The Prisoner

by Hwang Sok-Yong

  —If you promise to be quiet, I’ll take the muzzle off. Will you be quiet?

  The prisoner nods. You don’t need to hear a pleading voice to tell his nods mean Please, please. The hand that removes the muzzle is like the hand of God. The prisoner opens his mouth wide and takes several deep breaths and licks his liberated teeth and lips. The steel door slams shut once more.

  I bent my tied legs to my chest and leaned against the wall with my hands tied behind my back. How strange, the punishment cell was the size of my regular cell, but the lack of a window made the whole world shrink. I could feel a sharp pain when I pressed down where the handcuffs were fastened. My back itched, my wrenched shoulders strained, and my breath moved in and out of my nose and mouth. There are moments when just being alive is in itself humiliation and suffering. I couldn’t do anything because of the restraints. I couldn’t lie down, couldn’t lean forward, and I needed to distract myself with something if I wanted to forget my current state. I needed to loosen my hands a bit.

  Most prisoners who have experienced the punishment cell know to search for a nail or a piece of wire in the ground as soon as they are thrown in. It could be one that a previous prisoner has left behind, or a nail pulled out of the floor through long and careful effort. Or you could negotiate with the guard during interrogation to have your handcuffs refastened to the front of you instead, or beg to have them temporarily taken off. When they put them back on, you make an angle with your elbow so as to make a wider space in the cuffs. Once in the cell, you rub your hands with as much dry soap as possible and wriggle your hands out of them. You can always put them back on when you hear footsteps.

  Unlike the regular prisoners, I had no opportunity to negotiate, so what I did was crawl around in the dark as I tried to sweep the floor with my hands. I’d keep pressing down with my feet the slightest bit of elevation or edge in the wooden boards. I could feel the head of a nail popping up after about an hour. Sometimes I could immediately pull it out, sometimes it took a whole day. Getting that nail out of the plank becomes the most important project in the history of the world. Ah, finally! It’s out. This tiny piece of metal was the key to changing me from an animal into a thinking, working human being.

  The long, thin beam of light seeping through moves slowly to the left, shrinking gradually shorter as it inches back toward the vent, then narrowing still more before turning into a faint smudge near the corner of the vent, and soon disappearing altogether. Around this time, I smell the savory scent of fermented soybean paste stew and hear the squeak of the steel wheels of the food cart. My handcuffs are still not released. They won’t be released until the administrative office calls for me in four or five days. I hear the turning of the key and the whole door, not just the food hole, opens. With a practiced air, the guard puts down a tray with three white plastic bowls, one for rice, one for stew, and a side dish. With a sneer he says:

  —Eat your kibble.

  I’ve already declared my hunger strike, so I kick over the tray instead. The guard curses me from afar as the soji assigned to the sensory deprivation cell comes to clean up the mess. The regular prisoners have to bend over with their hands tied behind their backs to eat their food in a hurry, getting it all over their faces. The prison authorities will sometimes attempt force-feeding if a hunger strike continues. I once was sent to the infirmary during a hunger strike, and the doctor threatened to force-feed me like in the old days if I did not comply. I threatened him right back. I warned that I knew his name and rank, that force-feeding was officially a form of torture, and that he would never be able to shake off the repercussions of having tortured a political prisoner—something that would rebound on the warden and the minister of justice as well. Thwarted, he mumbled something about having done so in the past with no problem. Indeed, I heard they were still force-feeding regular and student prisoners on occasion.

  In this process the doctor grasps the prisoner in the sensory deprivation cell, with the help of some guards, and pumps watery rice gruel into a rubber hose shoved down the prisoner’s throat. It’s as suffocating as having an endoscopy, and the gruel ends up coming out of the hunger-striker’s nose, but that’s not the worst of it. What brings tears to the prisoner’s eyes is how humiliating and degrading a violation it is. He vomits again and again, but the texture of the rice grains in his throat and the savory taste at the tip of his tongue are already unforgettable. His bodily resistance begins to break down.

