by Shani Krebs
That night I wrote in my diary: ‘I kind of understand now, what it means, or feels like, to be insane. I was there; I crossed over, but fought my way back. Medication, psychologist, is not always the answer.’
Although I gradually began to feel stronger mentally, my chest pains got worse and I started having panic attacks. My mouth would become dry and my arms and my lips would go numb. One night, the discomfort in my chest area was severe. Believing that I was having a heart attack, I banged my hands on the floor and tried sticking my arms out of the bars, gesturing to the guards to come. I could see with my mirror the guard just standing there, watching me, and then simply walking away. Later, one of my friends shouted for the guards, telling them that the farang was dying. I knew I wasn’t really dying, but my chest had closed again and I was very pale. When the guards eventually came to my cell and saw me lying there sprawled out on my back, I told them in Thai, ‘Hoorchai mi-panha’ (heart trouble), and they said they would call the doctor.
Almost two hours later, the so-called doctor arrived. The guard didn’t even open the cell door. I had to go to the bars and stick my hand through, and place one of my fingers in a small electronic gadget, which I think took my pulse and temperature. Then the doctor stuck his stethoscope through the slit in the steel door and listened to my chest, for no more than two seconds. He turned around and, after saying, ‘You are very strong,’ gave me two sachets of electrolyte beverage powder and an energy drink for sportsmen. I couldn’t believe it. There I was, in serious trouble, and that was the best they could do? Really, they didn’t give a shit.
I did some slow breathing exercises and said the Shema Yisrael over and over. Later I decided that I would stop drinking Birdy, a popular canned coffee drink – maybe that was what had caused my heart palpitations. Generally, though, I had noticed how my health was deteriorating. I was no longer used to oily food and I missed having my fresh vegetables.
When I had been to the hospital to get aspirin, I had met a Jewish guy there, Bevan Rabinowitz, an American citizen who was in Building 6. He seemed okay and suggested I should try to be moved to his building, as there were a lot of foreigners there. I submitted a request to be let out of solitary, explaining that when I had first arrived at Klong Prem I was extremely fit and strong but that, since being deprived of regular exercise and a healthy diet, my physical and mental state was rapidly going downhill.
That afternoon, after we were locked up, the Building Chief came to the punishment section and asked me to make a list of the foods I could eat. He said he was going to try to help get them for me. At least I knew he had read my request, but I wasn’t putting any bets on the rest.
One weekend in July, a high-ranking military official, rumoured to be a general in the Thai Air Force, was brought into solitary. He must have been in his late forties. When he arrived he was escorted by some really senior military guys. Every day after that, at least three times a day, and at odd hours, they would come and remove him from his cell, take him outside and give him a serious working-over. It was crazy what they were doing to him. I later heard that apparently he was in the Royal Guard and was supposed to have embezzled a large sum of the Crown Prince’s money. The general was really suffering. When he first arrived, he must have weighed about 90kg, but soon he was looking thin and sick. Still they continued torturing him, sometimes during the day in front of other prisoners. One day, they brought him a model of a small aeroplane made out of steel, something that kids would play on in a park, and he was forced to sit in it while prisoners gathered around and jeered. Most of the prisoners laughed at him, but I really pitied the man, and in fact I admired his strength. It was very unusual for the military to be allowed into the prison, but these guys were here every day, even filming what they were doing to this general.
Around 8pm one evening, the lights in the corridors were switched off and I could see the soldiers at the general’s cell. They dragged him out, rolled him up in a blanket, hoisted him onto their shoulders and, shouting out military orders, carried him away. I was convinced that he was either dead or that they were taking him somewhere to be killed, but I was wrong. Next morning I discovered that, in Thailand, when someone is wrapped in a blanket and taken against their will, it means the person is going to be executed, Mafia-style. What they had done the previous evening was intended to scare the shit out of the guy. Apparently they carried him some distance, shouting abuse and threats of death all the way. When they reached their destination, Building 7, which was the prison kitchen, they threw him in the pond where he had to endure heaven knows what forms of torture. For two nights in a row after that, the general was forced to crawl on all fours while other inmates shouted at him and kicked him.
