Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (91 page)

Earlier in the year, on Pesach, Shlomo had collected my package as usual. Every year, for as far back as I could remember, I had received four boxes of matzah from the rabbi, along with all the above-mentioned dishes, plus other traditional Pesach foods. The package was always really big. Only when I got back to my house did I notice that I had only one box of matzah. I immediately went back to Shlomo’s house to enquire where the rest had gone. I could only wonder what else he might have helped himself to. It baffled me that a Jew would steal food from a fellow Jew. Prison may bring out the worst in a man, but for me such behaviour must have been deeply ingrained in his character. Being a prisoner was not an excuse to behave badly; rather, it offered an opportunity to better yourself as a person. Shlomo claimed that while waiting in the parcel area for everybody’s stuff, he had mistakenly given my matzah to his mates from the other building. I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe what he had done. Then he gave me half of his matzah.

Anyway, while I was chatting to Elisabeth I was told that the rabbi was also there to see me. He brought with him the good news that the Israeli Minister of the Interior had agreed to grant me citizenship. It was a strange feeling. Only a few days ago I had had a fight with the Israelis and now I was being considered to take on a new identity. If it actually happened, I was going to be the first Jewish prisoner in the history of Israel to be granted citizenship. Although it was not yet official, it was definitely on the cards. I was really excited, as there were some foreigners whose transfers were currently being prepared; the next transfer meeting between Thailand and interested parties was scheduled for April 2011. Once the Thais agreed on the terms of the treaty, the process usually took about three months before you would be moved. Israeli marshals would be sent to escort me. This meant I could be in an Israeli prison by as early as July or August of 2011. Where others had failed, my friend Ivan had achieved the impossible.

News travelled quickly around the prison. My friends were really happy for me. With it not yet being confirmed, I didn’t want to jeopardise my chances, so I could not tell the South African embassy what was being planned. I also learnt, that in the event that I did not inform my country of origin of a change of citizenship, I would automatically relinquish my existing citizenship. On the other hand, I could hold dual citizenship. My primary objective, however, was to get out of Thailand. Once I was in Israel, I imagined I would soon be paroled. I cannot describe the excitement I felt after all these years of people trying to secure my release. I could almost taste my freedom.

So often we get caught up in the moment, forgetting where we are. There was still the danger that everyday prison life presented, and I had to remember that I had made it this far. The last stretch was going to be the hardest.

As fortune would have it, there was a new Director of the prison. Once again, we braced ourselves for new rules. I knew the system by now and, as I predicted, one of the first regulations the new Director instituted was that all prisoners who slept in the corridors, except for the Blue Shirts, had to be moved into the cells. Seventy per cent of the occupants who stayed in the corridors were Chinese. Their foam mattresses were over one metre in width, because space was not a problem in the corridor. Room 15, which was opposite my cell, and which was also privately owned by the Chinese, was being confiscated. Chen Ming, the owner, was a long-time friend and also a member of my gym. He asked me if he could come and stay in my cell. A few of the other Chinese from upstairs also approached me. Their alternative was that they would have to move into a Thai room. This put me on the spot. The new rule was causing a lot of discontent, especially among the Chinese who had enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in the corridor for more than a decade, where space was never an issue and one could walk around freely. Now, just to start with, they would have to cut their beds to the standard 65cm width. This was like a punishment for them. Because of my long-standing relationship with the commodores and the staff who controlled the cells, nobody from the corridor had yet been placed in our cell by the authorities, but suddenly the problem with the Chinese became mine. The difficulty was that if I allowed one of the Chinese into my cell, I would almost certainly be asked to accommodate more. Within no time they would have taken over.

