Daniel Holmes: A Memoir From Malta's Prison: From a cage, on a rock, in a puddle...

by Daniel Holmes

  There wasn’t much work out of season, so I was taking odd jobs where I could and with some help from the family back home, I was living a basic but happy life in the peaceful idyllic setting away from the manic hustle and bustle of the world. Time and life went on like that for what seemed like a long time. The universe left me alone to be happy, for a while at least.

  Our plans of growing took a back seat, overtaken by the moment. Barry and I used to score bits of locally grown outdoor weed, weather allowing. The climate for growing cannabis in Malta is almost perfect. But when not at harvesting times we could always find the less attractive cannabis resin or ħaxixa (hash) from different people.

  Where there are people there is always cannabis in every country I have ever been to, and Gozo was no exception. Smokers seem to have a sixth sense and gravitate towards each other, like a secret brotherhood. It is unbelievable that there are so many people who define themselves as cannabis smokers but are still not allowed that freedom of choice over their own lives, despite there being no proof showing that their way of life is detrimental to society.

  One day during that perfect time, Barry had gone down to Malta to procure a modest stockpile of hash that would last us a while: a nine/soap bar of 252gr (nine ounces). In Malta a sapone costs around €1,000 and upwards. After a deal gone wrong with some unsavoury characters, which ended with him being robbed of money and dignity, Barry returned a man driven to put words into action.

  We started making plans to cultivate: What equipment would we need? Where would we get it from? How long would it take to grow and produce a useable product? I’ve always had green fingers and growing fresh food for the table, as every chef will declare, is the very best way to get a natural produce. Cannabis is no different, to grow and smoke one’s own crop, void of contaminations, unhealthy elements and of course not being charged a bomb for it, is extremely rewarding.

  The legality of it all never crossed our minds. It just didn’t feel wrong. I guess looking back, maybe I should have questioned our decision, or at least checked Malta’s laws on the matter but, why would I? I had no thoughts of profit, malice or a criminal enterprise. In fact, I was only growing a plant to avoid all that. People say I was naive and stupid, and maybe when you read this you too will judge me that way.

  I don’t know. After all these years, I have never once regretted my decision to grow. It made me the man I am today and led me to everything I have in life.

  Every religion on the planet believes everything happens for a reason under a higher power, so I go with the majority and have faith that this is so. Good and bad will always come from every decision. We rarely see the obstacles in life till we are upon them. Even if we did, would any of us really change anything? Nothing in life comes easy, so to cross the ocean to our destination, first one must battle its rough waves.

  And so, the conversation ended.

  The decision to grow was made.

  Prison

  In Malta there is only one prison.

  It is in the south of the island, in the town of Paola, and is known as the Corradino Correctional Facility (CCF). The old part of the prison was built in 1842, designed by an English draughtsman, a certain William Lamb Arrowsmith, similar to a design used in Pentonville prison in London. Two newer sections were added to the Malta prison in 2003.

  When I was there, it housed some 600 inmates in a mixture of single cells, double cells and dormitories spread through 15 divisions or wings. I suppose I should feel lucky to have spent over half my time in the newer part, which at least had flushing toilets.

  Division XI is the biggest of the three divisions in the newer section and houses 60 inmates, all in single cells spread over three levels.

  Each prisoner is allocated a cell – which is around 6m2 – with a sickly-green thick steel door that opens inwards, and a vertical letter-box style Perspex peephole which can be opened or closed only from the outside, for the guards to check on occupants.

  Inside, the cell must always be kept unobstructed. The door can be locked from the inside, but can still be opened from the outside with an officer’s key. On the wall, opposite the door, is a window which consists of three Plexiglas window panes which are impossible to clean, so they let very little light into the cell. It does not help that there is a huge wall four metres away from the window, obstructing most light and any views.

  The window panes are about ten centimetres wide and one metre high, and only two of them can be opened.

