There were nine of us in my class and the tables were laid out in a ‘U’ shape. I sat on the right side of the ‘U’, at the very end – next to Arnas. The teacher stood to my right and in front of a whiteboard that was propped up against the wall. On the other side of the ‘U’, opposite me, sat Yusuf from Sudan. He was a big black guy who was chubby, broad and tall. I used to call him ‘Biggie’ because he dressed like the notorious gangster rapper: wearing Eckō tracksuits, Yankees baseball caps and plastic, gold-coloured chunky jewellery. Biggie really liked a pair of Nike tracksuit bottoms that I owned, and every few days he’d ask me if he could buy them. I said to him, ‘If I sell these to you I might have to come to school in my boxers!’ I only had them and another pair.
Next to him sat William from Nigeria, who’d just discovered that he’d have to serve a six-year sentence. On his first day in the Avlona school, one of the teachers asked him how he felt about his guilty verdict. With a straight face, he said to the class that he wanted to kill himself. Almost every morning when we walked in, Arnas would approach him, shake his hand and say, ‘William, it’s good to see you’re still alive my friend.’
To William’s right was Emmanuel from Kenya, who made it very clear to the class that he wanted to bomb the whole of Greece. Then there was Dmitry from Russia, who had a funny eyebrow twitch and turned up one day covered from head to toe in bruises. Next to him sat two inmates from Iraq whose names I can’t remember, then Povilas from Lithuania – who like Arnas was caught trafficking drugs.
The school day lasted only a few hours. Lessons were about fifteen minutes long with a fifteen-minute ‘cigarette’ break in between them. We had an art lesson, whereby we were handed a piece of paper and asked to draw something. I wrote the words ‘injustice, no logic’ in big, shadowed, bubble writing. I showed it to the teacher, who nodded and said, ‘Yes … very nice.’ We had other lessons, like maths, English, music and PE. During our first maths lesson, the teacher wrote the number 666 on the whiteboard and asked the class whether we knew the number that came next. I was absolutely shocked because not all of the inmates in the class knew that is was 667. One guy thought the answer was 777; another thought it was 6666. I didn’t think that they were morons – I felt sorry for them because they had never been taught something so simple. We also had a biology lesson, where the teacher handed out photocopied A4 pieces of paper with a picture of a chicken and a picture of a rock on it. The topic of the lesson was to discuss whether the chicken or the rock was alive, and Emmanuel from Kenya claimed that they were both alive because ‘chickens move and rocks grow into mountains’.
It’s strange to think that none of us could count when we were young children; imagine if we’d never had the chance to learn. None of us knew about tectonic plates in the Earth and how mountains are formed – we learned it in school! My time in Avlona’s school was an eye-opener; it made me realise that I’d taken for granted the fact that I’d been educated – and I’d underestimated the extent to which many people in the world are not. In a similar way to my conversation with Georgios (which made me contemplate our opinions on certain issues if we’d swapped lives), I wondered what life would be like if I’d led one similar to Emmanuel. Would I honestly assume that rocks are alive? Could I honestly not figure out that the number 667 comes after 666? If Emmanuel had my life and went to my school, maybe he’d have a PhD by now – a higher qualification than I’ll ever have!
Journal extract – Day 106 – 3 November 2009
One of the teachers from the ‘school’ called George teaches us maths. He has recently started to make it more challenging for me, which is good. Not just 2 + 2 = 4, but fractions and powers etc. … things that are easy but you have to work out, they actually stimulate a few brain cells! He is a legend – a very good guy. He has been researching my case. He printed the Daily Mail news article about me while I was in here so I could see it. Today he lent me an English book about positivity and accepting change. I’m going to finish the book I am on now and start reading it.
