The strange adventures of Ali Rahal by thadeusz

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Warning : This story is directly inspired by real facts
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My name is Ali Rahal. I don’t know who my father is: he disappeared from my mother’s life before I was born, at least that’s what she told me. My mother was very poor and she worked very hard, as a hard working labourer in the farm of a rich man, named Aaqib Maroun, in order to survive and to feed me. Aaqib Maroun was strict but not bad. When I was 6, this rich man offered to take care of me and to train me for what he called a good trade. In fact he taught me to read and write, just enough to be able to pray. He also prepared me to be a good farm worker, working for him, with nearly no salary, on his huge domain. This was normal in my birth country. Finally, this rich man, whom I called "my master", chose for me the name I now have. This might indicate that I am not a complete stranger to him. All that happened in a small but rich Golf country, near Saoudi Arabia.

It was usual for men, in my birth country, to have long hair. That was the case for my friends, the sons of my master. I was told to keep my hair shorter, but not too short, since I was only a domestic. Since I was well treated, I accepted this difference gracefully and every two weeks my master’s wife served as barber and gave me a reasonable haircut with nice special scissors. I naturally accepted this haircut as it marked the natural difference between the master’s sons and his young servant.

Despite my "job" I had some free time to play with the sons of my "master", since that’s how he wanted me to call him despite the fact that I was born free. His sons taught me how to play soccer and it rapidly appeared that I was very good at that game. I started to play in an amateur team.

We all lived in a very strict muslim world where everything was governed by our king. There was no freedom. Neither religious freedom nor political freedom. A group of young people started to organize protest marches. I was one of them, with the sons of my master. The king did not like this and ordered his police to arrest us. My master defended his sons and protected me with them. The others were sent to prison without trial, and for a long time. It was then said, very discreetly, that they were tortured. Luckily my friends and their father protected me efficiently.

Life continued as before until the very day I went to play a match with my team in another part of the country. The police came to our farm with an arrest warrant for me but not any for the Maroun’s sons: this blocked my master's attempts to protect me. This was obviously a nasty manoeuvre since the warrant concerned a pseudo aggression I should have committed … while I was playing soccer in another part of the country. As soon as I came back from my match, which my team won, my master told me that I had to go away very far and very fast. Otherwise, I would be arrested and tortured for protesting against the dictatorship of our king.

My master did the only thing he could do: he hid me in a barn and provided me with a fake passport. He gave me some money, not much but more than I had ever had, and he told me to leave the country urgently. I went through several countries: in some I was rejected because of my religion I had been raised as a Shia Muslim), in others I was rejected because I kept claiming that I was in favor of democracy. Finally I landed in New Zealand. There I was tolerated provided I could show that I was a hard working man, which was the case despite my young age: I was barely 17.

I showed them that I could be a good farmer, or better since I did not own any piece of land, a good workman for a farmer. I also asked for asylum. The answer came rapidly: we can grant you asylum if a citizen vouches for you. There was also a discrete inquest in my home country and Mister Aaqib Maroun gave very positive information about me.

Another good farmer, Mister Thomas Smithson, a real New Zealander, agreed to vouch for me provided I would work on his farm for a reduced pay for two years. I agreed to these conditions. In any case the reduced pay offered by Smithson was much higher than the few cents I received previously from Maroun. But the official asylum papers did not come, I only received a permit to stay in New Zealand and to work there.

Mister Smithson imposed two other conditions: I had to remain permanently clean and I had to have short hair. Cleanliness was part of my religion and short hair was not a problem, provided I could keep some. One of the other workers on the domain helped me to fulfill the second condition: Mark, that’s his name, was used to working with sheep. He was used to shearing them for their wool. He told me to sit on a chair and took his special sheep clippers and started to do with me exactly what he did with the animals. It was not comfortable for me since he treated me like a young animal, but I must admit that he did not brutalize me. He simply pushed and turned the upper part of my body (as if I were a sheep) asking Tim, the other worker on the main farm, to hold the rest of my body! My knowledge of English was then totally insufficient to tell them that I could perfectly follow their instructions. In any case, as an asylum seeker, I was trying to make myself as discreet as possible.

