By Edward DiGilio, World BEYOND War, October 20, 2025

The voyage went relatively well up until the interception. We sailed with the 1000 Madleens to Gaza flotilla so we spent some time catching up to them, waiting for them and then sailing with them. I met a couple of their people while we were in prison and at the hotel after we were released. They were good folks – and highly skilled sailors as well.

The weather on the passage was mixed. We had a decent blow a couple of days in and seas were running a meter to a meter and a half. The medical staff used almost all of our seasickness medication during the week we were at sea but we never ran out. Fortunately, things calmed down for the last three days of the voyage. Generally, spirits ran high among the participants and I never felt like we were worried about the Israelis doing anything to us at all. That was a hallmark of our flotilla at sea – an absence of fear or concern, which was wonderful. Perhaps it was simply denial but it felt good to me.

Israeli Forces Attack the Conscience by Helicopter and Boats in International Waters

Anyway, that all changed abruptly Wednesday morning around dawn when the alarm sounded and woke everyone up with an order to get to the muster deck as quickly as possible. I figured that we had plenty of time so I didn’t rush and when I got up to the deck outside, everyone was already present. We barely got our muster done and we could hear the Israeli helicopters coming in. One helicopter took up a position aft of the stern of the ship and another helicopter dropped a group of commandos on the upper deck. A second helicopter dropped off another team of commandos. The soldiers secured the bridge and immediately started destroying all of the cameras mounted on the ship. We lost all satellite connectivity when the helicopters appeared so there is no footage of the soldiers boarding unfortunately. It was an intense experience sitting under the helicopter rotor wash but fortunately the ship’s smokestack blocked the worst of it for me. I could lift my head up and see the tail of the helicopter, but I couldn’t see the soldiers fast roping onto the deck, which was a bit disappointing personally.

The Israelis illuminated us with laser sights on their guns as we sat on benches on the muster deck witnessing the boarding. The lasers were green. I think they must have had door gunners on the helicopters. Moving off the benches was about the furthest thing from my mind. We just sat there with our hands up and we had a chant, “We are medics, we are journalists.”

Israeli Occupation Forces On Board the Conscience

We chanted for a few minutes until the soldiers came to address us. They let us know they were Israeli Navy and they didn’t want to use violence on us if they didn’t have to. The soldiers rearranged our seating arrangements on the benches on the deck. I was sitting in the very front row and fortunately, got moved to the very back, which was great because then I could talk with my comrades. The soldiers were not fond of us talking, so whispering to my fellow activists during the interception felt like a great victory for me.

As it started to get light, I could see all the Israeli zodiacs and small boats around us. There were probably 10 boats running with us. They turned on their navigation lights once the ship was secure and it was quite a sight to see the Conscience sailing with all these little naval vessels. It is impossible to get the Conscience to run in a straight line without the autopilot on and the Israelis were hand steering the ship; so our flotilla was traveling through the dawn making these giant S turns in the water. It was funny to me at the time for some reason. I can’t imagine what the Israelis on their little boats were thinking.

The soldiers began to search all of us participants. They moved methodically, from the front rows to the back, which meant that I had a lot of time on deck. During the searching, one of our comrades remembered that he had a cell phone in his pocket. All electronics are supposed to be ditched at sea before the interception. The participant discreetly removed the cell phone from his pocket and snapped it in half. It then caught on fire. No joke. That set off the commandos of course and they quickly scooped it off the deck and threw it overboard. So, we got them to dispose of a cell phone for us. Another victory.

The soldiers were not happy about the fire, so an announcement was made about the importance of not pulling any more stunts. They then continued their search of our comrades. They eventually came to me. I was searched and questioned about the contents of my pockets, which largely held nothing. Then I was sent to the dining area inside the ship. I was one of the last people to join. They kept most of us together in the dining area, but they separated a few select participants for reasons I never understood. We sat on chairs in the dining area facing aft towards the stainless dining room bar. The soldiers were mostly arranged along the front of the bar wearing full combat gear and guarding us with automatic weapons. There was a soldier guarding us from behind, sitting in the companionway leading outside to the foredeck.

