Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  They say a change of scenery can do wonders, and I had probably been in the same building for far too long, bored and frustrated with seeing the same faces day in and day out. Perhaps this move would be for the better.

  About ten months earlier, I had attended an inter-building four-a-side football tournament. There I had met one of the new foreigners, a guy in his mid-twenties named Dani, who was in Building 6. He was from Kazakhstan and seemed like a really nice guy. At that time, we were only nine foreigners in our cell, and I had suggested to him that, in the event he wanted to change buildings and transfer to Building 2, he would be welcome to stay in my house and would also be guaranteed a spot in our private cell.

  I already knew all the foreigners in Building 6, and when the cell was opened in the morning I immediately went looking for Dani, hoping he would help me out with a place to stay. Some of the foreigners were shocked to see me, no doubt wondering what I was doing in their building on a Sunday morning. While I was waiting for Dani, who slept late, the British guys invited me for coffee. Eventually, when Dani came down he welcomed me with open arms.

  Previously, Dani had stayed with an Iranian and an Israeli. The Israeli had won his case and the Iranian had been granted a royal pardon after having served only seven years of his life sentence. Dani now stayed on his own. Times were bad, he said, and he was struggling to survive. In return for his hospitality, I offered to take care of all his meals. In addition, I also agreed to pay some of the debts he incurred.

  Building 6 had a lot of Chinese inmates, one of whom was my good friend Paul, who used to own the coffee shop in Building 2. About a year before, when Building 2 was raided by the Department of Corrections, from what I could gather they had been acting on information and had specifically targeted the coffee shop. Paul kept a lot of money with him. Nobody ever suspected that the prison authorities would raid the coffee shop, so it was a safe place to hide your money. The Chinese also ran the casino, and large amounts of cash circulated among the big gamblers. During that early-morning raid, Paul was the only one who was removed from his cell. He was taken downstairs and told to open the shop. The authorities seized 700 000 Thai baht that morning, 200 000 of which was Paul’s own money. The balance belonged to his Chinese friends. Paul was never officially charged and, needless to say, the money simply disappeared. After that he was transferred to Building 6. Over the past year, with the help of his family, he had paid his friends back to the last baht.

  Paul welcomed me as well, and he gave me two lockers to use in the meantime, with an option to buy them. The Chinese were all connected or knew each other, but, after learning about what had happened with me, Paul assured me there would be no revenge attacks. He would personally write to Chen Ming, he said, and for the sake of peace I also agreed to apologise. I was transferring to Israel soon; with my freedom so close, what did I have to lose by saying I was sorry? The truth was that I would stand to lose the most.

  There were three foreign rooms in Building 6. One was a Nigerian full-sized cell like the one I’d had in Building 2; the second was a Western foreigners’ cell, which was a three-quarter-size room; and the third was a small room occupied mainly by Pakistanis. In the Western foreign room were a Dutchman, who was Jonnie’s co-accused and had basically taken the rap, two Brits, an Australian, Dani, a Chinese, a Nepalese and a Burmese. There was not much space for a ninth person.

  Dani agreed to let me stay with him in his house. Because I wasn’t sure whether I could trust him completely, or whether he would freak out about my having a dog, I kept my mobile phone a secret. With the help of Dani and some of the other foreigners, I collected my belongings, which were still parked outside the entrance to Building 6. One of the young guards on duty half-heartedly checked my stuff. The guys were amazed at all the things I had, my excuse being that I’d been in prison for so long. Dani’s house was a lot smaller than mine had been. He gave me three lockers and half of a fourth one to store the things that I would use on a daily basis. The rest I stored in Paul’s locker, which was at the other end of this warehouse-type hangar that had about 20 houses, mostly owned by Chinese.

