Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (74 page)

Seeing that South Africa continued to show little interest in signing a treaty with Thailand, I came up with another idea. I wrote to the Israeli embassy to enquire about the possibility of my becoming an Israeli citizen. I even offered to join the Israeli army. At that stage I was even ready to relinquish my South African citizenship. The Israelis were not interested, however. Because I was a prisoner, they said, I could not be considered for citizenship. What a shame – even my own tribesmen were turning their backs on me.

On 11 September, at around 7pm, I was lying on my bed reading a book when Roy came running to the bars of our cell, shouting, ‘America is being attacked! Check out CNN!’ We changed channels hurriedly, just in time to see the second plane crash into the World Trade Center. There was complete silence. Nobody in the cell uttered a word. We were all glued to the TV in a state of total disbelief. It was as if the world had come to an end. It was such a shock. If
America
couldn’t prevent a terrorist attack, nobody in the world would be safe. Perhaps a Third World War was not a bad idea, I thought later, cynically; it might be one way of getting out of here.

With all the support I was getting from outside, my standard of living had improved. I was having two big meals a day and fresh fruit every night. The longer I stayed, the more comfortable I became. I was now also the proud owner of a blender and a sandwich maker, which formed part of my collection of electrical appliances. Our satellite TV was up and running smoothly. Life generally was pretty good. Most importantly, I was doing what I loved most – painting – and, although my eyes were deteriorating rapidly, I was producing some of my best pieces of art.

My responsibilities were few and far between, but, even so, being the room chief, and having to deal with all the problems that came with it, was starting to stress me out. I began to suffer from severe mood swings. Often, everybody just seemed to irritate me and my patience dried up. I could feel the frustration building inside me. One night I attacked one of the British guys in my cell, which went against my own rules. A meeting was called, and it was decided that I should take a break and that somebody else should be in charge. Basically, I was voted out. Pedro, the Dutchman, was elected as the new room chief.

I welcomed the break, but I also knew that now our room would deteriorate. A French guy in our cell, whose name was Bruno, had got involved with one of the lady-boys. Pedro also had a hard-on for the lady-boys, so he allowed Bruno’s ‘wife’ to move into our room. At first the lady-boy fitted in well. He even spoke a bit of English. It was strange to watch his actions. Here was a man, thinking he was a woman, surrounded by men. Perhaps for him it was paradise. He would sit on his bed for hours and hours looking at himself in the mirror and applying make-up. At night, just before bedtime, Bruno and his lady-boy would build a tent. They slept at the entrance to the cell and they would tie blankets to the bars and close themselves off completely from prying eyes. Whatever it was that they did, they would do it in the middle of the night. Fortunately, I was at the opposite end of the cell, besides which I never paid them much attention. But I can tell you I was not happy to have this person in our cell, and I wasn’t the only one. Whenever the lady-boy used the toilet, he would be in there for far too long, and this pissed everyone off.

The families of the other South African prisoners were also continually contacting the embassy in Thailand regarding our wellbeing and asking about any progress being made towards our repatriation. This put a lot of pressure on the embassy – who never had the answers anyway – and our families were stopped from directly contacting the embassy. All enquiries were to go through the Director-General of the Consular and Agency Services branch of the Department of Foreign Affairs.

My sister was still shaking things up, though, and news of my planned hunger strike had apparently reached our government. I continued to remain positive and focused my energies on my art. I was pumping out portraits. Oblivious to the world around me, I painted and painted. I was convinced that, any day, there was a possibility I would go free, so I didn’t want to lose a moment.

During the cold season, which was between November and January, there were spells where the temperature dropped to below 17 °C. During these days I would paint from early morning until well past 1.30pm. When it was hot, by 11am I would be sweating profusely and couldn’t work for fear of damaging the painting. The cold season was welcomed by us foreigners, whereas the Thais hated it. Up north in Chiang Rai it got so cold that some prisoners died from exposure. The cold season was so dry that the skin at the tips of my thumbs cracked open, and I also got a rash just below my armpits. My skin would become flaky and sensitive, and the only thing that helped was Ascabiol emulsion (benzyl benzoate); a bottle of this cream could last me for five years. I also suffered from cold feet (even in summer) and I would always sleep with socks on.

I always found it strange to see how, when people are subjected to extreme suffering, they turn to G-d. For me, there was a certain hypocrisy to this. Every Sunday in Bangkwang the Christians would attend a church service in the dining room. Fervently they engaged in song and praises to the Lord. They would go along, Bible in hand, but they never seemed to evolve as people. After church, those who were involved in the distribution of drugs would continue peddling.

I once asked one of the African brothers: ‘How can you be the leader of the prison church and still sell heroin? Dealing in drugs got you into prison. You have a life sentence. Surely that would be enough of a deterrent?’ He told me frankly that it was the only way he could survive. He had no support; his family could barely take care of themselves. I understood it was not easy, so perhaps his circumstances justified his means.

Thai prisons are tough places in which one’s integrity is constantly challenged. Back home, two of my best friends had become born-again Christians. It didn’t bother me. Each to his own, I thought. But what I detested was that they constantly tried to convert me. They went as far as to say that, unless I accepted Christ, I would never make it out of prison. I didn’t begrudge them their newfound faith; instead I asked them to respect my choices, just as I respected theirs. I was born a Jew and I will die a Jew.

