The first time I visited a prison, it was with the Cub Scouts. We all got locked behind bars (for a few seconds) and loved it. I still remember, after the satisfying clang of the lock turned by the big jangly keys, looking around and seeing…a hard bed, a metal toilet (no lid) and a barred window. When I asked the policeman (it was the local nick so just holding cells, not really a prison) “What do they do in here?” genuinely puzzled, he said, with a shrug, “Count the bricks?”
Was I about ten then? I’m hazy on the date. The second time was around a decade later and not in Scotland. The Jerusalem Praetorium, so my aunt (a Franciscan sister stationed in Jordan) had informed me, is one of the most reliably identified sites in the Holy Land. Famously known—all with reasons but confusingly—as the Palace of Herod, the House of Pilate, the Antonia Fortress, Gabbatha, and the Pavement, it is the location of the prison cell of Jesus.
Actually there are two, so I don’t know if I was in the right one. What I do remember is that it was too small to stand up in, and to lie down in. I remember hunching inside (I must have been lucky avoiding crowds that day) and thinking: He was here. The Holy Land felt like a movie lot sometimes (there are two separate locations for the tomb of Christ, the Garden Tomb and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, both with a venerable heritage and claim to authenticity) but this prison cell, this felt real.
The third time I visited a prison I’m not going to give you either the date or the location but I will say it was in the UK, it was the first of several prisons I visited, voluntarily, and I visited each one several times.
Why?
Again I’m going to be vague. It could be to visit a family member, a friend, a neighbour, an acquaintance—or maybe someone you didn’t know at all. A fellow human being who, for some reason, and for some period of time, is behind bars.
Why?
Why would anyone want to do that? Someone has (presumably) broken the law. Why not leave them to it?
Maybe for the reason that the policeman’s flippant (and truthful) answer stayed with me after all these years. Maybe because of that cramped stone cave. Maybe because my father was also innocent and was a prisoner. Not, mostly, behind bars. The Nazis didn’t have all their P.O.W.s in solitary all the time. But certainly deprived of his liberty.
Yet the guilt or innocence of prisoners, while of great importance to them, isn’t the main reason why people like me (and maybe you) find ourselves visiting them. I know that sounds strange, and not very just. After all, should we really be making life easier for people being punished for a crime? What about their victims?
I don’t know their (presumed) victims. I do know that there’s someone in prison and that I believe that visiting them may do both of us some good.
So do the authorities. At least for the prisoner’s sake. And this is the first thing to say about prison visiting. You are, willingly, putting yourself into the hands (quite literally) of the authorities. You won’t get in until they say so—and you won’t get out either.
Think about that. It can be a bit nerve-wracking. There are forms and phone calls and doors and locks and fingerprints and lockers for belongings and a sniffer dog (don’t pat the dog, no really, they know he’s cute) and lots and lots and lots of waiting, for the next stage.
For the mythically-minded, the Descent of Inanna comes to mind. You shed your outer layers: jacket, gloves, hat, car keys, credit cards, mobile phone. Any gift has to be notified in advance (and is not given directly to the prisoner) and you walk into the visiting area (eventually, because the whole process of entry can take an hour, so do go to the loo at Reception!) with some change in your pocket, maybe a tissue, and that’s it.
The staff are, at least, civil. In my experience, that’s the baseline but usually they’re amicable, even friendly (I know one’s a translation of the other but the second feels warmer).
We (the free) walk in first. We’re assigned a table number, each prisoner has one, and—when they all come in—they have to sit on a different coloured chair. You have to open your mouth and stick your tongue out at the guard and if you hug or kiss the prisoner they’ll get frisked at the end. Because people try to smuggle things in. Seriously.
Then someone (not the prisoner) will go up to the hatch for sealed cups (no, don’t take the lid off) of tea or coffee or cartons of juice, and biscuits. Don’t be arsey about the selection. It’s a treat for the prisoner. This is another county. The rules are different here.
The guards stand around the room, watching. Well you’d complain if they didn’t, wouldn’t you? You’re in a room with a large group of (presumed) lawbreakers. They’re unlikely to start anything. But it’s a risk. Think about that.
About being arsey. Don’t. Just don’t. It’s not about you getting in your Guardian reader civil liberties points. You may be escorted from the building, early; the person you’re visiting won’t—and he may suffer for your outburst. So be positive about the experience but not presumptuous. The guards are playing out possible scenarios in their heads and in some of them you end up imprisoned or dead. Think about that.
All the prisoners are the same sex (in theory). That changes things. So whoever in your group (because you might be two or three) isn’t, may be aware of that. There’s a children’s corner. They’re (hopefully) not really aware of the underlying tension in the room. Everything is voluntarily circumscribed. There are things you don’t say and things you don’t do.
Okay, enough gloom. What’s good about this situation? Chat. Talk about family and friends. World and national news probably isn’t a good idea. It’s too remote, especially for longer sentences. Football. How’s the team doing? What about that penalty? That’s good if you can do it. Remember he has TV. So he’ll know.
Share your life. Keep it light. Remember he can’t solve problems in here so don’t give him any. Don’t boast, but share joys. There’s a world out there, let him keep in touch.
Listen. There will be a detail. The food has changed. Different job. That guy is a good mate. Bit dodgy. (Said in a whisper. No don’t look. No it’s not smart and yes you’ll be noticed.)
Something about the lawyer. Guilt and innocence it’s just not your concern. Not today. It’s all theoretical. He’s in here. They think he did it. You keep an open mind and nod along to whatever he thinks. This is NOT the place to play judge and jury. No matter how many cop shows you’ve watched.
Remember the power differential. Always. You’re free. He’s not. Underneath his amiable exterior (because he’s pleased to see you) there’s probably seething resentment against the screws/ the system/ her that dobbed him in/ the mate that dared him/ got him drunk. Don’t go there.
Time’s up. Maybe a hug. Take your cue from him. Back they all go through the gate. It’s not just a door.
Clang.
A tangible feeling of relief runs round the room, mingled with sadness. Some family members (usually female in men’s prisons, for some reason) start being arsey with the guards. Get that door open! I need to pee! Because they can. Understandable. Not advisable. The ascent is quicker than the descent.
Outside. Fresh air. Walking to the car. Liberty.
We don’t think about it till it’s temporarily abdicated. It’s a previous gift.
Why do I visit prisoners?
For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.
Matthew 25:35-36
I don’t think the point of that passage is the heavenly reward. I visit a prisoner because as well as keeping a link to civil society and his hopes up that he’ll be able to rejoin it, safely, even if he has (perhaps and perhaps only to some extent and temporarily—or perhaps not) forgotten his humanity, visiting him may help me remember mine.
Thanks to Alex Borland for releasing his image Rusty Padlock and Chain into the Public Domain
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