The State of Prisons

THE STATE OF THE
PRISONS—200 YEARS ON
THE STATE OF THE
PRISONS—200 YEARS ON
EDITED BY DICK WHITFIELD

For the Howard League
LONDON AND NEW YORK

First published in 1991
by Routledge
11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE
This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2002.
Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada
by Routledge
a division of Routledge, Chapman and Hall Inc.
29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001
© 1991 The Howard League
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by
any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known
or hereafter invented, including photocopying and
recording, or in any information storage or retrieval
system, without permission in writing from the
publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
The state of the prisons—200 years on.
1. Penal system, history
I. Whitfield, Dick G. (Richard George), 1939–
II. Howard League for Penal Reform.
364.609
Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication Data
The State of the prisons—200 years on/edited by Dick
Whitfield for the Howard League.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Prisons—Cross-cultural studies. I. Whitfield, Dick, 1939–
II. Howard League for Penal Reform.
HV9443.S73 1990 90–39726
365–dc20 CIP
ISBN 0-415-05187-8 (Print Edition)
ISBN 0-203-16018-5 Master e-book ISBN
ISBN 0-203-16021-5 (Glassbook Format)
CONTENTS
List of figures and tables vii

The contributors ix
INTRODUCTION: PENAL REFORM AND PRISON
REALITIES 1
Andrew Rutherford
1 MAIDSTONE PRISON, ENGLAND 13

Dick Whitfield
2 THE INDIAN PRISON 30

Mike Maguire
3 THE SLUZEWIEC PRISON IN WARSAW, POLAND: A

PENAL LABOUR CENTRE, OR ‘HALF-OPEN’ PRISON 56
Monika Platek
4 HELDERSTROOM PRISON, SOUTH AFRICA 69

Dirk van Zyl Smit
5 BREDA PRISON, HOLLAND: FROM WATER CELL TO

CONTAINER CELL—THE STATE OF THE DUTCH
PRISON 88
Anton M.van Kalmthout and Dirk van der Landen
6 MATAGALPA PRISON, NICARAGUA 119

Ginny Baumann and Kevin Bales
CONTENTS
7 NYKÖPING CLOSED NEIGHBOURHOOD PRISON,

SWEDEN 130
Norman Bishop
8 GEURRERO CENTRE FOR REHABILITATION,

MEXICO 149
Brian Smith
9 GELDERN PRISON, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF

GERMANY 156
Christian Kuhn
10 THE TEXAS DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS, USA 169

R.W.Burnham
JOHN HOWARD: A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 188

Dick Whitfield
Name index 202

Subject index 204
vi
FIGURES AND TABLES
FIGURE
5.1 The Breda Remand Prison 106
TABLES
1.1 Average daily prison population, England and Wales 15
1.2 Prisoners per 100,000 population on 1 September 1988 16
2.1 Selected characteristics of convicted persons in Indian
prisons on 31 December 1980 35
5.1 Number of prisoners per 100,000 population on
1 February 1988 91
5.2 Complaints made by prisoners at Breda Remand Prison 115
7.1 Use of various sanctions 1857–1988 131
7.2 Numbers of sentenced prisoners received and average
prison population 1970–88 131
vii
THE CONTRIBUTORS
Kevin Bales is Senior Lecturer in Policy Studies at the Polytechnic of

Central London, England. He has researched and worked on prison
conditions and criminal justice in the United States with the Southern
Coalition on Jails and Prisons.
Ginny Baumann is the Religious Group Adviser for Shelter, the national
campaign for the homeless in Great Britain. She visited Nicaragua
whilst acting as an Information Worker for Christian Aid.
Norman Bishop acts as an ad hoc expert at the Helsinki Institute for
Crime Prevention, affiliated with the United Nations. He is the former
head of the research and development group, Swedish Prison and
Probation Administration.
R.W.Burnham is a criminologist and UK permanent representative with
the United Nations at Vienna. His chapter was written whilst he was the
George J.Beto Visiting Professor at the Sam Houston State University,
Huntsville, Texas.
Anton M.van Kalmthout is Senior Lecturer in Criminal Law at the
Catholic University of Brabant, Tilberg, Netherlands.
Christian Kuhn works in the Vienna Central Prison and represents the
Howard League at the United Nations International Centre in Vienna,
Austria.
Dirk van der Landen is Junior Lecturer in Criminal Law at the Catholic
University of Brabant, Tilberg, Netherlands.
Mike Maguire is currently at the Department of Social and
Administrative Studies, University of Wales, at Cardiff. His research was
carried out whilst he was a member of the Centre for Criminological
Research, University of Oxford, England.
ix
THE CONTRIBUTORS
Monika Platek is an assistant professor at the Institute of Penal Law,

Warsaw University, Poland.
Andrew Rutherford is Reader in Law at the University of Southampton,
England, and Chair of the Howard League.
Dirk van Zyl Smit is an advocate of the Supreme Court of South Africa,
Professor and Director of the Institute of Criminology, University of
Cape Town 1982–9, and Dean of the Faculty of Law 1990.
Brian Smith is a lay magistrate who sits in the Nottingham Petty
Sessional Division, England.
Dick Whitfield is Chief Probation Officer for the English county of Kent
and Vice Chair of the Howard League.
x
INTRODUCTION
Penal reform and prison realities
ANDREW RUTHERFORD
As to what is still wrong, I set down matter of fact without

amplification; which would in the end rather impede than promote
the object of my wishes; that is the corrections of what really is
amiss. The journeys were not undertaken for the traveller’s
amusement; and the collections are not published for general
entertainment; but for the perusal of those who have it in their power
to give redress to the sufferers.
(Howard 1929)
Between 1773 and his death at Kherson in the Ukraine in 1790, John
Howard travelled, mostly on horseback, at least eighty thousand
kilometres, and probably a great deal further, as a self-appointed
inspector of prisons. While much of the journeying was in Britain
and Ireland, his half-dozen ventures abroad took him across much of
continental Europe. His method was simple and direct. He visited, at
considerable risk to his health, prisoners at their place of
confinement. Not for Howard the prison tour which, avoiding the
darker recesses, steered clear of the conditions endured by all those
confined. Howard’s accounts received such widespread attention at
the time and are still read two hundred years after his death because
he so precisely ‘set down matter of fact’. His general purpose was to
humanize prison conditions and to provide prisoners with
opportunities for personal reformation. He became keenly aware that
there was much to be learned from practice overseas but his method
remained essentially descriptive, allowing his meticulously detailed
reports to speak for themselves. This volume is published as a tribute
to the genius and humanity (borrowing Edmund Burke’s words) of
what remains the most exhaustive enquiry into prison conditions in
1
ANDREW RUTHERFORD
Europe. These essays on prisons across the world follow Howard’s

descriptive method. Each addresses an individual prison and in most
of them the author is either an ‘outsider’ or a foreigner, or both.
Although the focus is on individual prisons, some account is taken of
the wider prison system and, in at least some cases, the overall
criminal justice process.
The most striking aspect of prison reform over the last two centuries
is how little of it there has been. In most instances, the gains have been
modest, tenuous and often short-lived. Even the more substantial
changes pale against the broad sweep of political, social and economic
progress over this period. There can be little doubt that John Howard,
rising from his grave, would find much more that is familiar to him
within the prison than across society as a whole. To enter the prison is,
more often than not, to step back in time. In exploring why this should
be, this introduction seeks to identify the choices for contemporary
reformers.
The inherently authoritarian structure of the prison, deriving from its
main functions of control and security, relies upon explicit threats of
force which would be unacceptable elsewhere in a liberal democratic
state. An American lawyer has graphically underlined this point by
observing that the prison displays many features of the police state
(Marin 1983:75). It is this gap of values, arising from the use of
imprisonment in a free society, that largely sets the prison reform
agenda. That reformers are often frustrated testifies to the reality of
what prison is about. As a former minister of justice in Sweden
remarked, ‘I do not mean that it is wrong to “humanize” the stay in
prison—but a cage is still a cage, even if gold-plated’ (Ward 1979).
Winston Churchill, that most remarkable of Home Secretaries, summed
up the point with characteristic eloquence:
We must not allow optimism or hope or benevolence in these matters

to carry us too far. We must not forget that when every material
improvement has been effected in prisons, when the temperature has
been rightly adjusted, when the proper food to maintain health and
strength has been given, when the doctors, chaplains and prison
visitors have come and gone, the convict stands deprived of
everything that a free man calls life. We must not forget that all these
improvements, which are sometimes salves to our consciences, do not
change that position.
(House of Commons 1910)
2
PENAL REFORM AND PRISON REALITIES
As associated reality is the regressive character of prison conditions.

For every step forward, the institution often seems to slip back two
steps. John Howard, acutely aware of such slippage, argued that good
staff and external vigilance were essential if reform efforts were to be
sustained, but this view, as we look back over the last two centuries,
may have been unduly optimistic. A less sanguine conclusion was
reached by Jerome Miller, who for two years attempted to transform
the young offender institutions of Massachusetts into therapeutic
communities before coming convinced that the only appropriate course
of action was to empty them. Miller observed that penal institutions
‘cannot sustain their decency over an extended period of time. They
tend ultimately to move towards repression and violence at worse, and
apathy at best. And apathy is ultimately violence’ (Rutherford
1986:72). This regressive phenomenon has also been highlighted by
Her Majesty’s Chief Inspector of Prisons in a report on Feltham Youth
Custody Centre. For many years, Feltham had sought to engage staff
constructively with especially challenging and often mentally
disordered young men. The Home Office decided to rebuild the
institution, at a cost that exceeded £25 million. The ‘new generation’
prison architecture promised small living units and close involvement
of staff. The inspector, however, found that any bonuses deriving from
this design ‘have been lost and also much of the experience and skill
of the “old Feltham” which coped well with a difficult borstal
population’. The opening sentence set the report’s tone. ‘It seems
particularly unfortunate to find within the elegant and modern
buildings of Feltham, so carefully landscaped, all the defects of poor
regimes’ (Home Office 1989). Even though there were some special
local problems to take into account, to a large extent the regime at
Feltham, where teenagers spent most of their time locked up in their
cells, was victim to the malaise endemic to the prison system as a
whole.
In 1926 Fenner Brockway, who had been imprisoned during the First
World War, wrote in a newspaper article: ‘The object of penal reformers
should not be to reform the prison system but to abolish it’ (Priestley
1988:175).
Brockway was writing in the context of a prison population for
England and Wales that had declined by two-thirds over the previous
fifty years. This assertion is important for two main reasons. Firstly,
the endorsement of penal as distinct from prison reform implied that
the target for change had shifted from the prison to the criminal
3
ANDREW RUTHERFORD
justice process as a whole. The need for a wider focus had been
signalled five years earlier when the merger of the Howard
Association and the Prison Reform League resulted in the
establishment of the Howard League for Penal Reform. Prisons, it
was being insisted, should not be regarded in isolation from the
wider picture. To do so was to invite disappointment if not disaster.
Before pursuing this theme, attention should be directed at the other
issue arising from Brockway’s declaration, the abolitionist stance,
which eschews efforts to improve life within prisons in favour of
seeking to be entirely rid of the prison system. Later abolitionists,
most notably Thomas Mathiesen, have argued that only ‘negative’
reforms (changes that may reduce the debit side of the prison’s
legitimacy but add nothing to the credit side) be encouraged. By
contrast, ‘positive’ reforms (changes that improve the system so that
it works more effectively) should be resisted (Mathiesen 1984). The
abolitionist stand does provide a warning beacon against which penal
policies, such as prison building programmes, might be assessed. Less
radical than the abolitionist, but perhaps more realistic, the
reductionist seeks a minimalist prison system (which it might be
argued England, with a rate of 28 prisoners per 100,000 inhabitants,
was not far from at the time of Brockway’s article) within which
reasonably decent standards might be maintained.
THE PENAL TRINITY

