Escape is not only physical but mental. As Emmanuel Goldstein, the principal enemy of the state in George Orwell’s 1984, said, “The primary obligation of any prisoner is to escape, whether that means actually leaving, or simply figuring out a way to handle things so you don’t go crazy is up to you.”
So yes, there is a lighter side of life in prison. It’s easy to get bogged down by the day-to-day misery that incarceration brings. It’s up to the individual to find some release. There is brutality, there are deaths, there are very few happy moments or good endings, so when it’s possible to laugh and joke, it’s important to stay in that moment as long as possible and revel in it.
Prison is a place where depression and sorrow multiply, and joy and good are swallowed up. Most of my writings and poems show that darker side, which is inevitable.
Although this book is written to tell my story and the story of others in my situation, I also want it to show that, really, we are all just people struggling with ourselves and the situations we find ourselves in.
*
One of the funniest days in there was when another inmate and I volunteered to paint yellow-and-white lines in the main car park of the prison. The Minister for Justice was visiting the next day and in full-on illogical incomprehensible CCF life, the administration decided to welcome him with new brightly painted lines around the spaces to park his car.
Martin and I were given rollers and paint, and waited for the whole prison to get locked down after 8 p.m. after the officer’s roll call. The day-shift officers had gone home and there was only a skeleton night shift when we began painting.
It was the first night I had been outside after sunset for over two years and the lovely, dark, cool evening with stars overhead was almost magical. We worked till gone 11, going as slowly as we could to enjoy as much of the night as we could, and we even got a chance to just sit down and have a coffee and a cigarette and be at peace, listening to the stillness of the night.
When we’d finished, we were escorted back to the Division and were allowed to have a quick shower before being locked up. In the shower room we found a pair of discarded Y-front underpants on the floor, and therein was born a childish prank.
While Martin, who I’d been working with, put on the pair of latex gloves that we’d been given to wear for painting, I went off to get some peanut butter from my cell. Soon, the underpants were adorned with a good helping of the peanut butter along the crotch and then we hung them on the door of a British lad whom we had a good rapport with, laughing and giggling to ourselves like schoolkids at our stupid antics. Then we retreated to our cells – and waited for the night guard to come and lock us in. We drifted off to sleep almost immediately.
By the time the whistle blew in the morning and the doors began to open, we had totally forgotten about our folly but were very quickly reminded with shouts of, “Don’t touch it!” and “Stand back!”
We emerged from our cells to see Major Raymond of the day shift taking photos with his phone and the whole Division looking on in mock-shock and in raucous laughter. The English guy whose cell door the underpants were draped on was gingerly trying to remove them with a brush handle held at arm’s length, and with the Major continuously shouting, “Don’t touch it!”
This continued till finally after many attempts, the offending pants had been placed in the bin. Before fall-in, when the Division had finally calmed down, after many a barrage of whistle blasts, the Major barked, red-faced, “Who did this?” We remained welded to the spot, unable to own up in front of the whole Division. Everyone truly thought it was excrement.
We gave each other sideways glances but could not step forward. As soon as the whistles signalled the end of fall-in, we ran to the office to admit to our prank. It was taken in good spirits by the English lad and we still laugh at its stupidity even now, but the Major would still not believe it was peanut butter, even when we offered to get the underpants from the bin and prove it. So, obviously that led to further mischief being played on him with various items being covered in peanut butter and left around for him to find.
I know this sounds childish, and it was, but in there where humour is rare, it was a ludicrous way to gain a little amusing entertainment in our dreary day; for us inmates anyway. I think we put the Major off peanut butter for life.
Incidentally, the lines we painted that night were covered over with black bitumen two days later.
I don’t know why, but then I’m not really sure why we painted them in the first place; just another farcical and absurd part of my time within those walls.
A Christmas tale
One of the best Christmases inside those walls was back in 2012. I was working on a construction detail, mainly patching up broken parts of the prison with very limited resources and refurbishing some of the very old and dilapidated shower rooms.
