Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  My case was due to be heard in September. I knew that if I got a life sentence I would be moved on return from court to Building 5, which was also the transit building, and after a week there I would be transferred to Bangkwang. So I began packing my things.

  A couple of days before my court appearance, Joan arrived in Bangkok. The embassy had let me know she was coming, and her timing also coincided with the annual contact visit. Each prisoner is allowed two visits annually, which can either be taken on separate days or as two visits in one day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. This is one of the highlights of prison life. The excitement is almost tangible. Spirits are high and generally the guys stay out of trouble, not wanting to forfeit these visits. Usually a few months before, a lot of the guys start working out, wanting to look their best for their wives, girlfriends and families. (There were instances where families who came from abroad and weren’t able to visit during the official time of the contact visit would be given special permission, with the support of the relevant embassy, to come at another time during the year.) Marquees are erected for the occasion, and people can buy cooked food, ice cream and cold drinks. Security is also tightened, however, to prevent anybody from trying to escape by posing as one of the visitors. All visitors are thoroughly checked on arrival and are required to carry passports and identity documents. It’s a whole long procedure.

  Contact visits are one of a few vital support mechanisms for prisoners, but there are upsides to them as well as downsides. On the one hand, it’s an opportunity to spend quality time with family and friends, where you can interact freely on a normal basis, but on the other hand, it can also be quite frustrating being with somebody you love and with whom you have been deprived of any form of intimacy for so long. I would learn this in time. For now, though, with my court appearance coming up, I couldn’t wait to see my sister.

  Tables and chairs for the visit were set out on the lawn near the front gate. The prisoners who were expecting visitors were taken to this area to wait, and so that they could see them coming through the gates. The visitors all come in together, hundreds of them.

  It took me a good while to spot my sister, but then, suddenly, there she was. I saw her long blonde hair in the throng as she came around and went through the entrance. I was a fair way away at this point but the moment I saw her, I started walking. I could feel the excitement. I ran towards the entrance and got there just as she was coming in. I couldn’t believe it. She was finally here.

  Joan looked up and saw me and she just dropped everything, including the two huge bags of foodstuffs she was carrying. I ran towards her and I picked her up and swung her around in my arms. We held onto each other for what seemed like an eternity. I never wanted to let her go. We didn’t speak; we couldn’t. I just wanted to hold her close. I knew she was crying. I could feel her tears mingling with my own that were rolling unchecked down my cheeks. ‘Shaun, are you okay, are you all right?’ Just to hear her voice was amazing.

  I gently put Joan down. I had so much to tell her, so much to ask, I wanted to know it all. I wanted news, news of my mother, the family, my friends. Then we were both talking at once, Joan asking me over and over again if I was okay. We talked about South Africa and about my court case. We laughed and we cried.

  Before somebody goes to court, it is always the same procedure.

  In the late afternoon of 27 September 1994 I was called to the office and informed that I would be going to court the next morning. Then I was sent to the White House to have shackles put on my legs. That night in my cell I couldn’t sleep, wondering what destiny had planned for me. I was hoping against hope to get a 25-year sentence, but by now I was under no illusions. In Thailand there is no consistency to the law. Anything is possible. It was generally believed that the judges sat around and that a roll of the dice decided the fate of those on whom they passed judgment. Court officials were corrupt. There were cases of people who had actually been acquitted in the first court, but would still be held in prison. Whatever your sentence, the public prosecutor would automatically lodge an appeal, but, unless you paid a minimum of US$10 000, getting a heavy sentence in the second court was guaranteed.

  Huddled up with my mates in my cell, I began to prepare myself mentally for the worst. The atmosphere was one of melancholy. Experience had taught us that, so often, one forged a friendship only to find that you or the friend would be sentenced and moved, or else transferred to another prison. Friends came and went like the weather, but, with a sense of separation coming, I was still gloomy.