One day, while I was drying fodder for the animals, a young and beautiful girl appeared. She was Carrie Smithson, the daughter of my boss. She just came back from her boarding school. Her father had prepared a great feast where all the neighbours were invited. All the people working on the domain were also invited, and that included me: my boss liked me and didn't want to make a difference between the guy he called "my protégé" and the other workmen. In fact there were differences: all the other men were citizens of New Zealand and were married with children, I was only a refugee, I was only 19 years old and my pay was much lower than that of my co-workers. My English was bad and I was the only practising Muslim. As such, since I was a Shia Muslim, I kept a mustache and a small beard since I had reached the age to have one.

But I was the only boy who was about Carrie’s age. Despite the shearing I had been submitted to, I was apparently sufficiently good looking for this girl slightly younger than I was. We danced the whole night! I held her firmly, as she had told me to do, and I did not really care about religion, about her father being present and about my request as an asylum seeker.

Since that feast, I kept working hard, but I also tried to spend time with Carrie. In fact we spent more and more time. My colleagues started to joke and to make some remarks about "Carrie’s dark lover". My skin was indeed darker than theirs, but since we had worked together for a long period of time without any problem, I assumed that this was not racism but a very special joke. It must also be said that I haid long hair again. Mark, the workman who had held the clippers and sheared me as if I was a sheep, insisted on shaving me again, calling me this time "My little black sheep". He then insisted that I should elope with Carrie. I told him that my religion imposed on me an absolute respect for all women. It was the first time that my religion was mentioned in our conversation and the verbal teasing stopped immediately.

Besides working for my boss and going out with his daughter, I also spent a lot of time playing football in an amateur team. There again, I did well.

A real relationship was evolving between Carrie and me. One day, just after Mark had once again shorn my head, she came to the tiny place where I was resting and she complained about my shorn head:
"You have a nice head and nice hair, but the way you treat your hair destroys this harmony."
I replied : "It is always Mark who shaves my head and he does it exactly as he does it for sheep."
Carrie reacted: "You are not an animal. You are a beautiful human being. You always show great feelings. Let me shave you next time."

When shaving time was back, Carrie came to my little room. She simply took the clippers she had brought with her: all this was obviously premeditated. She told me to sit on the crate I was using as a chair and she started slowly to comb and shave my black hair very kindly. She also caressed me. I was shy and did not know how to react, but she calmed me saying: "Ali, you are so nice. Let me help you, let me give you good habits with me."
I knew her well by now and I felt comfortable, so I remained silent and let her continue. After that she started to cut my hair, but not the way Mark was shearing me: she used the clippers and the comb more or less simultaneously. She also organized my hair in order to have something special which I later discovered to be a parting on my left side. She cut differently and kindly on the top of my head, the left and right side were no longer equally shorn: I don’t know how she did it but the left side fell nicely towards my left ear while on the right side of the parting, my hair was forming a nice wave above the top of my head, going in the direction of my right ear. It was great, but it was no longer a farm worker’s haircut, and certainly not a soccer player haircut. I felt slightly embarrassed until Carrie asked me:
"Can I trim your dirty beard ?"
Then I replied: "I keep my beard and my mustache for religious purposes only. But I assume that here you can give me a small trim. Allah won't mind that."
Carrie gave a very tiny trim to my beard and mustache which made them look much better. She showed me all that in a mirror and asked:
"Do you like your new haircut, my best beloved ?"
And I felt as if I had become as red in my face as I could, and even more. In fact I loved Carrie for some time already, but I considered her as an adorable goddess, like my former master’s sons. So I simply answered:
"Yes, my best beloved."

We were in the place which served as my bedroom, next to my bed. The rest does not need to be told here.

Life went on very smoothly after that. I was still working very hard with Mark and Tim. I had numerous meetings with Carrie who kept playing "barber" for me and I played more and more soccer. I even became a well known soccer player in my chosen land. This lasted for more than 2 years. I was nearly 21 then !