By this stage I’d read many books and was a master of the pegleri beads. I could twirl them between my fingers from the pinky all the way to the thumb without even looking or thinking about it. My Greek had improved and I’d taught myself how to cut hair. My dad had bought me a cheap pair of hair clippers that were allowed into the prison once they’d been through security. He insisted on it because of something that I’d told him during our previous visit. One morning I’d woken up to a buzzing noise, which ended up being a fly caught in my beard. I hadn’t shaved since being in London and he told me that I looked like Hagrid from the Harry Potter series. I shaved my beard with the clippers and asked Costakis (the guy who could take his own blood) if he could cut my hair. I told him exactly what to do, but he just shaved my entire head without telling me that he would. It was such a transformation that the guards barely even recognised me.
I knew not to lend the clippers to anyone, because they would disappear instantly and no one would have ‘any clue what happened to them’. Instead, I would offer to cut someone’s hair when they needed a trim – so I became the prison barber for a little while, even though I’d never cut hair in my life. I improved after my first few haircut attempts (which weren’t very good). I would use a comb and the hair clippers with no protection to trim the hair because I didn’t have any scissors. For the guys who had been in Parartima for longer than me, the haircut was free. I would charge a €4 telephone card to any new inmates, then I would go and call one of my friends in London, or Riya, who I would then call three times a week. It was a great feeling being able to contact them. They would always be shocked at how positive I sounded because I always made an effort to sound upbeat on the phone. They would never know how much my heart would break as soon as the conversation was over.
I was moved from cell five after confronting Christos for stealing a packet of my cigarettes. It led to a heated testosterone-fuelled argument that had been waiting to happen for some time. I’m not an aggressive person, but the build-up of frustration got the better of me. I lost my temper and called him a prick when I found out, so he gave me a stinging punch to the face and cut my eye with his silver ring. I started to breathe heavily as though I was going to explode, but considering that I’d been wrongfully charged with a violent crime, and that I could be transferred to Korydallos maximum-security prison with just one phone call – I took a deep breath and didn’t fight back. I admit that it was difficult to control myself, but I knew that the Archi Fylakas wouldn’t have hesitated to pass on information of violent behaviour to the judges, and probably exaggerate the story. The prosecution would be more than happy to use anything against me to defame my character.
With a bloody and bruised eye, I exhaled and unclenched my fist. Locked in a cell for hours on end, we were in each other’s faces for far too long; it was unhealthy. Our minds were polluted with the stresses of our pending court cases; they were constantly in our heads, desperately finding ways to escape. Sometimes it was impossible to bear because we had no privacy. I genuinely liked Christos. It was inevitable for conflicts to happen between us, but I wouldn’t allow them to escalate to violence. It wasn’t me, and a packet of Winston Classic cigarettes wasn’t worth the potential consequences.
I wasn’t a roufianos like my ex-cellmate Yiannis was; I just asked if I could move cell and didn’t give the Archi Fylakas a reason. I must have caught him on a good day. He ended up moving me into cell one with Jamal, a Tanzanian man called Nico, and Arnas, which was lucky because he’d become a very good friend of mine. I slept on the top bunk above Jamal, which was next to a long barred window. It had a wooden shutter, but half of it wouldn’t close at all.
Journal extract – Day 115 – 12 November 2009
The weather is getting worse. It’s actually freezing, and sleeping next to an open window is painful. It’s raining, which means my entire bed is soaked – it’s so irritating. There’s no heating, no hot water, just a thin blanket to sleep with,
which is now very wet. Recently I have been sleeping in my Nike tracksuit bottoms (lucky I didn’t sell them to Biggie), socks, a hoodie and a woolly hat because at night the temperature of the cell is maybe … 2°C? It’s not going to get warmer, only colder as we start getting into December. Fuck, my hands are so cold I can’t even write properly. I’m dreading having a shower.
