For a while now, the Institute of Police in Tora, near the Tora prison complex, has become a place frequently visited by victims of injustice and those seeking justice— a place for those who still dream of making a small triumph in a revolution, in a phase characterized by defeat.

For a while now, the Institute of Police in Tora, near the Tora prison complex, has become a place frequently visited by victims of injustice and those seeking justice— a place for those who still dream of making a small triumph in a revolution, in a phase characterized by defeat.

Initially created as an educational place, the institute received students who finished their secondary school education, or its equivalent, and trained them to become policemen. Today the institute’s halls are being used as courtrooms for the revolution—especially for cases related to demonstrations and freedoms—and similar to the revolution, they offer neither hope nor justice. 

Gaining access to the building can be as difficult as entering the Interior Ministry, except for those on trial—they enter the institute easily in cars especially made to transport them to the court’s hall. The court’s administration does not like the presence of people, families, and friends inside the hall and for this reason, the yard surrounding the institute as well as the coffee shop next to it have become unofficial waiting areas. 

The Institute is surrounded by emptiness: there is almost no one and nothing around it, although there are some houses in its vicinity and few passersby.

The first time I went to the institute, the guards did not let me enter the court’s hall although I showed them my profession’s identity card, proving that I am a member of the journalists’ union. Together with some friends and others who were carrying the pictures of their detained sons awaiting trial inside the court, I sat in front of one of the institute’s entrances.

Our presence there did not pose a threat because no one will see these pictures and no cameras will depict them in this distant and abandoned place on a highway facing one of the institute’s entrances. Our insistence on carrying these pictures was more of an indication of our despair and defeat rather than anything else.

There is no point in protesting, and, like prisons and hospitals, there is always a coffee shop where one can sit and wait. Still, time goes by very slowly and in a very stressful way. The setting of the coffee shop is similar to the setting of the place. There is a short staircase and many chairs inside and outside it. It is located in a separate building as dull as the court, or perhaps the place of the court has made it look as dull as it is. Families and friends gather in this coffee shop and around it for long hours. 

The same scene happened over and over again the very few times I went there. It looked like there were long waiting hours full of anxiety and fear, and perhaps a few minutes of irony or attempts to follow-up on what might be going on inside the hall through what lawyers and journalists, who are present inside the hall, write on the social media networks. In some cases, some of those who are present in the yard try to escape their boredom and tension by starting a conversation or by singing.

But all this stops when the verdicts of 15-year imprisonment or postponement for three months are issued or when final verdicts are read. It is rare that the court orders the release of the detained or announces their innocence. 

Faces turn pale, sad, and angry and boil with rage. The scene worsens when mothers, brothers, sisters and friends cry hysterically or when they faint and lose consciousness. After a while, they start asking how and where they will see their sons? What will happen next? And how they might bring them food and other necessities? Then they beg the lawyers hoping that they can give them signs of hope. When everybody leaves, knowing that nothing will change whether they continue waiting or not, the place grows empty again. Everybody collects his anger, pain, sadness and defeat as well as his unanswered questions, his memories with his detained friend, and leaves to come again for another session or to wait for the court’s decision.

Even when the court succumbs to public outcries, changing the venue or opening the court session to the public the waiting still happens: outside the court, inside the coffee shop and around it. For those who wait outside, they opt to do so in order not to catch a glimpse of their friends behind glass and iron and hear unjust and harsh verdicts against them because if they do see and hear they may collapse, especially if their detained friends give them a smile with difficulty to hide their pain and frustration.