Perhaps appropriately for Hindu Bali, there is a distinct caste system here in jail and where you fit depends on your crime.
White collar criminals, those guilty of fraud or stealing from companies rather than individuals, have a neutral status, as do those jailed for serious traffic offenses resulting in fatalities. They are spared the “Walk of Shame” and the initiation ritual of being blindfolded while other inmates pretend to throw a bag of rocks at them.
Next up are those facing drug charges, but even this category is further divided into users and dealers. Many of the inmates are recreational users who dabble in dealing to pay for their own supply. A lot have been arrested for the first time and are as lost and bewildered as I was on arrival. The younger ones will all break down in tears a few times – especially after their first visiting day when they see their families for the first time. The hard-core users and dealers enter like prodigal sons; many have been arrested multiple times, know the system inside and out and can’t wait to be transferred to Kerobokan Prison where they’ll have access to an easy supply of drugs and can carry on their business. While the “druggies” all have to duck walk the length of the corridor and yard, the initiation is largely a good-natured affair – unless the newcomer is guilty of “gigit”, or grassing on a friend, in which case they’ll get a one-off beating.
Almost all the thieves are non-Balinese. I’m told this is because families and communities tend to sort out and punish offenders among themselves, whereas outsiders are handed to authorities, but only after a good beating. The police will also take a slice of them and while petty thieves are treated more leniently, anyone guilty of stealing something substantial – a car or motorbike – is routinely shot through the fleshy part of the calf to give them a distinctive limp for the rest of their life. The thieves are given some hefty punches and kicks when they run the arrival gauntlet, and their fellow thieves don’t seem to hold back as they go past.
Whenever someone new arrives, a cry of “baru, baru” goes up (new, new) as the guards unlock the cell block gate, announce his crime, and push him to the mob. A few weeks ago I noticed one newcomer getting a particularly rough beating and when I asked what he’d done, was told he’d raped a mentally handicapped woman. His beating didn’t stop with the Walk of Shame. He was literally kicked into the laundry courtyard, stripped naked and then forced to stand on one leg with his hands on his head. Every now and then someone would dart out and give him a kick or punch to the midriff. He’d double over before being forced to stand on-legged again.
After about half an hour of this, one of the prisoners squatted in front of him with a jar of “sambal” – a fiery paste of raw chillies – which he smeared all over his genitals. Having once had a surreptitious scratch of my family jewels after chopping some chillies I can imagine what pain he felt, but every time his hands went to his groin, he got another kick or punch. The female inmates seemed to take particular delight in his punishment, jeering at him and telling him he wasn’t a real man.
The most revered prisoners here are three very senior members of Bali’s biggest gang, Laksa Bali — there are several rival “bersatus” on the island – who were brought in under cover of darkness and confined to a one-man cell for three days. It emerged they were high-born Brahmin and they’d stabbed a policeman in the neck when he had the temerity to try to slow their car down as they drove past a temple ceremony. “We wouldn’t have stabbed him if we knew he was police,” their leader told me. “He wasn’t wearing a uniform.”
As soon as they were allowed out of their cell, the incumbent head inmate abdicated and the “royal trio” took over running the place, although they’ve made no real changes and the system runs as smoothly as ever. My record for the most visitors in one day was smashed, however, when about 50 gang members, most sporting their “colours”, showed up at the same time. The guards retreated to their booth, watching warily, but after the show of strength the visitors all left peacefully. I get on well with the new bosses who, like most of the inmates, are intrigued at how much time I spend reading and writing. I tell them I’m planning a book on my experiences and they all insist I make mention of them!
There are a couple of murderers here, but they arrived before I did so I didn’t witness their welcome. I’m told it was a fairly rough beating, but without the chilli treatment.
I know now, however, what happens to the lowest of the low. I was making a furtive phone call in the “casino”, a 10ft x 10ft courtyard used by the gamblers where the CCTV camera is known to be broken. Suddenly there was a commotion in the corridor and after the cries of “baru” I could hear the sound of fist and foot on flesh more earnestly than anything I’d heard before. An old man – easily the oldest person by some distance I’ve seen in jail – was flung into the courtyard and set upon by a dozen or more inmates. Although they avoided striking him in the face, nothing else was held back as he was kicked and punched. He was screaming as I got up to leave, but they stuffed a rag into his mouth and carried on.
I don’t participate in any of the “welcomes” – apart from my own encounter with Joe – and as I left the courtyard one of the wild-eyed inmates told me what he’d done: He was a paedophile who’d raped a three-year-old girl. I took my book to the exercize yard but even from there I could hear the beating continue. The guards could clearly hear – and knew – what was going on, but just raised an eyebrow and shrugged when I looked in their direction. Eventually the prisoner was carried unconscious into the cell reserved for newcomers.
The next morning he was carried out and dumped in a corner of the yard for roll call. A notice board details all our names, ages and crimes, and he was listed as 75-year-old Azri. He looked older. After the count, he was carried to the centre of the yard and forced to squat, hands on his head. In his condition he could barely do that, but each time he faltered someone would step over and slap him.
For me it was a deeply conflicting situation. I am repulsed as anyone by the crime, but I’m not a parent and therefore probably don’t fear it as viscerally as one would. I’ve always thought a civilised justice system should stand on its own merit, but clearly I’m embroiled in one that has none. We can’t imagine what that poor child went through, but I can that her parents must also be going through hell, knowing they were unable to protect her from such a monster.
I’ve seen people shot and killed and others beaten to death. Some of them were innocent and others guilty of horrible crimes, but I’ve also known that any intervention by me would almost certainly have led to my own death and that of colleagues. Was it cowardice that stayed my hand? Pragmatism? I’ve always justified it by telling myself “get out, report it, you need the big picture not the incidents.”
Despite what this man had done, I felt myself feeling something akin to sympathy – not for whatever had driven him to so despicable an act, but rather his treatment now at the hands of what was effectively a mob. It seemed no different to me to the sign of Rwandan soldiers bludgeoning a Hutu refugee they’d identified as an Interahamwe killer. Eventually the slapping stopped and someone gave him a cigarette which he could barely smoke, his hands were shaking so much. Many of the active participants still had a wild fury in their eyes, but I was relieved to see several others – including the inmates I’ve become closest to – had a look of shock, and one whispered to me “It’s too much already.”
I related the incident to my brother via WhatsApp and he asked “what if he was innocent?”
“We’re all guilty in here,” I replied, “and all victims of rough justice.”