Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  David Sandler’s Arcadia research and connections triggered so many stories for me, but for the time being my own book would have to be put on hold. I had been commissioned to paint so many portraits that I could see myself being kept busy for at least the next two years. My time was precious, and sometimes there were not enough hours in my day. At this time I also took on two students and was teaching them portraiture. The days would fly by. ‘Not a moment to waste’ became my motto.

  Every time I completed a painting, which could take anything from a week to a month, I would take a day off. On Saturday, which was my Sabbath, I didn’t work, and I tried to keep the Sabbath to the best of my ability. Saturday was also football day and the day I spent just generally relaxing. Painting a carbon-powder portrait can be very pressurising, and no two faces are alike. Every portrait I have ever painted has presented a challenge. In between portraits I would do a fun painting or two, in either watercolour or poster paint, and usually these would be abstracts, expressing my inner state of mind and my emotions.

  Some four years back I had petitioned to have phones installed in the building. In June 2001 we were informed by the prison authorities that this was finally going to happen. This was a victory for us. The plan was to put two telephones just outside Building 2 on the way to the visit room. Here a new building had been erected, with one section for a computer room and another for an executive conference room. Applications for a telephone card had to go through the embassy. Prisoners would only be allowed to call immediate family, and the embassy had to confirm officially that the number you had submitted was that of a family member. I was over the moon. We would be allowed to call home twice a week, for five minutes at a time. Every building was given a specific day and time. Thirty prisoners would be called at one time, and when we went out we were required to wear our light-blue prison shirts. You could wait up to an hour before it was your turn, but, still, the luxury of being able to talk to your loved ones was great.

  In July 2001 we saw the first transfer of two British prisoners, who up until then had refused to be sent home to the UK. Life in a Thai prison was much easier for them. If I had had the choice to serve my time in a South African jail, I would have jumped at the opportunity. Prison is prison; everything is relative. For me, the most important factor would be more the proximity to my family and less the time I would still have to serve behind bars.

  My Norwegian friend Kjell also transferred to a prison in Norway. I helped him carry his things to the gate, where we shook hands. We hugged and I wished him well on his way. Another goodbye, and this one was really hard. My eyes filled with tears, of joy and of envy, too. On the one hand, I was happy that he was one step closer to freedom; on the other, I wished it was me. I vowed to myself that this would be the last person I would allow myself to get close to, and also that never again would I walk anybody to the gate. At that moment I hated our government, and I was ashamed to be South African. To rub salt in the wound, a month and a half after Kjell left I received a letter from him informing me that his prison in Norway was like a five-star hotel compared to Bangkwang. Two weeks later he was granted a royal pardon by the Thai monarch. It was the first time I’d ever heard of somebody being granted a royal pardon after they’d been transferred out of a Thai jail. Nevertheless, it was fantastic news. Kjell had served over four years, which was much longer than he would have received in any other country for a similar offence.

  Because the increased number of death row inmates had led to severe overcrowding in Building 1, the authorities put into action a plan to convert the downstairs section of Building 2 into another death row section. Prisoners were put to work constructing a steel partition enclosed in wire mesh. It stretched from floor to ceiling and would divide the rooms of death row inmates from those serving life sentences. The area around and near the entrance was cordoned off with barbed-wire security fences. This included half of the outside toilets and the net factory, which was turned into a dining hall. At the front of the building, the downstairs entrance was fenced off from upstairs. The courtyard immediately in front of that, where two big trees offered shade for prisoners wanting to relax beneath them and escape the scorching heat, was also fenced in.

  Basically, the idea was to keep the death row inmates apart from the ‘lifers’. This was for a number of reasons. Firstly, it was to prevent the distribution of drugs, money, electronic gadgets and other illegal items. Secondly, death row inmates were considered more dangerous than lifers because they had nothing to lose.