Every day I made a request to the guards to fix the window shutter, but I would get the same answer: ‘avrio – tomorrow’. There were a few nights when I would wake up in the early hours of the morning, shivering because the bottom half of my body was covered in inches of snow. My clothes would absorb the icy slush, causing serious flu. Having the flu in a smoke-contaminated cell is awful, and it doesn’t help when having to sleep on a wet mattress next to an open window. To make it even worse, we had no hot water. I told my mum about the situation when she came to visit me. She became angry and casually mentioned it to the guards on her way out, which I’d warned her not to do because I’d been held in the best wing of the complex for my entire incarceration. It was obvious that they didn’t like it when inmates’ mothers complained. They saw us as men, and if you’re a man whose mum fights your battles for you, you’re a malakas.
The next day I was told by one of the guards that the Archi Fylakas wanted to talk to me. I was escorted into his office. ‘Thelete zesto nero? – You want hot water?’ he asked.
I didn’t know how to respond. ‘Erm…’
‘Why don’t I just move you to the other sector with all the Albanians … or you can go to Korydallos. Ehoun zesto nero ekei – They have hot water there,’ he said.
I still didn’t know what to say; I was speechless.
‘Fiye – Leave,’ he demanded.
Being transferred was a constant worry of mine, and it didn’t help that Jamal overheard me telling Arnas that I’d turned twenty-one. Maybe I was paranoid, but I didn’t trust Jamal at all; I feared that he would tell the guards and I didn’t want them to be reminded that I was technically too old for Avlona. The management were lazy and sloppy, so if I attracted as little attention as possible, I would fade into the background and be forgotten about until my trial. The problem was that the guards were well aware of my presence – and after what the Archi Fylakas had said – it was clear that he was already pissed off with me.
Journal extract – Day 118 – 15 November 2009
The other day I saw the Archi Fylakas beat the crap out of an Albanian prisoner. I knew it happened, I’ve heard it but never seen it. He was walking behind the prisoner and slapping him round the head. When the boy turned around he punched the boy round the face, again and again. Then another guard, who had nothing to do with it, saw and must have thought, oh yes, something fun to do. He jumped in and started punching him as well. I don’t know what the guy did, but he was beaten pretty badly.
26
* * *
IT DOESN’T MATTER HOW LONG IT TAKES
* * *
It was a chilly December day but the sky was a cloudless blue. School had just finished so I walked back to my cell and was locked in for the afternoon. I lay on my bunk and started to copy out a letter that I’d planned to give to Riya. She was flying out to Greece and I wanted her to have something tangible to take back to the UK. My handwriting needed to be as neat as possible, unlike the illegible draft that I’d scribbled on to one of the back pages of my notebook. I managed to persuade Zoe the social worker to allow three open visits with her, and it was all I’d been thinking about.
I heard an ypallilos slot the master key into the door and unlock it from the outside. It didn’t seem right; it was slightly too early for lock-in time to be over. He opened the door and walked into the cell. ‘Symeou. Ta pragmata sas, kato – Your things, down.’
What things of mine are down? I remember thinking. I didn’t understand what he meant exactly. ‘Ti pragmata – What things?’ I asked.
‘Parei ola ta pragmata sas kato sto grafeio – Take all of your things down to the office,’ he abruptly elaborated.
My heart began to palpitate. ‘What for?’ I asked.
‘Etsei einai – That’s how it is.’
‘What do you mean, “etsei einai”? Why am I taking all of my things to the office!?’
‘Etsei eipe o Archi Fylakas – It’s what the Chief Guard said.’
It felt like my heart was about to explode. I just wanted to be left alone so that I could finish copying out the letter I was writing.
He tried to rush me. ‘Ade pame! – Come on, let’s go!’
‘If you tell me why I have to take my things down, I will. I’m not doing it otherwise.’
He let out an irritated exhalation and left the cell, locking the metal door behind him. I heard footsteps and could see through the small peephole in the door that he’d walked out of the wing. Suddenly an eye peered back and startled me – it was Fivos, who’d been let out of his cell for his cleaning job.
‘What the fuck’s going on reh?’ he said through the door.
‘The ypallilos wants me to take all of my shit down to the office.’
‘Maybe they are releasing you … freedom!’ he said.
