The Angel of Bang Kwang Prison (10 page)

I had been right to trust that young journalist. He wrote a balanced article and heeded my plea not to portray me as some sort of saint. His article came out in Australia, which I was especially delighted about, as were my parents. My mother told me that she showed it to all her friends. I suppose this was something which properly identified my work, and my life in Thailand, and made it more real. It also helped on a more practical level in that I received a boost of donations from Australians I had never met, which humbled me and motivated me to carry on. My life could be a struggle at times, when I didn’t have enough for myself and my daughter to live on, but the support of so many people made it possible for me to continue.

The work that I do is like any other job, with good days and bad. The worst part is the frequent realisation that, as with the bruised children in the slum, there is a limit to what I can do, no matter how much I want to change something or turn back time. I am an emotional person and I tend to react to things straight from my heart.

I opened my newspaper one day to read about the brutal attack and rape of a young girl. She was only 14 years old and had just arrived in Bangkok to look for work. Soon after she got off her bus, as she was trying to find her bearings, she was grabbed at Mo Chit bus terminal, bashed on the head and sexually assaulted. It was just a small article with a tiny photograph of the victim, who was now brain damaged after her ordeal. It was a tiny tragedy, only one incident out of many in that newspaper, but something about it wouldn’t let me forget it—maybe because I’ve a daughter myself. I asked around and discovered where she was hospitalised. All I could afford to bring was a bag of grapes.

I met her with her parents, illiterate peasants who were at a loss for what to do with their now retarded child, a former top student with ambition and dreams. They looked haggard with shock and worry as they welcomed me to sit with them on a blanket in the hospital grounds. I offered the girl the grapes and watched her face light up as she bit into the first one. I don’t think she had ever had one before. She finished the whole bag while I was there. There was nothing I could do for the family except spend some time with them and show genuine concern for their poor child.

Then there are the times when I’m thwarted from doing something that will make a huge difference. Nina and I were running a weekly visitation programme with the Bangkok Metropolitan Administration Children Daycare Centre. I became smitten with one little five-year-old boy who was thought to be deaf. His mother was a drunkard and addict and it was believed that she had caused him to be deaf with her many slaps to his little head. His name was Dtoon but everyone called him ‘Bai’, which is Thai for mute. He was a confident boy, despite his background, and loved attention.

One day he slid up to me, when I was playing games with the children, and leant against my body to get my undivided attention. I automatically put my arm around him and spoke into his ear and was astonished when he answered me. It turned out he was deaf in just one ear. I began to teach him English, and how to count and spell. He amazed me with his quick aptitude for seizing hold of and learning new information. I began to envision him changing his life through education; he was very clever and had an excellent memory. I decided that I was going to get him a hearing aid to increase his chances of success and I approached a local health officer who agreed to come to the Centre and test his hearing.

I also received sponsorship to purchase the hearing aid so all I needed now was his mother’s permission. She refused to hear me out and, instead of wanting the best for her son, she responded by taking Dtoon away from the Centre. She was afraid that if officials started talking to him they would find out about the abusive treatment he received at the hands of his junkie mother. I never saw him again.

But then there are the times when no matter how little I have, it is enough. A charity organisation once donated 2,000 pairs of shoes, which were sent over from Singapore. I was part of a group working in a refugee camp at the time. Unfortunately, there was a serious management error when it was announced, by loud speaker, to the 10,000 refugees that we were giving away free shoes that day.

It, quite naturally, resulted in a terrible skirmish, requiring armed task force soldiers to try and control the huge crowds that surged forward pleading for the shoes.

It was actually quite frightening and I silently cursed whoever it was that made the ridiculous announcement. The sun was beating down and our task of keeping the crowds in line and trying to match shoes size was growing with the temperature. Women were desperately pushing their young adolescents under our noses and we had to keep reminding them to form a—relatively—orderly line.

After hours of stress it was decided just to throw the shoes, tied in pairs, into the crowd because we reckoned that if someone caught a pair of shoes that didn’t fit anyone they knew, they could trade them for food and water. By the end of a chaotic few hours I found myself standing dazed with a single solitary shoe in my hand. The sun was starting to tilt in the sky and the crowd had finally dispersed but for one little old lady who was sitting on the ground; she only had one leg and begged me for the shoe. I walked over to her with this shabby, unattractive, brown, slip-on and handed it to her; she put it on, and it was a perfect fit. As she smiled in sheer delight at me I burst into tears; a Cinderella moment indeed.

