Tunisia: relentless harassment

In 2023, the Tunisian authorities signed agreements with the European Union¹ aimed at tightening immigration controls. Access to the Tunisian coast was blocked for people arriving from sub-Saharan Africa. While they could still enter the country via the south, they soon found themselves trapped in what’s come to be known as the ‘Tunisian mousetrap’. President Kaïs Saied began invoking the rhetoric of a “great replacement”, claiming there was a plot to alter Tunisia’s identity and to replace Arab-Muslim Tunisians with sub-Saharan Africans. Black people were targeted in police raids; some were forcibly taken into the desert without water. Offering them assistance became illegal, and individuals or civil society groups who tried to help began facing arbitrary arrests. Sonia spoke out against these actions, pointing to serious violations of fundamental rights.

During a television programme, a pro-government commentator said to Sonia, “They want to take our country from us.” She replied, “What wonderful country are we talking about, where young people drown at sea just to get away?” That exchange triggered several legal proceedings against her.

She was sentenced to one year in prison for those remarks, later reduced to eight months on appeal. Two further investigations were launched over separate comments in which she highlighted the existence of segregated cemeteries and buses for white and Black people in Tunisia. These practices are documented and supported by eyewitness accounts and legal decisions. One case relates to statements made on television, the other to a radio broadcast. For the latter, she was sentenced at first instance to two years in prison, reduced to 18 months on appeal. In all, five legal cases are ongoing: two have been tried, while three remain under investigation or pending trial.

No information is available on when the next hearings will take place. Most of the time, we only find out the date the day before. The authorities do not inform the lawyers, the family, or even Sonia herself. When hearings do happen, they are sometimes adjourned after just fifteen minutes, without the lawyers having a chance to present their arguments. We have discovered some of her convictions through Facebook. Sonia is facing a total of up to 40 years in prison. The case files are empty—everyone knows that. Both Tunisian society and the legal community are well aware that Sonia is in prison because of her activism. These are not real trials; they’re performances.

Sonia is being held in a section of the prison reserved for political prisoners and prisoners of conscience. It’s a high-security wing under constant surveillance. Women detained for these reasons are subjected to a specific kind of treatment. At the beginning of her imprisonment, Sonia had access to a television, radio and newspapers. But the director who allowed this was replaced, and the new director immediately revoked all access. Since then, Sonia has been completely cut off—she has no idea what’s happening in the outside world. Books are allowed in only sparingly; even when someone brings her one, it can take more than three months to reach her. Bar associations in France organised a support campaign, sending more than 500 letters, not including the ones I’ve sent myself, along with many from friends and strangers. In nine months, Sonia has received only one of them. The authorities withhold the rest of her mail.

Five women are crammed into a 20-square-metre cell in a state of utter neglect. Manouba women’s prison is a crumbling structure from the 1800s, poorly insulated and barely habitable. When it rains, large patches of damp spread across the walls. The cell is crawling with rats and lizards. Sonia told us, “You’re standing and a lizard falls on your head. You’re lying down and a rat brushes against your foot.” The stress of living in these conditions has caused my sister to develop high blood pressure.

The prison food is impossible to eat. Sonia has lost over 20 kilos. Our family brings her food twice a week. We’re only allowed to bring six specific dishes approved by the prison authorities. They must contain no spices—not even salt, pepper, or lemon. The food must be packed in a transparent plastic container and must be completely bland. If there’s any smell when the container is opened, it’s rejected. The meals must be served cold, no matter the season. Sonia hasn’t had a hot meal in nine months.

The conditions for women in prison are not the same as for men. Often, the ones enforcing cruelty on the women are other women. In the prison where Sonia is held, male guards remain outside the building, but not in the corridors. The way women imprisoned for political reasons are treated is absurd. Of course, some men also fall victim to these brutal practices. A lawyer was arrested two days after Sonia, in a wave of extreme violence. He was beaten and tortured. But for women, prison adds another layer of punishment. To appear in court, they are forced to lower their heads, wear headscarves and plastic sandals, while men are allowed to wear suits, to wear cologne. In prison, men are allowed to shave three times a week. Women are forbidden from removing body hair, wearing make-up, using perfume, or even having access to a nail clipper. The food that families are allowed to bring male loved ones in prison can be seasoned—salt, pepper, flavour. They don’t have to eat the bland slop the women are fed. They’re even allowed to warm their meals.

Since the new director took over, the women have been banned from using fire to heat their food. The rule is especially senseless, given that they’re allowed to smoke—and therefore have lighters on them.

There is a hairdresser inside the prison. Sonia wasn’t allowed to go, even though other women could. When I made this public, the administration responded by removing access to the service entirely. Women are officially allowed to have their laundry washed by family outside the prison. But until two weeks ago, Sonia was denied this right. I had to file a complaint to have the rule lifted.

It might sound trivial, but the women don’t have anything to cut their nails with. Sonia started biting her fingernails, but trimming her toenails was far more difficult. We complained to the prison authorities, who eventually provided a single nail clipper—for all the women in the prison. The guards now carry it from one prisoner to the next. After using it, Sonia developed a fungal infection.

