The Angel of Bang Kwang Prison Susan Aldous with Nicola Pierce Dedication I’d like to dedicate this book to my beautiful daughter Talya. You are such a meaningful part of my life. The journey would be incomplete without you; it would indeed be as if some great gift of love were missing. Heaven only knows why you chose to come to earth via me, but I am extremely glad that you did. What a privilege to experience the depth of mother love by caring so deeply for you. You are the uniqueness of pure originality, the heart of creativity, the soul of sensitivity, the prize of serendipity and hey, your humour rocks! I love you and am proud of you in ways that cannot be measured. Sophisticated, worldly-wise, I searched for God & found Him not, Until one day, the world forgot, I found Him in my baby’s eyes. —Mary Afton Thacker Foreword As with many true stories, there are just too many personal experiences and important people who have come in and out of the writer’s life to be able to recount them all. My memoirs are such, and I have only been able to touch on a few of the many thousands of encounters, and relate to you the reader, a meagre unfolding of but a few lives. There are many more folk whose stories are equally significant or profound; some I have deliberately kept for another day for the simple reasons that they are too sacred or difficult to share at present. Some are not my stories to tell, or by so doing it would be inappropriate to divulge such intimacies of another’s life. Additionally, in a number of cases, I have changed names and details so as to not reveal identities, endanger or cause discomfort to them or the organisations/agencies that they are affiliated with. In sharing my life, I have tried with the utmost conscientiousness to show humaneness and vulnerability in order to set to naught the erroneous beliefs that some folk have regarding volunteers. No, we are not saints, just ordinary people, fighting everyday problems while trying to make a difference. All I ask for is that you the reader allow me one thing. I am hopelessly forgetful when it comes to recalling names of songs, movies and actors. In fact, so much so, that I can hardly tell you who played in the movie let alone the name of it, but I can draw motivating inspiration that spurs me to action from how it affected me. Please forget my name; it’s not important! My desire is that something within these pages will affect your life for the better and in turn, inspire you to know that you too have influence to make this world a better place. That may begin at your own dinner table, your own workplace, your own place of worship; all the encounters that your day consists of can be affected by the simple inner reminder to extend some form of love to all that you meet and to keep an open eye for opportunities to be of service to fellow travellers. As I said, let my name and face dissolve into mist but let that mist energise you as you reach into the shadows and embrace the unembraceable. Chapter One People often talk about childhood memories, the importance of the early formative years, and the effects they have on our psyche; well I remember being born. It was a traumatic event; unfolding in a cold, stark, harshly lit, unwelcoming room, to meet an equally unwelcoming, ice-cold mother. I remember being rejected, and the nurses attempting to compensate for the lack of love by fussing over me and even being prompted to name me. I was Michelle to the ice-queen and Janette to the compassionate nurses. I was a thoroughly unwanted bastard child, though the nurses thought me beautiful and content. The year was 1961 and my 21-year-old mother had her career to think about. Susanna was a pretty, petite, blonde, blue-eyed girl with intelligence and ambition. I was the result of her brief fling with Rod, a sexy, green-eyed Queenslander who was to shoot himself dead, on a beach, just over 20 years later. My mother was certainly ahead of her time. She went on to manage huge construction teams, of maybe 800 men or more, building hospitals in places like the Congo. When I try to picture her I always imagine her in steel-capped shoes and wearing a hard hat. I have never met her. At 16, I attempted, in vain, to uncover who had given birth to me. Eventually, at the age of 38, I tracked her down via a search agency and wrote to her. She had recently returned to Australia after 30 years. After my second letter to her she decided that was enough. She graciously supplied me with a brief medical background, a few scant details of my coming into existence, followed by an admonishing farewell that I was master of my own destiny and that now I should go forth and enjoy. The pregnancy, the signing over to the State of her newborn baby, and my many enquiries years later numbed her. She may have been my mother and my daughter’s grandmother, but she just wasn’t interested. She rejected me a second time. But this time I could feel disappointment and anger towards her. She led me on. Her first letter to me appeared to be so open and full of understanding. She wrote that I could ask her any question I wanted to, which was what I wanted to hear. I’m not very good with superficial relationships; I thrive on forming intimate bonds with the people I meet. I love people to confide in me and my friends must be amenable to a good heart-to-heart discussion. Otherwise, what’s the point of friendship? So she offered me this dream potential no-holds-barred opportunity and I could hardly believe it. She decided that we were going to undergo the process together, as calmly as possible without bludgeoning one another with guilt or sentiment. I was absolute in my agreement; I am one of those chameleon types, I reflect back to people what they need me to be. I used to think it was a sign of my weakness but then a friend told me that she envied my flexibility in company. You can bring me anywhere and introduce me to anyone and I will be positively sociable. I had always fixated on my mother; the fact that I also had an unknown father never really