Dragons & Butterflies

by Shani Krebs

  In the afternoon, after I had done my laundry, as quickly and as inconspicuously as possible, I would give the blanket a thorough scrub, wash and rinse. Then I would open it out and hang it up on one of the shower curtain rails in the spare cell.

  Pauporesor was a term used by the drug police. It was the name given to those inmates who were suspected of doing drug business outside the prison. Some of these guys had been in solitary confinement for up to two years already. One Friday morning towards the end of October, all the pauporesor guys were told that, in a month, they would be let out of solitary. One of them asked the prison authorities, ‘What about tarnchad?’ (foreigner). The guards called me and said that if I wanted to come out of solitary, they would let me. At that point, it was so overcrowded outside that I told them I would rather stay where I was for the time being. We still had the extra 200 from Building 5 and, added to that, the authorities had closed off one large area at the rear of the building as well as the indoor football field, which was in a big warehouse. For once, I agreed with the guard. More importantly, for once, it was my choice: solitary was best for me, and it would keep me out of trouble.

  One day after our exercise session between 10 and 11am, I was sitting and chatting with my Italian friend and one of the Nigerians who had temporarily been moved from Building 5. His name was John, and he told me about an incident that had taken place the previous year in Bombat prison. Over the past couple of years, there had been an influx of Iranian prisoners, all of whom had been caught smuggling ‘ice’ (methamphetamine), or ‘numkem’. The problem started in one of the predominantly Muslim cells. Out of about 58 in the cell, 40 were Iranians. One of the Thai Muslims, a Malay, was praying when two of the Iranians were engaged in conversation. The Thai Muslim asked them to keep quiet, but the Iranians ignored him. An argument ensued, which very quickly erupted into a fight. During the night things remained calm, but the following morning the Malay was seen sharpening a piece of bamboo. One of the Iranians got to hear about this, and he was also warned not to go near the shower area. As the day progressed, absentmindedly he walked past or through the area where the Malay was hanging out. Apparently, the Malay crept up beside of him, and thrust the bamboo spear through the front of his forehead. It exited at the back of his head. (While this might sound like a slight exaggeration, I did remember hearing the same story while I was in Bangkwang.)

  A couple of Iranians then pounced on the Malay and beat the shit out of him. The next thing, the entire building of about 500 inmates turned on what were no more than 80 Iranians. With the odds of five to one, it turned into a real bloodbath.

  It was time for me to get back to the punishment section, so I said goodbye to John the Nigerian and my Italian friend. On my way in, I saw that the food was arriving. The food system in Klong Prem worked differently from Bangkwang. There was a menu of maybe 50 or 60 dishes to choose from, most of which were Thai – very oily and spicy – and prepared by the wives of the guards. The food was put into plastic bags. The average price of one bag was 25 Thai baht. There were all sorts of dishes – macaroni and chicken, ginger with black mushrooms and chicken, and my favourite, som tum thai. This was made from raw papaya and dried shrimps, tomatoes, green beans and a chilli sauce. It was prepared in a mortar and eaten raw – very tasty. A lot of Thai food is delicious, and everything contains chillies. You could also get a salad, which most of the foreigners used to order.

  No sooner was I back in my cell than I heard that both my Italian friend and John were being transferred to Bangkwang. We said our goodbyes and I tried not to feel bitter. It was I who had suggested and encouraged the Italian to change prisons because life in Bangkwang was much easier than in Klong Prem. Now all I could do was wait for my turn.

  The main news story on TV was still all about the floods. The heavy monsoon rains that had been drenching the country since mid-July had wreaked havoc all over South-East Asia, and parts of Thailand were experiencing the worst floods in 50 years. Villages, historic temples, farms and factories were inundated. It was estimated that at least 300 people had died so far, and rescue workers and emergency services worked night and day to prevent a humanitarian disaster. About 8.2 million people were affected and the loss to the economy was enormous. What amazed me was the fighting spirit of the Thai people. Many of them had lost everything, and yet they seemed always to be smiling. Flooding of course wasn’t unusual in Thailand, and it was the low-lying villages that always got hit the worst, but I’d never seen anything like this in my entire life.