One day in late December, the Major in charge of the gang of us brought in a turkey crown and a huge joint of rolled ham. We were able to beg, borrow or filch all the trimmings to go with it, even managing to acquire some real plates and cutlery to make it more like a special occasion for us, or at least more like a normal day outside.
Years in prison eating from cardboard boxes or old ice-cream tubs with plastic cutlery and using plastic cups is in itself a form of torment.
We spent a whole morning cooking in our small workshop, on a two-ring electric hob and a tiny oven, preparing a veritable feast. I even managed to make Yorkshire pudding – something that most of the Maltese guys had never heard of or eaten.
On January 1, 2013, while most other prisoners were locked in their cells between 12 p.m. and 2 p.m., a group of about ten of us, and the Major in charge, sat down at a makeshift table of old work benches, to a belated Christmas banquet. We didn’t have wine that day and after the Major’s generosity we didn’t push our luck by asking for some. For a few hours at least, we were able to forget about incarceration and eat, chat and celebrate together.
That day I was the only foreigner, all the others were locals from Malta and Gozo and I felt really privileged to be there. After a good clean-up and returning every knife, fork, spoon, plate, roasting dish and piece of foil (foil is worth more than gold in prison as it’s used to smoke heroin), we went back to our cells to sleep off a fantastic Christmas lunch.
Those days in there were much more relaxed and I was able to be sent food parcels from the UK, so we had mince pies, Christmas pudding and even some brandy chocolates. I think for that full day, even though I wasn’t able to be with my family, wife and daughter, I was able to forget about that place as best I could – although the oppression was never far from my thoughts.
With the change to a Labour government in Malta in 2013, things in the CCF became a lot stricter; more for profit I fear, than salvation. A lot of the small joys and hopes of the inmates were sucked out of normal life.
There was a huge changing of guards; those who were Nationalist Party supporters (PN) being replaced by those who voted Labour (PL). There just didn’t seem to be enough money to provide for us all, so the cutbacks were huge.
From then on we never saw extra food, cleaning materials were almost non-existent, and even to get salt and pepper from the kitchen was an almost impossible task, you had to try and bribe someone to sneak it out – and it was not even guaranteed.
But the happy memories I forged in there will never be taken away, and that Christmas lunch was the most remarkable I’ve eaten to date. Only bettered when I was sitting at a table, a free man, with my family around me.
A swim on the roof
Another memorable day inside the CCF was, again, back when I was working in construction in 2013. I worked with a Maltese guy and we had a good rapport. It made the days pass quickly, working and joking away the hours. I think in our minds we pretended that we were working away from home, living in digs, but obviously getting paid only just over €0.50 a day. In fact, when he finished his sentence and left prison, I left the job as I couldn’t stand wor
king with the others, who were back-stabbers and grasses, and the demanding hours and lack of help from the authorities without a friendly face made the job monotonous and depressing.
I digress. Weather in Malta is of two extremes. In the winter it is cold, windy and very damp with temperatures sometimes down to 5˚C. Inside that stone building with no central heating, it was freezing cold. To the point where hooded jumpers and a few pairs of socks and trousers and even woollen hats have to be worn day and night. Try getting all that in a bucket to wash, and good luck getting it dry.
The summers are the opposite. Temperatures can reach 50˚C, with no breeze and humidity from 80% to 90%, where even wearing a pair of shorts and a vest T-shirt feels too much. The nights are sweltering even with fans on full blast.
It was on one of these oppressive hot summer days, when we had to go up onto the roof to clean one of the large water tanks. Being up on the roof seemed to take us closer to the inferno of the sun and we were baking. One of the tank lids was broken and it had become home to various forms of algae, and even some strange plants reaching from bottom to top, almost like a lily pad. Bear in mind that this was our water.
So, we drained the tank and were left alone to spend a few hours scraping, scrubbing and cleaning this huge vat. When it was done, we were parched and tired but still had a while before the officer was meant to return, so we filled the tank back up with cold fresh water, stripped to our boxer shorts and got in.
