Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  Masturbation is forbidden in Judaism. Emitting semen in vain is considered a sin, but I thought that, under special conditions, like the one I was in, allowances could be made. I masturbated once a week. For me, the act itself relieves stress, but it leaves me unfulfilled and more frustrated than anything else. Although sex was never an obsession, I longed for intimacy with a woman. Just as I had bottled up my emotions as a child, in prison I needed to supress my sexual desires and push them down into the deepest recesses of my mind.

  A rumour that started in the women’s prison and then filtered through to us was that there were 300 Thais in South African jails, and that there was a chance of a prisoner exchange between our countries, even though the King’s Jubilee had come and gone. I was sceptical. Until something actually happened, I wasn’t prepared to believe it. It was amazing how the rumour mill kept churning out stories, and how quickly they spread among prisoners and from one prison to another. Ironically, it was often such stories that sustained our enthusiasm and kept our hopes alive.

  One of my South African pen pals, who subsequently became a very good friend of my family, wanted to put on an exhibition of my art and to publish the poems I’d written. It was inspiring to me that somebody out there thought my drawings were worthy of being exhibited. At the time a close friend was due to come and visit me, and I planned to produce as many pieces as possible for him to take back home. I was drawing from eight to ten hours a day. Since the time that my drawings had gone missing in the post, the only other way to get them home was to send them back with people who came to visit from abroad. The contact visit was almost upon us, and I told all my mates I was expecting a friend. My drawings were all ready and safe in a self-made protective envelope.

  The first morning, I was dressed and ready early, eagerly waiting to be called. After an hour passed, and my friend hadn’t arrived, I gave up. Maybe he’d got lost or was caught in the traffic. There was still the afternoon visit to come. But the afternoon visit came and went with no sign of my friend. I was terribly disappointed. Everybody else who had seen their families came back with loads of food, especially the Thais, and the joy among the prisoners was tangible. I felt a slight touch of jealousy, but still there was hope for the next day’s visit. When my friend didn’t arrive on the second contact visit day, I cracked up. This was an all-time low for me, and I experienced the first of what I would learn were panic attacks. My chest closed up and I had this sick feeling in my gut. Jesus! I struggled to breathe, I thought I was going to die, or, rather, I wanted to die. Then I remembered these breathing exercises we used to do at karate training, where you inhale a long slow breath through your nose, and then slowly exhale through the mouth. I did this repeatedly, while thinking of the night sky, which I had not seen in two years. Slowly I felt myself ease back into a sound frame of mind. My friend never did pitch up. Although it was a terrible letdown, I got over it, and vowed I would never allow myself to get my expectations up for anything ever again. In that way I wouldn’t be disappointed.

  I became something of a loner in prison. For the most part, I stuck to my own company, enjoying the privacy of being alone, always thinking. Some of the guys who I’d been with from the beginning had turned grey in a short time – something I attributed to them doing too much thinking. Distancing myself from the others, I realised, might have come across as my being arrogant and thinking myself better than everyone else, but this was not the case. I always tried to give respect wherever respect was warranted, and I remained honourable in all my dealings with people. I knew I was not well liked, but I didn’t give a fuck. It worked just fine for me. Alone, I would lose myself in my art and in writing poetry when I was in the right frame of mind. It was such a beautiful way of expressing myself; even my handwriting began to evolve. I tried to divide my time in a way that none of my interests was neglected, but drawing was my number-one priority. By now I was doing all my creations with a Bic ballpoint pen. Each pen had its own personality. The ink was never consistent in colour; some inks were dark, while others were lighter. When shading in ballpoint, remember that the ball bearing in the tip gradually wears down, causing the flow of ink to increase, which can cause smudge marks if one is not careful. It’s a very difficult medium to work with, as you cannot afford to make a mistake. Once the ball bearing was damaged, I would use that particular pen to shade the background; for fine shading and lines I would use a new pen.

