Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (64 page)

That same morning, I was told by the Building Chief, Mr Sampon Pauksi, that I could come out of my cell, and that I would also be moved upstairs to the third floor on the west side of the building, where the sun set. The cells were much cleaner on that floor and were not so dark and dingy. I slipped the Building Chief an envelope containing some bucks, and that secured me my freedom in solitary.

Upstairs turned out to be great. I discovered that my wash boy was an electrician by trade and was quite a resourceful young man. From the lights in the corridor he ran a cable into my cell and attached a plug. Using some wet rice, I stuck some paper from a magazine around the mosquito screen to hide the cable. One of the workers who was a permanent resident in solitary sold me a light fixture with a globe and I made a lampshade from cardboard. I tied my new lamp to the bars with a piece of string so that it hung about two feet above my mat. In solitary you were not allowed to have a light in your cell. Our floor faced the prison tower, and at night a light in one of our cells could easily be spotted by the guards on duty. Sometimes during the night the guards also patrolled the corridor, and if we heard the steel gates being opened at any point, everybody would quickly switch their lights off. Lady Luck seemed to follow me wherever I went. The next day, a group of inmates who had finished their punishment were being moved back to their buildings. One of them had a portable electric fan, which I bought off him for 500 Thai baht. I also managed to buy two blankets. Life in solitary confinement was turning out to be very different from how I had imagined it.

Besides the inconvenience of the shackles, once I had got myself into a routine, I realised that living alone in a cell and having privacy again was something I could actually get to like. I suppose that, wherever we are in life, it is our present circumstances that will always be the environment that holds challenges and offers growth. This I was learning. No matter what the situation, I embraced the dawning of each day, because in my heart I knew that G-d had a purpose for me. Having faith gave me strength. I had begun to accept that we were born to suffer in order to teach others to appreciate what they have.

My family and friends all over the world continued to send me parcels. From my friend Edna in England I received the
Me’am Lo’ez
volumes of
The
Torah Anthology
by Yaakov Culi. This is a widely studied commentary on the
Tanach
. Now that I had light in my cell I could devote more time to studying.

In one of the parcels Joan sent me she included about ten bandanas, which I shared with my wash boy and some of my friends. While he was doing my laundry one day, one of the Bad Boys strolled up to him, pulled the bandana off his head and walked off with it. I was lying in my cell, my newly acquired fan blowing cool air in my face. I was thinking how great life was, even in this confined space. I felt content. I could have been anywhere in the world.

Next thing my boy came charging through my door. He looked really upset.

‘
Mi aria, puen
?’ (What’s up, friend?) I asked him, and he told me what had just happened.

Thais have their own way of dealing with their problems, and as a foreigner it was generally prudent not to interfere. I told him to report the incident to the guards – after all, most of them were snitches – but he was a proud man and he didn’t want to involve them. He was looking at me like I had the answer. As his boss, I realised that he wanted me to go and retrieve the bandana for him. Fuck it, I told him, let it go. I told him I would give him another one. If I did that, though, it would be perceived as an act of weakness, and, the next thing I knew, the Bad Boys would be helping themselves to my things.

There was an African American guy in solitary by the name of Stan, and he and I had become good friends. I discussed my dilemma with him and he offered to come with me to try and resolve my wash boy’s problem. I didn’t really want to involve him because I knew that if two of us approached the Bad Boys, this would be considered an act of aggression. I agreed that Stan should come with me, but that he would stay out of sight and wait for me at the entrance of the staircase.

The Bad Boys slept in cells on the first floor, and this floor was their turf. Going there was like walking into a hornets’ nest. When I got there, there were about 13 of them, sitting around talking, some doing deals, while one or two others were shooting heroin up their veins. The guy who had stolen the bandana was a new face to me. I had never seen him before. I estimated him to be in his late twenties. He was tall and skinny and his eyes were psychotic. As I approached, they all stopped what they were doing – except for the junkies, who carried on shooting up. I lifted my arm with my palm facing the ground. I moved my fingers as if closing my hand. I repeated the action a few times, calling the culprit at the same time to come to me. He ignored me, giving me the who-the-fuck-do-you-think-you-are look. This was not a good sign. I could feel my throat constricting, and I realised that I might very well have to fight the guy.