  The sensory deprivation cell rips away that symbol of humanity from the prisoner: his very freedom of thought. You could not bear to have any thoughts at all in that place. The only way to affirm that you were alive in your own body was to have a goal and to concentrate on that goal.

  Right, I have a tool. The goal is to remove my handcuffs. I lift the nail I’ve hidden in the cracks of the floor. I explore the nail with my fingertips to become comfortable with its detailed structure and motions, the circling, lining, crossing, and so on. Then, I slip the tip into the keyhole of the handcuff and try to learn its structure. You have to remember when you feel something catch. You turn, dig, and pull scores of times, making a mental note of how much strength to apply in which direction. You try again, you keep on trying. The motion of your fingers becomes ever finer, and even as you concentrate, you close your eyes and all kinds of thoughts grab at you and come after you.

  There is a wide field of green barley, rippling in the breeze. I see pine trees bending on a hill across the field, the path I am walking on winds next to the hill, continuing over the bridge that spans the stream, and curving toward the mountain beyond. Tall willow trees grow along both sides of the path, and their branches dance, leaves fluttering and sparkling in the sun as though clapping and laughing. I am walking along but can’t feel any bumps of rocks or stones beneath my feet. The dirt road is damp, the soft, cushiony soil tickling my soles. The moment I feel I’m about to reach my destination, my feet tickle more than ever. I glide along the path in silent motion like in a dream.

  Click. The saw-toothed claw of the inner cuff pops out with a clear metallic sound. I slip my hands out. Now for the ropes. It takes a long time to release the first knot and at least an hour more to untie the others and free my wrists from the rope. If I keep pulling and relaxing and pulling again at the ropes, I can create a hole big enough for my hands to escape. Exhausted, I collapse to the ground with the remaining rope tied around my elbows. I clench and unclench my fists, scratch my itching nose, and enjoy a respite on my back. The moonlight from the ventilation window creates a faint parallelogram-shaped stain on the cement wall.

  I must have fallen asleep. I hear the steel doors open on the floor below as the night shift make their last rounds before changing out, hearing the “No problems during shift!” call of the guard, low and curt. My eyes pop open, and I quickly sit on the handcuffs and rope, turn to hide my back and arms from the inspection slit, and pretend to be asleep. I can see the visor of the guard on shift go by the slit. I’m completely awake now and put the handcuffs back on. I slip my hands into the loops of the rope-harness and tighten the knots like before. I slip the nail back into the plank where I found it. As long as I can be free whenever I want, I’ve won. Not even the darkness of the sensory deprivation cell or these narrow cement walls can get me down.

  It’s always at the beginning that prison is hardest. Like anything else, even the worst situations become tolerable after a week or so. But there are long-lasting side effects to being dragged out of the sensory deprivation cell and into the sunlight for a “consultation” with the prison administration or security officers. First, you can’t open your eyes as soon as you step into the yard. Yellow light fills your vision under closed eyelids, and the dizziness of vertigo makes you swoon. The guard knows this is the case, which is why he doesn’t urge you on but waits for you instead, speaking in a cold voice.

  —So, what’s it like “going to Hong Kong”? Two months spent rotting in that box will turn into a model prisoner.

 
; When I open my eyes and start walking again, the white light dims as if the colors were being drained out of it, and I’m back to normal. But even then, the trees and sky and the whitewashed cement walls of the yard itself seem like full-color slides projected in the dark, crystalline and spectacular. The prospect of returning to sensory deprivation is horrifying. When I am dragged back to the dark solitude of the cell, like on the first day, and the steel door slams shut behind me, I fall into despair like a man who has lost everything.

  There are different stages of “punishment” inside the sensory deprivation cell. First come the days of struggling like an animal to adjust. Then, a period of being let out and forced back in that serves to underline how there’s nowhere lower you can sink from where you are now. When you’re past this time of stagnation, tedium, and loneliness, the guards release the handcuffs and ropes and try to make you see it their way, to make you an offer conditional on your willingness to write a statement admitting fault. There is still a point where the inmate feels wronged and insists, full of hate, that there is no possible compromise. In this case the administration resets the punishment to its original conditions, or grants you more time for reflection and outside exercise. If both sides refuse to bend, the prisoner really does go insane or is sent to an even worse place of confinement. In any case, he’s broken in the end. All such days are present in the accepting gaze of the long-term prisoner.

