Tuesday June 24, 2008
Jailhouse blues
By A. ANON
This is the first in a three-part series on the reallife experiences of a drug user from the time he was arrested to the day he leaves a rehabilitation centre 16 months later.
THERE is something morbidly fascinating about prisons when viewed from the outside. They certainly look forbidding with their massive and heavy wooden gates at the front, the high concrete walls topped with barbed wire and watchtowers manned by armed guards.
However, without any sight of their denizens and with no sound coming from within, they tend to exude a sense of monastic tranquillity – the impression of peace and contentment amid the spartan enclosure.
For some, the hardships of prison life may begin the day they are registered as a prisoner. The reality is far from that when it comes to the Pengkalan Chepa prison in Kelantan. The uninformed outsider might be right about the austere surroundings, but “tranquillity” was something it certainly lacked. For this was a place where violence and intimidation were a way of life, with harsh and brutal punishment meted out for the slightest offence – real or imagined.
I had the misfortune to experience this first-hand during my enforced three-month remand after being charged under the Drug Dependants Act (Treatment and Rehabilitation).
It was something I never imagined would happen to me. After all, I have tertiary education, was self-employed and lived a fairly normal life. I had thought of prisons as being exclusively for criminals, and I certainly did not regard myself as one.
However, I had a predilection for certain drugs, and a rather cavalier attitude regarding their usage. Despite being aware of the country’s drug laws, I had subscribed to the idea that drugs should be categorised on a scale ranging from “extremely harmful” to “relatively harmless”. By extension, users too should be classed – and treated – differently according to what they used.
I used cannabis, which many regarded as a “soft and organic drug” – and “harmless”. At times, I also consumed harder drugs of the methamphetamine type like pil kuda and “party pill” ecstasy, justifying that “occasional use was okay”. And I resented the fact that they were illegal while alcohol was allowed.
My attitude and indifference regarding the legal aspects were to result in my life being forcibly turned upside down.
The ordeal started with me being in the wrong place at the wrong time. One morning in August 2005, while staying in Kelantan, I went to visit an acquaintance in the town of Pasir Mas. I had consumed methamphetamine the previous day – normally something that would not have been of any significance.
But on that particular day, it was the most important issue, with enormous implications and consequences to follow.
Unknown to me, there was a police operation going on. Although the police were mainly after a couple of suspected small-time morphine and pil kuda pushers living in the area, they also decided to pick up everyone in the vicinity for a drug test.
Twelve people, including me, turned in positive results on our urine test. We were arrested and placed in the lock-up. The following day, we were taken to court for an order to allow time for the relevant authorities to carry out their tasks as stated in the Act.
The length of time in detention pending confirmation of your urine test, doctor’s certification, district anti-drugs officer’s recommendation and magistrate’s order was two weeks in most states.
However, it was different in Kelantan. Due to the lack of testing facilities, the urine confirmation took longer than two weeks. Without it, the whole process was held up.
In the meantime, bail was offered. However, if no one posted bail on your behalf, you would be placed in remand to wait it out, possibly for a few months. In Kelantan, that meant the dreaded Pengkalan Chepa Prison.
Equal treatment In Pengkalan Chepa Prison, it didn’t matter whether one was a prisoner convicted of shocking crimes like homicide or rape, or that he was merely in remand awaiting a court decision in a non-criminal case, like those charged under the Drug Dependants Act. In this particular prison, “equal opportunity” applied – everyone was always in danger of being on the receiving end.
And savage treatment might start very early on.
At the registration office, the newcomer would be puzzled to see a big Tat Sing slipper hanging from a rack for ties and caps, seemingly out of place. Its use? This particularly hard slipper saved a sadistic officer from hurting his palm when delivering “Japanese slaps” to the unfortunate prisoner who might have displeased him in some way.
If he came out unscathed during registration, there was no escaping the dreaded kuarantina (quarantine) block. This was a compulsory seven-day stay for newcomers and those returning from the courts. The most positive comment about it was, perhaps, “it’s not as bad as Abu Ghraib in Iraq”.
It was a place termed by prisoners as the closest they had been to “hell on Earth” where no consideration whatsoever was given to basic human dignity and comfort.