We were sitting on top of the prison roof under a wonderful clear blue sky, smoking a “long” cigarette, a million miles away from prison life in our makeshift refreshing cool bath. It felt so good, if not a little strange. We chanced our luck for about 20 minutes of bliss.
Afterwards we had to empty it again and give it another quick clean, but it was worth it.
By the time the officer came back, we were sitting in the sun drying off after our dip, still smiling and content. I can’t remember the last time I had been able to submerge myself under water. In prison it’s only showers, and you don’t hang around too long in them, so this was the longest and, funnily enough, the cleanest I felt in a long time.
Being a SCUBA diver and keen swimmer, I pined for the sea, or indeed any body of water. I used to have diving magazines sent in, but it became too painful to see the pictures of underwater life around the world, and then the magazines would go missing and having to chase things round was making me angrier, so I stopped them.
That summer’s day was the closest I could ever get to a bath or swim in all my years in prison. It was just perfect.
Often on a hot day or even by turning on the tap, my mind went back to that moment and I feel great solace in remembering it; one of the rare days when the weight of all those years of oppression had literally been washed away.
Mosquitoes and cockroaches
Day 2,740. May 21, 2018. Monday morning. How I made it through the night I’ll never know. I suppose just by the perpetual flow of time and prayers. No sooner than the door closed at 8 p.m. that the assault began.
I danced like a mad man, lashing out with hands, towels, socks, anything I could to kill my foe. By 9 p.m. I had an outright kill of 18. Every gap I could find in my boxroom I filled and stuffed with paper, tape, cloth … anything that would seal me in. I felt a victor and settled to write once more. Until they came again.
By 10 p.m. I had killed another four, getting nothing else done except battling these mosquitoes. Each one I killed was void of blood, leaving me the haunting thought: where are all the ones that have already fed on me?
I tried to read; they came again. Another three kills and it was 11 p.m. I cursed them, the heat and the walls. I was sure I was going mad, driven close to tears by rage and tiredness. I was defeated. I turned off the light and lay down, succumbing to their feeding. I passed out and dreams took over.
Just before 1 a.m., I was woken up again, scratching and swatting at myself. My legs, hands, back, face, everything was on fire and itched and burnt.
Light on. I spent the next hour on my knees searching low and craning my neck up high. Three more kills, all void of blood, even though I had been bitten at least a dozen times. I was not awake or asleep but somewhere in between, that state that borders on insanity, I spoke to myself, ghosts of the dead, God, and the damned mosquitoes, pleading with them all for mercy.
My nights had been this way for more than a week. Each night I’d tell myself I must be dreaming. I’d rise from the bed and a burning fire starts to penetrate my ankle bone. Then I realise that I must be awake, because although in my dreams I’ve often felt psychological pain, I had never felt this kind of physical pain.
It was just after 3 a.m. before I dared sleep again. Dreams of the infernos of hell, Dante’s circles cuddled me, twisting me with torment.
The searing pain and myself slapping at myself again forced my eyes open at 4 a.m. Helicopters in my ears: even when not near me I could hear their constant droning. Whiz, whoosh, diving at me … kamikaze with no mercy.
Light on. Nothing. My clammy flesh was dotted with raised areas of puffy white, sore skin. How many new? Three, four, five … more? It was impossible to tell old from new and my eyes couldn’t focus anyway. I stumbled to my feet and swayed in my tiredness, as a cockroach scurried from my slipper just in time to let my foot inside and joined another two by the sink.
I began to check my small prison again. I started high, my neck twisting like an owl and my eyes darting like a fox to find my elusive enemy. I flicked a towel and threw a balled-up sock – my weapons were definitely inferior to theirs. I felt like a knight with heavy armour and a sword, standing on a modern battlefield against Kevlar and rifles.
