Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  Bangkwang is an old prison originally constructed for no more than one thousand prisoners during The Kingdom of Thailand’s wartime alliance with the Empire of Japan. Now due to successive Thai governments’ penal policies against small-time narcotics users and handlers, there is possibly an excess of as many as seven to eight thousand prisoners incarcerated here with sentences ranging from over thirty years to one hundred years. From all over Thailand buses are constantly bringing more prisoners and dumping them here without any concern for the fact that there is no space for them.

  We Europeans and other nationals are expected to endure the consequently inhuman conditions with equanimity. Unless all European Union countries and other respective Embassies jointly plead with the Thai authorities to observe minimal standards of human decency, human rights abuses will continually prevail unnoticed in Thai prisons.

  Due to the influx and the congestion of prisoners, the authorities have imposed electrical restrictions and have also proposed to confiscate privately owned televisions. Even our daily food rations, which consist of a small plastic bag of rice and an inedible stew, have been reduced, which is inadequate even for the consumption of a ten-year-old child. To date we are still forced to take our daily shower in dirty river water. Due to constant negotiations with prison staff we have been able to preserve at least temporarily enough space in our cells for a prisoner to lie down on his back. We sleep shoulder to shoulder packed like sardines. Yet the prison authorities are constantly stacking more people into the already over-crowded sleeping cells. The lack of space and the consequent tension and risk to health (especially from tuberculosis and numerous skin infections) makes our sleeping environment in which we spend 15 hours out of 24, absolutely hellish, a situation synonymous with the Nazi concentration camps and the Soviet gulags.

  If only the European Union countries and other foreign Embassies would jointly request that the Thai authorities alleviate the congestion in Bangkwang and be allowed to sleep no more than fifteen people per cell instead of twenty-six. We have no means to measure our cells exactly but we estimate them to be 4½ metres by 9 metres.

  As you may be aware, Thailand can be considered a rogue state with regard to its record on otherwise internationally accepted standards of human rights. Cynically the present Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra has increased the tempo of executions in order to make space at Bangkwang for the prisoners backed-up in the provinces. Even this elevated culling, however, is inadequate to meet the country’s detention requirements.

  The problem with raising the issue of United Nations minimum rules as a basis for negotiation with the Thai Government is that Thailand is not a signatory to any major treaty which would affect the practices of their prisons. The Thai Department of Corrections is therefore under no legal obligation to alter its administration of prisons. We the foreign inmates of Bangkwang Prison invite International Human Rights delegations to investigate the precarious living conditions we are subjected to. Such an endeavour should be conducted in the evening when inmates are crammed into the cells as any daytime inspection would be a waste of time.

  Our petition was forwarded to the Department of Corrections for consideration. Because Thais generally procrastinated, I didn’t expect that any immediate change would be implemented, but I hoped that in the long term something would be done. Even if this happened after I had gone home, at least those who were arrested after me might enjoy better conditions.

  It was time for yet another indoor football tournament. Each team consisted of four players and two reserves. I no longer needed to ask my family to send uniforms. Instead we could buy them right there. Football was huge in Thailand. A person could purchase imitation uniforms of all the popular Premier League teams. The prices were good and the quality was not bad either. Using my money, Jai went to buy the uniforms and then she posted them to me. We would have our kit in three days or less. I loved the competitiveness of the games. I had my own team, made up mainly of Thais. I coached, trained and played; I was not getting any younger, though, and sometimes I struggled to keep up with some of the younger chaps.

  Anna-Marie, one of the South African women who came to Thailand to buy clothing, was travelling to Bangkok quite regularly now, and on her visits I would give her examples of my art to take back home. My paintings were my only possessions. Whenever she took them home for me, I would be so nervous, forever emphasising, that, if she took them out of the folder, to please make sure that her hands were clean and that she didn’t put the paintings on a wet surface, and, most importantly, to make sure they were kept in a safe place. At times I would give her up to 50 pieces, almost a whole year’s work. My mind would only be at ease when I got news from home that my art was safely in the hands of my family.

  One day, four religious guys came to visit us Jewish prisoners. One of them, who was about 20 years old, recognised my South African accent. He was the son of a rabbi from the Orange Grove shul in Johannesburg, which was the same area where my family lived. Seeing these young men embarking on their spiritual journey so early in their lives got me thinking. How would my life have been if I had never succumbed to the allure that drugs hold for so many of us? But there were too many ‘what ifs’, and anyway I already knew the answers. It wasn’t too late, though. I had to believe that everything that transpires in our lives happens for the greater good. Accepting my situation was the beginning to opening the way to change. I kept returning to this point: I had to take responsibility for my actions. I was being given a second chance. Life was too beautiful to waste and I couldn’t allow myself to be consumed by regret, nor should I feel sorrow. My life was no longer my own. My ship was sailing and the promise of a more meaningful life was waiting just beyond the horizon. I could either swim or drown. The choice was mine.

  Prison was a world in itself. Thousands of men who had broken the law and committed a crime lived there more or less together. Each had his own story and each had a different life in prison. Some stagnated, others went insane, a few changed their ways, and some men died.

