Saying that, I feel I am very spiritual and choose to believe that we are all connected to everyone and everything around us, even by elementary science, as we are all composed of the same basic elements that are repeated in all things throughout our known universe.
I think that the majority of people in the world believe in a higher power, and even that connects us all. To have empathy and be empathetic should be the fundamental human quality. I feel the more we think of others and feel a connection to them, the more happiness and positivity will increase in our lives.
When two people touch, or meet, they exchange something of each other. Every person we come into contact with, even if our paths cross in the slightest of ways, something of what we are, our character, our beliefs, our hopes and dreams, is left with those people and we also gain a part of them. We’re all the time weaving more strands of this huge interconnected web we all belong to.
I believe that a sense of right and wrong is imprinted in people’s reason and is not created by society. The laws of men have been written over long periods of time by a few who serve the many and, as we have seen, are all too often corrupted by financial, political and personal agenda.
The laws of mankind are the unwritten laws of humanity, kindness, compassion, charity, love, understanding, empathy and respect of an individual to be different and uniquely perfect and imperfect at the same time. If only we could all agree, to be united in discovering a better world.
The end is near
Day 2,832. August 22, 2018. 22 days left to go. Maybe. I still have incredible trust issues with authority. Every day I try to find out how it’s going to happen: What time will my flight be? How will I get to the airport? What luggage allowance I’m allowed? What is going to happen to me?
I worry for my paperwork, all the writings I’ve amassed. I send out my possessions with Leighton to post back to Wales and hope nothing is lost.
What should be a happy time is swamped in anxiety. How am I supposed to sleep or function? The psychological pressure and torment is beyond belief. I try to stay strong. I try to believe it’ll all work out. The rage I have in me is almost uncontrollable. I’m despondent to the point of apathy. Is this how people leave prison? With hate and uncertainty in their heads and hearts? No wonder so many struggle to find the path once outside. Will I?
I scribble these words on a page hoping to unload them from my ego, but I know they’re buried deep within my Id. What help is there? Even my imagination is fighting against me, I find no clarity of thought. If a man was ever close to wanting to not exist, I am there, I am that man.
I must shift my thoughts. I’m being consumed, eaten away by the finality of this place. They’ve taken so much and still they hunger for more. I feel fear of reality, I am not prepared, part of me doesn’t want to leave anymore. Who am I?
*
Day 2,844. September 3, 2018. 10 more days and 10 more nights. Already it’s 9 p.m. on the tenth night. But nights have been so slow lately. I have no more information on my release, other than that on September 13, my sentence finishes and that I won’t be allowed to step one foot freely on Maltese soil outside the prison gate, as the orders were to escort me straight away to the airport. I am sad and low, and one would think it is from all these uncertainties of leaving. But it is not.
Everyday, I see the faces of men who will stay. Those at the bottom of life and justice. These men wish me well and are happy that I am leaving and excited for me. But inside them I see the pain of losing someone.
A reminder that there is an outside world, and it rejects them. I feel that pain.
For 31 years two of these men, these prisoners, have been watching people go. Thousands of people going while they stay. We are friends, as much as any two men can be, when they have a few hours a day to chat. I feel the tension you feel before you cry. Maybe in my youth, tears would have flowed. I am dry. I have wept more saltwater than the oceans combined.
Now I am a desert, barren, bleak and pushed by the winds. The people we meet in life affect us. Sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better and sometimes, rarely, but sometimes, they affect us in a way that that is close to spiritually.
I am torn into pieces, as I leave parts of me along its trail. I can never go back, so I can never be whole again.
Ten more days and I will leave this place. But with me, I take some pieces of those in this hell and I shed some of myself which will always be incarcerated within these damned walls. I am fragments of a billion lives and a billion lifetimes. I am alive and dead.
I am and always will be a prisoner until the universe frees me.
