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

by Daniel Holmes

Which is why a prison with no classification is the perfect setting to ensure that peaceful protests are doomed to fail from the outset.

  There’s also the divide between foreigners and locals. The locals have visits, food brought in and clothes sent out to be washed; foreigners do not. So, when foreigners want to protest because they have no access to washing machines and healthy food, most locals don’t care, as they have their families to do all that for them.

  I refused food an inordinate amount of times. I have to say that this is not the same as a hunger strike, which will instantly see you moved to segregation. When you refuse food, it doesn’t mean you refuse to eat, only that you refuse the prison food, and your grievance is supposed to be recorded.

  Most of my protests and refusal of food were about the way the food was prepared and served in conditions that were unsanitary and disgusting. As it happened, some time before I was released, the kitchen underwent refurbishment, to meet health and safety requirements. It seems things are changing now or, to be more accurate, things are being forced to change: we are more globally connected, we have more global rules and regulations, and there are more people watching globally. But while I was still there, without the world watching, the attitude of those in charge was that the kitchen was good enough for the scum we were.

  More than a dozen times I had serious food poisoning. I met with every Director – I lost count of how many there were throughout the years: four, five, six? All of them puppets for the state. Even the decent ones I met, had no power to change anything – apart from bettering the lives of some selected inmates, normally the snitches and rats, paedophiles and other undeserving. They would be those who would give the director some good press because they’d snitch on drug dealers – the rats’ own competitors – and so the authorities could seize a large amount and have their 15 minutes of glory in the news.

  I wrote many letters to directors, ministers in government, the President and the Archbishop of Malta about conditions of the kitchen, the showers, the Divisions, and, well, pretty much everything that failed to meet the basic standard for human living. People think that just because you are a prisoner you have no rights. But human rights belong to everyone no matter race, creed or cast.

  Ink, skin and a little know-how

  In 2012, I was housed in Division XIII. It’s a closed Division, which means that moving around in the prison is only permitted when accompanied by an officer. As a prisoner in that Division you cannot work or attend the prison school or prison functions like the Christmas party. It is a punishment Division, which bizarrely doubles up as a remand wing for those newly admitted in custody pending their sentence.

  Cell 9, Division XIII. On that particular day, the Division was quiet, we were only a handful or so of zombie men lost in going over and over our recent traumas. In a place like that, new noises, such as a foreign language, are immediately picked up.

  I had been in Malta – well, Gozo – since 2004, and because the islands are cottoned off by sea, I too had sort of become cocooned from the rest of the world. I had very little knowledge of the latest countries that had joined the European Union. To me, Romania, Bulgaria, Estonia, even Poland, were countries from books. My wife, for example, was only the second Polish person I ever met.

  And Ilya was the first Romanian I ever met.

  For a time in 2012, in that Division XIII we were imprisoned together for a month or so, and then we caught up again another time before his sentence finished. But I will always remember him and that’s because of his ink.

  As you can imagine, two guys in a 6m² room, staring at the TV in a daze would have very little to say to each other. But if one of them has a striking tattoo imprinted on their skin, then it’s an altogether different story.

  Ilya’s skin was covered in tattoos. He had sleeve tattoos down to his wrists, collar tattoos right up till his neck, and all of his torso and back. He took me on a brief tour around his skin, with every drop of ink symbolising a tale in his life. He had got them, he said, during his last prison sentence in Romania. Apparently, that prison was an unofficial tattoo studio with inmates using all sorts of inking machines and would literally get covered while serving their sentence.

  At the time, I only had one tattoo, the PADI diving logo on my upper right arm. A very typical sort of thing that many first-timers get done. Now I have 83.

  Before I ended up in prison, my wife and I had visited a Maltese tattoo artist to inquire about ring finger designs. I was aware that I could one day be separated from Marzena and I wanted our rings to be permanent, but my sentencing got in the way of that.

