Prison stories – the story so far
A description of the effect of hearing stories about the criminal justice system
May 2009, in York. In the main hall, momentous decisions were being taken about same-sex marriage; at roughly the same time, somewhere at the unfashionable end of the campus, in a room big enough for sixteen, sought in vain by some and discovered late by others, the Crime Community and Justice group unveiled their ‘Learning from Experience: personal narratives from the criminal justice system’ project to the applause (yes, really!) of twenty-five people – and I was one of the gatecrashers who sat on the floor.
Why the applause? Because this almost unheralded event caught the imagination of the few who were there. They left feeling inspired and excited in the same way as the group that had created it had been enthused. Was this going to be the next ‘Big Thing’, I wondered? Would it also generate headlines in the press, items on the Today programme, resignations, tears and jubilation?
Well, no. Quakers these days don’t seem to be that keen on ‘Big Things’. It’s a bit difficult when, as David Boulton once put it, our entire membership would easily fit into a second division football ground. When we find ourselves in a majority we’re distinctly uncomfortable. We’re ambivalent about outreach (a bit pushy) and, although we espouse many causes that are unlikely to gain the approval of the Daily Mail (asylum seekers, sex offenders, peace, prison reform), we seem to prefer working in a small local way, as individuals with individuals.
That’s why this bit of so-called central work was created, and why it is in fact the opposite of central. The ‘Learning from Experience’ project aims to bring together stories about the criminal justice system and its effects on victims, family, friends and community, rather than on just the offender. These stories have been sent in by Friends from all over the country. I’m no longer the gatecrasher, by the way; I’m now one of the group, analysing the stories from people who have either themselves been caught up in the system or know someone who has been.
Inevitably, the early stories tended to be from or about people who were offenders, but we are beginning to get stories about what it is like to be affected in a less direct way by prison: the distress of the mother who only knew her son had committed an offence when he wrote to her from jail; the humiliation felt by the aunt who visited her nephew in prison and was subjected to checks, searches and delays in an indifferent, even hostile atmosphere; the bewilderment of the young dyspraxic victim of an assault who was called as a witness, taken apart very efficiently in the witness box by the defending solicitor, and left the court determined never to assist the police again. The police officer who, sent to arrest two teenage drug dealers, was ordered by the court to assist the rest of the family (mother and two children under seven) in finding accommodation as their home had been sealed and the local authority said they had made themselves intentionally homeless.
It is impossible not to be affected by these stories. We are not naïve; we know there may well be another side to some of them, or rather more to them than meets the eye. Yet some of the accounts have revealed issues that have had a profound effect upon those of us who have read them. I knew that a large proportion of the prison population had mental health problems: I knew vaguely that the last government had introduced an indeterminate prison sentence for public protection to guard against terrorists; but in the day-to-day hurly-burly of my existence these issues have an abstract significance. I don’t approve of a system that sends people to jail when they should be in hospital; I’m not in favour of sentences that have a nominal tariff but can go on indefinitely because the prisoner cannot prove he (or, increasingly these days, she) is no longer a danger to the public. But having read these stories, I’m no longer disapproving. I’m ashamed, and I’m angry.
I’m also aware that there is a window of opportunity here. At the beginning of December Ken Clarke, the justice secretary, published a Green Paper, called Breaking the Cycle: effective punishment, rehabilitation and sentencing of offenders. In his introduction, he repeats his notion of what he calls ‘intelligent sentencing’: its premise is ‘the safety and security of the law-abiding citizen… When that safety is threatened, those responsible should face a swift and effective response… punishing offenders, protecting the public and reducing reoffending’.
The government, it seems, is open to new light: ‘Despite a fifty per cent increase in the budget for prisons and managing offenders in the last ten years almost half of all adult offenders released from custody reoffend within a year. It is also not acceptable that seventy-five per cent of offenders sentenced to youth custody reoffend within a year. If we do not prevent and tackle offending by young people then the young offenders of today will become the prolific career criminals of tomorrow.’
So it’s enlightened self-interest, but we can work with that. The Crime, Community and Justice Group will of course be responding to that consultation. How could we not? It’s our job; it’s ‘central work’ – and you are paying for us to do it. But we cannot do it without you. Yes, you. You will know someone who has been affected by the current system. You may think you don’t (I thought I didn’t), but believe me, you will know someone – a friend, a relative, a neighbour – whose life has in some way rubbed up against the existing justice system. It is also possible that they will be prepared to tell you about it, and let you send their (anonymous) story in to us.
Why do I bang on about these stories? Because they will be able to reinforce the points we make in our response with real-life examples. I have, in my time, written reports for many clients on all manner of subjects, full of graphs, tables, pie charts and other impressive diagrams. None of them are as effective as the boxes into which I put the real-life case studies. This is probably because the organisations to which I reported are really only groups of people – and people have told stories to each other since speech began and before writing was thought of. One story is worth a thousand statistics.
The other reason is because without them the myths will be perpetuated. The prevailing view in at least some of the press appears to be that human nature is a matter of deliberate choice, based upon rational judgements. Make the punishment tough enough, and the offender will weigh up the benefits against the costs and the risks and desist.
It ain’t like that in real life. At least, we think it ain’t. But unless we get your stories, we won’t actually know. It’s up to you, really. No pressure, then; just as quick as you can, please; we’re collecting stories until the end of 2011, but Ken Clarke won’t want to wait that long.
Copies of the ‘Learning from Experience’ pack can be obtained from Paula Harvey at Friends House, 173 Euston Road, London NW1 2BJ. Phone 020 7663 1036 or email paulah@quaker.org.uk
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