  I got on well with all my cellmates. Nick was a British guy who was doing short time for possession of weed. He was easy-going, always cracking jokes, and very light-hearted. Freddy, my next friend, was more of an introvert. Like me, he was also in for drug trafficking and was a drug addict. Then there was Daniel Westlake, the Australian who had approached me about buying into the cell. He was very quiet and gave the impression of being something of a nerd, but what a great guy he was. I didn’t know it then, but he had apparently served time in several prisons around the world and had even managed to escape from one, in Italy. He carried a dozen different passports. In fact, Daniel would later stage one of the most notorious escapes ever, from the very room we shared together. He would be the first foreign prisoner ever to escape from a Thai prison.

  My shackles were hurting my ankles. It had been only a couple of months since my first set of silverware had been removed. Now they chafed against the old wounds where the rusty steel rings had rubbed the skin off my ankles.

  While shackles may seem inhumane and also a violation of the United Nations’ minimum requirements for prisoners, they seem to be part of a psychological orientation that goes beyond the understanding of anybody who hasn’t worn them. Remembering when I first arrived at Bombat, I was so absorbed with the discomfort of the chains, and with the procedure of slipping my underpants and shorts through the rings that held them, that I didn’t actually dwell too much on what they represented, namely, the fact that I was in prison.

  The night before first court, I couldn’t sleep. I could feel my sister’s presence, our connection was so strong. I knew she was in Bangkok, and that helped and comforted me.

  I was preparing for a move to Bangkwang in a few practical ways. Some of us had Thermos flasks, and I removed the centre piece of mine and hid 7 000 Thai baht inside it. Then I put it back together and sealed it with Superglue. I rolled another 7 000 Thai baht into a small ball, covered it with cellophane, and then, using insulation tape, shaped it into a bullet which I planned to insert up my arse.

  The following morning, I was removed from my cell earlier than usual and taken out to the central security point, where there were other prisoners in chains, also going to court. We were all wearing the same brownish khaki shorts and shirts. From there, we were escorted through a few more security checkpoints and out the front of the prison, where we were greeted by armed guards and put into a prison transport vehicle with double sets of bars. I had a window seat, so, while driving to the court, I could watch the people outside, scurrying around, heading to work, going about their normal morning business. It evoked a deep sadness in me. Only a few months before, I had been one of them, running around free. I so longed to be free. It was terribly painful. I was already so far removed from that world. Even though it had been only a few months, to me it felt like a lifetime. I kept staring and imagining what might have been, had I not agreed to smuggle drugs. I’m such a fuck-up, I thought to myself. Over the last 16 years, what had I achieved? Nothing. In and out of jobs, I’d lost my business and had almost destroyed my family, and all through drugs. I hated myself. What a loser.

  And then we were pulling in behind the Rachada courts and being led in single file into the section where the cages were.

  It wasn’t too long before I was called, and to my delight there was Joan. It was so good to see her there. I could feel her support. She was with the Thai secretary from the embassy, Kun Paem. The ple
asure of seeing her was overshadowed, needless to say, by the fact that I was waiting to be sentenced. It wasn’t like I was bumping into Joan at Woolworths. Nevertheless, having a family member there to support me at this tumultuous time was a great source of comfort.

  When she saw me shuffle into court, my sister broke down. The shackles kind of blew her mind. She kept saying, ‘You’re not an animal, why do they have to chain you?’ and, trying to lighten the mood, I said, ‘Oh, these things? This is my jewellery. Instead of arm bracelets, I have leg bracelets.’ We sat next to each other in the courtroom, holding hands. I explained to her that I had had to plead guilty because in Thailand it was virtually impossible to win a case, even if you were innocent. Once you fell victim to the judicial system, there was no way out. She didn’t understand this – I didn’t blame her; it didn’t make any sense – and only cried more.

