Testimony of Deich Daff

'I Was Abducted and Raped, Yet I Remain Steadfast in My Struggle for the Sahrawi People’s Right to Self-Determination'

Deich Daff, Former Sahrawi Political Prisoner & Vice President of the Collective of Sahrawi Human Rights Defenders (CODESA)

**Trigger warning: Sexual violence

“Around midnight, a commando unit affiliated with the Moroccan occupying forces stormed my home in the occupied city of Laayoune, ransacked it, and forcibly abducted me…”

With these words, former Sahrawi political prisoner Deich Daff began his harrowing testimony, recounting the grave human rights violations and inhumane treatment he endured from the moment of his abduction and throughout his arbitrary detention as part of the Gdeim Izik group—an ordeal that remains a lasting stain on the conscience of humanity.

“My name is Deich Daffi. I am the Vice President of the Collective of Sahrawi Human Rights Defenders (CODESA), co-founder of the Gdeim Izik protest camp, and a member of its official negotiation committee.”

On the night of 2 December 2010, as my wife and I were preparing for bed, our home was violently raided by a heavily armed unit of the Moroccan occupying forces. The assailants were masked and belonged to a feared paramilitary group widely known among the Sahrawi population—especially during the years of enforced disappearances—as the “death squads” or “midnight visitors.”

“I speak with full honesty when I say that the overwhelming feeling inside me was fear and panic. Without warning, one of the masked agents who had stormed into our home in a terrifying scene asked for my name.

In an instinctive and desperate attempt to evade the danger, I responded quickly, struggling to catch my breath: ‘My name is Ahmed,’ using the name of my brother to mislead them. But as soon as one of the masked agents punched my wife, I could no longer bear the sight. I immediately shouted out my real name: Deich Daffi.

It was as if they had been waiting eagerly for that name — they all screamed in unison: ‘We found the dog.’

They then violently stripped me of my pajamas, leaving me in my underwear. Their commander ordered them to take me away with my head forced down.

In a flash, I turned to try to comfort my wife with a few words to calm her fear. I didn’t know those would be the last words I would say before being taken. I looked at her with anguish as she cried in horror. It is a look I will never forget. I said quickly: ‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll be back soon.’

Their commander then let out a sadistic laugh and said: ‘Don’t worry, we’ll leave our men to finish the night with your wife.’ He was implying that the masked men would sexually assault her. I could no longer contain my fear for what might happen to her at the hands of these brutal assailants.

They bound my hands with plastic cuffs, blindfolded me with a piece of cloth, and threw me into their vehicle. I could tell from the voices that two torturers were sitting beside me.

The car sped through various parts of the city—a deliberate tactic to confuse and disorient me. It did not take long before we reached our destination, which, judging by the short duration, I believe was not far.

Upon arrival, I was met with a barrage of insults, beatings, and threats. They violently dragged me out of the vehicle and stripped me naked. I was forced onto a chair, where my handcuffs were replaced with metal restraints. They also shackled my legs.

Moments later, I heard approaching footsteps—the interrogation was about to begin.

They questioned me extensively:– about my role in the Gdeim Izik protest camp,– about my refusal to raise the Moroccan flag,– and about my alleged ties to the Ministry of Occupied Territories of the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic (SADR).

During the interrogation, I was subjected to both physical and psychological torture, using cruel and inhuman methods. They used a device to pull out the hair from my chest and legs.

Then, I was forced to kneel on my hands and knees. At that moment, one of the torturers inserted a sharp object into my anus—I could not identify what it was. I had just been raped.

At this point in my testimony, I paused. Tears fell uncontrollably. The room fell silent. Despite the overwhelming pain and humiliation, I insisted on continuing.

In that moment, I felt utterly broken—humiliated and stripped of my dignity. The pain was indescribable; my screams could have moved a mountain. But that was still not enough for my torturers.

I heard one of them give an order to start the engines of the vehicles parked in the garage. He then turned to me and said:“No one will hear your screams now—so go ahead and scream.”

It is impossible to convey the horror of that moment. I do not hide from you that, in those dark minutes, I prayed for death—to be freed from the grip of these bloodthirsty monsters.

My physical strength eventually failed me. I could barely breathe. One of the perpetrators dragged me to a nearby chair—close to where I had initially been seated—and continued the assault. Although unconscious and bleeding, I was repeatedly struck. A particularly forceful blow to the side of my head with a metal rod left me permanently deaf in one ear. Later, I felt fluid leaking from it—clear evidence of internal injury. It was the beginning of a lifelong auditory disability, the direct result of deliberate torture.

After hours of sustained abuse, one of the interrogators returned. He posed a series of premeditated questions:

– “Who was financing the Gdeim Izik protest camp?”– “What is your connection to the so-called separatists?”– “Why did you refuse to raise the Moroccan flag at the camp?”

The questions posed during my interrogation were clearly premeditated, evidently designed to construct an official narrative and justify fabricated criminal charges against us. When the interrogators finally left the torture site, I heard Quranic recitation playing softly from the phone of one of the guards.

For a brief moment, I interpreted that sound as a sign—a fleeting miracle in the darkness of my suffering. Perhaps, I thought, a way out still existed.

