-trial detention gives it the veneer of due process. But interviews with dozens of people - including detainees, former detainees, detainees' families, lawyers, activists and researchers - portray a system in which prosecutors and judges routinely minimise or ignore any rights the detainees have.

During the first five months of detention, detainees can legally be held for two weeks on the basis of accusations levelled by prosecutors, a period that can be extended if prosecutors request more time to investigate.

That is precisely what prosecutors do for most detainees, renewing their detentions every 15 days without formal charges filed or evidence presented. After five months, the detainee gets a hearing before a terrorism court judge, who can renew detentions for 45 days at a time.

In theory, the hearings give detainees another chance to challenge their detentions. In reality, defence lawyers are rare and evidence is almost never shown, former detainees and lawyers said.

The hearings are closed to the public, even to the detainees' families. Defendants appear in crowded, soundproof glass cages that are muted to keep them from being heard - or even hearing their own judgments.

At five months in pre-trial detention, Mr Salem, the graduate student, advanced to terrorism court, where he waited in a soundproof cage with dozens of other defendants.

When his name was called, the judge pressed a button, unmuting the cage and allowing him to speak.

"Your honour, I'm just an academic like you," he began. "I have a daughter, please consider this."

A lawyer who had been designated to represent Mr Salem and half a dozen other defendants stepped up to the bench. He argued that prosecutors had shown no evidence, that the charges were vague and baseless.

The judge extended Mr Salem's detention for another 45 days. He was released in December 2018, nearly seven months after his arrest. But he remains banned from travel, preventing him from seeing his 13-year-old daughter, who lives in Poland with her mother.

"I knew what to expect," Mr Salem said, "but hope is a tenacious thing."

These 45-day stints can be renewed repeatedly for up to two years. After that, the law requires that the detainee be released, although that does not always happen.

In many cases, prosecutors simply bring a new case, starting the two-year timer all over again.

At least 1,764 detainees were recycled into new cases from January 2018 to December 2021, according to the Egyptian Transparency Centre for Research, Documentation and Data Management.

For more than one-quarter of these detainees, the centre found, it was at least the second time they had been shunted into new cases. For some, it had been as many as seven times.

Although there is a legal distinction between pre-trial detention and a prison sentence, detention often amounts to harsh punishment.

Prisoners are held in overcrowded, filthy jails, sometimes for years. They are often deprived of visitors, bedding, food and medical treatment. Torture is common.

Rights groups say hundreds of people have died in Egyptian custody over the past five years from a combination of abysmal conditions, abuse and lack of healthcare.

One reason people are detained for so long without trial, the government says, is that the justice system is clogged with cases. Prosecutors and courts cannot keep up with the sheer number of people getting arrested, a load that grew as Egypt widened its crusade against dissent.

Taking control after the military deposed Egypt's first democratically elected president, Mr al-Sissi promised security and prosperity - all that many Egyptians wanted after years of revolution, chaos and civil strife.

But he has used the pursuit of stability to justify deepening authoritarianism.

First, his government rounded up members of the Muslim Brotherhood, the Islamist movement that had held the presidency before Mr al-Sissi took over, accusing it of responsibility for the militant attacks then tormenting the country.

Seeing the Brotherhood as a political threat, the authorities also targeted anyone suspected of Brotherhood membership and anyone who had participated in Brotherhood-led demonstrations.

Next into detention cells came a growing number of opposition politicians, activists, journalists and academics. Eventually, the repression vacuumed up ordinary protesters and citizens.

Stung by international criticism of its human rights abuses and eager to appease a new American president who had vowed "no more blank cheques" for Mr al-Sissi during his campaign, the Egyptian government unveiled a "national human rights strategy" last autumn.

This year, as economic pressure mounted at home, Mr al-Sissi launched a "national dialogue" - a chance, he said, for the opposition to return to the political fold and push for reforms.

A presidential committee began pardoning dozens of political detainees. Pro-government figures publicly discussed reining in the length of pretrial detentions, suggesting that such measures could be softened now that the government had largely suppressed terrorism and restored stability.

In January, the Biden administration decided to withhold US$130 million (S$182 million) of the US$1.3 billion in military aid the US gives Egypt every year as a legacy of Egypt's 1979 peace treaty with Israel, saying that its human rights reforms fell short of what the administration had pushed for.

But the administration released another US$170 million that was also supposed to be contingent on reform. And there was a consolation prize: a US$2.5 billion arms deal, unveiled just days before the aid cut.