Global Sumud Flotilla 2026. A personal diary
- April 29: We arrived in Syros and the boats. That same evening, we learned about the attack on Crete. Over the next few days, we repaired and cleaned the boats and painted the sails.
- May 4: We loaded the humanitarian aid. Meetings were held to discuss our route and the meeting with the other boats. It was decided that the meeting would take place in Marmaris.
- May 6, we conducted a test sail.
- May 7, we obtained exit visas from Greece.
- May 8, we set sail for Marmaris.
- Around midnight on May 9–10, we arrived in Marmaris and met up with the other boats.
- May 12, a general assembly was held, and it was decided to continue the mission.
- May 14, we set sail for Gaza.
- May 15, while sailing south, we receive orders for some boats to head to Kastellorizo for repairs and the rest to Antalya.
During the stay I read this part of the history of Kastellorizo. Between 23 and 26 October 1943, approximately 1,000 civilians were evacuated in at least three contingents and shipped to temporary accommodation at camps in Cyprus. A few were able to remain in Cyprus, but on 4 January, 1944, most were transported, via Haifa and a temporary camp at Atlee, to United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration Camps in Nuseirat, one hour’s drive from Gaza in Palestine, there to remain until September 1945, with 14,000 other refugees, from Samos, and the Dodecanese. - May 16 (afternoon), we set sail from Kastellorizo to meet up with the rest of the fleet.
- May 17 (early morning): We meet up with the fleet. We all set sail together around 10 a.m. As soon as we enter international waters, we destroy the ship’s papers.
May 18
We are west of Cyprus. At 10:20 a.m., we learn of the first attack on a boat. We send out a Mayday on the VHF. No response from the Cypriots. We repeat the call two more times. Shortly after, our communications began to be jammed. At 4:30 p.m., they approach us. We are the last of the Greek boats. We throw away our phones and activate the Garmin distress button.
There are 10–12 Zionazis in the speed boat. They order us to turn off the engine. Six of them board the ship. We stand with our hands raised. They took our passports and, one by one, lead us to the bow of the sailboat and conduct a body search. Then we return to our seats. They search the interior of the boat. I find the Garmin lying next to my feet. I pick it up and press the distress button again. I hide it under a pillow. They lead us to the speed boat. Two of the Zionazis went down into the ship’s interior with a hammer. After a while, they reappear. They’re carrying the Starlink router with them. They board the speed boat, and we set off.
10–15 minutes later, we arrive at the prison ship. As soon as I step inside, a brute Zionazi grabs me by the arm and twists it behind my back. At the same time, he pushes my head down, and we start moving toward the interior, almost running. I can’t keep up and fall down. He pulls me up by my life jacket. I manage to get back up, and the same thing starts all over again. I can’t keep up with his pace, so he shoves me. I fall face-first onto the iron deck. I get back up. The same thing happens again. After about ten meters, he throws me next to my fellow detainees like a sack. He hits me in the leg with the taser and he pours water on my face, which was covered in blood. I sit there for about five minutes. Another Zionazi comes over and splashes water on me again. I can’t breathe. He pulls me up and wipes my face with a kufiya.
We walk down a corridor and come to a spot where some people are sitting on a bench. They take off my raincoat and my sweatshirt. I’m left in just my T-shirt. They tell me to take off my shoes. They take the bag where I had my medication, my glasses, and my charger. They ask me my name, country, ethnicity, and whether I’m taking any medication. They put a bracelet with the number 114 on me. I get up, slip my shoes on haphazardly, and they tell me to pull down my pants. Before I can pull them back up, the beast starts dragging me along. We’re running again; my pants fall down to my ankles and prevent me from walking. I lose my shoes. We reach the container’s entrance. He throws me to the ground and starts kicking me in the ribs and the spine. He stops, then shocks me with the taser on my leg twice. Not satisfied, he shocks me again with the taser on my arm. He holds it there for 10 seconds. My arm goes numb. He starts kicking me in the ribs and in the spine again. Two or three minutes later, he throws me out into the courtyard.
