Life on the West Island - Inside

Last week, Life on the West Island began the saga of our visit to an inmate of what was described as a “minimum security correctional centre.” When we left you, we had survived the various indignities of surrendering all our personal items, having the irises of our eyes photographed and being subjected to a full body scan. We had been shepherded into a waiting area behind a padlocked door, awaiting entry to the visiting area.

There were about 40 people waiting quietly for admission, and we noted that we were a very ordinary assemblage of citizens. We could have been any group of people you would mix with at a major shopping centre, at a railway platform or just walking along a busy city street. We represented a roughly equal mix of males and females, almost all in clean casual clothes, making hesitant but polite conversation with those around us while we waited. But there were a couple of noticeable differences.

Scattered among us were a number of well made-up young women in smart clothes, some wearing tight jeans and a few carrying babies or toddlers. And while there were a handful of children aged up to around eight, there was almost a complete absence of anyone in the 9-25 age range. The reasons for these variations from the population at large were a puzzle but became evident when we were finally admitted to the visiting area.

Before that occurred, there were a few more steps to be taken. After a wait of ten minutes or so, three dour blue-uniformed corrections officers unlocked the door and escorted us across a deserted courtyard (which we later concluded was the prisoners’ exercise yard) containing a few desultory patches of lawn grass and some concrete paths, surrounded by a high wall.

The we arrived at another locked door, and waited again until it was opened from inside. Clutching our sheets of paper showing our names and VIN identity numbers and similar information on the person we were visiting, we were shepherded to a high desk where officers inspected the paperwork and directed us either left or right to queue behind yet another locked door. Regular visitors informed us that the minimum-security area was to the left, while the other direction contained the dangerous high security inmates.

Finally, we were admitted to the actual visiting area, expecting to be seated in cramped booths with bars between us and the person we were visiting. But that was not the case. The visiting area was light, open and spacious and contained forty or so round raised steel tables, each surrounded by four lower steel stools – all securely bolted to the floor. Visitors could choose to sit on one of the three white stools, while the single yellow ones were marked for inmates.

They eventually emerged in dribs and drabs from a secured entry at one end of the hall, all dressed in white overalls which were secured by small padlocks at the backs of their necks. But there were no bars, and we were permitted to shake hands or even embrace those we were visiting. At one side of the room was a bank of vending machines dispensing snacks, chips and chocolate bars (hence the gold coins we were allowed to take in as our only possessions other than the clothes we wore). There were takeaway cups and wooden spoons, but regrettably the coffee machine was out of order and there were no tea supplies either.

Correctional officers wandered around the room, casually eavesdropping on conversations, and the ceilings were studded with CCTV cameras keeping silent watch at all times.

Then came the awkward part – our conversation with our friend Paul (not his real name). After all, what do you say to someone who is halfway through a six-year sentence with little to occupy his time inside, and no prospect of a return to normal life for a very lengthy time?

But eventually, we got on to those things he was able to do during his time inside. Paul is a talented musician, whose much-loved grand piano lives with his aunt until he can finally caress its keys again. He assists the chaplain with the prison church services and the commemoration of days of significance for inmates of various nationalities and faiths, such as Ede, Hannukah or Diwali.

The former chaplain had told Paul that he had arranged to purchase an electronic keyboard and some MP4 players, but the current staff denied their existence, until eventually the keyboard was discovered in a storage locker. Paul found that all of the controls seemed to be in working order, but the keyboard produced no sounds. Prison staff told him that it had been sent away for repairs, but after many months he was informed that it could not be fixed. The MP4 players remain lost, so the chapel services rely on the elderly chaplain to lead a capella singing of hymns and songs.

When he can obtain spasmodic access to supplies such as paper, pens, brushes or paints, Paul produces creditable works of art and tries to write fiction and poetry. He is employed four days a week in the facility’s laundry and is continuously on his best behaviour in the hope of being granted supervised work release in about a year’s time.

We managed to fill in the hour of visiting time with talk of family and friends and recollections of our early lives at school or in or first jobs. In an attempt to avoid being insensitive, we did not engage in any conversation about the reasons why Paul remains inside or about our travels, social lives or entertainment activities outside the four walls to which he is confined.

Surprisingly quickly, our allotted hour expired, and we were escorted out of the prison block, back to retrieve our belongings from our lockers. Imprinted on our minds were the emotional exchanges between those glamourous women, their little children and the morose partners and fathers they were visiting inside this all-male West Island prison. We could only imagine the inmates’ sentiments as the doors clanged closed behind us and in front of them as we returned to our normal everyday lives.