Before we can speak, the wave of people did what it does, and he was pushed away and ushered into his seat. I was alone again. Apart from my neighbours.
The plane taxis. I really do remember that I am afraid of flying. As the plane lurches forward, the force holds me back in the seat. As the wheels leave the tarmac, I realise I am free. I crane my neck a little and see the island drop away below us. Smaller and smaller. Everything drifting into insignificance. The prison. The courts. The police. The pain.
The flight was unadventurous. I neither got up nor moved. I wrote and I waited. I seem to always write and wait. It’s the only things I can do.
The plane came over the English Channel, over the white cliffs, along the green rolling pasture of southern England, a maze of hedge rows. The sky was, miraculously, clear of clouds, and a better view of England there could never be.
The green. Not the forced green of the prison paints but this luscious green, God’s green. Fresh and vibrant. The air was clean as we glided through it. It looked so large compared to Malta. But at the same time, small, yet another prison, a limit, an enclosure.
Already in the view there were things I had never seen. Huge metal structures. Ominous on the landscape, like something from War of the Worlds. These huge, alien windmills. Even now as we walk our children to school, we pass one of those windmills, and I see them as daunting. Every day I am reminded of those H.G. Wells Martians. Everyday even now, months on, it is all a little frightening.
There’s action up the front and the cabin crew are doing their thing. The noise wakes me to reality. I am free. I must be free as I’d never dreamed this. I’ve also just remembered that worse than my fear of flying is my fear of landing. And we were getting very, very close.
I close my eyes as the plane screeches, and aggressively lands back onto land. England. Bristol. The flight is early, it’s 7.40 a.m.
Nobody claps. I remember childhood holidays in the 90s and when planes would land in Tenerife or Spain all the passengers would clap and cheer. That didn’t happen, but there was a crescendo of people getting up, getting baggage, hats, coats, kids. It was all whirlpooling around me yet again. I had no choice but to join the fray. The future sitting next to me was up and gone, and the past was pushing me to my present.
Another wave and we’re all heading off the plane, through corridors and into immigration. I slow myself once more. I let the people go, I’m in no rush. I’d almost forgotten about this. Passport control. Officers. Uniforms. The hairs on my neck rise.
Johnathan has found me again and I feel more courage, or maybe I didn’t want to seem weak. We stride towards customs.
The minute I produced the paperwork Malta had given me and my ten years out-of-date passport, I knew things would get slow, complicated. Johnathan was seen through customs and had to wait further along. So, once again I was alone. Well, apart from the two Inspectors in front of me who wanted answers.
Now, to sum up the last 14 years of my life in an elevator pitch is no mean feat. They were confused, I felt exhausted. After phone calls, record checks, piercing looks, distaste and finally pity, I was allowed home, through customs, into Britain.
I saw Johnathan in the corridor, and we walked together. I can hardly remember; I was just swept along. I needed to get outside. Away from walls built by man. I had never been to Bristol airport before, so the twists and turns meant nothing.
I turned to the right into a lobby which opened to doors, to freedom.
My wife. Before I saw her, I felt her. I could see the camera crew; they are never hard to spot behind the scene. I could see my dreams standing before me. I could see the vision, that I had dreamt of for so many years. Above all, I could see what makes my wife stand out.
Many would say it’s the copper hair (or occasionally green hair). But I feel the aura of my wife before I see her physically. I know many will say tosh, but each one of us has a unique and powerful spirit. If we have no soul, no spirit, we have nothing. And ours are bound. I was drawn to hers and hers to mine and there we found ourselves. Joining once again. Holding each other for dear life. Free. Embracing with all the passion of the years flooding out of us, flooding to each other.
I know because I have seen the documentary. How we looked. How we held each other. But to me, we were as smoke twining together. United, Eternal.
*
From that moment on, I kept fighting for freedom. Freedom from myself and the warping of my social and emotional constraints after so long spent alone. Locked. Caged inside. I know I will never be whole again, but I am content with a simple life.
People often say to me, “I bet you hate Maltese people and the island for all it’s done to you,” but how could I? I’ve lived on those islands for 14 years and I have met so many wonderful people.
I met my soulmate there, we were married there, our daughter Rainbow was born there, I have bled, sweated and cried on that rock. Malta has been such a huge part of my and my family’s lives, and always will be. Will I ever return there after all this is finished?
I would like to think that one day I will return with my wife and daughters and we can show our children some of the positive aspects of the Maltese islands and their culture. We still have many close friends there.
But I also know it may be a while before we are able to face coming back to Malta. Even if we will ever be allowed or welcomed back. Despite it all, I will always have a love affair with Malta.
In the meantime, I will continue to write. I will continue to be the best person I can be and conquer my faults. Although I’m surrounded by family love, when I am left alone the quiet creeps towards me and I am frightened and scared. I still have a recurring nightmare of being entombed in a cell. The doorway bricked up. Alone, left to rot. Like in Edgar Allan Poe’s The Cask of Amontillado.
