by Shani Krebs
Our conversation was slightly strained. I think both of us were hesitant to admit that there had been an immediate connection, but, for both of us, it was love at first sight. I’m not sure whether it was because of my situation and my vulnerability, but I had this ability to connect with people on a deep level. Whether this was a blessing or a curse, I’m not sure, but in this instance I considered it a blessing. People seemed to come into my life when I most needed them.
Elisabeth was married, but separated from her husband. She was different from anyone I’d ever met and I fell instantly in love. She gave all of herself unconditionally. From then on, she started visiting me every week and she also took control of my finances. She not only became my girlfriend, but she also became my best friend, too. Having been with Jai and never having been able to be physical with her, I anticipated that, with time, my relationship with Elisabeth would also become complicated. What I hoped for was that I might be released and at least get the opportunity to see whether we’d be compatible under different circumstances.
Meanwhile, Ivan stayed true to his word. In early 2009 he hired a so-called top lawyer in Israel to investigate the possibility of Israeli citizenship for me. I was told that this lawyer had made great progress, but now required a personal letter from me to the President of Israel, giving him a bit of background on my situation and explaining why I wanted to become an Israeli citizen. I had been down this road before, but nevertheless I wrote to the president, Shimon Peres. I went right back to the beginning, to my mother’s family in Hungary and their persecution by the Nazis. I told the president how my parents had managed to flee Hungary. I told him that circumstances had prescribed that I be brought up in a Jewish orphanage, and how, as a young boy and man, I had embraced my Jewish heritage, how important this was to me and how it informed my life:
… My reason for contacting your office is primarily to appeal to your government to grant me Israeli citizenship. As a young man I dreamt of making aliyah, unfortunately the unkind vicissitudes of my fortunes prevented me from making this journey. Besides being abandoned by my own Government, I have for many years had an overwhelming desire to return to my religious roots, to learn Torah and to start a new life in Eretz Israel.
During my incarceration I have upheld our traditions and not given up practising Judaism. I daven three times a day and observe Shabbat to the best of my ability and within the limitations of my environment …
I sent it off and hoped that Ivan’s lawyer knew what he was doing. It was almost 15 years since I’d been stopped from boarding that plane back to South Africa, and here I was, still hoping, still trying, still seizing every opportunity that came my way to get out of Bangkwang. And back in South Africa my sister Joan continued to do her part, although she had been banging her head against a wall for so long it was a wonder she still had the strength to persevere. We were getting nowhere with the South African government, so perhaps Ivan could pull something off. I wasn’t about to jump up and down with joy or excitement just yet, though. The Israelis were a stubborn bunch and they had already rejected me. In my view, every Jew had the right to live in Israel.
I’d reached a point where helping new prisoners had become more of a headache than anything else. Those of us who had done hard time were set in our ways now. I became withdrawn and generally kept to myself, minding my own business and trying my best to get through my day. My clock had stopped ticking. Time was killing me. South Africa was nowhere near even considering a prisoner transfer treaty. By then I had become the longest-serving Western foreigner in Bangkwang prison. Even the guards were baffled as to why I was still there, thinking that I must be some big Mafia boss. I accepted that depression was something I would have to deal with on a regular basis, but survival was a priority. I had a story to tell and my audience was out there somewhere.
Sometimes someone would ask me, ‘Aleksanda, young mai karbarn?’ (Yet not gone home?), to which I would jokingly respond by saying that Bangkwang was my home. But at the same time I would feel a deep sadness. It is difficult to describe the depth of my longing after 15 years locked up in a foreign country. It took all the courage I had to stay positive and believe that my prolonged imprisonment was for my ultimate good.
Daily life did not change. During the week, we would receive letters and parcels, fights would erupt, stabbings occurred, and the occasional murder was committed. Directors, Building Chiefs and guards were constantly being reshuffled. Alterations to the buildings were carried out from time to time – the walls of Building 2 had been painted for the third time, which of course we prisoners paid for – occasionally royal pardons were granted, sentences were reduced, Thai prisoners were paroled, and foreigners were transferred home. The FIFA World Cup, to be played in South Africa in 2010, was fast approaching.
There was already talk from the commodores that on 5 December 2011, when the King celebrated his 84th birthday, there would be a general amnesty. Giving prisoners amnesties was considered a way of attracting good karma; His Majesty was a benevolent and kind monarch, and many prisoners had benefited from this over the years. When you consider the hardships we had to endure daily in prison, two years was still a long time to wait, so I tried to put December 2011 out of my mind.
The Thai New Year, Songkran (the Water Festival), which fell on 12 April every year, had become an annual drinking festivity. There is a very festive vibe in Bangkok at this time, with thousands of people, most of them armed with water pistols, hitting the streets and running round wetting and squirting everybody in sight. In prison, the Thai prisoners and the guards upheld the tradition, and they would walk around the building grabbing prisoners and throwing them into the fishpond. This would go on throughout the day.
Thais would eat in groups, sometimes up to ten or more. Everybody contributed to meals. Huddled around on the floor with numerous dishes of food, these were occasions when prisoners could enjoy a moment of true companionship. Eating was a time of sharing, a time to bond and to lose yourself in conversation – a time to forget you’re a prisoner.
