Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (73 page)

Roy was an American journalist and an Emmy award-winning television producer, who apparently had produced several anti-drug documentaries. According to him, when he was arrested in Bangkok he was working on a series through which he planned to expose the drug-smuggling networks that operated in the Golden Triangle. Roy really struggled to adjust to prison life, and we watched the painful deterioration of his health and mental state.

On one occasion, Roy took a cigarette and burnt holes in the bed of the fellow American who slept next to him, claiming that the guy was Lucifer. Another time we found him pacing up and down the centre of our cell in the middle of the night, completely naked. He would sometimes become belligerent, swearing at and abusing whoever looked in his direction. One night when this happened, we could see he was out of control, and so two of his fellow countrymen pinned him down, hog-tied him and put a sock in his mouth to prevent him from screaming. It was clear that he was becoming a danger to himself and to the rest of us. The following morning I was called to the office. By then the prison authorities had heard what had happened from the trustees who patrolled the corridor. Roy was moved out of our cell, and from then on he slept in the corridor.

Back in December 1999 an article had appeared in
The
Jewish World
in which the writer described conditions in Bangkwang as horrendous:

In their cramped, squalid, stifling hot cells, most prisoners take turns sleeping on the bare cement floor among giant roaches. They use a stinking hole in the corner for a toilet and subsist on a bowl of rice porridge a day. To bathe, they splash water on themselves from troughs filled with untreated sewerage-tainted water from the nearby river.

While this was probably as fair a description of life in a Thai jail as any, without diminishing or underrating the suffering of other inmates, for me these ‘horrendous’ conditions had become a way of life. What might have seemed extreme to some had now become the norm for me. And anyway, I had had no choice but to adjust.

The same article went on: ‘No money, though, can buy them out of disease or death. AIDS is endemic among the prisoners as junkies are everywhere, pooling syringes.’ The writer even quoted me:

‘G-d works in mysterious ways,’ explains ‘Kreps’ who, with his long, curly hair and pumped-up muscles, resembles a beach surfer. ‘If I were outside, I might well be dead by now.’ ‘Kreps’ describes a pre-conviction life of drug addiction and a shoot-out with police back in South Africa. Now he puts on tefillin for daily prayers, keeps Shabbos and eats Kosher. He prays to G-d to add his name to a pending Royal amnesty.

While none of us can predict the future, and while I still looked upon tomorrow with certain trepidation, I had learnt to live in perfect faith. My destiny was in the hands of
Hashem
.

Art is an expression of the inner self, an infinite journey of the mind where the parameters are defined only by the imagination. Every painting became for me a process of discovery. My own inspiration became a means of understanding people and a world that sometimes felt as if it had forsaken me. With each new creation not only did my spirit become more and more free but also, perhaps more importantly, my anger began to dissipate.

But long hours of drawing had taken their toll on my body. My lower back was fucked. It was becoming too much. Massages brought only temporary relief. When I reported sick, after explaining my practice of sitting painting for long hours, the doctor’s solution was that I should stop painting! I asked him what he would have me do instead. Art was my life, I told him. Would he prefer me to do drugs, which had become a favourite pastime for many prisoners? In fact, I had been reporting sick with back pain for two years now. At one stage, a doctor had given me a letter saying I suffered from lower back pain and recommended that I go to the police hospital for physiotherapy. This never happened.

Anyway, I tried to get this doctor to write me a letter recommending that I be allowed an adjustable office chair, but he was not interested. I lost my temper and told him that just because I was a prisoner didn’t mean I was an animal. I had my rights. He just laughed at me. He was a young, arrogant prick. I’m not sure what he wrote in the letter he did give me, but when I submitted my request the prison authorities refused the chair on the grounds that illegal things could be smuggled in it.

The staff at the embassy finished their four-year term in 2001, and I had to admit I was delighted to see them leave Bangkok. The new ambassador was Mrs Petho and the consular officer was Miss Naicker. Both were far friendlier than their predecessors and much more compassionate towards us prisoners.

At this stage I was beginning to produce some incredible pieces of art. The last thing I was going to do was stop. I loved painting portraits for people, which I did for free and without expectation. I painted every member of my family. I wished I could see their faces when they accepted delivery of my paintings. Even though they always told me how thrilled they were with them, I wished I could witness their joy in person. With each piece I completed, I felt a sense of accomplishment unlike anything I had ever felt before. My dreams were being realised behind the very walls that reduced men to nothing, where all you were was a number. For some prisoners, coming to prison was the end of their lives, the final chapter. For me, it was the beginning, the beginning of a new life, a life without drugs. When reflecting on my past, which I still did frequently, I could scarcely believe that I had allowed myself to be reduced to the lowlife I became. I was an ex-King David pupil, who had strictly adhered to the traditions of our culture. Where had I gone wrong, and why? What was it that had led me onto that path of self-destruction? I promised myself that if I ever got out of Bangkwang alive, I would never go back to the way I was before.