A riskier undertaking I had already begun was when I started to visit the holding cells in Bangkok’s police stations. There were all manner of people to be found in these cells where they were placed immediately following their arrest. I was regularly called down to stations when they arrested foreigners or illegal aliens and needed a translator, so the next step was to meet with anyone else they were holding. I obtained permission from the top guys but still had to ask the head of each station if I could go in. In response to my smile and request, they would grant a rather grudging permission, knowing that I had already spoken to their chief but suspicious that I only intended to report any mishandling of the inmates by their staff. When I reassured them that I only wanted to help them, as well as their charges, they shrugged and asked me if I really thought I could make a difference or would even be listened to by the inmates. I just kept repeating my usual, and only, line of defence: ‘Well, I don’t know but I have to try.’

And so, after some sweet smiling on my part, they would give in and I would be escorted down to the cells by a couple of guards who would slowly lock the door behind me, as if expecting me to change my mind once I laid eyes on the arrested criminals.

My sudden entrance usually raised a few eyebrows, especially when I started to talk Thai and ask the guys what they had been arrested for. Some had murdered, some had raped, some sold drugs and some were junkies. They usually asked me what I had done to be arrested and found it difficult to believe me when I proclaimed my innocence, telling them that I had come to visit them voluntarily to see if I could help them in any way. The cells were dirty and extremely smelly so they had trouble believing that anyone would want to visit them. Each station had a few cells that were only meant for two or three men but usually held double that or more, and at times I have seen up to 30 or more men crammed in together.

One time I look back on with mixed emotions was when Niall, a mutual Thai woman friend and myself were heading home after a party. As we passed by Muggasan Police Station we decided to make a spontaneous visit. Niall had his guitar with him and we were all dressed up; Niall was in a suit, our friend was in a beautiful silk dress and I was wearing my pearls, so the guys must have thought we were putting on a concert for them. I knew the guard at the desk and he led us down to the cells. We had a wonderful time; Niall could sing many Thai ballads that brought tears to the eyes of these grateful men. He told me afterwards that he had been a little frightened at first because it struck him how vulnerable we were and how easy we could have been taken hostage—something that hadn’t really occurred to me before.

The situation took a frightening turn when we finished our visit and called out to be released from the cell. The staff that I knew had finished for the night and I didn’t know any of the night guards—and they didn’t know me. Therefore, when I rattled the door and informed the guard outside that he could open up now because we wanted to go home, he just laughed and said, ‘Ha! That’s what everyone says,’ and went back to whatever he was doing. It was an eerie moment and we truly understood what it was like to be locked up and ignored. My voice sounded shrill when I called out again, only to hear the reply:

‘No way am I letting you out. Now settle down in there.’

I felt myself go cold as I realised that we could be left there, at least until the day shift started in another eight hours or so.

Thankfully, fear led to anger and I shouted with as much authority as I could muster; ‘You come here right now! And bring your phone with you so I can talk to your boss. Right now!’

That got his attention. He handed his phone to me through the bars and I rang the General who burst out laughing when I told him where I was. Within seconds we were released. I was drenched with sweat and trying to smile as the guards in the station roared with laughter, thinking it was the most hilarious thing they had ever seen. The three of us would-be inmates needed a stiff drink but, unfortunately, we couldn’t afford even one between us.

I have always believed in maintaining good relationships with the police and officials that my work has brought me into contact with, and some of them I would count as friends, including the Police General who set up the Village Scout programme on behalf of His Majesty the King. This was like a Home Guard Force that set up to train men how to protect their villages, especially from the threat of communism. In fact, this Village Scout Movement was the largest right-wing organisation in Thai history; it was founded by the Border Patrol Police in 1971 and was dedicated to instilling loyalty to nation, religion and King. I was honoured one day when he told me that he was sending me to be trained up as a scout—me, an outsider! It was a real privilege to be allowed to attend the camp and I set off, enthusiastically, with a Thai friend.

