Ashley Oosthuizen, Suid-Afrikaner wat tans tronkstraf in ‘n Thaise tronk uitdien, het die tweede deel van ‘n roerende brief met vriende, familie en ondersteuners gedeel.
THE VISITING ROOM (PT2)
She used to leap in, but has since been reprimanded by the conservative Thai staff and now enters not by launching into a jeté, but by trying her best to contain the emotions that are the obvious cause of the exuberant entrance (quite far from the elderly officer’s comprehension) – and now simply walks in as fast as one possibly can before it becomes running; gesticulating expressively with her hands, careful not to stretch out her arms too much – an attempt to meet the officers half way, while still allowing her motherly excitement to show!
She brings with her the memory of the halcyon days of my youth, those that now seem so far gone. I sometimes wonder, if, perhaps, I read about it in some book. ‘But of course not!’ says the brightly colored nails. ‘Can’t you feel us giving your body a hug?’ asks the clothing that I identify as pieces I’d be wearing as well, if only I had the chance to rummage through my mother’s closet as in days of old.
I lovingly smile as I take in the image of hair that gets to dance wildly in the wind and goes bathing in the salty sea, to come out and be kissed dry by the rays of a golden sun.
Everyone in here, will tell you the same thing: outside the sun shines, inside – it scorches.
But nowhere is life without its troubles, and I know, although it feels like the most natural thing in the world having my mother near me; nothing about this is ‘normal’. And who would be able to comprehend if you, yourself, didn’t leave behind life as you know it, to come and live abroad under such circumstances as these? And not just anywhere, but in a Southern-Thai village, where hardly any of the locals speak English, not only is there a language barrier, but a completely different way of thinking and operating. So even in communicating with the few who know a handful of English words, it’s a near constant game of Sherades that involves a lot of guessing, and demands much more effort and patience than we’re used to in the Western world.
But I’ll not expound upon these endless frustrations and struggles, and all there various shapes and sizes because – LOOK! – SHE’s HERE! We pick up those well-used, off white telephones, not unlike a starving man would grab a morsel of food. And our fifteen minutes begin.
What will it be today? Animated chitchat and guileless laughter? Will we touch heavy subjects, treading lightly because we know that this clock has never been magnanimous and should we dive too deep, perhaps there won’t be enough time to come up for air. Sometimes there are moments of silence as the lumps in our throats prevent words from coming out, though our eyes never fail to communicate. And this I know: that I may not be allowed to feel the warmth of my mother’s embrace, but being here in person, offers something no screen will ever be able to give us – it’s these intangibles that make every second worth it, for the both of us. And so, despite all its shortcomings, my favorite place in prison would certainly be:
The visiting room.
END
Ashley🌻
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