La détenue

In these damp, mold-infested basements, one can almost hear the walls scream, amid the traces of blood and wounds still clinging to the cracks. Like any journalist or photographer detained in one of the cells lined up at the back of these basements, we make the most impossible and desperate wishes such as having a small camera with us. Perhaps if we had known that we would end up between these walls that day, we might have hidden one inside our bodies or behind our pupils, fully aware that every pore of our skin would have been examined before crossing these doors. Now we are detained, subjected to the most horrific torture imaginable.

Many images from that period remain engraved in my memory. Among those I glimpsed through the cracks of my cell door is the image of a young woman thrown into the corridor where detainees usually undergo torture. I feel deep pain watching her suffering and hearing her cries filled with strength and resentment. My feelings are indescribable in the face of this young woman whom I do not know and whose identity I have never learned, as the jailers torture her in turns and gaze at her body with disturbing pleasure.

Here in Paris, I met Maryam, a friend who was also detained in Syria, though in another place and at another time. Like two friends who lived through the same experience, we shared our stories of detention, and the images of that unknown detainee resurfaced in my memory. I suggested to Maryam that I photograph the scenes of torture she herself had endured. The photographs that Maryam and I created attempt to reproduce the pain and suffering experienced in those places.