After my failed suicide attempt, I started to realize something that was previously obscure in my mind. There are too many ways to die on this island—in fact, death always lurks in unexpected forms, whether it's disease, accidents, wild animals or unpredictable forces of nature. However, I realized that death is not something we should force; it is destiny, God's way, coming at the time He determines. And in this place, which isolates us from the outside world, death often comes like an invisible wind, taking away those who may have endured suffering long enough.
One day in late December, the fourth year of my time in prison, a tragic event served as a powerful reminder of that. I can still feel those seconds in my memory—the sky which was initially bright blue suddenly darkened, turning dark quickly. I and the other women, prisoners who worked hard in the rice fields of the Valley of hope women's prison, looked up at the sky anxiously. "What's going on, a storm is coming soon" The wind blew hard, swirling among the wildly swaying rice stalks, as if signaling something terrible was coming. We looked at each other with our hearts pounding, feeling the tension in the air. Rain drops began to fall, soft at first, but soon turned heavy. The wind howled, whipping our bodies and rustling the leaves.
In the midst of the pouring rain, the first flash of lightning split the sky, its light was dazzling and followed by a roar that shook the ground beneath our feet. Some of us, with faces pale with fear, ran for cover. In the distance there were tall, lush coconut trees, the only visible shelter. Without thinking, we rushed there, our bodies shaking in the grip of both fear and temporary relief. We thought the tree would protect us from the raging storm.
However, fate seemed to have other plans. In one flash of lightning that was brighter and more powerful than before, the bolt hit the coconut tree with a deafening cracking sound. We screamed, watching as a large branch of the tree split open and fell not far from us. The tree we initially thought of as a refuge has now turned into a threat, becoming a death trap. Fear overtook us, and we could only hold each other, bodies shaking, knowing that nature could claim anyone's life at any time.
When the storm finally subsided, we felt relieved, but the feeling didn't last long. One of us disappeared. We looked around, confused and panicked, while the rain continued to soak through our clothes. With unsteady steps in the slippery mud, we spread out, searching among the rice fields destroyed by the storm. Until finally, one of us found the body of her colleague lying in the middle of the rice field. Her body was charred, jet black, no longer lifeless.
With broken hearts, we took her body back to the prison area, still soaking wet. Together, we washed, shrouded and prayed for her body. We buried her with great dignity, giving her the last respect as someone who was once part of us. Without looking at her past, in emotional silence, we attend her funeral, absorbing the reality that was so close: that in this place, for us, the convicts for life, death is a time of freedom. Death, in all its forms, is the only real escape from punishment in this world.
In the midst of the haunting silence, my thoughts and feelings revolved around the meaning of life and death. I sat in the corner of the cell, soaking in every moment. The atmosphere around me seemed to call, and when the officer I had spoken to approached, I felt there was an opportunity to share.
"Sarah, I see you look thoughtful," she said, sitting down next to me. "Is something bothering you?"
I took a deep breath, trying to form words. "Earlier, when we went through a storm and lost our friend… I started thinking about death. Like, why are we here, and what does this all mean?"
The officer nodded, indicating that she understood. "Death often makes us reflect. What do you think about your friend's passing?"
"It feels very tragic," I answered. "But on the other hand, I feel as if she is now free from all of this. Here, we are trapped in our punishment, waiting for something uncertain. Death… maybe that's the only way to get out of all this." My voice started to shake, reflecting the depth of this feeling.
She looked at me, her eyes conveying deep empathy. "Indeed, there are many ways to look at death. For some people, it is the end of suffering. But for others, it is a loss. Like, who is luckier, the one locked in a cell or the one who has already left?"
"True," I said quietly, "But I feel lost. Is death really the solution? Are we supposed to think of it as freedom? On the outside, maybe people don't understand our thinking."
"It could be," he answered, "But remember, everyone has their own views on life and death. Death is not just the end; it can also be the beginning of something new. We cannot force our views on others. Here, maybe we learn to accept fate."
I fell silent, trying to ponder her words. "But I felt as if we were all just waiting to die. There was no hope, no way out."
"Sarah, our lives may seem meaningless here, but you still have the power to determine how you want to live the rest of this time. You can choose to wait for death or find a way to live despite the difficult circumstances," she said in a calming voice.
"How could it be?" I asked, feeling desperate. "Here, everything feels paralyzed. There are no options."
"But you still have a choice, even if it's small," she said. "You can choose how to respond every day, every moment. Through memories, hope, or even gratitude. In this darkness, look for the light, Sarah. It can save you."
