How I reclaimed my life after 18 years in Israeli prison

After 18 years, or 6,573 days, I was released from Israeli prison. Days later, I went into a store and didn't even know how to buy my necessities. I stood in front of the shelves as if I had arrived in a new world, seeing brands I did not recognise, payment methods I had never used, and screens blinking before me demanding quick decisions.

Everyone around me moved with confidence, picking what they wanted, looking at smartphones that did not exist when I entered prison. My head spun, I felt anxiety, fear, and tension. I told myself to escape. I took a deep breath, tried to gather myself, and walked out of the store.

The years of captivity were visible all around me, and they were reflected in the faces that awaited me.

When I hugged my mother and father, the years were traced in their faces: wrinkles I had not witnessed forming, grey hairs spreading, and fatigue that had accumulated in my absence. I had been living in a parallel time to theirs.

In that moment, I was confronted with the fact that an entire life had gone on without me, moments of sorrow I had not shared, joys that passed, illnesses I didn’t ease, and nights of worry that I couldn't provide reassurance for.

The hug was long, but it revealed a gap deeper than the physical distance.

No agency, no choice

In captivity, the meaning of time changes. Days blur together and rhythms become slow and heavy. Time is measured by procedures and rules within the walls that confine us.

The day begins with a morning count, guards shouting and door knockings, and ends with the same routine. Choices over what we like or dislike are meaningless. No work to go to in the morning, no family or children to look after. Time stops. The 18 years of my life were uprooted.

Within the walls, you cannot choose when to speak or remain silent, what food or clothes you prefer. Eventually, a person can forget that they once even had desires, tastes, or preferences. Life becomes a series of instructions you have to follow, leaving no room for personal decisions.

When the ability to choose is taken from you for long periods, the challenge becomes preserving the right to self-determination in such conditions. And, reclaiming this once you're free becomes as painful as it is necessary.

But seeing the sky without barriers is a dream. Eating your mother’s food, choosing the colour of your shirt, feeling safe and secure, is all a dream.

Every prisoner carries a basket of dreams that grows day by day. The longer the prison term, the larger the basket becomes. And the larger your basket, the further you are from earthly time.

The prison guards try to psychologically control you in order to create an obedient, compliant being who only thinks about basic survival. But Palestinian prisoners are constantly working on strengthening their mind and spirit to preserve themselves, and to keep the flame of hope - and the basket of dreams - alive.

Education

Despite the physical constraints and attempts to strip me of my willpower, I earned a Master’s degree in international relations from the Open University of Israel through distance learning.

Education was one of the achievements gained by prisoners through hunger strikes.

Indeed, many of the improvements to our conditions in captivity were the result of prisoners’ struggles, including through hunger strikes. I was part of three strikes, one lasting up to thirty consecutive days.

Though the right to study was later taken away, I completed my degree before it was the case.

Education has always been important to me. In fact, prior to my arrest by Israeli authorities in 2001, I had earned a bachelor’s degree from Bethlehem University in social work and psychology, and worked in mental health with children. I believed listening could give a person space to breathe and feel safe, allowing them to exercise their will through speech.

Indeed, until Israel stripped me of everything I was building my future step by step in a city that knew no stability or security, where people were deprived of peace.

After prison

Throughout the years of captivity I’d ask myself how I could ever return to normal life. The answer certainly didn’t come once I was actually freed in 2019. Fear of the unknown loomed. I felt like a child being born anew. I had to relearn the simplest things, like how to interact with people, recognise family and friends again, and find myself in a city that had undergone many upheavals.

I would wake at dawn to watch the sunrise without barriers or wires and observe children walking to school with their backpacks. In all the years in prison I had never seen a child. Now, just seeing them restores my humanity.

But my experience had left me feeling like I needed to try to ease the suffering of others and help them cope with psychological problems.

I decided to return to mental health work, and joined an organisation that was committed to such efforts in Jerusalem. I also continued with my education and earned a Master’s degree in clinical social work from the Hebrew University, and then I went on to specialise in treating post-traumatic stress disorder, particularly stemming from sexual abuse.

Now, when I hear a patient say their life stopped at a certain event, I do not approach it as a theoretical concept. I understand this language and its weight. I also know that something can move again.

Strength

I draw hope from the mothers who, against all odds, find unexpected strength to continue for their children, and from the young men who choose to speak up rather than remain silent in the face of danger, and in the women who refuse to have their future ruled by old wounds. In all of these Palestinians I see a brave attempt to reclaim the right to choose.

The purpose of my work today is not to remove people's pain, but to help them regain the sense that their lives still belong to them.

Prison undoubtedly stole years from me, as well as my presence in the lives of my loved ones. But it could not take away my belief in people’s ability to rebuild and restore themselves.

Every day, I remember how much I was afraid of the world that awaited me upon my release. I recall my hesitant steps and how the simplest details felt like monumental tests.

I did not know whether I could reconcile with life, whether I could just reinsert myself into the outside world.

I learned that freedom is not a moment of crossing a threshold, but a long journey to reclaim the self. It is not merely walking out of prison, but regaining your desire and passion for tomorrow.

It is reclaiming the right to express your desires and objections. It is realising you exist and have a place under the sun, even if you felt lost at a certain point.

Bilal Odeh is a clinical social worker and psychotherapist specialising in cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) and the treatment of post-traumatic stress disorders resulting from sexual abuse. He earned a bachelor’s degree in social work and psychology from Bethlehem University in 2000 and later obtained a master’s degree in clinical social work from the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Odeh has worked in mental health in the city for several years, focusing on the development and use of digital therapy and remote treatment to expand access to services and overcome geographical limitations. He was arrested during the Second Intifada and spent 18 years in Israeli prisons.

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