struck me. All I know about Rod was that he had blonde curly hair; I don’t even know his surname. He never knew about me so God only knows what would have been his reaction had he not killed himself. It is a daunting task to approach a birth parent who has given you up. They didn’t want you the first time, so how are they going to be now that you are fully grown? I suppressed any expectations that she was lighting a candle for me on my birthdays or that she was a total nut-case, or an alcoholic, or that she would hate me with a vengeance. As it transpired, my mother was merely an unfeeling, cold businesswoman. Her having to carry me around in her belly for nine months and then spew me out into the world was, to her, simply unfortunate—nothing more and nothing less. She could have been kinder, or even just plain old polite, but she chose to be neither. The letter was cold and stark, like that birthing hospital room—thanks but no thanks. I wept at her betrayal; she completely wrong-footed me. Then I felt overwhelmed by a sense of release. No more wondering or fantasising about my real mother, no more time wasted on daydreams about our impossibly fantastic relationship. She didn’t want me so now, after all this time, I didn’t want her. Jackpot! I was free. It wasn’t all bad. As I said, she provided me with some medical background. She confirmed that I wasn’t anorexic. My friends had been nagging me for years to put on weight, making me eat every last bite from my plate and watching to see whether I was making myself vomit after meals. When I denied I had an eating disorder, they would sagely nod their heads and tell me I was in denial! My birth-mother informed me that all her family get thin as they age. It was genetics. Now instead of worrying about me my friends envied me. Looking back now, I can see how my younger life helped to form the person I am today. Don’t ask me how, but I always knew I was adopted. As was my kid sister, Annabel. She is two and a half years younger than me. I remember my parents, Doug and Judy, going through the adoption process to get her and I remember the day they brought her home. It was normal to me and I just knew that I had arrived at this house the same way. They told me that I was the ‘ideal’ infant. I happily gurgled the days away in a secure family atmosphere. I was a typical Gerber’s baby, straight off a baby food commercial, with a big toothy smile and a placid nature. My poor parents had no inkling of what they were letting themselves in for. They were all you could ask for in a parent; loving and nurturing. It made me feel special to think that they had chosen me. My mother and father were very down to earth, with a quiet intelligence and dry sense of humour. My father had a big important job that he never made a fuss of, while my mother kept the house and also worked part-time. They had known each other for a good while before falling in love, and remained in contact with the friends that they hung out with before they married. There was a large group of them with plenty of ‘in-marriages’. The group provided an excellent support network for all ‘members’ with a good social life. My parents also joined a Diner’s Club and ate out in a fancy restaurant once a month. They also enjoyed their culture and would regularly attend the ballet and theatre, as well as the cinema. In fact I probably owe my life-long love of the movies to them, and perhaps they also inspired me to see other places when I got older, as they loved to travel. To me that’s a sign of a good marriage; they are still each other’s best friend and enjoy going out together. As I grew to kindergarten age my health became a concern to my parents. An extraordinary amount of time was spent sitting in doctor’s offices with my anxious mother. I wallowed in the attention, which started me on a dangerous mindset that it pays to be sick. It took some work on my part but I perfected the role of patient and missed many a school day thanks to faked fevers, pseudo- appendicitis and illnesses without name or history. I was also opportunistic; when my sister contracted chicken pox I grabbed her spotty face and rubbed it up against mine, willing the germs to make a leap of faith. Alongside honing my ‘acting sick skills’ I became adept at dealing with the consequences, that is, the taking or not-taking of the medicine. I would pretend to swallow and then once my mother turned her back I silently spat into whatever was closest, the sink or the potted plants. Fortunately there were lots of potted plants in our house; they were probably the healthiest plants in Melbourne. I hated school. It bored me and I failed to see the point of it. Amazingly enough, my report cards were reasonable as far as the grades went, though there was always the note about how bright I was and how wonderful it would be if I only applied myself a bit more. English was my favourite subject and I also enjoyed art, but that was about it. I just wanted to have fun, from making my class-mates laugh to staring out the window, my head filled with video-dreams showing me killing dragons or joining the Merchant Navy. As I got older I would be accompanied on these adventures by a handsome beau, though I remained the hero. When I was five my grandmother told me about the courageous Joan of Arc responding to the angel’s voice, so I knew that women were every bit as brave as men. I believed that one day I would be called by the angels to undertake a special and difficult mission. In the meantime I kept myself busy. My grandmother was a great influence on me; she was a grand ol’ dame. Her husband was made mayor of an infamous red light/drug addict district, St Kilda’s, in Melbourne. Junkies were always to be seen hanging around, waiting for their next score. I was the flower girl at the ‘Mayoral Inauguration’, which required me to spend a ridiculous amount of the time at the hairdressers. I had to be taught how to walk properly and how to present the flowers. It was a lot of pomp and ceremony that didn’t really appeal