But there is no such thing as "a
prisoner". Those we call "prisoners" are people,
citizens, human beings, who have broken the law and been found out and
then sentenced to imprisonment. They are people with different
histories with a multitude of stories to tell and, deep down, a medley
of hopes and heartbreaks.
The switch from the hazards of survival in our indifferent society to
the firm, unyielding regime in Her Majesty's Prison is abrupt and
traumatic. For some it is a sudden switch from "no fixed abode"
to "very fixed abode". The loneliness of a person sleeping
in a shop doorway is very public. The loneliness of a prisoner in a
cell - even in a cell with two other prisoners - is hidden. It can be
the isolation of a leper. Emotions must be suppressed. Broken limbs
are status symbols, but not broken hearts. And minute by minute, the
person who entered the prison gates becomes less and less a person and
less and less prepared for the day when he emerges through the gates.
In a compassionate gesture, some people have offered to
share the plight of the prisoner i.e. to live in a prison cell, eat
prison food and submit to a prison regime. This offer is well meant,
but misguided. The volunteer who tires of the treadmill can ring the
bell and go home. The whole point of prison is that the real life
prisoner is denied such escape. The same principle applies to people
who volunteer to sleep rough for a night of two to show solidarity
with the homeless - they are missing the point. The real trap of the
homeless is that they have no choice - they might as well be in
prison.
The true prison apostolate is helping the prisoner
to discover (or rediscover) his worth and importance. When we meet
with prisoners during their sentence the mistake is to preach to them,
talk down to them, to patronise them. Such meetings are the unique
opportunities for honesty. The prisoner knows that you know that he
(the prisoner) has hit rock bottom. The arrest, the trial, the
sentence to prison; they are all telling him his only value is
nuisance value. Our task is to help him to find his worth. There is a
multitude of good people waiting to feed and clothe the prisoner,
provide even shelter and a job. How few are prepared to sit down and
listen to their story. By that silent listening the one who is classed
as an underdog is reassured that he is really a person of worth - a
person worth listening to. In God's eyes the prisoner is precious. Who
are we to think otherwise?
