bars

FUELLED by a glass of Moet from the 24-hour champagne bar, I sleepily made my way to the resort’s palm-lined beach club, nibbling on a golden chocolate-covered strawberry as I plodded.  

So far, so Dubai . . .  except I am actually in Turkey at the Cullinan Belek hotel. 

Which means, after a short four-hour flight from the UK, I was swept into the kind of luxury you would expect from one of the 5H properties on The Palm Jumeirah — only without the seven-hour journey, or the jet lag.  

Plus, it meant I was feeling fresh enough to go from the plane to the party in minutes. 

Cullinan Belek’s Galapagos beach bar was pumping as masked dancers beckoned in revellers with their flaming torches and a live DJ played Balearic-style beats. 

Its troupe put on two original shows a night – one more family-friendly piece in the main auditorium and a more progressive, late-night number for the adults, like tonight’s, which took its inspiration from Moroccan belly dancers.  

SHOW OFF

The best family-friendly Christmas show? The great British Panto, of course

RIDE ON

I went to the European theme park named the best in the world with 100 attractions

A waiter served me a freshly-shaken, personalised cocktail from his cart, and before long, I was dancing barefoot on the beach.  

Cullinan Belek won the Luxury All-Inclusive Resort gong at the World Travel Awards in 2024, but if I needed further proof of its prestige, I found it back at our Superior Duplex room. 

There’s a pillow menu, top-of-the-range tech to control lights, curtains and air, plus divine Bvlgari toiletries in the two bathrooms.  

But the real treat is the swim-up infinity pool which lapped my second-floor terrace, overlooking the main resort.  

A quick plunge shook off last night’s cocktails and a trip to the hotel’s C’Espace spa beckoned. 

Somehow the hotel’s gym even managed to make sweating feel refined as it is among the best I’ve ever used — yes, it even beats those in Dubai. 

As well as the usual equipment there is a Pilates reformer stand, yoga room, decent set-up for weight-lifters, plus even an indoor and outdoor Hyrox zone for those seeking an on-trend workout.  

And if you’re after something more relaxed, I’m told the Cullinan’s golf course is the best in Belek, which has become known as the heartland for the sport with the hotel offering special packages for enthusiasts.

There are 14 sections to browse for breakfast, ranging from your standard pastries and fry-ups to Indian cuisine, Mexican breakfast burritos and a juice bar.  

Instead, I signed up to play sport-of-the-moment padel — as made popular by the Princess of Wales — and was immediately hooked, as it had all the fun of tennis without as much running.  

That felt like more than enough activity for one day, but it turns out another challenge lay ahead.  

The Mare main restaurant is an epic buffet set-up, larger than any I’ve seen before — yes, even larger than those in Dubai.  

There are 14 sections to browse for breakfast, ranging from your standard pastries and fry-ups to Indian cuisine, Mexican breakfast burritos and a juice bar.  

Variety might be the spice of life, but at that hour of the day, the choice was sometimes overwhelming and the crowds and queues tricky to navigate.  

Away from the throng of the buffet, though, is where the Cullinan Belek really excelled. 

The resort has two Italian restaurants as well Greek, Asian, teppanyaki and a steakhouse plus a number of snack bistros, a patisserie and an in-house chocolatier. So I got to work.  

In the evening, some of these carry an additional charge on top of the all-inclusive package but each time it felt worth it. 

Great value 

I particularly enjoyed the beef in hot sauce from Nori Asian, which, for an extra €25 per person, allows you to dine to the sounds of live music as you sit among the petal design of the Azure pool.  

Meanwhile The Beef Grill puts its succulent steaks at the centre of the action, with the cuts displayed in a huge chiller spanning the length of the restaurant, and an open kitchen grill.  

The real jewel in the hotel’s crown, however, is the huge water park which offers an oasis for families, alongside a football pitch, splash pool and tons of beach games…

The €55-per-person surcharge felt great value when the signature starters of Meat Sushi and Onion Blossom were prepared at our table by an intrepid server with a blow torch.  

