Lutfi Gilang's

2. Prisoner Life

Thursday, 14 February 2019.

As usual, when the siren rang, we prisoners had to get ready to march neatly, just as the SD boy welcomed Monday's flag ceremony. The entire cell door was opened, and all the prisoners came out with motley expressions.

"The line!" exclaimed the Chief Officer with a short-barreled rifle in the grip of his right hand. It's like he's entitled to shoot anyone who doesn't follow orders. And indeed, in the past three days, I saw firsthand the killings committed by the warden just because the prisoners were making jokes about them.

We were all lined up with buffalo ganals that had their noses traced. And, the machine handler, carries out instructions without being able to argue.

"It is forbidden to go out of line, despite having to defecate in the pants." said the officers every morning after the inmates lined up.

Morning time, when breakfast, is the only forbidden deadline for which anyone is strictly prohibited from changing its implementation. So, no matter how much I wish to defecate, I still have to hold it until my meal is over or the working period arrives, and of course it is very torturous for prisoners like me. The one who strongly refused to pee or poop in the toilet without a lid, showed off a letter to the pair of eyes whose gaze barged into the iron bars of my huni room.

"Diligent street!" The man shouted back.

We walked towards the dining area. One by one the occupants of the room took their food rations. But I don't seem to have to explain what's on our plate.

According to what I spent 13 days living in this detention house, I sat at the very end of the table where no other prisoners were there. Although I can not deny, when eating food is not worth this commotion always breaks out. Forcing the warden to pull the trigger to stop a fight that often leads people to the clinic.

But today there was something different, in front of me sat the prisoner who just went to jail yesterday afternoon with another man who from his physical condition had explained that he was older than the two of us.

"What do you think, man?" ask the wrinkled man.

I had heard the news that he was actually a veteran who fought for the homeland in the 1963s. Against the anti-Indonesian demonstrators who stormed the building of the KBRI, who tore up Soekarno's photo, and who brought the state emblem of Garuda Pancasila before Tunku Abdul Rahman—Prime Minister of Malaysia at that time—to step on Garuda. But in the end, he fared the same as me, accepting an indictment he did not make.

The elderly man, accused of stealing state assets, was found by chance by officers inside a secret room under his home. Even though he himself, who has been living for 40 years, does not know about the existence of secret rooms, let alone state assets. And he was forced to buy land and houses at a high price so that his friends could pay off the debt.

"Are you going to eat it?" ask the old man again.

I answered by shrugging both shoulders, signaling that I did not yet have the certainty to eat it or not.

"Doubt if I ask?"

I kept quiet, reviewing the food in front of me that was worth eating and not bringing disease to my stomach. Then I took the boiled yam and handed the plate and its contents to the front of the old man in front of me.

With a glittering smile and teary eyes she thanked him and stuffed her mouth with the dish this morning.

"You are so generous. This grandfather always complains with his meager rations" said another man by his side but I did not respond. "I'm Noer, just entered yesterday afternoon."

"Ah," Noddle.

"You.... don't introduce yourself?"

I muttered. It seems that the man has not heard the rumors that are circulating about me, or indeed he deliberately hid it in order to get close to me. Which I don't care about. Here, living in prison, you can't trust anyone.

I heard him snort. "See," asked.

I glanced at the direction the man pointed at and then returned to my food.

"They're lines like ****," Noer said pointing to the new prisoner who lined up his breakfast rations before him. "you know how the Fat One is? That brisque new prisoner,"

"Aah, man,"

"What happened to her?"

"Where do you know?" respond to the new prisoner by his side.

"I stole the inmate chat in front of me on the line earlier," he replied, "maybe he was on duty helping the warden at the clinic last night" he added, then again came soy sauce mouth chewing food that is not clear taste.

"What's his name?"

Me and the old man were surprised to hear the question coming out of Noer's mouth. I mean, what does he want to know? What's in it for him? During this time, during my stay here I learned to care for myself and to throw off the excessive curiosity of what was or will happen especially to others. And it's possible, it's not in Noer's brain because he's new here. Either way, I don't care, I still have to be wary of him suddenly sitting in front of me.

"What are you talking about?" The old man in front of me asked.

"What's his name?" reset Noer.

"What's his name?" The old man made sure.

"Yes, what's his name?"

"What are you doing that for?"

"I just want to know his name."

"What do you care, new boy? No matter what his name is. He's dead!" snapped old man.

"Well, well, there seems to be an interesting chatter here," Suddenly a heavy and hoarse man's voice rang out, making the old man before me gasp and bow his head, saying, almost made his eel blend with the food he was eating.

"Can we join?" Instantly the voice sounded very close to my left ear after the man behind my back patted my left shoulder.

Actually without having to look at the Owner of the Voice, I could already guess that he was Herman, the man who was the leader of the end carriage. The block whose inhabitants are the most jerky and cruel prisoners. But to make sure I finally look too. The man was a plontos-headed, big-bearded man with an unkempt beard.

Herman sat down next to me, and two men appeared who seemed to be trying to reach the right and left side of the table, they were friends of Herman in his bedroom. Ateng Si Tukang Drunk on the West side, and Yusuf Si Peniku class snapper on the reverse side.

"Why silence? Just continue with your conversation" said Herman.

I don't care what a troubled man like him is doing here. To me, it's none of my business. So I went back to eating boiled yams like before, ignoring the people who came and ruining my mood for breakfast.

"We were discussing Fatty One earlier," Noer chanted as if these people were his close friends.

"Ah, yes.... Fat man, what happened to him?" Herman answered.

"Once, said the other prisoner he died."

"really? How come?"

"His head was hit hard enough, and was not helped." Noer explained.

"Oooh."

I was intrigued to hear the sentence coming out from his black and thick lips. Obviously, I know that Herman made a bet with his roommate for a pack of cigarettes, about which of the new prisoners across from our cell would cry and whine asking to go home.

Then, with his unexpected luck, someone who is one cell with the Fat One said many things that immediately make the person more emotional, not much different from a newborn baby. And of course, because the noise was very disturbing at night, especially for the officers, Fatty had to receive a reply with a blow on his skull until it bled. What the old man said, Fatty is no longer saved.

It's not that I accuse Herman of not-nothing for his horrible looks or criminal titles outside and inside the prison. Of course not! That event is true. And I still remember very well.