Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (46 page)

Through time and the effects of exercise, the drugs had worked their way out of my system. The clearer my mind became, the more real was my reality. Survival became my ongoing priority. In fact, this had been the case from the time I arrived in Bombat prison.

While walking around the building close to where my new locker was, I noticed that some of the prisoners had erected awnings, which were attached to the wall, to protect themselves from the sweltering heat. This section of the building we called Chinatown, as it was where a lot of the Chinese guys hung out. Some of them also had houses. Walking further down towards the opposite end of the building, closer to where Mohammed stayed, I saw a group of four guys sitting in deckchairs, their pants pulled down to their knees. As I got closer, I saw they had these weird plastic pump gadgets fitted on their penises. At first I didn’t know what they were doing, but then I realised they were busy enlarging their dicks! They were doing this right out in the open, and then they would compare sizes. This was better than the movies!

Further on were the toilets, where there were smaller groups of guys huddled together. These were the junkies shooting up heroin. They used an empty pen cartridge for this: after sucking the diluted heroin into the cartridge, they would attach a surgical needle to it, which was then inserted into the vein. A fellow prisoner then blew on the opposite end of the cartridge, allowing the heroin to enter the bloodstream. Prisoners shared needles freely, without any form of sterilisation. I was sure most of these guys had AIDS. The place was full of addicts, and seeing and being around people taking drugs on such a large scale really frightened me. Bangkwang, I soon realised, was
full
of drugs.

I suppose prisons all around the world tolerate drug trafficking within their walls, but, besides the monetary gains, in Thai prisons the authorities turn a blind eye because they know that drugs subdue prisoners and keep them mellow – a disgruntled prison population can make for a very volatile situation.

The Chinese and the Nigerians controlled the drugs in Bangkwang, and within their organisation they had at least five different syndicates. Whenever a big stash came into the building, it would be divided equally among the dealers. Each had his own customer base and every syndicate operated on a different day. I had barely been in Bangkwang a week – it was around 10am on a Monday morning – when I became aware of how the system operated. During our regular visit days many of the foreigners were at the visit, and those who didn’t have regular visits were in the dining hall writing letters. A few Nigerians hung out in the house, while others stood guard at certain posts, keeping a watchful eye. There was always a chance of the building getting raided by outside guards, either from the security section or the Department of Corrections, so whichever syndicate was peddling the heroin that day, one or two guys would be on duty selling. The heroin was put into small papers containing no more than 0.4g.

On this Monday morning I was relaxing in a deckchair in Mohammed’s house when three Thai junkies arrived at the entrance to the Nigerians’ house. They ordered their papers, and as the Nigerian was about to hand them over, they pulled out knives and robbed him of everything he was holding. It all happened really fast. Apparently it wasn’t the first time and it sure wouldn’t be the last. With Thais outnumbering foreigners seven to one in Bangkwang, retaliation would be committing suicide.

My second night in the cell, I called for a meeting in which I expressed my disapproval of the room chief waking us up so early. We took a vote and most of the guys supported me; it was decided there and then that the room chief would clean the room only once we had exited. At the same time I changed places with the guy on my right – I wasn’t going to be able to sleep next to the old man who farted all the time. My new neighbour was a Singaporean by the name of Jimmy. The poor guy had AIDS. He was covered in pimple-type sores all over his body, which he never stopped scratching. I felt bad for him, but the scratching was terrible. Eventually, I got hold of a cardboard box which I flattened and stood as a partition between our beds.

Because I had started jogging already back at Klong Prem and had played some
takraw
, I was reasonably fit. Sports activities were generally left to the prisoners to organise. First thing in the morning, the basketball enthusiasts would have the concrete court for an hour. After that, the footballers would take over the pitch. I was soon playing football. Teams were made up of either four or five players. Two teams would square off, while the other teams sat on the sidelines and watched, waiting for their turn. If you were a good player, whenever you arrived at the pitch, players would quickly invite you onto their team. The winner was determined by who scored the first goal. Every time the ball was kicked behind the goal line, the next team to play would count. If by the count of ten there was no goal, both teams would be out and two new teams would come on to play. On Saturdays, Sundays and public holidays, all the footballers would come to play. The Thais love their football, and there were some very talented sportsmen among us in Bangkwang. They were also very competitive, especially when it came to playing against the foreigners.

Despite being physically active, my first days in Bangkwang dragged and the nights were long. I started expressing my inner emotions by composing poetry. I would lie on my bundle of folded blankets and juggle with words. The first poem I wrote I called ‘Walls’:

My life revolves around walls

walls that seem so high that you cannot see the sky,

yet the sky is not so high as the walls seem to touch the sky,

how I wish I could fly.

Understandably, my spirits were really down, but the deeper I went into my mind, the easier the words began to flow. All the same I felt myself slipping into a state of depression.

I wrote another poem and called it ‘Feel the Breeze’:

This is not about the beginning of the end,

nor is it about the end of the beginning,

this is not about one ways,

nor is it about dead ends,

it’s about release,

do you feel the breeze,

I finally feel at ease.