The real jewel in the hotel’s crown, however, is the huge water park which offers an oasis for families, alongside a football pitch, splash pool and tons of beach games as well as indoor bowling alley and games consoles. 

The offering for children is impressive — but all the more so because these facilities somehow nestle unobtrusively alongside the chic, laidback aspects, just like at the super hotels in Dubai. 

Which was ideal for me, lazing by the adults-only pool as I awaited my next cocktail from the roller-skating waitress. 

If Cullinan Belek is a Dubai dupe, then honestly, who needs the real thing? 

Some define time as linear, some see it as a block. Others refer to it as something spent, in the present, or the future. Meanwhile, others consider it to be supernatural or holy, or something to twist, tame or traverse.

As someone who has been sentenced to a lifetime behind bars, time is both abstract and defined. When you have so much time, it is all you have, yet, inside, you have almost no control over how to spend it.

Every day, I can hear it: tick, tick, tick. It’s torturous, like that dripping faucet in my cell.

So to quiet the sound, I study. I learn. I try to build something meaningful from the minutes.

At the time of my arrest in 2002, I was a 25-year-old entrepreneur who had started a successful business. I was enrolled in college, working towards my degree in Information Technology, when my world collapsed. Once in New Jersey State Prison (NJSP) in Trenton, I had a simple choice: either give up on all of my dreams, or fight for them alongside my efforts to prove my innocence. So, I decided to use my time to complete my education.

My father had brought our family to the United States from Pakistan so his two sons could have access to higher education. He passed away this past January, and it is because of him I keep studying, to fulfil the dream he carried across an ocean.

Yet on the inside, that dream has been hard to chase.

‘You guys aren’t going anywhere’

Prison life is an insidious thing. The environment is conducive to vice and illicit activities. Drugs and gambling are easy to find; doing something constructive, like education, well, that can be a monumental task.

The NJSP’s education department only offers GED-level (high-school level) education. Prisoners can also enrol in outside correspondence courses, also known as independent study. These include certifications, like in paralegal studies, costing about $750 to $1,000.

For-profit “correspondence schools” advertise mail-order college degrees, but most, costing anywhere from $500 to $1,000, are unaccredited – selling paper, not knowledge. Some men collect a bachelor’s, master’s, and even a doctorate in a single year. I could not bring myself to do that. For me, an accredited degree is something that cannot be dismissed, and would make me feel on par with those in the free world.

But the options for college degrees from reputable accredited universities can run into the thousands – a non-starter for most of those imprisoned. So I began with a prison paralegal training course taught by fellow prisoners helping others with their legal battles.

Later on, I watched a PBS documentary about the Bard Prison Initiative in New York, a real college programme, accredited and rigorous, for men and women in the state’s prisons. Inspired, I decided to write dozens of letters to reputable universities across the country, asking them to take me as a test case to do a degree. None replied.

Then I learned about NJ-STEP, a programme offering college courses to prisoners at East Jersey State Prison. But when I asked to enrol, the NJSP’s education supervisor replied that it was not offered at our prison. When I appealed to the administration, a security major told me, “Why should I bring the NJ-STEP here? You guys aren’t going anywhere.”

His words echoed, as if a sentence within a sentence.

The myth of higher education

Thomas Koskovich, 47, has spent nearly three decades in NJSP, where he is serving a life sentence.

When I asked him about the opportunities for higher education in the prison, he scoffed.

“What college programme?” he blurted.

“The only thing they let us do is something called independent study, and by the way, you pay for everything yourself. The prison doesn’t help you. They just proctor [meaning they provide someone to administer] the tests.”

Thomas works as a teacher’s aide, a prison job detail, in the Donald Bourne School, named after a policeman who was killed by a prison inmate in 1972. The teachers come from the outside, while aides like Thomas assist them and also tutor students requiring extra support. He helps men earn their GEDs while knowing there is no path offered beyond that to further higher education.

“I’ve seen guys stuck in GED classes for 15 years,” he said.

Prisoners get stuck for different reasons: classes get cancelled because of emergencies, or sometimes the men have little education to begin with and require years to learn to read and write. Students also get paid $70 a month to attend, so some consider it a job – particularly as prison jobs are scarce – and deliberately fail so they can stay at the school for longer.

