Marking time until the final gong in Indonesian jails<\/p>\n
By Tina Gue<\/p>\n
What is life like behind bars? Only those who have been prisoners
\nknow the agony of waiting for time to pass until the day freedom
\nis allowed once again. Time, so many of us cannot afford to
\nwaste, seems abundant and endless for those living behind bars.
\nOnly the ticking of the clocks and the sounding of bells, or
\nalarms, indicates that life is passing, that existence continues.<\/p>\n
JAKARTA (JP): The hollow sound of a gong is thrown out into
\nthe midday heat. The sun-flooded court yard with its trimmed
\ngarden absorbs the sound, but the young men with numbers on their
\nT-shirts understand the message. Their fingers stop pulling at
\nthe minute unwanted weeds, and a pair of shears finishes its last
\nclick into the bleached, kept lawn. After handing the shears to
\nthe watching warden, the young men slowly walk towards the eating
\nhall.<\/p>\n
From one of the dark doorways surrounding the patterns of
\ntrimmed hedges, a hair dresser and his model brush off the itchy
\nsmall hairs, as they discuss the result of the trim. The length
\nis not quite right for the latest fashion, but in a couple of
\nmonths it will be perfect. Both have nothing else but time to
\nwait for the hair to grow.<\/p>\n
As the gong gives its second beat, they stop their discussion,
\nput their T-shirts back on, and hand the scissors to another
\nwaiting warden before joining the others in the shadowy isles.<\/p>\n
They pass a classroom being used for the final exams. The
\nteacher is collecting the test, but a few students have left some
\nquestions unanswered. They have to believe they will pass. If
\nthey pass their examinations and behave during the summer break,
\nthey may be allowed to go to a senior high school on the outside
\n-- a ticket to at least one morning away from bars and boundless
\nhours of waiting.<\/p>\n
After a pile of paper rests on the teacher's desk, the
\nstudents hurry towards their cells to change their white shirts
\ninto their numbered T-shirts Before the 3rd stroke flies out from
\nthe gong, they join their hungry mates in front of the bars of
\nthe eating hall.<\/p>\n
The young men on kitchen duty have cooked vegetables in
\ncoconut milk and steamed a huge pot of rice over noisy gas
\nburners. When the tempe (soya bean cake) is about to be cut, a
\nsilvery moustached warden gets up from his chair in a dark corner
\nof the kitchen. He doesn't trust the young men to cut the limited
\namount of tempe into equal pieces. Bending stiffly over the
\ncement table with cracked tiles, he scratches out the portions
\nwith his long fingernail before allow the knife to cut today's
\nprotein.<\/p>\n
After the correct amount of tempe is fried, the heavy pots are
\nbrought past the fidgety crowd into the eating hall with its
\nrough tables. Noisy jokes drown the silent young men on the
\nperiphery.<\/p>\n
The 4th beat of the gong makes the last boys leave the bare
\nhall with brooms and a bucket full of dust. The bucket is quickly
\nemptied, and the brooms thrown into a corner. They then join the
\nanxious faces inspecting the metal plates being filled with the
\nfood. The noise slowly decreases as everybody's eyes try to work
\nout which plate to go for -- the portions are never equal.<\/p>\n
The lucky ones grab their choice before the empty pots are
\ntaken back to the kitchen. With clean hands and hungry eyes they
\nlisten to the trusted foreman recited the day's messages. For the
\nprivilege of staying in a unlocked cell, he must help organize
\nwork for the prisoners. He also settles the inevitably
\ndifferences between the boys.<\/p>\n
Neither he nor the wardens have the power to keep tattoos out
\nof the prison. No matter how many eyes are watching or how many
\nrules are made, the fantastic decorations twine further up and
\ndown limbs and torsos telling the romantic fantasies of young men
\nwho don't have much to carry their dreams in.<\/p>\n
The foreman finishes his speech by announcing the afternoon
\nfootball match. Within no time the plates are empty. Slowly the
\nyoung men vanish into the shade of the isles. Squatting in groups
\nthey share prohibited cigarettes, the breach goes unpunished for
\n10 minutes after lunch. Once the cigarettes are smoked right down
\nuntil they hit calloused fingers, the drowsy afternoon heat has
\ncome to stay and the waiting starts.<\/p>\n
The football match will start in minute. Somebody may be
\nexpecting a visitor today, or, if not today, maybe next week. A
\nfriend takes a metal plate of food to the clinic. Without a word
\nhe places the tray beside a sleeping man who has an illness no
\none can cure.<\/p>\n
But most of the young men with numbers on their T-shirts are
\njust waiting for the sound of the gong signaling another day has
\npassed -- one less day to count before they can return to their
\nfamilies. They spend the time lying on their sleeping mats
\nthinking about the new brother or sister who has been born in the
\nfamily, and they imagine their friends who will have grown but
\nnot changed. They avoid thinking about life in the neighborhood
\nwhich will always produce victims who cannot obtain the quality
\nof life produced by a society where money, Mercedes and beauty
\nare the ingredients that count.<\/p>\n
As long as honesty and pride don't count in society, young
\nIndonesians will commit crimes which will put them behind bars.<\/p>",
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