One day, my boss, mister Smithson, called me in his office and said:
"Ali, I have something very serious to tell you. Have a seat."
I became anxious: after all, this man was my boss AND my girlfriend’s father. I also depended on him vouching for me in order to get more than a stay and work permit: I still hoped that I would get full asylum. I hoped Mark and Tim had not mentioned Carrie’s frequent visit to my little room.

But Mister Smithson had really something to tell me:
"Ali, you know I like you, but my daughter has complained about you."
My heart nearly stopped beating, but he went on:
"She complained about the room I gave you. She considers that this small room above the stable is not comfortable. So I obeyed my daughter: as of today you have another room, inside our house, if you accept."
I felt better and immediately said:
"But, I am only a low level worker in your domain."
"Precisely, I cannot give such a room to such a low level employee. But Mark told me that you work well. Tim said the same. So I give you a pay raise: as of today you will earn exactly the same amount as Mark and Tim. In fact it was their suggestion. Do you accept it ?"
"Do I accept the pay raise, boss ?"
"The pay raise and the better room, Ali."
"Of course I do, boss. Thank you boss. But I don’t know if I deserve all that."
"You certainly deserve it, for your work and for the happiness you give to my daughter."
I flushed and could not say anything else. But Smithson had something to add:
"Carrie is in your new room. She fixed it and made sure that there was a good bed for two people."
I was then in such a state that I could not say a word, and Smithson was not done yet.
"By the way, Ali, I have something else for you: your asylum decree. You are officially a refugee with asylum. You are thus under UN protection. I suggest that you ask for citizenship."

Life went on as before, except for the fact that I was now sleeping inside the boss's house and that his daughter slept with me. I made a point of honor to work as hard as before, if not more. Carrie cut my hair regularly and also trimmed my beard, but did never attempt to cut it. Mark kept calling me, in a very friendly way, his "little black sheep".

One day, while we were all eating at the boss’s table, mister Smithson turned towards Carrie and me and asked:
"Don’t you two want to get married or at least give me grandchildren."
Mark, Tim and their wives applauded and all said that they wanted a great marriage feast.
I was simply smiling with happiness but Carrie flushed and said:
"I would like to, but who is going to marry us ? There is no Imam in the neighbourhood."
That’s when I made a huge leap:
"Mister Smithson, I would like to marry Carrie. Do you give this young employee of yours the permission to do so ? As far as the Imam, there is no need for that. The usual priest is perfectly acceptable for me, as long as he does not try to baptize me: after all, I cannot reject my mother and her Shia family."
Carrie looked at me with her wonderful eyes and the deal was set. We would get married during the next winter, when there was less work in the fields.
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The priest of the closest village married us in November. He was very careful and did not mention anything that could be a problem for me: I was not ready to become a renegate and claim that I was not a Muslim anymore, but I was certainly no longer a believing or practising muslim, except for one point: my beard and my mustache.

There was a huge feast, with all the neighbours and with all my soccer friends and supporters. Carrie and I left immediately after the feast. We had decided to go to Thailand for our honeymoon. Before going there, the authorities had confirmed that now that I was not only a refugee, but a man provided with asylum status, I was now protected against all possible enemies as long as I did not go to my birth country. In fact I was officially under the protection of the United Nations.

We took a plane to Bangkok and when we landed we were asked to show our passports. Each of us had his or her own passport with a Thai visa in it. As soon as I showed mine, I was arrested: apparently they were waiting for me and they knew when I should arrive. Moreover they showed me an INTERPOL request asking them to arrest me and to hand me over to my birth country, which was illegal since I was now a refugee with asylum status. I immediately contested this arrest, but there was nothing to do: they handcuffed me and took me to a preliminary jail, waiting for a judge to make a decision on my objection to this arrest.