As I moved forward to confront him, the samurai who had come to me wanting to borrow money walked out of his cell.

‘
Aleksander, mi arai?
’ (What’s up?) he greeted me.

I greeted him back, and then explained to him that one of his gang members had stolen my boy’s bandana and that I would like it back. He called the guy in question over and ordered him to give the bandana to me, which he reluctantly did. I thanked my friend, and he told me that if I had any problems in the future I should come directly to him. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the whole picture could have turned very ugly. But this was prison. Unlike my white-collar criminal friend, whose destiny it had been to die, it wasn’t my turn yet. I had survived yet another life-threatening situation. Somebody up there was looking after me.

Sometimes in prison you are forced to do things you would normally be terrified of doing. Aggression is fought with aggression, even when the odds are against you. Any wavering can result in death, and every day is a gamble. Unpredictability was a real enemy that lurked inside each and every one of us. Your life was only worth what any given moment dictated. I understood this. I also understood that this phase in my prison existence would not only test me on many levels but would also become of great significance. If nothing else, it would make for an interesting chapter in the book I might one day write – if I survived!

While routine brings a degree of stability to one’s life, it can also cause monotony, and by now I was getting bored. I distanced myself from the action. I was reminded of when I was in DB while in the military, which was worse, in my opinion. I was very restless, and I attributed this to a subconscious yearning to express my feelings through drawing. It had been quite a while since I had last spent any time on my art. On her next visit, I planned to ask Jai to buy me some art supplies. Because of my limited funds, I could only afford some cheap watercolours and an A4 drawing pad, but it would be something.

The thing that continued to give me comfort in solitary confinement was knowing that there were people back in South Africa, and elsewhere, still working tirelessly towards my release. In a letter from my sister, I learnt that, through a friend, our family friend and the well-known philanthropist Bertie Lubner had had my letter to Nelson Mandela hand-delivered to him. This year, 1999, was to be Mandela’s last as president. I was convinced that if anyone could empathise with the plight of prisoners, it was Mandela. True to her word, Joan had also somehow managed to give a letter to Princess Chulabhorn Mahidol of Thailand, during her royal visit to South Africa, asking her to intercede on my behalf. We both knew this was a long shot, but neither of us was about to give up. Thinking about and planning for the day I would be released kept me positive and strong. I didn’t have any other option.

On Tuesday 23 March 1999, at 2pm, Okky and my cases came up. I was sentenced to three months’ solitary confinement and all visitation privileges were withdrawn for that period. My prisoner class was cut from ‘excellent’ to ‘very good’. I felt the sentence was harsh, but, in a country where sentences were generally ridiculous, I reckoned I’d got off lightly. At least I knew that I would be out of solitary by the end of June.

On the same morning, Rabbi Kantor from Chabad House was permitted a special contact visit for all the Jewish inmates. He brought his
tefillin
(phylacteries) with him and each one of us had a chance to put it on. We recited the appropriate blessings, and the
Shema
was incredibly uplifting. He also brought us matzah (unleavened bread), sliced pastrami, turkey, cheese and olives. This was an unbelievable treat. Pesach or Passover started on 1 April. I stopped eating bread, and although my only means of keeping Pesach was by eating matzah, my freedom was in my faith. The irony wasn’t lost on me: when the Israelites were being set free from slavery, I was being held captive. And yet spiritually I was freer than ever before in my life.

Mohammed was still sending me white bread every week, but because it was Pesach I would give it away. There was no coffee shop in Building 10, so, unless you had visits, bread was difficult to come by.

Because I had paid extra money to be allowed to stay outside, every day from 1 to 2pm I would exercise. Despite keeping fit, I was constantly tired, my body ached all over (I hoped this wasn’t a sign of old age) and I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in five years. Nor had I sat on a comfortable chair. Even my bum got sore.

