Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (104 page)

One afternoon I received a visit from Renee Aaron from the South African embassy. She told me she was going to start processing my temporary travel documents and would need me to sign some papers, have my fingerprints taken and also a photo. On the same day, the prison confirmed my official release date.

On 22 April 2012 I would be walking out of prison.

What a feeling! I could hardly wait to bark the dog and tell my sister. My Facebook group page, ‘Shani Krebs – Captivated Artist’, was already alive with activity in anticipation of my return. By the time I managed to speak to her, Joan had already heard the news from both the Israeli and the South African embassies. Even though this was only a confirmation of what we already knew, hearing it made official was still music to my ears. Silently, I celebrated and thanked
Hashem
.

But I knew very well that I wasn’t free yet and that anything could happen between then and April. I was not so naive as to think that my path was clear. For one thing, my heart was still giving me trouble, and there was also always the possibility of getting into an altercation or even of being stabbed, so I knew I had to be extra-vigilant and try to control the events around me as much as I could. I’d come so far. It wouldn’t be wise to become arrogant or overconfident now. I would continue to be my humble self, and, although swallowing shit was something I only did in extreme circumstances, if I had to turn the other cheek, I resolved that that was what I would do.

On Valentine’s Day I was called to have my photo and fingerprints taken. On my way out, a lot of the Thais kept saying the words to me ‘
Khun karbarn
,
khun karbarn
’ (Going home, going home). I couldn’t help smiling. How many years had I waited to hear those very words?

On 6 March 2012 (with 46 days to freedom), just after 7 in the morning and after the cells had been opened, I had another attack, a pain in my chest so severe this time that I couldn’t move. Everyone had gone by then. I was lying on the floor breathing into a plastic bag when the key-boy saw me and went to call the guards. I told him he shouldn’t worry, I was sure I would be okay, but the next thing I knew, the Building Chief arrived – my friend Kojak – who insisted that I go to the hospital. They brought me a wheelchair, which I declined. Instead, I walked to the hospital with one of the guards as my escort. I arrived there just before 8am and waited about 20 minutes before I was put onto oxygen. During the wait, I paced up and down, breathing in and out slowly. Once the oxygen mask was removed, I waited almost four hours for a doctor, but no one came. I got frustrated and told the guard I wasn’t going to wait any longer.

‘
Kun pen tuk churn
’ (You are emergency, you have to wait), he said.

‘
Tuk churn sum cher mong lao, pom boeer lao
’ (The emergency was three hours ago and I am beginning to get bored), I responded.

I returned to the building without having seen the doctor. I decided I would just have to take my chances with my heart from then on, at least until I was safely back in my home country.

Remembering my sister’s advice of long ago, and which she had recently reiterated, about finding a corner somewhere quiet and staying out of trouble, I found just such a place. This was a bench just outside the main office, and most days that was where I would sit, either by myself or with my Eastern European not-so-good friend. We amused ourselves by sharing jokes or criticising every second person who walked past. The office was in full view of where we sat.

One morning, there was a serious altercation in the dining room and the culprits were brought to the office. One of them was a foreigner, a Malay guy from Singapore, and the other one was a Thai. Four of the guards really got stuck into the foreigner with batons and boots. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, I wasn’t fazed at all. I had been surrounded by violence for so many years, and had witnessed so many beatings, that by now it just seemed to be part of everyday life. The foreigner was taken outside, shackled and thrown into solitary confinement. The Thai was also beaten, but not badly, and then let go.

One day in the middle of March, an Israeli guy on death row was transferred from Bangkwang. He arrived late in the afternoon, so I didn’t have much chance to really talk to him. It was Shabbos, and I managed to help him out with food and give him a case of drinking water before he was taken to his cell and locked up for the night. I had met this guy previously, around early January 2011, when he and his co-accused were sent to Bangkwang from the very building that I was now in. They had been thrown into Building 10, where he had stayed up until now. We had met on several occasions back then in the foreign visit room and had struck up a friendship. Seeing him arrive here only a month or so before I was going home seemed really cruel. I couldn’t wait to see him again so that he could update me on all the goings-on back in Bangkwang. When we hooked up the next day, we walked for hours, talking mostly about Bangkwang. I learnt that the room I had bought had been broken up because one of the Israelis had been caught barking the dog there. It was no longer a foreign room and the authorities had put several Thais in there to keep an eye on things. The other new thing was that, on 16 March, all deliveries of fresh food from the grocery store at Bangkwang had been stopped. They would now be implementing the same system that we had at Klong Prem, with prisoners having to order ready-made food that was delivered in plastic bags.

On 22 March I had a contact visit with Elisabeth. I never thought I would see the day, as it was a year ago that I had been so abruptly moved to Khao Bin just a week before our contact visit. But now here we were, and I was really happy to see my girlfriend. When I entered the area allocated for our families and friends, I was directed to one of the corners that was strictly for the foreigners. Here they had these long tables with wooden benches that were not only dirty but also quite rough. When Elisabeth arrived, I sneaked her to the Thai section where there were nice round tables and plastic chairs. We found a spot almost in the centre of everyone. While we were sitting there, the two prisoners who were the photographers for the day took a few photos of us. In one, I was giving Elisabeth a kiss. The next thing I knew we were surrounded by four or five guards.

‘
Joop tee nee my dia.
No keesing arroud,’ one guard reprimanded us. Then he wanted to know why a foreigner was in the Thai section.

