'Freedom isn't survival': Released Palestinian prisoners expose torture in Israeli confinement after ceasefire deal

When Ibrahim Abu Odeh stepped into Gaza’s grey light after seven months in Israeli prisons, he tilted his head to the sky and whispered, his voice trembling, “This is the first time I’ve seen the sky without a fence since March.”

For Ibrahim, that simple act of looking up at an open sky reflected what thousands of Palestinians have endured since the Gaza genocide began after 7 October 2023.

Rights groups say that for nearly two years, Israeli prisons have become vast detention centres, holding thousands of Palestinians under conditions that strip away both human dignity and identity.

Ibrahim, 35, was detained in March 2024 when Israeli special forces raided his neighbourhood in Jabalia refugee camp, in the north of the Gaza Strip.

Speaking to The New Arab, he recalled his arrest as "a night that swallowed time."

"They handcuffed us, threw us to the ground, and left us under the open sky for 24 hours, with no food, no water, no sleep," he added.

"We were blindfolded, faces pressed into dirt. The world shrank to the sound of boots, curses, and screams."

Transferred to an Israeli interrogation site inside Gaza, Ibrahim noted that he spent three days without food or rest.

"They would storm the room every few hours, kick us, and pour water on our faces. It wasn't about questions, it was about breaking our souls," he shared, adding that after the interrogation, prisoners were loaded onto buses with their hands bound and eyes covered.

“We didn’t know where we were going,” he continued. “They beat us all the way. I could hear the groans of other men, the thud of blows, and told myself: stay conscious, at least to prove you are alive.”

Eventually, the bus stopped at Ofer Military Prison in the West Bank, where Ibrahim described the experience as “a new chapter of hell.”

That said, Ibrahim went on to describe Ofer as a place where time seemed to disappear, with no distinction between day and night, only constant interrogations.

“I would close my eyes for seconds, trying to escape into a dreamless place. Sometimes I thought: this is where it ends; I will vanish here, unknown even to my mother,” he said.

He also recalled a guard saying, “You don’t deserve air,” and spitting in his face.

“At that moment, I realised they could take everything — except the dignity I kept inside me,” Ibrahim continued, adding that he also caught scabies because of poor hygiene, and that prisoners feared fainting because “those who lost consciousness were often harassed or assaulted.”

He added that even doctors took part in the abuse, recalling, “I once asked for help, and the doctor slapped me, saying, ‘You’re terrorists, not patients.’ That’s when I understood there was no relief, only pain in uniform.”

In sharing this, Ibrahim stressed that during cold nights, blankets were taken away, saying, "They poured cold water on us at midnight to start a new round of interrogation. You couldn't even scream; screaming meant punishment."

For the first time in the interview, Ibrahim smiled faintly, saying that when he left and looked at the sky, it felt like a rebirth, as he saw clouds without wires and realised that no one can truly understand freedom unless they have lived a day without it.

Today, Ibrahim writes daily, saying, “I won’t let prison kill me twice. I’m documenting everything to guard our memories from erasure. These stories are Gaza’s collective memory.”

He dreams of starting a support group for released prisoners in his territory, adding, "We need healing through words, just as we once needed bread."

Yet, despite these aspirations, Ibrahim explained that, for him, true freedom has not yet begun. He fears being forgotten and worries that their suffering might fade from memory, even though he and others have been released.

A doctor from Nasser to Sde Teiman

For Mohammed Abu Musa, a 45-year-old doctor at Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis, freedom came after twenty months in Israeli prisons — months that took a heavy toll on both his health and his faith in the world.

Speaking to The New Arab, Mohammed recalled being in the emergency room at Nasser Hospital when Israeli forces entered in February 2024.

“I wasn’t carrying a weapon, just a stethoscope. A soldier shouted something in Hebrew. Then I felt a hand push me to the ground. My wrists were tied, my eyes covered. From that moment, I didn’t see daylight again for 20 months,” he shared. 

His first destination was Sde Teiman, a detention centre built for Gazans. "The place was made for torture," he said.

"We were forced to kneel for hours, hands tied behind our backs. If someone moved, they were kicked. If you breathed too loudly, you were hit."

Inside Sde Teiman, Mohammed said, "Everything was meant to destroy the spirit before the body."

As Mohammed puts it, food was thrown to prisoners and toilet access was limited to twice a week, forcing many to relieve themselves inside their cells, with one man saying, “I can’t tell where my body’s smell ends and the cell’s begins.”