My comrades gather around me. They lift me up and pull me into the first container to protect me. They take me deep inside. Phaedra sits next to me and tries to comfort me. I’m not in much pain yet because I’m warm. I’m lying down, but it’s uncomfortable. The floor is hard and damp. A small water bottle serves as a pillow. There are no blankets or soap. Pantelis gives me his shoes. We’re crammed together, and any attempt to change position is difficult. I’ve lost track of time. I shift my position and move to the corner. It’s getting dark.
Around 10 or 11 (I suppose), we hear sirens and noises coming from inside the ship. We realize they’re bringing in more people. As I lie there, I hear the screams of our comrades as they’re being beaten. It’s a nightmare. This goes on for about an hour. Then silence. The guys try to settle the new arrivals. There’s no room. Tired, tortured, injured bodies lie side by side. It’s reminiscent of slave ships. As time passes, I start to feel more pain. I sit up and lean against my back. I start to hallucinate. I stand up with difficulty since there’s nothing to hold onto. I sit like that for quite a while.
I’m thinking of Dante and the inscription above the gate of Hell. “Abandon all hope, everyone who enters here”
At some point, as dawn begins to break, I try to get out. It’s very difficult. There are so many people inside the container that there’s no room to stand. 60 people. They help me get out. I go to the toilet. There are 2 toilets for 180 people. I come back, look inside the container, and realize it’s impossible to get back in. Luckily, I find my shoes lying in the courtyard. I sit on the doorstep. On the door of the torture container there is as sticker saying “Fuck Hamas”. The pain in my lower back is very intense. I find all my companions. We try to figure out which way we’re going by the shadows. One to the south, one to the east. Through a crack, I see that the ship is moving quickly. I don’t eat so I won’t have to use the toilet.
We hold a quick meeting while the Zionazis aim their guns and water cannons at us. We see the lasers shining down on us. There’s also a Zionazi with a camera. Two or three people ask the guards for water, bread, and sanitary pads. This goes on for half an hour. There is no response from the guards. We wait. At some point, we hear footsteps at the exit container. The door opens, and they throw in 3–4 stunt grenades. The Zionazis appear (about 8 of them with shields and weapons). We gather in front of the toilets. They throw more flash grenades and leave small bottles of water, bread, and a pack of sanitary pads. They leave. The bread is frozen, so we put it in the sun to thaw. Anna finds Teresa, an orthopedist. She comes to examine me. She realizes I have broken ribs and a fractured bone in my spine. She tells me to check if there’s blood in my urine.
Dimitris is also injured, just like me. The kids from La Cirena are barefoot because they weren’t given their shoes. Many are starting to lie down on the deck. The beasts are flooding it with seawater. We’re crammed into the containers. At some point, it stops. My feet are soaked. As boat keeps changing direction we’re all hoping it will head toward Cyprus or Crete. The pain in my lower back is unbearable when I walk. My comrades support me so I can move.
Toward evening, the door of the torture container suddenly swings open and stunt grenades are thrown. It doesn’t faze me anymore. It’s starting to seem funny. They’re like the Romans in Asterix. Pathetic scum who are afraid to show their faces for fear of being recognized. Little by little, we gather in front of the toilets. They ask for something in Hebrew. A Canadian comrade acts as an interpreter. They want people to clean up the area. Three kids volunteer. With their backs turned to them, they walk slowly over, grab trash bags, and collect whatever’s inside the dumpsters. That is, only plastic water bottles. They leave us water and bread, throw off some stunt grenades, and leave. We sort out the water and give one small bottle to each person. There isn’t enough for everyone.
It’s starting to get dark. I try to lie down, but it’s impossible. I get up and sit near the door. We hear sirens and noise again. New arrivals. After a while, screams from the beatings. There’s no room for them in our container. They’re taking them to another container. I sit on the doorstep, half outside, half inside. It’s cold and damp.
Everyone is starting to calm down and try to sleep. You see bodies strewn about, tortured. It looks like a slaughterhouse. Those who get up to use the toilet can’t find their way back to their seats. They jostle each other, settling in as best they can.
