Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  Every prisoner paid 5 Thai baht to his room chief for this service; once the money had been collected it would be handed in at the office and the money shared among the shit removers, as we called them.

  On 25 June 1995 the Rugby World Cup final was broadcast at 10.15pm. It was so exciting to watch the hosts, South Africa, winning 15-12 against the All Blacks. I remember the thrilling drop goal in extra time from Joel Stransky that sealed our victory, and I felt such mixed emotions: huge national pride and homesickness, but bitterness, too, that my government was doing nothing for us prisoners on the other side of the world.

  A few months after our inter-building football tournament, there was a volleyball competition. Again, the prisoners had to pay for the net, the ball and our uniforms. Building 1 was the only building that had a tennis court, which, for the occasion was converted to a volleyball court. One of the highlights of this kind of sports event was that we were allowed to take team and individual photographs, which we would post to our families. Needless to say, the photos weren’t free; they cost 20 Thai baht per picture.

  A contact visit was coming up on 16 December, and my family wanted to come over. I wanted desperately to see them, but for two reasons I talked them out of coming. An Australian prisoner had a sister who came over to visit him quite regularly. On her previous visit she had met up with some people who claimed to be connected to the Thai government. These people had promised her that, with the right amount of money, they could get her brother out. I think she paid them about US$80 000. The Australian had confided in me and told me that there was a chance he would be getting out of prison. I’d even met his sister in the foreign visit room once – a very nice girl, and a brave one, I thought. Then we heard that she had been found dead in her Bangkok hotel room. The cause of death was a heroin overdose. This was a complete bullshit story. The girl had never in her life even smoked a cigarette, never mind used drugs.

  There were many cases of foreign tourists being murdered in Thailand or simply just disappearing. I feared for my sister’s life. This was the first reason I didn’t want my family to come for the December contact visit. In my letters I told Joan that under no circumstances should she come to Thailand, as there was no guarantee of her safety. The sentence for murder in Thailand is less severe than for being caught with drugs and life was cheap. The second reason I told them not to come was because I saw it as a waste of money. The money a ticket would cost would be better put towards my allowance. Reluctantly, Joan and Malcolm agreed with me and they decided not to travel to Thailand.

  We were allowed to withdraw only 200 Thai baht per day from our prison account, at a cost of 10 per cent. If you wanted to withdraw a larger amount, you would lose 20 per cent. This went to the owner of the coffee shop, who was also a prisoner. When you consider that there were 900 prisoners in each building, this worked out to a substantial profit. To afford the privilege of running the coffee shop, the owner had to prepare two meals a day for all the guards. Instead of losing the 20 per cent, I arranged with the consular officer to buy me cartons of cigarettes and stamps. Stamps were an excellent form of currency, especially among those prisoners who didn’t have regular visits.

  I had been in prison for only a year and a half when I learnt of the tragic death of a fellow Arcadian, Mandy, who had been like a sister to me. As a kid, she was the most vivacious and beautiful girl. Mandy had contracted AIDS. I felt really sorry for her, and when I arranged to smuggle the drugs from Thailand, in my mind I had intended for part of the money I was going to make to go towards helping her obtain antiretrovirals. Now she was dead. It pained me deeply, especially being so far away from home.

  By the end of 1995, I was completely clean of drugs. Because of my history of addiction, I could sense my sister’s concern in the letters she wrote me. She was so afraid that I would fall into my old ways, as drugs were in such abundance in prison. I wrote to her and tried to put her mind at rest:

  Regarding the money you send me every month, please, Joan, never for one minute think that I am squandering it. I feel bad enough that you are supporting me, never mind still wasting it on something that would be detrimental to my health. I am one hundred per cent clean. I’m very much into my sport and through keeping fit my mind is expanding. I wasted enough years on abusing my body. I even stopped smoking cigarettes on the 13th November 1995. The fitter I become, the more my body is rejecting these foreign substances. Please rest assured, there is no concern for alarm. I’m also keeping out of trouble, understanding how important it is to have a clean record. I cannot afford to do anything irresponsible that would jeopardise my chances of regaining my freedom, nothing is more important.