  A Ghanaian national who was on death row in Building 1 had his sentence reduced to life imprisonment in the third court. During his time in Building 1, he had acquired quite a few sets of weights, as well as two exercise benches. When he was moved to Building 2, by request of the prison authorities, his weights were brought across. After negotiating with the chief for an area where prisoners could exercise, for US$2 000 they built an office for the second chief with an adjoining room, which would later be given to the General. The area was roughly 4m in width and about 7m in length. A makeshift roof was erected. Two poles with a bar were sunk into the concrete so that we could do chin-ups. Some of us foreigners donated money towards the costs. In comparison to where we had exercised before, it was great. The Ghanaian used more money to buy weights from other buildings, and he soon had quite an effective gym running. Whoever wanted to exercise paid 100 Thai baht a month, while those who had donated money got six months’ free.

  I was working really hard to develop my artistic skills, expand my mind and reconnect with my roots. It was a long and difficult process and I often found myself getting stuck. Sometimes depression would grab me by the throat, threatening to choke me to death. Those were dark periods. When I thought about how far I had come, I also realised what a long way I still had to go.

  Nevertheless, I was making considerable advances with my carbon powder portraits. Chai Long was doing mostly A4-size pictures, but I wanted to paint bigger portraits – on A3 paper. He suggested that this was not practical and that, to maintain the photographic effect, I should keep my portraits small. Being a stubborn fool, I wanted to exploit the full potential of this unique medium. Chai Long had taught me the basics and by now I had extensive experience working with Bic ballpoint pens. My sketching was accurate and I had a good eye for a balanced composition in a drawing. I needed to explore the ideas that came to my mind. How could one place limitations on one’s imagination? I was ready to fly. If I had my wa
y, the butterfly would soon soar like an eagle.

  In November, I acquired a foam mattress for my bed. Until then my ‘mattress’ had consisted of about eight blankets, which had gathered a lot of dust and absorbed a fair amount of sweat. In Building 8 they manufactured hard foam mattresses, which cost 1 700 Thai baht each. The foam was 5cm thick and over a metre wide. With my Stanley knife I cut this down to the standard size permitted for every cell. I had a fitted blanket made by one of the tailors. Although slightly hard, it was a thousand times more comfortable than the blankets had been. Jai bought me a new pillow, which was so soft that for the first few nights I couldn’t sleep. Comfort was not something I was accustomed to any more.

  With the leftover pieces of foam I made cushions for my chair. The Thais in prison did not believe in wasting anything; everything had a function or could be used for some purpose or other, and I learnt from their example. Six years of sleeping on a bunch of folded-up blankets had taken its toll on my body, and my back was a constant worry for me.

  I received the news that Arcadia, the Jewish orphanage where Joan and I had spent most of our childhood, was relocating to the Johannesburg suburb of Sandringham because Hollard Insurance Company had bought the property at 22 Oxford Road. The Arc had been home to thousands of kids, who had filtered through its gates since the early 1900s, and the news was hard for me to digest. All the familiar open spaces would now have office blocks erected on them. At least the main building would remain; the plan was that it would be restored and be declared a national monument. We Arcadians were losing part of our heritage, and I was sad to hear it. Gone would be the days when ex-Arcadians would meet there to play football, attend synagogue during the high festivals, or just walk through the grounds reminiscing about our shared childhood.

  On 19 October, another four Americans were transferred back to prisons in the US. Two of them had arrived nearly three years after me. They were also drug-related cases. It was so unfair that some foreigners would serve more time than others for committing exactly the same crime, and I struggled with the bitterness this always made me feel. Some of us prisoners had even contemplated holding American prisoners hostage, killing them if we had to, just to attract attention to the unfairness of the Thai justice system. Luckily, we didn’t go that far.

  Six days before my 41st birthday was Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. I fasted for the first time since my days in Arcadia. It was difficult: the weather was very hot, and praying all day took its toll on me, leaving me dehydrated, run-down and weak. There was always the concern in the back of my mind that, in my state of frailty, I might get into an argument or a fight. During Ramadan, the Muslims would fast for one month. They were not allowed to eat or drink water from dusk to dawn, whereas we Jews abstained from sunset to sunset when we fasted. The guards were very accommodating when it came to religion, allowing many Thais who may well have been Buddhists to convert to Christianity. These guys worshipped with the foreigners. The Muslims were allowed to spend their days in their cells and cook their meals at night.

  Meanwhile, I remained hell-bent on mastering the medium of carbon powder. I devoted many months to practising my skills, often stumbling and sometimes becoming frustrated, but I persevered all the same. Eventually I made a breakthrough. I achieved my goal of painting a portrait that was an almost perfect photographic replica. Watching life take form on a blank piece of paper filled me with awe. I would stare at my painting in disbelief. My hands seem to have a mind of their own. This portrait was of the great Lubavitcher Rebbe Menachem Schneerson. It was uncannily lifelike. His very essence seem to come through his eyes. My talent, I believed, was a gift from the angels and something I would never take for granted. I would use my skill to bring joy to others.