Dead, old, squashed mosquitoes still took time to meticulously check and discount. Towels, books, bottles, clothes … everything was touched, moved, jolted to shake this pest from its hiding. Nothing. Shoes, chairs, buckets, packets of water. Nothing. I got on my knees, down to the floor, searching every crevasse in a cell over 180 years old and full of crevasses. So many hiding places: the cracked and pitted floor, holes from nails and screws, the patches of plaster with gaping holes offered a million places for the devil to hide.
The cell’s toilet has no flushing, so I covered the back with a plastic bag in case their lair is near. Nothing.
There was a vent that led through the wall, a hole about 30cm wide. It was covered by a plastic grille, but poorly fitted with huge holes and impossible to reach and seal. I threw my ball of sock. Nothing.
I balanced precariously on the edge of the sink to reach the wooden misshapen windows, but they were impossible to reach. Nothing. The cells were meant to keep men inside, not the vampires out.
It was gone 5 a.m. before I was through, and I had killed another two. A total of 30. I was exhausted, my eyes stung. I was covered in sweat, and my head was beating continuously like a war drum. The trio of roaches were still gathered in the sink and began to mock me, but I was too tired to care.
I must have passed out, as at 6.30 a.m. an officer’s voice brought me around: “Bonġu.” I answered in an automatic response, a half-grunted, “Morning.” He moved on to check the next cell, content I was alive, or so he thought. I lay there paralysed, aching and stiff.
It felt akin to memories of an over-indulged night, hours spent in smoky nightclubs, where a mix of loud music, alcohol and revelry end in greasy takeaway food and a bed found just as dawn rises. Ah, if only it were that hell.
My eyes moved, nothing else would. They searched the ceiling and walls, a nail, a hole, a dark brown stain of blood. Each one quickened my heartbeat. Where is the bloody mosquito?
On the wall beside me, just at the end of my 180˚ search, sat a fattened black beast. Content. Fed. Unnerved in its larceny. I moved slowly, unaware of where I found the will to do so. Whack. My hand stung. I was awake. As I moved it, I saw the deep red scarlet of my life staining the wall and my hand. And so, began another day.
*
Fifteen minutes later. I was
up and followed my normal routine. The roaches were gone and I tried not to think of them as I splashed water on my puffy, tired face. I brushed my teeth; I didn’t even want to think about what had walked on the brush all night.
I then sat on the toilet, staring blankly ahead, and I saw one on the opposite wall: a cursed mosquito, fat and gorged with feasting. I mumbled under my breath, “Stay there, don’t move, you wait right there …” Suddenly my calf was on fire. I had been ambushed. I was swearing in pain and scratching the area – I saw the marks but not the culprit. In my distraction I had forgotten the other mosquito. It was gone from where I had seen it earlier.
Did they work in tandem? Pairing like some primeval raptors? If it were possible to communicate, I was sure they’d be laughing. I knew they were mocking me. They sensed my frustration, my anger, my rage, my tiredness, my fight ebbing away. Vanquished to their victor. They held my nights and the blood of my life inside them. Their evolution had defeated me. They broke me more than the time that hangs around me.
I mused whether the Attorney General had sent them to complete his torture; if not, I was sure it was only because it hadn’t yet occurred to him.
I was awake, although I don’t think I was ever truly asleep. I still had 30 minutes till they opened the door, I felt my thoughts and body shake, as I reached for a book. I was reading The Diving Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby. The life of an extraordinary man with “locked-in” syndrome; his book was dictated with his eyelids, everything else paralysed, imprisoned within his own body.
How could anything I’ve written compare to that? How could anything I’ve suffered have meaning? I felt lucky to know the pain I have. I read each word as slowly as I was sure it was transcribed. His strength amazed me, the strength of humanity personified. As my eyes brimmed with tears for all the sufferers of the world, a shrill whistle pierced the air to tell me the day had begun.
Daniel Holmes: A Memoir From Malta's Prison: From a cage, on a rock, in a puddle... Page 18