Time passes; I’m about to fall asleep sitting up, but the pain won’t let me. Around two o’clock, a Zionazi who was on duty shows up. He starts messing with me using his flashlight and a laser pointer. This goes on for two hours. When his shift ends, he bangs on all the containers to wake everyone up.
It’s dawn. We can see that we’re heading southeast. So, toward the territories occupied in ’48. Some people say they saw pigeons, so we must be close to land. Teresa examines me again. The hematoma has grown. I go to the bathroom with help. The toilets are almost overflowing. There’s no toilet paper. People are using bread.
Around 9 (I suppose) we realize we’ve arrived. We can hear sounds from the mainland. For those of us who are injured, the doctors put a blue plastic ribbon from a bag on us so we can be identified and won’t be hit again. They also put a cord on me to hold my hand.
The Zionazis are shouting for us all to gather behind the black line. From above, the Zionazis are aiming at us and taking our pictures. A drone is flying overhead. The door of the torture container opens. They throw stunt grenades, and they step out into the courtyard. In coordination with the Canadian who spoke Hebrew, they begin calling out our numbers in groups of ten. I’m number 114 out of 184. Anna is number 113. Our turn comes; they tear the blue plastic ribbon and toss aside the cord. They tie our hands with zip ties and make us kneel with our heads bowed. It was cloudy at dawn, but now the sun is strong. A Zionazi shouts that he’ll shoot anyone who raises their head.
They start playing a song over and over again (later I learned it was their national anthem). I count to 15, then I get bored. I get tired and rest my hands to support myself, then my elbows, and finally my head. My nose is bleeding. Anna blows on me to cool me off and puts her head over mine to shade me. Finally, she tells me to lie down. I lie down while the song continues. Later I found out they played it 70 times. At some point, it stops.
They start herding us out by the dozens again to get off the prison-ship. We move along relatively quickly, but after a while we stop. I lose sight of Anna. Again, on my knees, hands, elbows, and head. My nose is bleeding again. A Zionazi steps on my head with his boot. After 20 minutes, we get up. They drag us by the tire-ups as if we were animals, making various animal noises and laughing. On the ramp between the ship and the shore, I find Anna. We hug. We’ll meet again in Istanbul.
As we get off the ship, they cut off our old tire-ups and put us new ones, but with the hands behind the back. They throw away the bracelet with the number on it and give me a new one. I don’t remember the number (290-something, I think). They call out our names and give us our passports and belongings. They lead me roughly to a tent, my head bowed, and toss me next to other comrades. Luckily, my head lands on a trash bag. My passport and my little bag slip away from me. I ask a fellow detainee to give me my passport. He hands it to me and tries to loosen my tire-ups. The small bag containing my medications, glasses, and charger opens, and everything spills out. I give up on them. I hold on only to my passport.
They pick us up and take us (always with our heads bowed) to a huge space where there are many Zionazis (civilians, police officers, soldiers). They make us sit in chairs. They start calling out to us based on the language we speak. When they call out “English,” I stand up. A young Zionazi police officer takes me aside. We go to an office. Next to me, I hear the word “Palestine” from someone who is being asked about his nationality. They start beating him. He’s screaming. They make me sit down at a desk and tell me to look at a camera. Then they ask for my name, country, and nationality. The Zionazi asks me why I entered Israel. I told him I didn’t enter—I was brought there. When he asks if I’ve been there before, I said yes. Why I was going to Gaza? We were delivering humanitarian aid. He asks if I have a family. I say yes. “Would you take your family to Gaza?” I reply, “Yes, if you weren’t bombing it.” End of conversation.
A young Zionazi policewoman leads me to another office. I sit down. There is an interrogator who doesn’t speak English and an interpreter. The same questions. Name, country, nationality. They show me a piece of paper listing my rights. My Zionazi policewoman plays with a small Israeli flag in front of me. She tells me how beautiful it is—the most beautiful flag in the world.
