It's been three days since my unexpected encounter with Bu Hera, and in that time, neither of us has spoken. We carry on in silence, each carefully observing boundaries, as if any stray word or gesture might ignite a spark neither of us wants. We both understand the stakes. Conflict here, in a prison with strict, unforgiving rules, is risky. Physical altercations are classified as severe violations, and anyone caught can be immediately sentenced to solitary confinement—a place none of us want to end up in.
Solitary is a punishment reserved for the most dangerous offenders or for those who challenge authority here. It's not just a cell; it's a concrete cage designed to strip away even the smallest semblance of humanity. A person can spend weeks in there, alone with their thoughts and the unyielding silence, with only an iron door as company. It's where the walls seem to breathe, closing in, and where time becomes endless.
So, despite the tension still hanging between us, we avoid direct confrontation. Prison has a way of teaching restraint, forcing each of us to calculate our words, weigh the risks of every reaction. In here, the silence is both a shield and a strategy.
Yet, despite the quiet, my anxiety doesn't dissipate. A part of me longs for this unease around Bu Hera to vanish, to find a way to coexist without the threat of a confrontation lurking in the background. I keep telling myself that this will pass, that time will dull the edge of our standoff. But every glance in her direction, every subtle movement she makes, keeps my guard raised.
Maybe, eventually, this silent tension will settle.
Limited information
This prison is like a fortress that separates us from life outside. There was no television, radio, or internet. Telephones were only limited available, and direct contact with loved ones was rare. One of the bridges that connects us to the outside world is a pile of newspapers, magazines and tattered books that don't arrive every month. However, even that connection was vague — everything we read was at least a month or more behind, delayed by uncertain weather and logistical constraints on ships carrying supplies.
Old books, newspapers and magazines really have their own magical power for us. Every time it comes, their presence is greeted like a rare treasure. Every word felt so precious, as if we were reading fragments of life out there, even though the stories inside had long passed. Ironically, it is precisely this stale news that brings a sense of life, taking us momentarily out of the stone walls and bars that limit our views.
That afternoon, the inmates just arrived back from daily exhausted hard work. Before the daily sharing session started. The cell block felt busier than usual. A bundle of books, magazine and old newspaper that may have changed hands who knows how many times managed to steal the attention of many people.
One of my cellmates came over, her eyes sparkling, and handed me the newspaper. "Hey, there's news about the World Cup final, France versus Argentina!" She said excitedly, pointing to the sports page.
I accepted the newspaper and stared at the faded pages. Out there, the game may have been over long ago, but here, behind bars, we never know the outcome. I imagined the atmosphere of a noisy stadium, people screaming and cheering, something that felt very far from our quiet lives. I smiled a little and said, "Guess who won, huh? Even though everyone out there already knows."
An officer who was listening then jokes, "Let's bet! I bet Argentina will win!" she said while smiling idly. Apparently she already knew the result of the match—Argentina had won on penalties two weeks ago. For us, small moments like this become a link between our limited world and the world out there that feels unreachable.
She laughed softly, her smile mixed with nostalgia. "At least we can still guess. Rather than not knowing anything."
On another page, Dina, my best friend, was reading the crime section and suddenly her face turned serious. "Sarah, look at this news about Madam Judge, your enemy isn't it? She became corrupt because she lost her son. So you, the girl who killed Madam Hera's son, who is your boyfriend, right?"
I was immediately shocked, almost at a loss for words. "Are you so incorrect, who says that?"
Dina handed the newspaper towards me, showing an article containing an explanation about Madam Judge and her cases of corruption and manipulation of the law. "That's it, it's a news story in the newspaper."
I Swallowed, thinking fast. "Yes, be patient, I will tell you the truth when my affair with Madam Hera is settled."
Dina nodded, but I knew that in her heart there were a lot of unanswered questions. And in my heart, anxiety grows again.
Fighting
On another side of the crowded halls of Women's Correctional Facility Valley of Hope, tensions always seemed to simmer just beneath the surface. In this place where every goods was precious and ownership right was none, even a single old magazine could ignite a storm.
A worn-out magazine—a glossy, colorful issue from years ago featuring articles and images of handsome Korean drama stars—made its way into the common area. The magazine was a relic, somehow very well preserved through the years. It was filled with familiar handsome faces: actors whose stories had transported its readers beyond the prison walls, however briefly.
From the other side I was looking, Two women inmates both claimed the magazine. A young inmate with a short temper, had a fierce love for Korean dramas, often using them to escape her harsh reality. Then the older and quieter, cherished the magazine for a different reason; it reminded her of her teen daughter, with whom she'd watched the dramas before her arrest.
As they each pulled on the fragile magazine, their whispers quickly escalated to shouting. The other women in the room watched in silence, knowing how easily these small confrontations could turn dangerous. As tempers flared, a push led to a shove, and before long, the two were clawing at each other, oblivious to the officers' warnings.
"Shit, how dare you, just snatch it, I found it first! Let it go!" The senior prisoner's voice was steady, although her eyes showed despair. She felt that this old magazine connected him to life outside these walls.
"Hey old lady, you found it, but I needed it! You know I barely get anything to distract myself from this place!" The young prisoner's grip tightened, Her love for drama was not just about entertainment—it was a reminder of freedom, of the world she missed so much.
The senior prisoner almost slapped the junior, "You're so insolent, girl ! You're a cruel robber" even though she felt doubtful and her heart was pounding. "Oh, you dare to fight, old lady." said the young prisoner.
"Girl, if you need it, please queue, respect others!" replied the senior prisoner trying to calm the conflict, she know the bad consequences having physical conflict.