Any realistic attempt to improve prison conditions must take full
account of two pivotal aspects of the prison system, namely population
and capacity. Indeed, the inter-connections of this penal trinity of
population, capacity and conditions form the heart of the reform
quagmire.
Massive prison population expansion in recent years is by no means
unique to the United States, but it would be difficult to find other
examples where during the 1980s the annual rate of growth exceeded
11 per cent. Between 1950 and 1989 the total number of people held
in gaols and prisons across the United States leapt from 264,500 to
999,400.1 In 1989 the rate of prisoners per 100,000 inhabitants was
422, considerably in excess, as reported in this volume, of the rates for
South Africa (373) and Poland (177). For England and Wales, this has
also been a period of considerable growth, with the prison population
more than doubling between 1950 and 1980, from 20,400 to 50,000.
4
In September 1988, for the first time, Britain led the Council of Europe
table with rates for England and Wales and for Scotland of 97 and 99
per 100,000 respectively (Council of Europe 1988). The profound
consequences of escalating numbers of this kind reach across the
country; an ever-widening circle of people is touched by, if not directly
caught up within, the prison system. No predictable relationship exists
between prison population and the level of recorded crime, and
disproportionately large prison populations scar the landscape of any
state with pretensions to liberal values. Furthermore, expanding prison
populations have crippling consequences for prison regimes. Pressure
of numbers impinges on every facet of the prison system, and in some
institutions has resulted in overcrowded conditions that would not
have been tolerated a century earlier. Not least has been the impact
upon staff, often reduced to a ware-housing role in conditions of acute
stress.
Building new prisons is often presented in terms of reform. John
Howard’s proposals for a national penitentiary, R.A.Butler’s building
programme announced in his 1959 white paper, Penal Practice in a
Changing Society, and the contemporary notion of the ‘new
generation prison’ have each, in their own time, promised a new
dawn. In England and Wales, France and the United States huge
prison building programmes were underway during the 1980s. A
fairly modest plan in England, announced in 1980, had by 1989 been
expanded to 25,000 new places, an increase, at a cost of £1,000 m.,
of almost 60 per cent in total capacity by the mid-1990s. At first
there was support for this construction from some liberal quarters,
encouraged by the government’s commitment to ‘eliminate’
overcrowding. However, the vehement opposition to prison building
by penal reform groups appears to have been vindicated in the light
of a worsening of overcrowding and the further deterioration of
regimes. While in France there were signs of a reassessment of the
building programme (which was reduced in the late 1980s from
15,000 to 13,000 new places) the expansion in the United States has
continued unabated. Between 1978 and 1985 some 165,000 new
prison places were created and extensive additions are planned for
the remainder of the century. There is the danger that new prison
space may prompt additions to the prison population. While such
Parkinsonian notion has an attractive simplicity it has so far eluded
empirical verification (see Blumstein, Cohen and Gooding, 1983, for
the refutation of one such claim), it is clear that under certain
5
ANDREW RUTHERFORD
circumstances capacity may act as a brake on population expansion.

The mechanism of the ‘waiting list’ worked in this way in The
Netherlands during the twenty-five years up to 1975 (Rutherford
1986) and the logic of rationing scarce custodial space is at the heart
of the Minnesota Sentencing Guidelines Commission. The Guidelines
Commission interpreted an ambiguous statutory injunction that it
take correctional resources into ‘substantial consideration’ as a
mandate that its guide-lines not increase prison population beyond
existing capacity constraints (Tonry 1988). Although it appears that
sentencing became more severe during the first three years the guide-
lines were in use, Minnesota remains one of the very few states that
has avoided huge increases in prison population size (Parent 1988).
Far from leading to improved conditions, building new prisons may
often have the contrary result. In part, the high-cost squalor that
characterizes many expansionist prison systems results from a trade-off
between capacity and conditions with respect to the allocation of public
finances. Pumping much of the enhanced capital expenditure into new
prison building often has the effect of draining the prison of vital
resources. Nor does the intention of building in order to replace obsolete
prisons tend to work out in practice. In reality, the new prison is built
and the old prison remains.
Not all efforts to improve prison conditions are futile, but any
success is likely to be at the margins and will depend upon full regard
being given to the capacity and population side of the reform equation.
Some progress can, in these circumstances, be made to reduce what
David Downes has called the ‘depth of imprisonment’ (Downes 1988).
On the basis of interviews with prisoners in The Netherlands and
England, Downes concluded that there was less ‘depth’ to
imprisonment in the former, a parallel to John Howard’s conclusion
two centuries earlier: ‘I do not know which to admire most, the
neatness and cleanliness appearing in the prisons, the industry and
regular conduct of the prisoners, or the humanity and attention of the
magistrates and regents.’ Much, however, remains elusive about the
quality of life within prison, as was observed in a study which found
a generally negative impact on prison regimes in England resulting
from ‘Fresh Start’, the new staff working arrangements (King and
McDermott 1989).
If the primary object of penal reformers is not to abolish prisons it
is certainly to secure reductions in prison population. The starting-point
is to recognize that the size and composition of the prison system, far
6
from somehow being predetermined, are the consequence of action

taken at every stage of the criminal justice process. Practitioners, to a
very large degree, hold the keys to reform. Much depends upon their
feeling empowered to reverse expansionist trends. While a great deal
depends upon reform efforts outside the prison system (and indeed these
efforts are often located outside the criminal justice process), prison
personnel do not have to play the passive roles in which they tend to be
cast.
REFORM FROM WITHIN

Shining examples of prisons as decent and constructive places
generally are brief episodes, often associated with particular staff
members who display a combination of exceptional vision,
determination and charisma. Within larger prison systems, such
regimes can, at best, usually be counted in single numbers. The names
of certain prison governors whose personal positive qualities
permeated every aspect of their prisons tend to be long remembered.
Most such British lists would probably include Alan Roberton, David
Hewlings and Bill Perrie. In the United States, Frank Wood, the
Warden of Oak Park Heights prison in Minnesota, comes to mind, as,
in Denmark, does Erik Anderson. While it is not suggested that this
roll of honour is exhaustive, a list would, even on a world-wide basis,
be strikingly short. It is notable that in the prisons featured in this
book, the head of prison emerges, if at all, as an anonymous official.
In some instances the stride forward is restricted to one section, often
quite small, of the prison. The special unit at Barlinnie Prison, near
Edinburgh, which opened in 1973, is especially well known. For this
eight-bed unit, the inspirational force was a senior prison officer, Ken
Murray. However, Murray left the Scottish prison service prematurely
and the problem is always one of whether such pioneering work can
be sustained or indeed survive much change.2
Much of the impetus for improving conditions within the prison and
for creating a regime that is built upon mutual respect between staff
and prisoners depends upon initiatives taken by prison staff. Aspects
of this process are described in a remarkable essay by Michael Jenkins,
written just before his departure as Governor from Long Lartin Prison.
That an ethos of this kind exists at Long Lartin has, since the time of
its first Governor, Bill Perrie, been widely recognized, and it is one of
7
ANDREW RUTHERFORD
only two top security prisons to avoid serious control problems.

Jenkins argues that
the prison system has a tendency to create more problems than it

receives and has an equal tendency to fail inmates because, out of its
survival fear, it tends to respond to corporate threats, real or
imaginary, rather than the real problems of inmates.
(Jenkins 1987)
Of crucial importance is an ‘unwritten contract’ between staff and

prisoners, the primary function of which is ‘to get people sensibly
through their sentences’ (Jenkins 1987:270). Jenkins believes that ‘we
can genuinely offer prisoners more than an antidote to the deterioration
they fear’ and that a regime is possible that engenders ‘hope and
optimism’ (1987:277).
However, the prison and the system of which it is part tend to resist
internal reform initiatives. Occasional collective efforts by prisoners to
improve their lot have mostly been sharply put down. The events
associated with the prisoners’ rights movement that flourished for a
time in the late 1960s and early 1970s in parts of the United States,
Scandinavia and Britain had by the early 1980s largely disappeared
without trace. The authoritarian and mechanistic character of the
prison system also ensures that the staff reformer is vulnerable to
being co-opted, marginalized or driven out. Very occasionally,
reformers are found in the higher reaches of the system, but in these
instances their effectiveness tends to be compromised and their
occupancy of top positions short-lived. Among the few notable and
recent examples of reforming leadership within prison systems,
mention might be made of H.H.Brydensholt in Denmark, Hans
Tulkens in The Netherlands, Ken Schoen in Minnesota and, with
respect to youth prison systems, Jerome Miller in Massachusetts.
To be effective, the internal prison reformer has to reach out and
encompass not only conditions but the related issues of capacity and
population. The connections between these three issues need to be
kept in mind, although opportunities for the internal reformer to
make them effectively will greatly vary. Internal reformers need to be
in contact with like-minded people located across the criminal justice
process and in particular with persons making decisions about the
use of custody. This means they must actively encourage a more
selective approach to custodial remand and sentencing. They must
8
also endorse an openness and frankness about conditions within the

prison and the likely negative impact of the experience of
imprisonment. It almost certainly means they must counter those
forces within the prison system which have a vested interest in
expansion. How, for example, can a debate be generated within
expansionist prison systems about the merits of seeking additional
funds for capital expenditure? Certainly, in essence this is a political
decision, but it would be naïve to play down the extent to which this
and other aspects of the policy agenda is shaped by officials. Internal
prison reformers cannot divorce themselves from these issues,
however sensitive they might be. There is also the associated and
delicate issue of contact between internal reformers and reforming
pressure groups. Such contacts are likely to be discouraged if not
banned by the system and will necessarily need to be handled with
the utmost discretion.
Reforming officials within both the prison system and the
criminal justice process cannot afford to be merely reactive. A
proactive stance is essential in terms of setting and maintaining the
mood for change across the various agencies of justice. That such
a mood, primarily among prosecutors, judges and defence lawyers,
has been a critical feature of the recent decline in the prison
population of the Federal Republic of Germany is now well
established (Feest 1988, Rutherford 1988). What professionals
discuss informally at conferences and on other occasions, within
and across agency lines, is as important as contributions to journals
in setting and sustaining this mood. Recent explorations of the
roots of Dutch reductionist penal policy highlighted the distinctive
influence of the Law Faculty at Utrecht University for a generation
of criminal justice practitioners. An intermingling of policy makers,
practitioners and academics created an anti-penal ambience that
continues to pervade the Dutch penal scene. Juvenile justice practice
across much of England and Wales during the 1980s has displayed
somewhat similar features (Rutherford 1989). Criminal justice
practitioners need also to be proactive on the wider public stage.
According to David Downes, Dutch elites have ‘a distinct
appreciation of the extent to which community tolerance cannot be
taken for granted, but needs active elicitation and encouragement’.
He goes on to observe that
9
ANDREW RUTHERFORD
the roots of reductionism seem to drive not so much from a free-

floating tolerance on the part of the people in general but from the
convictions of the most influential elites that crime is best combated
by social and institutional, rather than specifically penal means.
(Downes 1988)
Many efforts by practitioners to achieve criminal justice reform are