One issue with the arrangement was the temperature. The dining area has a lot of windows, so the sun was starting to shine inside and we had close to 100 nervous people in the dining area. The commanding officer asked our captain to turn on the air conditioning. A big problem. The Conscience has no air-conditioning and the ventilation system was only operating on low speed. I know this because the previous day, the ship’s chief engineer and I had spent the whole day getting electrocuted trying to repair the ventilation motor high-speed settings. It was quickly getting unbearably warm in the dining area. It was hot for me in a t-shirt and jeans, so I know it was hot for the soldiers who were holding automatic weapons, dressed in fatigues, helmets, body armor and decorated with numerous electronic gadgets, flashlights, tasers and radios.

A suggestion was made from my comrades that we set up some portable fans we were using to cool down the accommodation areas down below. The soldiers were agreeable to that. A comrade and I were sent below to gather a couple of fans. A commando was sent to escort us. He was young, in his twenties probably. We got down to the deck. “Why you did it?,” the soldier queried me.

I was surprised. It seems so self-evident why we sail. “Don’t you think it’s absurd you are intercepting a ship full of journalists and medics?” I replied.

“They killed our babies,” came the response from the commando.

“I understand,” I replied to the soldier.

It was all I could think to say, because I do understand the sentiment of vengeance. But I certainly don’t agree with it or accept it.

As a general policy for these missions, activists are supposed to avoid conversations with the soldiers. I guess to avoid situations like this where we could somehow seem to be legitimizing the genocide. Conversation can be dangerous. Unfortunately, I have the bad habit of being a compulsive question answerer when I have nothing to hide. It gets me into trouble.

We gathered the ventilation fans and moved them upstairs where we set them up outside the dining area in an only somewhat successful effort to force air into the room. It was just slightly more comfortable than before. We returned to our chairs in the space, everyone sweating. The soldiers summoned me.

“Move the fan into the dining area,” a soldier commanded.

“I can do that,” I replied.

“I just need to get a couple more things from down below,” I added.

Once again down the stairs under armed guard to get materials to mount the fan. I moved slowly, explaining every action to my escort. I returned to the dining area and hung the fan from the ceiling over the bar area. My plan was successful. The fans are powerful and the temperature of the room dropped 10 degrees F immediately. Everyone in the room was jubilant. Inside, I was celebrating.

Almost immediately, a soldier came over and placed himself directly in front of the fan, blocking the airflow to the rest of us. My heart sank. I have constructed an air conditioning system for the commandos. I’m no hero. I have become a collaborator.

“Move over, you’re blocking our air,” said one of our very brave comrades.

To my surprise, the commando moved over a foot or so, allowing some of the breeze to reach the rest of the room. I am continually amazed by the courage of my fellow activists.

We passed the remainder of the day in a slow series of disputes with our captors over food and medical treatment. We took no food that the soldiers had control of. That meant no food from the galley, though the cook was dispatched to prepare a meal for us. It was sad when the food was brought to the dining area. There was a bowl of over 100 hardboiled eggs.

“We won’t take this food!” we exclaimed.

We were worried about being filmed accepting the food and being used for propaganda purposes.

The commander of the soldiers offered to turn off the body cameras they were using.

“Don’t trust them!” several activists protested.

We took no food. There is no trust.

The dispute over medical care. Some of my comrades were in their 70s and 80s. Even with the ventilation, temperatures in the dining area where we were held were in the mid-eighties. It was very warm for people with existing medical conditions. Periodically, a number of my comrades would fall into distress. If an activist looked unwell, the soldiers would allow that person to leave the room. The commandos didn’t want to smell malevolent odors in a hot room any more than we did. We insisted that our doctors go with our people when a medical issue arose. This caused a conflict as there were Israeli military doctors onboard the ship and the soldiers preferred we go to see them.

One of our comrades stood up saying he needed to leave the dining area. He looked like he might pass out. Our doctor stood with him.

