Authors: Chai Pinit
I later learned that the house I’d unlawfully entered was indeed not my girlfriend’s. After hearing the commotion, the furious
ajarn
discovered me lying unconscious in his compound and phoned the police. Lying there, I couldn’t have looked too much of a threat but I think the professor’s pride was hurt and he wanted to teach me a lesson. If I hadn’t spent the days prior to my arrest in a drunken stupor, things would have turned out very differently.
After a week locked in the cell, I was summoned to a preliminary hearing in the nearby provincial court, where I was remanded in custody to await my trial. During the first few days of my incarceration, I was a snivelling teary-eyed wretch. I never normally cried but the violence and harsh conditions I was subjected to on a daily basis eventually broke me; I did manage to keep such displays of emotion from the other inmates however.
One of my first initiations into prison life came when I was forced, along with the other prisoners, to witness a young inmate being brutally attacked by a team of guards and trustees. The inmate was due for release in a few months but, missing his wife, had stupidly attempted an escape. He’d been participating in a pre-release social programme that required his being sent out of prison daily to clean clogged public drains. It’s filthy work, but it permits specially chosen prisoners to temporarily re-enter society and even earn some money, which they can claim when they’re eventually released. This particular prisoner tried to make a run for it but other inmates had easily apprehended him at the command of the officer in charge.
He was then taken back to the prison. The guards pushed him into the prison-block backyard where he was surrounded on all sides by trustees. As they launched their attack, he fell to the ground and curled into a foetal position. He screamed for mercy as a pool of blood began spreading around him. The sounds of hard-toed boots and batons striking human flesh echoed throughout the yard. These noises amplified as the captive audience of inmates looked on in stunned silence. With each blow, we winced in horror trying not to react for fear that we might incur the same wrath. Murderers, rapists, and other hardcore criminals were all unwillingly forced to watch this horrendous demonstration. The beating served as a message to all, and it worked well as even the most hardened prisoners were reduced to trembling messes.
The inmate’s moans barely sounded human—they rather resembled the sounds of a dying animal. Having myself been involved in plenty of fights didn’t prepare me for such savagery. I’d never seen so much blood; it was as though they were trying to beat every last drop of it out of his body. Surprisingly, he didn’t die, but was permanently maimed.
Imagine how relieved I was to find an ally on the inside—one who happened to be extremely powerful as well! He was a guard, named Niyom and our alliance came about when he casually asked me a few personal questions. His ears pricked up when he heard that I was a fellow Sisaketian. He instantly took me under his wing as he would a long-lost cousin. He read over my case and commented that the evidence against me was very weak indeed. Moreover, he was confident the court would eventually find me innocent. The problem was that it could be a very long time before they reached such a verdict. He contacted my parents, and together they came to an arrangement that would guarantee my safety while I was in prison.
I became Niyom’s office boy; I cleaned and tidied his desk and made his coffee every morning. I eagerly tended to his every need no matter how trivial. In return, I was given some privileges that included being able to watch TV in his office in my spare time. I carried out these menial tasks while other prisoners were forced to work in unsafe factories or on backbreaking construction projects. Niyom’s wife cooked white rice (a prison delicacy) and other tasty foods that she gave to Niyom to pass on to me and other prisoners who happened to have a similar arrangement with him. My parents also sent Niyom money regularly for snacks and desserts in order to make life a little easier for me.
Although I slept in a cell like the others, the fact that I was Niyom’s boy afforded me a higher status, and nobody dared bully me. My parents visited regularly, which offered added protection as inmates and guards were aware that I still had a connection to the outside world.
If I needed evidence that it was indeed my association with Niyom that protected me, I realised it one morning when I was caught smoking by a guard. He slapped my face and then forcefully rapped his knuckles on the top of my head. As an extra punishment, he instructed me to peel off the cigarette paper and drop its tobacco into a small bowl of water. Under great duress, I was forced to drink the revolting mixture. In a moment of desperation, I squeaked out that I was Niyom’s boy. He immediately snatched the bowl from me.
‘Why the hell didn’t you say so in the first place?’ he responded in surprise.
He apologised and instructed me not to tell Niyom, who was a higher-ranking officer.