Songkran was always a significant milestone for me, as it had been the time of year I had come to Thailand, and April was the month I had been arrested. By April 2010, I had served 15 years in prison. After benefiting from several amnesties, my sentence had come down to 24 years, with nine still to go. I didn’t know quite how I had survived 15 years. These days, when I prayed, I reminded Hashem that I was strong and would be able to resist temptation in all its forms. I was ready for my freedom.
At the beginning of the year my friend Edna in Manchester had sent me a photo of a Chassidic rabbi she wanted me to paint, but for some reason I just hadn’t got round to doing it. Somehow, whenever I was commissioned to do a painting, I don’t know why, perhaps because of the pressure of having to do something to order, my creativity would desert me. After ten months, I’d only just finished sketching the rabbi’s picture. In between, I’d managed to do a few paintings in hard charcoal, nothing too exciting. For the past months, to be honest, I hadn’t been in a good space, and the truth was I didn’t care if I died. My lack of enthusiasm could be seen in some of my abstract paintings. I had been doing abstracts for some years by then; art for me was also about having fun, and I used these as a means of stretching my mind and embracing my imagination.
Despite davening three times a day and reminding Hashem that I believed I was strong enough now to embrace my freedom, and to fulfil my dreams and His purpose for me, I’d largely lost my connection to the Man above. My prayers were becoming routine and I was praying more out of a sense of obligation than anything else. It was hard not to lose hope, hard not to be negative. If it hadn’t been for my dog, man’s best friend in prison, I reckon I would have gone out of my mind.
From my correspondence, and from friends I’d been in touch with on my dog, I had heard about a website called Facebook. Apparently, this was a cyber-social network for people to interact with each other or to reconnect with friends around the world. I co
uld access this site from my dog. One of the other foreigners had set up his own website, which he used as a platform to inform people about his predicament. The site gave his postal address, and this had allowed many friends he’d lost touch with over the years to contact him.
I realised that I had missed out on so much over the years, but now, being a dog handler myself, I wanted very much to be part of this new technology. After enquiring from my sister about the possibility of having my own Facebook page, she decided to create an open group, which she called ‘Shani Krebs – Captivated Artist’. The main function was to keep people updated on my situation, in the hope that some of my friends would write to me or make contact. In the beginning, one or two popped up here and there, but over time more and more people joined the group.
Later, I set up my own Facebook account, using the pseudonym ‘Zor Krebsowitz’. The reason for a pseudonym was that Chavoret, the guard in charge of foreigners, and who was also the executioner, had his own Facebook page and I couldn’t risk exposure. For my profile picture, I used a photo of the masked Zorro on his horse, rapier drawn. Facebook was an amazing resource. I reconnected with friends I had forgotten existed, and also made new friends, most of them women. The only problem was that my Nokia took ages to open and post messages. I would stay up late at night and into the early hours of the morning surfing the net.
Then calamity struck. The defective signal blockers were replaced with a new computerised system. The new system didn’t block the signal; instead it could pinpoint the exact location and room from where a dog was being barked. Within a few weeks of the system being operational, we had a reprieve, but not from the prison authorities: one of the Big Legs on death row organised for his boy to cut the cable. There was so much wiring, it would take months before the authorities could locate the break. Prisoners are of necessity resourceful people.
Despite all the crackdowns and restrictions, the drug problem in Thailand had reached uncontrollable proportions. There were regular scenes on TV where some raving lunatic had taken a hostage, usually a woman, and was wielding a knife and threatening to take the victim’s life. The TV reporter on hand would keep mentioning the words ‘yah septic’ (drugs), so you knew that the perpetrator was on drugs. This kind of constant publicity reinforced the Thai government’s hard line on drugs and their policy of not granting amnesty to drug offenders in prison. This was further compounded by the fact that there were Thai prisoners who had served full life sentences but who, after regaining their freedom, would soon resort to criminal activities and be rearrested. Some had even been back to prison for the third time.
It was crazy. I vowed that, once I regained my own freedom, I would never see prison walls again.
At the suggestion of one of the ladies who was a regular visitor to the prison, Elisabeth and a friend decided to go to the hospital where the King was being treated for a prolonged illness. Daily prayers were said there and gifts were presented to the monarch. On occasion, when the King felt strong enough, he would come outside and greet the many well-wishers. Most of his visitors were Thais, so whenever foreigners came to the hospital, they were thought to be important dignitaries. When Elisabeth and her companion arrived, they attracted a certain amount of attention, including that of the Grand Chamberlain (aka the right arm of the King), who worked in the Bureau of the Royal Household and had remained loyal to the King for 60 years. He was fluent in both French and English and had lived in Lausanne, the city where Elisabeth grew up.
That night, when barking the dog, Elisabeth excitedly told me what had transpired. She came up with the idea of a gift I could give the King. I could make up a folder in which we would put photographs of the portrait I had painted of the King and include some of my other pieces of art. We also chose a prayer from the Book of Psalms and I wrote a personal message to the King wishing him a speedy recovery. Seeing that Elisabeth had a special relationship with one of the South African woman prisoners, whom she had been visiting for some years, we included her, too.
