Ahmad Zeidan, a British citizen, was 20 years old when he was arrested in Sharjah, United Arab Emirates in December 2013, along with six other young men. Zeidan was charged with drug offences and faced a death sentence, based on a “confession” extracted from him after eight days of torture. The authorities alleged they had found 0.04g of cocaine in the glove compartment of the car in which Ahmad was a passenger. After being held incommunicado for eight days, Ahmad filed a complaint against the arresting officers. The UAE government promised the UK government that it would investigate his torture and mistreatment, but it failed to do so and in May 2014 Ahmad was sentenced to nine years in prison. Since then, all of those arrested and convicted alongside Zeidan for the same offence have been pardoned and released. The Foreign Office said any comment on the continuing legal process would be “inappropriate” but has been in regular contact with Zeidan and his family since his arrest to “provide assistance”.

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I turned 22 on Tuesday. It was my second birthday behind bars. Before my arrest in 2013, I was a typical 20-year-old: a few months off graduating from university, I had a girlfriend, friends, parties, music. I was really looking forward to completing my degree in aviation management and to my future in the field. If you’re a 20-year-old guy reading this, you get me. The old me.

In December 2014, I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder – a condition caused by the torture that I was subjected to when I was arrested. I try my best not to think about that night, when I was dragged out of my friend’s car by Emirati police officers as we parked outside a mall in Sharjah, but sometimes the memories come flooding back.

The beatings came fast, mostly across my face. I still feel pain in my jaw to this day. An officer ripped the chain from my neck and began whipping me. I heard them taunting me, saying how happy they were to “catch” a Brit. Then began eight days of beatings, often while handcuffed. I wasn’t allowed to contact my family or the British embassy. I remember at one point being told to stand up, but being so exhausted that I collapsed. An officer grabbed me by the handcuffs and dragged me across the floor. I was stripped naked and they threatened to rape me. In the last few days, I was hooded and taken to solitary confinement. I asked where they were taking me, but they just beat me in response. Eventually, I was made to sign a document in Arabic, a language I don’t read or write – this was my “confession”. That piece of paper led to my jailing for nine years in Sharjah, but not before a long trial in which the state sought the death penalty on drugs charges.

UK consular officials know that my case, like many others in the UAE, involved a miscarriage of justice

Last night, I had a panic attack. I’ve been getting them a lot in prison. I don’t sleep any more. I am desperately trying to preserve my mental strength, and trying to come to terms with the fact that I will be nearly 30 by the time I am released. What I can’t accept is the British government’s seeming refusal to help me.

UK consular officials know that my case, like many others in the UAE, involved a miscarriage of justice. They know that I was tortured into a bogus “confession” – they even helped my father, days after I was found, to file a complaint about my mistreatment, and to request that I be allowed to see a doctor – requests that the UAE authorities denied. And yet, the British government has refused to ask for my release. I am the only defendant left from my trial. My co-defendants – convicted of the same crime, but not from Britain – have all been freed.

I wonder what you would think if you could read my thoughts for a day in this prison? I am barely able to describe them myself. The thing that scares me the most are the flashbacks. They are intense, and leave me in constant fear. I relive the moments of my arrest and my torture like someone watching a DVD of that night on a loop – and I am just as powerless and helpless as I was at the time. I am afraid of being around other people and worse, I am scared that I am no longer myself – that I will never be the same person I was before. I ask myself every day, will I ever live a normal life again?

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I am truly happy for my freed co-defendants. I felt nothing but joy on the day they were pardoned, even though I wasn’t. Each time the amnesty comes around, I wait on edge, hoping my name is going to be on the list – and each time I am not, it chips away at my resolve. This Ramadan, the UAE pardoned nearly 900 prisoners. I genuinely believed that it was my time. I heard name after name being called, and I was sure my name was going to be next: some of those pardoned had been sentenced to 10, 15, and sometimes 25 years. But my name wasn’t on the list.

I respect the ruler of Sharjah and the decisions he makes. And I don’t blame the UAE; after all, I grew to love this country like a second home. The system is what it is here, and ultimately I have to respect that. But I can’t understand why the British government has failed me; why the UK – with its strong relationship with the Emirates – can’t support my request for freedom. My only conclusion is that the British government has other priorities in the UAE. I just want nothing more than to be back in the UK, to try to be a normal 22-year-old.