Behrouz Boochani is a journalist and an Iranian refugee held on Manus Island since August 2014. He writes regularly for the Guardian, including a diary on the closure of the Australian-run detention camp. On Thursday he was arrested.

I woke up as a thunderous sound echoed through my head. It was the sound of many terrified refugees rushing through Corridor M inside Fox camp. The sound came from out of nowhere and it reverberated right throughout the camp.

“They’re attacking!”

“Run, they’re attacking!”

These warnings are well-known to the refugees in Manus prison. The cries of caution have rung out repeatedly for nearly five years. I immediately pulled out my phone from under my pillow and went towards the fences facing the jungle. The entire prison space was full of refugees running away and dozens of police officers moving in like a swarm of bees.

With rage, the police chief announced repeatedly over a loudspeaker: “Move! Move!” He repeated over and over again that we only had one hour to move out.

I diverted my course and went towards Delta camp. Our plan was that if they attacked we would all go over to Delta camp. The situation there was tense. A group of prisoners had gone on to the roof, and hundreds of individuals gathered in the corner of Fox camp and linked arms together.

On the dirt road outside the prison stood dozens of police officers and other officers wearing uniforms I did not recognise. There were also a number of vehicles waiting to transport us to the new camp.

The police chief and the representative from immigration continued their threats over the loudspeaker. The other officers just kept yelling at the refugees.

I had to find the best possible location: the toilets. From inside the toilets, the entire scene was visible and I could witness what was developing around me. A few people were crying. Worry was spread over the faces of the refugees; their reactions spelt anxiety and terror. But they all shared one thing in common: determination. They were determined to pursue their collective resistance, they were determined to pursue their peaceful resistance.

The immigration officers eventually sprung into action and destroyed the belongings kept inside the accommodation. They threw everything out of the rooms. They even tore apart the sweaty beds with their knives. A group of them smashed the empty water tanks. In the space of half an hour, the area between the corridors looked like a town hit by an earthquake or a flood. It resembled nothing less than a natural disaster – they wreaked havoc throughout the place.

The refugees simply looked on. A feeling of absurdity gripped everyone along with a feeling of being forgotten. It was an uncanny feeling that comes with experiencing explicit violence. The feeling that you have no one, that you have no solace, that you have no sanctuary. In one instant, the equilibrium of the community had been completely unsettled.

I was put in jail, they sat me down on a chair. In the distance I could hear only moaning and yelling

Two refugees began having seizures. Dozens of frightened individuals caught them from all sides. Everyone wanted to help. The sick men just moaned, they clearly had no control over the sounds they were emitting. At the same time the officers continued prowling around the corners of the rooms, they continued with their search and destroy mission. Also, the police chief was surrounded by dozens of his furious looking officers and continued shouting: “Move! Move!” The other officers were also swearing, they were looking for a way to escalate the violence.

They are looking for me and Behrouz they found him but they are not going to find me. These are police are taking Behrouz. pic.twitter.com/G01bA46ETC — Abdul Aziz Adam (@Aziz58825713) November 23, 2017

I had to return to Fox. On the way, two police officers pointed me out and came towards me. I ran away. I knew I would be arrested. But I tried to defer the arrest for as long as possible and remain there. I hid in one of the rooms. The officers entered the corridor. From there I could see the refugees who were monitoring the situation. The officers opened the doors to the rooms with aggression and anger – they told everyone to get out. For a moment there I wanted to hide behind a bed, but I felt a sense of shame. I remembered my time in Iran, I remembered my mother, I remembered how she was always frightened that the government officers would kill me.

They eventually found me. Immediately seven or eight officers grabbed me by the arms and carried me outside in plain view of all the refugees. Like a scene where a dangerous criminal is taken away. Along the way one officer behaved just like a juvenile and pulled my hair. Deep down inside I was laughing. They shoved me aggressively. They struck me over the back, they hit me on the back of the neck, it was not damaging, but they still beat me. Each and every one of them beat me. One of them totally smashed and crushed my sunglasses under his boot.

Everyone was furious and they kept shouting at me: “You’re responsible, you’re guilty, you’ve damaged our reputation, you’re guilty!” The police chief was pointing to me, making accusations: “You’ve always been antagonistic towards us, you’ve damaged our reputation!” I wanted to respond, but he shouted me into silence: “Shut up!”

They tied my hands behind me with rope. I remember how two years ago Australian guards tied some refugees – they tied them up so tight that for one whole week blood had clotted around the rope marks leaving serious bruising. But I know the Manusians well. Even when their anger reaches its peak, they still cannot hide their kindness. This time he tied me up in a way that was tight but did not hurt me.

I was put in jail, they sat me down on a chair. In the distance I could hear only moaning and yelling. They brought a camera and recorded me. They repeated the same accusations, they shouted down at me: “You’re guilty, you’ve damaged our reputation!” And one extra accusation: “You’ve forced people to stay inside the camp, you’re responsible!”

From there I could see the gate to Mike camp. Moments later they forcibly transferred a group of refugees to the buses. In front of the gate they laid one more kick into them. We were like a small country that had been invaded. I could still hear the sound of moaning and yelling. That place was really a war zone. What was going on over there? Once again, I remembered Iran. The shouting continued: “Move! Move!”

Translated by Omid Tofighian