  Another good friend of mine, a guy from Tanzania by the name of Dodi, also a fellow footballer and who had previously stayed in Building 2, had extended an invitation for me to stay in the Nigerian room, but only on the condition that I never barked the dog. The foreigners told me that they would have a meeting before they decided whether I could stay in their cell or not. It was a Sunday, so nothing could be done till Monday anyway. I would have to stay another night in the Thai room. I was not too perturbed about anything. In a sense, the change of environment was proving to be a distraction from the pressures and responsibilities I had had in Building 2, where I had got caught up in a structured routine that subconsciously had affected my way of thinking. While it got me through the day, and time passed relatively quickly, I had lost my spontaneity. Everything I did had to have a reason.

  Dani had no chairs or cushions, and so we sat on a vinyl-covered concrete floor and ate our meals around a fold-up wooden table. First on my to-do list was to have a couple of cushions made, I decided. I have a small bum, and it got sore very easily. Monday morning arrived and I brought my bed outside first thing and put it in Dani’s house, not being sure where I was going to sleep that night. But soon after having coffee and taking my regular morning shower, Steve (the Brit) and the Dutchman, who was also the room chief, came to me and said that the foreigners had unanimously agreed to give me a place in their cell. I was humbled by their enthusiasm to accommodate me, realising that I was now a guest in this building and among inmates who would be my new friends.

  On Tuesday morning, Elisabeth visited me. She was somewhat taken aback by what had transpired. I don’t think she quite believed I was capable of stabbing somebody. After the visit, while waiting to collect my foodstuffs, I bumped into some of the guys from Building 2. Apparently on Sunday morning my house had been looted. The Thais came in and took whatever they could get their hands on. I couldn’t see how this could have happened unless the prison authorities had instigated it. Something was wrong.

  After three days, I told Dani about the dog. It was his house and I had to respect that. In the event that I transferred to an Israeli prison, I told him, I would leave the dog for him. Luckily, Dani didn’t have a problem with it. We both knew the risks involved, and I assured him that in the event that the dog was found by the prison authorities, I would take responsibility. In the meantime, we needed to find a good hiding place for it.

  On Wednesday morning, I was called for a parcel around the same time that Building 2 finished their visit. The guys went mad when they saw me, hugging me and shaking my hands, and actually it was great to see them. Then I was told that, the day before, while the Israelis were sitting in my house, about ten samurai came with knives and threatened them, forcing them to pack their things and get out. At first, they thought I had arranged the attack, which obviously I hadn’t done. The whole situation could have been avoided if the Israelis had gone to the prison authorities first thing on Monday morning and explained that I’d given them my house, and at the same time either pledged or dropped an envelope with at least 10 000 Thai baht to the Building Chief. This was a Thai jail, where nothing was for free. If you wanted to own property, you paid the tax. All the same, I was sorry for the Israelis, and I blamed Shlomo, who should have advised them.

  After speaking to my friends, on my return to my new building, I had barely unpacked the contents of my parcel when I was called over the loudspeaker to go to the gate. Waiting for me was the commodore in charge of our rooms and the foreigners from Building 2. The commodore took me aside and told me that the Israelis had been seen using a mobile in my house, so they, the authorities, had put a stop to it. He also told me that no charges would be brought against me for the stabbing. In return, he advised that I should not get involved in the matter of the Israelis and my house. I agreed and we shook hands. In the same vein, I urged him to mak
e sure that the Israelis wouldn’t have any further problems. Making a deal with the prison authorities was out of character for me, but I didn’t feel guilty because the Israelis had already fucked up. Anyway, I was now in another building and there was not much I could do. My getting involved might be more of a danger to them than anything else.