based upon adaptations, alterations and additions to the formal
structure. An example of the prosecution stage in England is the
Public Interest Discontinuance project initiated by the Vera Institute
of Justice in 1988, in close co-operation with the Crown Prosecution
Service and the Inner London Probation Service. By providing the
prosecutor with additional information about the defendant, the
scheme seeks, in appropriate cases, to suggest alternatives to
prosecution. At the bail stage, the Vera Institute has also been active
on a number of fronts. The Bail Information Schemes being
developed in England and Wales also provide the prosecutor with
additional information that might reduce requests for custodial
remands. It is at the sentencing stage where formal strategies are
most often to be found. Examples range from efforts to structure
sentencing decisions through legislative criteria (for example,
Criminal Justice Acts 1982 and 1988) to the far-reaching Minnesota
Sentencing Guidelines Commission. Guidelines methods are also to
be found at later decision-making stages of the process, governing,
for example, emergency release, temporary release and parole
practice (Gottfredson 1987). Structural reform by itself, however, is
unlikely to deliver the required change of direction and it is certainly
not a substitute for the commitment of inside reformers to shape
policy and practice.
We should, perhaps, not be surprised that such modest progress
has been made in improving prison conditions since John Howard’s
time. Prison reformers have been slow to adapt to prison realities,
and to accept that they must address the wider canvas of the criminal
justice process. The reductionist position is that, within a system
spared down to minimal size, prisons can sometimes, at least for a
while, be made reasonably decent places. But this state of affairs can
be achieved not only by people working within the prison system, but
by activating and empowering a much wider spectrum of
practitioners.
10
NOTES
1 Personal communication from the Bureau of Justice Statistics, United States
Department of Justice, September 1989.
2 Curiously, two recent accounts of the Barlinnie Special Unit make no
mention of Murray. See Coyle (1987) and Whatmore (1987) in A.E.
Bottoms and R.Light (eds) Problems of Long-Term Imprisonment,
Aldershot: Gower, but see also Jimmy Boyle (1977) A Sense of Freedom,
London: Pan.
REFERENCES
Blumstein, A., Cohen, J. and Gooding, W. (1983) ‘The influence of capacity on
prison population: a critical review of some recent evidence’, Crime and
Delinquency 29: 1–51.
Council of Europe (1988) Prison Information Bulletin 12, Strasbourg: Council
of Europe.
Downes, D. (1988) Contrasts in Tolerancet Post-war Penal Policy in The
Netherlands and England and Wales, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Feest, J. (1988) Reducing the Prison Population: Lessons from the West
German Experience?, London: National Association for the Care and
Resettlement of Offenders.
Gottfredson, D. (1987) ‘The problem of crowding: a system out of control’, in
S.D.Gottfredson and S.McConville, America’s Correctional Crisis, New
York: Greenwood Press.
Home Office (1989) H.M.Young Offenders Institution and Remand Centre,
Feltham, Report by H.M. Chief Inspector of Prisons, London: HMSO.
House of Commons (1910) Debates: 5th Series, Vol. 19, London, columns
1353–4.
Howard, J. (1929) The State of the Prisons, London: J.M.Dent.
Jenkins, M. (1987) ‘Control problems in dispersals’, in A.E.Bottoms and
R.Light (eds) Problems of Long-Term Imprisonment, Aldershot: Gower,
261–80.
King, R.D. and McDermott, K. (1989) ‘British prisons 1970–1987, the ever-
deepening crisis’, British Journal of Criminology 29: 107–28.
Marin, B. (1983) Inside Justice: A Comparative Analysis of Practices and
Procedures for the Determination of Offences Against Discipline, London:
Associated University Press.
Mathiesen, T. (1984) The Politics of Abolition, Oxford: Martin Robertson.
Parent, D. (1988) Structuring Criminal Sentences, The Evolution of Minnesota’s
Sentencing Guidelines, Stoneham, Massachusetts: Butterworths Legal
Publishers.
Priestley, P. (1988) Jail Journeys, London: Routledge: 175.
11
ANDREW RUTHERFORD
Rutherford, A. (1986) Growing Out of Crime, Harmondsworth: Penguin.

—— (1988) ‘The English penal crisis: paradox and possibilities’, in R. Rideout
and J.Jowell (eds) Current Legal Problems, London: Stevens, 93–113.
—— (1989) ‘The mood and temper of penal policy, curious happenings in
England during the 1980s’, Youth and Policy 27: 27–31.
Tonry, M. (1988) Structuring Sentencing, in M.Tonry and N.Morris (eds) Crime
and Justice, A Review of Research, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Ward, D.A. (1979) ‘Sweden: The Middle Road to Prison Reform’ in M.E.
Wolfgang (ed.) Prisons, Present and Possible, Lexington, Massachusetts:
Lexington.
12
Chapter One
MAIDSTONE PRISON, ENGLAND

DICK WHITFIELD
I
John Howard visited Maidstone Prison twice. By the time of his first
visit in 1779, there had been a county gaol in the town for over two
centuries but although the building he visited was only thirty-three years
old he was very critical of the facilities it provided. The original prison,
inconveniently situated in the High Street, was small, overcrowded,
without an exercise yard and incapable of expansion. Yet the ‘new’
prison which Howard visited was equally poor. The small, mean
courtyards meant a lack of light or air and despite the use of a sail
ventilator to remedy the poor air circulation, Howard foresaw further
problems.
Without great attention to cleanliness and the separation of the sick,
he warned, there was a great danger of gaol fever. The ‘awful,
contagious disorder’ struck in 1783 and killed twenty prisoners and a
carpenter who was working in the gaol. Despite remedial work, which
Howard acknowledged on a second visit in 1786, the prison was clearly
still inadequate.
Finally, in 1806, the West Kent justices conceded that the prison
would have to be completely rebuilt. Daniel Alexander, the architect of
Dartmoor Prison, was appointed and it was decided that the new
building should be constructed on the lines recommended by Howard:
individual sleeping cells for prisoners, with day-rooms, courtyards and
offices: a strict separation of different classes of prisoner and careful
attention to problems of water supply, sewerage and ventilation. The
architect, having toured a number of prisons, reported to the justices: ‘In
the gaol I have endeavoured to adopt, after much pains and meditation,
the good parts of every gaol I have visited, preferring, I own, the
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DICK WHITFIELD
principle of Ipswich by Blackburn, Howard’s disciple’ (Melling

1969:208).1
Alexander’s new gaol remains the nucleus of Maidstone Prison today.
It was completed in 1819 at what was then the staggering cost of
£163,457 and was the largest and most imposing building in the town.
Nineteenth-century prints show how it dominated the skyline and the
area around. Now, offices, the County Hall and even a car park make
a bigger impact but the prison retains its huge central site. Solid and
secret behind a high stone wall it remains a world apart from the
crawling traffic which skirts it on the routes out of town.
II
Probably the most overworked word in any description of the British
prison system over the last decade or more has been ‘crisis’. A crisis
of inmate unrest, with recurrent rooftop protests or rioting; a staff
crisis, with the Prison Officers’ Union forcing thousands of prisoners
to be held in police cells; above all, a numbers crisis, with successive
Home Secretaries announcing, at various times, that the breaking
point of the system would be reached when the prison population
passed the 40,000, or the 44,000, or the 50,000 mark. Throughout
this time, prison staff and managers passed the various ‘crisis’ totals,
got on with the task, absorbed everyone sent to them by the courts
and, somehow, despite a crumbling prison estate, avoided total
chaos.
The reason for this inexorable rise in numbers lies in the use of
imprisonment by British courts both before and after trial. In simple
numbers the annual average prison population has grown as shown in
Table 1.1. Within these figures there have been peaks as high as 51,000,
necessitating the short-term use of military camps to contain the new
army of prisoners. The proportion of those on remand, that is, being
held prior to trial or sentence, was 14.5 per cent in 1979 but in 1988
had grown to 23 per cent, with the average waiting time for trial at the
Crown Court also increasing.
Some of those held on remand will be found not guilty and a
significant proportion do not receive custodial sentences when their
case is finally heard—points not lost on the government, which is
investing in additional bail hostels, special bail information schemes
run by the probation service and, more controversially, pilot schemes
making use of electronic ‘tagging’ equipment; these are all ways, it is
14
Table 1.1 Average daily prison population, England and Wales
Sources: Home Office (1987) Prison Statistics, England and Wales, London: HMSO
Home Office (1990) Statistical Bulletin 12/90, London: HMSO
hoped, to reduce what many see as an unnecessary and wasteful use

of prison resources.
An equal problem is created by trends in sentencing. Between 1983
and 1988 the number of men serving short sentences (defined in
Britain as 18 months or less) fell by 27 per cent. In the same period
the number of men serving medium sentences (18 months to 4 years)
rose by 34 per cent and of long sentences (4 years or more) by no less
than 82 per cent. The sheer length of sentences imposed, especially
when contrasted with our European neighbours, presents enormous
management problems in prisons, as the description of Maidstone
Prison will show. Beneath these lengthening sentence trends, however,
are other equally disturbing problems. Twenty years ago, only 10 per
cent of the prison population was aged under 21 years. The proportion
now is 33 per cent. Similarly, ethnic minorities are disproportionately
represented in prison. The figure had reached 15 per cent of the prison
population by 1988 and Afro-Caribbean and African men seem to be
most at risk. A belated but growing recognition of both of these
problems has seen the development of some special initiatives designed
to relieve them; it is too early to tell whether sentencing trends can be
reversed but there are early indicators with the under-21s, who are
being especially targeted by the probation service in offering courts
non-custodial options, that are encouraging.
In comparative terms, Britain’s use of imprisonment as a sanction
remains high (Table 1.2) and current statistical projections on its
continued use remain uniformly gloomy.
15
DICK WHITFIELD
Table 1.2 Prisoners per 100,000 population on 1 September 1988
Source: NACRO (1990) Information Bulletin no. 25 (January), London:

National Association for the Care and Resettlement of Offenders
Every year, the Home Office, as the government department

responsible for prisons, publishes two sets of projections for long-term
trends in the prison population. The ‘non-demographic’ (NDM)
projections only take account of expected trends in crime and the
numbers sent to prison; the ‘demographic’ (DM) projections also take
into account expected changes in the age structure of the general
population. The main change is likely to be a fall in the number of
young people, which ought to be reflected in the prison population.
These projections give a prison population in 1997 of between 64,000
(DM) and 67,100 (NDM) —an increase of between 28 per cent and 34
per cent on current figures (Home Office 1989a).
It is a scenario which drew the following comment from the minister
responsible:
For over a hundred years, penal policy in this country has appeared
to focus on custody. If a fine is not enough, custody is said to be the
only adequate penalty. Other orders are described as non-custodial
penalties and assessed as alternatives to custody. All this reinforces
custody in a central position. Why do we do this? I hope one of the
outcomes of the debate will be to move the focus of penal policy
away from custody. Let us think rather of a twin track approach, in
which custody is reserved for those who commit serious offences. It
should not be the final sanction to which all persistent criminals
progress, however minor their offences. It will be a long haul, but we
want to make out of date the notion that the only punishment that
works is behind bars.
(The Home Secretary, quoted in NACRO Annual Report,
November 1988)
16
The cost, in both human and financial terms, has been high. The
prisons budget of £775 million in 1988 was set to rise by 42 per cent
to £1,140 million in 1989, to cover the cost of expanding the prison
building programme, emergency measures on overcrowding and the
costs of keeping prisoners in police cells. It is a rate of growth no other
public service could match. In human terms, the results of Britain’s
reliance on custody are soberly recorded in the annual reports of the
Chief Inspector of Prisons. His report for 1988 concluded that ‘in
prison after prison men were still having to exist in conditions which
offend against any standard of decency’, and he remarked, ‘Properly
fitting clean clothes and regular baths or showers are not luxuries but
they remained out of reach for many inmates in 1988’ (Home Office
1989b).
On training prisons such as Maidstone he found, generally, that most
establishments were struggling to provide a basic level of regime
activities. He thought the quality of life for such prisoners was generally
reasonable in that there was ‘no deliberate neglect, no conscious
inhumanity and no wilful omissions. The defects that existed in regimes
resulted generally from staff shortages, concentration on other
priorities, lack of good management or, at worst, lack of concern’
(Home Office 1989b).
The response by government has—primarily—been to embark on a
massive prison building programme, despite hopes of making the Home
Secretary’s ‘twin-track’ approach more of a reality. The building
programme, the largest undertaken this century, provides for the
construction of 26 new prisons between 1983 and 1995, at a total cost
of £870 million at current prices. Together with a programme of
expansion and refurbishment at existing prisons there will be an
additional capacity of 21,000 places. In terms of relieving over-
crowding and dealing with the decay of older prisons, new and
refurbished buildings clearly have something to offer but the sheer scale
and cost of the proposals (an average capital cost per place of £69,000
and thereafter £13,000 per prisoner per year to run) has drawn much
critical comment.
This, then, is the backcloth against which Maidstone prison needs to
be considered. Within the broad overall picture, built up from the 129
Prison Department establishments in England and Wales, Maidstone
occupies a distinctive and significant place. Adult prisons (for those
aged 21 or over) are divided into ‘local’ prisons, which receive people
from the courts, whether on remand or at the start of a sentence (and
17
DICK WHITFIELD
where short sentences may be served in their entirety); closed ‘training’

