Extradited

by Andrew Symeou

  He threw his hands in the air, as though he was surrendering. ‘I was thinking you might need a job! I’m asking all my friends. You don’t want it? OK,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck this,’ I said, and walked out. I couldn’t take it any more. My eyes swelled.

  He followed me into the hallway. ‘Reh Andrea come and tell me what’s wrong. You look fucked up, let’s have a coffee.’ He put his arm around me and walked me back into cell thirty-three.

  I was given no choice but to sit down again. ‘It’s my Symvoulio – I’m not getting out of prison for a long time. The police told lies; I might even go down for twenty years and I don’t need people like you trying to turn me into a fucking drug dealer.’

  ‘You’re right, I just see a young guy like you in here … you don’t know it but you have balls … and I trust you,’ he said with his hand on my shoulder. ‘I won’t make you do it, there are many others who would.’ He sat down and racked up two lines of heroin on the table.

  ‘Cool,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I can ask my friends Stelios and Thoma if you want.’

  ‘I don’t know them, I don’t trust them.’ He snorted the line closest to him and handed me the segment of a plastic straw. I took it in my hand and looked at the line of heroin in front of me. Two inches long; a mixture of fine brown powder and a few crystallised clumps. In prison – in that moment – I wasn’t myself. I’d allowed my environment to slowly consume who I was. It wasn’t me; it’s as though I’d forgotten my own identity and I was just another prisoner. I don’t take heroin; why would I ever take heroin? At what point in my life would I have been associated with people who took heroin? My life was fine; I had a lovely girlfriend and good friends. I was happy, then it turned to shit and I was forced to leave my home and live in Korydallos prison instead. The world was fucked up and my life was on the verge of ruin. I’d been dealing with the wrongful accusation for a year and a half and it was all too much to endure. I put the straw up my right nostril, held my left nostril closed, pressed the end of the straw against the tip of the line, took a big sniff and followed it to the other end. It burnt the inside of my nose like fire and the tang of chemicals drizzled down the back of my throat. I swallowed; it tasted like bile. I put another cigarette between my lips. Apollo lit it for me.

  ‘You play tavli?’ he asked.

  I could feel myself welling up. I hid it well. ‘Nah, I’m gonna go.’

  ‘Any time, you know this,’ he said.

  I walked back to cell forty-nine – a pathetic walk of shame that was becoming heavier with each step. Thoma and Stelios were asleep, but Ashmul was nowhere to be seen; he was probably with his Bangladeshi friends in one of the cells upstairs. I sat on my bunk. My head felt dazed from my racing heart. I told myself to forget about it and smoked a cigarette. My eyes started to stream because of what I’d just done – I was ashamed of myself. Everything became weighty, as though time itself had been diluted. I collapsed backwards with my feet still on the floor. I sunk deeper and deeper into the mattress and my body was overwhelmed with a warm chemical bliss. My mind and body separated – my body was sedated while my mind was lost at the edge of consciousness, a tranquil mishmash of lucid dreams and clouded thoughts.

  I don’t know how many hours had passed. I woke up to a song on Stelios’s radio that would play every evening called ‘Opa Opa’. I stumbled over to the toilet, but couldn’t urinate even though I needed to. Instead I vomited; it was mainly liquid because I hadn’t eaten.

  ‘Ipiate? – Did you drink/snort?’ asked Stelios.

  ‘Ohi – No,’ I lied.

  Journal extract – Day 187 – 22 January 2010

  Yesterday was a bad day, but today I’m feeling better. I was a dick. Now I’m just trying to think positively. Everything may happen for a reason. Maybe not making bail means this whole fucked-up ordeal will end sooner, even if it means staying in prison. It’s all cool, you are OK, Andrew. Things could be so much worse. Imagine if all the evidence implicated you and you had no way of discrediting it … or no way of proving your innocence. You can … and you will. You had a bit of a slump but it’s time to pick yourself back up. You just have to carry on.

