It was evening and I’d just collected my food; the process of distributing it to the inmates had gone quite smoothly. I remember that it was a Sunday, because on Sundays the food in Korydallos was just cold, boiled, white rice on its own with either a pot of plain yoghurt or a banana on the side. On this particular evening they were serving bananas and there were a few left over. Inmates began to fight their way to the front to grab one and it turned into a mini riot. I watched a group of inmates roll around on the floor, kicking and punching each other. A Greek man in his sixties was standing next to me; his grey, bearded jaw had dropped and was quivering slightly at the sight.
‘They’re like a bunch of monkeys,’ I said to him.
The man nodded in agreement. ‘Son, these people haven’t been brought up; they’ve been dragged up,’ he said. His name was Stefanos and I would see him outside in the courtyard on most days. We had a spot at the back of the courtyard where we’d sit for hours with an American Greek/Venezuelan called Tom and a new inmate called Mahmood who was Iranian. I remember it so vividly – I would spin my pegleri and fill my lungs with cigarette smoke. The warm sun shone on my face and I would squint my eyes. ‘Rich in vitamin D,’ Stefanos would say, as though it would counteract the effects of what we were breathing. We’d pass the time with idle conversation; they would tell me stories about their lives – I would tell them about my life in north London.
Stefanos was Greek, but told me that he’d lived in several different countries. At one stage he’d lived in Golders Green in London for a while and had worked for the company IBM for decades. He said that he’d started off washing their windows when he was a teenager and ended up running a department years later. I can’t remember exactly why he was on remand in Korydallos; it was for some sort of white-collar crime to do with a property.
The external wall of Alpha’s courtyard was the only thing separating us from the outside world. Looking over the barbed wire we could see blocks of flats with balconies where civilians would be sitting. ‘We’re 10 feet away from freedom,’ Stefanos said.
‘Yep, and they’re 10 feet away from prison! They don’t exactly have a sea-view,’ I replied.
‘One step out of line and they’ll be right here with us!’ he said.
Mahmood overheard our conversation and joined in. ‘Man, they don’t even have to do anything! If the police pick you out for no reason, they will be right here with us!’ he said. Mahmood looked a bit like my cousin Andrew Demetriou – one of the ‘Bum Squad’ members who’d worked towards the Justice for Symeou campaign almost two years earlier. Mahmood stood accused of human trafficking, but claimed that he was the one being smuggled into the EU. Apparently he’d had to flee Iran illegally to run away from dodgy policemen who wanted him dead. He’d caught them on video doing something illegal and sent it to CNN, and then was threatened by the officers because he’d exposed them. When making it into Greece, the police had caught both him and the other illegal immigrants. He had a passport, lots of cash and nice clothes. It made no sense to the Greek police; a man with a passport who could afford to enter the country legally would never need to be smuggled into the country. They accused him of being the smuggler and he faced life imprisonment.
Tom was from Chicago, and was on holiday in Greece when he was arrested. I used to call him ‘big man’ because he was absolutely huge – not fat, just very broad and tall. He told me that his name was Athanasios, but people called him Sakis – short for Athanasakis – but went by ‘Tom’.
‘How many names do you have?’ I joked. It was the first time we’d met in the courtyard.
‘Only three! What’s your name buddy,’ he asked, putting his hand out to shake mine.
My hand met his. ‘Andrew, but people call me Dave; you can call me Ben,’ I kidded.
‘Nice to meet’cha, Ben.’
I chuckled. ‘I’m joking with you, man, it’s Andrew.’
He seemed like a nice guy, but he would often say very odd things. For example, one day he said, ‘I think I need a haircut.’ Other than five flimsy hairs that he’d combed over – his head was as bald as a bowling ball.
‘Ha, good one.’
‘What d’you mean?’ he asked – his face was straight.
‘You said you need a haircut, you were joking – it was funny.’
