I was on a bus heading back to New York when I got news from Egypt that my brother Abdullah had been released from solitary confinement. I was so overwhelmed with joy, all I could do was scream hysterically. Then I realized: Our friend and colleague Shawkan wasn’t so lucky. I grew quiet, as the thought of Shawkan still imprisoned left me wondering. When would Shawkan and his family have their moment of relief and happiness?
After conducting a hunger strike and suffering from deteriorating health, my older brother, Abdullah Elshamy, was been released from Scorpion High Security Prison in June 2014. Abdullah was a former Abuja-based reporter who inspired me to pursue a career in photojournalism. He was arrested along with Mahmoud Abou Zeid — better known as Shawkan — a respected freelance photojournalist based in Cairo. They were among thousands arrested in August of the previous year when security forces violently dispersed participants at the Rabaa al-‘Adaweya sit-in. They were lucky: up to a thousand people were killed across the country.
While covering Egypt’s riots and turmoil, I thought we could rid ourselves of the police state that was imposed under Mohammed Hosni Mubarak, who held power for three decades. Like countless others, I wanted a lasting change.
Then came the unthinkable: the 2013 Egyptian coup d’état. I witnessed mass arrests and the brutality of Egyptian security forces who shot peaceful protesters. During this horrific time, I was arrested twice. After my second arrest, I knew I had to go into exile or share the fate of some of my colleagues. It has now been three years since I left Egypt — living in Lagos and Istanbul before settling in New York. Only God knows if I’ll ever return.
During my exile, not a day has passed without thinking about Shawkan. I had met him in prison, while visiting my brother. Eventually I would visit them both, as I figured out I now had not one, but two brothers in jail. He faced charges of “vandalism, attempted murder, and planning an armed insurrection,” which could lead to a death sentence. I wondered how this could happen. How could an innocent man lose years of his life for crimes he did not commit? Why are journalists like Shawkan considered criminals in my country?
Although Shawkan suffered from Hepatitis C, he told me that authorities at Tora prison were not providing medical care. His condition worsened with anemia, which led him to complain to a prison doctor last October. Just
drawing blood, was almost impossible. His face was yellow from fatigue, and from the reduced oxygen flow into his body. Yet his medical records said he was in a “healthy state,” and prison guards wouldn’t
let him exercise, step out into the prison yard to feel the sun’s warmth and breathe fresh air.
Shawkan succumbed to desperation.
Shawkan has now been imprisoned for three years, without a fair trial, and I pray it doesn’t stretch into a fourth. In that time, he could’ve finished school, traveled the world, and maybe even settled down. “When I leave this dark hole I’m in,” Shawkan said in a 2015 phone call, “I’ll come to you, travel and shoot photos together. … I promise.”
I have not heard from him since.
Sadly, Shawkan isn’t alone. Many more are languishing in prison as journalists are sentenced to death, handed life sentences, or disappear without a trace. The Press Syndicate said around 29 journalists were imprisoned in Egypt, though we often don’t even know where. Of the seven journalists who were killed since the military coup, five died during the bloody Rabaa massacre. I survived, but was shaken when I received a message that listed the journalists who died that day. Among them was Mosaab Elshamy — someone who had the same name as one of my brothers. My body went numb and adrenaline made my heart race. Yet it was an irrational fear: my brother was in the same car with me when we got the news.
I am heartbroken to think that Shawkan and my other colleagues are struggling to survive despite authorities having testimony that can prove their innocence. As the current situation prohibits the truth from surfacing, it’s our duty to make sure that their stories are told and their voices heard beyond the walls and cells that keep them silent.
Our profession must be safeguarded. In times like these, the world needs photojournalists who risk their lives in selfless pursuit of the truth. We might be arrested, abducted, traumatized or even killed, yet we continue to document the world’s tragedies and to document the truth.
Sometimes I wonder if Shawkan can forgive me for my shortcomings. I wonder if he thinks I could’ve done more. I do know we cling to the hope that Shawkan and the others will be freed soon, and that they will enjoy their basic rights. It may seem unrealistic, but if we don’t hold on to that sense of hope, we will go insane. Without hope, we have nothing else to live for.
Mohammed Elshamy is a New York based photojournalist working with Anadolu Agency.
Follow @elshamyme and @nytimesphoto on Twitter. Mohammed Elshamy is also on Instagram. You can also find Lens on Facebook and Instagram.