  According to the International Committee of the Red Cross, who were having daily meetings with the Department of Corrections to ensure the welfare of prisoners, Bangkwang was still dry. The prison had managed to keep the waters from entering, while the surrounding area was inundated. At least I knew my things were safe, and dry – if only for the moment.

  On Wednesday 26 October our cells weren’t opened at the usual time. Instead, a handheld bell was rung an hour earlier. After about 30 minutes there was a flurry of activity, but it was hard to guess what was happening. Using my mirror and pointing it outside the bars, I could see some of the guards busy ushering prisoners along the corridor. Inmates being transferred was not an unusual occurrence, but in fact an evacuation was in progress. About 140 guys from our building were moved, and they were allowed to take with them only the clothes on their backs. It seemed that all the life-sentence and death row prisoners were being transferred to other prisons, and later that morning I learnt that almost all the women had been evacuated from the women’s prison as well. And apparently all death row inmates from Bangkwang had also been moved, to Khao Bin.

  Since the start of the floods, water and food supplies had dwindled. Fortunately I had managed to stock up and to secure a lot more drinking water. The atmosphere in the prison was one of apprehension. Some days there was no food delivered, and our other orders were incomplete. There was another mass exodus of evacuees one morning, 300 prisoners in total, and not because of the floodwaters, but because of the shortage of food. We were right to be worried: no food deliveries could reach us. To make sure we didn’t starve and to avoid a possible riot, the Department of Corrections took the decision to relocate prisoners instead. As no one was allowed to take his personal possessions, we assumed this was a temporary measure until things returned to normal.

  My breakfast that morning consisted of two almonds, one date and a small carton of soy milk. I still had some cans of pilchards in tomato sauce, a can of tuna and a bag of oats, but I was trying to ration myself. I had also saved a small loaf of raisin bread that I planned to eat for Shabbos.

  We were now down to 400 prisoners and I suspected we might be moved upstairs in the event that the floodwaters began to seep into the prison. Bangkok was built on marshland, after all, and water would rise up through the ground. Walls and barricades would not prevent the prison from flooding. I kept having visions of the rising water filling up my cell, with me standing on the television. There was an eerie stillness about the place, with none of the usual hum and buzz of muffled conversations.

  I decided to put in a second request to be let out of solitary confinement. I’ve never been a pessimistic person, but, as things stood, I somehow couldn’t envisage the King being in the mood to celebrate his birthday in December when almost his entire kingdom was under water. It was very possible that we would not get an amnesty, but I kept that thought to myself.

  The days passed slowly, and every few days more prisoners were relocated, until only 270 inmates remained in Building 2. For a while, things looked like they were getting back to normal, and we were told that we could start placing our regular food orders once again. These came intermittently, however, and the flooding continued to disrupt supplies. I was thankful, at least, that I had a dry floor to sleep on and a roof over my head, compared to some of the misery I watched on TV. It was ironic, when you think about it: prison seemed like not a bad place to be.

  In November, we heard that half of Bangkwa
ng prison had also been evacuated and that the rest were expect to be moved soon. I couldn’t help wondering anxiously about the possessions I still had there, mainly photographs and letters. Then we heard that the floodwaters had reached the outside walls of Klong Prem and that the water was at knee height. Chatuchak, the district where Klong Prem prison is situated, was declared a high-alert risk area, and some of the guards began wearing gumboots. Those inmates who were evacuated had left all their personal belongings in their cells, and almost every day the guys in my section would ask the key-boy to unlock these cells so that they could pilfer whatever they could. I was quite relieved I was still there, only imagining how quickly my things would have disappeared. After more than six months in solitary, I had accumulated quite a lot of possessions. I was really shocked at the behaviour of some of the Thais who were with me in solitary. They displayed no consideration for others, and did not respect the property of even their fellow prisoners. Beds disappeared, as did toiletries and any foodstuffs they found lying around.