The last day
Day 2,854. September 1, 2018. 4,469 days since my arrest. It’s 4.25 a.m., the alarm is about to go off in five minutes. There’s no need though. I don’t need waking. I’ve been waiting for this day for 12 years. I’ve hardly slept the last few weeks. So, I’m already wired as I drag myself from the Maltese prison cot for the very last time. I’m hoping, anyway, as until I’m very far from this place, I’ll not truly believe it.
Last night before the door locked was a manic time, trying to say goodbye to people I’ll probably never meet again, although they will never leave me. Giving the few last possessions away, knick-knacks I’ve hoarded over the years. Junk in the real world, priceless in prison.
A small scalpel and a scrap of sandpaper. Both well-worn from sharpening the blade over the years of making cards for my daughters. A metal nail file. Even cotton and Sellotape are contraband. I’d packed and repacked my bag. A rucksack of mostly diaries and paperwork. I packed the clothes but I’ll discard them as soon as I return to civilisation. I also packed a peach for breakfast, given to me by one of the lads. Yes, I’m ready. I’ve been ready for so long.
I can hear the guard coming. His chain of keys and the squeak from his rubber soles echo. The Division of 16 broken men sleeps. Dreams are sometimes worse than reality.
The lock turns slower than mountains move. I hold my breath. The butterflies in my stomach beat their wings faster. The last thud of a prison door opening greets me. Freedom is so close. I can feel it, eerily. There are no smiles today, the screw looks annoyed to be doing something so early. I guess we all have our crosses.
The time is 4.30 a.m., I’ve never heard of anyone leaving this early, I’m scared to even say anything, in case they make me stay longer. It feels like I’m whisked away before the world awakes. I’ve just got enough time for my last cold prison shower before they kick me out. Out of prison and out of Malta. I’ve got a feeling that today is going to be a day of many lasts and many firsts.
By some miracle the water was warm, and my faith is momentarily restored in the guard and in the world. I’m done. The cell is stripped. The remains of the bed pack they gave me seven years ago is ready to be given back. One pillow – stained yellow and brown. I read somewhere that after six years, 10 percent of a pillow’s weight is dead skin and parasites; I’d love to weigh this pillow. Two blankets – threadbare and desperately needing a boil. That’s it.
The clothes I’m wearing are the same that I’ve worn for visits over the past seven years, at least everyone will recognise me. I’m standing outside the cell waiting for the screw to come lock the door of an empty cell and escort me out, and I’m smoking the last cigarette I’ll smoke inside these walls. Suddenly I hear a voice calling out my name. It takes me a while to trace its origin. A voice from behind a cell door, a man calling out for company. I am here, for now anyway.
I talk to the lad for a few minutes. His name is also Daniel. He’s around the age I was when I first came in. He’s just starting out on his long haul through the Maltese justice system. I can find no consoling words of wisdom. So, we resort to humour by way of distraction until I’m warned away from the door by the officer. They still hold all the power.
Everything was arranged yesterday, finally. My expired passport and €5.61 – the money I had left in my prison account – wait with the night shift supervisor. Two SRT
will take me to the airport, into the hands of immigration and I shall leave Malta. Discarded by the trauma.
Yesterday, I had a trip out to immigration and had photos taken for the one-way trip travel document. After over a year trying to renew my passport, speaking to so many people trying to arrange it, it came to this, a last-minute, no-choice outcome. Deported. Although apparently, they call it a Removal Order along with a ban for five years – meaning I can’t come to Malta in the next five years.
Once again, I was given no paperwork informing me of their ruling or my rights. I still hold the faith that things will change one day. Even if I won’t be here to witness it.
Sometime back in 2017 I had tried finding out my date of release and what would happen to me when I finished my sentence. How would I get my possessions back to the UK? I not only met hurdles, but solid walls. The officer in charge of the Records Office lied, blanked me and actually made things even harder for myself and my family.
On the last full day of prison, I was taken up to the Records Office and was reminded by him that I am a criminal and I will always be a criminal.