This process of isolating those who “just came in from the outside” was a crude attempt to extract whatever material some might have brought in, especially drugs and tobacco. The latter was previously allowed in Malaysian prisons before being banned beginning from the 1980s.
Tobacco stash
Many, however, refused to live without nicotine. And the desire to obtain tobacco (with the slang name of habuk) at whatever cost and method was a major obsession for prisoners. In the prison culture, anyone in possession of this precious commodity would gain elevated status among the rest, and many would attempt to smuggle it in despite the severe punishments.
The main way was to obtain it while at the police lock-up or court through sympathetic friends or family members. The tobacco would be compressed into pellets slightly bigger than the size of playing marbles and wrapped in plastic. They were then swallowed – to be flushed out from the prisoner’s bowels “when the time and place were right”.
Disgusting as it might be, most prisoners would gratefully smoke this tobacco – that is, if they were lucky enough to be offered a couple of puffs by the owners.
At the quarantine block, newcomers clothes were searched by “checkers” or “trustees” – selected convicts tasked with aiding prison authorities for “dirty” jobs. Redbereted personnel of the much feared prison control unit (UKP) would supervise.
These prisoners would then be taken in batches to the common bathing area. There, they were each given a black rubber bucket and told to excrete. Anyone dumb enough to have stuffed material into his anus would be found out.
Those who did not, or could not excrete, were conveniently regarded as “hiding something”.
They would then undergo the painful ordeal of korek (literally “dig”) where a checker, wearing a rubber glove, would stick a finger or two up their anus to search for purported hidden material and pull it out.
Since he would be rewarded with keeping whatever that was found, the checker would carry out this task with zeal despite the risk of injury to the person involved.
Living quarters
Overcrowding in the cells was severe. It was common to have 11 people squeezed into a cell built for four. “Toilet” was in the form of rubber buckets, which could only be emptied the following morning.
With the poor ventilation and massive overcrowding, the heat would be unbearable by 11am, with worse to follow. And it was in this heat, filth and stench that newcomers lived, ate and slept – or tried to.
Conditions improved after this quarantine period. Drug cases were sent to Block D, which had 10 rooms, each the size of a classroom. Usually there would be around 45 to 60 people to a room, and there was a civilised toilet in each one.
There were a few good things about this prison compared to police lock-ups: the space was cleaner and the food given was adequate.
Surprisingly, it was also tasty enough most of the time.
Prisoners were kept locked up in these rooms, except during the “main muster” or roll call at 7.15am and daily bath at 9am. Roll call was routine in the prison, and it was exasperating having to assemble eight times every day to be counted.
But the main concern was the hope of avoiding punishment and violent situations, which could happen at any moment.
There was one particular incident where a warder caught the whiff of tobacco smoke coming from one room. Only a few were involved but he decided to punish everyone, for reasons best known to himself.
All the occupants were brought out in single file, regardless of involvement, age or physical condition. Each suffered the full swing of a thick cane landing on the hip. They were then forced to lie down on the hot cement – and then stepped on by this particular warder.
They were to remain in that position for 30 minutes under the 3pm sun. And that was just one of the many incidents the writer witnessed.
To be fair, there were also many warders and officers who still had humanistic values despite the environment. Among them was a senior officer who was willing to hear out anyone’s problem, seek opinions and try his best to grant reasonable requests.
Then there was this UKP officer. His unit was responsible for maintaining control and discipline among prisoners and its personnel were feared. Despite the nature of his job, he showed that it was possible to perform his duties by treating his wards firmly but fairly and with respect.
Unfortunately, they were among the exceptions, for harshness and the inclination to be abusive were the more common traits in the general culture and mentality of the prison staff.
After three months of legal delay, it was a relief for me to finally leave this oppressive environment. Unfortunately, it was not to freedom.
To my shock and dismay, I was ordered by the court to undergo two years of compulsory treatment and rehabilitation at Pusat Serenti Gambang in Pahang. This would be followed with another two years of supervision by the National Anti-Drugs Agency, plus monthly reporting at the police station.
I had hoped for only supervision, and saw the order as rather excessive. After all, four others “with worse records” had obtained the lesser order – and immediate liberty.
The following day was Deepavali, with Hari Raya Aidilfitri two days after. Reeling from the shock and disappointment, all I could think of was: “This can’t really be happening!”
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