"Light…" I repeated, pondering her words. "Is there light in a place like this? Does hope really exist, or is it just an illusion?"
"Sometimes, the smallest light can be the brightest, especially in the dark. You never know how big the impact of one wish can be. In sadness, look for the small things that can make you smile. Find ways to celebrate life even within existing limits "That can give meaning," she explained.
"I'll try," I said, feeling a glimmer of hope start to grow inside me. "Maybe I could try to appreciate every moment more, every memory. Remember what I lost and try to rediscover myself."
He smiled. "That's a good step. Remember, life is a journey, not just a destination. Even in difficulties, there are lessons and beauty that we can find."
When he left, I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Maybe, just maybe, I can learn to live life differently. Fate may have brought us together in a tragic situation, but it also gave us the opportunity to understand each other, to find strength among the fragility.
The loss felt tragic, but behind it was hidden the meaning of freedom that we all secretly understood. "She's free now" with teary eyes. "Yes... for us here, death is the only sure way to freedom!" Something that may feel foreign to those who live outside, but for us, who live the days of long waiting, death in this place is our return to God, redemption for her mistakes in the past.
Forced to death
Another heartbreaking death on this prison island. However, this time the death did not come from nature or ordinary tragedy. This death is imposed by law, by the state, in the name of justice: execution. Even though the death row housing block was separate from us, her passing felt close, making an impression on the minds of every resident and officer who heard her life story.
He is known as a dark legend in this prison. A woman in her 50s, the wife of a feared terrorist. For twenty years he lived in the shadows of a cell, held hostage by her beliefs. She was sentenced to death for her role in the bombing of an embassy that killed twenty people, an attack led by her husband, who died in the blast. When the world demanded answers, he remained silent—didn't give up the names of anyone involved, didn't detail the network they built. In her heart, he believed that this was a truth worth fighting for until the end of her life.
During the trial, he stood before the court with a sharp look in her eyes, not showing the slightest remorse or fear. No tears, no pleas for mercy. His ideology is too solid to be destroyed by the words of a judge or the glare of a camera. He holds her principles like an immovable fortress. Even life in prison could not break her faith, and he never sought forgiveness. Two decades passed in cold solitude, as no one was able to penetrate the wall of faith he had built around him.
Among the other prisoners, he is a shadow that refuses to be touched, someone who lives between reality and ideology. Many people tried to talk to him, asking him to share stories or just exchange glances, but he always refused with calm and firmness. Even the guards finally gave up; every attempt to connect with him stops in the face of quiet resistance.
Over time, the outside world changes. Conflicts change, but he remains trapped in the past, clinging to an ideology that has faded in public memory. The look in her eyes, which once burned with resistance, slowly faded with age. But the fire in her heart never really went out. In her eyes, he was not a criminal, but a martyr who never gave up her ideals.
And finally, the government decided to end the wait. The prison head told him that the execution would take place in three days. When he heard the news, there was no change in her face. No fear, no anger. He just nodded slowly, refusing the last request, refusing to give the last statement. The world may have forgotten him, but in prison, the news spread quickly, sparking whispers among those of us who had heard the legend of her life.
"He really isn't afraid, huh?" muttered an inmate who had interacted with her, staring blankly at the solitary cell where the woman was placed.
"He was ready to die a long time ago," answered the other, in a low tone, as if speaking too loudly would disturb the calm he had maintained all this time.
On the night of the execution, the firing squad was ready at the end of the island, far from our residential block. The choppy sea is a silent witness to the end of a firm belief. At the appointed time, he walked out of the cell calmly, without sobs or a face full of regret. Perhaps in her mind, she had promised her husband to die upright.
As he sat on the execution chair, one prison officer looked at him doubtfully, as if questioning whether such a belief could really remain intact until the final moment. The woman just smiled faintly, as if saying without words that everything was according to plan.
Finally, the sound of gunfire broke the silence of the night. This island bears witness to her life finally ending, a life filled with unshakable faith. Among the prisoners, that night became a long whisper about the silent end of a life so stubborn, about the price paid for an ideology. And for those of us left behind on this island, her execution leaves only one question in the air: how many would be willing to sacrifice their entire lives, even their own, for a belief?
In the midst of the silence that enveloped the prison block, the news of this forced death settled in my mind. Death is not just physical; it was the end of a struggle, an ideology that was forced to die in the coils of law. I remember the first time I heard the story about that woman. How he survived amidst threats, never giving in to the injustice he experienced.