Firstly, the agreement was that our cell was for Western foreigners only. Secondly, none of us was willing to give up our extra space. More importantly, the Chinese tended to speak very loudly to one another – to shout, you could say – and it could get unpleasantly irritating. Lastly, most of the Chinese guys smoked, and I definitely didn’t want to subject myself and my cellmates to more of a health hazard than already existed in our room. I decided that I had to take a firm stance on this issue, and so, as politely as possible, I explained to Chen Ming that for the above reasons, unfortunately, none of them could move into our room.

For the most part, in all my time in prison, I had enjoyed good friendships with most of the Chinese inmates. One of my longest-standing allies was a Taiwanese guy who had been arrested way back in 1992. His name was Paul and he owned the coffee shop. He was a true gentleman and had helped me out on many occasions. Nevertheless, a disgruntled bunch of Chinese got together and wrote a petition to the Director, complaining about our cell, Room 11 and the Nigerian cell upstairs, Room 45. The Chinese were now having to be squeezed into already overcrowded rooms while we, the Western foreigners, enjoyed the comforts of no more than 12 people to a cell. They had up to 24 prisoners in theirs.

I was called to the office, where the guard in charge of the building showed me the petition with all the signatories. He asked me what I suggested we should do. I clarified our reasons, as I had done on so many occasions, and also pointed out that we paid for this privilege. It was not our problem; it was his. I tried to do this in a calm manner, but I was quite agitated. The Chinese had openly challenged my power. As I was leaving the office, I raised my fist and said to the guard, ‘
Boksing di
’ (I accept the challenge). He responded by pulling his forefinger across his throat while giving me a cynical smile. I interpreted his action as permission to stab. I let my cellmates know what had transpired and strongly suggested that we should attack the Chinese. I even approached the Nigerians, who were few in number at the moment because so many of them had benefited from the transfer treaty. Nobody agreed with me. Nobody thought we needed to resort to such extremes. I knew, though, that if I didn’t retaliate in some way, it would be the ultimate loss of face, and my power would be in question, so I planned my own revenge.

I decided I would attack the leader who had instigated the petition – none other than my friend Chen Ming. I removed the steel shaft from a broken portable fan, got one of my friends at the workshop to grind it to a sharp point, and then spent days smoothing it with sandpaper, transforming it into a deadly weapon. I placed it on the table where I painted, right next to a pile of books on Judaism, and sat back to wait for the right opportunity.

Over the years in Bangkwang, there had been an explosion in the number of feral cats, most of which carried infections. Certain prisoners got attached to the creatures and would keep them as pets and feed them. There was so much interbreeding that, every now and again, the guards would have the prisoners catch as many cats as they could, at least the homeless ones. They were bagged and removed from the building. Wherever there are cats, there are rats. In front of my studio I had placed a piece of concrete, 2m in length and about half a metre in width, that was so heavy it took at least two prisoners to move it. One morning I noticed fresh soil being burrowed from underneath it. Understanding that it must be a rat, on investigating we discovered not one rat but a huge litter of the fuckers. As the mother rat bolted, one of the guys kicked it so hard that it hit the concrete wall and lay there unconscious. The babies were fed to the cats. After that, whenever we saw places where fresh soil had been turned over, which was almost on a daily basis, about six or seven of us, armed with bamboo batons, would cordon off the area while two prisoners moved the concrete. As the rats tried to escape we would hit them, and, in the event that they got past us, we would run after them. It must have been quite a funny sight, if a bit gruesome, but it had to be done. In a matter of two months, we killed over 40 rats – and, contrary to rumours, nobody ate them.

On 6 November 2010, it was a Saturday afternoon, around 2.45, and I was taking my shower directly opposite my house where I’d built a concrete platform for my five plastic dustbins filled with clean water. Next to me on the left, my Chinese neighbours had a similar area where they showered, and next to them there were more Chinese. As usual, the casino had been in full swing the whole day and now, around closing time, the Chinese were all gathered around shouting to each other. Their shouting irritated the shit out of me – no doubt they had won money. Chen Ming was standing among them and he was the loudest. After two weeks of planning and giving them the evil eye, I could no longer contain myself. It was now or never. So I shouted out some general words of abuse in Thai, but not directed specifically to any one person. I had just finished showering and, my towel around my waist and still dripping with water, I made my way to my house. They continued talking very loudly and I shouted more words of abuse like ‘
aheer
’, and ‘
yet care
’. These are very offensive swear words.