As soon as I arrived at the jail, I was handed over a provisional jail uniform: a black shorts, a black T-shirt and black clogs, which I did not want to put on. Moreover, they decided that I looked filthy with my beard and mustache and they told me that they would shave the whole thing "for my own good". I tried to explain that I was a Muslim and that this beard and mustache were parts of my religious symbols, but they replied that Thailand was a Buddhist country and that a true Buddhist cannot accept filth when he sees it. Finally, I let it go: I was no longer a true Muslim and Carrie would certainly prefer me without these hairy additions. Anyway, they got hold of me, pushed me on a chair and forcibly shaved me. It is also with brute force that they got hold of my nice and new travel clothes. Once I was naked, they used a hose to shower me, with cold water but without soap. They then forced me to put on the black clothes they wanted me to wear while waiting for a judicial decision.

Carrie warned her father by phone and warned the embassy. Mister Smithson called the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of his country and they told him that this INTERPOL notification was without any value, it was probably a mistake due to the fact that I had asked "somebody" if everything was OK for me, etc etc. In other words they insisted that it was not their fault, despite the fact that it was their actions which had warned my enemies.

During all this time, I was alone in a small cell. The walls and the floor were in concrete, the door was in metal with solid bars and I had to sleep on a wooden bunk with no cover. I was now dressed in black with black clogs and nothing else. A guard came with the evening food: a wooden bowl of rice and no spoon. There was also a smaller wooden bowl with plain water. We had been told, before leaving New Zealand, never to drink tap water for fear of malaria. But I had nothing else and I was thirsty: I drank what they had given me. The guard had also told me that I would remain locked without any contact until the judge had decided to hear me or to deport me to my birth country without giving me what he called "a hearing".

I was very tired, I fell on that wooden bunk and I slept until the guard came back with the morning food and water. I did not really know if it was morning or evening since the guard had left the light on and had taken my watch, with all my belongings, in a place I did not know.

I started counting the days by the number of times the guard came with his dreadful bowl of rice and little bowl of water: two a day. I tried to see a lawyer, but I was told that I would be able to do so but only after sentencing. I asked the guard what this late visit would be good for and he claimed that he did not understand a word of English. So I tried to speak in Arabic, which was of course useless. Eventually, I reversed to my mother tongue and I cursed this guard in Arabic, promising him all the possible pains, as described by the Prophet, until his soon to come death. I felt really astonished to remember that much of a religion which was obviously no longer mine.

After what I guessed was 8 days, the guard came with another man holding a whip and a third one who seemed to be their chief. The chief told me, in English, that the Judge had accepted to hear me before sending me back to my own country, which is where I belonged. As of this instant I was to be treated no longer as a suspect but as a man in preventive detention. He also explained to me that in Thailand, such a detainee had to prove that he was innocent. In this beautiful country it was thus "guilty until proven innocent" that prevails. As a consequence, I was to wear as of now a prisoner’s uniform. I was told to undress, brought naked to the hose and cleaned (for the first time since I had been arrested). After that I received long brown cotton shorts, of a really dark brown colour and falling down to my knees. I also received a cotton T-shirt, adapted to my size, of a light tan colour. I was then told to put them on, without any underwear. The shorts had neither a fly nor a zipper. I also had to abandon my black clogs and I was brought, without anything on my feet, to a big machine into which I was told to place my feet, one after the other. This machine served the very simple purpose of letting the guards place iron bracelets on my ankles and fix them as if they had to stay there forever. The iron bracelets were linked by an iron chain. I was now solidly shackled by a chain connecting my ankles, which made walking very difficult. Immediately after that, they showed me how to take off my shorts and how to put them on again.

They made me walk towards a big cage where many men were waiting. Two of them seemed more intelligent than the others. Moreover, these men spoke English. They were of course dressed like me and shackled as I was. They explained that they did not like the present government, that they organised a protest march and were arrested. Officially their crime was "lèse majesté" and they expected to get 5 or 10 years hard labour as punishment. This left me completely unhappy. I went to a little place where there was a space on the floor and I fell asleep.

