By Ali Al-Hajee

Ali Al-Hajee spent ten years and sixteen days in prison in Bahrain, the majority of it in the notorious central Jau reform and rehabilitation centre. He was arrested on 20 May 2013, subjected to brutal torture, sentenced to ten years in prison on 28 May 2014, and released on 2 June 2023.  During his time in detention, he exposed torture and mistreatment in Jau Prison and advocated relentlessly for the rights of prisoners. 

This article was written with the assistance of Insiya Raja, an associate at the Bahrain Institute for Rights and Democracy (BIRD). 

I entered Jau Prison on 2 June 2014 – thirty-one days before Bahrain announced Law No. (18) of 2014 promulgating Reform and Rehabilitation Institution (Reform Law), a supposedly landmark prison reform bill that would overhaul the entire abusive incarceration system in Bahrain. The stated aim of the law was to institute a form of detention designed to prepare inmates to reintegrate into society and prevent recidivism. 

As this week marks the law’s tenth anniversary, I reflect on the persistent failure of authorities to implement its provisions.

The Law: Principle vs Practice

While the law enshrines many rights aligned with international standards, these are violated in principle. Even the most basic provision of the law, which is that the prison administration must provide incoming inmates with information about their rights, either verbally or in writing (Article 16), has been ignored. Neither I nor anyone I was imprisoned with has ever been informed of our rights.

Punitive and collective punishment: 2015 and 2017

Disciplinary punishments cannot be imposed before interrogating the prisoner and hearing their defence (Article 54). While the law defines the conditions under which disciplinary penalties can be imposed and for how long, the prison administration has either found loopholes within the law to exacerbate the punishments or ignored the law altogether.

Article 56 (clause 12) prohibits the use of solitary confinement for a period exceeding seven days. However, the prison administration manipulates this law by taking the prisoner to the prison clinic after seven days and then returning him to solitary confinement—thus, technically not violating the law. 

On November 12, 2018, I was placed in solitary confinement for four days along with human rights defender Naji Fateel, after we exposed human rights violations in an audio recording. We were shocked to discover that one of the political prisoners with a mental illness in an adjacent cell had been held in a solitary confinement cell with another inmate suffering from a mental illness. They had to share one bed in a two by one metre cell in blatant violation of protections for prisoners with mental illnesses (Article 77). After complaining about his situation to oversight bodies and alerting his family, we learned that two months later he had finally been transferred to a mental hospital—only after spending a year in solitary confinement. 

Prison authorities used punitive and collective punishment numerous times during my detention in Jau Prison, depriving us of even our most fundamental rights and freedoms.

Family visitations and phone calls are basic rights clearly outlined in the law (Articles 36 and 45). It is also defined that the administration cannot postpone visits for more than “two renewable visits for any reason” (Article 40) and phone calls for more than two weeks (Article 56) to prevent prolonged denial of visitation and communication.

Yet, the administration often has cut off communication with the outside world for political prisoners as a mechanism of collective punishment. In 2015, after a few prisoners protested and sparked a riot, the entire prison population was punished with authorities indiscriminately using tear gas and beating us. Then, our family visitations were suspended for three months and phone calls were cut off for a month. On 10 March 2015, after the riots, they called me by name along with 79 others, and we were taken to Building 10, where I was kept in security isolation for two years. Every time we had to leave the building to make a phone call or visit the clinic, we were shackled—our hands and feet were cuffed and linked by an iron chain.

Two major events led to a heightened security situation within the prison in January 2017: there was a prison break and three torture victims were executed, after seven years of an unofficial moratorium on the use of the death penalty. Following this, our phone calls were restricted for nearly a month, and even afterward, we were only allowed short early morning calls. 

In March 2017, authorities punitively installed glass barriers during visitations and began shackling us anytime we needed to leave the cell, including for medical appointments, as reported by Human Rights Watch. Many of us refused to take our visits in protest of this humiliating measure. I went on a hunger strike in February 2019 to protest the denial of unobstructed family visits and medical care. On 6 November 2019, which marked 1000 days since I had seen my family and 66 days on hunger strike, I wrote a letter from Jau Prison, following which I was allowed one special visit in December 2019. 