While lying on my narrow bed, I scrolled through thoughts of this forced death. *Death as justice…?* Is that just an illusion? Is it by ending someone's life that we truly find justice? An officer approached, looking at me who was deep in thought.
"Sarah, are you okay?" he asked in a soft voice, indicating genuine concern. "The news of the execution… disturbed many people, including me."
I stared at the officer, feeling the depth of empathy in her eyes. "I don't know, maybe… I can't understand all of this. How could a woman's life end just like that? Behind all that, she is also a human being, with her own struggles."
The officer nodded, pondering my words. "Death in prison often feels unfair. It's like we are locked up here, as if all hope has been cut short. But everyone has a way to fight for their beliefs, even though sometimes it costs their lives."
"I understand, but in this case… Can we really call it justice?" My voice trembled, full of confusion. "We are sentencing someone to death who has already suffered twenty years in prison. Is there any justice in killing a mother, just because of the choices her husband made?"
The officer lowered her head, seemingly trying to absorb my question. "Sometimes, justice isn't always white and black, Sarah. Some people might see it as a step to eliminate a threat, even if it costs lives. However, on the other hand, it also proves how fragile life is and how few choices we have."
"And what is left for us?" I asked again, feeling waves of anger and sadness chasing each other in my chest. "Here we are, watching people forced to die, killed by the system that is supposed to protect us. Why does everything feel like an endless cycle?"
The officer looked at me, a deep and meaningful gaze. "We can choose how we respond, even though our choices are limited. We can remember those who have gone, celebrate their lives, and try to understand that everyone has a different story. What happened to that woman cannot be changed, but we can changing how we remember it."
I pondered the officer's words, feeling the weight of meaning embedded in them. "So, we'll just keep waiting for death, while life outside goes on?"
"Of course not," he answered firmly. "We must strive for more than just waiting. Maybe in our hearts, we can fight injustice, even in smaller ways. We can support each other, create space to share stories and strengthen each other in difficult situations This."
Slowly, the feeling of despair that had gripped me began to loosen. *Death doesn't have to end everything.* Behind all the sadness and loss, there is still hope that we can hold onto. We can share stories, remember those who have gone, and voice the undying sense of humanity.
"Thank you," I said, feeling a glimmer of hope emerge among the darkness of this prison. "I want to try. Maybe, this is the time to celebrate life, even though we are trapped in forced death."
The officer smiled, indicating that in this darkness, light was still there—although dim, but able to provide direction on an uncertain path.
Death brings a heavy silence, a silence we cannot shake. The next morning, our prison block remained silent, and we continued the day with mixed feelings. A friend whispered to me as we crossed the rice fields, "What are those people thinking, huh? How deep are their beliefs to... come to this?"
I just shook my head, my words muffled. "Maybe he feels like that's her real life. It's just... we'll never really know."
Reckless Action
Then, there were tense moments when we had to deal with conflicts between inmates. "Why did it have to get so loud? I muttered, remembering the commotion that occurred. Loud voices often echoed in the corridors, but they also taught us about courage and friendship. "We always have each other's backs, right?" I thought gratefully.
In the fifth year of my life at the Valley of hope Women's Prison, I witnessed something that I will never forget. One afternoon, under a fiery orange sky, a group of female inmates began a desperate escape from the isolated prison island. Their determination is stronger than any pain or fear that stalks them. Within weeks, they managed to gather the logs secretly, hiding them among tools and debris from daily chores. They had tied the pieces of wood with torn cloth, forming a simple raft that they hoped would lead them to freedom.
The prison island has no high walls or barbed wire. It often appears peaceful, almost like a retreat. During the day, we work around the island, repairing infrastructure, tending to the garden, or sweating it out in the workshop. However, the real guards are not the officers, but rather the rough sea that separates this island from the mainland by sixty kilometers. No one has ever dared to try it.
I remember that moment clearly—how the commotion broke out so suddenly in that dark afternoon. The prisoners who were trying to escape looked so confident, as if nothing could stop them. On the one hand, I could understand their reckless impulse. Behind every prison wall, there is a story full of pain and regret that drives someone to fight to the last limit. Even though I never planned to escape, the feeling of desperation and desire to be free that burned in them seemed to be a reflection of the hidden emotions in all the prisoners here.