Mohammed also recalls never seeing the sun, saying, "Days, weeks, they meant nothing. I sometimes thought I was lying in an open grave."

Yet, despite these horrific conditions, Mohammed said hope still clung to him like a heartbeat, recalling his patients at Nasser Hospital and their cries and faith, and telling himself, “A doctor doesn’t die before saving others."

After being moved between Sde Teiman and Negev Prison, he was finally freed, weighing 20 kilograms less than before. But outside, he faced more pain.

“When I was released, I looked for my mother and sister,” he said, his voice breaking.

“They weren’t there. My brother whispered, ‘They died in a raid.’ I felt the earth spin. I had survived torture just to find my home empty. That’s when I understood: freedom isn’t survival.”

Abu Musa paused, tears in his eyes. “I didn’t scream in interrogation. But I cried when I stood at my mother’s grave.”

Still, he chose to return to medicine, saying, “The first day I re-entered Nasser Hospital, the building was cracked and equipment was scarce, but the smell was the smell of life. My hands trembled as I put on gloves, and every patient reminded me of someone left behind in the cells.”

He added, “When I save a life now, I reclaim something they tried to take from me. I couldn’t save my mother, but I can save other mothers. That gives my life meaning.”

Mohammed continued, “They can break the body, but not the will. To those freed: don’t let pain consume you. Make it light for others. I’m planting life again in the same soil where I first died.”

The long road home

Ibrahim and Mohammed were among the hundreds of Palestinians released at the Kerem Shalom crossing over the past few weeks. Journalists described the scene as both a celebration and a funeral: tears, embraces, fainting, and silence too deep to name.

Former prisoner Ahmed Faisal, who was released in the same deal, described his first steps outside prison as “walking out of a mass grave.”

"I trembled all the way to the crossing. After two years of darkness, I saw light again. The air smelled like freedom and dust at once," he told The New Arab.

Seeing Gaza’s skyline, he wept. “I thought I’d find it as I left it, but it was hollowed out. The smell of gunpowder mixed with bread, the faces of mothers pale as if they’d just come from a graveyard. Then I realised the prison hadn’t ended. It had only changed shape.”

Inside prisons, he said, detainees dreamt of freedom as salvation, but when he returned, he realised that true freedom isn’t leaving a cell — it’s returning to a homeland still alive, and Gaza is fighting just to breathe.

He paused, saying that their joy was incomplete, as brothers remained behind the bars they had left, and that he would not feel truly free until the last prisoner was released and Israel was held accountable for what it had done to them.

"We left with broken bodies, but our souls remain there, in every cell without light," Ahmed explained.

Bodies exhausted and souls in need of healing

According to the Hamas Prisoners’ Affairs Office, Israel recently released around 1,968 Palestinians, including 1,718 arrested since the genocide began. In exchange, Palestinian resistance groups handed over 20 Israeli captives and four bodies under a deal mediated by Egypt, Qatar, and the United States.

Dr Mohammed Zaqout, Director General of Field Hospitals in Gaza, told The New Arab that most released prisoners arrived "in alarming condition."

"Over 70 percent suffer from skin diseases like scabies. Many show signs of malnutrition, dehydration, and untreated fractures. But the deepest wounds are psychological: chronic fear, hallucinations, insomnia,” he said.

Some refuse to remove their clothes during exams, he added, “because the memory of torture is tied to anyone wearing a white coat.”

With this in mind, the Prisoners’ Affairs Commission estimates that over 11,000 Palestinians remain in Israeli custody, including 4,000 from Gaza, most held without charge under administrative detention.

Even after the early-October ceasefire, the effects of genocide persist. Many released prisoners returned to rubble instead of homes, and grief instead of reunion.

“I welcomed my son with tears,” said Um Khaled, a mother of a freed prisoner from Khuza’a, sitting beside the ruins of her house.

“But I couldn’t find a home to embrace him. He left one prison for another in Gaza itself.”

In makeshift tents across Gaza, dozens of released men now sleep on the ground, haunted by nights that never end. Aid workers report severe trauma, depression, and suicidality among former detainees — signs of a community forced to rebuild itself with broken hands.

For those who endured the darkness of the cells, the bars may have opened, but the world outside remains fenced by loss, rubble, and unhealed memory.

Sally Ibrahim is The New Arab's correspondent from Gaza