Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (51 page)

It was articles such as these that kept our hopes and our cause alive. During the Golden Jubilee celebrations, the Thai government expressed a strong desire to all foreign countries with citizens in Thai prisons to take their citizens home. The South African government didn’t appear to give a fuck. Their excuse was that South African jails were overcrowded, so why bring back more criminals? Fuck them, I thought.

South Africa was five to six hours behind Thailand. I was forever calculating the time, trying to work out what my family was doing at what time. I would imagine Joan dropping the kids at school, or the family gathered around the dining room table having dinner. I would go so far as to create imaginary conversations they’d be having. I missed them terribly. Thinking of all the years I’d wasted in having so little contact with them in the past saddened me deeply.

Meanwhile, back in my room, my African brothers (who, by the way, turned out to be great guys) had been moved to another building. I now secured my spot in the corner. Sleeping next to me was a youngster from England, Matthew Jones, in his early twenties. He had lived in Bangkok for a year or so. He was a good kid and shared my love of playing football. Prior to coming to prison he had never used hard drugs, but, like so many other foreigners, Matthew had fallen victim and become a heroin addict. I tried to encourage him not to use, but in vain. It killed me to see such a young soul destroying his life. Unfortunately, he had also contracted AIDS, more than likely from sleeping with prostitutes. He had served about six years when his family, with the support of the British government, managed to get him a medical royal pardon and he was released. Before he left, I told him that he now had a second chance in life. With antiretroviral medication he could live for many years and lead a normal life. I hoped that, by regaining his freedom, he would stop drugs and turn his life around.

More than half the guys in my room used heroin. I couldn’t blame them and I never judged them. Prison was a place where drugs helped ease the pain and allowed the time to pass quicker. Ryan, who slept next to Matthew, always kept at least 100g up his arse, which he removed every afternoon in the cell and proceeded ritually to cut and make really huge lines to snort. He was a generous bastard and was forever inviting me to join him. Seeing how fucked-up everybody else was, though, turned me against drugs. And not only that – how could I squander on drugs the money my sister was sending me for my food? It would have been really bad karma. By 4pm all the junkies had passed out, some even falling asleep with cigarettes in their mouths. It was like watching a comedy movie.

The room was quiet – there were no TVs blaring. We had run cables from both sides of the room to the main TV, and each person had a jack he could plug his earphones into if he wanted to listen. Because all the channels were in Thai, the foreigners formed a video club. Every day each person contributed 5 Thai baht and the guy in charge would hire movies and a video machine. For those guys who had nothing else to do, watching movies was an excellent way to pass the time. Having been something of a patron of the arts, I had already seen much of what was available when I was on the outside, but some of the more popular movies I would watch again.
The
Shawshank Redemption
was one of my favourites.

Having a private cell exposed you to extortion from the guards. The office clerk, who was a prisoner himself and in charge of placing prisoners in their rooms, was a dubious character, and from the beginning I didn’t trust him. Every week we were required to pay him 1 000 Thai baht, which he claimed was for the Building Chief. This worked out to about 70 Thai baht per person. It was like paying rent. I talked to Ryan and told him it was fucked that we paid money to the office clerk and not directly to the prison authorities. I know 50 baht wasn’t much money, but it was the principle. We were being robbed. Generally, the officers didn’t accept bribes from foreign prisoners, their main concern being that we would report them to our embassies. Ryan agreed with me. He asked if I was prepared to take on the responsibility of being the room chief, and I said I was. That night it was discussed with the others in the cell and everybody agreed to my appointment. The following day, I informed the office clerk that I was now in charge of Room 16, and that from then on I would deal directly with the Building Chief regarding any payments that were to be made to the prison authorities. He was not impressed.

For the most part, receiving letters from home was every prisoner’s highlight. According to my sister in one of her letters, another article had appeared in a newspaper back home, and this one was claiming that ‘all South Africans in Thai jails are going to be released’.

While I was taking a shower one morning, Ryan came running from the back of the building, all excited.

‘You better pack your bags,’ he told me.

One of the Thais, an ex-policeman, had heard the same story on Thai radio, that all South Africans were going to be released as part of a special deal. I convinced myself that there had to be some truth to the rumour. I hoped with all my heart that it was true. I hated the place, I hated prison, I wanted nothing more than to go home. I had already wasted a year. I believed that I’d learnt my lesson and that I could now become a productive member of society. I wholeheartedly wished that the end was near.

My mom’s birthday was on 3 August; it would be her second since my arrest. Whenever it was a family member’s birthday I would spend hours on end looking at their photographs. In this way, I felt like I was part of the celebration on that special day. Despite all the difficult things that had gone between us over the years, I had a strong feeling that I was connecting spiritually with my mother.