  The window is set back about half a metre from the outside wall, and is covered by a metal mesh, more to stop items from being passed from cell to cell than to block mosquitoes or other critters. People still manage to push out a corner or the whole grille entirely, enabling them to throw out all manner of food waste into a shaft.

  These things always seem to go unpunished. The shafts rarely get cleaned (maybe once a year) so on a hot day, the fetid odour of rotting food is carried into the cells. When the first rains hit, it becomes a breeding ground for mosquitoes and when it’s windy the empty rolling plastic bottles beat like drums all night and day. The odd rat scavenging about in the filth adds to the symphony.

  The outer part of the window frame is made from thick steel and painted “forest” green, a very dark and gloomy green which never reminded me of any forest I have ever seen in the real world.

  On days when the wind is just right, or rather just wrong, the aroma of boiling mushy peas and lard pastry from the nearby pastizzi (a Maltese delicacy, like small pasties) shop wafts in early in the morning, making lunch here seem palatable.

  In the cell, there is a small white porcelain sink, mounted next to the door. It comes with a cold-water tap, good for washing hands or brushing teeth (although inmates lucky enough to afford it, use bottled water to brush their teeth). But the sink is far too small to wash your face in the morning. There is no U-bend fitted under the sink, just an elbow bend, so if the plug is not closed, cockroaches find an easy path into the cell. On a windy day, the sulphurous smell of rotting eggs comes up through the plughole. While brushing your teeth you must hold your breath when spitting out, or the noxious odours can cause a gagging reflex – a terrible start to a terrible day.

  Above the sink there is a small wooden fitted shelf and a steel mirror, scratched by all its past users and producing a disturbing, distorted image, almost like one of those at a fairground’s hall of mirrors. However, mirrors are available to buy from the prison. One British man paid €8.50 for a small hand mirror. Or rather, his family paid.

  Next to the sink is the toilet, also white porcelain with a plastic seat and lid – no metal here. It has a push-button flush with the cistern embedded in the wall behind it. There is no divider – the toilet is part of the cell furniture, the view from the bed. In real estate agent jargon, I believe they call it open plan.

  The bed, as you’d expect it to be, is made from steel tubing, bolted to the floor, which is tiled in dirty grey and black mottled patterns. The mattress rests on top of a chipboard plank. If you’re not lucky enough to get a new one, you try to beg or buy one because most would be well-used by countless previous occupants and are in a terrible state: stained with coffee and sweat patches, and springs poking through. On my first night I was stabbed by one such spring and I still have the scar in my thigh to this day.

  Fitted to the wall, there’s an L-shaped cupboard, a small desk area, some shelving and a wardrobe. There are two electric sockets and a TV aerial socket above the shelving unit. Most prisoners buy four-way extension leads (also available from the prison shop for €12.50) to cope with a vast array of electrical equipment. Next to the bed there’s the light switch for the ceiling light and a two-way intercom with a push button which can be used to call the guard from the room or vice versa.

  So, all night and day we hear the ping pong of the buzzers echoing the same noise as a supermarket Tannoy system. It is also used by officers all day long to call for medication, visits and a million other ear-splitting inva
sions.

  Above the bed there is a laminated chipboard shelf fixed to the wall, for pictures and photos. Walls are supposed to be kept free of pictures, but this rule is hardly, if ever, enforced. So, most of the cell walls are adorned with posters of half-naked women, graffiti, calendars, flags from different countries, and cut-outs from magazines and newspapers.

  Posters of Bob Marley are quite common and there’s always the odd cell graffitied with poetry. Walls are split-painted: the bottom in a glossy brown-green water paint and the top in mint green. Sometimes people have managed to paint their cells in different colours. Pink is popular. As are blues and purples. Again, these infractions are rarely policed.

  It’s funny how lines to arbitrary rules are sometimes blurred. I read somewhere that green is psychologically the only colour we humans find it hard to be away from. I don’t know if the establishment had this in mind when they went to town with green or if it was just a cheap deal at the DIY shop, or a nice commission to a family friend, but I could certainly have done without all those verdant offerings.

