Bars of Time

My name is Sarah. Convicted for life, I am destined to spend the rest of my life behind bars—a place that is not supposed to be my home. I am innocent, but the law has judged me, the law has decided, I am the most heinous criminal. My life is now imprisoned, a victim of slander and misunderstandings that corner me mercilessly. Who would have thought that slander is actually more cruel than murder. Maybe this is Your way of testing my fortitude, but really, the eyes of the world are never perfect at seeing the truth

And now, in this place, in this prison, I feel the full bitterness of an accusation I never committed.

I try to convince myself that this is all a test from You, God. Justice administered by humans too often misses the mark, often leaving deep wounds.

Story begin - daily routine

The events of that day three years ago, several months before the COVID 19 pandemic hit, are still firmly etched in my memory. when a mother who was my destroyer and also my savior, for the first time set her foot on Women's Prison Island where I was being held at that time. In fact, the beginning of my story happened long before, but the presence of a mother in the same prison where I was detained was a turning point in my life. 

At that time, the pulse of life on this prison island had just begun even before dawn, when the sky was still pitch black and the cold night was still biting at the skin. The sound of the heavy footsteps of the guards rang the bell, waking us inmates in the correctional facility.

We hurriedly moved in orderly lines filling the air with a mournful echo. Tired bodies and pale faces due to lack of sleep and lack of nutritional intake, all of them were forced to prepare for a long day in the rice fields, on farms or wherever according to the instructions from the officers. There is no pause, no option to refuse; the vast expanse of rice fields and islands seemed to stretch out their endless arms, waiting to be conquered.

In the midst of the morning fog that was still enveloping, the loud sound of bells and the screams of a prison officer woke up the prisoners who were still sleeping in the barracks. In a loud voice, he started calling out.

"Come on, don't be late! Get up! It's time for work! Do you think this is a hotel? Get up quickly!"

Some of the prisoners stretched lazily, some were still trying to cover their ears, hoping to get a little more sleep. But the officer wasn't playing around. She tapped the bed of one of the prisoners who was still closing his eyes with the tip of his foot.

"Hey, Sarah! Don't pretend to be asleep! Get up! Tidy up the room! It's time for work!" he said in a firm voice, while the real me had woken up rubbing my eyes, still sleepy. In a place where there are no clocks to indicate the time, the body clock without us realizing it regulates and influences the rhythm of life.

One of the most basic things regulated by the body clock is the human sleep and wake cycle or what is called circadian rhythm.

This cycle makes a person feel sleepy as the night goes on and awake in the morning. Even if a person does not know what time it is, this condition occurs automatically. 

To buy time I groaned, "Oh, Ma'am, give me another hour, it's not yet the morning call to prayer, who knows, there's still time for a little sleep..." half joking, Of course, without a clock or definite time marker, our days went round and round. according to the rhythm of the prison, which had become in line with the rhythm of our bodies.

The officer immediately replied in a curt tone, "What at dawn? You were sleeping soundly at dawn! Come on, get up! If you want sustenance, that's what you'll find in the rice fields. Look for it yourself!"

Next to me, Dina, who had woken up earlier, laughed a little, then patted my back while whispering, "it's over, Sis, don't insist. The Officer is about to throw a tantrum, just follow her and it's safe."

I took a deep breath, then with a heavy heart got up and stepped out of the barracks, joining the line. The officer who had woken us up looked satisfied to see all the prisoners starting to move.

In the corner of the room, the queue for the bathroom was already busy. There are only five simple toilet cubicles, limited by thin cloth on the door and walls that only reach neck height, creating an uncomfortable atmosphere, lack of privacy and an unpleasant aroma pervading the space. A prisoner urged from behind, "Hurry up, wow! It's sore, I can't take it anymore!" the other replied with a frown, "Be patient, it'll be over soon!"

Long queues in the morning have become part of the routine - to simply wash your face, or take turns fulfilling your basic needs for defecation and urination in the toilet, where there are far from enough. This is where we are faced with the reality of life in prison which is full of limitations. Privacy is a luxury we can never afford. Behind the backs of fellow inmates who were crowded together, I missed the smell of soap meeting water that I hadn't breathed in a long time. It's true that there is no factory-made branded soap here, all of this has become a part of everyday life that we have been forced to accept.

Every morning, we immediately lined up in front of the cell block, without having time to shower or even wash our hands properly. There is no toothpaste or toothbrush that we can buy here. Instead, betel leaves are our mainstay for maintaining oral hygiene. I bit a piece of betel leaf and chewed it slowly, feeling the bitterness and bitterness that slipped between my teeth. They say, betel leaves have natural antibacterial properties—strong enough to reduce bad bacteria in the mouth, protect teeth from decay, and provide a rough taste to the tongue. Even though it's not as clean as we hoped, at least it can make us feel a little more worthy amidst the existing limitations.

Chewing betel leaves every morning became a simple, small, but meaningful ritual, as if it gave me a little control over myself in the midst of a world I no longer understood. In this place, sometimes it's the little things like this that make us feel like we have a shred of self-worth. Strong teeth and a clean mouth may seem trivial to those out there, but to us, it's part of self-preservation.

