Daniel Holmes: A Memoir From Malta's Prison: From a cage, on a rock, in a puddle...

by Daniel Holmes

  As far as I know, the conditions have not improved much although the payment increased by a fraction of a margin in 2018. In 2013, I petitioned the prison authorities and the contractor who delivered the dolls to the prison, for a room to be made available for the construction of these dolls away from the Division. Prisoners make them in filthy, back-breaking conditions perched at tables or on beds in cells.

  I collected names and signatures of the people who were on the books to make them, and I sent the petition. No reply was ever sent back. I still have a copy of that petition. The other day I looked at it and wondered about the names on that list, and which of the boys still sat on their beds, clicking that dreaded plastic in place.

  When I finally returned home in 2018, I tried to make a deal with my children to collect all the Playmobil dolls we had in the house: I told them I’d weigh it and pay them in weight and give away all the damned things to charity. I still haven’t been able to afford their price, but I am hopeful. Even now before I sat down to write this, I’ve had to brush these toys off my chair. I’m almost resigned to the fact that I will never see the last of these toys.

  I tried to calculate how many pieces I’ve assembled in total, but I stopped counting. Those numbers are far too depressing for anyone to know.

  Boredom

  Day 2,328. Everyone always asks what a typical day in prison is like. The answer is boring, very boring. Those prison stories of violence or other brawls are only snapshots of time inside.

  The truth is that you spend 16 out of 24 hours alone, to the incessant background of blaring television sets. I’m lucky in that I spent a lot of time reading and writing to distract myself, instead of just lying down on the bed and staring at the walls. Even though, when the cell door was opened for the other eight hours, I hardly went out, except to make a cup of coffee or to make a call. My family and friends on the outside used to encourage me to go to the gym or to go for a walk in the yard, but in a prison ambience it is very hard to find the energy to do more than the very basic.

  Today I have done 1,964 days in a row and I’m tired from that. That’s more than five years. There is the year between 2007 and 2008, those 365 days that I spent inside, which I was told do not count. There’s the eleven and a half years since this all started. The lives of my wife, children and family that I am separated from. I was just spared 159 days because my parents paid £1,774.64 and this week they will pay another £1,349 and save me another 111 days.

  I also know that my parents are arranging to pay the €23,000 fine soon. All this makes me tired. There are others around me who cannot pay and have to serve more years on top of their sentences. The Maltese justice system has repeatedly tried to break me and it’s so close to succeeding, but I hang on relentlessly more out of stubbornness than determination. But it makes me tired.

  There is an old saying, that a prisoner never reforms, he just gets too tired with all the struggles and runs out of any steam to continue resisting.

  Today that feels true. I only hope that one day beyond these walls, revitalised by life’s energy, the fight will once again ride my veins. Because shadowed by uniforms and the structure of confinement, today is an oppressive day and the only way I can win is to live each long second until the next.

  So, what do I do? I fight the boredom of another day. I lie on this bed, stare at the ceiling, with its damp and flaking patches, the brown and desiccated patches of years-old mosquitoes.

  The ceiling. The absolute ceiling to my boring world.

  Dante’s Inferno

  Day 2,394. June 10, 2017. It’s fresh this morning. It was so calm and still before they opened the door. It was actually quiet for a change. I love these kind of mornings, because for over 40 minutes I can sit in the solitude of my cell and read. To make it even better, I had a rare treat of an orange saved for breakfast, so for a moment it felt like I could have been anywhere. I was content.

  But that’s disturbed now. At 7.47 a.m., the whistle blast went off for so long that it was easy to tell who was the officer who had blown it. It’s that shift today. The door finally opens, and I can see people beginning to emerge from their locked nights. Everyone is quiet and concerned with private torment. Many looked as bad as I feel. Hangovers in prison are hell.