  A guard came to fetch me after a week on hunger strike in the sensory deprivation cell. They were probably conducting a preliminary interrogation because they were afraid that I would make waves on the outside. I left the young inmates behind and didn’t look back as I returned to my normal cell. I should have refused and demanded that the others be freed before me, and that is my lasting shame. But I was still denied visits, and so my strike continued. I think that was the hardest period for me. No wonder I carved the warden’s name on the wall so I would never forget it. But I do not remember his name anymore. After five years in prison and the return to daily life in the outside world, the bad things I experienced behind bars became as foggy as the fragments of a bad dream. The things I’ve managed to recall for the first time while writing this are enough to surprise even me, making me almost question whether they really happened.

  My first winter in prison, the twenty long days of my hunger strike took their toll on me: two of my teeth fell out as I brushed. I stared at the spat-out teeth on my palm and couldn’t bring myself to throw them away, so I put them in a plastic container. I went on further hunger strikes during my time in prison and lost fourteen more teeth after I was released. This meant years of misery getting implants.

  The regular prisoners tried their damnedest to become “mad dogs.” They searched out the guards’ weaknesses, made violent threats, and tormented the officers every chance they had. Those whom sensory deprivation could not tame would find themselves back in those airless cells over and over for six months, driving everyone crazy. The most effective measure was self-harm: swallowing things like needles, nail-clippers, carpentry nails or glass, or slashing themselves in the stomach with can lids, or even, as a protest against the hideousness of the world, sewing their eyelids shut. One prisoner sewed his lips together into a bloody mess because a guard castigated him for talking back. This is usually enough for the guards in charge to give up and allow some leeway. Most “mad dogs” would never dare act like that at the beginning of their sentences, because they would simply be shut down and transferred to another cell or a more remote prison; but those in their last year were normally left alone. Once they got a permit to grow out their hair, you could say the world was their oyster from then on. Although all it meant was getting put into easier workstations, being given more morsels at meals, or being moved into a wider cell with fewer people.

  Prison life resets when you change prisons, or even just change cells. And no matter how peaceful or reasonable your sentence has been up to that point, all those conditions disappear when the people around you change. Political prisoners continued the struggle inside because of important developments outside, or their moral mandate, but when it came to the living conditions of prisoners, especially, there was a rule that all must fight for the good of all. Things that were as inconsequential as dust on the outside took on life-or-death meaning inside prison: a decrease in the pork that was served once a week, or guards using violence or violent language toward the regular prisoners, became important points of struggle.

  The Gongju Correctional Institute brought in two pigs a week. Each prisoner was entitled to one hundred grams of pork, but it cooked down to eighty. In contrast, the Seoul Detention Center served beef stew once a week and the morsels were minced, which meant the bottom had to be stirred for prisoners to get some. The “mad dogs” there would receive more bits of meat, thanks to the tricks of the soji, and put them in ramen or cook them separately. But there were so many things you could purchase from the commissary in the detention center that no one really complained about it. In prison proper, where the conditions were worse, everyone looked forward to pork day. However, eighty grams of steamed pork should be the size of a man’s palm, and the prisoners complained that it was blatantly obvious that they were only getting half that. It was a miracle that we ended up with anything at all, after the prison’s executive officers took home the best cuts, then the guards, and then the mess hall workers, who served it boiled to the leader-level prisoners. There were many other complaints about food: for instance, we were entitled to three pieces of nori but only received two—and of such poor quality that we said we were better off getting a few more vegetables instead.