The next day, the two boys and I were transported to the court in a high security bus: I was placed in a small metallic cabin and handcuffed to a bar sealed in the wall of the cabin. I could not see outside, but finally the bus stopped and one after the other, the three of us were extracted from our cabin. It must be said that when I was extracted, there were many photographers from New Zealand and as many reporters. I claimed my innocence and said that I was a refugee in New Zealand, that I loved that country and that I did not want to go back to my home country.

I heard the judge but I did not understand what he said. I kept claiming my innocence and my desire to stay in New Zealand, my fear also that if I was deported to my birth country, I would be tortured there for a crime I had not committed. But I was also afraid I could be killed for a crime I had well committed according to their laws: I had married a Christian and I had done so in a church.

Luckily, Carrie had obtained that I should have a translator. This courageous man explained to me that each of the two young men who were with me in the high security transportation van had been sentenced in 5 minutes to 30 years hard labour. They were promised a much lighter sentence if they confessed their crime, but they refused and that was it. This translator suggested that I should also confess. I told him that I had nothing to confess.

The judge asked me, via the translator, if I still objected to being deported to my home country and I said "YES, your honor" in a firm voice.
The Judge then said something which the translator reproduced as follows :
"Take this man to the usual jail waiting for my decision"
I tried to interfere, saying in English that I had a statute of permanent resident in New Zealand where I had a protected asylum, adding that, still in English, the Thai Embassy in New zealand had given me reassurances but that this court did not hear about that. I was interrupted by the Judge who said in English:
"I know all that and as a man I agree with you, but as a Thai Judge I must follow the laws of this land and no other."
He then continued in Thai, telling the guards, according to my translator, that I should be treated "as usual for a prisoner waiting for his sentence."

The guards brought me back to the high security transport van where it was difficult for me to climb because of my shackles. They pushed me into one of the little boxes and handcuffed me, using both hands, to a bar fixed to the wall. The situation was now slightly worse than on the other trip, worse than going to the court. I realized also that I had not yet been sentenced. The judge had not made up his mind about my extradition towards my birth country.

Suddenly a voice arose in one of the adjacent boxes. It was one of the sentenced students trying to warn me:
"They will now keep us in the main prison for two weeks hoping that we are going to confess."
"What happens if you do that ?"
"Our prison time will be reduced and it might be transformed into ordinary prison time for good behaviour."
"Are you going to do that ?"
"Certainly no, we cannot confess a crime we did not commit."
There was a silence and then the other student took over from another box:
"They will treat you like us."
"But I am not accused of any crime, at least not in this country."
"Never mind, you went to court and you came back without having been freed. So you must be treated like a guilty and sentenced person."
"What can they do to me ?"
"They will leave you two weeks to accept to be transferred to another country, the place where they say you commited a crime."
"But I did not commit any crime."
The first student took over:
"That’s irrelevant for a Thai court. You were not proven innocent, so you are guilty. You will see what they will do to us."
The guards had noticed that we were speaking, moreover we were speaking in a language they did not understand. So they hit on the doors of our cages and said something, probably "Silence", but in Thai. The students kept quiet and so did I.

When the transportation van stopped, one of the students dared telling me:
"Back to the prison. Good luck my friend."
He said that while stepping out of the van. Several minutes later, I heard the steps of the second student who simply said:
"Courage."
After another waiting time, the guards came and fetched me. I now simply had my ankle shackles and two guards held me, one at each arm: that served as provisional handcuffs. As soon as I was out of the van, which was painful because of the shackles, they made signs showing that I had to kneel next to the two students, placing my hands in the position of the prayer. One of the guards said something and, luckily another was able to translate:
"You are now a real prisoner and you will receive the usual Buddhist head shave."
I immediately reacted saying: "I am not a Buddhist, I am a Muslim."
"That’s irrelevant, prisoner, you are here in a Buddhist country and you have to respect Buddhist customs."
I looked at the two students and I noticed that they were in the position of the prayer and that they had been completely shaved. I reacted as could be expected:
"I am here against my will. I have asylum rights protected by the UN. I did nothing wrong. It is unlawful for you to treat me as if I were a prisoner."
One of the guards had a whip and gave me a small hit on the mouth with his whip handle. He seemed to promise more if I did not obey. What could I do ? I accepted my fate. I kneeled next to the two students but I refused to place my hands in the required position: that was contrary to my faith, or what was left of it. The guard with the whip forced me to place my hands in the praying position and humbly to bend my head. Another guard forced me to keep that position by handcuffing my hands using a very small chain, so that my hands had to touch one another. This did not stop the guard with the whip: he gave me a second, mild, whiplash on the face and the guard who spoke English added:
"This is good, prisoner. The second whiplash was only meant to remind you that you are only a prisoner submitted to our will."
I did not move, waiting for the next step.