I was a figure of fun when I arrived and the camp elders took great pleasure in targeting me for ‘special’ treatment. One guy addressed the camp, intending to make fun of me because he thought I couldn’t speak Thai. He nearly fell over when I smartly answered him back. It lasted five long days and we weren’t allowed to sleep at all. We had to endure things like being covered with cold water and powder; we jumped out of trees and ran for miles. At night, if anyone looked sleepy a trainer would start clashing cymbals to wake them up again. We rested on stone floors that were as hard and cold as they sound. The men didn’t think I would last one day, never mind five, and they confessed to spying on me in anticipation of me breaking down in floods of tears—like Goldie Hawn’s character in the American film
Private Benjamin
when she enrols in the army, with her long nails and blonde hair, and then realises it’s not for her and wants to go home. They waited in vain, however, for that, and found themselves, instead, congratulating me on my strength and determination at the end of the course. They also told me that I was the one person who got the most out of the training.

They were right, because for me it was a great insight into Thai culture and I learned about the important role played by the Thai Royal Family. We were presented with certificates and medals, which I accepted with pride. I was now a scout, which meant more than that I could be asked to join in exhibitions put on by the police and scouts. I took part in events such as international jamboree or parachuting competitions and I also got to meet several members of the Royal Family. When there was a Royal visit I was usually chosen to present a bouquet of flowers to the Queen, an extremely gracious and dignified woman. I sure she was struck by the fact that when she meets westerners normally they are usually well-to-do dignitaries, not petite blondes in the uniform of a Thai village scout.

Chapter Six

The Bangkok Hilton is almost as popular a tourist curio site as any of the city’s magnificent temples. It was built in the 1930s and is a Maximum Security Prison holding inmates who are serving sentences of more than 25 years. It also holds inmates whose appeals are pending in the Appeal Court and the Supreme Court, as well as the prisoners on Death Row waiting to be executed. Overcrowding in the prison is a huge problem, with the population usually around the 8,000 mark. The prison was originally built to hold considerably less than this. There is a pervading sense of hopelessness inside its wall due to the ridiculously long prison sentences and the infrequent state executions. I had passed by its huge walls several times, never realising the impact the prison and its inhabitants would, one day, make in my life. As the saying goes, ‘God works in mysterious ways.’

It all began thanks to my American friend Joanna. Her son was in the US army and someone who knew that his mother was in Bangkok had passed on the name of an American guy who was incarcerated in Bang Kwang, wondering if she would be so good as to check in on him. She duly made the visit but was horrified and shocked at the condition of the place. She approached me that evening and begged me to accompany her when she made her next visit.

‘Please Susan, I need you to keep me sane or I’m going to end up being bitter and twisted, and consumed by my hatred of the guards and the staff that work there. You’ve got to come, if only to give me a sense of perspective.’

I immediately said no, even though I had experience visiting inmates at Bumbud. Or perhaps because of that very fact. After listening to her account of the place I knew that if I made just one visit I would be hooked and I really didn’t have the time for another such demanding, albeit challenging and stimulating, project. Apart from the fact that my days were taken up with my youth and drug rehabilitation work, there was the fact that I lived two hours away from Bang Kwang and my visiting would involve a journey by car, bus, boat and then a walk, while carrying food and whatever else the inmates might need. I continued to say no for several weeks but Joanna is a particularly stubborn woman and when she gets an idea she just can’t give up on it—which is one of the things I love about her. Finally I gave in to her and agreed to go to the prison which was, quite possibly, no surprise to either of us. I told her that I would be making only one—or, at most, two—visits after which I would tell her exactly what I thought, and that would be that. I don’t suppose either of us believed me, but we both acted like we did.

We made an appointment to meet with the Director-General of the Department of Corrections after meeting with the American inmate on that first day. As it turned out, the Director-General had got talking to a friend of mine at a function and let it be known that he was looking for a volunteer to head up projects in the prison. I dressed hyper-conservative for the day, wanting to appear as business-like and missionary-like as possible. I wore a black skirt, grey stockings, pristine white blouse, heels, my pearl necklace, just enough make-up, carried a briefcase and even had my hair up in a bun; the party-lover with tampon ear-rings and see-through clothes would have hated it.

Joanna mirrored my image, and we headed off to the Department of Corrections, which was, at that time, housed in a small, funky old building that looked like something left over from a movie set. The guards also looked like old movie extras with their ancient uniform of faded, too-short pants, ill-fitting, colourless shirts and scruffy shoes.