I responded by saying, ‘
Pom mai chai farang
’ (I am not a foreigner). ‘
Pom kun Thai
’ (I’m a Thai national).

He looked at me, quite bewildered, and for a minute I thought he was going to grab me by the throat and suffocate me. I needed to explain, and quickly.

‘
Pom yoo teenee sip baat pee lao
’ (I’ve stayed here 18 years already and I was not comfortable in the foreign section and I prefer to stay where I am now), I hurriedly added.

‘Yoo sabai sabai
’ (Enjoy your stay), he answered.

With these words, and by not forcing me to move, the commodore was actually giving me respect and acknowledging that I had done a long time in prison. After that, Elisabeth and I were left alone. Just being together, and holding Elisabeth’s hand, was the most incredible feeling. This was a day we had both dreamed about. We wanted nothing more than to be in each other’s physical presence. Just to be. For once we weren’t shouting to each other through double sets of bars, and neither were we talking to each other on phones divided by glass partitions. Here we were, like two ordinary people, just being together. What a beautiful moment. Naturally, most of our conversation revolved around my imminent freedom and our joint excitement about that reality. But in our hearts we both knew that, with my freedom, would come a time of separation for us, and we were torn by the thought that we would not consummate our love in those initial days of me being a free man.

Elisabeth had been my girlfriend and regular visitor for almost two and a half years now, and in that time we had experienced a lot together. It had been an emotional roller-coaster ride for both of us. She had her own issues and I had mine. I also still had my secret relationship with Jessica, which was passionate and exciting, but Jessica was far away and Elisabeth was a physical and loving presence in my life. And she was here, now, holding my hand. Neither of us was quite geared to deal with the other, and it was a relationship that had been complicated from the outset. We both understood that, initially, my adjusting to normal society and starting a new life would be challenging for me, but even above that, and before I could consider getting into a serious relationship, I needed to be on my own, to experience everything I had missed and to take a good look at whatever life would now offer me. Finding my feet wasn’t going to be easy, and being in a relationship, with Elisabeth or anybody else, was not a good idea. We both knew this in our hearts.

On Tuesday 3 April 2012, with just 19 days to go, the South African embassy visited me. I met Gregory, the police attaché, who had been newly appointed to this position. He said he was there to ensure my safe return to South Africa, and he was able to reassure me that everything was running smoothly. The following day, Rabbi Nechemya came to visit, but the prison authorities wouldn’t allow him to see me because the South African embassy had come the day before. Also, I had been told by the prison authorities at Klong Prem that I had to choose between one of the two embassies. This was ridiculous because I was now a dual citizen, but in fact I wasn’t all that bothered. I would have liked to have seen the rabbi, though, as it was just before Pesach, the last I would spend in this dump.

During this time the Israeli guy and I really bonded. He ate with me and I basically shared everything with him. We also worked out in the gym daily, and in the short time we were able to spend together we became like brothers. Most days we took long walks together and just talked and talked, sharing stories and adventures from our childhoods. We’d both be counting down the days to my release, both of us with mixed feelings about not seeing each other again. I felt sad because I knew his suffering would continue for years to come. Friends had come and gone in prison, and I had always been careful about getting too close to anyone, but somehow, when it came to members of my own tribe, it was different. The comradeship you experience with a fellow inmate is unlike anything you would ever encounter in the free world.

On Saturday 21 April, the day before my scheduled release, I hardly slept a wink. My excitement and longings were driving me round the bend. Time began to drag, and yet it was passing through me so fast I felt I was losing my balance. I couldn’t wait to share my joy with Jessica, and, at our appointed time I called her. No answer. I called and called. Still no answer. In between calling her number I phoned Elisabeth and my sister, but it was Jessica I really longed to speak to. I dialled her number again. What the fuck was going on? This was the most important moment in my life. Something was amiss. I was worried sick. I needed her now more than ever. After over an hour of trying to reach her, I had to give the dog back as there were other inmates waiting to bark.

Why wasn’t Jessica picking up? I tried to put my worry aside and focus on the most important day I was about to enjoy in 18 years.

Going Home

At last it was 22 April, the day I would wipe the dust of prison off my shoes once and for all and begin my journey homeward.

The process was not a straightforward one, however, and certainly not as simple as getting a cab to the airport and waving goodbye. But nothing could dampen my spirits. My joy was almost tangible and my million-dollar smile said it all. While waiting for my police escort on the veranda of the White House, I paced up and down for the almost two hours it took for them to come and collect me. The officers would accompany me to the Immigration Detention Centre (IDC), the last stop before my freedom. While I waited and paced, I looked around at the familiar buildings. Prison might have been the place I had spent almost 18 years – I was just four days short – but I’d always known I never actually belonged there, in the sense of it being the place where I lived and died. In fact, it was now horribly unfamiliar, and I grew impatient. I needed to take the first steps that would lead me to my new life, my real life.

While I waited, a group of about 100 prisoners was brought to the control centre. These guys, who only had a couple of months left before they would also be released, were part of a workers’ gang that did odd jobs outside the prison. They all wore the same dark green uniform, and their blank stares conveyed the hopelessness that you’ll see in almost every prisoner’s eyes. For some of these men, the prospect of starting a life on the outside was scary and intimidating. Many of them enjoyed a better life within the confines of the prison walls. I could empathise with the way they felt and I recognised that look in their eyes. Although I was excited about leaving prison, I was also apprehensive, and my mind was a turmoil of questions.