Читать книгу Songs in the Night - Madlena Khaidarova - Страница 3

Our car stopped near the big, blue fence. We finally arrive. There are five of us. Slowly we get out of the car and stretch after the long trip. I look around. I see the high walls painted a dirty, white colour, and the barbed wire, wound in spirals, stretched around the perimeter. I look dismally at the crowd of police and armoured military people. Uneasiness creeps in.

At the gate entrance a sullen policeman with a big, round belly is attentively checking our documents and permission papers. His bushy eyebrows move up and down slightly revealing his dark, narrow eyes. He is obviously displeased. He looks down at us, letting us know quite clearly he doesn’t like us at all. He turns around and silently leaves. We wait.

“Why am I here?” I think sadly, looking at policeman’s disappearing silhouette. An hour passes by. A piercing wind is blowing. We constantly move around, trying to escape the widening shadows and catch the lukewarm rays of the autumn sun. From time to time different policemen appear and look at us out of idle curiosity. The arrow is stuck to the clock-face. Another hour passes.

After two whole hours we are finally allowed to enter. We pass through the checkpoint and face yet another review of our documents. Now military people are checking us. «Who are you?» they ask. «Musicians from Almaty,» we reply. «Why are you here?» they ask in a strictly official tone. «To do a concert.»… The woman in police uniform glances at me suspiciously and then carefully searches me. Her hands glide over my body. «Thank God! At least it is woman!” Ithoughtangrily. “How difficult is it to work here?” I ask.“Very difficult,” she says without hesitation.

«Why am I here?» Again and again I ask myself, getting more and more irritated. As far as I know, none of my friends or others close to me will be here today. “I do not need to endure this humiliating search procedure… Who do they think I am?” Sometimes I work abroad, and despite my «Arab-like» appearance, all the same, never get searched like here. What are they looking for? I don’t feel comfortable at all. The atmosphere is oppressive. I feel sick in my stomach. It seems it was a silly idea to come here… I’m really agitated. Who would voluntarily come to a prison, especially a men’s high security prison?!

The search is over. I frantically repair my hair and clothes, and move on as if in a dream, my face aflame with indignation. Our turn finally comes. We leave and proceed down an asphalt pathway, leading us further and further away from our freedom. Everything is spotlessly clean and you could hear a pin drop. An anxious heaviness comes over me. My legs turn to rubber. I see everything going past me in slow motion, as if in a dream. All of a sudden we are there. I look around. I see people everywhere, sitting, standing, scurrying. “Men in black” overalls and hats moving to and fro – like bees in a hive… And here am I, rather out of place, catching their surprised looks. Our guys set up and install the musical equipment… We have cometo do a concert. I have been writing and singing songs for many years, but for the first time I have cometo do a concert in a men’s prison. From time to time I start to panic and then look at my «oversized» husband. He looks calm. Even more reassuring is the silent presence of the grey-haired man in a white shirt, covered with tattoos: the prison chaplain. He spent more than 25 years behind bars himself, truly a fish “in water” here.

I try to gather my thoughts, tune the guitar, and I try not to make an eye contact with anyone. Men in black surround me on three sides and there is a wall behind me. There is nowhere to retreat… The question «Why am I here?» continues to invade my heart time and again… Around 200 people squat down in a semi-circle under the scorching sun while 300 others stand around them. A little further away near the building sitting another hundred. A hundred more stare through the windows. I feel dizzy. Military and police personnel are also here. I see an old man struggling forward through the crowd closer to the «stage». He can barely drag his own feet. He lays down his mat and lies down on his side. He is maybe 70 years old. It seems to me he won’t be with us much longer. My heart breaks. I quickly look away. In the distance I see a two storey white building. Here people don’t live. They merely serve time. There are about 2,000 inmates. The place is so packed that there is not enough space or beds for everyone, so people sleep in three shifts. Here, some people spend half of their lives without freedom, love and warmth. They have to constantly and intently watch their every word and step. Mistakes can cost you your life. In this place, people are paying by years of their life for the crimes and mistakes that they (or someone else) have made. Horrific numbers: seven, ten, twelve, nineteen years… A young, red-headed man about 23 years old said to me that he is in prison for six years already. I tried to cheer him up saying,

«You’ll probably be out soon».

With tears in his eyes he replied, «Another 12 years left…»

Shell-shocked, I have nothing to say. The thought runs through my head:

«What could you do to get such a punishment?»

Nervously I ask a dumb question,

«What did you do?»

«I’m here for nothing!» came the reply..

Apparently that is a common reply when you ask prisoners why they are in prison.

What strikes me as truly meaningless is that this place cannot change a person, let alone fix what he did to other people or himself. The story is repeated again and again, in and out of prison. I look into the eyes of these people and I want to run away as far and as fast as possible to forget about the existence of this sad place, but something holds me back. Maybe I cannot leave because I understand today I’m a “voluntary visitor” and not an “involuntary resident” of this place, for just one reason: A miracle. If the miracle hadn’t happened, I would be in a place like this – at best. At worst I would be pushing up daisies, already for a long time, in one of city cemeteries…

Everything is ready. The equipment is connected. I feel myself shaking a little. «Hello,” I start quietly, “My name is Madeleine. I’m a former drug addict from Almaty. I want to sing my songs for you. I hope someone here today will be touched and that you find hope.»… I run my fingers over the strings. My fear has gone. I start singing:

I alternate songs with a story «based on true events». They listen to my words but most of all they listen to my heart. You can’t lie in a place like this – they see straight through you. In tense silence these precious souls carefully and seriously listen to my own real-life account of how once I was a prisoner too…