  On Thursday morning, after my visit, I bumped into one of the main samurai who had threatened the Israelis. I refrained from asking about the incident and let him do all the talking. He said he was sorry that I’d left Building 2 and for what had happened with the Chinese, adding that I should have got him to stab Chen Ming. This guy’s name was Tor. He was a youngster of about 29, tattooed all over and extremely dangerous. He was also a great footballer. There had been an incident a while back when Tor had attacked one of the British guys who was disliked by both Thais and foreigners. Single-handedly that time, I went to the British guy’s rescue and made sure they didn’t stab him. If I had not interfered, other foreigners would have run the risk of being attacked by Thais. I helped the Brit more out of a sense of duty than anything else. Anyway, I made it clear to Tor that the Israelis were my friends and that I didn’t want them to have a problem. He understood and we shook hands. I felt confident that they would be safe.

  Later I learnt that three Chinese were put into my old cell, and that Shlomo had taken on the responsibility of room chief. I received a letter from Donald, my Burmese friend to whom I’d given my gym, saying he needed some cash to buy the weights that belonged to the Estonian. When the Estonian went home he gave the weights to Shlomo, who was now selling them. I sent Donald a note to tell him that I would sort it out with Shlomo and that he shouldn’t worry.

  For as far back as I could remember, the occupants of Building 6 took their sport very seriously. They had their own football league and I was quickly recruited into one of the Thai teams. We played matches every day. Soon the days became weeks. In the afternoons I would indulge in a game of backgammon with another good friend of mine, Rashid from Pakistan. I got word through Paul that Chen Ming had accepted my apology and that there wouldn’t be retaliation. Even though I was pleased and my mind was more at ease now, I still couldn’t afford to relax. I remained as vigilant as I had been since the first day I’d walked into prison.

  The foreigners in Building 6 were a smaller group and more unified than we were in Building 2. They were also more relaxed and friendly, forever joking and making fun of each other. I realised I was far too serious. As a rule, I avoided joking. With time, I would become more comfortable and accept that things could be done differently. In the cell I slept next to Steve, and on my other side was a Chinese guy. Five of my eight new cellmates smoked, but out of consideration for me they all cut down. The atmosphere was quite different here and gradually I became a lot more chilled.

  Christmas was fast approaching, and every year the boys from Building 6 celebrated in style. The group of British women would provide the food. For my part, I offered to make some wine. I found myself wanting to participate in their festivities. This had nothing to do with a Jew celebrating Christmas; it was about embracing my new friends, crossing cultural barriers and breaking the chains of bondage that had held me captive for so many years. It was about letting go of all the hatred and anger inside me and which surfaced at the slightest provocation.

  Christmas Day arrived. The guys had gone to great lengths to make the day special. At lunchtime a traditional English breakfast was served and we all wore Christmas hats. One of the Chinese distilled pure vodka and sold one litre for 1 000 Thai baht. Mixing it with my own brew made for quite a potent concoction. The Christians were headed by Tony, a Ghanaian, who had been arrested two years before me but had only come to Bangkwang in 1995. They held their church service and gifts were even handed out, donated by Father Oliver, head of the mission. Thai and foreign prisoners all participated in the festivities. Everybody lent a hand in the preparation and food was in abundance. We had a great time and even went so far to have the occasion photographed. I drank far too much, but I wasn’t the only one, and at lockdown we all staggered up to our cells. During roll call, instead of calling out numbers, which we always did in English, one or two of us blurted out words like ‘Leave me alone’, ‘Go away’ and ‘Get the fuck out of here’. The guard just presumed we were counting in English. It was difficult to keep a straight face, and as soon as the guard had ticked off his register and turned around to go to the next cell, we all burst out laughing.