  What I didn’t tell her in this letter was how much I wanted to make my family proud. I had been such a disappointment to them over the years. Now I had a chance to prove that I could be somebody of worth.

  There were three of us Jewish guys in Building 2. One was an American journalist who claimed to be investigating the smuggling of drugs out of Thailand for a story and in the process got lumbered with one or two kilos himself. He swore he was innocent. It was a laugh! All convicted felons will tell you they’re innocent, although I must say there were a few I met in prison to whom I gave the benefit of the doubt. The other Jew was a Frenchman, and then there were another three Israelis in Building 1, two of whom were on death row after being caught escaping from a prison in Chiang Rai, up in the north of Thailand. The other guy was serving a life sentence. The three of us in Building 2 stuck together and would help each other wherever possible. I actually started learning French, and had two lessons twice a week for an hour. It cost me a carton of cigarettes a month. In the beginning I was quite excited to be learning a new language, although it would probably have been a smarter move to learn Thai. I had set my heart against learning Thai, though, because I was so filled with anger and hatred towards the country that openly violated human rights. I did not want to learn their language. After about three months, my French homework would run into hours and it drained me of so much energy that I found less time to do my art, so I didn’t carry on with the lessons for very much longer.

  A foreign prison with such a diversity of cultures was the last place I expected to encounter open anti-Semitism. We foreigners were a minority. It didn’t matter what religion we were; it was important that we stood united. One day we were standing around and I was chatting to my fellow-Jewish journalist friend, when out of the blue I heard a comment being passed by this German guy to an American. I heard him say something along the lines of that Hitler should have killed all the fucking Jews. At first I thought my ears were playing tricks on me. The journalist and I looked at each other at the same time. We were both shocked. It was quite apparent that the German’s statement was directed at us. Immediately my blood pressure shot up. Pointing my finger in the German’s face, I blurted out, ‘Motherfucker? Careful what you say, or you might find yourself being fucked in the arse. You’re forgetting where you are.’ The guy went pale. ‘Now fuck off,’ I said.

  Like a little fucking sheep he slipped away and we never said another word to each other. Whenever our paths crossed he would avoid me and walk in the opposite direction.

  There were many altercations among the foreigners in Bangkwang and I was learning very quickly that prison friendships were mainly about convenience. If you were of no benefit to me, you weren’t worthy of being my friend, and vice versa.

  I recall a year earlier, when I was still in Room 45, the day a new prisoner arrived, another American. He was a very laid-back hippie-surfer type of guy, and we became friends. New prisoners often had no money when they arrived, and it was difficult for them to survive. The prison food was barely edible, so, in a way, it was expected that another foreigner would help. One thing I admired about the Nigerians was that they always helped out a fellow African brother. Anyway, I took it upon myself to take care of this guy and I shared with him as much as I could from the parcels I received from home. I stood guarantee
with my Chinese chef, Lenny, for his one meal a day. We spent a lot of time chatting about our pasts. I even played chess with him, which was unusual for me; although I was a reasonable contender, I hated the game. It was too slow and my so-called new friend really took his time making his moves. The point is that I valued the friendship and so I made compromises. In the evenings in the corridor outside our cell, every night during the week there was gambling. The Chinese played Mah Jong, the game of a thousand intelligences; the Thais played either Hi/Low, a game in which three dice were used, or the popular card game called Bokkowe (19), which is similar to Black Jack 21. Big money exchanged hands. A prisoner, a Big Leg, was the casino boss. He was the banker and made sure the guards got their share. At the end of the day money circulated among the gamblers, but ultimately the guards were the only winners – for every day the casino was open, they took a percentage. If you wanted to go outside your cell to gamble, you could do that, but it would cost you 100 Thai baht for the evening and you would take your bed into the corridor and only return in the morning when the cells were opened.

