Part 29: A first-hand account of life in detention in Singapore’s draconian ISA

A narrative about injustice: “We train very hard, but we work like maid”. The Gurkha officers in ISD

A continuation of Zulfikar’s account of life under Singapore’s ISA

The psychologists and ISD officers were surprised that even after 3 years and having had my detention extended, I was still in good spirits.

According to Roslinda, “most people would stop talking in the third year.” They would be depressed and lose trust in the officers and the process. According to Krishnan, some of them became very angry. I totally understood the anger. If the other detainees went through what I did, they would have been forced to make false confessions, been mentally, spiritually, and emotionally abused and seen the corruption of the ISD process. There would be little to assure them that they would be treated fairly.

And they would not know when they would ever be back with their families. I do not know if any of the other detainees were guilty of what they were accused of. What I know is that they have never been convicted. The accusations were never tested.

ASP Amir told me that some of the other detainees had gone insane. They hallucinate. Solitary confinement is torturous. I talked to my reflection every day, although I was fully aware of it. I can understand how others lost their minds.

After I was given the detention order in 2016, most of the ISD officers calmed down and talked without shouting. Tim still talked down and made regular threats but most of the time, we would have conversations with normal speaking voice.

During the second Eid Fitr that I spent in detention, in June 2017, I was allowed to meet my family in an “open visit”. There was no glass partition in the room. I was able to hug my family. After the Eid visit, we went back to the “closed visits” with glass partitions.

In January 2018, I was told that they were downgrading my risk assessment. I was given new T-shirts. The red band across the chest was replaced with amber. With the downgrade, I was allowed to have regular open visits. My left hand was still cuffed. But I was able to hold my family with my right hand.

When they downgraded my risk assessment, Iqbal told me that I would be allowed a tablet. I received it 1 year and 2 months later in March 2019. Tablets were delivered to each cell on weekdays for about 2 hours in the morning. During those two hours, I could watch videos or play games such as chess or backgammon against the computer. The videos were curated from Singapore television that were several years old. In 2019-2020, I watched Manchester United soccer games from 2013, the Anugerah Skrin from 2009 and similar videos.

I looked forward to receiving the tablet. Its main value for me, was that I was able to hear and see humans on the screen. For two hours, every weekday morning, I was not absolutely alone.

I would usually spend the morning watching videos, making zikr and exercising. In the afternoon, I would read books. At the end of a weekly meeting with Iqbal (usually on Mondays), I would be brought to the prison library, which was the same size as my cell, about 2m by 3m. There were a couple hundred books, from comics to fiction. By the end of my second year, I had finished reading most of the books and magazines and had to re-read the books I had read. A few months later, the ISD procured more books such as National Geographic magazines from the 1990s to S Rajaratnam and Lee Kuan Yew’s biographies.

Apart from the enjoyment of reading, I used books to make the time fly. I set a goal of reading about 200 pages a day and to understand and remember what I read. Those goals required me to read relatively slowly and created a time rush because I needed to finish the 200 pages everyday. And since I exchanged books every Monday, it made me feel as though I did not have much time to read.

My constant reading became a source of conversation with the Gurkha officers. Several of them told me that everytime they looked into my cell, I would either be standing at the door and looking at the mirror or I would be reading.

“Sleep. Everyone sleep” they told me. Iqbal regularly told me to sleep during the day. I refused. I knew that if I slept during the day, I would not be alert if I was called for interrogation or counselling. I made sure I was mentally ready for interrogations and I would remember what we talked about.

I did not want to waste my time in detention. Spending years sleeping would not only be an absolute waste but it would further dull my mind. After my release, I read ISD’s claims that some detainees were allowed to study. From what I know, that was a rare case. From my first year in detention, I asked to be allowed to study.

I requested to be allowed to take a diploma in business, in Islamic studies, Masters in Business or PhD. Anything. Just allow me to study. My requests were rejected. In my fourth year, Iqbal finally allowed my family to send course information for distance learning in Australia. But he dissuaded me from carrying it out.

Several Gurkha officers asked me about the books that I read and I would describe them. These conversations were invariably short. There were closed circuit cameras everywhere and the officers could not be seen as having conversations with me. Gurkha officers were probably the nicest people in detention. Even though we were not allowed to speak with each other, most of them treated me with kindness and courtesy.

Sometimes, I would talk to them and ask questions. They would respond briefly before telling me that we were not allowed to speak to each other. Some would put their finger on their lips and look at the walls, as though looking for cameras or listening devices.