  My sister had sent me a wall clock and although, sadly, the glass cover had broken in the post, I stuck the clock in the centre of our cell. I would look at it all the time. Time could be man’s worst enemy. For some people it dragged, but for others it flew by. I felt like I was passing through time, that time had stood still for me and was now giving me a chance to make up for all the minutes I’d lost.

  Takraw season came. I was one of a very few foreigners who played the game, and I loved it. It was a test of agility and strength. The Thais were supremely talented at this sport and the competition was fierce. I made the B team and we were lucky if we won a game. What I enjoyed most was that we played in another building, so I got the chance not only to see what life was like there but also got the opportunity to hook up with some of my friends.

  The American who had been arrested at the airport on the same day as me had been carrying over 4kg of heroin. Because he’d cooperated with the police and ratted out his contacts, he was given a 25-year sentence. Motherfucker – I learnt that, the month before, the DEA had collected him from Klong Prem prison, flown him to the US, where he testified in court against his connection, and then returned him to prison in Bangkok. How could he look at himself in the mirror every day, I wondered. In another two years, he would be transferred to an American jail and within two months be paroled. No matter what deal the police might offer me, I could never be a rat. As far as I’m concerned, there’s a code of honour among thieves. If you grass on your mates, your punishment is death.

  In Thai prisons, every Thai is a potential informer. You are more concerned about your fellow inmates than you are about the guards. I could never quite get my head around this. I despised the prison authorities; they used their people and treated them like slaves, so why the fuck would anyone want to lick a guard’s arse? Maybe it was part of Thai culture, but it baffled me. Money got you protection from the guards; they ran the show without having to do very much at all. Even while they were sleeping, which they did most of the day, they had eyes everywhere.

  Plans for the proposed exhibition of my art fell through. I was only momentarily disappointed. To tell the truth, I was rather relieved. I was still at a very early stage in my artistic growth, and not yet ready to share my creations with the outside world. They still belonged to the world where they had been created – prison. And what is fame and fortune without one’s freedom? The pressure to produce art in time for an exhibition was also too much for me, and once the idea had been shelved, I could continue to draw at my own pace, expressing my feelings without the need to cater for an audience. I was in my element. In fact, the thought of parting with my art almost killed me. My portraits and drawings were my only possessions, and every piece of artwork carried with it a part of my soul. By this stage my art had evolved significantly. I was going through what I referred to as the ‘black period’. In quite a few of my pieces I was drawing black and white chequered squares. The squares represented my structured life and also the prison bars.

  While I was to some extent settling into prison life, my sister Joan, on the other hand, was still struggling to come to terms with my incarceration. I tried my utmost to put her mind at ease. In one of my letters I wrote to her: ‘Don’t feel sore about my circumstances. The price I’m paying is very small if one has to take into account how much my life has changed. Don’t you see, for the first time, I have direction?’

  Joan was making plans to visit in November 1997, and she wanted to bring the whole family this time. Frankly, I didn’t think that I could handle seeing the kids. I didn’t so m
uch mind if my mom and her husband Mike came, but I also understood that it would be really hard on them. We Hungarians are a passionate bunch and I knew the visit would be really emotional. I didn’t want to give the guards the pleasure of seeing us all break down and cry.

  Meanwhile we learnt about the dramatic escape from Klong Prem prison by Daniel Westlake, the Australian guy with whom I had shared a cell back in 1994 in Building 6. I couldn’t believe it. I had seen him as more of an academic than the adventurous type. I found myself wondering what the chances might have been, if I hadn’t been transferred to Bangkwang, of my having escaped with him. I had the greatest respect and admiration for Daniel. Every time I thought about it, and imagined the guards discovering the breakout the following morning when they unlocked the cells, and running around in circles trying to figure out how he’d managed to get away from right under their noses, I chuckled to myself. Good one, Westlake, I thought.