“Sit down!” a soldier said to our doctor.

“He will see our doctor,” stated the commander of the soldiers.

“I am going with him!” our doctor protested.

“Sit down!” exclaimed the soldier to our doctor as he unholstered his taser and brought it close to her chest.

Our doctor sat down. Our ill comrade was escorted out by the Israeli medics. We lost that battle, but not for lack of courage.

The voyage from the interception point to the Israeli port of Ashdod was long. I believe it took over 16 hours. That’s a lot of time to kill, but the time goes by fast when there are 100 people who need to use the restroom and each trip needs to be organized into small groups of four activists accompanied by armed guards. I took every opportunity to use the restroom as I never knew when it might be my last chance to go to the toilet for quite some time. The procedure was simple. If we needed to use the toilet, we raised our hands when the question was asked. We were then asked to line up in a group of four and then sent down below to the restrooms accompanied by a guard. On one such trip, the commander of the soldiers was guarding us. I was not feeling particularly well for some reason. I took a long time in the toilet. The commander came into the restroom. Normally, the guards remained outside.

“Do not lock the doors of the toilet!” the commander said to us in the restrooms.

I unlocked the door of the stall. I figured it was time to finish up. I came out and the commander was standing there with his automatic weapon.

“Are you ok?” he asked.

“I’m fine. I just don’t feel well. I’m getting over a head cold and I think it’s affecting my stomach,” I replied.

“Do you want to see the doctor,” he asked.

“I’m fine. Thank you,” I replied.

“Where are you from?” he asked me.

“United States. The state of Maryland. You?” I replied.

He said nothing. Don’t talk to the soldiers.

We returned to the dining area. It was getting dark. With the sun going down, temperatures in the room were much more reasonable. The soldiers guarding us had removed their full combat gear and were dressed only in their fatigues. The atmosphere was relaxed. Some of the participants had been allowed to return to their luggage and brought back snacks they had stashed in their gear. We ate those. The soldiers had no control over our snacks. We were allowed some whispered conversation as well in contrast to the strict no talking policy of the early hours of the voyage. I was sitting at the front of the dining area at a table directly across from our captors at the bar. The commander was there in front of me.

“Maryland. How did you get here?” the commander queried me.

“I flew,” I replied. And was immediately shouted down by several of my fellow activists.

“Ed. Don’t!” said a comrade.

Don’t talk to the soldiers.

“You look like you really don’t want to be here,” the commander said to me.

I mumbled something about not feeling well. But it was an interesting comment by him. It’s true, I have little interest sitting in a hot room surrounded by a bunch of heavily armed men ready to inflict severe violence at the drop of a hat. I can think of a million other places I’d like to be. But I love my people dearly and I am willing to give up everything for them. Note to self: work on my poker face.

Into the arms of the sadists

It was dark now as we sailed into Ashdod port. Tug boats greeted us as we approached our berth. The commander of the soldiers gave us final instructions on how we should disembark from the vessel.

“When you exit the dining area, pick up your belongings as you leave the cabin area of the ship,” he directed.

“You will walk aft and disembark at the transom. A soldier will be with you every step of the way,” he added.

“We will now distribute passports. As you receive your passport, you will leave the dining area.”

The passports were produced and slowly distributed to everyone with the help of our comrades onboard. On a ship, passports are held by the captain during the voyage and for me, it’s always a bit discomforting to be separated from my documents whilst traveling. I was relieved when my name was called and I received my passport. It happened in the middle of the distribution process so I was squarely in the middle of our group. I walked out of the dining area, grabbed my bags and headed outside. The commandos lined our route. There truly was a soldier every step of the way.

Israeli Police on the Ashdod docks began the Brutality

I could see the pier and the guards onshore were “frog marching” our comrades along the dock. Frog marching means to pin someone’s arms behind them and forcefully propel them forward. It’s an easy way to fall flat on one’s face. It was clear that the Israeli security forces were not greeting us with flowers.

As we walked aft to disembark, the commander was there. He called my name, “Maryland,” and said something but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. We got down to the transom and were ordered to halt.