Of the two dozen or so students, “the school averages maybe five to 10 graduates a year”, Thomas explained.

He earns about $1,500 a year, far less than the $20,000 he would need to afford an accredited correspondence degree. But he chooses to help others in the same school where he got his GED because, as he put it, “Most people in here aren’t career criminals. They just got caught in bad situations.”

He added, “If given half a chance, they’d choose a legal, meaningful life.”

Thomas sees education as key to self-betterment. It was a book, Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire, a Brazilian Marxist educator, given to him by an activist friend that showed him the power of education, he says.

Education equips us to “better handle stressful situations” and nurture creativity and “artistic expression”, he reflected. “But most importantly, we can develop skills that will allow us to earn a living legally and contribute to society in a positive way.”

The Department of Corrections may store bodies, but it does not nurture minds, though many will eventually be freed back into society after serving their terms, while others could win their freedom in court or through clemency.

And education can only help with transitioning into life on the outside. According to the Prison Policy Initiative, a research and advocacy nonprofit, limited access to education in prisons remains a major barrier to rehabilitation and reentry into society. Decades of studies support the idea that education in prison reduces recidivism – a RAND meta-analysis found a 43 percent lower likelihood of reoffending among inmates who pursued studies.

Kashif Hassan, 40, from Brooklyn in New York City, has been imprisoned for 15 years. Serving a life-plus-10-year sentence, he has earned multiple degrees, including two PhDs, one in business administration and one in criminal justice, through university distance education.

Unlike other prisoners, Kashif was fortunate in that his family could afford the tens of thousands in accredited college tuition fees.

“I have two sons,” he told me, “and I want to show them that no matter the circumstances, even here, you can keep learning.”

He laughed when I asked about support from the NJSP’s education department. “None,” he said. “They even cancelled the college correspondence roster [a list that allowed students enrolled in long-distance education to access the prison law library and school computers to type and print]. They say it’s for security, but really, it’s about control.”

Kashif has also been on the waiting list for a paralegal course for 10 years.

“Education is a powerful tool,” he said. “It helps you understand your rights, navigate the system, and articulate yourself better. Especially in here, it’s the difference between feeling powerless and feeling empowered.”

A door where there was a wall

In 2023, I learned of a glimmer of progress. The Thomas Edison State University (TESU) in Trenton – ranked among the state’s top 20 public institutions – launched a new programme enabling men in NJSP to pursue accredited college degrees.

In 2024, I began taking TESU courses for a liberal arts degree. My tuition is paid for by grants and scholarships. The programme runs independently from the NJSP’s education department, which only proctors exams. For those of us long shut out of higher learning, it felt revolutionary. As if a door opened where there had only been a wall. It has made me feel free and given me purpose.

For Michael Doce, 44, another student in the programme who is serving a 30-year sentence, the door is narrow but precious. “I want to stick it to the NJDOC, to say, ‘Look what I did all on my own.’”

Michael studied engineering at Rutgers University before he was imprisoned. Now he is earning a communications degree.

“My family buys used textbooks,” he said. These are mailed to the prison, but security checks mean they can take weeks to reach him.

“But the prison just banned used books,” he added. “Depending on how much new ones cost, I might not be able to continue.”

Al Jazeera requested clarification from the New Jersey Department of Corrections about the cancellation of the roster and the banning of used books, but did not receive a response.

Michael shrugged and gave a wry smile. “If too many guys signed up, they’d probably cancel the whole thing. I’m being funny, but not really.”

He maintains top grades and dreams of becoming a journalist. “A criminal conviction closes a lot of doors,” he told me. “I’m just trying to open new ones.”

‘Doing his own time’

There is a couplet from the 18th-century Urdu poet Mir Taqi Mir that goes:

Yaarān-e deyr o Ka‘bah, donon bulā rahe hain

Ab dekhen Mir, apnā jānā kidhar bane hai

My heart is torn between two calls – the world of love and the house of God.