The major Jewish festivals came and went. These were usually sad times, as our festivals are celebrated with the gathering of our families. While locked in the cell, after prayers I would sit on my bed and stare blankly into space. My mind and thoughts would drift to my family. I could visualise them sitting around in the comfort of their home, and no doubt their thoughts, too, were of me. Celebrating festivals in captivity was not the same, and to a degree they lost their spiritual impact. Although I enjoyed a connection with
Hashem
, I felt in my heart that my prayers were becoming more of a routine than anything more meaningful. Praying was a formality, and came out of a sense of guilt and obligation.

On 9 February 2002 came the news that Princess Margaret had died. It was quite significant for me, as I had painted what I believed was a compelling portrait of her, hoping I could evoke some compassion and maybe even get her involved in my case. With her passing, however, that door closed.

Meanwhile our friend Prichit Kowmuang had got into the swing of things, yet he failed to ease the discontent of the prisoners. Many of us were not happy about losing our electronic devices (which hadn’t been returned to us). Prichit was not sticking to his end of the bargain. We were paying him money for certain privileges but still he denied us those rights. It reached a point where even the Thais used their influence outside to report the Building Chief to the Department of Corrections. Something must eventually have worked because, after a few months, Prichit was removed.

The new Building Chief had a reputation for loving money and allowing a free-for-all, which also had its disadvantages, but then that’s the way the wheels of Bangkwang turned. The ‘Big Tiger’ could never be tamed.

In 2002 Nigerian president Olusegun Obasanjo signed and ratified a prisoner transfer treaty with Thailand. The Nigerian inmates had been talking about it for months, especially when their consular representative had confirmed that it really was going to happen. When it finally did, the spirits of men who had accepted that they were condemned for life suddenly soared so high – it was something amazing to witness. It was almost like seeing a dead man coming to life. That night, the Nigerians’ cell was abuzz with laughter and conversation. Even the prison authorities changed their attitude towards the Nigerians. In my heart I rejoiced with them, knowing that Joan and I had been instrumental in their liberation. Although our hopes were on South Africa following suit, we also investigated the possibility of South Africans transferring home under the auspices of the Organisation of African Unity (OAU) – soon to be replaced by the African Union (AU) – using the Nigerian treaty somehow. All our attempts to encourage a treaty between the South African and Thai governments were failing dismally.

In May, Bertie Lubner, who never gave up supporting me and my family, wrote to Nelson Mandela, advising him that he was planning to speak to the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, Aziz Pahad, on my behalf: ‘… Even though I have no responsibility for the young man,’ he concluded his letter, ‘my conscience does not allow me to stop trying, as a productive and useful life is being wasted locked up.’

In my cell we were a mixed bunch of Western foreigners, and guys came and went. There were four British guys, three Americans, one from the Czech Republic, a German (who would masturbate on his bed in the middle of the night), Simon the French Israeli (who still farted), a Dane, an Estonian, a Slovak and Pedro, who found solace in his lady-boy and drinking. Because we were all serving hard time, we tried to be more tolerant of each other, but this never lasted long. Sooner or later, tempers would flare and arguments erupt. The guy who slept next to me was allowed to be there only because he had stopped smoking, but after a couple of weeks he started again. A hand’s-breadth separated our beds. When I objected to his smoking, he gave me a mouthful, and I got so pissed off I threw the TV remote at him and threatened to fuck him up. That seemed to shut him up, but after that we didn’t speak to each other for a year.

There were many such incidents, where trivial problems caused rifts between so-called friends. Remember that prison friendships are first and foremost mainly of convenience. It was seldom that one struck up a genuine friendship, although there were exceptions.

In the cell next to ours, and also across the way, were the Nigerian rooms. We had a rule that because there were so many Nigerians, and they were forever in trouble and being transferred from one building to another, our room was strictly limited to ‘white boys’. This had nothing to do with being racist. But if you took one Nigerian into your cell, then every time another arrived, the prison authorities would shove them in your room and none of us wanted to compromise that hand’s-breadth of space. This rule caused a lot of resentment towards me, especially as I was a white South African. The Nigerians were also forever at each other’s throats, shouting the worst abuse imaginable. It got so bad sometimes that we would bang our fists on the wall for them to tone it down.

The Slovak guy, Ivan Zavadinka, who was gay, slept opposite me. His mother was from Budapest and we spent quite a lot of time brushing up on our Hungarian. He was tall, good-looking, intelligent and generally liked by everybody. One Sunday night – it was 2 June – he complained about severe pains in his solar plexus area. We were locked up and there was nothing we could do. Many a prisoner had died in the cells because it took the guards so long to open up, and there were no emergency procedures in place. If you had a heart attack or a stroke, all you could do was hope to die quickly and peacefully. Anyway, Ivan’s friend, who was the guy from the Czech Republic and who slept next to him, gave him a bottle of freshly squeezed lemon juice, which seemed to ease his pain. I went to sleep. Around 3am I woke up and noticed Ivan on his hands and knees crawling to the toilet. He was in terrible pain. I helped him up and out of the toilet. For the next four hours until they opened our cell, he lay on his bed curled up in agony. It was heartbreaking to watch.