Forget You Had a Daughter by Sandra Gregory

Author:Sandra Gregory
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781782196488
Publisher: John Blake
Published: 2013-10-01T00:00:00+00:00

9

DOMESTIC VIOLENCE

Letter from my brother, June 1993

Dear Sandra

You have no idea how often I have tried to write to you and the number of pages that have gone on the fire and I still can’t write what I want to say to you. We love you so much (you stupid cow). Please, please come back.

Many people passing through Bangkok, often total strangers, would come by to see me, as if I were an object of curiosity in an exhibition tank. In the visiting room I would ask them why they had come, hoping they might have brought a message from someone I knew at home, or a snippet of news, from beyond the prison walls.

‘I’ve just come to see you,’ they would say, startled by my bemused and disappointed expression. I couldn’t help it.

Having to shout across a four-foot gap only increased my sense of frustration and alienation. ‘It borders on the surreal,’ said a reporter who came to visit one day.

My life belonged to Lard Yao.

One year had passed since I first entered Lard Yao and I was still no nearer to being sentenced. I was a curious sight, embarrassed by living in these squalid conditions and angry with people outside prison knowing how I was forced to live. The impulse for sympathy is ancient and I hated their sympathy even more.

The paradox of Lard Yao was glaring; everyone wants prisoners to be punished and they expect rehabilitation. Fine. But the vulnerability of prisoners, and the lack of self-esteem, reduces all the good intentions to less than zero. I wanted to open my own mail or make a cup of tea when I fancied one. I wanted to eat when I was hungry, not when I was told. Even showing emotions was restricted. Everyone felt this, but no one said it. You couldn’t, it was impossible. Displaying emotion was a sign of weakness and in prison weakness was often preyed on. I was weak, and I grew tired of having to put on a face and pretend I was hard and tough.

Of course there were days when I realised how lucky I was and how much worse my situation could have been. By turns I grew resilient and found the occasional pleasure in small things.

Court mornings, of all occasions, were often a quiet, peaceful time. Rising at first light, before anyone else was up, and being let out in the dark was a precious change to the regular routine. It was one of my only chances to be more or less alone.

I would sit outside on my plastic mat for a few minutes with my cat, watching the fat bullfrogs jumping around the courtyard. I would watch them jealously, as they plopped and hopped around on the ground; they were as free as anything could possibly be in the prison. They were freer than the guards who worked there, ate there and, in some cases, lived there. I desperately wanted to be a frog or even one of the pigeons that flew in and out of prison all day.

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