to me. I wore a silk golden dress and had my hair done up in a beehive. My grandparents looked like royalty. Grandpop wore a long dark coat with a fur lined collar and over this was the massive gold Mayor’s chain. My grandmother, or Mardy as we called her, wore a long golden silk dress with short sleeves. She also wore white gloves that went up to her elbows, and a matching purse. Her hair was like mine, in a beehive style and she had on her ‘cat’s eye’ glasses with lots of old expensive jewellery. She was the more sociable of the two—my grandfather could look very serious and was quite reserved in his manner. She did lots of good work throughout her life, and actually received an MBE (Member of the British Empire) title in recognition of her contribution to charitable works. She came from a very pro-Royal family; her great-great-great grandmother worked for Queen Victoria. My grandmother was a very traditional woman with firm values but she also knew how to enjoy herself. She loved her brandy and regular days out at the horse races. She was also very spiritual and made sure that Annabel and I attended Sunday school and church; she would often quiz us on what we had learnt. She knew lots of different types of people, including ‘media-types’, and was responsible for my 15 minutes of fame. She took me to a recording of the Tarax Show, a popular Australian TV show for kids. I was fascinated with the huge noisy studio audience and the colourful set. One of the show’s highlights was when the camera panned the audience to find the child with the happiest smile. I had practised my smile all morning and was impatient for action. The camera began to move along the rail above our heads and I almost pulled a muscle as I crunched up my face, widened my eyes and stretched my mouth as high as it would go. My grandmother gazed at me fondly as the camera stopped in front of me and the popular presenter, Happy Hammond, summoned me to the stage. I couldn’t believe it and had to be gently pushed to my feet. I was led down and placed on Happy’s lap—something which could never happen now— where I shakily answered some questions about myself. I won a prize for my Herculean efforts and cherished the experience for a long, long time after. Years later I discovered that my win had been ‘fixed’ by my doting grandmother. I guess it’s not what you know but who you know in show business! Melbourne was a great place to come from, and it will always be special to me despite the fact that I don’t see it too often now. I thought it a beautiful place with all its greenery and fine beaches where I spent my summer holidays. There was a terrific mixture of people—very cosmopolitan indeed. I grew up in Brighton, a very respectable and well-to-do area, but I loved to explore the not so respectable places, of which there appeared plenty, or so it seemed to me, that were far more interesting. There was a strong Anglo-Saxon and Celtic presence with the English, Irish, Scottish and Welsh communities, alongside plenty of Greeks, Italians, and later on, Japanese and Vietnamese. There were also a lot of World War II survivors who always seemed to stick out a bit. I fancied that they looked sadder than everyone else. Even their kids looked fretful; on hot summer days the tattoos from the concentration camps were unintentionally on show—a permanent reminder of horrible days gone by. It’s a strange thing—to think back to your childhood and search for silly details. It’s a whole different world and you can hardly relate to the child you were. I remember I wanted to marry Elvis … or Batman … or Robin Hood. Innocence is such a fragile quality and once it’s gone it’s like having a child— you can barely remember life before everything changed forever. My weekends as a kid strike me today as blissful even when I had my household chores; the car and house were usually scrubbed alike at the end of the week. My sister and I also helped with the gardening, tending the vegetables growing in the back yard. During the summer months all housework would be followed by a romp in our swimming pool; pools were the normal prop in our well-off neighbourhood. Family outings were frequently organised, sometimes comprising a picnic at the beach and sometimes a stay over in our caravan on the outskirts of Melbourne. I think this routine instilled in me a good work-ethic and the importance of sharing time with loved ones. At the age of 11 it struck me that I disliked the size of my front teeth. Like most girls my age I was terribly insecure and self-absorbed about my looks and I spent many an hour staring at my teeth in the mirror, trying to find a solution to their hugeness. Then it hit me, and I marvelled at how long it took me to come up with the obvious and simple answer. Armed with nothing more than nail clippers, I trimmed one of my teeth. Yep, that’s right; I clamped the clippers on the tooth and pressed down until I heard the crunch. I cannot describe the pain; you will have to imagine it. Let me just say that the toughest inmates in Bang Kwang describe toothache as being the worst ache of all. My immediate concern was that the tooth was now a great deal shorter than its neighbour. In pain but marvellously determined, I prepared to ‘clip’ the other tooth. Looking back now I don’t know where I got my strength or guts—maybe I was thinking that if Joan of Arc could let herself be burnt alive then I could do this one little thing. Somehow I managed to cut the nerve and almost collapsed in pure—and I don’t use these words lightly—unadulterated agony. A few harrowing days passed before I dared to ‘confess’ that I had smashed my teeth on the drinking taps at school. Immediate dental attention was required. In fact, it took several years of dental work to repair the damage. I would like to be able to write that this was the only time I ever harmed myself, but I would be lying. Up to the time when I approached my teens, I was, I suppose, a normal and obedient child, and though I tended not to pay as much attention as I might have