  So, there we were, two people, chatting. His tattoos were so good, I couldn’t get my head around the fact that they were done in a prison. He explained that some of them, like the rather fetching decaying skull was done using a machine from outside smuggled into prison, foot pedal and all. Others, like the heart, his lover’s name and a Tokarev pistol, were done using a simple machine made in prison from prison-sourced items. To my eyes, the artistic design and the result were the same.

  He went on to tell me about an ink that was made from cigarette ash, melted rubber and urine. Years later, I would use this description in jest when a guard would ask me from where I got my ink. Incredibly some believed it. Idiot, I’d think, do you think I’d put that under my skin?! The ink I used was normal tattoo ink, ordered online and smuggled in.

  Back to Ilya: his tattoo tales were fascinating, but I still could not believe that you could have a tattoo done so minimally.

  So, Ilya obliged my stubbornness, partly out of pride but mostly from boredom. He picked up a few bits he could see round him: a pen, my small electric shaver, a lighter, Sellotape (contraband) and the “toolkit”. Every prisoner in every cell in the world would have a prison toolkit. Now you’d have to take off your “outside” hat to get this. The kit would consist of a few bits of misshapen metal and pins used as screw drivers, hole makers etc. These would not be used solely for illicit purposes, but for the odd jobs around the cell: for comfort or repair.

  He then proceeded to give me a demonstration just by pointing, holding and telling me how the tattoo machine would work. Of course, it was still very theoretical and I’m not much of an engineer but I was impressed, although for me the proof was in the inking.

  A day or two after that we both were back in my cell, with a look-out on the landing, a trusted Romanian friend of his. In his hand Ilya had a newly acquired bottle of black tattoo ink from a well-known Maltese tattoo artist. I watched as he turned, taped, melted and burnt his way to create his machine.

  Once the batteries were connected (AAx4), the shrill sound rang round the cell. And when the needle shot out, like a pneumatic drill, I was beginning to believe. It looked fierce.

  Whenever you’re doing something that is not allowed, let alone flat-out forbidden, a prison cell is a strange place to do it. There is no way out. Only one way in. And if trouble comes, it comes fast and there is little you can do, but look surprised and attempt some stupid excuse which normally fails, drastically.

  From what most officers, policemen and even Special Response Team members have told me, it’s not the catching of people in the act that angers them, but their denial and pathetic excuse when there is literally nowhere to go. So there was this tension in the air, as well as the tension of the outcome of the job.

  As your typical prisoner, I had of course gone for a simple design of my wife’s and daughter’s names on a scroll-like design.

  I lay down on my bed, top off, with the chosen design drawn on my skin with a common pen. Excitedly, I thought it already was looking good.

  Ilya handled the “machine” with confidence, and even made some small talk like someone in the business of customer relations. The top of a water bottle served as a little ink well and with the noise echoing in the cell and vibrating in my head, he began.

  The tattoo is on the right side of my torso and even though I carry meat, even a little extra, I felt that nee
dle prick my every single rib. The pain quickly mixed with the mischief and then with warmth at seeing the names of the two people I loved etched on my skin. I was addicted, right then and there.

  That first tattoo would lead to 83 others. With time, I started tattooing other inmates myself. Legs, back, hands, chests, fingers, feet I’ve done them all.

  From that first day, that first machine, my mind set itself to the task. To improve it, I added a speed control switch, different attachments for one, two or three needles, to be used for filling/colouring. I had to be able to take it all apart and conceal it.

  For the next seven years, I kept that same machine in my cell, using it a few times a year when I or someone else needed a memory of something outside, brought permanently inside.

  I would get it out for myself on my birthdays, wedding anniversaries, Christmas and New Years, and bit by bit I grew a collection of tattoos.

  I even managed to smuggle the machine back out of prison and Malta, returning to Wales with it all. I have since made some more tattoos with the same machine, in the same way, but with my wife and children watching over me instead of Romanians and guards.