I noticed Chen Ming getting really upset. He started shouting something threatening at me in Thai and began to move towards my house. No doubt he was coming to fight. Instinctively I knew this was the chance I had been waiting for. I looked around for my steel shank so that I could finally teach him a lesson. But I couldn’t find my weapon! It was nowhere. Chen Ming was about to come through my small wooden gate; there was no time to try to find it. All I could see on the table was a small screwdriver, so I snatched it up and leapt at him, still in my towel. I was aiming to stab him in his neck, a quick couple of pokes that would take him down, but at the last second I slipped. Chen Ming was at least ten years younger than me, well built but not as big. He had anticipated my attack and, because I’d slipped, managed to block the screwdriver. I caught him in his hand and grazed his head, and he quickly backed away.

Then all hell seemed to break loose. I can’t exactly say how many of them there were, but I could account for at least five Chinese. Some were picking up rocks from the garden; others had bamboo sticks and were throwing them at me.

Our houses were enclosed by a row of concrete lockers that stretched all the way from the Nigerians down to the last of six houses. I had stacked my water coolers on top of them. In each cooler was a block of ice, water bottles and fruit. Even these they were throwing at me. I turned to grab the piece of bamboo I kept to kill rats and one of the rocks hit me in the back. Armed with my screwdriver and bamboo stick, I ran outside shouting, ‘Come, motherfuckers! Come!’

Then suddenly a couple of guards appeared, as if from nowhere. They had batons and they came running at us at quite a pace. As soon as I saw them, I quickly put the screwdriver in a cardboard box that was an arm’s length away on one of the lockers. Just as I released it and was removing my arm, I felt a hand touching my arm and saw one of the guards retrieving the screwdriver. Chen Ming was bleeding from his forehead and hand, and I had quite a deep cut on my back. We were escorted by the guards to the office building, where the prison medic cleaned our wounds. Chen Ming, who was sitting a short distance away from me, kept saying, ‘You die – sure.’

The guards on duty that day were not the regular guards from Building 2. I was ushered into the office and kept there while Chen Ming was allowed to leave. Everybody was locked up and they kept me there for at least another 40 minutes. During that time one of the guards went outside to report the incident. Because this was my second fight in less than a month, and out of fear that the fight would escalate into a gang war, the guards decided that I should be moved to another building. I was given a choice of any building, so I chose Building 6. Then I was escorted to my cell, where my cellmates helped me fold up my bed and pack my stuff. My TV set I gave to the old Israeli guy in return for his 38cm laptop/TV/DVD. I gave the gym to Donald, a Burmese guy who was the leader of the church. We then went to my house. By now I had about 20 lockers, all filled with stuff I had accumulated over the past 16 years. I emptied four of my water containers, dried them out and packed my things inside them, but I couldn’t take everything. There was just too much stuff. I had become a compulsive hoarder.

My only real possessions of value were my paintings. I had only recently finished the portrait of the Chassidic rabbi commissioned by Edna, and I was working on another of Jim Morrison from The Doors. Fortunately, all my other paintings were safely in South Africa. Thinking that I might transfer to Israel in a few months, I gave all my art supplies to the Russian, and I left my spare dog for Avi and the other two Israelis to share. My new dog I hid in my underpants. If anything, I should have given my spare to Ahmed, but, since Pakistan (where his mother lived) had signed a treaty with Thailand, he was expecting to transfer any time. I know I hurt his feelings, though; it was one of those mistakes you make on the spur of the moment. Ahmed would have given his life for me, whereas the Israelis would have stabbed me in the back without a backward glance.