  The new consular officer from the South African embassy actually turned out to be quite efficient. She approached her duties to us prisoners with interest and care, and she also helped me send some of my art back to South Africa. It must have been hard for her, and I could sense her frustration at times. She was visiting three different prisons, where every South African prisoner would bombard her with questions, most of them relating to our government’s signing a prisoner transfer treaty with Thailand. The truth was, she had no idea what was going on with this. I think I knew more than she did, as I was constantly receiving updates from home, mostly from Joan, who continued in her quest to secure my release. She had got as far as meeting with the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, Aziz Pahad. She was a true warrior, and her reputation among my friends in prison was growing. Wherever she went and whomever she met, she would tell them about my plight. I was getting letters of support from all over the world by now, and I was writing an average of 70 letters a week myself. I even received a missive from the Royal Palace of Lesotho, and one from former South African president FW de Klerk, who expressed his regret at not being able to help.

  On 8 March 1997 another article appeared in the newspapers back home. This one was in the Saturday Star, and it featured two of my pen sketches, one of which was a portrait of President Mandela. Beneath the headline ‘South Africa’s Forgotten Prisoners’, journalist David Capel set the scene for the paper’s readers:

  You arrive in paradise with a pocketful of money and a headful of dreams. Ten minutes later a dirty prison cell and a forty year nightmare are all you have left. Can’t happen to you? It can. Currently there are one hundred and ninety-two South Africans serving prison sentences in various parts of the world.

  Our plight as prisoners in Thailand was extensively and regularly publicised, as was the case for other South African citizens in foreign prisons around the world. It was this that kept my hopes high. To be honest, I was not expecting to be granted a royal pardon; in fact, I had a feeling my application would be rejected. But one never knew in prison, where everything was a gamble – nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  And the treaty wasn’t off the table yet.

  In May 1997 another article appeared in the Saturday Star, this one about the proposed South Africa-Thailand treaty and the possibility of South African prisoners convicted in Thailand on drug offences being able to return home to complete their sentences. For once, it looked like real progress towards this treaty was finally being made and that it might soon be in place. If what they were claiming was true, I would first have to serve eight years in Thailand before I could be transferred back home. As I had already done three, this meant that I would have five years left before I was eligible – not bad after originally being sentenced to 100 years!

  Something that I never told anybody was that, at the bottom of one of my lockers, inside a plastic bag, I kept a full set of new clothing, carefully folded – sneakers, socks, a nice pair of shorts and a T-shirt – in the event that, by some miracle, I would be called to go home. When that day came, I would be ready.

  I had started to experience severe headaches, and one of my mates suggested I might need glasses. I was reluctant at first to have my eyes checked out at the hospital, which was a place I avoided at all costs. I recall writing to my sister, ‘Mense word dood daar’ (People die there). Although I doubted anything fatal could happen during an eye test, the bottom line was that I needed a script and so I had no choice but to go. I duly got a script and posted it to Joan so that she could organise a pair of glasses for me. I hated the thought of wearing glasses because, as far as I was concerned, this reinforced the ageing process, something that I was having difficulty coming to terms with. To cheer myself up, I ordered ‘John Lennon’ frames, which I thought would be quite cool. Now, when the time came for me to go home, not only would I have new clothes, but I would also be able to see where I was going – headache-free!

  By July 1997 my application for a royal pardon was ready, with all the supporting documents attached – all, that is, except for an official letter from the South African government. Our government’s stance hadn’t changed. All it was willing to do for South African prisoners was to give us a diplomatic letter stating that they would guarantee our travel documents in the event of a pardon being granted. It was disappointing, but not unexpected, and we sent the application to the embassy all the same so they could forward it through the correct channels.