I’ve never really cared whether people have branded me a criminal or not. Even through the sentencing, I knew that my heart and conscience were clean. I am a smoker of cannabis, yes that is true and, in a world supposed to be pro-choice, I – and others like me – are still persecuted. Is it right to smoke cannabis? Of course, ideally we should all live in a world where we don’t want to escape, but that is not reality.
I get distracted, I cannot help it. I spent 2,854 days in prison, another 1,615 days held captive on the island without a passport. I try not to be angry or bitter. I chose forgiveness over hate. But it continues, others are convicted across the world for cannabis offences while the governments in charge make millions from the plant. What happened to me, I forgive. But while it continues in any shape or form, I cannot be whole. I know their pain, their family’s pain and it hurts.
Prison, before the beast awakens, is a very quiet and unsettling place. Like a library after closing time. Standing by the main gate, at 5 a.m. I’m waiting for the SRT escort to ferry me to the airport. I have a moment to reflect on the time I’ve spent here, the people I’ll leave behind and the people who are now ghosts.
The beginnings of survivor’s guilt begin to lap at my shore, which is already choked with psychological jetsam.
The two SRT approach – they are the last two prison officers I’ll see. One of them was there at my wedding, the other just a uniform. After all this time, they still chat away about me in Maltese like I can’t understand them. I let them think that as my thoughts drift to freedom.
The car journey only takes five minutes, one of the SRT keeps breaking wind and laughing.
It’s still dark outside as we approach the airport entrance. Although things have changed, it all still feels somewhat like home. I can see the younger man I was, standing and talking to Barry. Part of me wishes to run over, intervene, prevent the meeting. That’s a small part of me. The rest sheds a tear for the sorrow of life and living in suffering, but along the way we are also blessed with little victories and moments of utter bliss. Sometimes, a whole life lived in suffering is worth the briefest moment of love.
I finally feel it’s real. I’m leaving. Holiday-makers swathe around me, oblivious. Normality is all around me. It’s fast, unsettling and frightening. I see one of the SRT returning with a policeman from inside the airport.
Here we go again, the hairs on the back of my neck rise as the blood speeds around my body. My breathing rate increases. My legs go weak. I want to collapse, fall down. No. A little further. A little further, I convince myself to fight a little more. I force a painted smile across my face and step towards my last jailor.
A few grunts pass between the SRT and me, nothing to conjure any leaving statement. The immigration police said less as I waited in their pokey little office, walls adorned with all the Photofits of wanted men and women. I felt like an embarrassment, a bad taste in the mouth, something not to be looked at as it’s swept aside. Swept away.
I need the toilet, I daren’t ask. I sit fidgeting, needing coffee, nicotine, comfort. None are given. The Maltese language flows around me. Where once I would try to listen, to understand, now I try not to listen, I’m fed up with trying to understand. It’s better if I’m thought of as a foreigner, even though my heart beat on these islands for 14 years. Part of me will never leave. Hurry up, deport me already, I’m getting emotional.
There’s a change of shift and the policeman is relieved. OK, so one last jailor. They discuss me a little, the same things; he’s a foreigner, drug dealer, part of the crime invasion. I listen. Then I try not to. I daydream.
Ten minutes later I’m up. I’m being led through the airport’s backdoors, through rooms and corridors nobody knows there are. It’s a lovely priority feeling. Until you remember why you are led.
The queue for boarding is already five times the amount of people that I’m used to seeing yearly. And here they all are in one long snake, waiting for that call to boarding. Faces flash before me dizzyingly. Somewhere in the crowd I thought I saw a familiar face. I am hungry for familiarity. My legs really are about to go. I feel lost, swirling, unable to find solid ground. I feel everything mist, my breathing and heart rate are set to explode. I can’t find reality. I am one breath from losing consciousness. If I pass out, there’s that fear that I’ll wake up back there, back inside one of their cells.
I’m escorted to the front of the queue in a daze, under the barrier and I’m first. Priority A. VIP. Deported Criminal. I feel the eyes of the hundred and more people behind me, burning into my neck. I feel the hatred from them for my pushing in. My paranoia whispers to me, “If they only knew, their hatred would burn even more.” I’m looked at with distaste. I’m used to it. I feel it. It hurts.
