by Shani Krebs
While none of us can predict the future, and while I still looked upon tomorrow with certain trepidation, I had learnt to live in perfect faith. My destiny was in the hands of Hashem.
Art is an expression of the inner self, an infinite journey of the mind where the parameters are defined only by the imagination. Every painting became for me a process of discovery. My own inspiration became a means of understanding people and a world that sometimes felt as if it had forsaken me. With each new creation not only did my spirit become more and more free but also, perhaps more importantly, my anger began to dissipate.
But long hours of drawing had taken their toll on my body. My lower back was fucked. It was becoming too much. Massages brought only temporary relief. When I reported sick, after explaining my practice of sitting painting for long hours, the doctor’s solution was that I should stop painting! I asked him what he would have me do instead. Art was my life, I told him. Would he prefer me to do drugs, which had become a favourite pastime for many prisoners? In fact, I had been reporting sick with back pain for two years now. At one stage, a doctor had given me a letter saying I suffered from lower back pain and recommended that I go to the police hospital for physiotherapy. This never happened.
Anyway, I tried to get this doctor to write me a letter recommending that I be allowed an adjustable office chair, but he was not interested. I lost my temper and told him that just because I was a prisoner didn’t mean I was an animal. I had my rights. He just laughed at me. He was a young, arrogant prick. I’m not sure what he wrote in the letter he did give me, but when I submitted my request the prison authorities refused the chair on the grounds that illegal things could be smuggled in it.
The staff at the embassy finished their four-year term in 2001, and I had to admit I was delighted to see them leave Bangkok. The new ambassador was Mrs Petho and the consular officer was Miss Naicker. Both were far friendlier than their predecessors and much more compassionate towards us prisoners.
At this stage I was beginning to produce some incredible pieces of art. The last thing I was going to do was stop. I loved painting portraits for people, which I did for free and without expectation. I painted every member of my family. I wished I could see their faces when they accepted delivery of my paintings. Even though they always told me how thrilled they were with them, I wished I could witness their joy in person. With each piece I completed, I felt a sense of accomplishment unlike anything I had ever felt before. My dreams were being realised behind the very walls that reduced men to nothing, where all you were was a number. For some prisoners, coming to prison was the end of their lives, the final chapter. For me, it was the beginning, the beginning of a new life, a life without drugs. When reflecting on my past, which I still did frequently, I could scarcely believe that I had allowed myself to be reduced to the lowlife I became. I was an ex-King David pupil, who had strictly adhered to the traditions of our culture. Where had I gone wrong, and why? What was it that had led me onto that path of self-destruction? I promised myself that if I ever got out of Bangkwang alive, I would never go back to the way I was before.
But what if I was released tomorrow, I thought. Would I be ready to make those changes, to become the man I longed to be?
Actually, the truth was that I was far from ready. I needed to stay in prison, and, in a strange way, I wanted to stay there. The real world was like a great whale waiting to swallow me up. Somehow it was safer behind the high-security walls, where there were no traffic jams, no red traffic lights and no one-ways. Time was no longer an enemy. Time had become my best friend.
After my sister appeared on The Felicia Show, she had a meeting with certain representatives of the Department of Foreign Affairs, who advised her to meet with human rights lawyers regarding the injustices and the irregularities of sentencing in Thailand. It was not right that South Africans, in comparison with American, French and Israeli citizens, to mention a few, were spending more time in prison. We had a strong case, but at the same time we had to tread carefully. I did not want to jeopardise the future transfers from Thai prisons of any country’s nationals.
Joan met with a human rights lawyer who lived in Ireland, but she seemed more interested in the abolition of the death penalty than in what we were pushing for. I suppose, in her view, the fate of prisoners on death row was more important than my own. Anthony Karstaedt, a barrister from Australia, who was related to us on my brother-in-law’s side, volunteered his services, but there was not much he could do except investigate the progress of my royal pardon. On 15 May the Department of Corrections informed him that my application was still in the office of His Majesty the King’s private secretary. In fact, this was exciting news, as it had been only three years since I’d submitted my application, and other applications had been known to take five years before receiving an answer.
My sister had also contacted a man in Israel named Harut Lapid, who had become famous for working on behalf of dozens of Israelis wrongfully imprisoned abroad, either for their release or for the improvement of their conditions. Through the assistance of South African businessman Abe Krok, Harut Lapid was flown to South Africa to meet with my sister. Sadly, the meeting was in vain. Harut had never before dealt with the Thai government and said he was therefore not able to take on my case.
It was at these times of setback that I would become quite desperate. In June I told the South African embassy that, if our country would not sign a prisoner treaty with Thailand, I would embark on a hunger strike and I would get the other South Africans in other Thai prisons to join me. I told them I would give them a year. I wanted to plan this properly and get the media involved. My sister was dead against the hunger strike plan, saying that our government did not care in the least and pointing out that, even if I died, it would not change anything.
On 26 June 2001, we were all shaken when a Thai drug offender was executed, and rumours circulated that more death row inmates would soon be killed.