Adalah’s lawyer, Lubna Tuma, appears. She shows them her ID. She prepares two powers of attorney from me to her. I have to sign them, but I can’t with my hands tied behind my back. She asks them to untie me. They refuse. I manage to sign with a scribble. She informs me that they will give me three documents to sign and tells me not to sign any of them. They will ask me three questions. I’m to answer “no comment” to the first two, and to the third—if I want to return to my country—I’m to answer “yes.” That’s exactly what happens. The lawyer asks me if they hit me; I tell her yes, and I go to show her the bruises, but they stop me. I ask her what the procedure will be. She replies that they’ll take us to prison, that I shouldn’t worry because it’s a long way away, and that a judge will see us the next day and then we’ll be deported. She’ll come to see me there. I ask the interpreter if we’ll see the Greek ambassador, and he replies, “Probably tomorrow.” We finish up there, and the lawyer leaves.
Transfer to another office. Again: name, country, nationality, whether I’ve been to Israel before, when, and why. Whether I’m taking any medication. The Zionazi is playing with the little flag again. She motions for me to get up so we can leave, and the Zionazi in the office takes the little flag and holds it in front of my mouth for me to kiss it. In another office, they take off my shoes, take my shoelaces, conduct a body search, give me a jacket, and put my passport, photocopies, and other documents in an envelope, and we head toward the exit. They make us kneel down. And they put the folder on my back. I’m in pain and can’t use my hands. My comrades tell me to sit on my butt. I manage to do so with great difficulty because of the pain.
Ten minutes later, they call out for us to stand up. The guys help me get up. The Zionazis remove the zip ties and put chains on our legs and handcuffs on us. Fortunately, they put the handcuffs in front. The handcuffs are very tight. They pull us in a way that causes us even more pain.
We go outside and I see a bus. I get on, and they put me in a cell—half a square meter—across from the bus door. I thought everyone was put in cells like that, but later I learned that this was solitary confinement. The others are in “regular cells.” After a while, they bring in a Spanish comrade, but he speaks only Spanish. They lock us in. Through the window, I see various comrades passing by. I see Navid, Phaedra, and Anna. Anna’s handcuffs are cuffed behind her back. I feel sad. Comrades are passing by, screaming in pain from the handcuffs.
The heat in the cell is unbearable. My hands hurt. We sit like this for about 30 minutes, maybe more. I’m sweating profusely and I’m thirsty. We haven’t had any water since morning. At some point, they turn on the air conditioning. What a relief. I take deep breaths to calm down. The pain in my hands is less intense. We set off. After about 20 minutes, the bus brakes suddenly. My companion falls against my ribs; it hurts, and the handcuffs tighten even more. Throughout the entire trip, I’m on edge, worried it might brake suddenly again. I think of the Palestinians who spend days, weeks, months in handcuffs and with chains on their feet. Many are maimed.
Outside the cell, two armed Zionazis are playing with their cell phones. I look out through a window. At first, an urban landscape. Then fields. Finally, a desert. The sun begins to set. I think to myself that at least it won’t be hot in prison.
It is the largest prison in the Zionist entity. It is located in the territories stolen in 1948, in the Negev Desert.
We arrive after sunset. We get off the bus; they remove the chains from our legs and replace the handcuffs. Looser ones this time. My hands are swollen and numb. They still are a month later.
A Zionazi grabs me, pushes my head down, and we start moving. He starts hitting me in the ribs. It hurts; he realizes this and hits me even harder.
He puts me in a small cell with no windows. There are 10–12 of us inside. Fortunately, there’s a small faucet, and I drink some water. Ten minutes later, they take me out and lead me to put on prison clothes. They strip us, and then they leave me in just my underwear. There, they take my shoes, socks, pant, and T-shirt and throw them into a torn black bag. That’s where I lose my anti-fascist T-shirt and the bloodstained pant. They give us prison uniforms.
They round us up outside and make us run in groups of ten—one behind the other, bent over—around the prison buildings just for their amusement. This goes on for 10 minutes. We end up in a large, bright, and clean room. Back on our knees, bent over. I get tired; I rest on my hands, elbows, and head, and my nose starts bleeding again. I notice that although the floor looks smooth, it’s made of very tiny spikes. That makes contact more painful. We continue the tour. We go to a “medical” room. They undress me, weigh me, and make me do three deep squats. He asks me about the medications again. He takes photos of the bruises.