I had to smuggle some of my letters out because you could be sure every word I wrote was being closely monitored, and Jai’s friend Sheila was still up to her tricks. I had no doubt she was still reading them and reporting the contents to the embassy. My sister sent all her letters by registered mail, and registered mail was opened in front of us by Joe, who was one of the guards and in charge of the foreign section, but, personally, I never trusted anybody. For all I knew, even Jai could be working against me. I really hoped this wasn’t the case, as I was becoming more and more dependent on her, not only emotionally but also to keep helping me to secure all the daily things I needed. She was my connection to the outside world. Whatever she did, I believed she did out of love. At this stage all I could afford to give Jai was R100 a month, enough to cover her return boat trip to the prison.

I constantly had earache while I was in solitary. I thought that this was probably from the dirty shower water, although there was always the possibility that some insect had crawled down my ear canal. I didn’t want to think about that too much. I was eating well, though, and exercising regularly. My hair was getting long again and my beard was filling up.

Most of the guys with us in solitary were killers and had no consciences. Fortunately, after five years in prison, I was already well established in Bangkwang, and I was also feared, mainly for my size and for my reputation as a no-nonsense person. The Thais thought I was some kind of Mafia boss on the outside, and so, as they were all gangsters, I commanded a lot of respect. One day a foreigner, a British guy who owed money to one of the dealers, came to me for protection. He was expecting family to visit from abroad. Word was out that some of the Bad Boys planned to grab him on his return from the visit. They would seize whatever foodstuffs his visitors had brought him, and chances were that he was also going to be stabbed. The dealer in question was on 24-hour lockdown. He had sent written notes warning this guy to pay his debt or else he would have him taken care of. The British guy ignored his threats and simply scored his heroin from another dealer, whose name was Rusta. This pissed off the first dealer big time. I agreed to get involved, but only because an attack on one foreigner by the Thais could result in an escalation of violence against the rest of us. When the British guy returned from the visit, I met him at the gate, protecting him from whatever ill fate awaited him. We walked up the stairs. The Bad Boys were lounging around waiting for him. Nobody made a move. I escorted him straight to the dealer’s cell, as an act of good faith. There I told the British guy to give Rusta half of what he’d got from his visitors, and I also told him that he had to promise to settle his debt. In prison everybody gave credit. At some time or another everybody’s money ran out, but you knew also that at some stage you would receive money from your family or friends or wherever. I told Rusta that if he ever had a problem with any of the foreigners, he should call me and not involve the Thais.

Just then, the leader of the Bad Boys appeared. He pointed his finger at the Brit and said in broken English, ‘No, Aleksander, today you die.’ I warned the Brit that he’d
better
settle his fucking debt or else he would be on his own. Owing money in prison was the cause of a lot of fights. If you didn’t pay your debts, word would quickly spread among the inmates that you were a chancer. And once you had a bad reputation, from then on people would avoid you. In prison, good credit makes for good friends.

I was taking a shower in my cell one day when an inmate who had owed me some money for quite some time, and hadn’t paid on the due date, knocked on my door. He went on his hands and knees and begged for my understanding. Whenever I lent money I gave it without ever expecting it back, but if you didn’t pay, you couldn’t ever come and borrow more. Generally, however, I preferred to avoid lending money. It was like buying a headache. When you wanted your money back and it wasn’t forthcoming, you could end up looking like the bad guy.

Since the news had spread of my being in solitary confinement, I was receiving parcels from abroad almost every day of the week, which also meant that I got to go out of the building and to see my friends from Building 2 and get the latest news of what was happening over there. For example, I heard that the Building Chief who had sent Okky and me to solitary hadn’t lasted very long. He had been removed two weeks after our fight, although that wasn’t the specific reason. He had apparently caused so much contention among the prisoners that the authorities feared a riot. Good riddance, I thought.