The right to exercise daily in the open air (Article 35) is also reduced arbitrarily by prison authorities, sometimes limited to only ten minutes a day—which is the only time we are allowed to make phone calls, wash our clothes, and exercise. Used to punish us collectively, we were even locked in our cells 24 hours a day for three months in 2015 and for almost a month in 2017.

Even now, since the death of political prisoner Husain Khalil in April 2024 due to apparent medical negligence, prisoners on strike in numerous buildings of Jau Prison have been denied phone calls, visitations, and access to the prison shop where they can purchase necessity items. 

Religious Discrimination 

Article 27 of the law guarantees the right for prisoners to “perform their religious rites on time, without prejudice to the security and order of the centre” while ensuring “respect for the feelings of the inmate.”

Over the past ten years, I have reached one conclusion: freedom of religion in Bahraini prisons is a privilege rather than a right. 

For Shia prisoners, who make up the overwhelming majority of political prisoners in Jau Prison and the majority of the prison population, access to many religious books is denied, even though these books are available widely in Bahraini bookstores. This has included books on Shia jurisprudence and doctrine, which includes the works of prominent Shia scholars including Ali al-Sistani, Sadiq al-Shirazi, and Mohammed Taqi al-Modarresi. Prisoners are not allowed to have books of prayers and supplications such as Mafatih al-Jinan (مفاتيح الجنان) and Muntahi al-Amal (مُنتَهی الآمال) compiled by respected scholar Sheikh Abbas Qummi, even at their own expense. 

Before March 2017, Shia prisoners were allowed to pray in congregation every day (up to three times a day) and there was no restriction on how many people could join. However, from March 2017 until August 2022, congregation prayers were not allowed. In June 2017, a few of us were praying together inside our cell and authorities saw us over the CCTV cameras. It was the twentieth night of the holy month of Ramadan, an important night for Shia Muslims. An officer came to reprimand us, telling us that no one had given us permission to pray, and threatened to punish us if we did not stop. We finished our prayers regardless, for which we were locked in our cells for four days and many of our other privileges were suspended. 

Denial of medical care 

Healthcare has been weaponized against political prisoners through intentional medical neglect, depriving us of necessary treatment.

During my time in prison, I saw that the prison clinic’s medical staff were overwhelmed by the number of prisoners, leading to a severe decline in medical services. The administration frequently failed to honour appointments for external clinics, often citing security reasons, and prolonged medication shortages were frequent.

Personally, I repeatedly requested to see a dentist but was ignored. After numerous visits to the prison clinic, I finally secured an appointment, only to be told that treatment was available only for employees. I went on a hunger strike for 150 days and eventually received the treatment. However, during the treatment, the consultant required me to purchase surgical tools worth 250 dinars, violating the legal right to free healthcare. When I filed a complaint about this five months before my release, my treatment and that of many other prisoners were halted.

While I was in prison, the interior ministry and the prison administration had complete control over the provision of healthcare for prisoners. Between 2014 and 2018, prison doctors failed to document injuries or torture marks sustained by inmates—until a new section of preventative security was introduced to supervise both officers and prisoners. Recently, amendments to the prison law shifted the primary responsibility for prisoner health to the Ministry of Health and allowed doctors to request transfers and referrals as necessary (Article 30). While a step in the right direction, authorities still cite security reasons to prevent inmates from receiving proper medical care. 

Conclusion

My decade-long imprisonment at Jau Prison illuminated the stark contrast between the legal framework of Bahrain’s Reform and Rehabilitation Institution Law and the grim realities faced by inmates, especially those on political charges. Despite the law’s assurances of humane treatment, I witnessed and suffered from systematic abuse, punitive measures, religious discrimination, and the weaponization of healthcare against political prisoners.

The dire conditions in Jau Prison demand immediate intervention and comprehensive reform. Prisoners’ rights must be more than theoretical; they must be actively upheld through transparent practices and stringent enforcement of protective laws. Only with a genuine commitment to reform can the promises of the Reform and Rehabilitation Institution Law be fulfilled.