A Secret History of the Bangkok Hilton Read online

  A Secret History of the Bangkok Hilton

  by Chavoret Jaruboon

  and Pornchai Sereemongkonpol

  Dedication

  If any good comes from this book, I would like it to be for those who have shared their stories, and those whose lives I mention in this book.

  Introduction

  When I was a boy, my father made it our custom to leave our home in Bangkok every weekend to visit our relatives in Nonthaburi province. The province adjoins Bangkok, the capital of Thailand, and in those days, the best way to travel there was by water.

  As we floated down the Chao Phraya River, I was mesmerised by the liveliness that surrounded me: Buddhists released turtles and fish into the river to ‘make merit’ or improve their karma; boys with mischievous smiles jumped off the banks; rafts of water hyacinth formed little green islands here and there; fish surfaced looking for the treats people threw them, causing countless ripples to glisten playfully in the sunlight. All that went on was captivating to me. Seen through my young and naive eyes, the world was full of joy and wonder then. Little did I know what an illusion that would turn out to be.

  Por (father) and I usually arrived at Nonthaburi pier on Sunday mornings. From there we continued on foot to my uncle’s house, which happened to be next door to the notorious Bang Kwang Central Prison, also known as the Bangkok Hilton or Big Tiger.

  The Bangkok Hilton is a maximum-security prison for inmates who have been sentenced to more than 30 years in jail or have received the death penalty. It is the tiger that either devours you entirely or spits out what is left after it has feasted on you in captivity. It is the most feared prison in Thailand.

  As we walked past, I would stare from a distance at the electrified barbed wire fencing topping the prison wall. Guards with machine guns stood inside the towers that formed part of the wall. I wondered what was going on in there and whether the people would be able ever to get out. I never imagined I would have those questions answered—and much more besides.

  To Thai minds, the Bangkok Hilton is a place of gloom and danger. Years later, I found out that working there was a risky business for those who lacked moral courage as there were plenty of opportunities to be corrupt.

  Life gradually introduced me to good and evil until I realised how grey the world actually is and always will be. This is especially true in Thailand, where many things are ‘flexible’ or ‘compromised’ and a blind eye can be turned when money is paid or power is exercised. A lot of things in Thailand don’t always work the way they should.

  Once as my father and I were on our way to visit my uncle, we came across a team of barefoot prisoners in their tattered brown uniforms cleaning the sun-parched road. I couldn’t imagine how thick their soles must be to endure the heat of the ground. They had been brought out of the prison for a few hours to labour under the glaring midday blaze.

  The practice of prisoners performing public service can be traced back hundreds of years and continues to this day. During the early days of Rattanakosin, Thailand’s current era, they contributed to the kingdom by building canals, roads and railroads among other public structures. In fact, the Bangkok Hilton was built in part with prison labour.

  During World War I, the Corrections Department transferred 200 prisoners from Bang Kwang Prison to a temporary camp in the Bang Khen area and ordered them to grow rice and raise livestock to be sold cheaply to law-abiding citizens. At that time, Thailand was suffering economically and such commodities were scarce.

  The practice was revised in 1980 and a set of rules was introduced. Convicts are entitled to reductions in their sentences equal to the number of days they have performed public service and, on some occasions, a small wage.

  The intention is to remind people that prisoners are not outcasts but are still part of society and that they can contribute towards the common good. Personally I don’t think it really influences Thai attitudes towards inmates. In fact, this arrangement has backfired a few times as prisoners have attempted to escape.

  As a boy, I saw the convicts as bogeymen rather than outcasts. At that first close encounter, they were figures to be feared. Yet I could hardly take my eyes off them. This left a lasting impression on me. The difference between then and now is that I’ve adopted a more realistic attitude.

  The scraping sounds the ankle shackles made as they struggled to walk and work further drew my attention to them. One inmate had covered his swarthy body with tattoos of tigers, Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god, and occult writing. The prisoners derived great feelings of support and protection from these. They did so, perhaps, because there wasn’t much else for them to hold on to. One could easily wonder why, if the inked symbols possessed any power, those men had ended up in jail.

  Today’s prisons offer the inmates much more than hard labour. There are opportunities to take part in productive activities such as playing music, joining in with religious groups, undertaking vocational training and education. Even so, some choose to busy themselves with narcotics, money-making schemes, gambling and killing for cash in order to make the long days spent in captivity and the harsh living conditions bearable. Some have to deal with the additional anxiety of being on death row or the prospect of spending the rest of their lives rotting in prison.

  Of course, the inmates could not undertake such activities if the guards didn’t let them. Putting a stop to such things, however, would mean losing the monthly kickbacks the inmates in charge dutifully pass on to guards.

  I suppose any child would have experienced the mixed feelings of fear and curiosity I did on first encountering those strange, ragged fellows whom the adults used to frighten us. There were also prison guards standing sternly nearby. One of them caught me staring at him and I quickly turned my gaze away. I grabbed onto my father’s shirt tightly as we sped up.