  Once all the fencing had been erected, six of the first rooms were evacuated and the death row guys from Building 1 took up occupation. Our room was on the same floor, so, to enter and exit the building, we now had to use the rear entrance. Every two months, the steel partition dividing death row would be moved down another room or two to enable more death row inmates to take up residence downstairs. Soon the partition approached our cell. The inmates who had previously occupied the rooms now allocated to death row inmates were relocated upstairs or moved to other buildings. I had hoped that we would be allowed to keep our cell, but no such luck; at this rate, it would be a matter of only a few months before we’d have to move. All the money we had invested in maintaining a private cell was going to be lost.

  As the room chief, I was called by the prison authorities well in advance and informed that we should all start looking for other cells upstairs, as there was no way they could give us a private cell, and nor could we stay together. We would have to be split up. I called a cell meeting and explained our fate. None of us wanted to be in a room with 24 occupants or, for that matter, to move upstairs. This meant one thing: we would have to buy another cell. The ideal situation would have been for everybody to contribute, but unfortunately not everyone could afford it. Giving up the luxury of a private room and risking contracting tuberculosis or another disease in an overcrowded cell was a horrible prospect.

  Pedro, the Dutchman, had in recent years received a lot of support from people in the Netherlands, and, between him and myself, we reckoned we could raise enough money to buy another room. We agreed 50-50 down the line. I negotiated with the officer in charge of the building and we agreed on a price. According to the prison authorities, we had roughly a month to come up with the money and to choose a room upstairs. Through Jai, I got word to my sister. One thing was for sure – Joan would never let me down. Somehow she always came through for me. Joan contacted various businessmen in South Africa – Bertie Lubner, Benji Schleider and his brother Gabriel, and others – and within ten days US$1 500 was in Jai’s account. Pedro, however, proved unable to come up with his share. All he did was make empty promises.

  Upstairs it was like a fucking circus, with all the TVs blaring. We were informed by the officer that three rooms remained downstairs: one was three-quarter size; another, Room 11, was a full-size room like the one we currently had; and there was one small room. Ideally, we would want to take a full-size room. Room 11 was occupied by 21 Muslim inmates. It was the perfect spot. Between the Building Chief and the officer, I paid them US$1 000 to vacate it. Never before had a prisoner been so audacious as to move an entire room!

  One of the foreigners occupying the room was from Ghana, a great footballer by the name of Keita. He refused to move. The Thai occupants, although reluctant, wouldn’t dare oppose the prison authorities, and in a matter of an hour, Room 11 was evacuated except for Keita, who stayed on with us. We took up immediate occupation. From Room 16 we took two of our three overhead fans and then the famous Room 16, known for so many years as the best room in Bangkwang, died. The steel partition was moved forward, cutting our section off from death row.

  Our new cell needed renovating. The paint on the walls was discoloured and had mostly peeled off. The vinyl floor was an ugly red colour, broken everywhere and ready for the garbage can. The toilet bowl had obviously been broken and repaired with concrete. It was so dirty that a thick layer of shit had formed a hard crust over the entire surface. It took me
two hours to scrape it off with a nail and still it wasn’t clean. The repair had been so badly done that when you flushed the toilet the shit struggled to pass through the pipes.

  One of the Thai Chinese guys on death row, Ling, who was also a British citizen and spoke excellent English, had spent a fortune fixing up his new cell there. He had even had clean, hot running water installed. The guards were happy to lick Ling’s arse and milk him for everything he was worth in the process. Pedro befriended him, and Ling was kind enough to buy us a new toilet bowl. He also helped us order tiles. We hired Thai prisoners to change our toilet bowl and to do the tiling. Because the cement hadn’t dried by the time night fell, our cell door was left open so that we could use the toilet in the corridor. I must say I felt strange sleeping with our steel door open.

