My head was thumping, my heartbeats jumping. I wanted to crush his skull between my hands. The cell has just been locked. Now I have 12 hours inside, alone, to think and stew on what to do, as surely this won’t end well.
Fifty-nine men and I, waiting to see how it will all play out.
*
Day 2,719. May 1, 2018. My 12 hours in the cell were over. I had thought hard. This guy, a known grass, a known seller of drugs, was known to be pampered by the screws. I had heard that a few years previously, by snitching on another inmate, he’d been granted an extended visit, an unofficial conjugal visit with his transgender partner who was a prisoner too. These extended visits were supposed to be for family time, but everyone knew they were really used for sex.
I had no way to win against this guy. I couldn’t serve anymore time for someone else. I had to get away from this madness.
As soon as the door opened in the morning, I went up to the guard room and phoned to go to Inmate Service, a department set up to deal with inmates’ problems. I know of few inmates they actually helped. Although I suppose they helped me once. There were those officers who would listen to your problems, but they had no way of getting anything done. The minute they passed it up the food chain, it was out of their hands. One of the officers in place there was an Englishman, and always tried his best to be a man first, officer second.
A few minutes in his office, giving him no real details other than that I needed to get out of the Division, and he was on the case.
I was called back up to see him after a while, and he told me the only option offered by the authority was to move to Division V. A confined Division of only around 16 or so men, most serving life or very long sentences. It was either that or stay where I was. I made my choice. It turned out to be one of the best decisions of my life.
I went back to the Division, packed, said my goodbyes and left Division XI. It felt strange walking away with my trolley full of bags. I’d spent the most time in this Division. It was home. I thought I’d leave prison from there. But I was to have one last cell.
*
Day 2,721. May 3, 2018 – Division V, Cell 195. Again, I find myself in yet another cell. The dictionary defines “a cell” as “small room for a prisoner, monk or nun”. I think I’m one of the first two. It’s so tricky to know exactly what one is, when separated from reality for so long.
This cell and Division were built around 1850. For almost 170 years these walls have kept men holden. And they are strong walls. Roughly a metre thick, made of the typical Maltese limestone. But they are the same as all prison walls, for they contain the hopes, dreams and fears of men. It’s impossible to lie here and not think of all the men who have passed through here.
Names and faces I may not know, but the same feelings connect us. They are timeless. I can’t help noticing that the two electric points, buzzer, cable TV wire, a ceiling light, a toilet and a sink were all added after its initial construction; in fact the toilet here must be flushed with a bucket. If these walls could talk, what would they say?
This Division, Division V, is right next door to the old execution room, which still stands as a testament to the days of capital punishment. The only people who get to see it now are the new officers, on their induction tour. I have only seen photos; it is a most haunting scene.
Would this cell and walls have been the last comfort of a damned soul? If so, I dread to think of the sorrow.
A few years ago, working on construction in Division III, we had to strip the years’ worth of plaster back to the bare stone. Knocking down prison walls is a very satisfying and eerie feeling, even if for construction purposes. At a point, in the corner, parallel to the door, a small hole began to open. Thinking we had gone too far, we called the officer in charge.
The officer told us that this hole was typical in every cell. It formed a “Y” shape. The top two spurs would lead into two adjoining cells and the bottom of the “Y” would lead through the wall, into the Division. The guard could then place a candle in the opening and the light would feed into two cells. The opening was about the size of a small saucer and would have been fronted by a think glass pane. It would have been grim, meagre lighting.
The ceiling light now doesn’t provide much light, and to turn it off and on one must press the buzzer and the officers outside control it for you. I also bought an extra reading light (€9.99) and a new energy-efficient 25W bulb (€8). These are luxuries I did not like to live without. Still I struggle with the lighting. But how can I complain? With one candle, buried half in the wall, between two cells, the illumination for prisoners who were there decades before me, must have been appalling.
When I close my eyes, I can imagine the horrific scene, void of any comfort or human kindness. These walls talk.
I can hear the screws talking at their desk, at the end of the Division. I suppose they’ve always been there. Noisy, chatty, chain-tinkling screws.
I notice on the other side of my door there are two padlocks now, instead of one. But the lads here, they all seem just another collection of regular prisoners, like me. Tired, homesick, lonely, bored and a little angry. It’s quiet here apart from these ghosts.
Transfers, parole and other rules
Almost since day one, the word transfer was dangled in front of my face. I was told it was possible by the British High Commission and the CCF, although I never saw anyone get transferred, not to Britain anyway.
One English lad was told by the High Commission, before he was sentenced, to admit his guilt, take the 11 years and then they’d transfer him back to the UK. He was never transferred. He served his full time in Malta.
I filled so many forms for transfer, it was crazy. I lost count of the amount of times I’d get called up to the officers’ room to chat about the process and how it would work. It was all a psychological game.
I wrote letters to the President, the Prime Minister and even the Archbishop of Malta to beg for a chance to serve my time in the UK. This time the Archbishop’s Office answered me, on lovely paper with gold lettering, to tell me that they had received my letter.