The sound instantly triggered vivid memories of my father, a devout and deeply spiritual man. I recalled how he would sit every Friday morning beside the radio, listening intently to Quranic recitation. I could see him now—seated outside our family home on a plastic chair, prayer beads in hand, peacefully awaiting the call to prayer from the nearby mosque. That memory, though fleeting, gave me a moment of psychological refuge amidst the unbearable physical and emotional torment.

But the pain soon returned with full force. In a moment of desperation, I called out to the guards and asked, with naïve hope:

“Please, where can I relieve myself—to urinate or defecate?”

One of them replied immediately, mocking and scornful:

“Right where you are. Do people like you even have the right to go to the toilet?”

With no other option, I was forced to urinate on myself and remained in that degrading state throughout the night—seated in my own waste, the putrid smell so overpowering that I felt physically sick.

I could not sleep. The sharp, throbbing pain in my ear was unbearable, and I cried out in agony throughout the night. At one point, I overheard one of the guards saying:

“The orders we received say they want him alive.”

A man approached me and attempted to calm me. He assured me that I would be taken to see a doctor. In that moment of intense vulnerability, I felt a fragile glimmer of hope—perhaps I would finally receive medical attention. Despite the warning voice in my head whispering, “no hedgehog has a smooth side,” I wanted to believe him.

That hope was soon shattered.

I was placed in a vehicle, wedged between two guards who pressed their feet against my back. I did not know where we were going, though the journey was short. Upon arrival, I was ordered to get out and stand. One of the men looked at me and asked:

“Who did this to you?”

I replied:

“You did.”

He responded coldly:

“We didn’t even touch you…”

Moments later, I heard him instruct a member of the Moroccan gendarmerie to take me and wash the blood from my body. That instruction confirmed my worst suspicions: I had not been taken to a hospital, nor was I receiving medical care. I was still in an illegal detention site, where enforced disappearance and torture were disguised behind a perverse game of role-switching and psychological manipulation.

A guard escorted me to a washing area and poured cold water over my body. The water came from a dirty container and emitted a stench similar to raw sewage.

Then a man who identified himself as a doctor approached. Without any examination, he poured a liquid substance—identified as "lacol," an alcohol-based solution—directly into my injured ear. The burning sensation was immediate and excruciating. I lost consciousness from the pain.

I awoke to violent slaps across my face. The man was shouting:

“Get up! Get up! I’ll lose my job because of you, you son of a whore!”

He ordered the guards:

“Take him and put him with the other dogs.”

I was dragged up a staircase and thrown into a cell no larger than 3 by 3 meters, where I found my fellow detainees. I could barely recognize them. My condition was no worse than theirs—we had all been subjected to brutal torture.

We lay on the ground beside plastic bottles filled with urine. My cellmates, who had arrived before me, had been forced to relieve themselves in these bottles and were compelled to drink their own urine whenever they requested water.

At one point, a torturer entered carrying pre-written statements. We were all forced to sign them while our hands were still tied, with no idea what they contained.

The following day, we were told to prepare for transfer. We were flown aboard a military aircraft to Kenitra Military Airport in Morocco. Upon arrival, black vehicles awaited us. Each of us was placed alone in a separate car. Our destination, I would later learn, was the Military Court in Rabat.

Once inside the court premises, we were led into an office. I looked up and saw a sign indicating we were before the Investigating Judge. He was an older man with medical glasses and a stern, unwelcoming expression. Without any introduction, he addressed me with hostility:

“I will continue your torture sessions—you’ll see what’s waiting for you,” in response to my statement that I had been forcibly disappeared and tortured.

Shortly afterward, I was transferred to Salé 2 Prison in Morocco. My fellow detainees and I were placed in solitary confinement, where we remained for four months. My health rapidly deteriorated. I collapsed physically, and as my condition became critical, I was moved to a shared cell with other Sahrawi political prisoners, including Mohamed El-Ayoubi—a martyr of the Gdeim Izik group—who suffered from a fractured shoulder.

We had no access to medical care. No proper food, no pain relief, and no psychological support. We were left to care for each other with nothing but our resilience and the strength of our belief in a just cause: the right of the Sahrawi people to self-determination and sovereignty over their land and natural resources. That belief was our only remedy, our only source of hope, and the only reason we continued to endure.

Final Appeal

I call upon all people of conscience, and every international human rights and humanitarian organisation, to:

• Ensure full disclosure of the truth concerning the grave violations committed against me and my fellow detainees of the Gdeim Izik Group—including our abduction, torture, and unjust trial—and to hold the perpetrators accountable through independent and impartial investigations.
• Work toward the immediate and unconditional release of all Sahrawi political prisoners held in Moroccan prisons, with urgent priority for the members of the Gdeim Izik Group.
• Support the establishment of an international human rights monitoring mechanism to ensure protection for Sahrawi civilians living under occupation in Western Sahara.
• Uphold the Sahrawi people’s right to self-determination and sovereignty over their natural resources, in full accordance with international law and United Nations resolutions.

The Executive Bureau of the Collective of Sahrawi Human Rights Defenders (CODESA)Western Sahara, 26 June 2025