It did cross my mind. We’d appealed the second bail decision – perhaps I’d won. I shook my head and waived the passing thought. ‘They’re sending me to Korydallos. I know it.’ I had a gut feeling.
He was silent for a moment as if there were no words to say. ‘Gamise ta – Fuck. Hopefully not … wait, don’t go anywhere!’ he blurted before being dragged to another wing to clean.
I nervously walked up and down the cell floor – back and forth. ‘Won’t you pack your things?’ asked Nico, the Tanzanian man who lay on his bunk.
‘Fuck that, I need to know where I’m going first,’ I said.
I sat on the plastic chair and lit a cigarette – my leg shook with apprehension. I’d always known the transfer was a possibility, but I would never have been prepared for one of Europe’s worst maximum-security prisons. The ypallilos returned. ‘Why haven’t you packed your things!? You have two minutes!’ he said.
‘Two minutes until what!? I told you I’m not going until you tell me. Am I being released?’ I asked frantically.
‘Ohi – No.’
‘Am I being taken to Korydallos?’
Before he opened his mouth, there was a brief moment when I sensed his eyes acknowledge the agony in mine.
‘Nai – Yes,’ he answered.
He awkwardly looked away for a fraction of a second. I knew that the slight glance was his way of distancing himself from accountability for the decision.
I couldn’t speak and my body froze. It was the same feeling as when I first discovered that I’d be sent to a Greek prison. I was alone and terrified in Zakynthos Police Station all over again. I’d finally begun to settle. Four months doesn’t sound like a long time to live somewhere, but it feels like far longer when living in the wing of a prison. I couldn’t bear the thought of being transferred to Korydallos Prison; I couldn’t accept it as true – anywhere but there. I’d built up an idea of it in my head and it was like being told that I was about to go to hell on Earth.
‘Collect all your things, you have one minute now,’ uttered the ypallilos before walking down the hallway. He unlocked all of the cell doors in Parartima and inmates stepped out into the corridor to see what all the fuss was about.
My hands were trembling and I was forced to gather my things while trying my hardest to stop my eyes from flooding with fear. Being transferred to Korydallos was a nightmare of mine and it was becoming real. I could feel an emotional headache building up. It was cruel to give me only minutes to prepare for the move; I’d built a life for myself in Avlona. They must have known about the transfer for days but never told me a thing. As much as it hurt, I had no choice but to do as the ypallilos said. He walked back down to the office to wait for me, so I took the opportunity to quickly call my mum in a panic. It was visiting day, so she was on the train heading to Avlona with my auntie Geo
rgina.
‘Oh my God, they’re moving him to an adult prison,’ I heard her blurt to Georgina. ‘Andrew, tell them to wait … I’ll literally be there in five minutes to talk to them,’ she said softly.
‘Why would they listen to me? They don’t care.’
I’d taken too long to pack my things. The ypallilos had come back to Parartima to rush me. I knew that if I didn’t pack my things they’d force me to leave and I wouldn’t have any belongings with me. Everything was so fast and I had hardly any time to think. I quickly threw my stuff into the Nike sports bag that I’d been living out of for the previous four months. There were some socks and underwear soaking in a bucket that I’d been in the process of washing, but I had to leave them behind because they were soapy and wet. I handed Arnas the self-help book that was lent to me. ‘Make sure you give this back to George, the maths teacher.’ I put my hand out to shake his.
He took my hand and then wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me towards him. We embraced in a hug and he patted me on the back. ‘Don’t worry, man, it will be exactly the same as here. You’ll be free soon. Into the Wild, remember?’
‘I remember,’ I stuttered.
‘It doesn’t matter how long it takes to happen, all that matters is that it will,’ said Arnas. It was a phrase that I’ll never forget. He’d become one of my best friends and I never saw him again. I didn’t even have the chance to say a proper goodbye to Fivos. The time we’d all spent together in Avlona is something that we’ll always share. We were never meant to cross paths, but we had, and in some strange way, I’m glad that we had. I never would have believed that leaving Avlona would be so emotional.
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