I looked around at the line of my fellow comrades. A few of us looked absolutely terrified. I tried to smile but it felt forced. The soldiers came by us forcefully transferring a fellow activist to shore. I wondered why my comrade was being singled out for rough treatment like that?

We were slowly moving off the ship single file, one by one. It was clear to me the Israelis wanted to know exactly who they were dealing with when we got off the boat and were presented to them. There was no safety in numbers. We were stepping into the abyss.

Torture – the action or practice of inflicting severe pain on someone as a punishment or in order to get them to do or say something.

Author’s note: for this group of Israeli tormentors the definition includes hurting someone for sport, entertainment or a good laugh.

I was told to step forward off the ship. I walked into the crowd of security personnel. They took my passport and I was immediately grabbed with my arms pinned behind my back and forcefully propelled forward down the pier. I struggled to stay afoot under the weight of my bags and the pressure from the guys on my back. The guard on my left was not very strong and I fought the urge to clamp down on the limb he was using to hold my arm behind my back. The Israelis are not particularly large people and that shows up in the security forces. It’s not like contacting U.S. law enforcement where one is likely to encounter a guy who is 6’5″, weighs 300 pounds, is solid muscle and can easily floss his teeth with a 170 lb. activist.

The guards deposited me in the holding area. I was told to get on my knees with my face to the ground. My bags were just to the right of me. My comrades were there. I didn’t dare look up but I could tell we were roughly organized in rows. There were people in front of, behind and to the left of me. I couldn’t tell how far away. Not far. There was a fence directly to my right. The surface we were kneeling on was stone and a rough stone at that. Now for me, fortunately, I’m a boat builder and I can spend a good portion of my day working on my knees. I don’t use knee pads and I have calluses built up from years of working on all types of surfaces. Kneeling on this rough stone did not bother my knees one iota. But I know that for my comrades, who didn’t have this type of internal protection, some of whom were in their 70s and 80s, being on this stone was excruciating.

After about 30 minutes, a guard came by to inform me that I was sitting all wrong. I needed to raise my upper body, keep my face to the ground and place my hands behind my back. I complied. The position bothered my ankles a bit at first, but they soon went numb. It was a stress position. It was a little uncomfortable. Not bad. I could see more with my face raised from the ground and I saw my comrades sitting in this same position all around me in the darkness.

I could hear a man stride towards me. A sinister voice. “Welcome Victor.”

They were using my first name.

“Now, I want you to say: I love Israel,” he commanded.

The man grabbed me by the back of the neck and forced my head towards the ground, squeezing as hard as he could. “Now, I want you to say: I love Israel,” he commanded.

Obviously, this was not something I expected and was ready for. But you know, it’s funny how quickly the mind reacts when we wind up in distress. Words just started coming out. But I wasn’t going to say what he wanted me to.

“My dad’s a Jew and of course I love my dad,” I sputtered. It was hard to speak from the pain.

“That’s not going to save you,” replied the sinister voice. The pressure on my neck continued.

A second voice appeared. A man who spoke English with a North American accent. “Victor, are you a Roman Catholic?” the second voice queried me.

We had entered the realm of the truly bizarre. I was being interrogated about my religious affiliation.

“I accepted Islam about eight years ago,” I replied as the pressure seemed to relax a bit.

“Ah. Another piece of the puzzle,” said the North American like he had discovered some amazing tidbit that would unlock the mystery of why I was there. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

The pressure on my neck let up for a few moments. I was stunned. It’s hard to process an event like that. Again, from the sinister voice, “Now say it: I love Israel.”

He grabbed my neck once more and pushed my head towards the ground; more forcefully than before and my neck was already traumatized from the previous go around. It did hurt. Not the worst thing I’ve felt, but it was painful. I started singing like a bird.

“My grandmother’s family came to the U.S. in 1905 fleeing the pogrom in Ukraine. I understand the historical suffering of the Jewish people,” I exclaimed. I needed this to end.

