III.

Diab was put in a cell on the fourth floor of the Fleury-Mérogis prison, in a protected ward for rapists and pedophiles as well as incarcerated ex-police officers and prison guards — criminals who couldn't be placed in the general population for fear they would be harmed by other inmates.



Diab arrived with just the clothes on his back. He didn't speak any French, and many of the guards refused to talk to him in English.

In the first few weeks of his confinement, all that Diab could think about was his pregnant wife. During the day, he would scrawl the name of his as-yet unborn son, Jad, on the prison walls. At night, he would dream of Rania.

"It was extremely, extremely tough and difficult," Diab said. "Especially when you dream every night, what's going to happen? Rania is alone."

Rania was, indeed, alone — or, at least, without her husband — on an exceptionally cold Ottawa day in January 2015 when she went into labour and delivered their son.

A view of the outside of Fleury-Mérogis prison in the southern suburbs of Paris. (Geoffroy van der Hasselt/AFP/Getty Images)

A view of the outside of Fleury-Mérogis prison in the southern suburbs of Paris. (Geoffroy van der Hasselt/AFP/Getty Images)

In those early months, Diab lived in denial that he could possibly face nearly five years in a cell. But outside the prison walls, France's security crisis was exploding once again as attacks by ISIS-linked cells plagued the country.



In January 2015, just weeks after Diab arrived in France, three gunmen attacked the Paris newsroom of the satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo, killing 12. It later emerged that two of the assailants had been radicalized in the very prison where Diab was being held. Less than a year later, one of the men who had helped carry out the November 2015 attacks on the Bataclan concert hall and other Paris venues — which killed 130 people — ended up in a cell just a few dozen metres from Diab's.

Diab was sleeping under the same roof as some of the convicted terrorists who had revived a French political culture hungry for prosecutions in cases just like Diab's.

"I had the chance to talk to some of them — they were totally ignorant people," said Diab, who said he met a variety of radicalized men while traveling on the prison bus. "They wanted to do something not just crazy, something horrible. In the name of ideological principles."

That he, a soft-spoken sociology professor with no criminal history, could be lumped in with violent criminals was difficult for Diab to comprehend. Even the other inmates considered his imprisonment bizarre.

"They would say, 'You are not the same person [as the Paris attackers]. You are totally different.'"

"Physically, I was afraid sometimes. Especially when they raided my cell."

Diab taught himself to live like a prisoner. He learned how to survive amid hardened criminals by developing alliances to protect himself against inmates he described as "vicious."

"You don't know who is who," said Diab. "You have tons of snitches. You have to learn how to cover yourself. How to protect yourself."

He said he was threatened "many times, and almost attacked," but that "protection from other inmates who were also strong prevented the attacks." Diab used a technique from his sociology training called "participant observation" to watch the prisoners around him. He noticed a group of young men — some white, some of North African origin — who appeared to be leaders among the prison population. Diab realized that if he showed them some respect, he could befriend them.

"You had to use diplomacy with some connections with strong guys, so they can protect you if something happened."

But the threats came from all sides. Often, it was from the prison guards, who would move inmates to cells known to be colder or wet. "Abuse by proxy," Diab called it.

"Physically, I was afraid sometimes," Diab said. "Especially when they raided my cell. They didn't tell me why. The SWAT team came to toss me out of my cell."

The raids would last for hours, Diab remembered. "They were speaking French, screaming at me, shoving me and pushing me for no reason. That was a scary moment. I didn't know what was going on."

A corridor inside Fleury-Mérogis prison. (Philippe Lopez/AFP/Getty Images)

A corridor inside Fleury-Mérogis prison. (Philippe Lopez/AFP/Getty Images)

Diab was kept alone in his cell for up to 22 hours per day. Once a day, he was allowed into a larger yard outside that his guards called a "promenade."



"Four steps by eight steps, that was the yard," said Diab. "You would walk eight steps and hit the wall. We were just in that yard, 10 people … so you have about one square, maybe two square metres, per person."

As the years wore on, investigative judges in France ruled eight times that there wasn't enough evidence to continue to hold Diab, and that he should be released on bail. Each time, the French government would appeal the judge's decision and get the bail revoked.



Diab worked hard to maintain his sanity, but it was increasingly difficult.

"I was coming close to the third year [in prison] … and then I started losing it."

"It was the sixth time they vetoed my release when I felt like this was too much," said Diab. "I was coming close to the third year [in prison] and I was hoping things will … be more rational. And then I started losing it."

In his semi-delirium, he began inventing long, detailed stories as to why he was being held. He would write them out on the walls of the "promenade" for other inmates to read.

"It was mocking the whole system," said Diab of his writings. "Maybe I did something I didn't know. Maybe, I don't remember I snitched on Napoleon Bonaparte, and I helped the British to arrest him, but I didn't realize it!"

He continued to grapple with what he was even doing in Fleury-Mérogis prison — "this surrealism thing," as he called it.

"I thought, maybe Salvador Dali one day will come and explain to me what was going on. You are in a surrealistic place. Surrealism requires surrealism."

He clung to familiar comforts. He had English books that he would read voraciously and pile beside his bed. Prison doctors gave him sedatives, but he never took them. On days when he was allowed into a second, slightly larger yard, he picked dandelions. Other inmates helped smuggle them out for him, sometimes teasing him for not wanting something of greater value, such as drugs or a cellphone.

Diab just wanted flowers. He would place them in a glass of water beside his bed. As they wilted and died, he ate them.