  I started to mix colour poster paint with the carbon powder. Chai Long was less than impressed, but he couldn’t help but be amazed at my creativity and the progress I had made in such a short time. He told me I was his best student ever. Then something strange happened. I was halfway through painting a carbon-powder portrait when he criticised me for doing something wrong. He took the painting from me and worked on it himself to correct my mistake, and he made a complete mess of it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He had deliberately spoilt my picture. It was almost as if he wanted to prevent me from advancing. Maybe he thought that, now that I had mastered the technique, I would have no further use for him.

  After this incident I never let him touch any of my paintings again and, unfortunately, our friendship took a turn for the worse. Shortly afterwards, Chai Long got moved to a prison in the provinces. I was upset because there was so much I still wanted to learn from him, but that was prison life – people came and went. Some people make an everlasting impact on your life, while the memory of others fades with time. It is sad in a way, and the loss of Chai Long reminded me of my friends who had died. All we have left of them are our memories and the impressions they made on us.

  Chai Long was instrumental in bringing me closer to my dreams of being recognised as an artist. I remain indebted to him.

  Back home, my family were totally blown away by the pieces of art I was creating. Their opinion was a driving force in my quest to prove my worth. I was no longer a useless drug addict. Not only had I kicked the habit but, importantly, I had also turned my life around. By finding purpose, life had taken on a whole new meaning for me. Did I have any regrets? Yes, I regretted a lot of stuff, mainly having become a junkie in the first place and the people’s lives I had destroyed. I also regretted the women I had abused and the hell I had put my family through. Yes, I knew I was a poor excuse for a human being and that I probably deserved to be condemned for life. Forgiveness, like respect, is something that has to be earned. I knew I had a long way to go before I would be fully redeemed, but I was trying.

  Whenever new prisoners arrived, whether foreign or Thai, recently arrested or transferred from another prison or building, these prisoners always posed a threat. To get a name or to establish themselves, they would look for fights with prisoners in positions of power, especially the younger boys. I got involved in quite a few such incidents, where I would use a weapon to defuse a situation or prevent it from getting out of hand. Normally, those of us who had done hard time and had been together for years would assist and protect each other in such instances.

  In those early years a prisoner could request to have photographs taken. I made a point of taking photos of myself twice a year to send back home. It was important for my family to see that I was healthy and keeping strong. At Easter and Christmas, the Christians would hold celebrations and the missionary workers from outside, headed by Father Oliver, would organise a special contact visit, during which gift packages were handed out. These consisted of toiletries, clothing and foodstuffs. In addition, the prisoners who were the leaders of the church inside the prison would collect money from the Christians and the other inmates to throw a party on Christmas Day.

  The guard in charge of the photographic section would come into our building and take photos. When the photos were developed they were placed in an album with reference numbers beside each one. Prisoners could then order as many pictures as they required; one photo cost 20 Thai baht. On one such occasion, photos were taken of prisoners in shackles. In some of the photos the prison walls and the watchtower were visible as well. Somehow these pictures made their way onto the internet. There was an investigation. The guard responsible was removed and prisoners were no longer allowed to take any photos at all.

  An ex-Arcadian and a good friend of mine, David Sandler, who lived in Australia, had taken it upon himself to maintain contact through a newsletter, which he circulated to Arcadians around the world. He and I started communicating and, through our correspondence, he encouraged me to think about writing a book about my life. He also contributed funds towards my wellbeing and continued to do this for years. Writing a book was something I planned to do anyway, but at this time my main focus was my art. David started compiling a booklet
, and he asked all ex-Arcadians to contribute by writing about their childhood experiences there. I thought it would be fun and nostalgic so I contributed enthusiastically. Once the booklet was printed and posted off, a lot more ex-Arcadians became aware of my situation and started corresponding with me. The stories of the different people were fascinating and inspired David to collect more of them and bring out a sequel. Reminiscing about years gone by was every prisoner’s daydream, and writing about them was cathartic. I suggested to David that he should write a book himself.

  When Joan and I were living in Arcadia, the children would spend weekends or Sundays with their families. When I was about 16, there were two of us who never had anywhere to go. A Jewish family, the Simons, who lived in Glenhazel, approached Arcadia wanting a male friend for their only son, Clifford, and their three daughters. I was asked if I’d like to go along and meet them. I reluctantly agreed, but, as it turned out, they were the most amazing family and we became very close. Mrs Simon – Phyllis – actually wanted to adopt me. As tempting as it was, I felt it wouldn’t be fair on my mother. Only orphans were adopted, and Joan and I weren’t orphans. We remained close friends, though, and I spent almost every Sunday and sometimes all weekend at the Simons’ house, right up until the time I finished matric. After school, sadly, I lost touch with them. In prison, Phyllis’s oldest daughter, Karen, and I started corresponding, and in March 2001 I received the sad news that Phyllis had died of cancer. I was heartbroken at having lost contact with the Simon family and so, in honour of the kindness and love Phyllis had shown me, I painted her portrait and sent it as a gift to her family. If I had allowed them to adopt me, I couldn’t help thinking, my life could very well have turned out differently.