“Say it!” commanded the sinister voice. Maximum pressure and accompanying pain was applied to my neck.

“Well, I did visit Israel in 2011 and I remember I liked it. But now I’m starting to reconsider,” I responded a bit icily.

“I’m sorry for being a traitor,” I added.

I was surprised at how many people follow a strict disengagement policy when dealing with the Israelis and some of these are people in leadership roles in the FFC.

They are extremely firm on a no contact policy with the adversary. It’s a common position.

There is a tremendous amount of antipathy for Israel amongst our activists. People justify the position, saying that the difference between the right and the left is that the left can easily rehumanize the opposition when the time comes to do so. I don’t know about the merits of that argument, but as an activist with the FFC, I do not want to be branded a Zionist collaborator by our people. So, you see the struggle play out in my recollection of events.

After the last statement, I was thrown down and my neck released from the grip of my tormentor.

“You’re not a traitor Victor,” said the North American voice as he walked away in the darkness.

Not a traitor indeed. I had to agree. I have no idea why I would say anything like that. It feels odd to be haunted by statements made under such conditions. The words just came out. I didn’t mean it. I don’t think I did at least.

“Get up!” commanded another agent from the darkness.

“Get your belongings and move forward,” the voice continued.

I rose from the stone. I could not feel my feet. “I can’t walk. I can’t feel my feet,” I explained to the voice behind me.

To my surprise, he didn’t push me. We waited several minutes. As soon as I could, I gathered my bags and moved forward to the door of the processing center. There was a man at the entrance to the center. I showed him my passport. “State your name,” he said.

As soon as I opened my mouth to say, “Victor Edward Digilio,” I was grabbed by the back of the neck yet again. I stammered out my name through the pain, totally garbled and barely intelligible. “You speak English?” asked the man at the door.

He and the rest of the sadists laughed heartily. They thought it was very funny. Add that to the list of my grievances – having to endure extremely low-grade sociopathic humor. I was relieved my tormentors didn’t walk through the door with me into the processing center.

A Word About Torture and Forgiveness

A word about the torture. This was not the worst torture I have ever endured. I’ve been treated more violently by law enforcement in the States. Nonetheless, the use of these tactics against people who are in custody is most vile and repellent and is a stain on humanity. It does not matter if the prisoners being tortured are militants or peace activists, this behavior is criminal and must never be normalized as seems to be happening now in the modern-day state of Israel. If these awful acts are being perpetrated against people like myself who have the privilege of United States passports, I cannot imagine the level of state-sanctioned violence against Palestinians who are being detained. But how best to defeat the sadism that currently lies in the heart of the Israeli state?

For me, it’s forgiveness. I want to state that I harbor no ill will towards these men who would treat me and other fellow human beings in such an atrocious manner. I forgive them for what they did to me. I cannot carry the bitterness, frustration and anger generated by these heinous acts with me. That would be a victory for sadism. But I probably will carry the sorrow from this situation for the rest of my life. We’ll add it to the base of the mountain of trauma that exists in the hearts of everyone who comes into contact with the world of the occupation of Palestine.

But forgiveness is easier said than done, and as I walked into the processing center with the agent escorting me, I wasn’t feeling too forgiving. In fact, I was slipping into a bit of a rage. Not a good look for a pacifist, but torture messes with your head. I was sizing up every Israeli I encountered. They were unarmed mostly. I was feeling pretty sure I could take half the people in the room.

We were searched again. I was assigned a handler to guide me through the cavernous intake center at the port. He was from the Israeli navy. “Yala,” he said.

I think it’s an Arabic word brought into the Hebrew language. I don’t know the precise etymology. It means hurry up, let’s go.

We walked over to the tables where they were searching our belongings that we had brought with us from the ship. We waited for a station to become available. An Israeli woman came over and asked me how I was.

“Not too well, I just got tortured,” I spit the words out, seething. I did not want to speak to these people.

She said nothing. I could feel the anger radiating from me. A bundle of negative energy. She moved on.