  When the judges entered the courtroom, dressed smartly in black suits, silence fell. The public prosecutor was there, too. It was all very formal. I watched attentively as the judges read through my files. Two of them conversed. I had a government-appointed lawyer, who spoke no English, and there was no interpreter available. Luckily, Kun Paem could speak a little English. Although I was physically in the courtroom, actually I felt like I wasn’t there at all. It didn’t feel real; it was a dream, like I was watching a movie. One of my nightmares was unfolding in front of me and I couldn’t wake up from it. Nothing seemed to be registering in my brain. Thinking back today, it is still a blur.

  My lawyer was called up to the bench. I don’t know what he said, or even if he said anything at all. Everything was merely a formality, just going through the motions. The procedure was so drawn-out – but for what? Anyone could see that the whole thing was a charade.

  I had pleaded guilty, knowing that the penalty was life, but, even so, I don’t think I was prepared for the reality of the outcome. I don’t even know what I was feeling – confused, angry, disappointed by my naiveté. I was very tense. My legs were shaking and so were my hands. My lips were numb. My heart ached more for my sister than for myself. I wanted it to be over with, for her sake more than mine. I wanted to run or to scream, but I also wanted to be strong for Joan. So I pretended to be strong, acting like I was prepared for anything. But can anyone ever actually prepare himself for the thought of spending a life in prison? I knew I would never accept my predicament. I imagined my lawyer saying to the judge, ‘Throw the key away on this fuck.’ The judges made me think of sentries at the gates of hell.

  The next thing I knew, the judges blurted out some words I didn’t understand, read from some papers, signed them and passed them to the public prosecutor. Then they got up and walked out. Everything seemed to be happening so fast. Joan and I turned to Kun Paem. We asked her what had been said. She said that, as far as she understood, I had been given the death penalty.

  Joan went very pale and sank into her chair. I was in total shock. I asked Kun Paem to check with the lawyer. It can’t be the death sentence, I said. She walked over to the lawyer and I watched them exchange some words. I saw him nodding. When she came back to us, she explained that, yes, I had got the death penalty, but, because I had pleaded guilty, it had been commuted to life, which in Thailand is a sentence of 100 years. I thought to myself: Fuck, that is a death sentence in itself! How am I going to survive 100 years? By now Joan had broken down completely and was mumbling ‘It can’t be, it can’t be, I can’t believe it’ over and over again.

  I was on the verge of tears now myself, but there was no way I was going to break down here. I tried to be strong, to be cheerful and to put up a brave front. I told Joan that there was some way we’d get out of this. There had to be a way.

  By now our police escorts had informed us that we would have to go downstairs and be put back into the monkey cage. We all went downstairs together for the transfer to Klong Prem Prison. I kept trying to reassure Joan, saying that she shouldn’t be too upset, that I had been expecting a life sentence, and that, somehow or sometime, I would get out before the 100 years was up. In spite of my internal torment, I tried to make her smile. She didn’t seem very convinced, but I could see she was a bit more relaxed by the fact that I seemed relatively composed.

  We stayed in the cages until about lunchtime, and on my return to Klong Prem prison, I was given half an hour to get my stuff together. As soon as they saw me enter the building with my shackles on, all my friends knew I’d got 100 years. If anyone returned to prison still in shackles, it meant death or a life sentence. Anything less and the shackles would have been removed immediately. My things were already packed. I collected my bullet, went to the toilet and stuck my money, covered with Nivea cream, up my arse.

  I was moved to Building 5, where my things were searched. They didn’t find the money concealed in the flask. After checking in at the office – normal procedure – I was thrown into a small cell with two Nigerians.

  One of my new cellmates attempted to talk to me, but talking was the last thing I felt like doing. All I wanted to do was crawl into a corner and cry. In prison, loneliness is like a cancer. Despite being surrounded by hundreds of inmates, at the end of the day you are alone. I was often amazed at how easily complete strangers would share their whole life story with you. I wasn’t interested in how they’d got to prison, what crimes they had committed or what sentences they’d received. And at this particular point, I had my own shit to deal with. The Nigerian guy put his hand on my shoulder, saying that he understood what I was going through, adding, by way of comfort perhaps, that he had been in prison for over six years. I had no doubt that he could empathise with my situation, but fuck it, man, all I wanted was to be left alone. Over time, I would learn that there exists an understanding between prisoners that reaches beyond the bond of normal friendships.