  OK, it’s only been one hour since I wrote that last paragraph. I was happily eating my soggy pasta and suddenly there was a lot of shouting outside in the hall. We all went outside to see what was going on. It was the biggest fight/war I’ve ever seen in my life. About 100 prisoners were beating the crap out of each other; one African guy was on the ground getting very badly beaten. They whipped him with hoses and beat him with what looked like some kind of poles. He was screaming and there was blood everywhere. The guards couldn’t do anything, it was too hectic. Oh my God, that wasn’t the end. It started to die down a bit, and then suddenly someone threw a huge bin full of rubbish from the third floor to the ground floor. Again, herds of prisoners were shouting, screaming and suddenly everyone was throwing pots, pans, chairs, tables and bins from all floors. One guy even managed to rip a telephone off the wall on the third floor and threw it down to the ground floor. I’m still in shock. I think it was an Albanian/African war. Crazy … They just locked us back up early because it was getting way out of hand. The floor was covered in blood. When one Albanian gets into a fight, they all fight. When one African gets into a fight, all the Africans fight. It is all about race. Today wasn’t just a series of fights, it was a war and I don’t think it’s over. I’m going to speak to the social worker and try to be moved to a better section of the prison. This is too crazy.

  Journal extract – Day 188 – 23 January 2010

  It’s been exactly six months since the day I was extradited, and what a day it’s been. We’ve been locked up all day because of the riots. They only opened the doors for food, but had locked off all the gates, segregating all the floors. I went down at 11 a.m. to collect food and the war started again on the middle floor. At least twenty of the Albanians on the ground floor were rioting behind the bars that led to the stairs – kicking and smashing the bars with wooden table and chair legs. They were screaming ‘Anixetin porta! – Open the door!’ They were screaming and shouting. Another riot was happening right above me. About ten guards ran upstairs to stop it. A man was thrown down the stairs to my left and looked like he could even have been dead. He landed in front of my feet covered with blood from head to toe. I was still standing in shock with my Tupperware container and food coupon in hand, when one of the big bins came flying from the top floor, covering all the Albanian men on the ground floor with rubbish and hitting one on the head. Two guards carried the prisoner who was drenched in blood out of Gamma wing.

  The main Albanian guy who was screaming and bashing the bars was a friend of my cellmate Stelios. I have no idea why he was in prison, but he would often come to our cell for a cigarette and coffee. The man was absolutely huge, at least six and a half feet tall. He was hefty but muscular, and it seemed as though he could have crushed my head with his bare hands. Regardless of his intimidating size, he had a non-threatening face that would normally remind me of Winnie-the-Pooh. I’d say he was probably about thirty years old and had light brown hair that looked almost ginger from certain angles. He’d nicknamed me ‘Hondroulli’, which could be used to mean ‘chubby’. But he was chubby too, so I’d say ‘Ego eimai “Hondroulli Ena” kai esi eisai “Hondroulli Dyo” – I’m “Chubby One” and you’re “Chubby Two”.’ He would chuckle and high-five me, so I was very surprised when I saw him act so violently. It was like watching the smiley Disney character become a monster.

  The man who’d just been badly beaten and covered from head to toe in blood must have been a close friend of his (or maybe even a relative). Along with an army of prisoners, he screamed with passion behind the bars and continued to strike them fiercely with wooden table legs. ‘ANIXE! – OPEN!’ he screeched in a high-pitched, erratic panic. His sweat-drenched face was plastered with fury while he attempted to break open the lock of the barred gate. God knows what would have happened if he’d succe
eded; it would have been a stampede!

  I couldn’t go back up to my floor because there was a crazy riot going on. All I could do was stand at the front of the ground floor and watch in horror. A guard ran over to the bars (from the outside, where I was standing) and it seemed like he had no idea what to do because he was on his own. He tried to calm down Chubby Two and spoke to him through the bars in a way that was stern but gentle at the same time. ‘Siga, siga – Slow down/ take it easy,’ he said.

  Chubby Two was too overwhelmed to even acknowledge him. The hoarde of inmates continued to hit the bars ferociously and scream at the top of their voices in distress.

  ‘Siga! – Take it easy!’ the ypallilos yelled.