The South African consular officer now only visited every eight weeks. People from the French embassy came every two weeks and they brought the French prisoners magazines and stamps. The American embassy came every month and gave their citizens vitamins, books, magazines and even Nike running shoes. I thought it was a shame that our embassy did so little for us. When I did see a South African official, and asked about the rumour regarding our possible release, I would be told that they were confident that South Africa would be signing a prisoner transfer treaty with Thailand soon. Every time they visited, the first thing I would ask them was about the treaty and every time the answer was the same.

On 6 August 1995 an article by Ramotena Mabote appeared in the South African
Sunday Times
, in its Metro section, under the headline: ‘Mandela Save Me, Begs Drug Runner’. A portion of the letter I had written to President Mandela was reproduced in it.

My sister was doing an amazing job fighting for my release and keeping me visible in the media, and I had Joan to thank for this article. It lifted my spirits, revived my faith and gave me fresh hope. My story was being extensively publicised. Joan would keep me updated on everything she was doing behind the scenes, and she also sent me copies of all the articles that were published in the press. Our prime objective, of course, was to get the prisoner transfer treaty in place, which would benefit all South African prisoners, but, just as importantly, we needed to make sure that drug cases would benefit from the upcoming amnesty in 1996. Joan sent letters pleading our case to President Bill Clinton, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Chief Mangosuthu Buthelezi, the Chief Rabbi Cyril Harris, Tokyo Sexwale (then Gauteng premier) and the Minister of the Interior of Thailand, Banharn Silpa-archa.

For those foreigners whose countries didn’t have a prisoner exchange treaty, there was another means of regaining one’s freedom. This was by royal decree, which was extended to all prisoners, Thais included. You could submit a personal petition requesting a royal pardon after going through certain channels: first from the relevant prison, then to the Department of Corrections, Ministry of Justice, prime minister’s office, and ultimately to the King. It was King Bhumibol himself who made the decision on royal pardons and signed off on them, resulting in either a sentence reduction or an outright pardon. In the 1980s, numerous foreign prisoners had benefited from such clemencies, but, by the 1990s, after a change of government led to a tougher stance on drug offenders, royal pardons had become less frequent.

I was told that I would have to wait at least two or three years after sentencing before I could submit such a petition. In the event that your pardon was rejected, you would have to wait two more years before you could submit another petition. This whole procedure could take anything from three years to five. Submitting a petition for a royal pardon without full support from your own government, however, was pointless. The South African government refused to submit such a letter on our behalf. All they agreed to do was guarantee our travel documents. Other Western democratic countries gave their full support to their prisoners.

Just a couple of months back I had been standing in a toilet with a noose around my neck, ready to take my own life. Now I was full of energy and hope.

My excitement was overshadowed by my nephew Darren’s birthday in September and his upcoming Bar Mitzvah on 7 October, a day after my niece Keri’s birthday – Jesus, it was tough not being able to celebrate with my family! The more I thought about it, the more I just wanted to get the hell out of Bangkwang. Adapting to prison life wasn’t working out for me. Prison is a very dark place. One is reduced to nothing; life can easily become meaningless. Fortunately, unlike many prisoners, my family had not abandoned me, and it was only their efforts sometimes that kept me alive. If I was to get through this, I realised I would have to dig deep. My spirits were like a yo-yo: one minute I was up, the next I was down, and when that happened the vision of a different future was obscured by the towering cement walls.

My Eyes Were Opening

Prison staff are classified according to rank. All staff wear military-style uniforms and the insignia on their shoulder straps, such as stars, leaves and castles, distinguish their status. At Bangkwang, the Director, who was the number one in charge of the prison, was a C10. The next in line was the Deputy Director, a C9, but also known as the 105, and he basically did the Director’s dirty work. Each building had a chief (rank C8). The Building Chiefs sat in their offices most days and seemingly did nothing but dream up ways to extort money from prisoners. The office clerks, who were also prisoners, kept files on everything that went on in the building. They recorded, for example, the roll-call counts, which officers were on duty, prisoner requests, how many inmates had reported sick and needed to go to the hospital, and the arrivals and transfers of prisoners. The Building Chief’s sole duty was to sign off on all these files. Beneath him was the second chief, ranked C7. He was virtually a nobody and mostly dealt with general everyday problems. These two chiefs would often be on bad terms simply because the first chief, being the number one, took all the bribes; once you had him in your pocket, there was no need to bribe the second chief.