Fifty-two hours on an Israeli prison ship

They had just pushed Eleni next to me, forcing her to her knees, her face squeezed against the cold metallic container. She turned to me and whispered, “How are you?” “Been better, to be honest,” I thought to myself. That’s all I could think of, as if a mediocre attempt at humour might make the guards looming over us disappear. But I said nothing. I nodded back at her before being dragged around 90 degrees to face someone typing on a computer. …