Flower Lounge (14) -- To Whom It May Concern

I had lost the physical stamina to write extensively — say, for more than half an hour — in longhand. Pen-wielding muscles had withered from disuse. Proteins destined for the fingers had been commandeered by the pads to facilitate keyboard tapping.

In Tong Fuk, I had to redevelop the neglected muscles and rebuild calluses in order to write — sometimes for hours — without cramping or hurting. My long forgotten habit of pushing the pen far too hard against the left edge of the first knuckle of the middle finger came back promptly to remind me that bad habits may go dormant, but never die. Spelling without autocorrect and writing Chinese without alphabetical pinyin input turned out to be problematic. Luckily, literacy at Kai Zi tables was considerably higher than Tong Fuk average. Table-mate Stanley was more reliable and responsive than online dictionaries most of the time. Without him, I might have found it too embarrassing to correspond with friends and family in typo infested letters.

Satu’s daily letters were an embarrassing source of vital comfort.

All mails were opened and marked with the recipient’s number. At dinner time, an officer would announce the numbers at the top of his voice before handing them out. When it came to me, he would yell ‘365820, again!’ with a teasing grin. Besides Satu, many friends who had never written me before also sent letters, asking the same questions: How did that happen? (How would I know?) How’re things in there? (Well, what do you think?) Can we come visit? (You think this is a boy scout camp?) What do you need? (Uh…where do I start?)

I had to copy similar replies repeatedly, tearing out pages from my precious notebooks. To lighten the tedium, I designed a personalised letterhead logo — a crewcut smiley face flanked by huge Dumbo ears (my hallmark feature), captioned From Behind the Bars of 365820.

Before my first pay check, I had to borrow stamps and envelopes from fellow See Hings. Outgoing letters had to be placed in unsealed envelopes, affixed with the right postage, then deposited into a transparent plexiglass mailbox next to the entrance of the Common Room. Besides family correspondences with Satu and Claire, my replies to concerned friends were largely identical.

Dear XXX,

So, it takes me going to jail for you to write me a nice letter, huh?

Yes, what a dreadful surprise, totally unexpected. I might have stupidly jinxed myself by planning a post-verdict celebration party. Hard to believe anyone would find the accomplice witness credible. Well, the good news is that my ‘cynical’ worldview has been vindicated.

I’m trying to get the most out of this predicament though, exploring a kind of unexpected freedom in here. Everyone mixes ‘freely’ on an equal footing. It’s a unique educational experience, if not always pleasant. So far, I’ve met quite a few generous characters — very fortunate under the circumstances.

I’ve always been environmentally aware in theory and intent. But prison life is environmentally correct in practice. Nothing — except water and the nightlight — is wasted. Even tissue paper wrappers are used to hold misc. articles such as postage stamps.

Satu has been visiting every week. The official allowance is twice per month but can be extended to once per week if we apply for special permission nicely. We have to submit a short list of visitors for approval, so, sorry, you can’t just drop by after a BBQ outing at the beach to see how I’m doing.

In comparison with the ICAC, the CSD is definitely more human, not obviously driven by private agenda. Separation from my younger girl is the most painful part because of the lack of communication.

Application for appeal is underway, but I dare not predict our chances. Lawyers always say 50:50. Now I know they are actually being truthful, believe it or not. Common sense isn’t relevant in the legal game.

I won’t give up hope, but am trying not to think about the future, or the past. The dilemma is I don’t wish to focus on the present either. I think the adage ‘live in the moment’ needs reconsideration. What if the moment is abominable, like, right now? I’ll save that for the next time we have a beer together, hopefully very soon.

Contrived positive thinking aside, adapting to being locked up is tough. Having adapted once, the prospect of repeating the process (should we lose the appeal and have to come back in after having been released on bail) becomes unthinkable. Oh well, one step at a time.

By the way, we don’t wear striped uniforms, and only the guards wear the ball and chain.

See you, whenever,

James, aka 365820

* * *

Visitors were allowed twice per month. With special approval, which was usually granted to well-behaved inmates like my good self, it could be increased to once a week. Lawyers and privileged persons such as Justice of the Peace and members of the Legislative Council (LEGCO) could visit anytime they wanted to.

During my stay in Tong Fuk, a couple of LEGCO member friends visited. One was a radical stuntman in the assembly. Whenever he felt bored, he’d scream and shout and threw banana at the speaker just to get kicked out. He could then go home early for some quality family time, getting paid handsomely and collecting likes from his support base at the same time. One stone can kill three birds if you throw it right. He was a high-school buddy. At the time, he was being charged with disturbing the peace for having done something obnoxious. He wanted to find out from me what prison life was really like, in case he got thrown into one. Having seen through his motive, I focused on the dark side.

The other ex-LEGCO and JP friend Choy So Yuk was from the conservative camp according to the prevalent labelling system in identity politics. In any event, she and my old school mate represented the extreme opposites in Hong Kong’s comical political theatre. Their visits aroused the curiosity of a friendly guard, who asked me which side I was on.

‘Neither lah,’ I told him. ‘It makes no difference. LEGCO is just show business, like the court.’

‘Ah, I see.’ He understood right away. I must have used the right analogy.

Contrary to internet wisdom, Satu and I did not treat our younger daughter Saara aka Comrade Xiaoping ‘like a friend’ because she was only eight. Folks our age simply don’t build natural friendships with eight-year-olds, or vice versa. We loved, cared, and guided her as parents had done to young children since circa 20000 BCE. We didn’t have the heart to relinquish parental responsibilities for the sake of appearing liberal and progressive. She was still new to the human world, needing guidance, nurturing, and security more than boring friendships from grown-ups who baby-talk as if their tongues were swollen.

Friends or not, we didn’t normally lie to her except on obligatory fibs like Santa Claus. But we didn’t tell her about my trial because she was only seven when it started. In our judgement, she was potentially intelligent, kind of ready for the ridiculous truth, but not quite yet. Plus we were confident that the fiasco would soon be over. When I suddenly disappeared from home on February 29th, Satu had no choice but to lie on for the time being, until we knew more about the appeal. She hid my briefcase, and said I had left urgently to a work camp for my old company. It was technically true. Work camp had since become our family nickname for prison.

Comrade Xiaoping soon started to question, and insisted that Mum took her to visit me at the work camp which wasn’t equipped with a telephone, something she found extraordinary. That visit never took place.

I might have received the most letters in the Class of 2012 of Tong Fuk

* * *

Next Episode The Guards

The guards have their untold stories too