Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (90 page)

Several cellmates came to me complaining about the Israelis and their smoking. Being the room chief, I thought the best way to handle the situation was to call a meeting where each person in the cell could express their grievances and offer suggestions for a solution. Soon after lockdown and roll call, I addressed the guys, explaining that since the Israelis had arrived there had been a certain amount of discontent regarding the smoking and level of noise. When we were locked up in our cells, each of us enjoyed a degree of peace and tranquillity, whether this involved watching TV, writing letters, reading a book or engaging in prayer or meditation. Those of us who had done hard time found the Israelis’ lack of consideration irritating to the point of being disrespectful. As newcomers, they needed to fit in with our way of life, and not the other way around. Each person said his piece. Nobody was rude, and the general consensus was that the Israelis should cut down on their smoking or smoke in the toilet and not on their beds. When Itzik and Avi spoke in their defence, they were obnoxious. They said simply that if they wanted to smoke, they would smoke.

Itzik was on my back every day, wanting to bark the dog. I couldn’t believe the attitude of these guys. Here were two Jews who claimed to be religious and who were davening three times a day, and yet I wondered if they actually understood the biblical injunction to ‘love thy neighbour as thyself’. Being in a private cell was also a privilege, and it was something they were taking for granted. I really couldn’t take it any more, so I basically told Itzik to fuck off and leave me alone. Reiterating my cellmates’ sentiments, I added that they, the Israelis, made me feel ashamed to be Jewish.

The next evening, soon after roll call, Itzik sat on his bed, legs folded, and stared straight at me in a challenging manner. Then he lit up a cigarette and blew the smoke in my direction. This was a direct act of defiance and disrespect, but I wasn’t prepared to react. Instead, I fitted my surgical mask around my mouth and nose and ignored him, pretending his actions didn’t bother me. I continued doing whatever it was I was preoccupied with. The following day, the Russian guy who slept next to Shlomo and who, when the Israelis sat together on Shlomo’s bed, was subjected to more smoke than anybody else, approached me. He complained bitterly about their habits, and especially about Itzik’s cocky attitude. He told me he wanted to fuck him up. I thought this was a great idea and would save me the trouble, so I encouraged him to do it and added that, in the event that the prison authorities got involved, we would all testify that Itzik threw the first punch.

That night, Avi went into the toilet and conducted a conversation with himself, pretending to be speaking on the dog. He was quite loud, and his voice would be audible to the Thais in the cell next door. I was at this stage the only person in our cell who was a dog handler, and I was convinced he was doing this deliberately to arouse suspicion. When he emerged from the toilet, I was standing at the end of my bed waiting to go and urinate. The little shit was half my size, but as he passed me, he bumped into me. He pulled his shoulders back and gave me this menacing look. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself, knowing that with one punch I could knock him out.

The tension in the cell was mounting. I wanted nothing to do with these bloody Israelis. Besides, my 50th birthday was coming up – half a century! – and I considered it something of a miracle that I had made it so far. Fifty was a milestone in itself, and if you think about my past and how I never envisaged even making it past 30, I decided it was cause for celebration and that I was going to celebrate in style. My birthday fell on a Friday, so celebrating on the day wasn’t an option, as drinking during the week was far too risky. In preparation, I made 24 litres of wine and decided to have two parties, one on Wednesday for all my cellmates, and the other on Saturday, for my drinking buddies.

I discussed with Shlomo the problem we were all having with his fellow countrymen. He was not too happy with them, either. I told him in no uncertain terms that I didn’t want to speak to them and that they should avoid me at all costs. Shlomo understood, and I’m sure he conveyed my message. The Friday night a week before my birthday, about an hour before Shabbos, I was sitting on my bed with an open folder in front of me texting a friend of mine. Itzik had been watching me; he knew I was barking the dog. The next thing I knew, he was on my bed on all fours asking me to please send an SMS to his wife. Talk about being thick-skinned. I gave him a dirty look and told him to fuck off. He climbed off my bed and blurted out a volley of abuse. I put my dog in a small zip-up bag and placed it in my underwear. Itzik then called me a fucking South African. I’m not one for verbal confrontation, so I jumped up and rushed him. Ahmed and Donald, who slept next to me, grabbed me and tried to hold me back, but I broke free. By this time Itzik had made his way to Shlomo’s bed. I pursued him. Avi tried to block my way, saying something stupid like ‘Take it easy’. I lashed out and hit him first. He staggered to the side. Then Shlomo tried to prevent me from getting to Itzik. I told him I would fuck him up as well. I was mad as hell. I caught Itzik in the corner on Shlomo’s bed and I started punching his head. He kicked wildly and scratched my face, but I kept going. It took six of my cellmates to wrestle me off him or I would more than likely have killed the fucker.

With all the commotion going on, somebody from the corridor had alerted the guards, who entered our cell carrying batons. I was ordered out of the cell and made to wait in the corridor while the commodores investigated what had just happened. My face was bleeding where I’d been scratched. One of my fingers was turning blue and swollen. I thought it was probably broken from punching Itzik’s hard head. We were both warned that if we didn’t stop fighting we would be removed from the cell and placed in separate rooms. I was so mad I still wanted to break him in pieces, but I agreed to call it a day. After the guards left, Ahmed and the Russian came and sat on my bed. I was pissed off with the Russian, too; I thought he was supposed to be the one who was going to sort Itzik out.