After the officers carried out the morning count, confirmed our numbers, made sure no one ran away, we stepped in neat rows and walked barefoot towards the fields or other activities determined by the officers. An officer joked along the line, "Well, that's it! Work hard, exercise for free. Your body is healthy, you don't need to pay for the gym, you know. Every day like this, you are guaranteed to be slim!"

One of the inmates smiled and responded, "Wow, ma'am. At this rate, we could become fitness models here!"

The officer laughed, "Yeah, right? When you get out, you can open your own gym!"

"If that's the case, we'll ask for a bonus protein milk, please," continued another with a wink.

"Bonus? You can milk it yourself from the cow pen! I'll try asking the commander later," answered the officer while winking again. This prison also keeps cows to meet our milk protein needs.

Some of us laughed bitterly, while others just sighed, striding heavily towards the fields. The tired body is ready for another long day, again toiling under the never-merciful sunlight.

While in the field, another officer came over, "Remember, okay? If you're diligent like this, who knows, you might get clemency quickly!"

"Yes, ma'am! If possible, I'll give you clemency next week," I replied, smiling broadly.

For us, life convicts and death row prisoners in this prison, there will be no remission to reduce our sentences. We can only ask for clemency - which may not necessarily be received - from the president, the head of state. However, to apply for clemency, the convict concerned must admit his mistake.

"But if you ask for clemency, you have to admit your mistake, 'that it is true that I was punished for the mistake, the crime I committed, I regret it'. The punishment from the state is correct and then you ask for clemency, ask for forgiveness." said the officer.

I listened to the officer's explanation with a pounding heart. Every word that came out of his mouth seemed to hit me inside. I still believe I am innocent and will not be able to ask for clemency. How can I admit a mistake I never made?

"Sarah, you still insist on claiming that you did nothing wrong, so you can't ask for clemency, you won't get clemency. You can only ask for clemency if you have admitted that you were wrong." he explained. "So admit your mistakes, accept your fate, repent, one day you will be free from this prison island."

My mood was turbulent. There was a sense of hopelessness that tried to sneak in amidst my beliefs. I know the only way to get clemency is to admit guilt. But how is that possible? I am innocent. This feeling of being trapped was like an abyss that was getting deeper and deeper. Every hope of freedom seemed increasingly distant.

However, amidst this darkness, I still hold firmly to the belief that justice will be revealed one day. That small hope, even though it was faint, continued to strengthen me to survive. Even though the path I have to take is difficult and full of thorns, I will continue to fight for the truth.

A moment later the female officer shouted, "You girls. Come on, move quickly, be enthusiastic! Hard work is not only for clemency, but for your health too! Long life."

Small talk like this, even though it seems simple and trivial, can at least lighten the burden a little for others. Because behind these prison walls, smiles and laughter are luxuries that we should be grateful for. But for me who felt innocent, I was trapped at the bottom of a deep abyss. Every hope of being free felt impossible, making me only accept fate, accept the situation, and live in this prison without any chance of being free.

Women's Prison Island

This island is a maximum security prison with the official name of the Federal Women's correctional facility Valley of Hope. I don't understand why it is called Valley of Hope. Here, hope is nothing more than a vague image that is difficult to achieve. For us, the hope of freedom is almost extinguished.

This prison is not just any dump, but is specifically designed for us, correctional inmates who are considered "unreliable cases", those of us who have been sentenced to life imprisonment or even the death penalty.

I—we—were sent here to be exiled from the outside world, cut off from the society we once knew, as if our lives had been permanently separated from the lives we once lived. There is no hope of return, no way to prove our change, because this punishment is not just physical detention, but an endless exile.

This prison island is run with the concept of self-sufficiency and self-sustain norm. The government deliberately set up these prisons to reduce management costs, forcing us to live by strict rules that minimize state expenditure. There is no room for luxury or looseness.

Here, we inmates have to work together as a community to meet our own needs—from farming, to livestock, to plantations. The fields we work on are our source of food, the fields we cultivate with rough hands and tired bodies are the heart of survival here. Electrical energy comes entirely from solar power, and spare batteries are often just enough for the staff's needs, leaving us in the dark when night falls.

In addition to planting, harvesting, raising livestock, we are also responsible for every aspect of maintaining the island. We built and maintained every corner of the prison ourselves—from repairing decaying buildings, caring for rusty perimeter fences, to carving wood and cutting metal. Every day becomes an endless series of physical labor. However, behind all this, there is an intriguing irony; life here, in many ways, feels more independent and hard-working than when we were free out there.

This reality is a harsh slap in the face, as if our life on this island is just a reminder that we are considered a burden by outside society. However, on the other hand, this continuous work invites us to introspect—reflect on past mistakes, erode our egos, and try to accept the reality of life in endless limitations.

This women's prison island is located in a peaceful southeast Asian country, where inmates only make up around 0.1% of the total population. Whether the people are law-abiding or there is a lack of authorities to enforce the law. Of that number, only about 4% are women so we are a very, very small part of society.