  Dani and me soon became close. He was a good kid, tough, honourable and street-smart. He reminded me of myself when I was young. Still high on alcohol, that afternoon Dani and I connived to pull some jack-arsed stunts on our cellmates, which turned into a free-for-all wrestling match. We had this game, which the Australian and I played with each other, where one of us would lift our chin, exposing our Adam’s apple, and the other person, using both hands, would flick the Adam’s apple with as much force as possible, using both index fingers. We called this game ‘Double-barrelled shotgun’. The Thais who saw us playing it thought we were lunatics. So there we were, drunk as lords on Christmas Day, in a free-for-all wrestling match. Punches were flying. At one point I had the Australian in a headlock without realising that he was choking. He punched me in the face. Things were getting a little too serious, so I released my grip and then they all turned on me. I don’t recall much after that. Exhaustion got the better of me. Either I tapped out or passed out, I don’t know, but apparently I puked all over the bed of one of the British guys, which couldn’t have been much fun for him. When I woke up in the morning, besides having a hangover, my entire body ached. The knuckles on my right hand were so swollen you couldn’t see the bone. Understandably, the British guy was really pissed off at me. I apologised and offered to have his sheets and blankets washed. I guessed it was the least I could do.

  Wednesday 12 January 2011. The Israeli consular representative, Mr Eli Gil, and Rabbi Nechemia Wilhelm visited all the Israelis. I was also called. When it was my turn to speak to the consular representative, who looked, I thought, more like a gangster than a government representative, smilingly he waved a passport at me.

  It was official. I was an Israeli.

  Did I feel a sense of pride? I really can’t say. I think I was more thrilled by having the opportunity of making aliyah (return to the Holy Land) and the prospect of starting a new life in another country. Mr Gil instructed me to write a letter to the Prison Director, Mr Veesarnou Parchon Chi, informing him of my change of nationality and putting in my request to be transferred to a prison in Israel. I was told my travel documents were in order and the transfer process was already in motion. After almost 17 years of knocking on doors that briefly opened and then slammed shut in our faces, for the first time the light at the end of the tunnel was truly bright. Our prayers had been answered. Through the visit guard, Mr Gil sent me my transfer papers as well as a copy of my new passport. I was impressed with the speed at which the Israelis were doing things.

  On my return to Building 6 I decided that I would start getting rid of my things right away, but I couldn’t wait to bark the dog and let my family and friends know that in a matter of months I would be in an Israeli prison waiting to be paroled. My lifelong friend, Sharon Friedman, had arranged a house for me to stay in on the beach in an area known as Afridar in Ashkelon, south of Tel Aviv. She would also give me a position at her school, the English Studio, where I would teach English. It all seemed like a dream, but then I believed in dreams. Dreams give a man hope, and without hope there is no reason to live. I could visualise myself taking long walks on the beach, watching the sunset, swimming in the sea, cleaning myself of all the prison filth that had clung to me for so many years.

  For my first two weeks in Building 6, I never dared to bark the dog. Eyes were everywhere. I could feel I was being watched. In the house next to Dani’s were two Blue Shirts, and although I was in their football team, one could never be too careful. The Building Chief was a nutcase.
He walked around looking to catch anybody using the dog or taking drugs. If he caught you, you could pay him money and the problem would disappear, but I didn’t even want to take that chance, although there were even some cells that paid a monthly fee to him in order to use the dog freely.

  The anticipation of my imminent transfer and eventual freedom was liberating. In my mind I was free already. Everything I had endured had made this moment that much more worthwhile. Freedom was something I would never again take for granted. I had not been creative for some time, and I yearned to express myself creatively again. I also needed to stimulate my mind or else I knew the months would really drag, so I started to write my story. Every morning I tried to devote a few hours to writing.

  Considering that I would be going to Israel soon, I got as comfortable as possible. One of the Thais who worked in the clothing factory used offcuts to make me five fairly big pillows to sit on. Dani cooked most of our meals. In the afternoons I played backgammon with Rashid. And, eventually, at night I barked the dog. The dog was my lifeline. Steve, who slept on my right, was romantically involved with a girl in England and he spent most nights writing letters to her. After I introduced him to my dog, however, it took his love affair to another level. Still, my days were long, and in my mind I kept visualising life on the outside, over and over. Even my dreams became fused – prison and life in the free world merged into one. It was a happy picture, the reality of which, of course, was still to be seen. As we moved through time, so the day dictated its own terms.