[Part one of this article can be read at http://www.israelnn.com/article.php3?id=5025.]



At this stage, we were sitting in the patrol room in Kishleh - a prisoner who had his watch broken, whose glasses, mobile phone and one shoe they took, a 14-year-old minor, me and two other prisoners. With us was the policewoman Marcella and two other police officers. I, of course, used the time for an educational seminar on the topic of refusing expulsion orders.



"There is nothing to be done. It is the law and it is a matter of livelihood," Marcella sighed.



"That's true," I said to her, "In Sodom and in Nazi Germany, everything was legal. There, incidentally, whoever refused to carry out the law did not lose only his livelihood, but sometimes also his life," I reminded her, "but nonetheless, whoever followed orders was tried, including judges who judged according to the law. Will you forcibly take innocent citizens out of their homes just because the crooked Sharon decided so?"



Marcella lowered her eyes; and I thought to myself that maybe many more such arrests and detainments should be arranged. Now is the time to clear up the thinking of the police officers.



At nearly 2:00pm, I informed the policemen that as the three hours that they are allowed to legally hold us were coming to an end, at exactly 2:00 o'clock we were getting up and leaving.



Marcella smiled: "No problem. An officer will come and sign off on an extension of the detention." Great, I learned something new: only an officer can sign for an extension.



2:00 o'clock arrived, but the officer did not.



Marcella, in a panicked phone call to one of her commanders: "They are simply getting up and leaving. I will not stop them. I don't have the authority."



We made our way to the exit, but the police officer Emanuel Shmuel was waiting for us there. He doesn't know any laws, he only knows his commander and in his opinion, the commander is beyond the law.



"Until my commander releases you, you aren't going anywhere," he said and stood in such a way as to block the exit, known in legalese as "false imprisonment".



"You are acting against the law," I and my friend said to him. "Marcella, explain the law to him," I said, and Marcella lowered her eyes in shame. She didn't know how to reply.



Suddenly, help arrived. One of the interrogators, apparently an officer who answers to the name Yoram Suleiman, called to them from the edge of the parking lot, "Send them to me." Yoram, dressed in civilian clothes, stood next to a small civilian mini-bus and ordered us to get in the vehicle.



From that moment, I entered a hallucination that has no explanation that I can understand.



"Who are you?" I asked, "Are you an officer? Are you extending our detention or are we free to go?"



"Get in and don't ask questions," he rudely answered.



"I am not getting into a civilian vehicle and I don't have to do anything you say until you show me some police identification."



Yoram grabbed me by force and started pushing.



"Don't attack me and don't hit," I said to him. "I have done everything I was legally instructed to do; you are acting against the law. I don't even know who you are."



Yoram ignored me and pushed me forcefully into the vehicle. He pushed in another two, closed the door and started driving off the police station grounds.



"You are kidnapping me," I informed him. I was travelling against my will in a civilian vehicle with a man dressed in civilian clothes, who is unwilling to explain to me what he is doing and where he was taking me.



The vehicle left the station and my wife and other friends who had gathered were standing around the vehicle. The street is narrow and coming the opposite direction to Yoram was a large vehicle.



"He's kidnapping me!" I shouted, "Write down his license plate number!"



Yoram panicked, quickly put the mini-bus in reverse and smashed into a police cruiser that was behind him. "Drive forward!" he shouted at the vehicle blocking his path. After the other automobile went on its way, Yoram stepped on the gas and wildly drove towards the Jaffa Gate.



"Where are you kidnapping us to?" I asked, and Yoram didn't answer.



We passed Jaffa Gate and arrived at the police checkpoint at the entrance to the Old City, at which point, a policewoman tried to stop him. Apparently, the cruiser that was damaged had been trying to catch up with Yoram in order to get his details.



"This is a police vehicle!" Yoram shouted at the policewoman, passing her and parking at a bus stop.



He pulled two ID cards out of his pocket and gave them to me, telling us, "Get out."



"An ID is missing," I informed him, "there are three of us here."



"Get out. I don't care. Get out!"



The young man sitting in the back took his ID and left. I placed my ID in my pocket and, together with Yair sitting next to me, we demanded the return of Yair's ID, his glasses, his cellular phone and the shoe that was taken from him.



"Get out and come back tomorrow to get the things," Yoram insisted.



And we held our ground: "No. First return the things."



Yoram got out, opened the door and forcibly pulled at Yair. I shouted at him, "Why are you hitting?" He tried with force another two or three times, but was cautious. Had I not been there, I don't know how the story would have ended.



Yoram got back in the mini-bus and dismissively returned us to Kishleh, from where he kidnapped us for the strangest ride I've ever had. Yair and I parted ways - he went to retrieve his effects and his ID and I left the station. Where to? To the Western Wall, of course, to pray that next year we are truly "a free people in our land."



[Part 2 of 2]