  The political prisoners received the regular prisoners’ complaints in written notes, and on memorial days we used our political mandate to issue demands related to matters like “the pork problem.” Negotiations would begin after about a week of hunger strikes, and the young student activist would face off with the security officer in charge, in this case verifying with scales whether we were indeed receiving eighty grams per head. These were problems that would be bad publicity if they got out, so the prison tried to resolve them internally. The victorious prisoners, rejoicing over their palm-sized piece of pork, cursed those who had taken half of their meat before. But over six months, the serving of pork slowly shrank to half its regulation size again. Then we fought, nagged, and complained until conditions seemed to improve, before turning bad once more, repeating ad nauseam as time went by.

  A harrowing experience led me to read books about alternative medicine, where I learned that fasting was so dangerous it is referred to as “knifeless surgery.” You’re supposed to work up to it with a preparatory fast, and ideally request pills called Magmil (magnesium hydroxide) from the pharmacy in order to completely empty your digestive system, which will help avoid side effects. You fill plastic bottles with water and drink at least two of these every day. Emptying yourself quickly will cut down on withdrawal, so in the evening you get a bowl of lukewarm water and give yourself an enema. This involves poking a straw into a plastic bag, wrapping the opening with a rubber band, and filling the bag with warm water through the open end of the straw. You insert the straw into your rectum and lie on your side as you squeeze the water in little by little. Soon, your stomach rumbles and gurgles. You lie still until you can’t stand it anymore and go to the toilet to evacuate your bowels. After a few rounds of this, your stomach will feel much more comfortable, and your desire to eat will also lessen.

  A day of fasting is very different from a day divided by three meals: for prisoners who spend their days waiting for breakfast to turn to lunch and lunch to turn to dinner, the tedium in between can become unbearable. With fasting, the hardest part is making it to the fourth day. There’s an old saying that three days of starvation will turn anyone into a thief, and the third evening of fasting is that point where every thought and sense is attuned to food, so much so that reading becomes impossible. Your senses of hearing and smell turn painfully acute at the creaking
of the food cart’s wheels, and the heavenly scent of rice steaming in the kitchen makes your nerves sing. I could tell not only when bean paste soup was being served, but also the exact kinds of side dishes on offer.

  The clatter of the cart reaches our corridor, and the other cells begin to murmur as they accept their food, which is when I close the food hole and sit with my back to the door. I hear the sounds of laughter and eating in the other cells. I recall a memory from when I was sick as a child. I was staying home from school, either from flu or indigestion, and my family ate at the table while I lay alone in a corner. They talked amongst themselves about what had happened that day and the food they were eating, and the sound of their cutlery clanging on bowls made me feel lonelier as I lay there, listening.

  Finally, the cart stops in front of my door and the food hole opens. When the soji asks if I’m eating and I answer no, he shuts the food hole without another word. I take a deep breath and pour some of the water I’ve stored in the plastic bottle into a bowl and drink it slowly, rolling the water around on my tongue. My hunger subsides after about three bowls.

  The fluorescent bulb is so old that there are black stains at its edges, and I hear a buzzing from it that normally doesn’t register. It’s getting louder. When I’m too restless to fall asleep that night, it feels like the metallic sound is making long waves as it passes through my head. The perpetual light of the fluorescent bulb has converted to sound energy that overtakes my cerebrum. Like in the darkness of the punishment cell, my body disappears little by little and all that’s left is my consciousness. That’s the borderline between the third and fourth day. After the fifth, and around the end of the first week, the seething demands of the body are easily ignored and begin to subside. I stop eliminating and, later, all that comes out is a bit of clear water. This is when the smell of food becomes repulsive.

  I dream. I see a wide, green field and trees. As in my dreams inside the punishment cell, I tread the field or pass over it lightly like clouds or the wind. After two weeks of this I begin to feel cold, yet the slightest bout of fever and chills leaves me feeling like I’ve just returned home from being caught in a storm and have dried off and snuggled warmly down in bed. I begin to sleep less and my mind grows clearer. I wake in the middle of the night and spend hours sitting upright. And like an old man, I am flooded with memories. I just sit on the bedding and follow the path the memories take me.