Last month, Message media specialist Bruce Marshall spent a week working alongside Reflex running a video project in HMP Styal, a prison for female adults and young offenders. Here, he shares personal reflections from his week.
I decided to wait until tea time to tell my family I would be going to prison.
The reaction of my daughters’ was, as expected, one of shock:
‘But Daddy… prison is for naughty people!’
While my eldest child, fork suspended in mid air, simply asked, ‘For how long?’
I told them the truth.
I am employed by the Message as a media specialist, and a large percentage of my time is spent locked in the comfort of an edit suite. It was a surprise to be asked by Reflex, who co-ordinate our prison’s ministry, to deliver several sessions on media skills to young offenders at Styal women’s prison.
Before going to Styal I had no real concept of prison and certainly no idea of what a women’s prison would be like. I was nervous! As we drove to the prison we prayed, and although our prayers were for the girls we would meet and the good relationships we would forge, internally I was praying for myself and for the ever growing knot in my stomach to disappear.
Opening my eyes (I was not driving), I did feel more relaxed. We were passing through leafy Cheshire lanes glistening from fresh rain, and as we pulled into the prison entrance there were no gun towers, just a modest barrier and a small car park. I had the sense of arriving at a rather strange but not terrifying community.
The prison is built on the site of an old orphanage and some of the original buildings still exist: a chapel, several redbrick buildings and a row of empty houses. The brief allusion of provincial quaintness was soon dispelled as we walked toward an imposing metal fence, a stark symbol and reminder of where we were. We were greeted by the security staff and a heavy gate was unlocked. Before stepping through, I considered what this represented: liberty on one side, incarceration on the other.
Once we had passed through security we were truly inside the prison, and walking towards the young offenders’ housing I was once again left with the sense that prison life was not too bad. The grounds are open, with a large expanse of green, and mature trees line the wide access roads. Many of the inmates were walking casually, some laughing and chatting.
We were heading for a unit opened in 2006 for the sole use of young offenders. The building is not unlike a youth hostel, but as we neared it I noticed the bars on the windows and a heavy door, which was firmly shut and locked again once we were inside.
The décor was sparse and utilitarian, and there was an odour of bleach.
We were welcomed by an officer and shown to a communal area to await the girls.
Reflex is committed to improving the lot of the young women in Styal, many of whom have suffered unimaginable abuse in their short lives. A high percentage of the girls are addicts, suffering from mental health problems and poor health. Low literacy levels further erode their self-esteem and confidence. In planning my lesson I hadn’t really considered this, or the fact that many of the girls would have been disillusioned by state education.
Some of the girls acted very inappropriately when I first set up the video camera. It dawned on me that their behaviour was a form of preservation. When I mentioned written work, the overriding sense in the room was apathy.
Over a few sessions I realised that building relationships in small groups, encouraging, leading through example and generally being prepared to be completely humiliated, are good ways of getting the girls to engage. Taking myself or the lesson I have prepared too seriously is guaranteed to cause friction.
The role of teacher is a lot less defined in prison and the sense of order and discipline is limited. I loved it, but what I found more of a challenge were the moments when the more formal sessions finished and only one or two girls remained in the room. I was left thinking, ‘How do I engage in small talk with two female young offenders, what did we have in common?’ Breaking an awkward and increasing silence I asked one girl,
‘When do you get out?’ The reply was, ‘Two months’.
‘You must be looking forward to it?’
She shrugged a gesture that communicated so much of the sense of hopelessness that infects the young women I met.
To many of these young women, prison offers a kind of sanctuary. There are friends, order and routine, and a sense of community. Many of them are repeat offenders and the Reflex staff regularly see the same faces returning. I wanted to shake some of them and point to a world of opportunity beyond the metal fence. But on reflection, a voice in my head shouts out, ‘How dare I?’.
My sense of frustration is born from a world of choice and security provided by loving parents, who were not drug dealers or addicts. As a child my home was not used to store and distribute Class A drugs, or my house members a criminal fraternity. I was not abused.
At home, leaning over my girls to kiss them goodnight, I felt a deep sense of gratitude. Because of the life I have been given I can strive to give my girls a life of love and opportunity.
When I think of the women in Styal now, it is not with fear or judgment but with a deep sadness. They do not lead a life of comfort. Their world seemed infused with fear and hatred, loneliness and despair.
Read more about Reflex’s work in our region’s prisons in the latest edition of flow – The Message Magazine.