prisons of which Maidstone is one, and ‘open’ prisons, which have a
minimum of security and are for prisoners perceived as posing no real
risk to the public. The main problems of overcrowding are in local
prisons, which act as holding centres before inmates are moved to
training or open prisons. But even closed prisons vary greatly, from the
very high security (Category ‘A’) dispersal units to lesser security
categories ‘B’ and ‘C’. Maidstone, behind its high stone wall, is a
Category ‘B’ prison.
III
The first impression of any visitor to Maidstone prison must surely
be one of confusion. The five and a half hectare site contains an
astonishing jumble of over fifty separate buildings, ranging from the
solid stonework of the 1819 prison to Victorian brickwork and a
bewildering variety of modern additions, including the kitchens.
There are four main residential blocks, or ‘wings’ with single cell
accommodation; Medway, which takes 171 men, Kent (166), Weald
(99) and Thanet (102). There is also a Segregation Unit, used both
for punishment and to isolate men for their own protection or for
other reasons; a hospital unit, and a hostel from which eleven men
can work in the town during the day, returning to the prison each
night. The prison’s capacity, or certified normal accommodation
(CNA), is 550.
In some ways, however, Maidstone is several small prisons within
one perimeter, for in addition to being a training prison it has two
special functions. The first, in Thanet wing, is to act as one of three
Vulnerable Prisoner Units in the country. This is a national resource
and prisoners are sent here who staff believe would be at risk of
violence (because of their offence) in a normal prison setting, or whose
fear of violence has led them, themselves, to request such a transfer.
Many will have committed sexual offences that other prisoners find
abhorrent; some will have been informers who helped the police in the
hope of obtaining a shorter sentence and still others may have built up
debts inside prison that they cannot repay. It means Thanet wing has
to be a ‘sterile’ area, with staff at Maidstone always conscious of the
need to keep its occupants separate from the rest of the prison or—
when contact is inevitable— well controlled. At the time of my visit
about half the men had been convicted of heterosexual offences,
18
mostly rape; about a quarter for offences against children and about
a quarter were the ‘grasses’ or informers. Thanet wing attracts
additional staff to Maidstone Prison, especially for the Psychology
Department, of which more will be said later. It ought to be able to
offer more psychological and psychiatric help to the men who inhabit
its strange, grey world; more group work as well as individual help is
acknowledged as being required by the staff, including the Probation
Officer, who have a special responsibility for it, for these are men for
whom the risk of reconviction is often very high. Thanet wing,
however, has as its primary purpose to keep its inmates from physical
harm; the good work that is undoubtedly done there with individuals
is almost a bonus.
All men at Maidstone are long sentence prisoners, serving more
than four years, and it is at the top end of the scale, with life sentence
prisoners, that Maidstone performs its second specialist task.
Maidstone is one of a number of designated prisons able to take ‘lifers’
and it can provide up to 100 places for them, although there were only
80 at the time of my visit. Most are concentrated on Medway wing,
but not all, and there is no sense of a special regime so far as they are
concerned. The growing number of life sentence prisoners has been a
considerable problem for the prison service for some years now. Life
imprisonment is the mandatory sentence for murder but it is also the
maximum sentence for a number of other offences, including
manslaughter, armed robbery, wounding with intent, arson, rape,
kidnapping, and causing an explosion. In 1957 there were just 140
lifers in prison; thirty years later, in 1987 the number had grown to
over 2,200, of whom about one in five had received their life sentence
for an offence other than murder.
The life sentence is indeterminate and although the average length
of time served is just over ten years, many men stay in prison for
much longer periods. Maidstone Prison contains one man who has
already served 33 years and staff seemed torn between two beliefs;
one, that the risk he posed (of further offences against children)
meant that further incarceration was inevitable, the other that his
extraordinarily long period in custody meant he would be unable to
survive outside the prison walls, anyway. Not all life sentence
prisoners follow the same ‘career path’ through prison but most
spend three to four years in two initial centres, then progress to
training prisons and—possibly—open prisons before a final release
date is in sight. By the time they arrive at Maidstone, therefore, most
19
DICK WHITFIELD
have settled into the routines imposed by a long sentence of

imprisonment and most do at least feel that some progress through
the system is being achieved.
The life sentence prisoners are not the only ones serving long
sentences; Maidstone also contained 133 men serving sentences of 10
years or more when I visited. For all kinds of prisoner, however, the
daily routine is the same:
07.45 Cells unlocked

08.15 Breakfast
08.45 Work starts
11.15 Exercise period
11.45 Lunch (in the dining room or in cells)
12.00 Prisoners again locked in cells
13.30 Cells unlocked
13.45 Return to work
or 14.00 Visits for those who have visitors that day
or 14.00 Use of sports area for those working on the wing
16.15 Work ends
16.30 Evening meal
16.45 Prisoners locked in cells
17.45 Cells unlocked for evening association, classes, television
or church
20.00 Prisoners return to cells; locked up for the night
The weekend routine varies, with no work to occupy the day and
with extended exercise periods available to those who wish to use
them. Exercise is, in fact, well provided for, with an indoor
swimming pool, a gymnasium, a sports area for football (with teams
from outside the prison involved in both football and weightlifting),
and like most long-term prisons, Maidstone has its share of those
who keep fanatically fit.
Work plays a large part as the centrepiece of the daily regime and
both its opportunities and its shortcomings were made clear to me. The
prison offers a mixture of straight employment and trade training
courses, together with the many jobs which are essential to the daily
running of an institution: cleaners, cooks, maintenance parties for both
the buildings and the grounds. The work opportunities are primarily in
the tailors’ shop, a laundry (which services a number of other prisons),
a printing shop and an assembly shop. The last is not fully operational
20
yet; the hope is to undertake a wide range of light assembly work on

outside contracts. But the men themselves, who call it ‘the muppet
shop’, remain unconvinced that it really has anything to offer. ‘It’s just
a form of brain death’, said one lifer scornfully, and indeed for many
men the repetitive, soul-destroying nature of much of the work would
indeed seem only to add to the pains of imprisonment
There is also a book-binding shop and a Braille Unit, which
transfers a wide range of books into braille for the blind, and which
really does serve a useful purpose. The notice-board in the work-room
contains heartfelt letters of thanks from those who have received their
new books and it is clear that the sense of involvement in the lives of
real and unfortunate people in the outside world draws a very positive
response from the men involved. I watched a man working on a special
cookery book for a mother who is both blind and diabetic; he made
it so obvious that he valued the opportunity to make some reparation
that I wonder whether more opportunities like this could not be
created.
The printing shop is, in many ways, typical of prison industry. It
operates mostly on labour-intensive, repetitive government forms
rather than the wider variety of commercial printing work which
would give men a marketable skill on release as well as a good work
experience. The civilian in charge was philosophical about this and
recognized the limitations. ‘We’re just about to have a new camera and
darkroom’, he said, ‘and then we shall only be about ten years behind
the times.’ Until more interesting work was available he felt he had no
option but to keep the men in his charge fully occupied and if it meant
using eight men to undertake a task which could be accomplished in
a fraction of the time by a machine, well—the men weren’t going
anywhere.
Much more popular with the prisoners are the range of Vocational
Training Courses (VTCs) which take men for a period of 20 or 26
weeks, give them a thorough training in a particular skill and enable
them to take outside examinations. The certificates they obtain do not
specify the centre as Maidstone Prison; they can be safely shown to
employers and are much prized. At present, courses are run in
bricklaying, painting and decorating, welding, and sheet metal
fabrication, and as far as I could see the standard of work was generally
very high indeed. The bricklaying course has some interchange with a
local college and the prison instructor, surrounded by test pieces his
charges had made (ornate archways, window frames and decorative
21
DICK WHITFIELD
walls) took pride in recalling that the prison ‘pupils’ often outshone
their free counterparts.
The major frustration for prisoners is that these courses are so much
in demand. Waiting lists of 80 or 100 men, many from outside
Maidstone Prison, are commonplace. Prisoners made it clear that, from
their point of view, ready access to such courses is one of the major
improvements they would seek. The Governor and his staff have long
recognized this and plans for two new courses, one in arts and crafts,
the other on computers, are planned to start in 1990. They will go at
least some way to removing the bottleneck.
For their work, prisoners receive minimal sums—between £2.20
and £4.60 per week, depending on the work and the hours involved.
At the bottom end of the scale are the cleaners and those in full-time
education; the printing shop pays £3.60 per week and the kitchen
staff earn most, in recognition of the seven-day working week
required.
Food, of course, remains a topic of passionate concern—the focus
of minor complaints and disagreements which rumble on for long
periods—and outbursts of contentment which are extremely short-
lived. Most men seemed to find both the quantity and the variety
quite acceptable and to recognize that, with a large institution and
central kitchens, the variable quality was only to be expected. The
very substantial meat pie, with vegetables (followed by sponge
pudding and custard) that I saw served on Weald wing drew
generally favourable comment. ‘Well, perhaps the presentation could
be improved’ was the wry comment of one prisoner. Discontent seems
to be centred more on those on special diets and, with vegetarians,
vegans, Hindus, Muslims and Jews to cater for there is clearly scope
for problems. To some extent this has been ameliorated by providing
cookers on each of the wings. This enables men either to buy small
stocks of supplies from the canteen with their earnings in order to
cook for themselves, or to re-cook prison food in new and exciting
ways. This has become something of an art form, with some
prisoners acquiring an enviable reputation for transforming prison
fare into spicy and original ethnic dishes. With up to 30 per cent of
prisoners coming from minority backgrounds (mostly black and
Asian, but with Polish, Irish and other groups also represented) this
is one way of allowing for—and even valuing— cultural diversity and
may be one reason why racial tensions do not seem to be as evident
as one might expect. There is a much higher concentration of
22
minority groups in Kent wing, together with a mosque and

synagogue and it may be that this also helps.
So far, I have concentrated on some of the standard aspects of prison
life and routine—in some ways no more than a mirror image of other
large institutions. As an American writer observed recently, ‘It was hard
to distinguish hotels in England from prisons or hospitals. Most were
run with the same indifference or cruelty and were equally
uncomfortable’ (Theroux 1984).
There are other features of prison life, however, which could only
occur in this especially artificial environment, but before moving on to
them it may be useful to concentrate on some of the prisoners’ own
views of Maidstone. I was allowed to disrupt a ‘social skills’ course—
one of a number of educational opportunities for men apart from the
usual classes—and took the opportunity to test out some of my
impressions against their own, well-informed ones in a session that, in
the end, lasted twice as long as its scheduled time.
Some of their views came as something of a surprise. Maidstone
Prison has embarked on a long and costly process to bring integral
sanitation to cells, to avoid the ‘slopping out’ process and the need to
have chamber pots in cells. Prisoners were scornful about the sense of
priorities this demonstrated, and about the supposed benefits. A system
which allowed electronic unlocking of cells so that they could use shared
toilet facilities seemed preferable to most. In any case they were quite
clear where their own priorities lay:
1 The availability of telephones came easily top of the list. At