I started jogging in the corridor, and after two weeks of exercise my spirits were lifted. Although I was still having strange sensations every now and again in my heart region, I stopped taking the aspirin. I hated taking pills of any sort and preferred to get healthy through exercise and eating properly.
At the end of the month I was called to Room 5, which was at the halfway checkpoint to the visit room and was also the office of the second in command of the prison. My request to the Director of the Department of Corrections had been reviewed, and apparently he wanted to know certain facts regarding my heart condition, diet etc. In the air-conditioned room there were two guards and a translator, and I could see they had a copy of my request. After they had read it through, they subjected me to a series of questions about why I wanted to be transferred back to Bangkwang.
The next day, when I related the story to my Italian friend, he thought it was a very good sign. He was convinced that I would transfer back to Bangkwang as early as the following week. I went back to my cell and waited.
By the middle of August I was still in solitary confinement, but oddly enough I found myself in a better space. This could have been due to the fact that I’d been reading a lot, and healthwise I felt more or less okay. I tried to be patient.
One day, during my one-hour walk, I managed to say a few words to the Air Force general. I discovered that his name was Porcupine and also that he spoke relatively good English. Despite the rough treatment that was constantly meted out to him, his spirits seemed high. I presumed that the money he had embezzled was safely tucked away somewhere and that was what kept him going.
The month of October saw nature at its deadliest in Thailand. Continuous rain caused severe flooding that reached catastrophic proportions. Out of 70 or so cities in the country, more than 50 were flooded. Very badly affected was the city of Ayutthaya, about 75km north of Bangkok, which was completely inundated. One of the prisons there was so badly flooded that 5 000 inmates had to be relocated to other prisons. Two hundred of these were transferred to Klong Prem, where they were put into Building 5. Two hundred of Building 5’s inmates were then moved to our building. This was significant because, ever since the inauguration of the new government, the prime minister, Yingluck Shinawatra, had vowed to crack down on drug distributors, insisting that, once they were arrested, they would be isolated completely from other inmates, more specifically in order to restrict their access to mobile phones.
By the middle of the month, the upstairs section of our building was vacated, and razor-sharp barbed-wire and wire mesh were installed, as well as new steel gates. Our section, approximately 14 of us, among them the most notorious drug smugglers in the kingdom, was supposed to move upstairs, where we would be included among all the new major drug dealers who had recently been arrested. It seemed that the policy of isolating us drug dealers might be suspended indefinitely.
Despite the hopeful meeting I’d had with the second in command after my request to be moved, nothing had happened. My new friend Porcupine was still being subjected to bouts of public humiliation. I heard a story that once he had been taken outside the prison and forced to beg for money on the street in front of a government building, while the military stayed out of view and filmed him. While Porcupine was in a sitting position, his knees
folded, and begging as instructed by his military handlers, out of the blue a security guard from the government building suddenly appeared. The guard asked him what the hell he was doing there, and he began kicking him in the face and beating Porcupine with his baton. Luckily for him, his military escort came to his rescue, slapping the unsuspecting security guard and informing him that his victim was in fact a general. Apologising profusely, the guard scurried off like a rat. He must have been very confused!
Another day, while we were outside for our daily walk in the yard, the ice delivery arrived. It was announced over the loudspeaker that the ice would be delayed and that we should all gather around the parade ground. Here Porcupine had to square off with an inmate who weighed about 120kg. They each had to carry five blocks of ice, one block being the size of two and a half standard bricks, from the delivery truck to a point about 20m away, then run back and collect another five blocks. They had to repeat the exercise until there were no blocks of ice remaining on the cart. While this was going on, the military were filming and one of the other prisoners gave a running commentary over the loudspeaker. I felt really sorry for Porcupine, who lost the race – but not by much, I have to say.