She’s allowed one hot shower a week, on Wednesdays, for five minutes. For the past three weeks, there’s been no hot water. She was due to wash today, 29 January, but she’s had a severe throat infection and a fever for the last three days and hasn’t been seen by a doctor. Fearing that a cold shower would make her condition worse, she asked to postpone it by a day or two. The staff refused and told her she could shower the following Wednesday, on 5 February. That means two full weeks without washing. Being in that state—unclean, in dirty clothes, unable to trim her nails— cuts deeply. It humiliates her. She’s not allowed a mirror. She hasn’t seen her own face in months. She no longer knows what she looks like.

At the last hearing, I first saw Sonia from behind. I didn’t recognise her until someone told me it was my sister. By denying her the most basic of needs—washing, eating properly—the administration is trying to strip away her dignity, to break her down, body and spirit. These conditions are meant to destroy her. But they haven’t.

Last summer, temperatures reached 48°C outside the prison and over 50°C inside the cells. For six weeks, Sonia wasn’t allowed a shower. She wasn’t permitted to remove any clothing, even at night. No shorts, no t-shirts, not even a vest. She had to remain fully covered, head to toe, day and night. If she wore a nightdress and it shifted while she slept, exposing her legs, guards would wake her and tell her to cover up. The harassment never stopped. In the unbearable heat, all the food would spoil. We offered to donate fridges so the women could store their food—our offer was refused. We brought coolers instead, and they too were turned away.

A very serious incident took place last summer. Sonia’s appeal hearing was scheduled for 20 August. The day before, she warned me: “If I’m not there tomorrow, it means they’ve stopped me from coming. No matter what happens, I will never refuse to attend my trial.” The next day, the prison sent a fax to the court claiming that Sonia had refused to appear.

Her lawyers went to see her but were denied access. For six hours, they pleaded with the court to delay the hearing, insisting that Sonia would never willingly miss the hearing. The hearing was pushed back by a week. When the lawyers were finally allowed to see her, Sonia told them she had been assaulted and raped. When it was time for her to be transferred to court, the prison director arrived at her cell with a guard and ordered her to remove her shoes and wear plastic flip-flops. They told her to put on a long white veil—the kind reserved for women accused of prostitution or moral offences. At first, she refused. They told her that unless she wore it, she would not be allowed to go. So, she agreed. Then they forced her to undergo a strip search.

In Tunisia, strip searches are strictly regulated: women are to keep their underwear on, the search is conducted behind a screen, and there is to be no physical contact. In Sonia’s case, the screen was removed.

The guards forced her to undress completely, to get on all fours, then to lie on her back with her legs apart. She was touched in ways she described as rape. We filed a formal complaint. That moment of complete dehumanisation has left a permanent scar on us all.

Winter at Manouba prison is just as harsh as the summer. The prison is surrounded by open land, overlooking a field. When it rains, all the damp seeps in, dropping the temperature even further. The pipes are over a hundred years old. In winter, the water that comes out is freezing cold. It’s with this water that the women wash themselves—and that Sonia used to wash her clothes when she wasn’t allowed to send them out. The cold was so extreme that she lost all feeling from her fingers to her elbows.

The window in Sonia’s cell is broken and doesn’t close. She and the four other women she shares the cell with asked for it to be repaired. The administration refused, offering only two choices: either seal the window shut, or leave it permanently open.

With five women in a 20-square-metre cell—four of them smokers—sealing the window wasn’t an option. And so, they live with the cold pouring in, even when temperatures drop close to zero. We know this for certain: the soup we bring to Sonia freezes in her cell.

We tried to bring Sonia warm clothes, but the prison authorities forbade it. No hats, no gloves, no hoods, no coats, no cardigans. The only item we were allowed to give her was a sleeveless cardigan—with no hood, no buttons, no zip, no pockets. I brought thermal clothing for her to wear under her clothes, but they were rejected because they were lined. Trousers and shirts were also banned for the same reason. A shirt collar or a trouser pocket, they said, inevitably has a lining—so it’s not allowed.

Anything that might keep her warm is forbidden. I brought a fleece blanket, but they refused to give it to her because it was “too pretty”. Pretty things are not allowed.

In these conditions, Sonia began to suffer from repeated bouts of bronchitis. The restrictions remained unchanged. I filed a formal complaint for torture. Only then did the administration agree to let us bring her a coat and some socks. We bought several pairs so she could wear some on her feet and others on her hands—since gloves are still not permitted. The administration makes every step as difficult as possible.

Sonia’s detention conditions are putting her life in danger. She is 60 years old, and her body is beginning to give out. She is finding it increasingly difficult to cope physically. She suffers from numbness in her limbs. The cell is so cramped that she cannot move around, and her legs swell as a result. She had previously suffered from deep vein thrombosis before her arrest, and we fear it could happen again. That fear never leaves me. Sonia has developed high blood pressure and diabetes. She’s allowed to have tests for it once every three months.

Access to medical care is highly unreliable.