present special requests have to be submitted and justified if calls
are to be made; they are made in the presence of an officer and
they are charged at far in excess of the ‘normal’ rate because of
the need to ask the operator to ring back with the cost—for
which a surcharge is made. Freer use of the telephone is being
extended to prisons with a lesser security category; men in
Maidstone cannot believe it would jeopardize security there if it
were available.
2 Better access to trade training courses: One of the few ways that
prisoners can feel that some positive benefit has been gained from
a sentence.
3 A fairer ‘canteen’ system: The current system (which the
Governor acknowledged was unsatisfactory) is particularly
resented because prices are often higher than at other prisons, let
23
DICK WHITFIELD
alone outside shops. Men feel exploited (‘We earn less and pay
more’) and their inability to change things exacerbates the
position they are in.
4 Better education opportunities: There was a general sense of
dissatisfaction with education provision which seemed to relate
more to whether it met people’s needs than the actual range of
classes provided. There were also acknowledged strengths, of which
the Social Skills course was one. This took the place of a pre-release
course (which would be impossible to plan in an institution where
some men were so far away from release and others might be
released on parole licence at very short notice) but it covered many
of the same topics. Overseen by two prison officers with help from
the Psychology Department, it runs for two weeks, full time on
perhaps ten or twelve occasions per year. It uses outside speakers
from the Social Security office, the Job Centre, and the Citizens’
Advice Bureau and covers a wide range of current affairs and other
topics in a relaxed and friendly way. Men use video cameras and
produce and film ‘news bulletins’ as a useful way of learning to
work in small groups, to see how they present themselves and to
gain confidence generally. A similar special course, known as the
‘Summer School’, runs for life sentence prisoners and also tries to
stimulate interest and enjoyment in equal measure.
All these are part of what might be termed the ‘quality of life’ and
the prisoners’ preoccupation with this vital but ill-defined subject is
shared by the Governor, Graham Gregory-Smith.
Rehabilitation is not a real term for staff [he said], especially when
men are serving such long sentences. Keeping them alive in mind and
body is a much more accurate description of what we do. Prisoners
have a genuine fear of becoming cabbages. Sustaining men through a
long sentence is much more than providing work or classes,
important though they are. Prisoners have to start getting used to
talking to staff here, to making some of their own decisions and to
finding out how Maidstone is different.
He agreed that the prison had a long-standing reputation of having a

liberal regime and added, ‘I would have been mad to try and change it
radically. Altering it at the fringes and working hard on prisoner/staff
relationships was much more what was needed.’
24
The springboard for these changes was ‘Fresh Start’, a concerted

move in the prison service to change working practices, deployment of
staff and work patterns; to move towards local accountability and
control and to deal with industrial relations problems which otherwise
looked to be endemic. Prison officers are now salaried and take time off
in lieu rather than accumulate high earnings on overtime; they can
purchase their own houses, and they can be promoted to governor
grades rather than remaining a secondary uniformed branch. As the
Governor observed, it takes more time to change attitudes, but he
thought that progress was being made here too and that the new
recruitment would accelerate the process.
Above all, ‘Fresh Start’ has encouraged the use of shared casework
schemes in which prison officers and probation officers share work
concerning prisoners much more effectively. The probation service’s
task in prison is primarily to provide a social work service to those
imprisoned and there has always been a conflict between the day-to-
day, mundane but pressing needs of prisoners cut off from family and
friends, and the more reflective analytical and purposeful work related
to offending behaviour in which Probation Officers wanted to engage.
Maidstone now has a ‘casework officer’ scheme in which each prisoner
has a particular officer on the wing to whom he can relate, as well as
the services of the wing Probation Officer. Sharing work, yet retaining
a clear sense of role, is obviously more difficult but potentially
rewarding and in Maidstone seems to be working well. For the
Governor, though, the main benefit has been that it gives prison
officers ‘permission to be concerned’ in a structured and consistent
way. Job status and job satisfaction, for most officers, is significantly
improved.
There are eight governor grades and 174 uniformed staff at
Maidstone. Add specialist and administrative staff, from clerks to
teachers, to instructors and Probation Officers and the total is about
one hundred higher. Only two of the current prison service staff are
female, a fact much regretted by the Governor, who believes that up
to 20 per cent of female staff would be beneficial in terms of that
elusive ‘quality of life’ inside. Two groups of specialist staff have a
particular role to play in this same area—psychologists and Probation
Officers.
There should be five psychologists and one assistant at Maidstone
Prison, but recruiting difficulties mean that two psychologist posts
are vacant at present. Although based in Maidstone, they also have
25
DICK WHITFIELD
to provide a service to other prisons in the area and the problems

posed by the over-stretching of this resource means that there is a
limited impact on the prison. Much of the Psychology Department’s
work is concerned with research and management issues and their
computer-based inmate data base is central to this. The department
monitors the inmate population, offences against prison rules and the
penalties awarded; it assists management in determining security
grades and in assessments on life sentence prisoners; and it has been
looking at the structures of meetings, the effectiveness of
communications and the problems of stress in staff. Clinical work
with prisoners depends partly on demand and partly on the
willingness of psychologists to undertake it, for none are trained as
clinical specialists. Nevertheless some valued individual work is
undertaken and I was told it was often most effective when carried
out jointly with a Probation Officer, each undertaking specific but
complementary work.
The Probation Department has four Probation Officers and a
Senior Probation Officer to provide a service to the prison. Although
very much part of the probation service generally they are
operationally responsible to the Governor for their period of
secondment to the prison and this uncomfortable structural
position—with one foot each side of the prison wall—brings both
problems and opportunities. ‘It’s hard’, said one Probation Officer;
‘we’re not actually part of anything and have to operate in a sort of
no man’s land.’ Work with individuals can capitalize on not being
part of ‘the system’, however, and from their offices on the wing the
Probation Officers have easy and direct access both to prisoners and
to other staff with whom they work. With long-term prisoners and
lifers much of their work is centred on the understanding of
offending behaviour and the risks of re-offending; with others, the
whole range of family and personal problems call for tact,
understanding and a good deal of dogged, patient work. ‘Knowing
when prisoners are ready to respond is the skill you learn to develop
here’, said one; ‘the staff are a good lot and there is a positive culture
in which to work—but you still have to work out when real work is
possible and it’s not just meeting institutional demands.’
The major frustration, for prisoners even more than Probation
Officers, is the parole system. All the men on determinate sentences at
Maidstone are eligible for parole, theoretically when one third of their
sentence has been served. It is ‘theoretically’, because the then Home
26
Secretary introduced new guide-lines some years ago which severely

restricted the application of parole to men serving sentences for
offences of violence, sexual offences and the supply of illegal drugs.
Henceforward these prisoners could be routinely considered (and the
process is long, costly and complex, involving interviews, a local
review board and then the national Parole Board) but would only be
released before almost the end of their sentence in very exceptional
circumstances. The result, for a man serving a twelve-year sentence in
one of the new categories, would be that parole review at the four, five
and six year mark would be a hollow charade. Even at the seven year
mark there would be very little expectation of more than a few weeks
on parole licence in the community, instead of prison. The potential
gain if one was ‘exceptional’, however, and qualified for an early
release is so powerful that few men are prepared to forego it The result
is a shabby, futile process that Probation Officers feel makes
subsequent work with inmates more difficult; that exasperates prison
officers who see the time and energy in compiling reports as wasted,
and infuriates prisoners for whom the probable refusal of parole, with
its tiny element of uncertainty, makes prison life even harder to bear.
The problem is compounded at present by the bureaucracy of parole,
which results in decisions being anything up to six or eight months
late. Yet, overall, parole has been a substantial success in terms of
successful supervision in the community. The complex arguments
which lay behind the present situation—and the possible solutions —
are, however, beyond the scope of this chapter. I can only record that
prisoners and prison staff displayed a rare unanimity in condemning
the present system.
IV
How can a complex institution like a prison be judged? My task was to
record it as objectively as possible and leave the reader to judge, yet not
to provide some indication of the effect it had on me would be to paint
a very incomplete picture. Maidstone has the kind of problems which
beset most prisons; illegal brewing remains a constant problem in which
the ingenuity of prisoners is constantly pitted against the watchfulness
of staff and the balance shifts constantly. Over 1,300 litres of highly
alcoholic brew had been seized from one wing alone, in nine months.
Drugs are equally problematic and with ‘open’ visits are almost
impossible to contain. (Most prisoners come from the Greater London
27
DICK WHITFIELD
area, so family visits are relatively easy; a liberal visiting policy also
means that up to three visits can be made during a month.) The attitude
of wing prison officers to drugs was interesting. ‘It’s almost always
cannabis’, I was told, ‘and I suppose if the Governor really wanted it
stopped, he could—or near enough. But at what cost? It would mean
searches on every visit, more restrictions, more repression and it would
work against everything else we are trying to do. If it’s manageable and
doesn’t get out of hand I reckon we accept it’
There are problems, too, in the way in which different prisons have
come to deal with long-term prisoners. This means some men transfer
from Category ‘A’ prisons and find new rules at Maidstone which they
believe are petty and restrictive, and facilities which seem less than those
they enjoyed elsewhere, in supposedly stricter regimes. (Some were used
to having freezers and food storage facilities as well as cookers on the
wing and this restriction on individual choice, in a system where it is
precious, hit hard.) Yet others, especially from the London prisons,
found it relaxed, humane and positive. It all depends on their starting-
point.
I suppose my starting-point was a phrase in a national newspaper,
the Sunday Times, some years ago. Reviewing Britain’s prisons, the
paper summed them up as ‘a decent sort of warehouse, doing its best
not to let the stock deteriorate’. Given the pressures of numbers,
limited resources for positive work in education and trade training,
limited work opportunities and staff and prisoner unrest, even that
modest aim has often seemed unattainable. Staff and prisoners at
Maidstone were acutely aware that, in a training prison, they were
relatively well off compared to the overcrowded local prisons, whose
barren regimes often mean prisoners being locked in their cells twenty-
three hours each day. Both groups seemed equally aware that they had
a joint investment in making it work, for all its faults, as well as
possible. In my view they do so with commitment and humanity. Who
and how many people we imprison, for how long and in what
conditions are questions that politicians and sentencers must answer;
those in the prisons must make it work as well as they can. In
Maidstone, they do.
28
NOTE
1 Quoted in Melling, E. (ed.) (1969) Crime and Punishment, Kentish Sources,
published by Kent County Council. For a fuller description of Howard’s
visits and proposals, see The State of the Prisons in England and Wales, 4th
edn 1792, reprinted 1973, Montclair, NJ: Patterson, Smith.
REFERENCES
Home Office (1989a) Home Office Statistical Bulletin 11/89, Croydon: Home
Office Statistical Department.
Home Office (1989b) Report of HM Chief Inspector of Prisons 1988, London:
HMSO.
Theroux, P. (1984) The Kingdom by the Sea, Harmondsworth: Penguin.
29
Chapter Two
THE INDIAN PRISON

MIKE MAGUIRE
My starting-point was a search for details about ‘conditions in a typical