  On the way home, my father, who was a teacher, spoke to me of the dangers of wrongdoing. To make use of the fresh experience, he not only pointed to the prisoners as examples but also, to my surprise, the guards.

  ‘See those nak tot (prisoners)? They are as good as dead. Nobody wants anything to do with them even after they are released. That’s why we have the word ki kuk (jailbird). Luk (child), don’t ever end up like them.’

  ‘What about the phu khum (guards)? They look smart in their uniforms.’

  ‘Those brutes? They aren’t much better—former mediocre students who ended up with such jobs because they are qualified for little else. Think about it. Nobody in his right mind would want to work among bad people or mind a tower in hot weather. People fear yet despise them for their violence.’

  He paused, as if to wait for my young brain to process what he had just said, before he continued, ‘Listen up, if you want to work in a nice office, you had better make good grades from now on.’

  Sadly, in my teenage years, I didn’t follow his advice and I abandoned my textbooks for my guitar and what I perceived to be the exciting life of a musician. I ventured into the provinces where the American soldiers were stationed during the Vietnam War to play for them and live my dream. Even though I didn’t make it as a musician —and my father wouldn’t like me saying this—it was worth it.

  Por had little regard for either the guards or the inmates. Many years later, however, I saw that guards are prisoners too, given that they spent long hours in a depressing workplace. Some wind down every evening by pouring copious amounts of alcohol down their throats or engaging in other counter-productive activities. At
the same time, those same low-paid officials are tempted every day to do deals with the inmates to make some extra cash. Those who succumb to temptation and help to smuggle drugs into the facility, however, are handed twice the usual sentence if they are caught. If there is any honest but dirty job in the world that can really test or taint your spirit, this is it.

  The irony is that the guards are called nai (master) by the prisoners but by society outside they are viewed as brutes, as my father put it. This reputation exists with good reason. Some guards, especially in the old days, physically abused prisoners or commanded the trustees to do so. (Trustees are prisoners who help the guards to maintain order.) In the past, there was no pressure from human rights groups.

  I don’t know if this is unique to Thailand but, over the years, I have been the victim of prejudice simply because dealing with inmates is part of my job. That is why I made it my personal mission to use the media exposure I have had as ‘Thailand’s last executioner’ to change the stereotype of the prison guard.

  On a larger scale, the stigma and superstitions attached to jails and everyone involved with them is alive and well in Thai society today. Thais still say you are doing something beneath yourself if you work with no-good prisoners. An actor who has to do a scene in a cell will walk into it backwards so as not to end up there in real life.

  In the old days, people said that those who went into a prison to visit inmates or to do other business besides serving time would never end up as convicts. They also believed, however, that the prisoners dabbled in black magic. So, in order to counteract the power the prisoners possessed, they would bury unholy items such as broken bat (the lidded bowls Buddhist monks use to collect offerings during morning alms) under the main gates of the prisons.

  Prisons remain an almost unholy topic and one that we Thais rarely discuss. It has never been an issue that could make or break an election campaign, hence the inadequate funding for the maintenance and development of prisons.

  Although I ended up on the better end of the prison system, my late father would not have been too happy about my choice of occupation. Even now, I can only wonder if I was somehow destined to work in prison, as a cousin and my own brother also worked as prison guards for most of their lives. Were the weekend trips to Nonthaburi my prelude to a lifelong career in Bang Kwang? An astrologer once told me that my fate was to work with death. His prediction came true and I have spent 20 years as an executioner.

  If there is one thing I have learnt in all these years, it is that life doesn’t care what your plan is, if you have any. I believe there are influences that are not under our control that shape the course of our lives. So, at times, I feel life is just a series of random occurrences. Whatever you do, however, you should lead your life with honesty. I would like to believe then things will turn out fine for you. Just don’t expect the outcome to be exactly as you had hoped. Roll with it and make the most of what you have.

  I was very disheartened indeed when I realised I couldn’t continue to play music for a living as I had done. The bars closed at an alarming rate after the American soldiers had left. So I chose what I saw as the best way at that time to provide for my young family: becoming a prison guard. It was not my first choice. In fact, I disliked the civil service ranking system and the practice of pandering to the boss, which is prevalent. But I guess I have learnt to ignore them.

  How well the prisons and their inmates are managed in any country says a lot about how highly it values its citizens, good and bad. A developed and humane society will have a system that reflects that.

  It also shows how developed the country is in general, I believe. It is a contradiction in terms to purport to be civilised while carrying out the death penalty in any form. So I often find myself asking questions about Thailand.

  I cannot dispel entirely the idea of having execution enshrined in law, however, even if it is there just as a warning. The government should make serious efforts to educate the citizens about the existence of such a law and its consequences. The Thai government still has a lot of work to do to in this respect.