  Our government’s lack of interest bothered me less because I had realised that there was so much I had to be grateful for: firstly, I was alive and drug-free; secondly, life had become far more meaningful to me; and thirdly, I was undergoing a spiritual awakening. It was becoming clearer to me why I had had to be imprisoned. I had forgiven G-d for having me arrested; G-d was saving me from myself. I said to my sister, ‘Joan, I have the support of somebody more powerful than the embassy or the ANC, and that is G-d. My life is in His hands. If it’s His will that I am meant to be free, then free I will be.’

  The treaty still appeared to be on track, however, and Joan had hired an advocate to draw up a draft document for me so that we would be ready to take advantage as soon as it was signed. Robert McBride, who was in charge of the Directorate for South East Asia at the Department of Foreign Affairs, was also working with my sister towards this end. For the moment, I decided to leave things in their hands.

  On the days when it was just too hot to draw, because the sweat would smudge my ink, I would spend the time writing to my pen pals. One of my correspondents was a lady by the name of Christine Read. I’d read an article about her in a nature conservation magazine and, impressed by her passion for the protection and preservation of our wildlife and their habitats, wrote her a letter. I didn’t know that her family owned one of the most famous art galleries in Johannesburg. My association with her inspired me to start drawing birds, mainly eagles and owls. Birds of prey had always held a special fascination for me.

  It’s amazing how people’s paths cross in life, often for reasons we can’t fully comprehend. We are called upon to play roles in the lives of others, whether we realise or understand it at the time or not. Many people from different parts of the world were lining up to be part of mine. Some would come and go, and others would become lifelong friends. Either way, I remained grateful and felt blessed to have made such wonderful friends on the outside. People of substance don’t just land in your lap. Life was teaching me so many lessons.

  In December 1997 Joan and Malcolm came to visit me. My mother had decided not to come. It was fantastic to see them. I was showered with gifts, and they brought many messages from friends back home. For that brief period of time, it was almost possible to forget where I was. In prison, though, you come to realise that everything in life is transient and can be taken away from you in a moment – just like the freedom I had taken for granted and which had been so abruptly snatched away from me.

  My family’s visit was somewhat spoilt for all of us, though, because they were not treated with much respect on their visits to Bangkwan
g, and the humiliation they experienced meant that they hated every minute they spent in Thailand. Without explanation, the length of normal everyday visits was cut from 90 to 20 minutes. Joan and Malcolm pleaded with the guards for a few extra minutes with me, explaining that they had travelled all the way from Africa to visit me. The guards weren’t having any of it. They were downright rude, refusing to allow them even five minutes more, muttering under their breath and gesturing with their hands for my family to leave immediately. We were shocked by their disrespect and disgusting behaviour. It was nothing more than sheer spitefulness and lack of compassion towards foreigners. Even my two contact visits were cut short by half an hour.

  With all the gifts and money so many people back home had sent me, I had clothes that would last me for the next ten years and all of my favourite food. I also managed to give my sister about 500 letters, which I had received from friends, to take home with her and keep for me. The difficult part, always, was saying goodbye and it was no easier this time. I found farewells so traumatic I think I would actually have preferred them not to have come, but of course it was wonderful to see them.

  On New Year’s Eve I was unable to sleep. I greeted 1998 in silent contemplation, thinking about the reality of my situation and wondering what challenges the new year would bring. I thought about how I had spent my entire life running, whether it was chasing a high or fleeing from my past. Now I had stopped running. Instead, I was standing my ground and facing my fears. I was beginning to see myself in a different light as well. I was seeing the real me, a man who was intelligent, sensitive and talented; someone with a renewed will to live and the determination to prove that he was worthy of a second chance.

  A few days into the new year, around midnight, Lee Evans, a DJ on a popular late-night radio show on a channel that played foreign songs, dedicated the song ‘Free Me’ by Roger Daltrey ‘to all the foreign prisoners in Room 16 in Bangkwang’. My sister had arranged this just before she and Malcolm had left. It was such a cool gesture and a lot of the guys heard it. A small thing maybe, but such gestures did wonders for our spirits. They reminded us that we weren’t forgotten.