Unfortunately, a part of me will always remain bricked within the walls of a cell.
Since leaving Malta, each day I slowly see the pieces of myself and my life I have lost. Not misplaced. But irreversibly lost.
The constructing of walls deep inside me to survive, now offer only obscurity and alienation, even to myself. Was I always this way? I feel cold, indifferent to my own life, my own living. I am an outsider. I always have been.
My brain is ready to implode, I feel unconscious to the world and people. I am alone. I carry a dark cloud above me and when the sun doesn’t shine, visibility is poor.
I can only keep searching for peace.
Imprisoned again
April 11, 2020. My birthday. I am 42. Once again, I’m locked inside. A prisoner. As COVID-19 ravages our planet, the implications to freedom and society are felt by all. The national effort to keep people sane, alive and focused on the future is heart-warming. It is just a shame that three billion people needed to be imprisoned before society started caring about the effect imprisonment has on the individual. I wonder if they will remember afterwards.
Now I am the one calling my Mum, Dad and sisters, while they remain locked down, isolated, imprisoned in their own houses.
I am lucky again. My cellmates this time are my wife, two daughters and our six-month-old new son, River Zion. Out of the whole world I am imprisoned with those I love the most. For an institutionalised prisoner, that is the jackpot.
My family and others look to me and my time imprisoned for comforting answers. I have none. There is no way to make imprisonment vanish from thoughts, or for time to pass pleasantly, but you can ignore it, and hope that it won’t last forever. I still haven’t told my family that my surviving Maltese justice came down to just dumb luck or a miracle – depending on your amount of faith.
Even now I lack the words and fight to heal fully. Every ounce of mental strength was used up to get me home. I never even considered the maelstrom that I would step into. The world has changed. It’s hard to see for some, as they were a part of that changing process. I struggle daily to find myself in its torrent. My imprisonment still causes my wife’s eyes to fill with pain. I
struggle with making simple choices, I am elated or deflated. I am sometimes here, sometimes lost in painful memory.
The pages of this book are finished. My story is told. In a way I don’t want to give it up, but I know that in doing so, I share the memories of the dead and with this last page maybe I can close this chapter of my life and begin a new page.
I am home. I am alive. But the cost is great. For my crimes I have been punished, and every day that punishment continues.
*
Glossary of terms
Authorities
Prison Board and Ministry for Home Affairs
Bang up
Lock up
Block
Compressed form of cannabis resin
Blues and twos
Blue flashing lights and two sirens of police vehicles
Bum
Useless idler, loafer; obtains things by begging
Con
Slang for convict
Cwtch
Welsh word loosely meaning a hug, a cuddle, a place to safely store things. If you give someone a cwtch, you’re giving them a safe place to hide
Dobbing
An informer
Fall-in
The count of inmates in the divisions. Started and ending by whistles or bells
Grass
An informer
Hooch
Prison-made alcohol
Joint
Any drug, but mainly cannabis and tobacco rolled together in a smokable cigarette
Lags
Older inmates
Nonce
Sex offenders, paedophiles
Ones/1s
Ground floor of the prison Division
Pirmli
A call for pills in Maltese
Plexiglass
Toughed see-through plastic used as windowpanes
Roach
The end cardboard filter of a joint
Threes/3s
Third floor of the prison Division
Twos/2s
Second floor of the prison Division
Score
To make a drug deal, buy drugs
Screws
Prison officers
Snitch
An informer
Spice
See Synthetic
Spliff
Any drug, but mainly cannabis and tobacco rolled together in a smokable cigarette
Synthetic
Synthetic cannabis. Marshmallow leaf sprayed with psychotropic substances. The only relation to cannabis is how it’s smoked, in joints
Acknowledgements
I don’t really know how to thank everyone who has supported me, my family, my case and the production of this book, without making it sound like an Oscar acceptance speech given by a weepy-eyed starlet, but I’ll try:
I thank my wife, Marzena, for finding me, for her love, for standing by me through all these hard years and being my inspiration.
My daughters Rainbow and Blossom for giving me purpose in life.
My Mum and Dad for organising payments and buying back my life and all their tireless efforts on Instagram and typing up all my terribly handwritten notes and for having to deal with all my nitpicking and editing over years of telephone calls.
My sisters and their families for their encouragement and forgiveness.
My wife’s family for accepting me and my failures.
My friend Leighton, his partner Bianca and his mother Jen, for the many years of visits which have lifted my spirits and for the endless supply of amazing food they have brought in for me, battling bureaucracy and painstaking mornings spent at the debitari.
Chris at The George Pub in Qawra for giving me a chance while on bail, and for treating me, over the years, with dishes from the pub’s kitchen. I also thank all the customers at the pub who have donated books and wished me well.