In the letter I wrote that if the fines were a problem, I’d gladly give them the money, as long as I was transferred. But they kept up the pretence that it was not about money.
I knew that the prisons of the UK would have been a lot harder in some ways – there’s less freedom and more violence. But I just wanted to be close to my family and have a chance of leaving prison under better circumstances. Once again, I was shown no mercy.
A week or two towards the end of my sentence, when my family had eventually paid all my fines, a I got a call in Division V, at 7 p.m. I was told that the Home Affairs Ministry had granted me a transfer. This was only a matter of days before I was due to leave.
Even the officer in charge had no clue as to what was happening, although he tried his best. It all just cemented the fact in my mind that they treat the lives of prisoners in Malta as a game, or maybe a way to bring in more revenue, by making their families pay all sorts of fines to be released.
Parole was another of those dangled carrots, that no one seemed to be able to bite. Around half a year before I was due to leave, I was called up to the office of the parole clerk.
He told me that if I had to be released on parole, I’d be able to save a few months from my sentence, but then I’d have to live for a few more years in Malta and take regular urine tests and meet regularly with a parole officer. It was a joke. I shook the young lad’s hand and thanked him. He was as much of a pawn as I was.
Having said that, in my time at the CCF, I saw so many inmates given chance to work outside, or move to halfway houses and other rehabilitation centres. But I was consistently told that because my case was drug trafficking, I had no chance.
There was one guy, an ex-policeman and the cousin of an officer, who had just received a 15-year sentence for trafficking and importing of cocaine. He was instantly given a cushy job, alongside his cousin, and after a while
he was even moved to Division VII, which was a Division where the inmates could go out to school, college or work and even had a basic kitchen. Rules varied so widely.
That to me was Malta’s prison. The rules that were written down, were not set in stone for everyone. On such a small island, it is no wonder that people come into prison and the officers that guard them are family, neighbours or friends.
One officer, after calling a Nigerian lad “Monkey Boy” and making monkey noises, told me proudly, “We don’t treat you all the same.” I told him, that that was the problem.
Back in 2007, there was one prison worker who had his father, mother and brother in prison. His brother was actually in the same Division where he worked. The inmate brother used to have huge blocks of weed, that he told me his prison operative brother brought in for him. This was no secret: one of my co-inmates even bought heroin from this same guy.
In the end he was caught, apparently grassed on by the brother he was smuggling in the drugs for. Of course, that’s where the information ended. I was later told that he had been given the chance to leave and forfeit pensions and benefits but saved himself decades of prison.
It must be nice to be given a chance.
Saturdays
Day 2,731. May 12, 2018. Another Saturday in a place where days and weeks have little meaning. This small Division is the quietest and cleanest that I’ve known.
The sounds and noises are still the same as any other prison wing, where men have little hope. Faint televisions and echoing footsteps in repetitive tones. No purpose, just time passing. Dominoes hitting against tabletops in a flurried fashion; games give the possibility of winning and control.
Officers’ keys and the jingling of chains scratch at the peace oppressively. But we’re graced with the chirping of a few birds, seeking sanctuary and food within the yard walls. A sign of freedom, or dependency?
Saturday is big cleaning day in Division V. I’ve never seen prisoners come together before at the CCF. The sign on the Division gate read, “Division Strength: 15”. I have to wonder if that’s the number of inmates or the percentage of their willpower. There are some longtime-serving men here; the ones they won’t put anywhere else.
Everyone is up and cleaning their cells proudly. Actually, helping each other. Of course, some still influence others to clean for them or even pay for their services – this is a human society after all, not just a prison. Cells are scrubbed, everything is lifted off the floors and water is thrown over the old flagstone.
The water used to clean the cells is washed out into the main Division and then, working as a team, the inmates purge the Division from a week of dirt, dust, dead cockroaches, mosquitoes, fags, spit and sweat. It’s so refreshing to see prisoners working together and taking pride in where they live, and although the morning cleaning does little to quell the filth, it’s a routine that passes time and helps.
I wish I’d moved here sooner in my sentence. There were fewer people and they cared more about their cells and their daily lives. Most of these guys, as I have said, were never getting out of prison. Some of the people I met in those few months in Division V, will stay with me forever. It is painful to know how others are suffering and be useless to their aid.
Now the place is drying out, the mosquitoes swarm in hunger. They truly are relentless. I see most people don’t have the energy or the will to swat them away and I myself resign to the fact that they are a part of existence. At least in this corner of it.
It still gets me to think of all the people of the world doing their thing, while everyone else does theirs. Ergo, some are starving; some are being sick from overeating. I find the balance so disturbing.
Now the faint smells of watered-down detergents have lifted, the place goes back to its original musk of warm bodies, stale cigarettes and a smell similar to that of a hamster’s cage, that never really leaves.