While many Thais were clearly amused by the spectacle – almost to the point of hilarity – I did not find it funny. Public humiliation of others is distasteful to me, and so I chose not to participate.
In October I received the news that the Israeli Minister of Justice had at last signed my transfer papers. I also heard that a copy of my second petition requesting a royal pardon had been forwarded to the Palace. My mind was running wild. Imagine if I got a royal pardon before the amnesty in December, or managed to get transferred to Israel? I was hopeful and in fairly high spirits, just knowing that something was going on behind the scenes, even though, as on so many other occasions, nothing concrete might materialise. Without hope, it was difficult to remain sane in prison. Even false hope was better than no hope.
On Tuesday 11 October, what started out as a glorious day also brought some sadness for me. That day, my closest friend in Klong Prem, Jib, whose full name was Somsak Metwong, took his last breath. Jib was a notorious gangster, a former Thai boxing champion, and also one of the most honourable fellow criminals I had had the privilege to meet. He succumbed to the powers above after doing what he loved best – boxing. Unfortunately, at 45, and having been on death row for six years (and shackled for the entire duration), Jib was no longer the invincible fighter of 20 years before. During our usual workout in the yard, Jib was called to have a sparring session with one of the new inmates, who was also a formidable Thai boxer. A lot of the other prisoners congregated to watch them working out. I was actually quite stunned to see that Jib managed to go a full five rounds, and I knew that he would be exhausted. It was also an incredibly hot day.
Since I had arrived in solitary, I had offered my services as a masseur to anybody who needed them, and I would give Jib a half-hour massage almost every day. As I watched the sparring session, I imagined that, after this workout, he might be needing more than a massage. He could even end up in hospital.
We went back to our cells, and Jib joined us about 40 minutes later. He didn’t look good, and soon broke into a cold sweat. Then he collapsed right next to me. I assumed that, besides having over-exerted himself, he was probably suffering from heat exhaustion. He complained of pains in his chest. I suggested he drink a lot of water. Then I proceeded to give him a light massage around the top of his chest and shoulders, and within five minutes Jib was half-asleep. I left him to sleep until our cells were opened at around 1.30. He got up and stumbled towards his cell, where he lay down on the vinyl-covered floor. In the meantime, I rolled his makeshift bed together and put it in his cell, and I persuaded him to let me help him onto it. Then he asked me for two atenelol tablets, which I gave him with a cup of water. He asked to be left alone, as he was going to retire for the afternoon, and requested that I shut the cell door.
I left his cell but I didn’t close the door, thinking that I would check on him as soon as I had packed my own things away. When I returned, Jib was lying on his stomach. His body was twisted in an unusual position and he seemed to be convulsing. I quickly turned him on his side, calling out his name. His face was changing colour as I watched him, and it seemed that his eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. He was grunting like a pig being choked to death. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to do. I kept shaking him, trying to bring him back from wherever he was. I shouted for the key-boy, whose name was Pong. ‘Call the guards!’ I called. ‘Jib seems seriously ill!’
When they heard me shouting, four of the other guys in solitary came to his room and hurriedly lifted him. I took his right arm and shoulder and together we ran out of the cell, carrying Jib between us. By the time we reached the front gate and put him in a wheelchair, I could see in his face that his life was slipping away. I tried to find a pulse but felt nothing. I hoped for the best, but in my heart I knew he was gone.
Even though Jib always seemed remorseful for all the murders he had committed, he told me he had never killed anybody who didn’t deserve it. It seems that no man is above retribution. The distance from our building to the hospital was about 1.5km. In the days that followed, I learnt that the guard who had supposedly rushed him to hospital had stopped for some time at the White House, the control centre of the prison. It was almost as if they had deliberately killed him.
In prison, friends come and friends go and it isn’t wise ever to get too close to anybody. I mourned my friend for exactly 22 hours.
Chapter 19
Amnesty!