In principle, each wing of the prison is supposed to have access to a doctor one day a week. For Sonia’s wing, that day is Thursday. But when she asked to see a doctor on a Thursday, she was told that the doctor did not work that day. In practice, the administration blocks the women in her wing from receiving medical attention. Sonia is only seen by a doctor when her condition becomes critical. Recently, she suffered from chronic bronchitis. The administration waited eight or nine days before allowing her to be seen. They didn’t act until she was in respiratory distress and a guard reported that she couldn’t breathe and was on the verge of dying. Only then was she taken to hospital—in a van, and in handcuffs.

This summer, she refused to go to the hospital because of how the transfer was carried out. The administration would round up a dozen women, chain them together, handcuff them, and shackle their feet.

They were loaded into a completely sealed van, without windows or ventilation, in temperatures soaring above 40°C. The van would make rounds to the various doctors the women needed to see. The ordeal could last four or five hours, with the women left waiting inside the van while, one by one, they were taken to their appointments. Sonia said she came back feeling worse than when she left. After that, she decided she could no longer accept medical treatment under those conditions.

Political prisoners and prisoners of conscience are held in the same wing, yet they’re forbidden from speaking to one another. They’re only allowed to talk to the women in their own cell—ordinary prisoners chosen by the prison director. These cellmates are placed there to observe and report on everything the political prisoners say or do. If one of them reports something and the others don’t, the silent ones are punished. It’s a system built to keep them in fear—of each other. Sonia is watched even by the women she lives with. Each time she begins to form a genuine connection, that person is moved to a different cell. Everything is designed to prevent solidarity from taking root.

Her cell is searched almost daily, and each time the guards leave her belongings in chaos. When it’s not the cell, it’s her body—they subject her to full searches. These constant intrusions leave her no peace. The harassment is unrelenting.

Access to legal counsel is no longer guaranteed. Under Tunisian law, a lawyer is entitled to visit their client as often as necessary. But a new restriction has been introduced in Sonia’s case: the administration now limits her to just two visits a day—an illegal measure. Visit permits must be granted by the investigating judge or the public prosecutor, but they are frequently withheld, often arbitrarily, for three, four, sometimes five days in a row. The confidentiality of Sonia’s conversations with her lawyers is no longer respected. Ten days ago, the prison director issued a new directive: any document a lawyer wishes to share with their client must first be approved by the prison administration. There is no longer such a thing as professional secrecy.

A camera has been installed in the lawyers’ meeting room. To avoid being filmed, lawyers began sliding their chairs closer to Sonia’s—but the administration responded by bolting the chairs to the floor. When they started whispering, a new rule was introduced: a female guard must now be present during every meeting. Every word exchanged between Sonia and her lawyers is recorded, and later used against her. It is a clear violation of the law.

The family is allowed one visit per week, lasting fifteen minutes, through a pane of glass. You have to speak into a telephone, under the watch of a guard and a recording camera. One wrong word, and the visit is cut short. My mother is visually impaired and hard of hearing. She can neither see Sonia through the glass nor hear her voice. The law allows for a direct visit, once a month, in a private room. In nine months, we’ve had two. Now, every request is automatically refused—even though we’ve submitted medical documents confirming my mother’s condition. Sonia and our mother haven’t seen each other in four months.

The more questions we ask the administration about the restrictions imposed on Sonia, the more we’re met with silence. Every woman imprisoned for political reasons at Manouba faces the same treatment. I’ve been in close contact with their families. Together, we’ve built a sense of solidarity—a bond of sisterhood in the face of shared injustice. My family chose to speak out. Others remain silent, afraid that speaking will make things worse for their loved one in prison.

But I’ve seen that speaking out doesn’t make things worse. Whether you raise your voice or remain quiet, the persecution continues just the same. Speaking allows me to feel that I’m not complicit—and sometimes, it leads to real change.

When Sonia was first imprisoned, there were no toilets in her cell. Five or six women had to use a hole in the floor, right in the middle of the room, without walls or privacy. I made it public. People reacted. The administration installed toilets. More recently, when we finally managed to get Sonia a coat, it was because I had again spoken publicly about her conditions and said I was preparing to file a complaint for mistreatment.

With the adoption of Decree-law 54 - the same law used to arrest Sonia—it has become nearly impossible for the public to speak openly about politics. The decree was introduced under the pretext of protecting social media and other communication platforms from defamation, incitement to hatred, and similar offences. In reality, it is a highly repressive and dangerously vague piece of legislation, widely used to justify arrests—for a Facebook post, a like, or simply sharing someone else’s status.¹ Today, any word spoken against the president or the government can lead to prison.

Prison has become a tool of repression, a means of control that keeps spreading. Lawyers, journalists, and civil society activists were the first to be targeted. Now, more and more ordinary people—like you and me“—are ending up behind bars. A climate of constant fear has taken hold. It is suffocating.

Civil society organisations have been particularly targeted by the government: fewer and fewer associations are allowed to enter prisons, and many have had their bank accounts frozen. A large number of NGO leaders have been imprisoned on charges such as treason, accepting foreign funding, illicit enrichment, or conspiracy against state security. The list of accusations is endless, often absurd, and many of them carry the threat of the death penalty.