On Friday 17 August 2001, I was called to the gate. My heart was racing as I made my way there, with my Thai friends shouting out ‘Aleksander kabarn!’ A few of the foreigners made similar comments – ‘You going home, bro.’ Actually I did think there was a good chance of this happening – after all, I had a personal letter of support from Mr Mandela himself. Although I tried not to allow myself to get over-excited, it wasn’t easy to suppress my feelings. Maybe this was the day. Maybe it was my turn to hear that magic word.
At the gate I was greeted by the guard in charge of royal pardons. I felt a lump in my throat. Could it be true? Was I really going home? I tried to read the guard’s face, but it was expressionless. Then he told me, in Thai, that my application had been turned down. ‘Rejected,’ he said. His manner was casual and cold, not that I expected a hug or any words of comfort from him. My heart dropped to my feet. Once I began to process this bad news, my main concern was my sister’s reaction. I knew Joan would be devastated. I was more upset for her than for myself. None of my friends could believe it.
The truth was, I never expected to be pardoned, although deep down in my heart I still hoped and wished that I would be. When the reality set in, I felt as if I had been resentenced to life imprisonment. I would have to wait at least two years before I could submit another application.
It seemed that Hashem had other plans for me, plans that would only make sense a long way down the road. I knew that day that I was in for a long stretch.
Towards the end of August we began to prepare for another football competition. Sometimes there would be about three of these events per year, mostly because the guards made so much money out of them. This time I made a deal with the guard in charge: if supporters paid to attend the games, I would use the gate money to pay the officials. These contests were mostly a lot of fun, but one thing I hated about them was that there were forever problems among the inmates. When we lost a game, fingers were pointed; if someone didn’t make the team, an enemy was made. I was getting weary of all the bullshit. Not only did
it cost me money, but often it was also a headache. I decided, too, that this would be the last time I financed the uniforms.
After the rejection of my request for an office chair, my sister sent me an exercise wheel. I also started doing lower back exercises with weights. I dropped my weight by a couple of kilos and my back improved radically. When I was drawing, I would stretch every hour. These changes helped me to cope with my chronic back pain.
Jai was still visiting me, but now she came only once a week instead of twice. To be frank, I was running out of conversation. It was a frustrating situation for which there was no short-term solution. I had encouraged her to get on with her life and to try to meet somebody worthy of her love, telling her I was not that man. But she never gave up on me. In fact, Jai taught me what it means to love someone unconditionally. She remained loyal and went to great lengths to make sure all my needs were met. On my mother’s 77th birthday, Jai bought her a gift and sent it to her without even telling me.
Seeing that South Africa continued to show little interest in signing a treaty with Thailand, I came up with another idea. I wrote to the Israeli embassy to enquire about the possibility of my becoming an Israeli citizen. I even offered to join the Israeli army. At that stage I was even ready to relinquish my South African citizenship. The Israelis were not interested, however. Because I was a prisoner, they said, I could not be considered for citizenship. What a shame – even my own tribesmen were turning their backs on me.
On 11 September, at around 7pm, I was lying on my bed reading a book when Roy came running to the bars of our cell, shouting, ‘America is being attacked! Check out CNN!’ We changed channels hurriedly, just in time to see the second plane crash into the World Trade Center. There was complete silence. Nobody in the cell uttered a word. We were all glued to the TV in a state of total disbelief. It was as if the world had come to an end. It was such a shock. If America couldn’t prevent a terrorist attack, nobody in the world would be safe. Perhaps a Third World War was not a bad idea, I thought later, cynically; it might be one way of getting out of here.
With all the support I was getting from outside, my standard of living had improved. I was having two big meals a day and fresh fruit every night. The longer I stayed, the more comfortable I became. I was now also the proud owner of a blender and a sandwich maker, which formed part of my collection of electrical appliances. Our satellite TV was up and running smoothly. Life generally was pretty good. Most importantly, I was doing what I loved most – painting – and, although my eyes were deteriorating rapidly, I was producing some of my best pieces of art.
My responsibilities were few and far between, but, even so, being the room chief, and having to deal with all the problems that came with it, was starting to stress me out. I began to suffer from severe mood swings. Often, everybody just seemed to irritate me and my patience dried up. I could feel the frustration building inside me. One night I attacked one of the British guys in my cell, which went against my own rules. A meeting was called, and it was decided that I should take a break and that somebody else should be in charge. Basically, I was voted out. Pedro, the Dutchman, was elected as the new room chief.
I welcomed the break, but I also knew that now our room would deteriorate. A French guy in our cell, whose name was Bruno, had got involved with one of the lady-boys. Pedro also had a hard-on for the lady-boys, so he allowed Bruno’s ‘wife’ to move into our room. At first the lady-boy fitted in well. He even spoke a bit of English. It was strange to watch his actions. Here was a man, thinking he was a woman, surrounded by men. Perhaps for him it was paradise. He would sit on his bed for hours and hours looking at himself in the mirror and applying make-up. At night, just before bedtime, Bruno and his lady-boy would build a tent. They slept at the entrance to the cell and they would tie blankets to the bars and close themselves off completely from prying eyes. Whatever it was that they did, they would do it in the middle of the night. Fortunately, I was at the opposite end of the cell, besides which I never paid them much attention. But I can tell you I was not happy to have this person in our cell, and I wasn’t the only one. Whenever the lady-boy used the toilet, he would be in there for far too long, and this pissed everyone off.