My handler and I continued to wait. He was young, in his twenties and had red hair. He was wearing a yarmulke. “So, where are you from?” he asked me.

His English wasn’t the best but he wanted to talk. I knew I had to talk because I had to calm down. “The United States, Maryland. It’s near Washington, D.C. You ever been there?” I replied.

The anger started to slip away. “So, where are you from?” He asked again.

I had to smile. I had no idea what he was talking about. I saw a comrade at a nearby table having her bags searched. An incandescent personality. She smiled at me. I smiled back. I felt better.

A station opened up and they searched my bags. They threw away my new FFC Break the Siege t-shirt, which I had only possessed for 20 hours. It was still in the bag. I was disappointed. It took me over a year to get that t-shirt. They asked me about my books. I had a Bible, an illustrated book on sail trimming and a novel, “There are Rivers in the Sky” by Elif Shafak. They asked me if I wanted the Bible with me in prison. “It’s not necessary,” I replied.

“What is this?” they pointed at the novel.

“It’s a novel,” I said. They seemed ok with it.

They were curious about my illustrated book on sail trimming. “You guys like sailing?” I queried.

“Well, we are in the navy,” one of them replied.

They threw away some of my belongings. Any electronics do not survive the process. They threw away useful items like my toothbrush and comb. However, most of my stuff was preserved but I was not hopeful that I would ever see my luggage again. At the end of the search, my bags got stickers with numbers. “Yala,” said my escort.

Adalah Lawyers at the Processing Center

We moved on to the immigration tables. The people asked if I had a lawyer. “Adalah,” I said.

I could only dimly remember the name of the legal organization that was supposed to assist us but magically, an attorney came right over and sat down with me. We had a meeting and she explained what documents I should sign. There were several options. I signed the expedited departure document. I was not looking to be here any longer than absolutely necessary.

The immigration people asked me a question about my participation in the mission. I can’t remember the details of what they said exactly, but I replied that I boarded the ship in Otranto, Italy, on September 30 and I wasn’t going to answer any more questions. They seemed fine with that.

I am eternally grateful for Adalah’s presence with us that evening.

“Yala!” exclaimed my escort.

We moved onto the next processing station where they collected any money, credit cards and precious items we might have on us. They put these things in a sealed bag with my name and a number on it. I had two credit cards, ten U.S. dollars and a few euros in change. They took my luggage from me here. I was certain I would never see any of my belongings again. It didn’t really matter, they had already thrown away my Break the Siege t-shirt.

The last station in the processing center was the intake desk for the Israeli prison system. They took my photograph there. I moved on and there were two men at a desk. One of them wanted to talk about Donald Trump. “The Arabs only respect a really strong guy,” he said.

I didn’t know what to say. I try to stay out of politics. “You probably voted for Biden,” he added.

I didn’t. I haven’t voted in a U.S. presidential election since 2008. I’m pretty sure I voted for Ron Paul then.

I was escorted outside to prepare for the bus ride to prison. The guards cut the laces out of my shoes. They zip tied my hands in front of me and blindfolded me. The blindfold was tight. It pressed against my eyeballs. I couldn’t see a thing. The night air was cool and I was brought onto the bus by the guard and guided to a seat in the back row. Other comrades were led onto the bus. I recognized their voices. It was good to be together.

Next: Onward to Ketziot

About the Author: Edward DiGilio is a a boat repair technician, boat-builder and marine mechanic, and peace activist who works in the areas of global health, nuclear weapons abolition and Palestinian human rights. He has been on the crew of the Gaza Freedom Flotilla Coalition ships Handala (in 2024) and the Madleen (in 2025) for short trips in the Mediterranean. He was the ship’s mechanic on the 2025 Conscience. He has been a member of the Ground Zero Center for Non-Violent Action in Poulsbo, WA, for the past 11 years. He He lives on the Chesapeake Bay in the state of Maryland.

The post The Israeli Occupation Forces Attacked our Ship, The Conscience appeared first on World BEYOND War.

---

From World BEYOND War via this RSS feed