But what if I was released tomorrow, I thought. Would I be ready to make those changes, to become the man I longed to be?

Actually, the truth was that I was far from ready. I needed to stay in prison, and, in a strange way, I wanted to stay there. The real world was like a great whale waiting to swallow me up. Somehow it was safer behind the high-security walls, where there were no traffic jams, no red traffic lights and no one-ways. Time was no longer an enemy. Time had become my best friend.

After my sister appeared on
The Felicia Show
, she had a meeting with certain representatives of the Department of Foreign Affairs, who advised her to meet with human rights lawyers regarding the injustices and the irregularities of sentencing in Thailand. It was not right that South Africans, in comparison with American, French and Israeli citizens, to mention a few, were spending more time in prison. We had a strong case, but at the same time we had to tread carefully. I did not want to jeopardise the future transfers from Thai prisons of any country’s nationals.

Joan met with a human rights lawyer who lived in Ireland, but she seemed more interested in the abolition of the death penalty than in what we were pushing for. I suppose, in her view, the fate of prisoners on death row was more important than my own. Anthony Karstaedt, a barrister from Australia, who was related to us on my brother-in-law’s side, volunteered his services, but there was not much he could do except investigate the progress of my royal pardon. On 15 May the Department of Corrections informed him that my application was still in the office of His Majesty the King’s private secretary. In fact, this was exciting news, as it had been only three years since I’d submitted my application, and other applications had been known to take five years before receiving an answer.

My sister had also contacted a man in Israel named Harut Lapid, who had become famous for working on behalf of dozens of Israelis wrongfully imprisoned abroad, either for their release or for the improvement of their conditions. Through the assistance of South African businessman Abe Krok, Harut Lapid was flown to South Africa to meet with my sister. Sadly, the meeting was in vain. Harut had never before dealt with the Thai government and said he was therefore not able to take on my case.

It was at these times of setback that I would become quite desperate. In June I told the South African embassy that, if our country would not sign a prisoner treaty with Thailand, I would embark on a hunger strike and I would get the other South Africans in other Thai prisons to join me. I told them I would give them a year. I wanted to plan this properly and get the media involved. My sister was dead against the hunger strike plan, saying that our government did not care in the least and pointing out that, even if I died, it would not change anything.

On 26 June 2001, we were all shaken when a Thai drug offender was executed, and rumours circulated that more death row inmates would soon be killed.

On Friday 17 August 2001, I was called to the gate. My heart was racing as I made my way there, with my Thai friends shouting out ‘
Aleksander kabarn!
’ A few of the foreigners made similar comments – ‘You going home, bro.’ Actually I
did
think there was a good chance of this happening – after all, I had a personal letter of support from Mr Mandela himself. Although I tried not to allow myself to get over-excited, it wasn’t easy to suppress my feelings. Maybe this was the day. Maybe it was my turn to hear that magic word.

At the gate I was greeted by the guard in charge of royal pardons. I felt a lump in my throat. Could it be true? Was I really going home? I tried to read the guard’s face, but it was expressionless. Then he told me, in Thai, that my application had been turned down. ‘Rejected,’ he said. His manner was casual and cold, not that I expected a hug or any words of comfort from him. My heart dropped to my feet. Once I began to process this bad news, my main concern was my sister’s reaction. I knew Joan would be devastated. I was more upset for her than for myself. None of my friends could believe it.

The truth was, I never expected to be pardoned, although deep down in my heart I still hoped and wished that I would be. When the reality set in, I felt as if I had been resentenced to life imprisonment. I would have to wait at least two years before I could submit another application.

It seemed that
Hashem
had other plans for me, plans that would only make sense a long way down the road. I knew that day that I was in for a long stretch.

Towards the end August we began to prepare for another football competition. Sometimes there would be about three of these events per year, mostly because the guards made so much money out of them. This time I made a deal with the guard in charge: if supporters paid to attend the games, I would use the gate money to pay the officials. These contests were mostly a lot of fun, but one thing I hated about them was that there were forever problems among the inmates. When we lost a game, fingers were pointed; if someone didn’t make the team, an enemy was made. I was getting weary of all the bullshit. Not only did it cost me money, but often it was also a headache. I decided, too, that this would be the last time I financed the uniforms.

After the rejection of my request for an office chair, my sister sent me an exercise wheel. I also started doing lower back exercises with weights. I dropped my weight by a couple of kilos and my back improved radically. When I was drawing, I would stretch every hour. These changes helped me to cope with my chronic back pain.

Jai was still visiting me, but now she came only once a week instead of twice. To be frank, I was running out of conversation. It was a frustrating situation for which there was no short-term solution. I had encouraged her to get on with her life and to try to meet somebody worthy of her love, telling her I was not that man. But she never gave up on me. In fact, Jai taught me what it means to love someone unconditionally. She remained loyal and went to great lengths to make sure all my needs were met. On my mother’s 77th birthday, Jai bought her a gift and sent it to her without even telling me.