The families of the other South African prisoners were also continually contacting the embassy in Thailand regarding our wellbeing and asking about any progress being made towards our repatriation. This put a lot of pressure on the embassy – who never had the answers anyway – and our families were stopped from directly contacting the embassy. All enquiries were to go through the Director-General of the Consular and Agency Services branch of the Department of Foreign Affairs.
My sister was still shaking things up, though, and news of my planned hunger strike had apparently reached our government. I continued to remain positive and focused my energies on my art. I was pumping out portraits. Oblivious to the world around me, I painted and painted. I was convinced that, any day, there was a possibility I would go free, so I didn’t want to lose a moment.
During the cold season, which was between November and January, there were spells where the temperature dropped to below 17 °C. During these days I would paint from early morning until well past 1.30pm. When it was hot, by 11am I would be sweating profusely and couldn’t work for fear of damaging the painting. The cold season was welcomed by us foreigners, whereas the Thais hated it. Up north in Chiang Rai it got so cold that some prisoners died from exposure. The cold season was so dry that the skin at the tips of my thumbs cracked open, and I also got a rash just below my armpits. My skin would become flaky and sensitive, and the only thing that helped was Ascabiol emulsion (benzyl benzoate); a bottle of this cream could last me for five years. I also suffered from cold feet (even in summer) and I would always sleep with socks on.
I always found it strange to see how, when people are subjected to extreme suffering, they turn to G-d. For me, there was a certain hypocrisy to this. Every Sunday in Bangkwang the Christians would attend a church service in the dining room. Fervently they engaged in song and praises to the Lord. They would go along, Bible in hand, but they never seemed to evolve as people. After church, those who were involved in the distribution of drugs would continue peddling.
I once asked one of the African brothers: ‘How can you be the leader of the prison church and still sell heroin? Dealing in drugs got you into prison. You have a life sentence. Surely that would be enough of a deterrent?’ He told me frankly that it was the only way he could survive. He had no support; his family could barely take care of themselves. I understood it was not easy, so perhaps his circumstances justified his means.
Thai prisons are tough places in which one’s integrity is constantly challenged. Back home, two of my best friends had become born-again Christians. It didn’t bother me. Each to his own, I thought. But what I detested was that they constantly tried to convert me. They went as far as to say that, unless I accepted Christ, I would never make it out of prison. I didn’t begrudge them their newfound faith; instead I asked them to respect my choices, just as I respected theirs. I was born a Jew and I will die a Jew.
The major Jewish festivals came and went. These were usually sad times, as our festivals are celebrated with the gathering of our families. While locked in the cell, after prayers I would sit on my bed and stare blankly into space. My mind and thoughts would drift to my family. I could visualise them sitting around in the comfort of their home, and no doubt their thoughts, too, were of me. Celebrating festivals in captivity was not the same, and to a degree they lost their spiritual impact. Although I enjoyed a connection with Hashem, I felt in my heart that my prayers were becoming more of a routine than anything more meaningful. Praying was a formality, and came out of a sense of guilt and obligation.
On 9 February 2002 came the news that Princess Margaret had died. It was quite significant for me, as I had painted what I believed was a compelling portrait of her, hoping I could evoke some compassion and maybe even get her involved in my case. With her pas
sing, however, that door closed.
Meanwhile our friend Prichit Kowmuang had got into the swing of things, yet he failed to ease the discontent of the prisoners. Many of us were not happy about losing our electronic devices (which hadn’t been returned to us). Prichit was not sticking to his end of the bargain. We were paying him money for certain privileges but still he denied us those rights. It reached a point where even the Thais used their influence outside to report the Building Chief to the Department of Corrections. Something must eventually have worked because, after a few months, Prichit was removed.
The new Building Chief had a reputation for loving money and allowing a free-for-all, which also had its disadvantages, but then that’s the way the wheels of Bangkwang turned. The ‘Big Tiger’ could never be tamed.
In 2002 Nigerian president Olusegun Obasanjo signed and ratified a prisoner transfer treaty with Thailand. The Nigerian inmates had been talking about it for months, especially when their consular representative had confirmed that it really was going to happen. When it finally did, the spirits of men who had accepted that they were condemned for life suddenly soared so high – it was something amazing to witness. It was almost like seeing a dead man coming to life. That night, the Nigerians’ cell was abuzz with laughter and conversation. Even the prison authorities changed their attitude towards the Nigerians. In my heart I rejoiced with them, knowing that Joan and I had been instrumental in their liberation. Although our hopes were on South Africa following suit, we also investigated the possibility of South Africans transferring home under the auspices of the Organisation of African Unity (OAU) – soon to be replaced by the African Union (AU) – using the Nigerian treaty somehow. All our attempts to encourage a treaty between the South African and Thai governments were failing dismally.