  There’s another long exhale on the whistle, which seems like it’ll never stop. It jolts all those at their doors and brings the last stragglers out from their pits. What a truly motley crew we are. All shapes and sizes. I think you’d struggle to find a broader range of people anywhere. From young to old, from all four points of the compass and everywhere in between. Here we all are, hanging at our doors, like old clothes on a hook. And on it goes.

  Fall-in is quite painless. The names grate the air, as we’re reminded of the same people day-in, day-out. I’m sure all of us feel the same. Another whistle and people begin to drift around their morning. Is this what hell is like? People without spirit trying to avoid each other’s gaze? It surely can’t be worse? There’s a foul smell in the air of boiling peas and bicarb, drifting from the Paola pastizzi shop just outside of the prison walls. Did Dante leave that part out of his Inferno to surprise us, when we arrive?

  We start moving around on automatic drive. Rubbish out from cell, collect milk, take a Panadol and fill the Thermos with hot water, back to the cell to drink the coffee. All the while trying to avoid any communication. Where unavoidable we utter a grunted “Bonġu” or “Good morning” and move, like trains.

  It’s impossible not to hear the officer in charge of the food orders. So, I already know what I’ll be eating tomorrow lunch and dinner. Chicken legs for dinner, it’s always chicken … or called chicken at least. The officer smiles at me. He thinks we’re friends because I smile and I’m polite. We are cat and mouse. He greets me with a “Bonġu” and tells me the menu again. He’s not a bad guy, but I just don’t feel like a conversation about tomorrow’s food, when I don’t even care what I eat today. He tells me yet again, I feign a smile and nod an OK. He says “It’s good for you?” I think and answer the same as every day before. “It’ll have to do, thank you.” Man, my head hurts, too much indulgence yesterday and a night of troubled sleep, tossing and turning with thoughts of youth fading and death looming. Huh, mortality. What else is there?

  I’m back in my cell writing, at least I don’t have to think of reality. The feel of pen, page and ink comfort me.

  The noise level begins to rise. Like an orchestra, a few voices start softly, feet on metal stairs bang out a tempo, keys jingle. A solo from an officer as he shouts, “Methadone! Methadone!” Scraping of chairs, and the feet beat faster, someone turns on their surround system, voices raise in volume. The air is excited. Another solo, this time a female one: “Mediċina! Mediċina!” The pills have arrived.

  People rush from everywhere, not just for pills, but because of the novelty of a female nurse in the Division and these wolves circle. There’s a deafening crescendo as feet race to receive drugs/medication. Most are zombies, already. I’d almost forgotten I’ve got to take antibiotics. So, now it’s the tempo of my chair scraping, my feet falling. I’m in the wind section as people sneeze, cough, yawn and talk loudly.

  I feel the air contaminate me, I feel contaminated, I scrub and scrub, but I cannot remove this taint of correction. Will it ever leave me? They say time will tell, but I’ve never known time to speak, heal or change much. It’s just there watching from the sidelines. Taunting us mortals with its presence.

  My faith in humanity is slightly restored. An old man, Mario, I normally get breakfast sandwiches for, has returned the favour and brought them for me, with a smile. Could it be the turning point of the day? While the mood is good, I go to the telephone to wish my girls “Dzien dobry” (Good day in Polish).

  The pleasantness felt and comfort of hearing their voices, ends the very moment the handset is replaced. I snap back into feeling lonely. A headache begins to pulse, but at least that keeps me company.

  Before I could get ba
ck to the cell, I pass so many people already clicking those damned Playmobil dolls together. One of them begs me to help him finish his lot, for a pinch of tobacco. His face looks broken and his hands are bleeding. I agree, what else can I do?

  I need a shower to wake up first though. The cool water feels good against my head and eyes. Inside I’m crying constantly. The noise is deafening inside and out. Here we go again.

  Inmates

  Inmates. Mates. We spend so long living together. Living with each other, day in, day out, bad times and a few good times too. We know more about each other than we ever thought we’d let known. We feel almost safe. Cocooned away from reality and our life, we let others closer than we probably should.