There were several groups of Gurkha officers. Apart from those who provided external escorts (for example, to the courts or hospitals), there were three groups that I dealt with. The most junior seemed to be the officers who were on sentry duty. They were stationed beside the entrance to the wings and attended to our daily needs. An intercom button and speaker were housed on a metal plate on the wall beside the door. The intercom connected me to a control room.

Whenever I needed daily items such as uniform, toothbrush, soap or detergent to clean the cell, I would intercom the officers at the control room. The sentry would send the items to me. One of the officers told me of his frustrations working as sentry. It was a very boring job. They sat at a desk and waited to be told to deliver items. They would also periodically check up on us and called out the prayer times.

“We train very hard, but we work like maid” he said.

Another group were the internal escorts. There were always 2 escorts whenever I left the cell. They were the ones who took me to the yard or interrogation rooms. Most of these officers and the sentries were Corporals (sometimes a Sergeant would perform these duties). Whenever I was taken to interrogation, they would knock on the door, open the food vent and call out “interrogation”. I would be given military socks to put on as we waited for the hydraulics door to open. The first few days I was detained, I was not given socks for my ankle cuffs and the metal cut into my skin. The socks helped ease the discomfort.

Once I was fully cuffed and hooded, I listened to their instructions and felt their directions on my arms.

“Turn left. Move. Step up. Stop. Turn right.”

Sometimes, they would tap me softly to “stop” or “step up.”

During the interrogation period, I was given a lot of water to drink in between Tim’s screaming. I would need to go to the toilet every couple of hours. Ong would call the control room and the Gurkha officers would uncuff me from the chair, blindfold me, recuff my hands and lead me out.

The single room toilet was next door to the interrogation room, in the middle of the building. Both Gurkha officers would enter the toilet with me. There was no window. All the walls were solid. There was a glass panel on the door that allowed them to look inside. But they still needed to enter it.

The room was probably 3m by 3m with a low wall on two sides of the squat toilet.

When I needed to use it, some officers would uncuff one of my hands. Others would not. I would have to use the toilet with both hands cuffed and chained and tiptoe to push the flush button.

Over the years, I got to know some of them. Most of them covered their names on the security passes that they wore. So I gave them names for my own reference. There was “Chee Koon” who reminded me of an old classmate, “Khalid” who reminded me of my cousin, “BJ Kadir” who looked like a Singapore Malay celebrity.

There was also “stay strong” who saw me breaking down in the yard one day. It was a couple of days before my son Mukmin’s knee surgery, and I was worried for him. I wanted badly to be there for Mukmin and felt terrible that I could not. When the Gurkha officer escorted me back to the cell, he told me to “stay strong.” That became his nickname.

There were also the officers who delivered food. Usually these were officers who were rotated from escort duties. A coveted job was as medic. The Gurkha medics escorted the doctor and nurse on their rounds. In the evenings, when the doctor and nurse were off duty, the medics would do the rounds and dispense medicine.

About a year into my detention, I was taken to Changi Hospital for an eye check. Just like my trip to the courts, I was made to wear a purple jumpsuit with the hand and ankle cuffs, chain, blindfold and GPS tracker. When we arrived at the hospital, I was made to sit in a wheelchair and a blanket was spread over me.

I was fully hidden with the hood covering my face and the blanket over my body.

“Get in. Get in!” shouted the voice to the hospital staffs as they prepared me. I believe they were the hospital security. No one was allowed to be in the corridors when I was wheeled in. I was not to be seen.

Doctors and nurses spoke very briefly to me. Some of them ignored my questions. The eye specialist looked nervous when he attended to me. When he was adjusting the eye- pressure machine, I glanced at his signature stamp on the table. He looked at me and quickly grabbed the stamp and put it away. The moment he finished checking my eyes, he rushed out of the room, pushing the nurse in his hurry.

Most of the doctors or nurses would not speak with me. I would hear them speak and joke with the officers but when I asked them anything, they clammed up. It felt as though I was invisible or an object for them to work on.

I understand their anxiety. I was an ISA detainee. According to the PAP government, ISA detainees were terrorists. I was supposed to be dangerous.

I brought it up with the prison doctor and Iqbal. Iqbal felt the eye specialist overreacted because he lacked information. “They think ISA is for violent people. They don’t know about you.”

Dr Tan laughed when I showed him how the specialist rushed out of the room. In October 2017, Dr Tan asked me about a book I was reading: James Tooley’s The Beautiful Tree. I explained Tooley’s work with private schools for the poor in India, Africa and China. At the end of my explanation, Dr Tan shook his head and said, “It is such a waste to keep you here.”

When I relayed Dr Tan’s comment to Iqbal, he became angry. “Tell him to take my job.” For Iqbal, he needed to change me before I could be released.

Because I refused to change my opinions, I had to be kept in detention.

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