Amnesty countdown. 15 October, my birthday, believe it or not, was a wonderful day. It was only 52 days to the amnesty and I was 52 years old. On this day, I thought of all the people who had a special place in my heart – mainly my family, of course, whom I continued to miss with a deep longing.
On the morning of 19 October, four of the original five of our group were moved into the general prison population, leaving me still in solitary confinement. By now, after almost six full months, I was fed up with the place, fed up with the stench and filth in the corridors, the ash and cigarette butts (almost everyone smoked), and the almost suffocating smell of cat urine and cat shit. It reached the point where I couldn’t bear it any longer, and I went to the guards and asked them to supply me with cleaning materials. I also requested that some of the guys be let out of their cells to help me clean. They didn’t seem to have a problem with this and we were supplied with scrubbing brushes, buckets and hard straw brooms. There were ten of us who set to work. We scrubbed the entire section, including the walls on both sides of the corridor.
While we were hard at it, the military arrived for Porcupine, who, as usual, was forced to endure yet another bout of humiliation. Besides helping us sweep with the filthy water, he had to do push-ups and roll around in the soapy water. Along with another inmate, I was busy sweeping the waste water into one of the empty cells, where one of the other guys was using a tin can to scoop the water into the sunken toilet. Porcupine came across to me. ‘Alex, give me the broom,’ he said. Porcupine was expected to work himself, to the point of dropping. I refused to give it to him and told him he should rest. All this time the military guys – there were about five of them – were looking on and one was filming us with a video camera. Porcupine wanted the broom so that he could do the work instead of me, but I told him no way. During our brief exchange of words, I heard one of the soldiers say in Thai, ‘Get this shot with the foreigner,’ so there I was being filmed with Porcupine scooping water into an empty cell. I wondered if the Crown Prince of Thailand, or at least his subordinates, were conscientiously watching these daily videos and what they made of this piece.
Once we had finished cleaning, I very politely asked everybody to please keep the corridor clean and to use ashtrays instead of throwing their cigarette butts all over the place. The following morning, when we were let out into the corridor, I was quite i
mpressed that they seemed to have listened to me. It was a small victory, but a victory nevertheless for the one non-smoker among them.
Prisoners generally tend to be very selfish. They think only of themselves, and some of the guys I was obliged to live with were really very dirty. I think I washed my hands about 100 times a day. I don’t know if I suffer from OCD, but the filth in Klong Prem really got to me. I would even wash my hands after shaking somebody else’s.
After our major clean-up, there were hardly any cat shit deposits along the corridor walls, but every few days I took to sprinkling washing powder along there just to make sure. The responsibility for cleaning the corridor was the key-boy’s, and he was also in charge of opening and closing the cells every day. First he would sweep the area, and then he would take an old blanket, roll it up and put water on it. Then he would push it along the floor with a T-shaped, wedged broom. This blanket was so dirty and smelly I’m quite sure it was never washed. Eventually, I took it upon myself to start cleaning the corridors in the afternoons.
Every morning, my cell and one of the Big Legs’ cells would be opened first, and there was always cat shit somewhere along the corridor. I would pick it up with a piece of cardboard and some tissue (as the Thais call toilet paper) and afterwards, clean the area with a rag and some washing powder. Then I would sprinkle water all over the corridor and, using the blanket and broom method, would start mopping. I would work from the outside, along the edge of the square, working my way to the middle. When the key-boy cleaned the cat shit, the problem was that he always left some residue behind. The urine he never wiped up at all, so he would simply mop it and spread it around the corridor. Then, once he was finished, he would just fold the wet blanket up and hang it in one of the empty cells, which I called the spare room. The blanket smelt disgusting, and its damp stench turned into an intolerable odour. I don’t think there is anything worse that a mixture of stale urine and cat shit, but the key-boy seemed completely immune. He would perform the same mopping ritual every morning without even the twitch of a nostril. I couldn’t understand it.