  Within every cell there is supposed to be a plastic bucket and a plastic chair but, depending on the last inmate, these can be in a terrible state of repair or missing. When someone moves out of a cell, there is a mad rush to strip it down, leaving the cell even less welcoming for its new tenant.

  Inmates’ cells are their own private domain and most inmates are house-proud, or should that be cell-proud?

  With so many prisoners serving such long sentences, inmates often spend many years living in the same cell, decorating them in a way which brings some comfort to life in prison. Floor mats or old blankets act as rugs, shelving and toilet roll holders are made from cardboard. Sometimes inmates working in the carpentry department would even install wooden shelves for a small fee – normally phone cards or tobacco, the prison currency.

  The quieter you are, or the more you grass on people, the more you can get away with, it seems. I’ve always preferred quietness. In this prison you don’t have to fear the screws catching you, but you must fear envious fellow prisoners dobbing you in, even for a simple shelf. There is no shortage of people willing to snitch for any transaction. This prison is a world without any trust.

  Some prisoners, too old or just too lazy to clean properly, live in such filth and squalor that it’s hard to believe that it’s sanctioned. I’ve seen squats in better condition. When walking past some cells, it’s best to hold your breath against the stench of old defecation and urine. I can only describe it as a pigsty stench, a slightly sweet, sickly, incredibly pungent and overpowering smell.

  Yes, in prison you must put up with the smell of people’s poor personal hygiene and the constant barrage on the nose of daily bowel movements that seep from cells. Awful to say, but another thing you become immune to over time.

  Neither myself, nor any other inmates I have asked, have ever received a written copy of the rules and regulations of the Corradino Correctional Facility. I have asked officers, majors and all the successive directors I have been under, but they have all failed to produce a copy for me – until August 2, 2017, when out of the blue, all the prisoners received the new rule book. It read like it was written by a semi-clever lawyer, with loopholes in most clauses to allow for some prisoners to be given preferential treatment.

  In fact, one day an officer told me and another British lad to put on our shirts when we were in the yard. This was mid-summer in 40˚C heat. I told him that this was not in the prison rule book. He answered, “Pass it on to me, I’ll write it in.” Is it any wonder that regulations concerning what a prisoner can have in their cell is so widely open to corruption?

  The things prisoners have in their cells are either sent in from outside or bought via the prison authorities. Some of these include: 19-inch flat screen TVs, Rolexes, CD players, radios, Xbox 360, PlayStation 1 and 2, box fans and wall-mounted fans (I’ve seen a cell with four fans inside).

  There are desk lights, heaters, laptops, music keyboards, orthopaedic mattresses, cable TV boxes and all manner of speakers: homemade speaker box systems, sound bars and even surround sound with amplifiers. The loudest I’ve seen was a 1000 watt amplifier with six speakers and a subwoofer – unbelievable, I know – for a 6m2 cell.

  This guy was my neighbour for a few months, which was hell, and caused many arguments. All the authorities would say to me was to get a surround system myself to drown out the noise. Maddening!

  Anything is possible if permission is granted. But permission depends on who you are, and often it is not granted, without any explanation given.

  The prison offers unique deals to prisoners for GO cable TV with a one-off payment of €65 for leasing the box. There are then, three different package deals, varying by channel selection costing about €6, €10 or €17 per month, mostly forked out by the families of prisoners. Wages are poorly paid within the CCF, so once again families of prisoners pay for this creature comfort. For the €10 package you can have about 100 channels and seven sport channels showing most of the latest football. I know from friends outside, who pay much more for the same channels, that ours was a discounted package.

  In each Division there is a chest freezer and a small fridge, invaluable in the summer months for cooling water and keeping food brought in from outside. Of course, many scuffles break out because everyone wants to hog a corner of the fridge space. In Division XI there is a fridge and a freezer on the ground floor and another one in a small abandoned guard room, which inmates can use to assemble Playmobil or to eat.