The guards earned very little, and the only thing that kept them afloat was the deals they struck with inmates and their families. Inmates desperately want to communicate with family and friends so there is a huge demand for illegal mobile phones. Such precious commodities command high rental prices amongst the inmates themselves. The daily rations of food are frequently inadequate so it’s often necessary to find other sources of nourishment. Drugs can be freely purchased, and can help ease the pain, especially during long sentences. The
kha yai
, or ‘heavies’, use phones for drug deals, criminal arrangements, and many other scenarios outside of the prison. Considering prisoners are currently kept behind plexiglas during visits, it is completely unfeasible to import drugs or phones without the help of the guards.
Conditions inside Thai jails are so harsh it’s a wonder how the justice system expects to ever rehabilitate the prisoners. I don’t mean to be crude, but one of the main failings of the penal system is that it doesn’t take the sexual needs of prisoners into consideration. After all, they’re still human beings with the same appetites whether inside or outside a cell. If you pack so many men into confined spaces, it’s inevitable that some will capitulate. It must also be taken into account that not all sexual encounters will be consensual. I overcame this by using my hand and my imagination, although this certainly wasn’t easy as privacy wasn’t a privilege we were entitled to. The communal bathing area tended to provide the best opportunity for meeting partners. Many long-term inmates adopted good-looking newcomers as sexual partners. These younger men were more than willing to take on the role in exchange for food and protection.
Sunday was our day off and we generally gathered in the recreational room to watch TV. However, very little TV-viewing took place. We usually took advantage of this time to engage in intimacies with each other. Such interactions often started with playful fondling that would lead to mutual masturbation or even discreet anal sex. Meanwhile, everyone would act as if nothing was going on. I can’t say I ever witnessed a prisoner being raped; what I saw were acts of survival—men who, by allowing others to use them sexually, would receive the kind of treatment in return that would ensure their safety.
Several weeks into my incarceration, I found myself looking at men in a different light. I even wondered what I’d be willing to do to find relief for my mounting sexual frustrations. But just as these temptations were starting to become appealing, my father made a call to his younger sister, the result of which changed everything. Aunt Suda worked as an assistant to a high-ranking officer in the police department in Bangkok. Her policeman husband had died on duty, leaving her three small children to raise on her own. His boss then hired her as an assistant, and in the years since, she’d worked for various other officers. My father desperately asked her to pull some strings for us. One of her bosses instructed his clerk to phone the station where I’d initially been charged to talk to the lieutenant working my case.
The lieutenant visited me in person in the holding cell during one of my court appearances. He addressed me politely in a most respectful manner, apologising for putting me in this situation. I later learned that Aunt Suda’s boss had strongly criticised him for blowing this small case out of proportion. At the time however, I was oblivious to my aunt’s intervention, and was bewildered by his sudden change of heart. My parents later visited me and joyously informed me that the court would shortly be dismissing the case.
My parents were right. The judge dismissed my case and instructed that I be released on the grounds of insufficient evidence. Despite this, untold damage had been done to my family, who had spent a fortune protesting my innocence. Among the casualties of this expenditure were my necklace, which was sold, and the pick-up truck, which had to be reclaimed. In total, I spent 48 days in prison for a breaking a window. Those 48 days felt like an eternity to me.
Oddly, I found my university friends the most judgemental of all—they didn’t believe for a second that I had not intended to rob the house. My parents and I agreed it would be best for me to put my education on hold. I couldn’t have cared less if I never had the opportunity to resume it; I didn’t want to be part of a system that, in my opinion, had betrayed me. I returned to Sisaket with my parents just as I turned 22. Yet another year under my belt, and still I’d achieved nothing.
CHAPTER 6
My failure to pursue a higher education and my imprisonment was broadcast everywhere by gossiping villagers. I decided to become a monk in order to escape the constant whispers and stares. My parents readily gave me their permission. I intended to be ordained for a three-month period, during which time I’d seek to better myself. Thai men are expected to be ordained at least twice in their lives—as a boy, and again in adulthood—in order to express gratitude to their parents by making merit on their behalf. This merit is especially important where mothers are concerned because women are forbidden to enter the monastery; therefore they can’t earn merit for themselves. However, parents can cling onto their ordained child’s saffron while making their ascent into heaven thus securing their own entry.
Initially I thought I would stay at a temple in my village, but this proved problematic—how could I expect anyone to respect me, let alone the robes I wore, when they knew firsthand of my grievous faults? My lengthy list of enemies could easily use my ordainment as a perfect opportunity to taunt or attack me.
I hoped to work on construction projects within a monastery because such efforts would procure greater merit. A friend recommended a simple temple in a remote part of Prachinburi Province where only a few facilities existed, so I went to survey it. There were very few monks residing in this somewhat primitive monastery and I liked it immediately. I felt I could make a real contribution there.
