Thrown into jail, for what?
Monday 23rd June 2008
Hot tears streamed down my cheeks as the prison guard shoved me into the filthy concrete cell. It was March 2006 and just two days earlier, I'd been snuggled up in bed with my fiancé, Cey Koracu, 27. We'd been together for a year, after meeting in the Turkish holiday resort of Marmaris. We were in his flat when, at 2am, there was a knock on the door.
'It's Mehmet,' a voice said. 'I've come for my stuff.'
Like Cey, Mehmet was a local barman. He'd left his rucksack at ours earlier that day. Cey opened the front door and, suddenly, Mehmet and five strangers burst in, shouting in Turkish.
'No!' I screamed, as they threw Cey to the ground.
I was naked under the duvet and terrified they'd turn on me. It was only when the men handcuffed Cey that I realised they were police.
'Get dressed!' an officer ordered.
My heart pounded as I pulled on my pyjamas under the covers. Then we were driven to a police station. I had no idea what we were being accused of and it wasn't until noon the next day that a British Embassy official arrived.
'You'll have to give a statement,' he explained, as we sat, surrounded by police officers. Then an officer lifted some dried plants from Mehmet's rucksack. I'd never taken drugs, but I knew it had to be cannabis.
'That's nothing to do with me,' I said, astounded.
None of it felt real as I was taken to Marmaris courthouse, where Cey and I stood side-by-side, armed guards stopping us speaking.
'What's going on?' I asked the man from the embassy, as the judge started speaking in Turkish.
'You're going to jail,' he said. 'You can appeal after seven days.'
I broke down in tears as the guards herded us to the prison. Now, here I was, locked up with 10 other women, still in my pyjamas. Dizzy from not eating, I collapsed onto my iron bunk. As soon as I opened my eyes the next morning, the full horror hit me.
I'm in prison…
I was scared for Cey, too. Was he being beaten — or worse?
Starving, I followed the other women to breakfast — watery, brown soup slopped into a bowl. I tried to ignore the black hair floating in it, and was spooning it towards
my mouth when…
'No one eats the food here.' I looked around to see a girl with bleached blonde hair.
'You need to ask for what you want and pay for it,' she smiled. 'You have to buy your own clothes and blankets, too.'
Her name was Alina. She was 22 and from Lithuania, and she was the only English-speaker in my cell.
'I'm here because of my credit card debts,' she explained, handing me a cream cracker.
'They've told me I can appeal,' I replied, swallowing it whole.
'They told me that, too — a month ago,' she laughed.
The following day, I was taken to the visitors' room. The scared looks on the faces of my mum, Gill, 53, and dad, David, 52, had me in tears.
'Don't worry, love,' Dad said. 'We'll have you out by tomorrow.'
My lawyer was less optimistic.
'If you're found guilty of dealing drugs, you could face 20 years,' he warned.
Mum and Dad put money into my prison account so I could buy soap, food and blankets. But the next day…
'The court wants £5,000 for your bail,' Mum told me.
Dad was a maintenance manager at a hotel, and Mum, a carer for my brother, Andrew, 24, who's severely disabled. They didn't have that kind of money.
'It's OK, Mum,' I said. 'I'll cope.'
Thanks to Alina and my parents' visits, I got by. But after two weeks, Mum and Dad had to get back. As I kissed them goodbye, I felt terrified. Would I ever get out of here? After that, I was woken at 8am each day to clean our cell and wash using the cold water tap in the corner of the room. Then I spent the rest of the day on my bunk bed, chain-smoking. Soon my size-10 trousers hung off me. After four long weeks, the embassy official came back.
'You'll be released until your trial,' he said. 'Your dad borrowed the bail money.'
'Thank God!' I gasped.
I hated leaving Alina — but I wasn't on my way home yet. I had to stay in Turkey and have hair, urine and blood tests, and sign in with police every day.
The next month, Cey was freed. My trial was adjourned because they couldn't find a translator. But at one in the morning, after Cey had filled in the release forms at his jail, I was at the prison gates as he rushed out, into my arms. He'd lost weight, too, but thankfully hadn't been badly treated. Back in court a month later, I shivered as the translator spoke.
'The tests proved there were no drugs in your blood,' he said.
I was free! Words can't describe how happy I felt. And things got even better when, a month later, I found out I was pregnant. I was too scared to stay in Turkey so I flew back home and, on 11 March 2007, I gave birth to our daughter, Dakota. As I held her in my arms, I was overcome with love — and relief that prison was behind me.
Dakota's now 1, and Cey's working as a builder in Antalya, Turkey, until his visa is approved. Mehmet was released after four months in prison. We still don't know
why he left the rucksack at ours. Alina was released after six months and we stay in touch. By the time you read this, Cey and I hope to be married and starting life as a proper family. But from now on, I'll think twice before I go abroad