In preparation for my pre-birthday lunch on the Wednesday, Elisabeth bought ready-prepared food from the prison canteen on her visit, plus three trays of prawns (not kosher, but a real treat for some), ten packets of sticky rice and some spicy Thai dishes. Ahmed started early in the morning preparing the dough, and we had marinated 4kg of chicken breasts the evening before. I ordered 100 dim sum from my Chinese neighbour. One of the lady-boys who made meals for the guards had steamed two deliciously prepared fresh sea fish and barbequed 30 chicken drumsticks. Cold drinks I purchased from the coffee shops.

There were about 14 of us for lunch. It was a real feast and everybody enjoyed themselves; in fact, there was so much food that I had to give some to my neighbours. The night before my birthday I stayed up almost all night barking the dog.

Friday 15 October dawned and I was 50 years old. I didn’t feel much older than the day of my arrest, actually. While I was relaxing and drinking my coffee, Ahmed arrived with a folded piece of A3 paper. He embraced me and wished me happy birthday. I unrolled the sheet of paper; to my surprise, one of the Thai artists had drawn a portrait of me in pencil crayon. There were birthday wishes written all over the page from prisoners and guards. One of the guys had even composed a poem for me. I was so deeply touched I almost broke down. It was the nicest gift I’d ever been given in my life. Even behind these forsaken concrete walls, such poignant moments did happen sometimes, and we were all the richer for them.

I was expecting at least 20 people for my Saturday party. My first priority was to pay the guard on duty to close his eyes. My next mission was to transfer the wine from containers into plastic bottles. I made my favourite fried rice and another rice dish with buffalo, which I’d cooked for four hours the previous day. Ahmed made his
roti
and barbecued his chicken breasts as usual, to be served with baby marrows, onions, chillies, tomatoes and mushrooms. I made a gravy. The lady-boy barbecued drumsticks and chicken wings for us. By 11am my friends were beginning to arrive, everyone in party mood. I was the barman, filling plastic cups with wine and passing them around. Many of the guys got really drunk. One of them puked all over and passed out in the drain running in front of my house. I got really drunk myself, for that matter, but we all had a great time.

My 50th birthday was probably the most memorable prison birthday to date, and the most short-lived.

A Change of Fate

We are taught that, at some stage or another, all good things come to an end, but bad times can be equally fleeting. It all depends on you. A change of attitude opens other possibilities. Positivity attracts, while negativity repels. I tried to keep my negative thoughts at bay as far as the South African government was concerned. They had failed in their duty to alleviate the injustice that South African citizens were suffering at the hands of a foreign government. All my hopes and positive thoughts I now pinned on becoming an Israeli national. In Israel I would be with my own people, Jews like me who cared for one another. Whether I was being delusional or not, time would tell. And the Israelis in my cell weren’t doing their country proud, that was for sure.

The day after my fight with Itzik and Avi, while I was quietly enjoying my coffee, Ahmed came running to the house. Apparently a group of Bad Boys who were my friends had heard about the fight and had congregated outside Shlomo’s house. They were ready to attack and stab Itzik. One of the outside guards summoned me to the office and asked me to defuse what could become a dangerous situation. I went and told my Thai friends to leave the Israeli guys alone. Then the same guard, whom I had known for years, asked me how best we could come to a peaceful solution. I told him that there was no way Itzik and I could stay in the same cell. Either they would have to move him out of the cell or they’d have to move me. Seeing that he was new in the building and that not only had I been there for much longer but I also owned the cell, Itzik was moved to a Thai room upstairs. I was still at the office when Itzik came up to me and threatened to inform on me to the prison authorities and to tell them that I had a dog. I couldn’t believe the man’s chutzpah! I had just saved his life! Anyway, I told him to go ahead. I had connections. Some of the biggest Thai gangsters were my friends. I could arrange a surprise party for his wife. Furthermore, his family’s phone number was registered on my phone. In the event that he did inform and the authorities were made aware of my dog, I would simply tell them it belonged to him.

I walked away. The guy was a rat. I would decide later what course of action to take. In the meantime, I banned him from using the gym. When Itzik was removed from our room everybody was happy. Even his own countrymen didn’t like him. A few days before our incident, Itzik had threatened Tovia, the old Israeli guy, who was in his mid-sixties. In the days that followed, Itzik was advised by a few foreigners that, for his own safety, it would be wise for him to request a transfer to another building.

Monday morning came, and as usual Elisabeth was the first to arrive. I would be waiting at the gate, so that as soon as I was called for a visit I could hurry out of the building. Elisabeth and I were chatting when Itzik’s wife arrived. She came into the visit room and, without bothering to greet Elisabeth, took the phone straight out of her hand. She launched into telling me the sad story that Itzik’s father had died. With tears in her eyes, she pleaded with me to allow Itzik to bark the dog that night. I explained to her that Itzik and I had had a fight and were no longer on speaking terms. In an instant she turned stone cold, said ‘Oh’ and gave the phone back to Elisabeth. Then she walked away. I couldn’t believe how rude she was.

About 40 minutes into our visit I saw the rabbi arrive with a fellow Israeli, carrying the plastic bags of kosher foodstuffs they brought with them whenever they visited. Normally the rabbi’s visit would coincide with Shabbos. Our weekly parcels of bread rolls and pastries would arrive either on a Thursday or Friday, and, because they were sent by post, they weren’t very fresh on arrival. When they were steamed, however, the bread rolls were actually quite delicious. Whenever the rabbi visited, he always brought me the same food package the Israeli guys received. This normally consisted of freshly baked bread rolls, coleslaw, fried chicken and potatoes, an aubergine dish, tomato and paprika, and hummus with pita bread. Shlomo would bring my package, and on his return he would swap my fresh rolls from the rabbi with the stale ones we’d received through the post in the parcels. Can you believe it?