  I guess some would call them scribbles or damaged skin. But we all know art is always subjective.

  The machine could be broken down into tiny parts and could be hidden in plain sight. On many an occasion, the officers and SRT had it in their hands and I was always close to admission, but in the end, I always managed to keep my cool.

  Give us the gun!

  Day 912. May 20, 2013.

  The cell door finally locked. It wasn’t even 8.30 p.m. I had been looking forward to that moment all day. I had plans that night. I had started a rather big tattoo project, around my belly button and most of my abdomen. A design of a biohazard warning logo. I had somebody ask one of the teachers in the prison school for a printed copy. It was very painful, with large areas to fill.

  However, as soon as the door closed, I started coming up with excuses to myself: it’s late, I’m tired, the guards might come. All the little things we tell ourselves to try and convince ourselves to stay put and do nothing. Sod it, I wasn’t going to do it after all. After a whole day of looking forward to it, I didn’t feel like hours of anxiety from being sneaky, pained and bloody. Instead I lay on the bed and fell asleep. There wasn’t much else to do, in any case.

  Before I knew it, I was awakened, blinded by torches shining straight in my eyes. Boots thudded on the floor. Dark forms loomed over me as my eyes tried to focus and my brain struggled with consciousness. Many Maltese voices were talking at once. I was confused, which I’m sure was their aim.

  Eight officers were raiding my room. I was forced out of bed, in my boxers, and made to sit in the corner on a stool. Then they started their act: one officer sweet talks and the others attack.

  When you see these kind of searches in films, it is almost amusing to the viewer. And I guess even I myself, when I look back on it, find it amusing, but at the time they are a test of nerve, courage and suppression of anger.

  They took 90 minutes to go through the cell. Methodically. They sieved the whole cell and threw my possessions in a mound outside the cell.

  The sweet talker then got down to work:

  “Come on Daniel, we’re only here for the gun, give us the gun.”

  Gun? All I could think of was an old, film comedy one-liner, “If I had one, I’d give it ya.” Gun? These people are crazy.

  “Sorry Sir, gun?”

  “You know what we want, hand us the tattoo gun. We know it’s in here.”

  These officers had just searched everywhere – well, almost everywhere.

  “Gun, Sir? There’s nothing in here! You’ve just searched everything.”

  “But you’re covered in tattoos,” he almost spat out at me. “Look,” he pointed at my body. “They are still new, red and bloody.”

  “I’m not saying that these are not fresh. They have been done in prison. I made them but the machine and everything is now gone. There is nothing left.”

  As you can imagine, he and all the officers that night were livid at not being able to find any concrete evidence. But it would have been foolish of me to think of it as a win; it was merely a narrow escape.

  Although in all my time there I was never caught making tattoos, it was a close shave quite a few times. The thought of spending extra time for it became greater than the prize, so I decided to slow down my inking endeavours. But I never completely stopped, and made my last tattoo in prison just a fortnight before I was due to be released: a tattoo of four numbers, 2854. The final number of days I spent in a Maltese prison cell.

  I even brought the machine out with me and have made one final tattoo with it (for now, anyway) here in my home in Wales. Sometimes it is easier to wear the scars of life on the outside, at least others see the pain trapped inside the soul within.

  I have no regrets about my tattoos, they were all etched at a very painful time in my life, when I needed comfort. I’ve inked myself with names, dates and symbols – all memories of moments inside, when I would not have made it through the fog, had it not been for my family and the loved ones supporting me (as an aside: my children were very happy to see their names on my arms and chest). I wanted to remember those moments even when I was outside.

  I am a Welsh man who through a 14-year ordeal, marked his body, so that even on the off chance his mind fails him and he forgets, his skin will not let the ordeal shrink into obscurity. I may forgive, but I shall never forget.

  My tattoos may not seem beautiful or even well-made to others. But to me and others like me, they will remind us of a time when all we had was the freedom to control just a moment in one of our days.