I was there to discuss possible projects with the Director-General. He was the supreme head of Thai penology—it’s always better to start at the top and then work your way down; that way you cannot step on anyone’s toes, plus you are also perceived to be thoroughly upfront in motive and intent, which is a necessary requirement for my line of business. In turn he introduced us to many other officials. Some of these had never set foot inside the prison and had lots of questions for us. They wanted to know what life was like inside, which was ironic considering they should have known much more than foreigners like Joanna and I.

Our timing was good and that first visit brought me many opportunities and projects. It was as if Bang Kwang had just been sitting there, waiting for me to arrive at its doors. The Director-General asked me to teach English to the penal officers, on account of the large number of foreign prisoners they encountered. The course was duly advertised and quite a lot of officers turned up. Now, this was a good way to make an inroad into the hub of prison life. Thais always look up to teachers, and by meeting the staff in this manner I could befriend officers and administration staff—therefore, people who could help me on the inside.

As they got to know me they started to trust me, which was pure gold, where my ambitions were concerned. Not that I was naïve to think that the trust was solid and automatic; typically there was the concern that I only wanted to expose any harsh treatment of prisoners or bad seeds within the policing and justice system. I had to be careful at all times; I wasn’t Joan of Arc, wanting to do battle in broad daylight; my ambitions were trivial in comparison and would need the co-operation of staff, the little guys as well as the top officials.

I met the Commander, or Chief Warden of Bang Kwang—a pleasant and affable guy—who invited me to his home just across the road from the prison. He also hired me to teach his daughter English, and would invite me to functions to do with the prison and penal system. Once people saw me by his side it opened more doors for me. Like it or not, I was becoming a permanent fixture. But I’ve skipped the beginning of this story: the American inmate in Bang Kwang who Joanna spent so many weeks begging me to visit. In a way, the next part of my life began with him.

Garth Todd Hattan was born on 16 August 1962 in Carmel, California, to Mark and Mildred (affectionately known as Honey) Hattan. He was the youngest of five children. His father, a teacher and his mother, a journalist, divorced when he was five, and the kids remained in Carmel with Mildred. Garth enjoyed his childhood with sunny days, surfing, swimming and little league baseball. His siblings, two brothers and two sisters, were very united and protective of their kid brother. When he was 18 he and his mother moved to Long Beach and he attended the California State University in Sacramento, studying music.

After college he became a session drummer, which brought in a decent enough wage, allowing the young musician to develop his newfound tastes for alcohol and marijuana. During a hiatus in his recording career Garth decided to see a little of the world and took a trip to Asia.

He was arrested in Tokyo, for possession of 3kg of amphetamine, and sentenced to prison for seven years. Due to good behaviour, he got out after four years and after a brief stay in the US, he continued with his trip around Asia. He travelled through Hong Kong, Korea, Malaysia, and Sumatra before finally arriving in Thailand. He rented a motorbike to travel around the country. Unfortunately, the bike went up in flames, along with his bag containing his money, plane tickets and passport. Stuck for something better to do, he wandered down on foot to Pattaya beach where he got chatting to a local guy, Pornchai, telling him of his latest misfortunes. Pornchai brightened up as he told him how he could make a lot of money and a free plane ticket to Denmark.

It was simple—all he had to do was pick up a bag in Bangkok and bring it to Denmark. The two shook hands. Pornchai provided him with a suit, to smarten him up, and the bag, which led to his subsequent arrest at the airport by two Royal Thai Custom Officers, at 10pm on 16 July 1994. The two officers afterwards claimed that they had received information from a ‘spy’ regarding an American male who was scheduled to travel on Scandinavian Airlines flight HK 972. They had stationed themselves near the check-in desk and spotted a nervous-looking Garth holding his bag of precious cargo. They immediately approached him and identified themselves, asking him to accompany them to their office.

They found 24 tubes of heroin in the bag; the initial weight of the catch was 8.367kg including packaging. After the find was tested for purity, the total weight was 6.173kg. It was duly noted that Garth was extremely co-operative the whole time and didn’t, in any way, prevent the officers from carrying out their investigation.

He told them everything he knew and was polite and respectful at all times, which, ultimately, saved his life. Instead of receiving the death sentence, which was usual, under the Thai 1979 Narcotics Act, when caught with this amount of drugs, he was handed down life imprisonment from the Criminal Court on 11 November 1994. On 15 November he was transferred from the Central Correctional Institute for drug addicts at Klong Prem prison to Bang Kwang.