  A couple of days later we had our room painted. They started early in the morning, but even with the extreme heat the paint still hadn’t dried by the time we were locked up. The smell of paint was really strong. I wore my cotton surgical mask the whole night but it still didn’t prevent me from getting the worst headache I’d had for a while. We used the vinyl from Room 16 and attached our two fans to the ceiling. The rear of our new room faced east, so by the evening it was relatively cool. I kept my spot next to the toilet, and above my head I fitted a fluorescent light with a switch. With the extra money I also bought a colour Sony Wega flat-screen TV for 11 000 Thai baht, as well as a small DVD player. I had a steel shelf made that would fit under my feet at the end of my bed, and that was where I placed my TV.

  Pedro never did come up with his share for the room, and after a while I told him to forget about it. In this way I controlled the room and decided who would stay and who wouldn’t. I was the boss, and in the end I was very pleased with our new home.

  Chapter 14

  Murderers Are People, Too

  Whenever a new foreign prisoner arrived, I would be called to the office to check whether we would take him into our cell. Invariably, for the first few days I would welcome the new guys into my house. I would feed them and help them get organised. If they didn’t have a bed, I would have one made for them, incurring the costs myself. I did this with no expectation, remembering how I had suffered sleeping on a flattened cardboard box when I first came to prison.

  Just before Songkran, the Water Festival, a new chief took over Building 2. His name was Mr Prichit Kowmuang. He had a reputation for being strict, so we steeled ourselves for changes. Almost right away he ordered all private TVs to be removed from the cells. Anybody with video machines and other electronic devices had to hand them in. These included electric frying pans and kettles, which meant we would have to cook our meals on a charcoal stove. In addition we weren’t allowed to take food into the cells, except drinking water, which was ridiculous, as we spent almost 16 hours a day locked up in our cells. He also stopped us from showering during the day, restricting us to an hour in the morning and an hour in the afternoon just before lockdown. Over and above all this, he wanted to reshuffle our rooms and to mix Thais and foreigners.

  When we refused to hand over our electrical equipment, he arranged for the security section to raid our cells. DVDs, Walkmans and CD players found during the raid were confiscated. It seemed that Prichit was hell-bent on making our lives as miserable as he could.

  Everybody was in a state of panic. Thais and foreigners alike came to me, urging me to draw up a petition. I drafted one and then walked around the building collecting signatures. My own signature appeared at the top. At night, the petition was passed around upstairs from room to room. One of the Thais who spoke good English also translated it into Thai. The petition was addressed to the Director of the prison, and in it I complained about the new chief in no uncertain terms.

  The next morning, I submitted it to the clerk at the office, knowing that it would immediately be taken to Prichit, who would read it and see that we were calling for his removal. After reading it, the chief caught a wobble and ordered a meeting of all foreigners in the dining room. Including the Asian foreigners, there were almost 200 prisoners. The chief gave some speech about how all he was doing was enforcing the rules laid down by the Department of Corrections. We argued our case by pointing out that we were serving life sentences and that we enjoyed certain privileges that the previous Building Chief had been happy to allow. The situation was becoming volatile. Disgruntled prisoners were all muttering at once. A Nigerian who had served over ten years stood up. Pointing his finger at the Building Chief, he said threateningly: ‘Do you want peace, or war?’ The chief turned pale and abruptly called off the meeting.

  The next day, Samuel, the Nigerian, was removed from the building.

  An Indian prisoner by the name of Dhawal, whose name means ‘light complexion’ and who was notorious for writing letters to the United Nations and to human rights organisations complaining of conditions in prison and claiming he had been unjustly imprisoned, apparently then held a private meeting with the Building Chief. Dhawal advised the chief to call in certain individuals and warn them that unless they removed their signatures from the petition, they would be moved to another building. I had no idea that this meeting had taken place, but suddenly many of the Chinese and other foreigners started crossing their names off the petition. I was confused. Then another foreigner, a guy from Mali, came to me very upset, accusing me and seven of my cellmates of removing our signatures. We were all cowards, he said disgustedly. Then he threatened to stab me. Give me a break, I thought. I told him that whatever he’d heard was bullshit, and promised to investigate. To my dismay, I discovered it was true – members of my room had removed their names. Fuck, I was annoyed, but in the end I decided it was in the best interests of all to withdraw the petition. When I approached the Building Chief and asked him to give it back to me, he said he’d do this only on condition that I wrote a letter clearly stating the withdrawal of our complaint against him. I agreed and he handed back the petition. Fuck you, I thought, as I walked away. I never wrote that letter.