Everyone who has taken the time out to visit me – even once – spending 45 minutes sitting in a prison visit room listening to me moan about life.
Steve Harte for the visits, many letters of comfort, books, T-shirts, and the Gavin and Stacey boxsets which transported me back to Wales on many an occasion.
Krista Sullivan for organising a collection to donate money to my prison account.
George Busuttil and all at Mid-Dlam Għad-Dawl (From Darkness to Light) Foundation, for their visits to the prison and all their hard work over the past 22 years working with prisoners and for the wall calendars they supply so we can count down to our future.
All at Prisoners Abroad for their work with prisoners and their families; for the birthday and Christmas cards, newspapers and newsletters they send out; for the vitamin supplements, support and help with entering the Koestler Awards competition; and other help they give to prisoners worldwide.
The Koestler Arts Foundation which has helped many a prisoner. And the assistance they have given me via mentoring. Even when I proved to be hard work.
Robert Callus, and all at the Alternattiva Demokratika of Malta for caring and daring to see alternative views.
David Camilleri for his visits, thoughts, money donations and help in fighting for cannabis legalisation in Malta.
David Caruana, for his outspoken views in Malta over cannabis reform.
Moviment Graffitti for their tagging, Miguel Cachia for designing all the wonderful posters, John Aedyn King for setting up the petition, Tom Welsh for the Free Daniel Holmes pin badges, Michal Lubiszewski for all the music on YouTube and for visiting me, Aleksander Belugin for all the fantastic photos and coverage of the protest march, and Joseph Calleja for his kind thoughts and for holding the views he has expressed to me and my parents.
Bertrand Borg, Raphael Vassallo, Patrick Cooke and all the other reporters who have written unbiased and caring write-ups of my case.
All at Nerd TV for the filming of Prison Brides and the lovely photos they produced of me and Blossom.
All who attended the protest marches, giving up their time and daring to speak out. All the thousands of people who signed the petitions and for their heartfelt, encouraging comments.
All who follow me on Facebook and Instagram, their comments and support, making me never feel alone.
All who have donated money, either personally, or through the GoFundMe website. To anyone who has sent me cards and letters over the years, which filled my cell with joy.
The endless support from Lovin Malta and their journalist Johnathan Cilia, and Kristina, without whom the writing of this book would have driven me completely mad.
Every inmate who has had the misfortune of passing through the unbearably depressing conditions at the CCF and all their families too.
All the people across the world who’ve been in prison for cannabis use or cultivation – wrongfully and unjustly confined.
The good officers at the CCF (you know who you are).
All the good people of Malta who strive for change.
The island of Malta itself for being my surrogate home for the past 14 years.
For Barry Charles Lee, Julie Page, Mark Pace, Lars Wrede and all the other dear friends I’ve lost over these years.
All the countries and governments of the world who have legalised or decriminalised the use of cannabis. I only hope I see a time when all follow their lead, giving us all the freedom of choice.
Since leaving prison, I have no way to say thank you. I will never forget the help I’ve been given.
To say thank you seems to fall short, but words are all I have.
Thank you.
Mine is One Voice
Mine is one voice
But mine is a loud voice
Mine is a solitary voice
But mine is a universal voice.
My voice stands alone
But my voice speaks in unison.
My voice is hardly heard
But my voice will always speak out
My voice is my voice
But my voice with your voice
is our voice
An
d our voice has power.
So, use your voice
To join my voice
And our voice will be resounding.
More poetry and short stories by Daniel Holmes may be found at https://daholmes.com/
A younger Daniel Holmes enjoying Wales with his two sisters Chloe and Lucy
Daniel Holmes enjoying the sights in Gozo, Malta’s sister island, when he relocated from Wales in 2006
Barry Charles Lee, a friend of Daniel Holmes who died in prison while the two awaited trial for the same charges
Daniel Holmes with his father Mel in Gozo in 2007, while awaiting trial on bail
Daniel Holmes’s wife (girlfriend at the time) Marzena with their daughter Rainbow at a protest for Daniel Holmes in Valletta (photo: Malta Independent)
Journals written by Holmes from his prison cell to keep in touch with his family
A tattoo kit Holmes built in prison from items he could purchase
Items used for the tattoo kit which Holmes could easily dismantle to keep hidden
Some of the tattoos Holmes gave himself in prison
Holmes says writing in prison from his very first day helped pass the time
Daniel Holmes on the flight that took him back to Wales after his release, meeting Lovin Malta journalist Johnathan Cilia
Daniel Holmes reunited with his wife at the Cardiff airport after his release. His journey home was filmed for a documentary called The Long Way Home by Lovin Malta.
Daniel Holmes: A Memoir From Malta's Prison: From a cage, on a rock, in a puddle... Page 21