His case was then put before the Court of Appeals where, on 2 May 1995, he received the same verdict of life imprisonment. Garth did not make a further appeal to the Supreme (
Dika
) Court. His case was finalised on 26 June 1995. There was no limit put on his sentence—no release date—and 17 July 1994, the day after his arrest, was proclaimed to be his first day of imprisonment.

On 9 July 1996, the King of Thailand announced an amnesty for all prisoners, whereby some were released and others saw a reduction in their sentences. Garth’s sentence of life imprisonment was reduced to 40 years and his release date was set for 17 July 2034, just in time to celebrate his 72nd birthday.

My immediate impressions of Bang Kwang prison were of a dark, dour place where the staff looked as desperate as the inmates. From the outside the whiteness of its walls and its seven storey security tower seemed to glisten and dance in the sun, but inside was a completely different story. Although I could understand Joanna’s natural inclination to despise the men in uniform who patrolled the place and enforced its rules, I felt myself full of pity for them. To put it bluntly, their place of employment was a horrible one and they were hated by all 8,000 inmates and their families and any other visitors. Their job was a thankless one and they got paid very little for it. No one smiled at all, which made me shudder.

I was used to befriending medical staff in hospitals, policemen in stations, officials in their offices, and even if some of those I met weren’t very friendly, at first, there was always one person who would meet me half-way. These men, however, were probably more stressed by their job than anyone else I had met in Thailand to date; they were seriously understaffed and underpaid.

One man who did stand out from the very beginning for me was the gracious Chavoret Jaruboon, the state executioner—but don’t let that put you off him. He walked by me one day, carrying a sheaf of papers and his brow furrowed behind his thick reading glasses. I knew who he was because he had been pointed out to me in reverential whispers. I wondered what he was like and how he could do what he did. I also knew that he loved to practice his English, so I called out to him and introduced myself. He answered immediately and we fell into easy conversation. He became my friend and biggest advocate within the prison and was to work with me on several projects. I depend on him today to help me fill out the tiresome paperwork that must be in place before I can gain permission to initiate a project.

He is one of the most honest and practical people I know and always tries to be fair and respectable to his charges. I did give him a hard time when he first told me that he had executed people. I asked him who they were and he couldn’t answer the question. It was probably easier for him if he didn’t think of them as real people, but I wasn’t about to let him off the hook. The next time he performed an execution he was able to tell me all about the person and how they had ended up in Bang Kwang. I think it helped him a lot to talk about the executions and he could trust me not to judge him or exploit his candidness. He is very open about his job in his memoirs, entitled
The Last Executioner;
so called because he was the last guy to execute criminals by shooting them. Lethal injection was brought into Bang Kwang in 2004, finally giving Chavoret the opportunity to resign from his position as executioner, with my persistent encouragement and nagging to do so ringing in his ears.

After we were body-searched for weapons and drugs I followed Joanna into the visiting room. This is quite a big room with a wall of wire mesh that separates you from the inmate. Therefore, if you are making a visit on a busy day you will have to shout to be heard by the prisoner you are visiting. While I was waiting for Garth to be brought out I was busy making notes in my head about what Joanna and I could do. My first concern, that day, was actually for the staff and about how I could improve their lot. Lost in my thoughts and making plans, I was slightly bewildered when Joanna hissed at me out of the side of her mouth, ‘He’s cute, isn’t he?’

It took me a few seconds to realise that our guy was being led to his seat. I assume she was referring to his long, flowing brown hair, his athletic, well-toned 6ft build, green eyes and evenly tanned skin.

‘Nah,’ I whispered back, ‘not my type.’

She arched one eye-brow at me in reply. I shrugged ambiguously. Well it was mostly true; he looked like he knew he was good-looking and I, as a rule, don’t like men who are into body-building and, therefore, into themselves. Little did I know that we would end up having a relationship. Joanna introduced us and I quizzed him a bit about his life inside Bang Kwang. He asked me about myself, and I, unintentionally, found myself telling him about my wild youth in Melbourne. Only afterwards did I realise that I had wanted him to know that I wasn’t just a ‘do-gooder’ missionary; I was a woman with a past and had, once, been capable of ingesting drugs and alcohol just like him, and hung out with musicians just like him and loved travelling through Asia just like him. And so forth. He had both cockiness and a world-weariness about him that pushed my buttons and I wanted him to recognise me as an equal.