  Of course, I don’t want my children or other students to dwell on the negativity of life but I just can’t help but warn them. That’s because I’ve heard too many stories of people who got into trouble or were arrested under the most unlikely circumstances.

  I have had my eyes and ears opened to the types of happenings most people don’t encounter in their daily lives. It would be a waste if I kept them to myself. Why not let these young minds know what lies ahead?

  I may have inherited this tendency towards teaching from my father; my own children told me I could be preachy sometimes when recounting tales.

  As I worked in Bang Kwang for more than 30 years, I suppose this gives me the right to share my humble opinion and observations with outsiders. I believe that beneath the gruesome stories, harsh truths and myths, are lessons we all could share.

  As my retirement neared, my conviction grew stronger that these stories should be heard. I would like to think I completed this book to the best of my knowledge and with utmost honesty. I feel my voice and those of the people I speak about are significant in painting a complete picture of the Bangkok Hilton: prisoner advocates, former inmates and executed convicts, to name but few.

  If any good comes out of this book, I would like to dedicate to those who have contributed to its making, and to the 55 lives I have taken with a machine gun.

  Chapter 1

  The Last executioner

  In Thailand, many people call me ‘the last executioner’. That is because in the 20 years I spent in that role, I pulled the trigger more often than any of my colleagues, shooting 55 people dead. With the sub machine gun firmly in my hands, I fully acknowledged the human beings before me whose lives I was about to take. Although there was a cloth screen between us offering me some ease, the bullets I fired ruptured the hearts of those who had been condemned to death.

  Today capital punishment is carried out by lethal injection in Thailand. Three executioners send deadly chemicals from another room through a tube connected to the arm of a strapped-down convict. Some Thais consider this method not enough of a deterrent, however, as the condemned person does not suffer real pain. The executioners are viewed as administrators of a medical procedure instead of as fearful figures. That was not the case when I was the executioner.

  You could say that I had no one to blame but myself for landing this unpleasant title. My first job at Bang Kwang was as a prison guard. Later I became a death row prisoner escort, then the gun adjuster and, finally, the executioner.

  I eagerly accepted the chance to be part of the execution team, to show my superiors that I could carry out undesirable tasks and be a valued staff member. Perhaps I could have refused to do it but somebody had to and it happened to be me. I took it as a job and my intention was pure: to carry out court orders and not to take pleasure in killing anybody. Besides, I didn’t want to risk offending my superiors by refusing their requests. When each new warden asked me to carry out this task, I did not refuse as he might take it personally, because I had obliged the wardens that went before him.

  On the day of an execution, I would go home earlier than usual for a short rest and to get ready. Tew, my wife, picked up on this pattern but usually my silence spoke volumes and she went about the household chores. Later, she would ask resignedly, ‘You did one today?’

  The execution order had to be carried out confidentially so I never discussed it with her. She could read about it in the next day’s newspaper anyway.

  For years, she hoped I would give up this extra, undesirable job. She was concerned about my karmic wellbeing as well as my aging body. So after capital punishment by lethal injection was introduced, she dragged me to do merit-making rituals at various temples, buying cows to save from slaughterhouses, and also urged me to be ordained a monk, which I di
d.

  In Buddhism, to take a life is a sin. And yes, I have sinned. However, given my pure intention, I hope karma will be kinder to me. I guess, if you look at it from a different angle, you could say that I helped to speed up karma’s work.

  In later years, I caught myself sighing deeply with pity, increasingly feeling sorry for those whose lives I was about to cut short. Some of them wailed, pleaded or protested their innocence loudly until the very last minutes of their lives. Others walked to their deaths calmly or even boasted about the number of people they had killed as they were tied to the cross with their backs towards me.

  I remember how one man, named Daengyik, begged us for a little more time even as we tied him down to be shot.

  ‘Please, please wait. My mother is talking with the bigwigs. She knows people in the government. She’ll come to help me. Mae (mother) please help me! I don’t want to die,’ he said.

  His pathetic cries stuck in my mind because they made me wonder whether a condemned person outside Thailand would say something like that. It showed how common the practice of pulling strings is in this country. Making use of contacts can get you a job, a place at a prestigious school or the chance to have your life spared —regardless of whether you deserve it or not.

  His pleas fell on deaf ears. Had I not known of his crimes, I might have felt sorry for this grown man who was reduced to crying like a baby. Daengyik’s three-man gang of pick-pockets had committed shocking crimes, however, and the military government had ordered summary execution.

  They were arrested after one gang member killed a man who had alerted an unsuspecting female that they were trying to steal from her shoulder bag as they all rode a public bus. Enraged, two members of the gang, though not Daengyik, attacked him. One of the thieves grabbed him by his collar while the other stabbed him in the heart in front of the petrified passengers. The gang of three fled unhampered.