  Meanwhile, my friend Porcupine, whose real name I had discovered was Turkit Junsaung, was still being put through a vigorous exercise session every day. I had to admire the man; at 55, his endurance levels were remarkably high.

  When I first arrived in Klong Prem and was placed in solitary confinement, I received a letter from an ex-King Davidian, Ian M, who was at least eight years my junior. When he heard of my plight, he offered to help me with whatever I needed. After assuring him that all my needs were provided for, and thanking him for his offer, I did suggest that there was one thing he might do: this was to contact my sister and to be of moral support to her, as I knew she was struggling emotionally. Ian came through for Joan, and he and his family developed a strong friendship with mine. Through a friend in Israel, he arranged a prayer from a prominent Kabbalah rabbi, a prayer that I would have to repeat ten times a day. It went like this:

  Master of the Universe who can do everything, (release) and redeem Eleazer Ben Katelyn like the blink of an eye, immediately in the merit of the Tzaddik, the foundation of the world. In the same way you released Daniel from the Lion’s den, so too, release Eleazer Ben Katelyn immediately (in the blink of an eye). And then we will thank you with song and music and rejoicing of thanks and joy.

  I wondered what makes a man do something so great for another man he barely knows, never judging or condemning, and I reached the conclusion that such men are messengers of Hashem.

  I said this prayer five times in the morning and five times in the evening as part of my morning and evening prayer ritual, after reading from the Book of Psalms. I never thought or believed that, through this prayer, I would be physically released from prison. Instead, I understood that the prayer was part of something far more profound. It wasn’t clear yet what this was, but I knew in time I would understand why I’d been told to recite it.

  The King of Thailand celebrates his birthday in cycles of 12, so 2011 was a huge occasion and, the natural disaster of the flooding notwithstanding, we anticipated that there would be an amnesty. What we didn’t know was what reduction drug cases would get, although usually we were granted considerably less than offences such as murder, rape or robbery, etc. In Thailand, there was no guarantee of anything. Things changed from day to day; governments were overthrown by the military; the Red Shirts were fighting the Yellow Shirts; and every so often the country teetered on the brink of civil war. And now the flooding had injected more uncertainty. Rumours of an amnesty continued to circulate, however, and gave us a glimmer of hope.

  The one Western foreigner left in my section was an Eastern European guy. He was not my best friend, but beggars can’t always be choosers, and so sometimes we would hang out together. He seemed quite knowledgeable about the internet and how you could make money on it. Health products, he told me, and vitamins and the like, were sure money-makers. Everything depended on the volume of traffic you were able to attract to your website. The idea was to outsource all the responsibilities to a network of agents, who would do all the work for you. Talking to him, I realised that this was an area I had no knowledge about, but I felt that it might be exciting to explore it once I was free. It was at times like this that I longed for my freedom. I longed to be part of the progress the world had made over the past 18 years while I had been deprived of my freedom. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much I had missed and lost. The thought scared me. How would I cope? Would I fit into society? Would people accept me, or would they always stare at me with wary eyes? During these years in prison, I had come to realise that women, particularly, were completely fascinated by me, but was this only because they saw me as wild and dangerous, someone who associated with criminals?

  I would have to wait and see. Only time would tell, time forever being the deciding factor.

  With 26 days to go to the amnesty, we heard that a first group of prisoners who were to benefit from the amnesty and be eligible for release had been called to have their pictures and fingerprints taken. These were prisoners who had three years and less remaining of their sentences. I, on the other hand, had four and a half – another missed opportunity, this time by only a year, for an earlier release. Bad luck seemed to follow me like my own shadow.

  Despite my jogging and playing the occasional game of soccer, my health was still troubling me, and the continued lack of vegetables gave me the most anxiety, especially when it came to my heart. One of my friends in solitary, a Thai baht multi-millionaire, gave me a small cabbage and some green beans one morning. I was quite taken aback, considering that no supplies were coming either in or out of the prison just then. Amazing what you can do with ready cash.