Four of us (a Moroccan, a Malaysian, and a Mauritanian with a broken arm) are being taken to the “judge.” This is a sign that we’ll be leaving the next day. A clean container with chairs and air conditioning. He asks us if we understand English, if we have a lawyer, and if we want to return to our home country. He asks if we need anything. I tell him I need a doctor and painkillers. He jots something down and gives instructions to someone to get us to a doctor and get painkillers. Empty words.
We go out into the hallway. The hallway is made of smooth concrete and has a metal grate in the middle to drain water. They make us sit with our knees on the grate. It hurts a lot. My knee is bleeding. They lift us up and lead us to a large wire cage. The Zionazi guard steps on my slippers as I walk to make me fall.
There are about 60 of us in the cage. The comrades help me lean my back against the bars. A Zionazi shows up and says we have to sign a document or we won’t be allowed to leave. I tell him I won’t sign it. He doesn’t understand and calls me over to him. He shows me a blank page where we’re supposed to sign. I tell him I won’t sign. I go back to my spot. Almost no one signed. But it didn’t matter anyway.
After a while, he calls me and the other three of us who were in the “judge,” and they lead us to a cell in the distance. The cell has no walls, just bars, and is covered by a tarp. There’s sand everywhere. There are six double metal bunks. They take off our handcuffs. It seems strange to me because there’s no one else there, and there’s no toilet or sink. I lie down on the metal bed, but I’m in a lot of pain. I start to fall asleep, but I wake up from the pain and from not being able to breathe. I can hear dogs barking in the distance. Opposite and to the left of the cell is a large screen that continuously plays a propaganda video about Hamas’s alleged crimes on October 7.
An hour goes by without anyone showing up. At some point, we hear voices. They’re bringing more people into the cell next door. We call out to the guard that we need water. He half-fills a bucket and gives us each a sandwich. He allows one of us to bring in mattresses and one blanket each. I can’t lie down without feeling pain. More comrades begin to arrive. I see Sebastian, who was traveling with us from Syros. He tells me that right after they picked us up, Ben Gvir showed up to put on a show, but the detainees protested, shouting “Free Palestine,” and he left quickly.
Then two more members of the Greek delegation, Pantelis and Vangelis arrive. They make me sit on the bunk next to the door so that if they open it to go to the bathroom, I can get there more easily. There are 30 of us in the cell. We can’t move. I lie down and trying to sleep, plagued by nightmares and pain.
Around 5 in the morning, I wake up; dawn is breaking. I can hear birds singing. A young Algerian doctor asks the Zionazis to use the toilet. He tells me he’s been asking for at least an hour. No one is responding. I start asking too. At 6 a.m., there’s a shift change for the Zionists. We ask to use the restroom again, but nothing happens. Slowly, everyone wakes up. We keep insisting on using the restroom. Finally, they let us go one by one. We also fill the bucket with water.
Around 7:00–7:30, they begin to handcuff us one by one. An hour later, they take us out 10 at a time and make us kneel outside the cell. Then they stand us up, call out our names, and lead us outside to a prison transport bus. In my “vagon,” the windows are covered. There are 20 of us. I spot two Greeks: Yiannis from Kyriakos X and Yiannis, the captain of the Last Dream.
We wait there for about an hour, and finally we set off. I realize we’re taking a different route than the one we came on because it’s full of twists and turns. The trip takes about 3 hours. We ask for water, but they don’t give us any. Through a crack in the window, everything looks like a desert. We guess we’re either heading to Jordan or to an airport in the south.
Finally, we arrive at Ramón Airport. They remove our handcuffs and they lead us through the airport corridors. We see the Greek ambassador sitting at a counter. We reach the tarmac and see the Turkish Airlines planes. There are also many American C-130s. We climb the stairs. Some Turkish comrades throw away their prison uniforms; the Zionists get angry and try to catch them and board the plane. The pilot and the crew stop them.
We take off.
We are free, but we are leaving behind more than 11,000 Palestinian hostages (including more than 300 children). A very bitter freedom.