  Chubby Two gave the bars one last strike and then relaxed for a split second to take a breath. The ypallilos must have seen it as a sudden moment of vulnerability, because he fed his arms through the bars and held Chubby’s reddened face in both of his palms. It was brave of him, as he was risking his hands being hit by one of the many wooden table legs. ‘It’s OK,’ the guard said, softly, but loud enough for it to be heard over the chaotic cries of other prisoners on the ground floor. ‘Siga – Take it easy.’

  He tried to pull the guard’s hands away from his face, but the guard held onto his cheeks. ‘Anixe tin porta! – Open the door!’ said Chubby Two, but he choked up a bit as the words came out. His body relaxed but the army of inmates behind him continued to fill the wing with deep, protesting screams. Then he dropped the wooden table leg, as if giving up. He gripped onto the prison guard’s arms like a scared child holding onto a parent. He let out a loud, hysterical wail that resonated in a way that was almost operatic. Tears streamed down his cheeks and dripped onto the guard’s hands, which still held his face.

  ‘See, it’s OK, it’s OK,’ the ypallilos said.

  It all happened so fast and there was little time for me to acknowledge how it made me feel as an observer. It’s an image that’s stayed in my mind, perhaps more vividly than other memories of prison. In hindsight, it may be because I’d never seen a prisoner reveal any sign of emotion up until that point, and in the same moment, it was the first time that I’d ever witnessed an act of compassion from a prison ypallilos. They were two men from opposite ends of the spectrum: one – an Albanian inmate; the other – a Greek prison guard. In that moment, their roles in the social context of prison were almost diminished and they were just two men; one emotionally distraught; the other empathetic and courageous. It’s hard to believe that such a stressful and violent picture could also be so human and meaningful.

  Journal extract – Day 188 – 24 January 2010

  So, they opened the door for one hour this morning. I tried to call my mum but all the phones were turned off. Now they have locked us up again and said they aren’t opening the doors. So I can’t call Riya or my mum, and my mum is on her own. She is going to be thinking, why hasn’t he called? And Riya is going to be worried that something is wrong because I told her that I would call her yesterday. This is reminding me of the bad memory in Patras, locked up in the small cell for four bloody days.

  Ahhh, the guard just opened the door to give me my medicine and confirmed that there will be no telephones today because the whole of Gamma is in detention. He is a cool guy, he speaks English well. When he first saw me he said, ‘So you’re the Cypriot Londoner? My girlfriend read about your case and told me. The system is fucked up, man, just be patient and you will be fine.’

  Journal extract – Day 189 – 25 January 2010

  Still locked in the cell. Today has been slow. I started reading Kings 1 in the Bible. King David died and his son Solomon took over – also a very cool guy. They made a temple in the name of God and they describe every little dimension and detail. It was long, and I actually read it all because I’m so bored in here. I feel like I could build the temple if I had the equipment. Overall the Bible isn’t really what I thought it would be so far. Anyway, I don’t want to get into a debate about religion with myself at the moment so I will change the subject.

  It’s friggin’ cold! The cell is like a fridge and it stinks like shit. It’s been a crap day and apparently we are going to have this detention all week.

  Journal extract – Day 190 – 26 January 2010

  So, still locked up. I woke up, pulled my bag from under the bunk to change my clothes and there was a stray cat relaxing on it. He must have sneaked in and been sleeping here all night. He’s just chilling with us now. Stelios seems to be quite fond of him and has called him Marco. He has been letting Marco on his bed when he clearly has fleas. But Stelios doesn’t care, he only showers once a week, not even that.

  This morning a guard opened the door and took me to see Marios the social worker to make an application to move to Alpha wing. I hope it’s accepted now because Gamma is too much to handle.