‘I do need a haircut, my hair’s getting a bit too long,’ he said as the reflection of the sun bounced off his bald head. ‘But the sides and back of your head are completely shaved,’ I said.
‘Yeah, I use a razor for that.’
‘So you don’t need a haircut,’ I suggested.
‘I was talking about the top of my head, dude.’
I couldn’t help myself. ‘But you’re completely bald,’ I said.
He became defensive. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Why do you leave those little strands of hair? Why don’t you just shave them off?’ I asked him.
‘There’s something about a bald head that I don’t like,’ he said.
Tom told me that he was in prison because a woman had accused him of threatening her with a knife and stealing her purse – he claimed that he was totally innocent. A few days later he casually brought up his case again, only the story had changed; suddenly he was being wrongly accused of threatening a man with a gun. It didn’t really matter to me if he was innocent or not, but he could at least stick to the same story.
The four of us (Stefanos, Tom, Mahmood and I) were acquainted with a number of weird inmates who would often sit with us in the courtyard, which was different from Gamma’s. There was a small patch of grass and a tree, and inmates had created their own gym equipment out of water bottles that they’d filled with rocky sand and wrapped in bed sheets. The rest of the courtyard was a huge rectangle, and, like Gamma, it was just made of grey rocks and gravel that cats would use as a litter tray.
There was one day in particular, when a funny-looking, short Albanian guy sat with us – he reminded me of ‘Dr Nick’ from The Simpsons. He started complaining that there are no virgin girls left in the world because they all have sex so young these days. He said that when he was released, he would lock up a ten-year-old girl and wait for her to grow up so that he could marry her.
‘Yeah, she’s gonna love you for that, mate. You’ll make a great husband,’ I said.
‘Man, I’m serious,’ he insisted. ‘How else will I find a virgin? I don’t want my wife to be ruined!’
Mahmood let out an irritated breath and shook his head. ‘You’re a very sick man you know.’
There was also an eccentric Greek guy called Kyriacos who had thinning hair and a lazy eye. He was brought up in Germany so he spoke with a strange muddle of the two accents. Every few days he would sit next to me and say, ‘Hey, man, you need to give me your email address.’ He would constantly propose that I fly to Munich when we were released and go to Oktoberfest together, like best mates. One day he brought a piece of paper and a pen into the courtyard to take my email address. I was put on the spot, and didn’t want him to email me. At the same time, I couldn’t refuse to give it to him. I wrote [email protected]. ‘Thanks, man, I’ll email you. I can’t wait … hey, I was just thinking, you want to go do some prezza – heroin?’
‘No no, I’m OK my friend,’ I said.
I tried to spend as much time out of the cell as possible because it had become a drug den – but the courtyard was also full of nutters. Tom and I started to play the card game UNO on the middle floor hallway. Normal playing cards weren’t allowed in prison because it encouraged gambling – even though backgammon, chess, dominos, UNO and any other game under the sun was perfectly acceptable. Several other inmates started to notice us playing and would join in on the game. Before I knew it, a friendly game between the two of us had become a game with eight players who would gamble for quite a lot of money. It had stopped being fun because things would get heated. Arguments would happen and fights would start – they would try to involve Tom and me because we’d s
tarted the game. One guy even turned to me and said, ‘Den mou edose ta tsigara mou akoma! – He hasn’t given me my cigarettes yet!’
‘Kai einai to provlima mou? – And that’s my problem?’ I asked him. He seemed to think that I was the high commissioner of the game, like a croupier in a casino. Tom and I stopped playing with them, and even weeks later it was still going on without us.
Journal extract – Day 260 – 6 April 2010
I thought I would write a little bit in here, it’s been a while. I haven’t been thinking about the trial too much and I’m glad it’s now less than two months away. The days are passing and I’m OK. I just miss everyone too much, I really do. It’s been a long time and being held captive makes it feel as though it’s been twice as long. Sometimes I forget that everyone is still living their lives out there, it’s a crazy feeling. I was speaking with Mahmood and he said ‘pretend you have just got into prison, forget the past nine months’. It’s funny, I actually say that to myself sometimes.