I have never lived in a hypo-allergenic bubble. But I find myself repulsed and appalled with the ways some men choose to live. In there we were given free soap, free water and even a free towel (although that became threadbare years ago). It still amazes me that some men still would not shower and respect themselves. I guess people who cannot respect themselves are doomed, and unfortunately so are those who share their same space.
It is 2018 and apart from the noise of televisions and electric lights, things have changed little from the prison’s inception in the 1840s. The officers seem to be immune to just how degrading the conditions really are. Whether they themselves are used to such conditions I’ll never know. I only know that I could never get used to the filth and never be comfortable with its molesting nature.
Yesterday I was playing dominoes with a chap, when suddenly out of his collar crawled a small, whiteish cockroach. I didn’t leap in disgust, but I certainly froze as he gently swished it off, with no more perturbance than if it had been a fallen eyelash. Even the cockroach scuttled off, seemingly unfazed.
Some mornings before the door is opened and a slight light finds its way in, I lie there motionless, watching all the creatures that would have come out during the night, as they begin to find their way home. Even if I was to get up and kill them all, the tide could never be held back, and I have no right to take away their existence, anyway.
So, I watch and try not to think about the hours, while I lay there asleep, that they roved and roamed all over me. I know and understand that we share this rock with millions upon millions of moving, feeding things, but I also suppose that I am a somewhat civilised man and don’t want to see or hear them in my space. Yes, I will never get used to living with them.
Today we had a visit from the CCF K9 Dog Unit, just as people had started cleaning. They found nothing. After disturbing the Saturday serenity and ransacking a few cells, they left, joking and laughing as if on a night out with mates.
I always find myself repeating the same conversation with them, when they come for a search. A banal and courteous discourse. What else can one do? When men in black come and rummage through all your meagre possessions, what would you do?
The thing is that after years of incarceration, I knew that if I did have something to hide, the knuckleheads wouldn’t even come close to it. For if someone really wants to hide something in prison, it stays hidden – there is no way an officer can totally dismantle a cell. More often than not people get caught because of momentary laziness. “Oh, I’ll just put it here till later” is normally a fatal decision.
The cycle never stops – with or without a dog unit.
In fact, even on that day, as the Division gates were closing behind the men and their dogs, spliffs were already being rolled and mobiles put on charge.
Men can imprison men, men can try to break other men, but what does not want to be changed cannot be changed.
Humanity needs vices just as humanity needs control.
That’s equilibrium.
*
Day 2,732. The day after. The sun began to creep in through the window just after 6 a.m. I’m lucky I sleep with a clear conscience. Others aren’t so lucky.
Mosquitoes woke me up, with their aerial attacks. So, as soon as I open my eyes, my thoughts are filled with murder. I wanted the mosquitoes dead and my own blood, I hoped, smudged on the wall. Instead I lay still in contemplation.
At 6.30 a.m. the officer walks past each cell calling out his “Bonġu”. The death check. He moves on with each reply. There are 14 inmates here now, so it’s quick. It’s quiet again. Everything bobs along. Officers and inmates both want little change or upset to their daily routine.
Both just plod on to get through another day.
The light side of life
To write about the lighter side of life from inside a prison cell is a very hard task, but after spending so many years in prison, it’s impossible to have only bad days, although they do form the majority.
In a foreign prison surrounded by Maltese locals and others from around the world, it’s easy to become isolated. It’s eas
y to lose some of your identity, as you’re plunged into the new culture and society you are detained in.
In every foreign country I’ve travelled to, I have tried to learn a little of the local vocabulary. Greetings, pleasantries, words that go a long way to bridge the gap between people and races. The Maltese language was so challenging. When I could not pronounce the words, I’d listen and try to recognise sounds. I formed some friendships for life, trying to understand the Maltese culture and language. To foreigners, I had been on the islands long enough to make me a semi-local; to the locals, I was always a foreigner. But, in prison we were all aliens together.
As far as I know, I’m the only Welsh man to pass through this prison, although some of the Maltese in here have claimed to have been to Wales or have family there. Being Welsh and part of the United Kingdom in a foreign country, especially in prison, brings all expat Brits closer together. I have had the good fortune, in this land, to share my time with some decent Englishmen.
When people of a similar culture meet, it brings great comfort in isolated conditions. A shared history of time growing up, our education, social activities, even old television shows or music, bring us closer together. We can spend hours talking of memories that are alike and longing for home. Speaking about it brings home a little closer.
Life would have been a lot harder in here if it wasn’t for the company of the few good British men I’ve met. We’ve spent many a day sitting in cells talking over our past lives, Christmases spent and listing all the items of food we miss that make Christmas such a special time. So much so that by the end we are salivating and dreaming of the day when we can be home and surrounded by our families.
In Division XI, my cell neighbour for many years was a young lad from Newcastle, also serving a decade-long sentence, and through all the horrible days when problems outside and inside loom to swallow us whole, we were able to be there for each other, even if only to chat and share problems.
Daniel Holmes: A Memoir From Malta's Prison: From a cage, on a rock, in a puddle... Page 17