  I had a Taiwanese friend called Bow, who slept downstairs. He was a professional gambler. In order for him to be able to come upstairs for the night, he would have to be able to find somebody to go downstairs or else there would be a discrepancy in body counts on the roll-call register. Normally when he and a friend came upstairs to gamble, the American and I would go downstairs for the night. The guards did a body count, so it never made a difference on the roll-call register, as long as the numbers corresponded. We would stay in their small private cell that had six occupants. It was like an evening out. We would score some hashish and watch American movies on video. I paid for the new American guy’s drugs on the understanding that when his money arrived, he would cover half the cost.

  The hashish was ridiculously expensive. Five hundred Thai baht got you a little less than a button-size worth. I couldn’t afford it, and anyway all it did was give me a headache and a sore throat. We would smoke it through an empty Coke can. About two months into our friendship, the American’s money arrived. If it had been me, the first thing I would have done was settle my debts. Instead, the American stopped speaking to me; it was like I never existed! What the fuck? He owed me money! It was obvious he had been using me. I discovered that it was not the first time he had been in prison either. For a while I left it to see how things would play out, but I’m not the type of person who can keep my mouth shut for too long. After a day or two of suppressing my anger, I caught up with him at his locker by the bakery – a locker which, incidentally, I had organised for him. If and when I’m going to fight, I don’t like to get into a verbal confrontation; I’m the first to attack. When I asked him about his debt, he looked at me with this blank stare as if he had no idea what I was talking about. With my wrist twisted in an upright position, I attempted to hit him with an open-palm blow, which can be quite devastating if executed properly. Unfortunately, he was sharper than I gave him credit for and had anticipated the attack. He stepped back, causing me to miss, and simultaneously threw a punch at my jaw. I dodged the punch by millimetres. One of my Chinese friends grabbed me, with both arms enclosing my body, lifted me up in the air and moved me away, preventing the argument from escalating into a serious altercation. I wasn’t happy.

  ‘Motherfucker!’ I yelled. ‘I want my money by tomorrow or I will FUCK YOU UP.’

  I wrestled myself free of the Chinaman’s grip and, in my highly agitated state, put my foot through the wooden door of the American’s locker, leaving a hole in it. Shit, that was not a smart move. In the end I had to pay for the damn thing.

  The next day the American gave me my money. It was all rolled up in a bundle. I took it and, being a gentleman, I thanked him and walked away without checking it first. When I counted it, I found that the motherfucker had short-changed me by 30 Thai baht, but I let it go.

  I should have known better by then. Everybody was out for themselves only.

  Prison gave me the opportunity to change, to better myself as a person. Although different rules apply in prison, our principles shouldn’t change. The way we behave on the outside shouldn’t be any different from the way we behave inside. Prison is a place where your character is quickly revealed. From then on, I was very selective about who I socialised with. Friends were nothing but a headache. I found myself spending more and more time on my own.

  After almost two years in prison, my physical transformation was dramatic. Since my initial arrest, in April 1994, I had lost over 15kg. I was fit and drug-free, but my mind was still not in sync with my body. I was still angry, and my moods changed from day to day. Having grown up in a violent society, my aggression wasn’t that easy to suppress, which meant that many of the foreigners disliked or avoided me. They could see I was different. I didn’t take shit from anybody. I felt like I was a misfit in a world of misfits.

  However, prison is a place where having alliances can save your life, so I selected a few guys to be friends with. I was always watchful, however. My closest ally was my Iranian friend Mohammed. He was exceedingly enterprising and very helpful to me. There was another guy, a youngster maybe ten years my junior, who was from Afghanistan. His name was Ahmed and, like Mohammed, he was also a Muslim. Ahmed became like a brother to me. Among the Nigerians I had many friends and we enjoyed a mutual respect. This comprised our gang, you could say. I also enjoyed the respect of many Thais, Chinese, Nepalese and Burmese.