I received a letter from Arnas yesterday. He didn’t reply for ages because he went to court in Rhodes. He said that they gave him twelve years. I feel so sorry for the guy.
Things in my cell started to become worse than they already were. Costas, Zafeiris and Georgios were hiding half a kilo of heroin in our cell that belonged to somebody else. I thought it was ridiculous; what moron would give that amount of drugs to three addicts? It was like throwing a rump steak into a room full of stray dogs and asking them to keep it safe. Every day I would watch them take out the heroin that didn’t belong to them and snort lines of the stuff. Costas managed to get hold of some Depon (effervescent paracetamol), which they burnt and cut the drugs with. The person who owned the drugs couldn’t have been that stupid, and my cellmates weren’t exactly using scales to measure whether the drugs had the same weight after cutting them! Their plan was destined to backfire, but yet again, they couldn’t help themselves. It was a time bomb waiting to explode. To say that the situation made me uncomfortable would be an understatement.
‘You won’t say a thing!’ Zafeiris exclaimed.
‘Say a thing about what?’ I asked. However much I didn’t like the situation, my eyes and ears were shut in prison – as always.
Zafeiris struck my left cheek with his right palm and I let out a surprised wail as it stung on impact. ‘You think this is funny!? I see you talking with the Albanian. Don’t think we haven’t seen you,’ he shouted.
The three of them had surrounded me. I’d been living with these guys for months now; they didn’t intimidate me at all. They were losers. ‘You’re stealing this guy’s drugs! I’m not gonna say shit, but he’ll figure it out himself. You know that, right!?’
One night, when they were asleep, my heart began to race and I was plagued with insomnia. I didn’t know if I was being paranoid or not, but they were acting in a way that led me to believe that they would let me take the blame if they were to get caught with the drugs. I heard things that I couldn’t translate, but I was sure that they had it planned. During the days I would notice subtle smiles and looks between them. There were three of them and one of me; it would be three against one. I felt vulnerable, exposed and alone. I couldn’t tell any of my family because they were already stressed out enough. I wanted to move cell but I had no excuse to. I couldn’t tell the guards the truth because I wasn’t a rat. Mahmood, Stefanos and Tom were in cells that were full. If I requested to be moved, I could have been lumbered with murderers and rapists who were even worse than these guys! Sometimes they were cool, and we’d sit down in the cell laughing and joking. It was all so confusing. After a week of my pillow absorbing my tears, I’d decided that the best thing to do was wait until I was transferred to Patras. I just had to live with it for a little while longer.
Journal extract – Day 299 – 15 May 2010
My chest is full of anxiety, I need to relax. I don’t want to be here any more, I want to go home. I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home. But guess what, I can’t, so I’m going to have to stop being a dick and just accept it.
I can’t believe it’s been 300 days tomorrow. I’m fed up of not being free. I’m fed up of it all. I’m fed up of Tupperware containers and plastic cutlery. I’m fed up of food coupons and squatting to shit at specific times. I’m fed up of living in a cell with heroin-addicted thieves. I’m fed up of living out of a sports bag. I’m fed up of having no privacy. I’m fed up of dirty showers. I’m fed up of phone cards. I’m fed up of seeing my family through a dirty window for half an hour. I’m fed up with hearing Greek. I’m fed up of Greece. I’m fed up of being locked up. I’m fed up of eating shit prison food full of spit and bogeys. I’m fed up of sleeping on a one-inch-thick mattress. I’m fed up of being wrongly accused of killing someone. I’m fed up of not being happy. I’m fed up of having a headache. I’m fed up of having to write in this stupid fucking journal like a twelve-year-old girl. I’m fed up of reading. I’m fed up of stressing out. I’m fed up of being depressed. I’m fed up of having anxiety. I’m fed up of everything.