I’d been sober since my release from prison and this was the first time in ages I wanted to do something good, for both myself and others.
As a novice, I was ready to follow my abbot’s commands. He sent me to live in an old and dirty wooden pavilion. It had only three walls, leaving one side completely open to the elements. My room was covered in cobwebs, and beneath the pavilion there were several empty coffins. There was a black
bat
on the floor, which is a bowl carried by Buddhist monks to receive offerings from the public during the morning alms. It was filled with various charms and little Buddha images that were covered in dust. I supposed it had been placed there to ward off evil and to comfort whoever occupied the room, but from the look of it, no one had taken up residence in the pavilion for years. What a foreboding place indeed. The sounds of bodhi tree branches scraping against the roof and walls as the wind blew added to the fearful atmosphere. In fact, on my first night I was so terrified, I didn’t sleep a wink. I garnered some comfort from the holy robe I shrouded myself in, hoping that it might imbue me with supernatural protection against ghosts lurking in dark corners.
It was approaching dawn when I heard a sharp knocking sound. I bolted upright, trembling as I attempted to seek out its source. There was no one to be seen and I couldn’t imagine what caused the noise. Then I remembered the coffins directly beneath the floor where I was sleeping. This led me to wonder just how many bodies had been held in storage awaiting cremation at this temple. I began to chant wholeheartedly as if my very life depended on it. I prayed that any good merit I’d earned thus far might be distributed to the needy spirits, and by so doing, remove their need to bother me further. I was convinced that the signal for help came from a spirit who sought a blessing that would better its status in the afterlife. From that moment on I dutifully committed to my prayers.
Not all my memories of the monastery involved fear of the supernatural however. I was entrusted with the responsibility of organising a cremation ceremony for a veteran monk who’d died 100 days before. This was a huge honour for an inexperienced novice like myself. Acts of goodness towards someone of purer status would earn one greater spiritual rewards and I was grateful to have had such an opportunity.
While being a monk was uncomplicated, it was not without its protocols. Every morning, I rose at 5am in extremely cold weather—we Thais are used to a hot climate, so when the temperature drops a few degrees we suffer. I reasoned that the more hardship I endured the greater spiritual kudos I’d earn. I walked barefoot from village to village with an assistant in tow while receiving alms from the villagers. It is customary to give food to Buddhist monks first thing in the morning; they depend on laymen for alms and basic necessities in order to lead an ascetic life and study Dhamma (the holy teachings of the Buddha). Monks in turn act as spiritual guides for those who seek answers, comfort, or even admonition.
After my morning rounds, I’d sweep up leaves, clean and trim foliage, and tend to the gardens around the temple grounds. I diligently worked at whatever form of labour was assigned to me. I also studied Dhamma and memorised chants in order to participate in any religious ceremonies. Aside from one meal a day, I was allowed to smoke and to drink tea, chocolate and coffee.
It wasn’t easy living the ascetic life but I’d like to think I did a good job. The greatest difficulties presented themselves when young women greeted me with morning offerings in nightwear that left little to the imagination. This proved especially difficult when they were kneeling before me.
The method outlined for the receiving of alms meant I could only stop to receive offerings if I was invited to do so by a layman; otherwise I had to continue walking. I couldn’t be picky about the offerings either, which meant there were some interesting meals to be had. Whatever was given was mixed into a common pot: sweets, curries, noodles, and fermented fish created the day’s meal. A layperson had to kneel before me in order to pay their respects as this stance reflected a lower and more humble status. He or she then joined their hands together in a prayer-like gesture before gently placing the offerings into my bowl. After they’d
wai
’d, I chanted a short blessing. I’m ashamed to confess that I frequently glanced at the women’s cleavage during this process. Though afterwards, I suppressed my sexual desires by meditating on dead, rotting corpses while pondering the state of dirty human bodies, containing toxins and waste. I reminded myself that beauty fades and all human beings eventually wind up as decaying corpses. This method of suppressing sexual desire is known as
plong sangkhan
, and it helped me stay my course.
I somehow managed to survive three months at the temple without allowing a drop of alcohol to pass my lips. I think the fact I didn’t have any drinking buddies definitely helped. I mulled over my life as I’d lived it up till then and justified my habits, thinking Lord Buddha didn’t disapprove of social drinking in itself, but rather the consequences of drinking excessively. If you get so drunk that you lose consciousness, then who knows what could happen afterwards. I’d been involved in countless disasters over the last few years, and yet never seemed to get the point—even during my meditations.