The officer beside me is talking to me. I join the conversation in the middle. He’s handing me my boarding card. He’s smiling. I feel nervous. I’m suspicious.
“Well, good luck and have a good flight, Sir,” he says, extending his arm and hand rapidly. I’m shocked and I almost flinch, thinking his hands are reaching at me with malice.
“Um … Thank you very much, officer,” I mumble from somewhere. He’s released my hand and is turning away before I know what’s happened. My boarding card is taken from my hand and I’m swept by the horde of people behind me, onto the bus. Suddenly panic sets back in as I get on the bus and move to the back, far from the wave of people.
Standing in the corner, I close my eyes for a moment. Sir? Sir. That was the first time anyone has called me “Sir” in so long. I’d forgotten how it sounds. That moment of regained pride was pushing me to the limit of the emotional breakdown.
The bus starts moving. I keep the tears back. It is packed: a wall of people pressed so close that I can smell 50 different breaths, 50 different colognes, the sand and sea on their shoes. I can also smell the fear in my spirit. It keeps me rooted. Like a statue.
A baby in the arms of his mother stares into my eyes – eyes that no other person on the bus will meet. It is humbling. I am humbled.
The bus pulls up beside the plane. The thing looks enormous. Terrifying. I’ve just remembered I hate flying. I’m a real white-knuckle flyer. Oh God, that panic in my chest is back, breathing is tight. I’m moving along with the mob, carrying my bag. I slow my pace, so I fall to the back of the queue, and am the last to climb up the steps.
I climb each step and count. Two for every year that I have been on these islands. Courage. The last few inches.
I’m eye level with the hostess. She knows. She knows I don’t belong here. She smiles, even says good morning and I’m past her, moving in with the passengers.
My seat is 14B. Not next to the window. That seat is taken by a young, blond boy. A rugby player. I can see from his jersey that he’s travelling with his squad. They’re spread throughout the plane, like a cloud of energy. Young, maybe under 16s. I feel so
old. I was 26 when I left Britain, I’m 40 now. I am old. He’s taller than me. His skin glows, mine is the colour of the A4 page I write on. I can’t help but see him or notice him. He smells clean. Even though I am washed, I stink of correction. Sour. Bitter.
He’s got some new phone in his hand, all screen, brightness and colour. My last phone was a Nokia 3310. In fact, the police still have it, even though the courts ordered Inspector Mifsud to return it to me years ago. I forget for a moment that I’m leaving all that behind.
The headphones on my new neighbour’s head are massive. OK, so that fashion is back in. It takes me a good minute to see that there are no wires. Ah, yes, I remember seeing an advert. Suddenly I feel like I’m on a spaceship rather than a plane. Oh no, that tightness again in my chest. I close my eyes 1 … 2 – 1 … 2.
The Tannoy system blinks them open. The cabin crew doing their safety routine reminds me of the folly of the world. This plane will not crash. Today is not the day I die.
A man slides into the aisle seat next to me. I freeze, like a rabbit in a headlight. This new neighbour is older than me, as older as I am from the boy. I can’t help but draw similarities to the ghosts of past, present and future. I stare straight ahead at the head rest in front of me. I avoid looking at the cabin crew, at everyone, at everything.
Then somewhere deep inside I find that little bit more courage, that fight that still burns. I turn my neck, surveying my surroundings. All I can see are faces, faces staring back, it’s overwhelming. I am overwhelmed.
Johnathan Cilia, from Lovin Malta, is suddenly in front of me, a friendly face, grinning with happiness. The last time I saw him was on a visit a week ago. I paint the biggest smile I’ve ever had; I even feel some of it. Johnathan bubbles with excitement, it’s infectious. He snaps that first photo in liberty. Now it feels real.
Daniel Holmes: A Memoir From Malta's Prison: From a cage, on a rock, in a puddle... Page 20