  In the days that followed, the chief didn’t leave his office. Then Dhawal paid him another visit, an educational one this time. He explained to him how things were done and also told him that if he sat back and allowed things to run the way they always had, he stood to make a bundle of money. Pretty soon, Mr Prichit seem to get it. The gamblers pulled together and paid the chief 40 000 Thai baht to reopen the casino, and before very long things were back to normal. I had to admit that corruption had its advantages!

  Joan’s old friend Edna Ralph, who still faithfully walked from door to door in Manchester asking members of the Jewish community for small contributions towards my support, posted me a mezuzah – a decorative case, containing a piece of parchment, that is fixed to a doorpost – along with some books on Judaism. The mezuzah I attached to the wooden post at the entrance to my house, and inside, on the floor, where I had cemented a hole closed, I scratched the Star of David into the surface. There were other Jews, most of them Israeli guys, spread around in other buildings, but our Jewish fraternity in Building 2 stood at four. We called ourselves the band of Jewish brothers. No matter what our nationalities, we stood united in our faith; we all shared the same forefathers. These guys would hang out in my house and it became our sanctuary, the place where we could relax or pray, and where we would often enter into deep spiritual discussions. There was myself, Simon, the French Israeli man, and Eddie Tutin, a French Jew who had had no knowledge of Judaism until he came to prison. And then there was Roy Stevens.

  Roy was an American journalist and an Emmy award-winning television producer, who apparently had produced several anti-drug documentaries. According to him, when he was arrested in Bangkok he was working on a series through which he planned to expose the drug-smuggling networks that operated in the Golden Triangle. Roy really struggled to adjust to prison life, and we watched the painful deterioration of his health and mental state.

  On one occasion, Roy took a cigarette and burnt holes in the bed of the fello
w American who slept next to him, claiming that the guy was Lucifer. Another time we found him pacing up and down the centre of our cell in the middle of the night, completely naked. He would sometimes become belligerent, swearing at and abusing whoever looked in his direction. One night when this happened, we could see he was out of control, and so two of his fellow countrymen pinned him down, hog-tied him and put a sock in his mouth to prevent him from screaming. It was clear that he was becoming a danger to himself and to the rest of us. The following morning I was called to the office. By then the prison authorities had heard what had happened from the trustees who patrolled the corridor. Roy was moved out of our cell, and from then on he slept in the corridor.

  Back in December 1999 an article had appeared in The Jewish World in which the writer described conditions in Bangkwang as horrendous:

  In their cramped, squalid, stifling hot cells, most prisoners take turns sleeping on the bare cement floor among giant roaches. They use a stinking hole in the corner for a toilet and subsist on a bowl of rice porridge a day. To bathe, they splash water on themselves from troughs filled with untreated sewerage-tainted water from the nearby river.

  While this was probably as fair a description of life in a Thai jail as any, without diminishing or underrating the suffering of other inmates, for me these ‘horrendous’ conditions had become a way of life. What might have seemed extreme to some had now become the norm for me. And anyway, I had had no choice but to adjust.

  The same article went on: ‘No money, though, can buy them out of disease or death. AIDS is endemic among the prisoners as junkies are everywhere, pooling syringes.’ The writer even quoted me:

  ‘G-d works in mysterious ways,’ explains ‘Kreps’ who, with his long, curly hair and pumped-up muscles, resembles a beach surfer. ‘If I were outside, I might well be dead by now.’ ‘Kreps’ describes a pre-conviction life of drug addiction and a shoot-out with police back in South Africa. Now he puts on tefillin for daily prayers, keeps Shabbos and eats Kosher. He prays to G-d to add his name to a pending Royal amnesty.