Now it is a test to see which way my soul will turn.

Perhaps that captures the prisoner’s daily dilemma: between despair and determination; between giving up and growing. In the absence of rehabilitation, every man must choose his own path – “doing his own time,” as the popular prison phrase goes – towards light or darkness.

Men like Thomas, Kashif, Michael, and many others choose light. They choose education.

The Department of Corrections may store bodies, but it cannot own the will to grow. Education here is not charity. It is resistance. It is the one realm where we can still choose, and in choosing, we stay human and free.

Because in the end, freedom does not begin with release. It begins with the decision to grow. It begins with the mind.

And in this place, where time is both enemy and companion, every page turned, every lesson learned, is a way to quiet the endless ticking, a way to remind ourselves that even behind bars, time can still belong to us.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

This is the final story in a three-part series on how prisoners are taking on the US justice system through law, prison hustles and hard-won education.

Read more from the series:

How I’m fighting the US prison system from the inside

Tailors and corner stores: The hustles helping prisoners survive

Tariq MaQbool is a prisoner at New Jersey State Prison (NJSP), where he has been held since 2005. He is a contributor to various publications, including Al Jazeera English, where he has written about the trauma of solitary confinement (he has spent a total of more than two years in isolation) and what it means to be a Muslim prisoner inside a US prison.

Martin Robles is also a prisoner at NJSP. These illustrations were made using lead and coloured pencils. As he has limited art supplies, Robles used folded squares of toilet paper to blend the pigments into different shades and colours.

In the context of beverage pros, you might consider Jason Lee something of a spiritual counselor. He works with restaurants where the culinary viewpoints are exceptionally strong — Baroo, Pijja Palace and n/soto line his résumé — and creates specific, complex cocktails that further integrate those culture-based flavors into the experience. Lee is currently bar director at Darling in West Hollywood, the California debut of nationally acclaimed chef Sean Brock. Like many superlative talents who move to Los Angeles, Brock desires to know fresh terrain, to respectfully reflect the city back to itself through his style of cuisine. Many of us, meanwhile, are simply hankering for a taste of his generation-defining Southern cooking. Let’s consider all this at Darling over one of Lee’s drinks. “Almond” is a deeply savory keeper fusing tequila, sherry, roasted almonds and doenjang, brightened by the herbal liqueur Génépi and lemon. Most cocktails roll closely with the seasons, such as an autumnal warmer involving bourbon, brandy, gooseberries and winter squash distilled to its essence. Come early for a dry-aged steak burger, with a limited run of 24 per night, which makes for top-notch drinking food

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On a nippy Monday night at the Zebulon in Frogtown, a man wearing a Jason Voorhees T-shirt steps onto a purple-lighted stage and stands next to a drum set. Audience members, seated in neat rows and cradling cocktails, enthusiastically applaud.

Then they look toward a glowing projector screen. Some clutch their pens, ready to take notes.

“In cinema, three elements can move: objects, the camera itself and the audience’s point of attention,” Drew McClellan says to the crowd before showing an example on the projector screen. The clip is a memorable scene from Jordan’s Peele’s 2017 film, “Get Out,” when the protagonist (Daniel Kaluuya) goes out for a late-night smoke and sees the groundskeeper sprinting toward him — in the direction of the camera and the viewer — before abruptly changing direction at the last second.

During his talk, McClellan screened several movie clips to illustrate key points.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

“Someone running at you full speed with perfect track form, you can’t tell me that’s not terrifying,” McClellan says laughing with the audience.

McClellan is an adjunct professor at the USC School of Cinematic Arts and the cinematic arts department chair at the Los Angeles County High School for the Arts (LACHSA). He’s presenting on two of the seven core visual components of cinema — tone and movement — as part of Lectures on Tap, an event series that turns neighborhood bars and venues into makeshift classrooms. Attendees hear thought-provoking talks from experts on wide-ranging topics such as Taylor Swift’s use of storytelling in her music, how AI technology is being used to detect cardiovascular diseases, the psychology of deception and the quest for alien megastructures — all in a fun, low-stakes environment. And rest assured: No grades are given. It’s a formula that’s been working.