OK I think I’ve established that I’m fed up. I feel so frickin’ weak because I can never let my guard down; it’s exhausting. I’m tired; I want to be free again. I don’t deserve this shit.
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TO FLY OR TO FALL?
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It was ridiculous: my family was expected to pay for all of the defence witnesses to fly to Greece and for their accommodation. If a person in a similar situation to me couldn’t afford to do so, the trial would be completely one-sided. I spoke to Sophie on the phone – she told me that she’d decided to fund-raise for the trial. She organised an event in north London with singers and food, where many people turned up to support our cause. I’m lucky to have an older sister who would go to so much effort. I’d always looked up to her growing up – and I still did. She raised thousands of pounds. To be in a foreign prison with so much support back home was overwhelming.
Journal extract – Day 307 – 23 May 2010
Today I went outside and had a walk with American Tom. He always says things that make me feel like shit, like, ‘Wow, dude, aren’t you nervous? This is it, innocent or guilty!’
I always try to stop myself from justifying my case, but would end up saying something like, ‘I’ll prove my innocence, the evidence speaks for itself.’
Then he would say, ‘Yeh but … dude … come on! This is Greece! What if something fucked up happens and they find you guilty?’
Why is this prick trying to stress me out? Is there a possibility that he’s right? Could I be found guilty for this crime I didn’t commit? It’s the question that brings on my anxiety, and he was just tapping at it and trying to fuck with my head – like poking a bear.
Journal extract – Day 308 – 24 May 2010
Last night I had a massive argument with Costas because he said that Zafeiris wanted to sleep on my bottom bunk and I sleep on the top. I asked him why, and he said that it was something to do with Zafeiris’s head being injured. I said, ‘No, he steals from me, why would I let him sleep on my bed?’ We got into a huge argument about it and he called me a murderer again. Zafeiris is being cold with me now but I don’t care because he’s a tosser. Today he said to me, ‘I’m going to kill you and cut you into small pieces.’ I said, ‘Cool, you can make souvlakia [kebabs].’ You just don’t know who these people are. I’m living with strangers who are criminals.
Journal extract – Day 314 – 30 May 2010
I’ve finished Jeremiah in the Bible, and after I’ve finished writing in here I’m going to start the next book. Going to try to have the Old Testament finished before Friday so that I can start the New Testament in Patras. It hasn’t made me feel religious in any way, it’s just interesting to read and learn.
I’m worrying about Patras now … but what will be will be. I just need to visualise what will happen, remember what Arnas said – it doesn’t matter how long it takes to happen, all tha
t matters is that it will. Visualise the future: I leave prison with no handcuffs and I hug everybody. We go back to the hotel, or wherever they are staying. We sit down and talk for ages. I have an amazing shower. We go to a restaurant and have a delicious meal. We have a few drinks and a great sleep that night on a real bed. Wow, this is making me happy and emotional. OK, skip a little while. I’m on the plane. I’m very excited. We land in London, I get off the plane and smell the fresh British air. We see all our family and friends at the airport waiting and we all hug. I see Riya there and I give her the biggest hug, I pick her up off the ground. This is really making me feel good because I know it’s going to happen. I just need to keep thinking about it. I’ve gone through the hardest parts, now it’s just about getting over the final hurdle. I’m so close. I am proud of myself for getting through this.
Now … I can get through this last stage. I don’t fear prison any more. If anyone in Patras gives me grief I know how to deal with it. I don’t think anyone will. Be a man. You can do it. Just remember to think these phrases and keep repeating them:
I can do this.
I am a man.
I am innocent.
I am strong.
I don’t give a fuck.
On 31 May I was transferred to Patras Prison and it was one of the worst transfers that I’d experienced. It was early morning and I heard my name being called out over the speaker. I shivered. This is it, I thought. I packed all of my things and said goodbye to my junkie cellmates. ‘How will I know what happened to you?’ Zafeiris asked.
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