"Ah, you're a bullshit, it's not important!" replied the girl. "Do you think you wanna rebel here?" replied the senior.
"Maybe so!" replied the young prisoner, her voice raised. "You selfish old bitch, you had killed your husband for cheating, you forgot about your daughter!"
The words hurt the older inmate. Her face hardened as she pulled the magazine with unexpected force, tearing out one of the pages. "Don't you dare talk about my family! You have no idea what I've been through!"
"You think I care? We're all the same here. You're nothing special!" The younger inmate's voice turned into a growl, and without thinking, she shoved the older inmate's shoulder, hard.
The older inmate staggered but managed to catch herself. "Is this what you want? A fight over a piece of paper?"
"You know, I don't care, you just back off!" the younger inmate retorted, raising her fists. The other women in the room exchanged worried glances, unsure whether to intervene.
Before long, the two women were pushing, slapping, and clawing, each intent on proving her claim. The magazine was forgotten, dropped to the floor as they wrestled, years of pent-up anger and frustration boiling over.
It didn't take long for the bare-handed scuffle to leave marks—scratches across arms, bruises forming as hands landed on flesh. A few inmates tried to break up the fight, but it didn't work, until an officer intervened and the two were finally pulled apart, still seething, the tattered magazine lying in pieces on the ground.
"Enough! Both of you!" the officer shouted, raising her baton, who had watched the fight from a distance. She stepped between them, her broad shoulders blocking their path. "You're tearing each other apart over something that's already broken!"
With a gasp, the young prisoner and the senior both stopped, suddenly aware of their surroundings. The room was filled with an uncomfortable silence, all eyes on them.
The senior prisoner took a shaky breath, her voice barely a whisper. "I just want… one thing, one thing that reminds me of home."
The young prisoner looked down at the torn magazine, her anger melting into something akin to regret. "Me too, I just… I don't know. I've suffered so much here."
Consequences
Shame washed over them as the consequences of their rude actions. They had been forced to face the painful reality of their incarceration—that even a brief escape through a magazine was worth fighting for. Their pain may quickly healed, but the scars of the conflict—both visible and invisible—remained a reminder of how fragile the peace within these walls was. The two of them stood there, bruised and battered, realizing how fragile their escape really was. The magazine lay in tatters, its fragments scattered across the floor, a reminder of how easily something so small could start a storm within these walls.
A moment later, as the Warden cuffed them both, "You two, will be in solitary confinement for seven days to reflect on your actions. Fighting is not tolerated in this prison."
The Senior inmate tried to defend herself "But, ma'am, she started it first, anyway, we were only arguing over the magazine. We didn't mean to cause any riot."
The Warden shot back with a glare "There is no excuse for violence!" she said sharply. "You must learn to control yourselves. Here, every action has a consequence."
The Younger inmate, her face still lined with hurt and regret, spoke up quietly "I'm sorry ma'am, I just …. I needed something to take my mind off this place. There's not much to make me feel better."
The warden softened ever so slightly but maintained her stand point, "I understand, but violence is not the answer. You must find another way to deal with your feelings. For the next seven days, think about how you can improve yourselves and your relationships with your fellow inmates."
The senior inmate took a deep breath and finally accepted, "Okay, ma'am. I'll try, We'll try to be better."
The younger inmate echoed softly, "Thank you, ma'am. We'll try."
The warden gently advised, "Okay, seven days in solitary confinement. Remember, this is an opportunity to improve yourself. Don't waste it."
Then, as the officers escorted them down the corridor to the solitary confinement cell. After the incident and to prevent further conflict, the warden's new decree applied for all over the prison, that there would be no more reading materials provided to the inmates. No more items from outside the prison could be used by the prisoners, even though they had no personal property. A connection with the outside life was cut off, now we were completely isolated.
The two prisoners were marched to the solitary confinement cell, where they would spend seven days reflecting on their actions. A narrow and cold cell awaited them, distancing them from the hustle and bustle of the prison.
I myself have experienced solitary confinement in the beginning of my live here when i had failed attempt to suicide. The cell was quiet, dark, damp, narrow, locked alone, food once a day, no change of clothes, no shower, only a smelly toilet hole in the corner of the cell. Really a place to contemplate regretting our actions as long as we can keep ourselves sane, not being crazy.
In the quiet and silent solitary confinement cell, the prisoners were expected to reflect on their actions. They were expected to realize that their conflict, which was triggered by something that seemed trivial, had an impact on others, while also teaching them about the importance of self-control and understanding each other's needs. This period of isolation became a moment of deep reflection and introspection, paving the way for changes in attitudes and better understanding between them.
Across the cell block, I caught sight of Madam Hera standing by the bars, her eyes fixed intently on the scuffle that had broken out. Even from a distance, her gaze was sharp, scrutinizing every movement, every shout, as the fight escalated. She wasn't watching with excitement or anger, but rather with a calculating calmness, as though mentally assessing the situation and the consequences it would bring.
As guards rushed in to break up the fight, Mrs. Hera didn't flinch or move from her spot. It was as if she had seen this scene play out countless times before and knew exactly how it would end. Her expression betrayed a quiet understanding of what was to come for those involved—their punishment, their isolation in solitary confinement, the small privileges they'd lose. She knew, just as well as any of us, that these punishments would only deepen their resentment and frustration, creating a cycle that would be difficult to escape.
In that moment, I realized that as ex judge, Madam Hera's awareness went beyond mere observation. She fully grasped the ripple effect these conflicts had within the prison walls. Watching her, I felt a sudden sense of clarity: she wasn't just a passive observer. She understood how moments like these shaped our daily reality, how every action, every decision we made in this place could come with lasting consequences.