  I felt despondent, lonely and without hope. My thoughts kept turning to where my life had gone so wrong, all the way back to school. Surely schools were places where children got educated? Why had there been no programmes at my school to warn us kids of the consequences of drug use? I had so many questions. And now it seemed I was going to have a lot of time to search for the answers.

  While I was waiting to be transferred, my sister managed to organise a contact visit every day. I hated every moment I spent behind bars, and having her there made a world of difference. Joan also had a lot of questions she wanted answers to. For one, she wanted to know how, when I was supposed to be taking a holiday, I had managed to get involved in smuggling drugs across continents. I maintained the lie I had told to the embassy, but for one reason only: to protect my family. If I told Joan the truth, that I had known what I was doing and had smuggled the heroin willingly, I thought she might abandon me.

  My problem with drugs more than likely stretched back to when I was in my mother’s womb, but no matter how much I wanted to find somewhere else to place the blame, I kept arriving at the same conclusion, namely, that I had only myself to blame. I thought of my father Fritz, and I wished I could blame him for the way I was. After all, he was no better than a criminal himself for neglecting us as children. But I couldn’t blame him. We are all gifted with the ability to make our own choices; the rest we leave to fate. So far, I had made one wrong choice after the other, which led me to becoming who I was – a good-for-nothing drug addict and dealer. I knew then, just as I would take a stand when I believed I should, that I needed to take responsibility for my actions. I had to take the bull by the horns and acknowledge who I was and the path I had chosen that had brought me to this point. How I had managed to get away with my former lifestyle for so long had been pure luck. Now I was going to pay the price. When we commit a crime, generally we are aware of the repercussions if we get caught. The question was: how to do the time? I had two choices that I could see: I could either do good time or I could do bad time.

  When I was a free man, back home in Joburg, one of my friends had received an 18-month stretch for housebreaking, and I remember thinking, fuck, 18 months
is really a long time to be in prison. I heard of somebody else who had done six months, and even that had seemed long. Now here I was with this ridiculously long sentence, so disproportionate to the crime I had committed it was laughable, only it wasn’t funny. I mean, it wasn’t like I had killed someone. It just didn’t make sense.

  It was at dark moments like this that I would feel the urge to get high, to push aside the painful memories, as well as everything that was going on around me, but for some reason things were different now. Somehow it was more important for me first to understand how I had come to be in prison, and then to make a decision as to how I was going to get to where I needed to go. Perhaps G-d could help me answer these questions, or perhaps I had to find the answers on my own. Whichever one it was, right then I needed to feel pain. I needed to feel the pain of losing my freedom because this pain made me feel more alive than I had ever felt before. This was the beginning of something I instinctively knew I still had to learn about.

  That first night after my sentencing, I didn’t sleep, never even shut my eyes. In the cold light of day, it started to dawn on me. I began to understand that this was my retribution. After years and years of ruining the lives of those people I’d sold drugs to, this was my punishment. Surely this was poetic justice! I couldn’t cry about the situation. Hard as it was to admit it, I deserved what I got. By accepting that this was my karma, I was going to get through this. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. I am still alive, I told myself. I must never forget that.

  My surroundings became a constant reminder of my reality, but the five dreary days and nights I spent in Building 5, with rusty leg irons attached to my ankles, went by relatively fast. Seeing my sister every day broke the monotony, too. She bought me everything I needed, from clothing and toiletries to luxury items such as chocolates and more chocolates. Everything that enters the prison gets thoroughly checked. The guards use a Stanley knife, cutting food items open, often breaking things. It’s really irritating, as it’s impossible to eat everything you might have been brought in a single day and food would go stale or off. What pissed me off the most, though, was when one of the guards cut the soles of a pair of Nike running shoes this way! There was nothing anyone could do about this. Respect for prisoners or their property was simply nonexistent.