  Everyday my tattoos remind me of my time, but mostly that others are still placed outside of life. My tattoos keep my pain alive, and I feel connected to those still inside. We are all prisoners; some are just more honest about it.

  Dolls

  Day 684. October 4, 2012.

  The door just locked. It’s 7.55 p.m. and they’ve locked early again. Strangely I’m feeling at peace, but soon enough, the “cabin fever” takes over.

  I imagine all the walls of our cells erased and we’re just 60 men floating in the air, packed into two very neat columns of three, stretching 10-men deep. Stacked like books. What a sight.

  Dolls. Did I mention the dolls? The bed is stacked high with pieces. This notepad rests on top of them all. Thousands of pieces of plastic, hours’ worth of work. It’s late and my energy has dwindled.

  I’m living in a shoe box with a toilet and a sink and the dolls. There’s no water again tonight, I just realise when I try to flush. I’ll be sitting in this cell all night with an unflushed toilet.

  These dolls, this life. The thought of working till midnight, drains me. Not tonight. I push everything off the bed. I’ve had enough.

  I shout through the window. I arrange for a spliff of hash. It’s sent down from a cell window above, tied in a sock on a line of shoelaces. I reach for it through the broken grating. I smoke and sleep.

  At 3.30 a.m., I’m awake. Dolls everywhere. Still no water to flush the toilet. My hands, my body and my head hurt. I slowly begin clicking the plastics in place. I’m not alone, through the window I can hear someone else in the same situation, click, click, click.

  I am not sure if that should be comforting.

  Playmobil

  On May 11, 1982, I won one of the top prizes in a British radio, phone-in competition. I won £50 in cash and £30 worth of Playmobil toys.

  I’m guessing I had some help because I’m realising now that I was only four years old. Like many children, I’ve spent many hours playing with these simple toys and more hours daydreaming of the magical place where these toys were made.

  On July 12, 2008, 26 years later, I not only got to find out, but finally got to visit that magical land.

  Division XII had just got permission to assemble Playmobil dolls. However, not every prisoner could join
the Playmobil task force – it was a perk, dished out only when you worked hard for the prison. The guy I started making them for, worked in the officer’s mess, serving the officers’ food. So, he was out of the Division most of the day. Everyone knew that work was subcontracted, and percentages charged. It was all about racketeering/profiteering and everyone closed an eye. I needed money badly, so I was hardly in a position to bargain.

  I had just spent a few months making envelopes, to earn pennies, and was desperate. So, when this guy offered to “subcontract” me and make his dolls at a 50 percent cut, what could I do but say yes?

  In the next seven days I made over 10,000 dolls. The guy got €60 for my work – he kept half of that and gave me the other €30, which was just enough to buy some tobacco, hygiene and cleaning products.

  Over the next decade I would assemble hundreds of thousands of these dolls. Sometimes working for someone else at 50 percent, or better, sometimes working for myself at 100 percent. For a few months, in 2014, I even found myself in charge of all the Playmobil assembly at the newer side of the prison. Under the supervision of a Major, I was in charge of the distribution, management and payment of the Playmobil dolls to 90 or so inmates who had the permission to assemble them.

  While I was in charge, I tried to change working conditions, prices and the rife corruption that went hand in hand with the dolls’ assembly and payment. But the team of people I was given to work with me, saw me have one complication after another. There were problems with the number of dolls counted, which reflected in the final payments, which resulted in raids by the SRT on members of the team. The few lazy and useless workers on the team were ruining it all for the many.

  Finally, in 2015, after a false allegation made by someone in my team who had been promised my job, the small office I was using and my cell were raided. Unfortunately, they found (and confiscated) the Spy Watch camera I had smuggled in less than two weeks earlier, and I lost all privileges and was relocated to Division XIII by way of punishment. It took me months to get back to another Division, and years before I was able to make the dolls in my name again.