“I hunted for these tickets,” says Noa Kretchmer, 30, who’s attended multiple Lectures on Tap events since it debuted in Los Angeles in August. “They sell out within less than an hour.”

Wife-and-husband duo Felecia and Ty Freely dreamed up Lectures on Tap last summer after moving to New York City where Ty was studying psychology at Columbia University. Hungry to find a community of people who were just as “nerdy” as they are, they decided to create a laidback space where people could enjoy engaging lectures typically reserved for college lecture halls and conferences.

Founders Felecia and Ty Freely pose for a photo with Drew McClellan (center) after his presentation.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

“At the end of every lecture, people always come up to us and [say] “I hated college when I was in it, but now that I’m not, I would love to come to a lecture and have access to these experts without having to feel pressured to get a good grade,’” says Felecia, who makes “brainy content” on social media, like explaining the phenomenon of closed-eye visualizations.

Lectures on Tap, which also hosts events in San Francisco, Boston and Chicago, is the latest iteration of gatherings that pair alcoholic beverages with academic talks. Other similar events include Profs and Pints, which launched in 2017 in Washington, D.C., and Nerd Nite, which came to L.A. in 2011 and takes place at a brewery in Glendale. At a time when the federal government is moving closer to dismantling the U.S. Department of Education, AI is impacting people’s ability to think critically, attention spans are shrinking and literacy rates are down, events like Lectures on Tap are becoming more than just a place to learn about an interesting new topic.

“I think folks are passionate about keeping intellectualism alive especially in this age that is kind of demonizing that,” Felecia says. “We’re in the age of people not trusting experts so everyone out there who still does wants to be in a room with their people.”

“And there are a lot of them,” adds Ty. “It is actually alive and well, just maybe not mainstream.”

“In a weird way, this is kind of counterculture,” Felecia chimes in.

Wensu Ng introduces the speaker for the night.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

During his presentation, McClellan broke down key film concepts in layman’s terms for the diverse audience who were mostly composed of film lovers and people who were simply interested in the topic. (Though there were some writers in the crowd as well.) To illustrate his points, he played several movie clips including the 1931 version of “Frankenstein” and Juan Carlos Fresnadillo’s “28 Weeks Later,” both of which made several people in the audience, including myself, jump in fear.

“This is how you scare the crap out of people,” he said while explaining why seeing a lighted-up character staring into an abyss of darkness is impactful.

Though some patrons like to go to Lectures on Tap events for specific topics they find interesting, others say they would attend regardless of the subject matter.

“I felt really comfortable and I loved the social aspect of it,” says Andrew Guerrero, 26, in between sips of wine. “It felt more like a communal vibe, but at the same time, I miss learning.”

Attendees mingle at the bar.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

He adds, “I can absorb [the information] more because I’m not pressured to really retain it and because of that, I actually do retain it.”

After weeks of trying to secure tickets, which cost $35, Ieva Vizgirdaite took her fiancé, Drake Garber, to the event to celebrate his birthday.

“I didn’t go to college so I don’t have any prior experience with lecturing,” says Garber, 29, adding that he’s interested in film production and is a “big horror fan.” But the fact that “I get to sit and learn about something that I love doing with a pint? Like, that’s amazing.”

The relaxed environment allows the speakers to let their guard down as well.

“I can play with certain elements that I maybe haven’t used in the classroom,” says McClellan, who made jokes throughout his presentation. “It’s definitely looser and getting around people who’ve been drinking, they’ll ask more questions and different types of questions.”

“It’s kind of like mushing up the education into your applesauce — mushing it up in the beer,” says Drew McClellan.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

After the talk is over, bar staff quickly remove the rows of chairs and clear the stage for a concert that’s happening next. Several Lectures on Tap attendees, including the founders, transition to the back patio to mingle. McClellan stays after to answer more questions over drinks.

“This is a nontraditional environment to be enjoying yourself but also learning at the same time,” he says. “It’s kind of like mushing up the education into your applesauce — mushing it up in the beer.”