  Leaving day. Not mine, that’s still to come. Another in-mate I’ve known through this journey and I can’t help the feeling of loss. Of course, promises are made: “Phone me if you need anything”; “Look me up when you’re out”. Both of us know it’ll never be more or less than what it was: the forced cohabitation of souls through incarceration.

  As the door locks between the two, the one on the outside quickly forgets the pain of being inside and that one inside is left dreaming of the day when that walk to liberty is his.

  Today I am the one inside, and life goes back to what it is. Locked doors, dolls, a well of sorrow and waiting.

  Diary of a swine flu

  In 2016, there was a swine flu epidemic in the prison. At the time no one told us what was going on. They played it all down as a normal bout of the flu. Outside, the Health Ministry was stressing that the situation was “under control”, and that the swine flu threat of 2009 had subsided. But inside we were seeing a completely different story.

  January 26, 2016

  Tonight, I saw the nurse in the Division wearing a mask and gloves, taking people’s temperatures. Apparently, there is a virus or something going around, no one’s told us anything, but everyone is worried. Three of us were taken to hospital today and we heard that one guy died in Division III. Well, in the news they always say that the inmate died on the way to, or at hospital. No one ever seems to die inside the prison. Death, death, death … that’s all I seem to hear about lately.

  January 28, 2016

  Again here, it’s all about this virus. It’s confirmed that one guy died and loads more are in hospital. They’ve even turned one of the dormitories into a quarantine zone. They came today to give flu jabs to everyone, but there’s no way I was letting them prick me with anything. Not after all the poison they had prescribed me in the past. It is hard to trust medicine when you’ve been experimented with and lied to.

  They say that the weather today was 9˚C and 98 percent humidity. Can that be right? What a bloody place. I heard the prison was going to get a surprise inspection today. So of course, officers have been pushing inmates to clean all the shafts, grounds and common areas. Just madness.

  It feels freezing. All I can do is crawl into bed wearing most of my clothes and try to sleep thinking of you, my darling girls.

  January 30, 2016

  We had another day of nurses and officers moving people to quarantine. We heard Division XV is also being used as a quarantine zone. You can see it on the officers’ faces that they are fearing something.

  When anyone in the Division sneezes or coughs, they’re rushed away. There’s so much dirt and so many smokers, that almost everyone coughs or sneezes at some time in the day. Everyone is scared. No one has told us anything yet. Someone said that they had heard on the news that it was swine flu. But you never know what to believe in this place. Everyone is just hiding in their cells.

  At 12.30 p.m. my neighbour Charlie was taken away by nurses and officers in masks.

  At 5 p.m. he was brought back and locked in. These cells aren’t exactly sealed. OK, maybe I’m getting a little scared.

  February 1, 2016

  More doctors in the Division today. Another seven people gone and more locked in cells. We heard the quarantine Divisions are full. So, if they’re not taken to hospital, they are locked inside their cells. Is that quarantine?

  The place is like a ghost town. I’m starting to feel a bit ill myself; I hope it’s not this flu.

  Today they brought Godfrey back to the Division. That man has terminal cancer and they brought him back. Have these people no heart and no mercy. What chance have the rest of us got?

  I’m going to curl up in bed with a cup of tea. I’m not telling them I feel bad. I’d rather die here.

  February 2, 2016

  More cells are locked with sick boys inside. That’s almost half the Division now. And there’s a few still not back from hospital.

  It’s finally got me as well. I feel awful. The doctors have been coming around in their masks and gloves and everyone is white with fear. All I can do is hide, otherwise they’ll lock me in. I need to rest and pretend I’m fine and phone you girls. Your voices are the best medicine I could ever receive.

  February 4, 2016

  Well, yesterday I died all day. I don’t feel much better now. I spent most of the day sleeping and sweating in the bed. I had such vivid hallucinations I really thought my time had come. But I know that God wouldn’t let me die away from my wife’s side.