One of the guards approached and put lots of water on my head and face. He then took a big old fashioned razor. I had not seen one like this since I visited with the old men in my birthplace. This guard started to shave my hair using this razor. He started with the top of my head, making a small zone devoid of hair. I could not see my head, but I could see the hair, my precious hair, falling down on my prisoner’s T-shirt. The guard laughed when he looked at my sad face and then started to shave the sides and back. This did not take him a long time, but every time he had cut a lock of hair, he took a malicious pleasure to take it and to show it to me: he let it dangle in front of my eyes before throwing it on my T-shirt. He continued like that until he was satisfied that I was completely bald, top, sides and back of my head. The English speaking guard told me then:
"Prisoner, you look much cleaner now, nearly Buddhist like. The rest will be done soon."
I was nearly crying but it was not over yet. The shaving guard got hold of a smaller razor and got hold of my head. Instead of letting my head be bent towards the ground, this guard pulled it briskly so that I was looking at the ceiling. He then shaved my eyebrows and looked with a great smile at the tears falling now down from my eyes. After that, he renewed my face shaving, but he did not use foam, only cold water. This was probably routine for the guards, but for me it was a dreadful lack of respect. I did not know what to expect next. The two students who were with me in the beginning, were still there, kneeling humbly with their heads bent. They did not say a word.

That’s the moment when the English speaking guard, who seemed to be the chief, made a sign showing us to stand up. The two Thai prisoners understood that they had to stand up. It was easy for them: they had no handcuffs. I understood also, but my handcuffs and shackles made it more difficult. None of the guards seemed ready to help me or to take off these stupid handcuffs. Finally I was able to stand on my feet, with my hands still in the position of prayer, while the two other boys had their arms held by guards in lieu of handcuffs.

The guards took us to a big cage where there were already about 20 other shaved men. Each of us received a sort of blanket and one of the students showed me that I had to use it as a mattress. As soon as we were inside the cage, the chief guard locked the door and apparently forgot all about us.

The two students turned towards me. At least they were able to speak English and good English ! The one who seemed to be the eldest told me:
"First let me introduce us: my friend is Daichi and I am Klahan. Our names are from now on irrelevant: we will have to appear in one week in front of the Judge and let him know whether we confess our crime or not. If we confess a crime we have not committed, our sentence will be reduced and we will get a decent prisoner’s name. If we keep claiming that we are not guilty of "lèse majesté", our sentence will be confirmed and we will be reduced to numbers for the duration of the sentence. 30 years of hard labour, that is meant to let us die in prison, but I will not confess !"
I replied: "I am guilty of nothing, at least not in Thailand. I have simply organized a protest march in my birth country and they try to pin on me a bank robbery I could not commit since I was playing soccer somewhere else. I am now a refugee in New Zealand with asylum and that means UN protection."
"That means nothing here." replied Klahan, "Look at what they did to you, how the guards treated you. They might extradite you to your birth country."
"That would be my death after a long torture."

Daichi remained silent and we stopped this discussion. The three of us tried to sleep, but guards insisted that we should first pray the Budhist way. Since I had started to love Carrie, I had stopped behaving as a real Muslim, but I did not want to change again for Buddhism. So I think it is that day that I stopped believing altogether. Klahan plainly refused and was whipped for that. Daichi remained silent and did as if he was praying. I copied him.