Indian gaol’. Despite problems of access, I gathered sufficient
information about the physical conditions and regime in a particular
central gaol to produce at least a poor imitation of John Howard.
However, it soon became clear that, not only are Indian gaols so varied
that to describe any one is to create a false picture, but a description of
‘conditions’ alone would give readers outside India little real insight into
the country’s prison system or how it is experienced by inmates. To
achieve such insight, it is essential to understand something of the social
and historical context.
There will be space here only for the briefest discussion of external
forces which have shaped life in Indian prisons, but it is difficult to
overestimate their importance. These include the ‘legacy of the
British’, who promoted an overtly punitive penal philosophy, more
concerned with the repression of dissent than with ordinary crime, and
who ran the prisons as cheaply as possible; a labyrinthine criminal
justice system, which causes many accused persons to spend years in
gaol before their trial is completed; widespread political interference
with the police, whereby criminals with ‘connections’ often escape
justice, leaving the gaols populated predominantly with poor rural
labourers; the designation of prisons, under the Seventh Schedule of
the Constitution, as primarily the responsibility of the thirty-one
individual states and union territories rather than the Indian
government—which has perpetuated gross differences in practices and
standards; and the generally low priority attached to ‘non-productive’
areas like penal reform in a country with 250 million people below the
poverty line, where economic development dominates planning and
expenditure.
30
THE INDIAN PRISON
In the following pages, I shall first present a broad picture of the

Indian prison population and the institutions in which it is held. This is
followed by some general remarks about the history and philosophy of
imprisonment in India, and a summary of previous writers’ conclusions
about gaol conditions. I shall then describe conditions in the central gaol
I visited, ending with some comments about the possibilities and
prospects for change.
I
The convicted prison population in India is remarkably small. In a
country of around 800 million, with over one and a half million police
officers and nearly 1,200 gaols (not to mention a Draconian penal
code drafted by the British in 1860), only about 60,000 people are
serving sentences of imprisonment at any one time. In relation to
population, this is five to ten times fewer prisoners than in European
countries.
Sadly, though, the gaols do not stand half-empty. Convicted prisoners
are outnumbered by the euphemistically named ‘undertrials’ —
remanded prisoners for most of whom trial is months (if not years)
away and many of whom, detained pending police investigations, have
not yet been charged with an offence (Diaz 1977). In recent years, the
officially recorded—and probably under-recorded —number of
undertrials has frequently exceeded 90,000.
There are other categories of prisoner, too, smaller in number but
whose presence raises serious questions about human rights.
‘Detenus’ —people held without trial under various Acts sanctioning
preventive detention 1 —have sometimes attracted international
concern, particularly during periods of internal tension when
allegations of torture have accompanied protests about the detention
of political prisoners. 2 But when the number of detenus returns to a
more ‘normal’ level of 400–500, consisting mainly of suspected drug
smugglers and ‘dacoits’ 3 rather than political activists, interest tends
to fade.
‘Non-criminal lunatics’ and ‘criminal lunatics’ (the continued use of
archaic terminology betraying attitudes towards them 4 ) officially
numbered 2,077 and 318, respectively, at the end of 1980, according
to figures collected for the All-India Committee on Jail Reforms
(1983). However, only half the states produced any statistics, it not
being standard practice to record lunatics as part of the prison
31
MIKE MAGUIRE
population. (The Punjab Jail Manual (1975:345) even states

specifically that ‘Non-criminal lunatics shall be entirely excluded from
all statistical returns relating to jails.’) If the figures produced by the
state of West Bengal, which show non-criminal lunatics making up one
in eight of its prison population, are a better guide to the true
situation, the picture is grim indeed. Non-criminal lunatics, as the
name implies, have committed no offence, but are people designated
by a magistrate as ‘wandering and dangerous lunatics’ under the
Indian Lunacy Act 1912 and sent to prison to await transfer to a
mental hospital. As there are fewer than fifty such hospitals in the
whole country, with long waiting lists and high proportions of
permanent inmates, the ‘6 to 8 months’ average waiting time reported
by Guha (quoted in Baxi 1982) for a gaol in Assam may be shorter
than the national average. Meanwhile, where ‘criminal lunatics’ are
concerned, the All-India Committee (1983: para 3.24) produced the
finding that ‘Some have stayed in prison for more than 20 years
without their trial even having begun.’
While the mentally ill remain very much part of the prison scene,
the central government has recently taken action (Juvenile Justice Act
1986) to exclude another group who should certainly not be
incarcerated. For many years, both prison reformers and official
reports regularly condemned the presence of children in gaols, some
below the age of 10. Many were homeless or orphaned, held in gaol
owing to a lack of children’s homes; others, it was even alleged, were
deliberately arrested on flimsy pretexts to be exploited as unpaid
servants or sweepers when the gaol population rose. Kuldip Nayar, a
journalist detained during the Emergency, described the practice in
Delhi’s Tihar gaol thus:
Even more shocking than the corruption was the ingenious ‘slave
system’ we found in the jail. The slaves were boys between ten
and eighteen employed as ‘helpers’, and there were scores of
them… They would be woken up before 6 a.m. to prepare the
morning tea and would be allowed to sleep around 10 p.m.…
They were herded into a ward which had no fan and no proper
sanitary facilities…
These boys were undertrial prisoners; many had been there
for eight months and at least one had been there for two years.
They were taken from one court to another to be tried under
one charge or another and kept in jail all the while. The aim
32
THE INDIAN PRISON
was to keep them in as long as possible, for without them the

people employed to do the menial duties would have no time to
relax…
One morning I was woken by the sobbing of a boy…I asked him
what he had done to land himself in jail. He was too racked by
sobs to reply, but…the warder explained that whenever the
number of prisoners in jail went up, the police were asked to bring
in boys to help with the chores. For the past several days, the
warder said, jail authorities had been pestering the police to get
more helpers…. The evening before, when the boy was buying a
betel-leaf from a shop, the police had hauled him up as a
vagabond; they were responding to the jail authorities’ appeal to
book more helpers…. It was unbelievable that this could happen in
the 20th century.
(Nayar 1978:33)
While there is no evidence of such practices being widespread in the

country, the fact that it could happen in the main prison in the capital
of India was a matter of scandal. Moreover, even as late as 1985, an
unpublished government document reveals, there were 989 children5
among one day’s population in Indian prisons, on 30 June 1985.
According to criminologists I consulted, doubts remain whether the Act
has entirely remedied the situation (magistrates and police are not
always meticulous in determining offenders’ ages), but it has certainly
alleviated it considerably.
Finally, another category of prisoners—those held in ‘protective
custody’ —has been greatly reduced in size recently, partly by the
Juvenile Justice Act and partly as a result of the case of Hussainara
Khatoon v. Bihar 1979, which declared their detention unconstitutional.
Some of these were vagrant children, others victims of crime required as
witnesses. In the Hussainara case, it was revealed that a number of
destitute women had been held in prison for several years awaiting the
trials of men accused of raping them.
Convicted prisoners, undertrials, detenus and ‘lunatics’, together with
civil prisoners and various other small groups, make up an unknown
total population in Indian gaols. Prison statistics are poor in quality
and, like crime statistics, are published several years late. According to
government officials I consulted, the prison population has settled down
since 1977 (the end of the Emergency) in the range 150,000 to 180,000.
However, this refers only to undertrials and convicts. Allowing for the
33
MIKE MAGUIRE
categories omitted (not to mention possible undercounting in some of

the slackly administered sub-gaols), 6 the true total could be several
thousand higher.
For a breakdown of the characteristics of the prison population at
any one time, one of the few available sources is the statistics collected
for the All-India Committee on Jail Reforms 1980–3. These describe the
population in all Indian gaols on 31 December 1980.
To Western eyes, the composition of the convicted population appears
extraordinary (see Table 2.1). Over 40 per cent were serving life sentences
for murder, while at the same time, almost as many were serving very
short sentences. The extent of the turnover of short-termers is illustrated
by statistics showing receptions into prison, as opposed to daily
population. For example, Datir (1978: 212) found that, in the state of
Maharastra, over two-thirds of all admissions of convicts to prisons were
of people serving one month or less; and a third of admissions were for
ticketless travel on the railway, usually through inability to pay fines.
By contrast, the type of prisoner most familiar in European and
North American prisons, the habitual property offender serving a short-
to medium-term sentence, is a comparative rarity in India. Among the
total convicted population at the end of 1980, only 11 per cent were
‘burglars’ and 10 per cent ‘thieves’. Around three-quarters of all
convicts were first offenders.
There is a higher proportion of people from poor rural backgrounds
in prisons than in the general population. Around half are illiterate.
Indian prisoners are also generally older than prisoners in many other
countries. A quarter of convicts are over 40 (Table 2.1), mainly because
of the exceptionally long periods that ‘lifers’ spend in gaol: the
minimum period to be served is fourteen years.
The available information about undertrials is rather less detailed.
However, their plight is one that has moved many writers, including
judges and compilers of official reports, to angry, emotional language.
For example:
Hundreds of them are dumb, simple persons, caught in the web of

law, unable to comprehend what has happened, what the charge
against them is or why they have been sent to jail.
(National Police Commission 1981)
Justice Bhagwati’s leading opinion burns with red-hot anger; the

Court is appalled and ashamed that such a thing should happen
34
THE INDIAN PRISON
Table 2.1 Selected characteristics of convicted persons in

Indian prisons on 31 December 1980
Sources: Adapted from Report of All-Indian Committee on Jail Reform 1980–3 and
Chadha 1983: Appendices
in a democratic, socialist India, over a quarter of a century after the

inception of its Constitution. Such judicial expression of anger is not
to be found anywhere in India, and, one would even say, the common
law world.
(Baxi 1982:230, describing the Hussainara case)
35
MIKE MAGUIRE
At the end of December 1980, the returns to the Committee on Jail

