Behrouz Boochani is a journalist and an Iranian refugee held on Manus Island since August 2014. The Guardian invited Boochani to keep a diary of the countdown to the closure of the Australian-run detention camp that closed on Tuesday. On Wednesday Boochani won in the print, online and multimedia category at the Amnesty International Australia media awards.

Thursday 2 November

Yesterday was an unbearably torturous day characterised by “the survival of the fittest”. The day ends, nightfall begins. Under the cover of night the bond between the refugees becomes even closer. This sense of brotherhood is stronger than any other time. This is a strange feature peculiar to human beings. Groups of a few dozen are divided throughout the prison, across Delta, Oscar, Mike and Fox camps, throughout the corridors and prison yards. I am with the Kurdish refugees in corridor M. But because of my work, I have to visit all the other camps.

There are bed sheets hanging right throughout the corridors and hallways of the prison. Those who are more worn-out than the rest are lying down on them. And many people are sitting along the fences and hanging their feet up on them, just like they have been doing for the last fifty-one months. They rest their feet on the fences and engage in conversation.

Those who have local tobacco share it with the rest. And a few find pieces of wood to start a fire. They have gathered a few litres of rainwater during the half-hour period when it rained earlier today and have brought it to boil. They mix the water with sugar and offer a portion of it to everyone. These actions reinforce our community spirit and inject badly needed energy into our bodies.

I must admit that this was vital for me; my bony body desperately needed something sweet. There are others who have been able to cut down a few coconuts. It is always the case during times like these that someone takes charge and manages these kinds of tasks.

The corridor where I am staying has now developed into a kind of family environment and a feeling of brotherhood has taken over.

Starvation.

Thirst.

Terror.

Starvation-thirst-terror.

Starvation, thirst and terror slowly but surely dominate the prison. Gradually these factors impose their power over the incarcerated refugees. Bodies are weak, muscles are fatigued, spirits are weary. It has been nearly five years full of anguish – anguish that has ground everyone down. During this last week in particular, no one has slept properly. Everyone is weary out here, but the one mantra continues to reverberate:

We will never retreat and leave this hell of a prison. We will never move to another prison. We will never settle for anything less than freedom. Only freedom.

This is the scene here in Manus prison. These words are the soul of Manus prison. To you people who are looking on from outside the prison and think you understand exactly what is happening here, this landscape, which is replete with affliction, is totally incomprehensible. But I can only write about the environment here in prison. The words I write are starving, the words are thirsty … just like me. The pain of dozens of human beings all around me, with their clothes stripped off in this oppressive tropical heat, human beings with their bodies crushed, ravaged by mosquitoes – there is no end to the barbarity of the merciless mosquitoes … all this affliction is channelled through me in these words. Only those who have had to endure tropical condition will have some idea. The heat is a relentless attack, the mosquitoes conduct relentless attacks, the terror is amplified by the agonising heat and the tortuous mosquitoes. The trauma of Manus prison. Never forget that this place is Manus prison.

It is night here. I have moved around from Fox to Oscar, and then to Delta camp. In these locations there are also dozens of people lying down under the illumination of moonlight. I must say, I am lucky in this respect. That is, I am lucky that the moon is out. At least with the guidance of moonlight I can determine the way in front of me and identify the bodies lying down and left broken before me.

I can hear some commotion in Oscar. A group has gathered over there in that compound. A few individuals are digging up the ground. They are shovelling away using two metal poles. It is hard work but they persist with quick and vigorous movements. The presence of others around the men is empowering for them. When one finishes making his contribution, another one fills his place immediately. They just continue to dig.

People always speak loudly in these moments. The sound of the crowd is muddled together; the sounds have fused into one.

The human being is a strange creature. When one has to fight to survive one’s strength is multiplied. The will to survive is running through the biceps of those young men, one can sense the desire to stay alive. The ground is being dug up, the dirt thrown aside. One person digs, another one empties. Those young men are determined to keep digging until they reach water.

They keep digging until the middle of the night. I swear, digging up the earth using a pole is extremely gruelling labour.

The time is now after three. We are tired. I have to return to Fox. I know the way back quite well. It has been more than four years that I have been living alongside these fences and travelling this route. Even if the moon was not in the sky I could certainly find my way back. The prison is quiet now, the prison is silent.

I arrive in Fox and right there in the middle of the camp lay the exhausted bodiesof dozens of weary men, starving men, scattered all over.

I look up at the moon. The moon remains kind. The sound of the sea floats in. The prison is terrified. The prison is silent. The prison has an extraordinary power. I am sure those young men will reach water by the time morning comes.