  With the Western foreigners, it was another story. Many of these guys had little or no support from their families, and so they became dependent on others. They were like bums. They never paid their debts and most of them resorted to using drugs. There were forever problems among them. I remember one morning a fight broke out between two Americans. It was a complete mismatch. One of them was a junkie, white trash (as his fellow countrymen referred to him), and the other guy was a six-foot African American basketball player. Needless to say, the African American beat the shit out of the white trash junkie.

  Fighting in prison is strictly prohibited, but, for some reason, when foreigners fought, the authorities turned a blind eye. This had its advantages, but it also set the tone for a dangerous environment. Foreigners would be less patient with each other because they didn’t expect reprisals from the prison authorities if they got into it.

  I have always loved ice cream. It was one of the things I missed most in those early years of my incarceration, especially when it was so hot all the time. When I was moved from Bombat to Klong Prem, they sold ice cream on Saturdays. At least, I thought it was ice cream. I bought a scoop but it turned out to be sorbet – not at all what I was anticipating. I couldn’t eat any more, or in fact eat it again. Then, when I was in Bangkwang, there came a time when the prison coffee shop stocked up with Cornetto ice cream. That first time, Mohammed and I were sitting on the lawn. It was around 2.30pm and we were lazing in the shade of a row of trees that ran along the walls. Mohammed bought himself one Cornetto and I bought three! After sharing my love for ice cream with him, he offered to buy me as many as I could eat. We had one of his luknongs (boys) running up and down bringing us three Cornettos at a time. I ended up eating 19.

  I remember an incident that happened once when a new foreigner came to our building from Building 1. He was a Nigerian, an Igbo, and he had been arrested a good five years before me. He was a stocky guy, very dark in complexion, and with a rough skin. He had what we called a typical prison build, i.e. huge arms and chest and no legs – in other words, a strong motherfucker. His name was Okakwu, Okky for short, and he had a reputation for being short-tempered. One day Okky approached me, wanting to swap stamps. I explained to him that I was not a collector and that I had these regular guys I was already giving my stamps to. To my complete surprise, Okky became belligerent. I wasn’t sure how to react. I was not about to get into an argument over stamps! In the end I just walked away, but, after that, whenever our paths crossed he would give me dirty looks. I had the sense t
o ignore him, but the tension was there.

  The extreme heat in Bangkok was something I never could get used to, along with the heat rashes I was prone to (as were many of the other prisoners). The rashes were as itchy as hell. Skin diseases spread like wildfire in prison. I was very conscious of my personal hygiene, and so I generally avoided physical contact as much as it was possible in the overcrowded conditions. When somebody got the flu, the whole cell would catch it and then it would spread throughout the building. As a rule, I would wear my cloth surgical mask from the time I entered my cell until I went to sleep. There was a very high incidence of tuberculosis among the prisoners as well, and we were constantly at risk of infection.

  By the end of 1995 already I had started sketching with a Bic pen. Most of my drawings were done in black, symbolic of my oppression and suffering. I found myself a place in the dining room where I would spend hours on end every morning, drawing. There were two entrances to the dining area, which was an open-air structure enclosed by fencing, making it relatively cool. The steel-frame tables were topped with narrow wooden beams at half-inch intervals. They were about 5m long, with attached benches to sit on, and they were very heavy. One table could seat up to 30 people. There were 14 tables in the dining room. In the morning, first thing when we were let out of our cells, I would fetch my pillow, which I had had made for me at the towel factory, and take it to the dining room, placing it on the bench where I sat, next to the fence that bordered on the side of the yard where the guys jogged and played football. It was the spot that offered the most light. I had to do this in order to reserve my place, as after 8am the dining room would fill up with people who either ate or wrote letters or slept there on the benches. Exactly above where I sat was a ceiling fan, which provided a bit of extra breeze. The tables were always dirty, so I would always wipe down the surface where I sat.