Reform indicated that almost 7,000 (8 per cent) of the 92,000
undertrials had been in gaol for over one year, and 2,500 of these had
been held for more than two years. The situation was particularly
disturbing in the state of Bihar, which alone accounted for three-
quarters of the latter group. Moreover, Bihar had been forced a year
earlier to release over 27,000 undertrials, following orders from the
Supreme Court in Hussainara (Shourie 1980:137–8). The hearing
revealed that undertrials had been held in Bihar gaols for up to ten
years, in some cases spending years longer on remand than the
maximum possible sentence. Justice Bhagwati commented:
For example, one Lambodar Gorain has been held in Ranchi Jail
since 18th June 1970, for an offence under Section 25 of the Arms
Act…with the result that he has been in prison for eight and a half
years for an offence for which even if convicted, he could not have
been awarded more than two years imprisonment…. What faith
would these people have in our system of administration of justice?
(Supreme Court: H.Khatoon v. Home Secretary SCC 1980(1))
It should be noted that there is a legal limit of ninety days, which can
be extended only in exceptional circumstances, for suspects to be
remanded in judicial custody pending police investigations and the
presentation of a charge-sheet. However, despite this law and despite the
publicity following the Hussainara case, many magistrates continue to
authorize long extensions at the request of the police. Consequently, a
large proportion, perhaps the majority, of undertrials have yet to be
charged.
There is not space here to delve deeper into the reasons for the
unusual profile of the Indian prison population as described above.
However, most informed commentators agree that the key factors
include the inefficiency, and sometimes corruption, of an out-moded
police force, in combination with the failures of a court system clogged
up with cases and handicapped by immensely complex procedures.7 Not
only are victims, particularly of personal theft or burglary, usually
reluctant to become entangled with the bureaucratic nightmare that can
follow the reporting of a crime to the police, but it is extremely difficult
to convict anyone who possesses either a good lawyer or ‘influence’.8
Many cases are mysteriously dropped, the vast majority of accused
persons, in all but the most minor cases, plead not guilty, and the
36
THE INDIAN PRISON
majority are found not guilty. Broadly speaking, the only people likely
to become convicts are the very poor: either sentenced summarily in
magistrates’ courts for minor offences, or, after long delays, convicted of
serious crimes. The undertrial population, too, mainly consists of the
most disadvantaged sections of society, who cannot pay the sureties
demanded for bail. The more resourceful tend to escape charges through
influence over the police, to escape custodial remand through bail, and
to escape conviction through employing good lawyers.
Before discussing prison conditions in more depth, an important
preliminary point must be considered. It should not be forgotten that
although India has made remarkable economic progress over the last
thirty years, it is still a Third World country in which enormous
numbers of people live in conditions of severe poverty. This means first
of all that prisons compete with other government responsibilities for
extremely precious resources and secondly that the question of ‘less-
eligibility’ inevitably raises its head. Can prison diets and living
conditions reasonably be judged by the same criteria as those in western
countries, when the quality of life for the ‘honest poor’ outside is so
much lower? The realistic answer must be ‘no’, although this does not
defeat the argument of Richardson (1985) among others, that the
drastic loss of civic rights suffered by prisoners puts a duty upon the
state to compensate by giving them ‘special rights’ when incarcerated. In
other words, the less-eligibility argument should never be used to justify
deliberate neglect or harsh treatment of prisoners. Thus, for example,
while many inmates may sleep in worse conditions outside, this is no
argument for making them sleep on concrete if it is not excessively
expensive to provide them with cots or hammocks.
Even when making full allowance for the cultural context and
resource limitations, nearly all independent commentators agree that, at
least until very recently, conditions in Indian prisons have been
appalling. The 1983 report of the All-India Committee on Jail Reforms,
headed by Justice A.N.Mulla, makes this clear. Every chapter of this
carefully researched document, itself a tribute to the democratic
institutions and traditions which make India so special among
developing countries, reveals further horrors of a harsh and neglected
prison system. A few sentences from chapter III, headed ‘Realities in
Indian Prisons’, will give the flavour of the report:
Conditions of living in most of the prisons are sub-human….

Shortage of water supply, open drainage systems, conservancy
37
MIKE MAGUIRE
latrines and dearth of scavengers make prison environs unbearable in

a large number of institutions…
While the lot of the average prisoner leaves much to be desired,
that of the criminal lunatic is much worse. These individuals are
huddled together under the most unhygienic conditions, totally
uncared for and quite frequently ill-treated…
Prison industries and work programmes…are ill-planned,
antiquated, wasteful and unproductive and are little suited to equip
inmates with any useful skill…
The prison staff has generally become callous and insensitive. It
even uses bad characters, hardened criminals and ‘dadas’ in
perpetrating atrocities on other prisoners and indulging in corrupt
practices…
In most of the prisons, corruption has become a way of life and
inmates believe that without taking recourse to corrupt practices they
cannot cope with the culture that prevails.
Prisons are run on archaic methods of management…. Training of
prison personnel has remained woefully neglected…
But for making certain general platitudinous statements, [senior
prison administrators] could not make any significant contribution in
suggesting solutions to the chronic problems of prison management.
This is indicative of a very casual and superficial approach to
problems of prison at the level of policy formulation in most of the
States and Union Territories…
After an overall view of the existing conditions in prisons, we
are constrained to record that prison organisation in India does
not conform to the required standards of a correctional
department.
(All-India Committee 1983: paras 3.18–3.45)
Although the most comprehensive, this was only the latest in a

long series of hard-hitting reports on Indian prisons, most of which
echoed familiar themes. Official recognition of the need for gaol
reform dates back to 1919, when a major report by the Indian Jails
Committee heralded a change in government pronouncements about
the aims of imprisonment, renouncing the retributive philosophy
which had been enshrined in policy and legislation since the report of
Lord Macauley’s Prison Disciplinary Committee in 1838. Macauley’s
report had rejected reform, education and moral teaching, in favour
of a punitive regime based upon deliberately ‘dull, monotonous,
38
THE INDIAN PRISON
wearisome and uninteresting tasks’. This had set the tone later
reflected in the harsh rules of the Indian Penal Code 1860
(prescribing long sentences of ‘rigorous imprisonment’), in the
Prisons Act 1894, in gaol manuals allowing cruel punishments for the
smallest breach of discipline, and in a lasting policy of spending as
little as possible on the gaols. The 1919 report introduced an era of
lip-service to ‘reform and rehabilitation’, but neither the British,
preoccupied with ‘law and order’ as the independence movement
gained strength, nor any Indian government after 1947, found the
time or the resolve necessary for dismantling the old Draconian
system. Even today, most convicts are sentenced to ‘rigorous’
imprisonment, 9 and, although some revisions are currently being
made, the gaols in most states are run according to manuals dating
from the nineteenth century.
Critics of Indian prisons have continued for years to point out the
incongruity of attempting to run an avowedly ‘correctional’ prison
system with structures, rules and physical conditions created for quite
different purposes. Among the most frequently condemned aspects have
been the following:
1 Unsuitable buildings, half of them now over fifty years old and 18
per cent over a hundred years;
2 Poor water supply, sanitation, drainage and electrical supply. In
1979, only 15 per cent of gaols had tap water, 33 per cent had septic
latrines and 25 per cent were electrified. (However, these are areas
currently being improved with central government grants—see
below);
3 Poorly funded and poorly organized state management and
administration, often in neglected branches of larger departments,
employing ignorant, inefficient, and sometimes corrupt staff.
Inspector-Generals of Prisons drafted in from other fields with little
knowledge of, or interest in, prisons, while ‘high flying’ young
administrators see the prison department as one to be avoided
(Sharma 1985);
4 Virtually untrained and sometimes brutal warders, without the
influence of a fully-trained national ‘cadre’ of officers (as in the
police) to encourage higher standards and to disseminate new ideas.
Assisted often by ‘convict warders’, who add to an atmosphere of
fear and connive in the corruption which is endemic in many
institutions. Occasional allegations of torture;
39
MIKE MAGUIRE
5 Indiscriminate mixing of prisoners of all kinds, with only

rudimentary classification, often in overcrowded conditions;
6 Lack of rewarding work, meaningful education, vocational training,
‘prison career’ planning, or any serious rehabilitative programmes,
including provisions for after-care;
7 Poor quality and monotonous diet;
8 Primitive medical facilities and dearth of welfare workers,
counsellors or psychiatrists, even where considerable numbers of
mentally ill prisoners are held;
9 Capricious and ungenerous systems of furlough, parole and
remission;
10 Harsh disciplinary systems giving prisoners few rights of defence,
combined with ineffective and unused grievance procedures;
11 Infrequency of inspection, by experts or by appointed visitors,
helping to foster a hostile, secretive attitude towards outsiders.
Of course, by no means every one of these problems is to be found

in every one of India’s hundreds of gaols in its thirty-one independently
governed states. While some are grossly overcrowded, others are half-
empty; some are riddled with corruption but others are tightly run; and
while some are undoubtedly filthy and unhealthy in the extreme, others
are kept very clean. The gaol I visited was neither overcrowded nor
filthy. But although I chose it virtually at random, this does not make
it ‘typical’, any more than the horrific Bihar gaol described by Sinha
(1978) in which 143 people had died within three years.10 In the face of
such variety, it may appear that any attempt to generalize from a
description of one institution is doomed to failure. Nevertheless, certain
features of the gaol I saw seemed to reveal something more fundamental
about imprisonment than did the state of the drains or other physical
conditions, which may vary widely between institutions or, indeed, in
the same institution over time. I was particularly struck by aspects of
the regime that, to some Indian colleagues with whom I discussed them,
were ‘routine’, but to a foreigner seemed to reveal fundamental
assumptions in the country about how prisoners should be treated. The
following account summarizes the factual information I obtained about
the prison, as well as the general impressions I gained during the
necessarily short time I was able to spend inside it.
40
THE INDIAN PRISON
II CONDITIONS IN A CENTRAL GAOL

Few visitors are welcome in Indian prisons, and it is particularly
difficult for foreigners to achieve access. I was fortunate enough, with
the help of contacts in the academic world, to persuade the relevant
central government and state authorities to allow me to visit an
institution informally, on condition that neither the prison nor any
individual would be identified in anything I wrote. In the end, I spent
two afternoons in a central gaol (the highest category of prison,
intended primarily for long-termers) in a major town in the south of
India. The first afternoon was spent mainly with the Superintendent and
the second incorporated a full and relatively leisurely tour of the prison,
seeing whatever I wished. Naturally, such visits can allow only the most
superficial understanding of prison life, any conversations with
prisoners and warders being cursory and inhibited by the presence of a
senior officer. Nevertheless, the staff were open and co-operative and I
found the visit productive, gleaning more information and obtaining
clearer impressions than I originally expected. Inevitably, I saw the
prison through the eyes of a western visitor, but after three months in
India I had acquired at least a superficial understanding of the country
and its penal philosophy.
The gaol was situated not far from the centre of a large and fast-
growing industrial town. Built around the turn of the century, it had
been designed originally as a soldiers’ barracks. There was an outer
compound, in which relatives waited for their turn to speak to prisoners
through the bars of the main prison. The gate to this compound was
guarded by an unfriendly warder in khaki uniform, similar to that worn
by police and soldiers. He refused to let us pass, and my companion and
I waited an hour before being rescued by a passing senior officer. While
waiting we watched a small number of trusted prisoners in ragged white
cotton shirts, shorts and head-dress come and go apparently freely
through the outer gate, engaged in errands or in work in the nearby
gardens.
The main prison, into which few outsiders were allowed, was
guarded by armed officers. It was divided into three compounds, as
well as a small section for high security prisoners (there were only
three of the latter at the time I visited). One of the compounds held
primarily undertrial prisoners, one convicted short-termers, and the
third convicted long-termers. However, this was not a strict division,
and there was a certain amount of mixing of categories, mainly
41
MIKE MAGUIRE
because of the large numbers of undertrials. The long-termers were

housed chiefly in single cells, the others in dormitories containing forty
‘beds’ (or stone slabs). Most of the buildings in the prison were single-
storey.
At the time of my visit, there were about 600 prisoners in the
prison: 350 undertrials and 250 convicted prisoners. This was nearly
50 per cent higher than the latest official statistics for the prison that
I was able to obtain: on 31 December 1987, just over a year earlier,
there had been a population of 405. The official return did not give
any details about the population on that, or any other, day, but there
was a breakdown of the characteristics of all prisoners admitted
during 1987. The year’s admissions had consisted of 947 convicts,
2,018 undertrials and 15 detenus. No fewer than 708 of the convicts
(75 per cent) had been aged 31 or over, and 573 (61 per cent) had been
illiterate. As one would expect, the majority of the sentenced prisoners
coming in through the gates had received short terms, but 121 (13 per
cent) had been admitted to serve sentences over five years and 84 of
these had received life imprisonment for murder. Only 23 were
classified as ‘habitual offenders’ by dint of having one or more
previous convictions of substance.
To guard the 600 prisoners, there were just under 200 uniformed
warders, who worked three eight-hour shifts. They were not required to
escort prisoners from court or to other prisons, this being a police
responsibility in India, so during the day there might be 70 or so
warders in the prison at any one time.
We went first to the short-termers’ section, which consisted of several
barracks in a surprisingly spacious compound. Nearly all prisoners were
out of their cells, either employed in the workshops (see later) or
standing around talking or exercising on the sparsely grassed areas
between the barracks. Despite this apparent freedom, the discipline was
clearly strict. There were numerous warders in sight, all armed with
sticks, and every prisoner within range stood to attention and saluted as
the Deputy Superintendent passed.
The barracks were single-storey huts, each with forty raised stone
slabs to serve as beds. Prisoners were allowed no personal
possessions such as photographs of their families, let alone items like
radios or hobby materials, so, apart from some religious paintings on
the walls, the dormitories had an austere look, each ‘bed’ furnished
only with a jute mat and pillow, together with the prisoner’s plate,
spoon and mug. At the end of each barracks were latrines, which,
42
THE INDIAN PRISON
like all in the prison, drained into septic tanks. The latrines were
generally clean.
The other two sections of the prison also contained barracks,
but many of the long-term prisoners lived in blocks of single cells.
These were quite large, and some prisoners chose to share with
two others rather than face solitude. The cells were generally bare
with stone ‘beds’, but were clean and had integral toilets and
water taps.
The prison kitchen was located in the short-termers’ compound.
Later in the afternoon I saw a meal for all 600 prisoners being cooked
in one gigantic iron pot over a blazing fire. The pot was taller than a
man, and a prisoner had to climb up on a table in order to extract a
sample with a huge ladle. It looked and tasted exactly the same as the
previous day’s meal which I had sampled in the Superintendent’s
office—a medium-hot vegetable curry containing a mixture of root and
leafy vegetables. There was also a bitter tamarind soup. A group of
prisoners was carefully picking foreign bodies from a mound of rice
before cooking.
The diet in this, as in all Indian prisons, was laid down in very precise
terms. The entitlements per prisoner were printed in English and in the
local language on a large notice outside the kitchen. The following was
the diet laid down for working prisoners (those not working received
100 grams less rice per day):
ITEMS QUANTITY IN GRAMS