  On 11 November, at around 6pm I suffered another severe pain in my chest and collapsed to the concrete floor, where I lay clutching my chest and struggling to breathe. At the same time as I was gasping for air, I broke out in a cold sweat. What was more terrifying to me than the excruciating pain was the fact that I was totally helpless. It’s true what they say: my whole life did flash past me. I thought this must be how somebody feels when they are about to die. I kept saying to G-d that this wasn’t the way it was meant to end. Surely this wasn’t the way? I was so close to being released, with only a few more months to go. Oh G-d, I said, this can’t be!

  The pain kept getting worse. I was a caged animal, trapped and left to die. I felt myself slipping and sliding, deeper and deeper into darkness. Was I having a heart attack? Fuck, I didn’t know! All I knew for certain was that I didn’t want to die here, alone, in this dreadful place.

  How I managed it I don’t know, but I found a large envelope, put it over my face and breathed into it. I breathed in and out for almost an hour before the pain slowly started to subside. While I forced myself to breathe into my makeshift paper bag, I focused my attention on the TV set that was on in my cell. There was a David Attenborough wildlife programme on, in which he was following a school of dolphins in some ocean or other. I remember thinking what a beautiful sight this was, and that if by chance I should die, at least I would die smiling. I imagined myself swimming with the dolphins, and this seemed to have a calming effect on me. It helped regulate my breathing until the pain in my chest gradually lessened.

  One Sunday morning, a strange thing happened. It was around 9.30 and I was in the spare cell barking the dog – talking to my family, in fact. There was a prisoner who was locked up 24 hours a day, but because he was a diabetic he had to be taken every day to the hospital to get his insulin shot. Because the area around the hospital had been flooded, on this particular morning the insulin was brought to his cell. The commodore who accompanied the medic was notorious for trying to catch prisoners with illegal items. He entered the solitary section looking like a prisioner. Right outside the diabetic prisoner’s cell was another prisoner, fast asleep, with his mobile phone hidden in his pillow. At the precise moment that the guards approached the cell, the light on this guy’s mobile starting flashing, signalling an incoming call, and of course the guard noti
ced it right away. Talk about bad luck or bad timing. As everyone knew, the punishment for being caught with a mobile was severe. You would be put into these huge chains and locked up for 24 hours a day in solitary for at least six months. No fan in your cell, no TV, no nothing. These guys don’t get to come out at all.

  I quickly removed my biscuit from the dog, hid it in my mouth, and then hastily hid the dog under some of the cleaning equipment. Then I went to see what the commotion was about. I must have been as white as a sheet. I immediately saw the mobile in the guard’s hand. Now we would definitely be raided; there would be a complete shakedown of our entire section. The poor guy with the mobile was marched outside, returning later shackled with 10kg chains. Punishment in that place was swift and severe.

  The Building Chief punished everyone in our section by confiscating our TV sets and taking away the hour’s walking time in the prison yard. For some unfathomable reason, I was the only person in the entire punishment section who wasn’t punished. When the Building Chief made the announcement, I responded by saying, ‘Pom khun dee’ (I’m a good person), at which his wingman, Santi, gave me a dirty look and, pointing with two of his fingers at my face, said, ‘I know that you have a mobile.’ I laughed. Because I didn’t have a mobile. I had access to a mobile, sure, and the guards knew it. With the amnesty coming up, I was taking great care not to violate any regulation.

  Later in the morning we were raided by the Red Caps, but this search was very casual and more of a formality than anything else. Just after they’d gone, I was called to the office and told that my request to come out of solitary had been approved. It was 14 November 2011. For a second, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and I had to ask the guard to repeat what he’d said. Having been a prisoner in the prison’s prison, the thought of being let out was almost like being released from prison altogether. I couldn’t stop smiling. I just buzzed around the building. Almost every fifth person would ask me in Thai, ‘Awk lao?’ (Out already?)