  I’ve found it’s always better to eat in my cell, I prefer my own company for one thing, and the tables are rarely cleaned in the common rooms. If they are wiped down, it’s with old soiled rags such as old T-shirts or even boxer shorts. And then, you’ve got competition from hungry ants, flies … and other inmates who eye any food brought over by friends or family, with envy.

  Also, on the ground floor next to the common room, there is a room used for rubbish bins which, although emptied of rubbish regularly, is rarely cleaned up. There’s a broken ping-pong table, a punch bag and the door to the exercise yard. Upkeep and cleanliness are not enforced; screw or con, everyone is just putting in the hours. I’d like to think it’s changed now.

  The exercise yard is about 200m2 and is open from 9 a.m. till 11.30 a.m., then again from 2 p.m. till 3.45 p.m. in winter and from 5 p.m. till 7 p.m. in summertime. The yard is a concrete slab surrounded by the Maltese sandstone walls and, of course, has no views. It does have a basketball net and two 10m washing lines – not very long for 60 inmates’ washing. In the summer the yard is a blinding sun trap and in the winter, it turns into a pond, home to nasty mosquitoes.

  After spending so long indoors, going out into sunshine with the glare bouncing off the concrete, always blinded my eyes and after only a few minutes it induced terrible headaches. I still suffer from migraines from that time. I’m lucky enough to live in Wales now, where sunshine isn’t a problem.

  In Division XI on the second floor, there are two more common rooms with a small fridge in each and six-seater wooden tables. Normally, one room is used by foreigners and one is used by the Maltese. There was a time when most nights the Maltese room was like a nightclub, with appetisers on the table and bottles of multicoloured prison wine, or hooch, and the air thick with the smell of sickly, sweet synthetic cannabis.

  One inmate before my time had decided to baptise the Maltese common room as “Clique”, (the name of a popular night club in Malta) and wrote the name in marker pen on the wall. It’s probably still there. The nightclub vibe was allowed to happen for a long time, and then it was squashed, when the limits were pushed too far. It ended, as everything does, in a clamp-down and punishment.

  On the same floor there is a gym with old, yet almost half-decent equipment: weights machines, and an exercise bike. A few years ago, myself and a now ex-prisoner Martin, rescued an old threadbare carpet from a skip at the other side of the prison, and laid it over the broken tiles
and concrete dust of the gym floor. We then plastered and painted the walls, put up mirrors and tried our best to make the room useable. Then we started fighting for equipment, tools and resources. We even managed to bag a bench from the prison pharmacist – after all, he pocketed hundreds and thousands of the inmates’ dosh from their purchases of protein powders, creatine and his under-counter offerings.

  (Since leaving, I hear the gym has been refurbished; a prisoner got good benefits as well, I also heard; the pharmacist no longer works at the prison, but I’m sure the perks of the job have been passed onto the next one in line.)

  Overlooking the whole Division at one end of the second floor, is the guard room. Three guards sit there, monitoring the cameras, and generally do very little apart from answering questions asked by inmates each day. (They don’t even answer the questions – they just pass them on to other officers in an ad nauseum vicious circle, until inmates give up asking.) The guards are allowed their mobile phones, so if you go to ask them something you may have to wait until they finish a call or a level of whatever game they’re playing. There are some good guards but they’re few and far between.

  Also, on the second floor, a net spans the whole Division, like that used under a circus high-wire act. Supposedly, it’s there to break the fall of people jumping but I wouldn’t trust my life to it: it has sagged over time, and has missing patches scorched by flicked smouldering cigarettes. It’s often covered in rubbish of all descriptions; toilet rolls, banana peel, plastic bottles, even old toothbrushes.

  At some point it is eventually cleaned, which means it’s shaken up and emptied with dust raining down to the ground floor, where it blows into cells and all around and is left to settle, until someone else, eventually, cleans up.