  32

  * * *

  DAYS OF THE WEEK

  * * *

  The nights were still freezing and the blanket that I’d been sleeping with was too thin to keep me warm. My dad had bought me a thick, furry blanket, which the guards allowed me to have – so sleeping thereafter was a lot less shivery. When I received it I noticed that they’d ripped off all the edges, just in case there were drugs sewn into the finishing seam. I ended up with two blankets, so I gave Ashmul my old one because he slept with only a bed sheet. Gamma was in ‘detention’ for over a week, but on the fourth day we were allowed a few minutes in the hallway to make phone calls. I thought Ashmul was grateful that I offered him a blanket, but as soon as the cell door was unlocked, he took the blanket to his friend’s cell and swapped it for a packet of cigarettes.

  Having to live in a small, cockroach-infested cell without being allowed to leave for more than ten minutes a day was a form of slow torture – especially with Stelios moaning all the time. By the end of the week I’d learned to drown out the sound of his irritating voice and replace it with my own rambling thoughts. His constant jabbering became a mellow frequency of sound in the background. On the other hand, Stelios was entertaining sometimes, especially when he slept. He would still have his Tourette-style outbursts in his sleep; he would be snoring … then he’d fart, then mumble; ‘moushmoullo!’ or sing a short burst of random Greek songs. He was a very odd character, but had a good heart. For example, he owned a lighter case made out of kebab skewers that one of the Chinese inmates had made. It looked professionally finished, but when the lid was taken off you could see that it was really made of thin wooden sticks. The initials ‘A. S.’ were painted on one side, so he gave it to me as a gift. The only problem was that it said ‘ABDUL’ on the other side. So, whoever Abdul was – I still have his lighter case.

  During the week’s detention, the guards brought the food to our cells and we couldn’t even go for short walks or a shower. The only positive is that it gave me some more time to read and write. I’d read quite a lot of the Bible and had already finished both of Nelson Mandela’s autobiographies. I’d started to write him a letter, expressing how inspired I was by his story. I told him that the basis of my story was quite simply summarised with a Latin quote that he’d mentioned in his books, which was: ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? – Who will guard the guardians themselves?’ I don’t know what my motivation was behind writing to Nelson Mandela; a response would have been incredible. I felt as though I had a better understanding of the injustice that he faced because we were both wronged by our own governments that should have protected us. I am no Mandela, of course, and my time in prison can’t compare to the twenty-seven years of his life that he spent locked up! Nevertheless, I was certainly inspired by him.

  Journal Entry – Day 192 – 28 January 2010

  So, yesterday they randomly called my name on the speaker and told me to pack all my things. I said goodbye to Stelios and Thoma. It was odd saying goodbye to Stelios after two months; I guess it was because we got along, even though we could hardly communicate … and when we did it was the same conversation every day. I man
aged to pack all of my stuff as compactly as possible and left, forgetting my coffee shaker, my plastic food container, and even Michael’s wooden cross and the religious icon that Maria gave to me. I don’t get it, it means too much to me, why would I forget it? My mind was elsewhere. It’s OK though, I got it all back.

  I’m now living on the ground floor of Alpha in cell four with a Chinese man called Weng and two Greek men – Dimitris and Georgios (of course … what other names would they have?). Anyway, will catch up with you tomorrow.

  Love from Andrew xxx.

  PS. There are no cockroaches in this cell, thank God.

  Weng was tall and thin. His fringe was so long that it covered half of his face and I couldn’t see his eyes. One of the first things I asked him was, ‘Can you see?’

  ‘I can see,’ he said calmly. He told me that he was on remand waiting for a trial regarding a stolen credit card. He briefly explained the story to me – something about coming to Greece, meeting a guy who gave him a copy of a card … but the guy stole all of the money and Weng ended up being blamed. It all sounded pretty dodgy.

  Journal Entry – Day 193 – 29 January 2010

  My other cellmate Dimitris is actually quite a funny guy and speaks perfect English. He’s here for a drug crime from 1999, which was forgotten about. Now, in 2010, he’s been caught by police for doing wheelies on his motorbike and they realised that he was wanted for a crime from over ten years ago. What a stupid, stupid, lazy system they have over here. Georgios seems like an OK guy so far. He doesn’t speak any English, but told me that he’s an ex-heroin addict … injecting and everything. I’m assuming he’s here for drugs then!