  Another poor soul died in Division XIII today. I hear that makes it three now. It’s like living in a zombie film, everyone is walking around half dead. What wonderful justice this is.

  *

  All of us inmates saw and knew, that had the epidemic had been worse, the infection and death rate higher, the guards would have had no problem locking the doors on all of us and only opening them back up to corpses.

  Doctors and dentists

  One of the last times I visited the Doctor’s Medical Infirmary inside the prison, the nurse said to me, “Your file is very thin for the length of your sentence.”

  I replied that I had learnt very early on there was no point in going to see the doctor, as ailments were rarely believed and nine times out of ten, Panadol was the only outcome. If I wrote here all the times I did go, and the things that happened, it would not be believed anyway.

  When I left, I was finally given my evaluation feedback form by the doctor, after weeks of asking for it. They did get my name right, but they wrote down my status as single, even though I had got married in the prison in 2012; and they wrote down that I had one child, even though Blossom had been conceived and born while I was inside those walls.

  Every time I went to the doctor with food poisoning, I was not believed. My sciatica was not believed, and it took almost four years to get an MRI scan for my dislocated shoulder which happened while in custody (I heard nothing back after that, only that the shoulder is chronic and useless). Now, in Wales, I am undergoing consultancy for surgery and physiotherapy on the shoulder joint. It all helps, but it will never get back to normal – my specialist says because too much time had passed from when the injury occurred.

  At the CCF, I constantly reminded doctors of their Hippocratic oath – their loyalty had to be to the patient, but as one told me, their first allegiance was to the authorities.

  I gave up on their help.

  I tried to get hold of a list of all the tablets they had put me on over the years. But I was told it was confidential information, not privy to me. I debate whether any of those tablets were for my benefit, or just more money-making ventures by the state. In my opinion, someone was taking kickbacks or even direct profit from the vast quantities of narcotics prescribed to inmates in that prison.

  I had to visit the dentist more often. I suffered badly with my teeth when inside. When I asked the dentist the reason, he told me he wasn’t allowed to say it was the lack of vitamins in my diet. I had at least six removed in there. I even removed one myself in the cell, with some cocaine, a scalpel and pliers.

  When I had my altercation back in 2008 with the Bulgarian, two of my front teeth were chipped at the crown. When I asked the dentist what options I had to fix them, I was told, “I’ll remove them for you.�
� My two front teeth? I left biting my lip and wanting to knock his damned teeth out.

  One time in 2015, when I visited the dentist complaining of pain, he said he couldn’t fill it. I trusted him and he pulled it out. When I saw the hole in the tooth, it was the size of a pinpoint.

  Another time, a woman dentist pulled and twisted my tooth for over an hour without removing it. She told me I’d have to wait and go to hospital. She said she had never seen teeth like mine before. She wanted me to go back to my cell and wait for another day. With some soft words of encouragement, through blood-dripping lips, she finally worked for another 30 minutes, eventually cracking the tooth in half before removing it. She left bits of bone, in my gum, that for weeks were cutting their way to the surface. It was a long time before I dared return.

  In fact, when in 2019 in Wales, I had to go to a dentist because of toothache and had an X-ray taken, they found bone fragments rotting, causing infection within the gum. I am now waiting for a surgical appointment to remove the decay. The daily pain and the ugly memories of the dentist’s chair at the CCF haunt me still.

  I had to complain to the British High Commission, before I finally got my teeth cleaned and scraped in 2016, but after that the staff took a sheer dislike to me. And it certainly wouldn’t do to let someone who hates you peer into your mouth.

  In fact, because I complained with the embassy and the directors, the whole medical department took umbrage at me. To the point where I felt I was not welcome.

  I contested the quality of the food and demanded we be provided with a basic nutritious diet; and I contested the quality of the water because I felt it was our basic human right.