Suicide wasn’t something I’d ever contemplated – Judaism prohibits taking your own life – but now it was a very real option in comparison to what I was facing. I believed I could do it, too. And so I set in motion a plan to take my life.

Believing that the most effective method was death by hanging, I managed to acquire a durable rope, one I estimated would accommodate my weight, and successfully smuggled it into my cell. I recited my prayers, and, just before midnight, said my private goodbyes and begged the forgiveness of my family and friends. I understood that the act of suicide was a selfish one and that ultimately only they would suffer, but I was in a very depressed and hopeless state.

All my cellmates were fast asleep. I took the rope into the toilet and made a hangman’s noose. I tied the other end to the bars above the toilet. Then I fitted the rope around my neck and was about to lunge my body out of the toilet, which was at least a metre above ground level, when suddenly I saw a bright light and distorted images, similar to those I had sometimes seen in my nightmares as a child, came flooding into my mind. It was a crazy moment, and the realisation of what I was doing hit me hard. I discovered that my will to live was greater than my desire to die. What the fuck was I thinking? I quickly removed the rope from my neck, untied it, went back to my space and lay down. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t believe I had almost taken my life.

I will get through this, I told myself. They will never break me.

The weeks and months that followed my futile attempt at suicide were spent mainly with my head in the clouds. I wrote more poems and became more withdrawn and irritable. And there was no news from home. Letter-writing was the only form of communication that prisoners enjoyed. Building 2’s mail arrived every Wednesday and Sunday. When they called the mail over the intercom system and your name was one of those called out, you were overcome with excitement. By November I had written at least four letters to my family and still there was no news from them. I was sick with worry. I could feel it in my gut that something was wrong. In addition, I had not heard a word from my so-called Israeli liberators. Naive as I was then, I trusted people and expected them to come through.

Electrical appliances were illegal in the prison, but they managed to find their way in all the same. Those who could afford them had things like rice boilers, electric frying pans, portable fans and blenders. You could even hire a TV and a video machine so you could watch movies. I managed to acquire a Walkman for 1 200 Thai baht. There were one or two English channels that played my type of music, and whenever I got to the cell, the first thing I did was switch on my Walkman and plug in my earphones. Music has always played an integral part in my life. It does something profound to my soul. But in prison it also made me homesick, especially when I heard one of my favourite songs. These triggered memories of those sentimental moments we all have at some stage of our lives.

In the meantime, the South African consul, Jan Putter, whom I liked a lot, had informed me that our government was in the process of negotiating a prisoner transfer treaty with Thailand, so I put some of my hope in that. The fact that there
were
a few possible avenues still open to me gave me strength to endure the monotony of prison life. I still strongly maintained my innocence, even more so after it had become obvious, to me at least, that I had been set up. There were many such instances where the very people who supplied you with the heroin were working with the police, giving them your identity, what quantity of drugs you were carrying and which hotel you were staying at. In my case, the cops had been onto me already at the hotel or probably, for that matter, from the very moment I’d set foot in Bangkok. It’s when you are apprehended at the airport that the charge for exporting carries the death penalty.

In December, while sitting around in the Nigerian house one morning, reminiscing about years gone by, my name was called for a parcel. Finally, some news from home!

I wrote back to share my appreciation with my family:

Dearest Joan, Malcolm, Darren and Keri

Firstly, thank you very much for the two parcels. I truly appreciate it more than you can imagine. The parcel was opened in front of me, two items on your list weren’t in them – two boxes of coffee, though there were a few small boxes of coffee and a blow-up pillow, maybe you forgot to put them in. Firstly, I pigged out on the salami, I fried it and mixed egg with it, then I attacked the cheese with Provita and after that, I had the coffee. It was just like a Southern Sun breakfast. Then I relaxed in a chair and smoked a Camel. I swear, for those moments, it felt like I was sitting in your back garden, you really made my day and it was worth waiting for. Thank you so much.

Lots of love, Shani

December, being the festive season, was a difficult time, not only for me, but also for most prisoners. It was the holidays. That longing to be with one’s family or somewhere on the beach was more intense somehow during this time. I could understand why so many inmates turned to drugs. For me, the temptation was always there, but my inner voice kept telling me to stay strong. I had to resist at all costs. My very life depended on it. In Thailand, five days of holidays are given over to New Year, which meant that the prison was closed. There were no visits, no parcels and no letters during those days, and that was fucking depressing, I can tell you.

Several sports events happened over these holidays, all organised by the inmates, the highlight being the football competition, which was based on the same principles of elimination as the FIFA World Cup. Each team collected money, and a guard would buy uniforms and balls – for a fee, of course. Matches started as early as 7am. The tournament was a lot of fun and a break from our normal routine. The guys even placed bets on the games. I made the fatal mistake of being the referee in one of the quarter-final games – the Thais vs the Nigerians. I disallowed a goal the Nigerians scored. Actually, it was quite funny: not only did the players turn on me but so did some of the overenthusiastic Nigerian spectators. I stood my ground, though, and used my yellow card to quell their tempers.