The majority of us, about 60%, were convicted of drug crimes. The rest are women serving sentences for murder, robbery, terrorism, corruption and other serious crimes. It seems like I'm the only innocent person in this prison.

The island itself is part of an active volcanic complex, stretching over 13 square kilometers. The volcanic peak on this island rises to 1,949 meters above sea level. Although life here is harsh and full of uncertainty, the tropical maritime climate tends to be comfortable, with temperatures ranging from 19°C at night during the rainy season to 36°C during the day in the dry season. Moderate rainfall falls between June and September, while in other months heavy rains dominate, with the annual average reaching 3,200 mm—making it ideal soil for our farming in this remote setting.

This prison complex stands about one kilometer from the coastline, hidden among the trees, on the beach there is an old wooden pier which is connected by a rocky path to the prison gate. The pier is the only access link with the outside world.

Standing at a elevation of 30 meters above sea level, this prison feels isolated and quiet, but quite safe from the threat of large tsunami waves that could hit at any time.

This prison building complex occupies an area of ​​two hectares, surrounded by a tall, rusty barbed wire fence. At first I thought this fence was there just to keep us inside, to prevent us from escaping, to make it seem like the world never wanted to see us again. However, later I realized that barbed wire was more than just a barrier. The fence is a protection, a shield that protects us from the native inhabitants of this island who are no less wild.

This island is not just a dumping ground for those of us deemed 'unfit'. Behind the rows of lush trees that surround the fence, this island is a natural reserve for wildlife that continues to pulsate. Every night, the sounds of crickets, frogs and other nocturnal animals are often heard, creating a feeling of anxiety lurking in the darkness for those who have just arrived here. Often, we find the appearance of panther tracks around agricultural areas. The creature, black and huge, was the island's original ruler, a predator that moved in the silence of the forest, lurking from the shadows.

Not only that, a herd of wild monkeys also live around here, crossing the tall trees while screeching sharply, as if to tell us that they are the ones who are truly free while we are trapped, imprisoned. Occasionally they would appear near the fence, looking for food or just staring at us from a distance, like observing a trapped alien creature that had lost its freedom. Our life here is a great irony; We who are imprisoned actually need protection from the wild outside, and the fence that should be a symbol of separation instead becomes a protector. The fence does not just limit, but saves. Behind these rusty wires, we realize that we are only residents, newcomers to this island, with its wildness, wildness and freedom, are the true owners.

However, over time, the sounds of these animals became part of everyday life. the chirping of birds, the chirping of crickets, the silent steps of panthers, the rustling of snakes and the screams of monkeys are reminders that this island has its own rhythm—a world unbound by human laws, where we are simply uninvited guests.

The prison building complex is a colonial era building, with a colonial architectural style built at the beginning of the 20th century. Initially this place was not a prison, it was built as a center for people suffering from leprosy or leprosy which was endemic at that time. -Leprosy is a contagious chronic infectious disease caused by the bacteria Mycobacterium leprae. This disease can attack the skin, eyes, nose and peripheral nerves. - As time went by and the number of female inmates who were involved in the communist rebellion at the end of 1965 increased, the complex was converted into a special prison for women.

Outside the fence, there is our farm and livestock which covers 20 hectares located around it. This is where we work the land, raise livestock to meet the food needs of our own community.

Outside the main complex, a small dock and officers' dormitory are located separately, providing limited access and surveillance for those of us who inhabit the island.

For security reasons, the native population that used to live on this island has been moved to another nearby island, so that now we are the only ones left, the prisoners, and the officers tasked with managing the land and guarding the prison.

The women imprisoned here, although far from the reach of the outside world, live in an environment that at first glance supports productivity—however, this productivity is nothing more than a demand for independence without the rewards of freedom or the opportunity for reintegration into society.

Inside the prison complex, our living quarters were simple: five prison blocks each consisting of 10 cells measuring 3x5 meters, each cell holding five inmates in bunk beds. A small window with bars, a toilet and a small tub were the only facilities available. Every room feels cramped, with no other furniture for comfort. Without an electricity network, without a clean water network. 

The impact of limitations and lack of supporting facilities shook me. I experienced it myself culture shock when she first inhabited this island. No technology. Our information and knowledge of world developments is also minimal because information sources such as television, radio, and the internet do not exist.

"Adapting to a new environment is the toughest challenge. I am used to the hustle and bustle of city life and then have to live in a place where there is absolutely no electricity," she said.

In the middle of the complex, there was an open courtyard that became our gathering place, complete with a simple volleyball court and several wooden benches—one of the few 'recreational' facilities available. The administration building, dining hall, and small clinic are also located around this area.

The prison island reflects the government's highly budget-conscious approach, with a primary focus on isolation and self-sufficiency. There are no luxuries or rehabilitation programs beyond basic survival skills here. We lived in harsh conditions, with limited supervision, forced to build and maintain our own lives in virtual isolation from the outside world.