The next day started early. I don’t know exactly at what time since the guards had taken my watch. They made us pray and gave us a bowl of rice and a smaller bowl of water. After that they left us alone until the evening. We were again told to pray the Buddhist way and received another bowl of rice and another bowl of water. I was hungry and thirsty, but I did not dare to say so.

This treatment lasted for one week. We were then shaved once again, exactly like the first time except that I agreed to join my hands in order to avoid the handcuffs. That was useless since we were led to the special van where we were once more handcuffed to a bar in the wall.

Once we arrived at the court, events started to occur very fast. The Judge let the three of us enter simultaneously. He first asked Klahan if he would accept confessing his crime. Klahan refused and his sentence to 30 years hard labour was simply confirmed. He became prisoner 1.245.687. The same question was asked to Daichi who seemed afraid by the severity of his friend’s sentence. He told the judge that he confessed his crime. His sentence was reduced to 1 year behind the bars, without hard labour, but that was to be followed by 10 years praying for the King in a monastery. He was told to keep his name behind the bars, the monks would give him a new name when he joined them.

Finally, the Judge told me via an Interpreter, that my birth country had launched via INTERPOL an arrest warrant for me. But now, this international and illegal warrant had been canceled by INTERPOL. Nevertheless my birth country required Thailand to keep me in prison in order to extradite me. So the Judge asked me, in English:
"Prisoner, do you accept going back to your birth country?"
"NO your Honor, and you cannot impose that on me since I have asylum and I am thus under UN protection."
"As a human being I know that, but as a Judge I must respect the laws of this country. Do you accept yes or no ?"
"NO YOUR HONOR, I don’t want to be murdered there." I was shouting now.
"Very well," concluded the Judge, "I cannot send you back to your real country. But this country does not want you and I cannot send you to another country than your legal country of citizenship. Therefore you are going to stay in prison, doing hard labour, FOR LIFE unless you change your mind. As of now, you are known as prisoner 1.245.688, a lucky number with two eights in it."
"FOR LIFE, your Honor ? And my UN protection ?"
"It does not apply here." And he continued in Thai giving instructions to take me away.

The three of us were taken back to the exit where we could see two vans: one for Daichi who was taken wherever he was supposed to go while the other van for Klahan and me.

We were transported to what was supposed to be our final destination: a prison where we would work hard, a prison where Klahan was supposed to die of exhaustion and where I was supposed to stay until I accepted to be deported, which also meant until death.

In the transportation van, I had time to think. I realized that I had been reduced to slavehood: working for life for a state who imposed Hard Labour conditions on me. That reminded me of slaves I had seen during my youth in my birth country. These were people coming from Africa and "imported" to work hard for nothing else than food. They too had permanent ankle shackles. They had been forced to become Muslims and to have a beard and a mustache. Now I was also shackled for LIFE and I had to behave like a Buddhist monk without any hair !!! This trend of thoughts kept me thinking about my past and future life along the way to my now permanent and final prison.

Once in that dreadful prison, we were completely shaved. We received a clean uniform with our number on it. After that we started working, building a road on certain days, repairing another road on other days, getting rocks as a basis for I don’t know what during the remaining days. We were woken up early every morning. That’s when we received our morning bowl of rice. On some great days there was a little bit of meat with the rice. We were then told to march in step to our working place and to start doing the day’s work. We did not stop at noon, when the sun was high in the sky. We only stopped early in the evening, got back to our cell with all the other prisoners living with us 24h/24. There we received our second and last bowl of rice, with or without meat and our second bowl of water. I no longer claimed that tap water was bad for my health: it was useless.

Every week we were shaved. It was always the same procedure. We had first to take off our uniform, then we had to kneel to enable the guards to shave our head and our face, including our eyebrows. Then, when we heard a specific order we had to stand and take several uncomfortable positions to enable the guards to check our body for hair: they usually shaved me under my armpits, in the front of the body and around my crotch region. It was very unpleasant, but after a certain time I got used to it and started to sing in Arabic whenever they started shaving. As soon as they were satisfied that we were clean for a week, we received a clean uniform with of course our numbers on it: for me it was 1.245.688, my "lucky number".