The following week, Elisabeth and her friend went to the hospital again, this time to hand over our gift to the King. On their arrival, they were taken to a special section where only diplomats were allowed to make presentations to the King. The two women were swamped by journalists, and a television crew who happened to be there filmed and interviewed them. The folder was beautifully made up, and everyone who saw it was very impressed. The gift was recorded in a ledger and one of the officials of the Palace assured Elisabeth that he would personally hand it to the King. Besides my family, I never told any of my friends in prison of this breakthrough, believing that it might jinx any chance of something positive happening for me as a result. In my eyes, this was the closest we had come to getting the King’s personal attention. I hoped and prayed that he would get to see and read the contents of the folder and would view my recently submitted royal pardon. For once, perhaps this was not such a long shot.
One morning in July, while immersed in my art, as if from a distance I heard my name being called over the loudspeaker. There was nothing unusual in this; in prison, whenever you had mail, parcels or visits, or if the prison authorities needed to see you for some reason, you were always called on the intercom system. Often I would be so focused on my painting that I could be called several times and still it wouldn’t register. Eventually one of my mates would tell me. Whenever I was so engrossed in my art, and I had to stop painting, it would take me anything up to an hour to come back to earth. This was one of those mornings. On my way to the office, as I passed the gym, I walked into what was obviously the conclusion of a violent altercation between three prisoners. Nothing seemed to register in my brain. I felt as if I was an outsider, visiting from another dimension. The dispersing crowd was slowly moving away, and as they did, I saw one of the guys who’d obviously been in the fight lying out on the concrete floor in front of me. Blood was spurting out of a wound on the side of his head. As I passed by him, the sun’s rays caught his face, transforming the colour of his blood into shades of radiant vermilion. This triggered an unusual and vivid image in my mind: I saw bright red roses, rows and rows of rose bushes that seemed to stretch to infinity. In the foreground was a sensuous girl with long black hair, dressed in a silky white dress that hung loosely to her knees as she glided effortlessly through the air. What a sight it was, and what a great painting I thought it would make.
I walked on to the office to see what it was that I’d been summoned for this time.
One of my closest friends, and an ally for many years, was Ahmed Ratib, a Muslim from Afghanistan who had been in and out of almost every building in Bangkwang. Ahmed was a true warrior and was one of the inmates who had no outside support. Despite this, he, like me, had survived 15 years in prison. Although he was ten years younger than me, his suffering was evident by his hair having turned grey. Actually, I couldn’t talk because by now I was balding. Recently Ahmed had survived a knife attack by two Thais and he had been transferred back to Building 2. I had not seen him for a while, as he hardly ever got visitors, and I was very pleased to see him again. Ahmed helped out with the cooking, and on weekends he made roti with barbecued chicken breasts.
For some reason, the prison authorities had not detected that the cables of the signal blocking system had been tampered with. When the system was installed, they monitored the screen around the clock, which resulted in many dog handlers being caught, but, as with everything, the novelty soon wore off. The cables were eventually repaired, but we had some time in between.
I decided to purchase a new dog. It was a lot safer to buy one through a foreigner than from a Thai. Ahmed, who was involved in all sorts of underhand dealings, found a new dog for me. I bought it for two reasons. Firstly, an upgrade was long overdue, but that wasn’t my only reason. There were two Israelis, Itzik and Avi, who had recently been arrested on drug-related charges and placed in Building 4. A third Israeli, an old man, was in Building 3. The first two Israelis had heard about me while they we
re in the other prison – I was known as the Jewish South African who had been there for 16 years – and eventually I got to meet them. On first impression, the two of them seemed like really nice guys. They wore their yarmulkes and claimed to be very religious. Prison had this effect on people, and inmates would often turn to G-d. Faith had its way of working miracles. In their case, the change was rather sudden, it seemed to me; they went from one extreme to the other. It was too much, too soon. My own spiritual journey had started with certain acknowledgements. First I had to change from within, take responsibility for my actions, and accept wholeheartedly that whatever transpired in my life was for the greater good. Remorse without sincerity never warrants forgiveness. I began to suspect that the two Israeli guys had a hidden agenda.
Shlomo came up with the bright idea of having all the Israelis housed under one roof, and, on the request of the Israeli embassy, the prison authorities agreed to this proposal. The three new Israelis would all come to Building 2. The two guys in Building 4 apparently shared a dog with somebody else, so, when they moved, they would need a dog of their own. As my fellow brothers of faith, I felt it would be my duty to accommodate them, and my plan was to give them my old dog. When you changed buildings you were always thoroughly searched, so trying to smuggle a dog across would be suicidal.
Being united with your own tribesmen strengthened your position as an individual and I was looking forward to enlarging our Jewish brotherhood. Security in Building 4, where Itzik and his co-accused Avi were housed, was far more lax than ours and dogs were cheaper there. Itzik had a better command of the English language than Avi and I really liked him, even though when talking to him you couldn’t get a word in edgeways. I didn’t know if this was an Israeli thing or whether he just had a certain energy about him.