That evening, as the sun began to sink over the horizon, the women moved quickly, full of confidence. They know the guard's patterns—their lazy patrols and predictable shifts. Limited staffing and the illusion of the island's remoteness have lulled the prison. The raft was launched into the sea, their hearts beating fast. They rowed with makeshift oars, salt water splashing their faces, but it was nothing compared to the fire in their chests.
However, nature always has a plan.
When night fell, the sea began to rage, as if it knew someone was challenging it. High waves hit the rafts, soaking them in cold water. Their arms were weak, their bodies were shaking, but they continued forward. At the prison, the guards began to realize something was wrong. Alarms sounded, beams of light pierced the darkness, searching in all directions. The black, thick sea swallowed their tracks, and although the guards began sending out search boats, the ocean seemed too vast and unreachable.
On the raft, despair began to eat away at their spirits. "Not as imagined," whispered one of them in a weak voice. Others braced themselves, "paddle on!!, we will make it."
However, exhaustion made their hands numb. The waves grew bigger, threatening to swallow the raft. There is no land ahead, only the darkness of the vast sea. Some women began to pray, while others remained silent, drowning in fear. They had come this far, but that hope was fading.
In the morning, a coast guard patrol found them, soaking wet, cold and distraught. The guards took them back to the island with blank faces; they had already lost, and there was no resistance left in them. Upon arrival at the prison, the women were taken to solitary confinement, one by one. Their failure became a warning that quickly spread among other prisoners. "Don't you ever try again," a guard shouted at them as the story began to circulate.
The story of their escape was no longer just a story of daring—it was a warning spoken in the shadows of the night.
An officer who has served at this prison for a long time, Mr. Budi, once said to me, "Sometimes I feel like you are like water being pushed downwards, and when the pressure can no longer be maintained, an explosion will occur."
I looked at him, trying to understand the danger and tension of his side of the job. "Mr Budi, has it ever crossed your mind about why we could act so recklessly?" I asked one day, trying to trace her thoughts.
Pak Budi nodded slowly, looking far away outside the prison, as if looking for answers on the horizon. "Sarah, I won't pretend to know how you feel, but one thing I do understand is that despair can make people do unimaginable things." He was silent for a moment, then continued, "I often wonder what it would be like if I were in your position, locked up, separated from the outside world, deprived of freedom. Maybe I too would try to escape if I could."
I laughed bitterly, feeling like there was a part of my feelings that he understood. "Sir, of all the things in this world, sometimes freedom is the most disturbing and at the same time the most precious. We know the risks, but for some people here, a life full of uncertainty is better than a life trapped without hope."
Pak Budi nodded, looking thoughtful. "Then why don't you try to escape, Sarah? If freedom is so important?"
I was silent for a moment, considering my answer. "Because I want to go home the right way, sir. I want to make peace with my past, I want to take responsibility for what happened. I don't want to run away from reality. I want to face everything to the end."
Pak Budi sighed, as if he understood the burden I was carrying. "You are stronger than you think, Sarah. Not many people can survive here without losing themselves. What you are experiencing is not only physical confinement, but also a wounded heart. Sometimes, I am the one outside this fence, and also feel like a prisoner."
I was surprised to hear her words. "How so, sir?"
"Every time I come here, spending months away from my family, isolated from social life, it feels like I'm imprisoned too. Living here, looking after you, isn't easy. The difference is, I know that I can get out whenever the time to leave is coming." Mr Budi smiled faintly, but there was a tired look on her face.
I looked at him, feeling there was an invisible bond between us. "Perhaps, sir, prison is not just about walls and iron fences. Everyone, including you, may have their own invisible 'prison'."
Mr Budi nodded. "You're right, Sarah. Everyone has their own chains. For some of you, the prison is real, like this island. For others, it may be invisible responsibilities or fears. But every day, we all fight to be free from something."
I smiled a little, feeling for the first time genuine sympathy for the officers. Behind their firm attitude, there is a heart that is also tired and trapped in the same routine. That afternoon, in the middle of our simple conversation, I felt a glimmer of warmth and understanding that eased the slight emptiness in my heart.
Dreams of change and new things await me, but images of the past still haunt my mind. "What if they don't believe me?" I asked in fear. Returning to life on the outside with the stigma of a life sentence is scary, but I have to be optimistic. "I have to keep fighting for my freedom," I whispered motivation to myself.
In the midst of this journey, I know that despite my dark past, I have learned to survive. "These skills will help me," I said, convincing myself. The skills I have will lead me down new paths, and hope for a better future still burns in my heart. Now, it's time to look forward and fight for the justice I deserve.