I kept track of the time thanks to the lovely letters Carrie sent me, once a month. I used her own paper to reply, using a pencil I had stolen from one of the guards. I am still amazed that I succeeded in convincing the Chief Guard that my lawyer required a letter every month. I think he accepted because I was not a real prisoner. I was "only" a man kept there at the disposal of his own country, but who did not want to go there.

Every night, Klahan spent lots of time teaching me the basic elements of his complex and nice language. After a few months, I mean a few letters, I was able to understand what the guards said and to communicate with them and with other prisoners. Khalid was an excellent teacher, unluckily after the 13th letter he became ill and died. His last words were for me and in English:
"Now they will finally take these shackles away."

It is true that we were no longer handcuffed, but our shackles had been carefully sealed to our ankles and we wore them day in, day out, 24h/24.

My true friend Klahan was an intellectual: he did not survive the Hard Labour regime. I was only a farm worker and I survived better, but this regime started to take its toll. Having rice only as food (for most of the time, from time to time we had some sort of meat or fish) was transforming me from a strong and thin soccer player into a fantom with an inelegant belly.

After the 15th letter, when I was really alone after the death of my friend, I was told that I would be transported again. Before chaining me into their van, they went through the usual cleaning and shaving process. They also gave me what they considered as a clean uniform. This is how I was transported, shackled and handcuffed, to the court.

There the Judge started to speak to me, with an Interpreter. This process was strange since I knew the Judge spoke perfect English.
"Prisoner 1.245.688, I must announce to you that New Zealand has granted you citizenship. But your birth country is still claiming you. Since you are still under UN protection, this country cannot send you to either of these countries against your will. You must thus choose now between three possibilities: be deported to your birth country, be deported to New Zealand or stay here, but in that case in the same situation as now. What do you choose, prisoner 1.245.688?"
I did not think and I replied immediately: "New Zealand, your Honor."
"According to the customs of this country we are going to keep you here temporarily in prison in order to let you think about this rash decision and tell us whether you confirm it."

I was taken out of the court, not knowing exactly what was happening to me. The guards forced me once more to go into that dreaded van where I was once again handcuffed and fixed to the wall. The main difference was that I was sent to a much better place: the prison where I had had to wait for my first judgement.

I had to wait more than a month. I received a clean uniform every week but my ankles were still permanently shackled. I did no longer have to work, so most of the time I was handcuffed. There was a major change: I didn’t have to submit to the pseudo washing ritual, nor to the shaving ritual. My hair came slowly back but I asked the barber to keep shaving my face, completely, except for my eyebrows. It smelled good and I felt something like freedom floating in the air of the cell I was in. I met Daichi there. He was dressed as a monk and came to me telling me to pray for my sins and to concentrate on "our King’s glory". I simply replied that his friend Klahan was dead "true to his oath and his desire to fight for freedom."
I assume that this stay in prison was meant to let my hair grow to a normal length and my body regain a decent shape since I was decently fed.

Then came the grand moment. I was brought back to the Court, shackled as always and also handcuffed. I hoped it would be the last hearing. I confirmed my will to be expelled from this inhospitable country towards my new country. The judge pronounced me free and I was taken back to the prison where the guards broke my ankle shackles and finally opened my handcuffs. I received a nice blue training set, a new one adapted to my present size, sent by my dear wife. I was rushed to the airport and a few hours later I was a free man, in his own country, acclaimed by a great many sportsmen and other people who considered my arrest as a denial of human values.

Mike decided to change my nickname: I became his "big courageous sheep".

I regretted the absence of Klahan, the courageous student who had warned me that I would die in prison and who died before I was set free.

I was reunited with Carrie and since then my life has been the simple life of a farmworker, and later of a farm owner with several children. The eldest one is a boy: we named him Klahan hoping he would have the qualities of my prison friend. None of our children ever went to Thailand.

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