However, by rigorously resisting the temptation to drink and other vices, the fog that had clouded my mind as a result of bad living gradually began to lift. I adhered to all 272 precepts laid down by the Buddha except one: after a long, hard day of labour, my stomach growled hungrily for sustenance, so I insisted that a temple boy boil water to prepare my instant noodles. I considered this breach of eating only one meal a day mild in comparison to some of the other monks’ transgressions. For example, there were those who would speak directly to women, even going so far as to flirt with them.
Despite my noodle snacks, when it came to the sexual appetite, I was a lot more disciplined. I didn’t touch or pleasure myself at all during my time at the temple. Hard labour helped to discharge my sexual energy, although I couldn’t control my wet dreams. Afterwards I’d absolve myself of sin by reaccepting the Buddha’s precepts and seeking forgiveness for my wrongdoings.
I didn’t witness homosexual activities amongst the monks during my ordainment but, during my go-go-boy years, I heard all kinds of stories from my gay co-workers of how they had casual sex with other monks. Others claimed that their first male-on-male experience had transpired during their ordainment. It sounded highly plausible since they were all cooped up together and denied the company of females. As much as I could understand the need for sexual gratification, it was forbidden, and as a holy teaching I highly respected it.
During my first few weeks in the temple, I failed to comprehend the true significance of a beautiful lady who regularly paid respects to the abbot. I thought she was simply an extremely devoted Buddhist and enjoyed discussing the teachings with him, much like our elders; or perhaps she was just deeply troubled. I assumed the abbot acted as a spiritual guide for her just as any good monk ought to be.
As time went on I grew suspicious of the daily visits. Whenever she appeared on the scene the abbot would abruptly order us to get to work. The visits lasted several hours, and I didn’t think it was possible to be that badly in need of spiritual guidance. Anyway, it’s inappropriate for a monk to be alone with a woman, especially in his quarters. So the other monks and villagers soon gossiped about these strange prolonged visits. I learned she was a widow whose husband had died in an accident leaving her to rear their child. The suspicious tryst was exposed when she arrived at the temple one day clearly pregnant. Shortly afterwards the abbot unceremoniously left the monkhood to become a father and husband. While the rest of us monks had been working hard for the benefit of our souls, our leader was busy sinning. It was a disconcerting thought to say the least.
You can’t take everything at face value. The people I was taught to hold in high regard—teachers, the police, and monks—were not always paragons of virtue and respect. Many simply used their positions to do whatever they pleased under the cloak of authority and, as long as they didn’t get caught, they were happy to continue doing so. Even though I’m definitely no saint, I’m at least somewhat honest about my weaknesses, which is more than can be said for these hypocrites.
During the last few weeks of my ordainment, I realised the religious path was not for me. At funerals and merit-making ceremonies, I began sneaking glances at young women from behind my talipot fan (a palm-leaf fan used by Buddhist monks while chanting prayers before a congregation). I was supposed to be concentrating on my religious duties but my mind was clearly elsewhere. Occasionally, these women would make eye contact, which caused me to quickly look away in shame. However, their coquettish image would be imprinted on my mind long after they exited my field of vision. I thus began to feel awkwardly embarrassed wearing my saffron robe, for I knew that my behaviour was not becoming of a monk. Had I remained in the monastery any longer I eventually would’ve violated the precept forbidding sex which would’ve brought an unspeakable amount of bad karma onto me. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t accumulated enough of it already.
I found the monastery too restrictive, and I didn’t possess the kind of patience or discipline required to adhere to such a lifestyle. It was time to go home. Although I missed the layman’s life, I had no intention of returning to my old drinking and gambling ways—I didn’t see the need to. Having completed the targeted three months of ordainment, I resigned. As I departed from the temple and my fellow monks, I was proud of what I’d achieved; and yet I felt conflicted. I was still panged by a feeling of being incomplete. I still had no clear plan as to what I should do with my life—I was just as lost as when I began my spiritual quest.
My parents couldn’t conceive a plan either. Directionless, I couldn’t remain in Sisaket—so fate forced me to head to Bangkok. My sister had been working in the capital for several years and I invited myself to stay with her until I found a job and was able to get on my feet.
This was a starting point at least, and it seemed the most natural path to head down.