(Per head per day)
Rice or wheat 700
Dall (not to be issued on Sundays) 100
Vegetables 250
Groundnut oil or any other substitute 30
Tamarind 20
Fuel (firewood or any other substitute) 700
Salt 35
Mutton with bones or any other
non-vegetarian dish (weekly once) 175
Onions (to be issued on Sundays) 15
Chillies 10
Turmeric 2
Garlic 4
43
MIKE MAGUIRE
Coriander 4
Chillies to be issued on Sundays
(extra besides the quantity of 10 grams) 5
Milk (to be converted into buttermilk
or curd) 70 ml.
On Sundays and on nine festival days each year, prisoners received

a special diet, including 175 grams of meat per man. For the festivals,
there was a budget allocation of one rupee per head (about 4p in UK
currency). In order to gain some idea of the adequacy of the diet, I
asked several people from poor families outside how much rice they
ate and whether they would find the prison food acceptable. It
appeared that, in terms of weight, it was roughly the equivalent of an
agricultural labourer’s daily intake of rice. It was also over 50 per cent
more than that laid down in codes for the relief of famine as a basic
subsistence diet (Kynch 1989). The main criticisms made by most
people I spoke to who had experience of prison food concerned not its
quantity but its quality. The food was described as tasteless and
monotonous, and often cold by the time it reached people housed some
distance from the kitchens. More important, it was not high in protein
or calories, and many of the longer-term prisoners looked thin and
weak. Of course, it might be argued that most of them come from very
poor rural areas, and that their diets outside would be equally poor,
if not poorer, in nutritional value. But these ‘less-eligibility’ arguments
are surely at their weakest when applied to food, and virtually
untenable when one is talking about people incarcerated for fourteen
years or more.
It should be noted that, while the budgets and weight of food items
were calculated per prisoner, this did not mean that each inmate was
given an individually weighed portion: the uncooked food was simply
weighed in bulk on leaving the stores for the kitchen. I am unaware of
any allegations of malpractice at the prison I visited, but it has often
been claimed elsewhere that frauds are common among both staff and
prisoners responsible for storing, weighing and distributing food, and
that the actual consumption per prisoner can be up to 20 per cent below
that laid down in the regulations. To these risks of malpractice can be
added further risks in discrimination further down the line. Inmates
were divided into groups of five, and usually lived, worked and ate as
a group. The leader of each group collected the food and was
responsible for distributing it among his ‘team’. Obviously, this kind of
44
THE INDIAN PRISON
system allows opportunities for abuses and oppression of some prisoners

by others.
The practice of giving some inmates power over others is not
unusual in Indian prisons. As elsewhere, the gaol I visited appointed
‘convict overseers’ to assist the staff, a system much criticized in
recent years. However, there were only four of these, and their role
was restricted to supervising prisoners in work and vocational
activities, rather than the disciplinary roles undertaken by the more
controversial ‘convict warders’ employed in many other gaols.
Although they had no power to punish prisoners themselves, the
overseers reported any misdemeanours to staff and their word would
almost always be taken against that of another prisoner. They
therefore had a certain amount of power over others and were also
known to receive ‘perks’, for example extra food from the kitchen.
A healthier kind of ‘prisoner power’ was to be found in the
‘panchayat’ system, whereby prisoners elected representatives to put
their collective views to the Superintendent. Elections for six places
on the panchayat were held every six months, staff reserving the
right to exclude from consideration any prisoner they considered
unsuitable.
III WORK, EDUCATION, WELFARE, PAROLE

The normal daily routine for a convicted prisoner was constructed as
follows:
05.30–07.00 Reveille, ablutions, breakfast

07.00–11.00 Work
11.00–13.00 Lunch and rest
13.00–16.30 Work
16.30–17.30 Recreation
17.30–18.30 Evening meal
18.30–21.30 Locked in cells/barracks, lights on
21.30 Lights out
All convicted prisoners sentenced to rigorous imprisonment (the great

majority) were obliged to work seven-and-a-half hours per day.
Undertrials and any short-termers sentenced to simple imprisonment
were allocated only domestic duties. They could, however, volunteer for
45
MIKE MAGUIRE
work, which entitled them to wages and to a better diet (the same as
convicted prisoners).
There were five main types of ‘vocational’ work in the prison:
weaving, carpentry, printing, bookbinding and textile work. However,
not all of these were ‘going concerns’ at any particular time. At the end
of 1987, the distribution of jobs among convicts was recorded as
follows:
Maintenance
Convict overseers 4
Cleaners, sweepers 39
Repairs 1
Cooks 8
Other 19
Vocational
Agriculture/gardening 15
Weaving 23
Tailoring 2
Blacksmithy 1
Carpentry 39
Printing/bookbinding 1
Oil expelling 2
Jute work 14
Total 168
Normally, the ‘vocational’ jobs, which carried slightly higher wages,

were given only to men serving over two years, and the Superintendent
stated that little attempt was made to ‘rehabilitate’ those sentenced to
less. The equipment in all the workshops was rudimentary, but items of
reasonable quality were produced and sold, some of them on a stall
outside the front gate of the prison. In most cases, prisoners worked in
their groups of five, and were paid (or not) according to how well the
group performed. In the weaving shop, for example, prisoners were paid
three rupees each day, but only if the group completed thirty yards of
woven sheeting. Staff estimated that this very stiff target was attained
relatively rarely, so that, at most, one in five of the prisoners actually
received pay on any one day. When they did enough to earn wages, they
were allowed to keep or spend half, the other half being saved for them
on their release. The level of pay, which fell from three to two rupees
per day for non-vocational work, can be judged from a comparison of
46
THE INDIAN PRISON
the prison wage with the typical wage of an agricultural labourer in the
area. The latter would receive around fourteen rupees per day.
The allocation of work was in some cases based upon people’s skills
outside; for example, prisoners who had been barbers, washer-men,
gardeners or ‘sweepers’ (refuse collectors and cleaners from the lower
castes) were given similar jobs if available, but, generally speaking,
new inmates were assigned a task without much deliberation or
consultation. Thereafter, it was difficult for them to change. As the
Superintendent put it, ‘Rehabilitation means learning to work’, which
included work which they did not like or to which they were not
suited. This reflects a common tendency in India to think of rigorous
imprisonment and vocational work as meaning the same thing: little
distinction is made between punishment and rehabilitation in the
prison context.
There was one teacher employed in the prison, who undertook
education at all levels from basic literacy to assisting with open
university degrees. He also distributed library books to those who
asked for them—although I saw few books in the cells or barracks
and it was stated that few prisoners were interested in reading.
Prisoners were not normally allowed to visit the library to choose
their own books. But although the educational services were supplied
to only a few inmates, several of these were undertaking advanced
work: three had completed BAs over the past few years, another an
MA, and nine were embarking upon university degrees by
correspondence.
Welfare provision, apart from that provided by the prison staff
themselves, was non-existent. There were two posts allocated for
social workers, but these had not been filled for a long time. The
only recourse for prisoners with social or practical problems,
including those involving families outside, was to make an
application to see the Superintendent or another senior officer. There
was a prison hospital with twelve beds, but this had little equipment
and only basic drugs. Seriously ill prisoners were transferred to
outside hospitals. In 1987, 233 had been admitted at some time into
the prison hospital.
The main recreational activities in the prison were volley-ball, ring
tennis, chess, kabaddi and other board games, but limited numbers of
prisoners actually engaged in them. There was also an outdoor stage on
which occasional concerts, plays, or other entertainment or religious
functions were held.
47
MIKE MAGUIRE
There are in India a variety of systems of home leave, furlough,

early release and parole, but in practice relatively few prisoners
benefit. During 1987–8 in the prison I visited, twenty-three prisoners
had been granted home leave, mainly for reasons of death or serious
illness in their families. Early release was possible on the
recommendation of an Advisory Board, made up of representatives
from various agencies, but in 1987, while 458 were released on
expiry of their sentence, none at all appeared to have been granted
early release on licence. (Similarly, Datir (1978:245) found that only
five of 644 released prisoners in a sample in Maharastra had been
granted this.) Most, however, had earned remission, which is given at
a rate of five days per month, so long as the prisoner works to a
satisfactory standard. Lifers were entitled after two years to apply
for furlough to maintain contact with their families, but this was in
the hands of the police department, not the prison authorities, and
was rarely granted—a matter of some concern to the gaol
Superintendent.
Finally, formal punishments were used relatively rarely. During
1987, only twenty-six prisoners had been officially punished, twenty-
five of these for ‘minor’ offences—although these included fighting,
stealing and ‘sodomy’. The punishments included forfeiture of
remission, single cell confinements, restrictions upon access to the
canteen and, more controversially, the stopping of letters and visits
for up to a month. (In normal circumstances each prisoner was
allowed one visit and one letter per week.) On rare occasions, too,
handcuffs could be applied as a punishment. The rarity of formal
disciplinary hearings is perhaps one indication of the strict control of
inmates achieved by the continual presence of considerable numbers
of warders armed with long sticks. It may also reflect the nature of
the inmate population. As one informant put it, most are not
‘hardened criminals’ but uneducated rural dwellers who would rarely
show open disrespect to people of higher caste or to those they
perceive as ‘sahibs’.
One must, of course, be cautious in drawing conclusions from only two
visits to an institution, but I can perhaps summarize my general
impressions. The basic living conditions were clearly above average for
Indian prisons, judging from published and oral accounts of those
elsewhere. In terms of space, sanitation and general cleanliness,
conditions seemed acceptable, and I have certainly seen worse in British
prisons. The food, although mainly low in nutritive value, unappetizing
48
THE INDIAN PRISON
and depressingly monotonous, was at least adequate in quantity. On the

other hand, the features which stood out most starkly to a western visitor
were the harshness of the regime, the lack of stimulation for long-term
prisoners, the absence of welfare provisions, and the exclusion of even
minor personal comforts such as the display of family mementos and the
pursuit of cell hobbies.
Although some lip-service is now being paid to the concept of
rehabilitation within prisons, there was little evidence of serious efforts
to prepare prisoners for life outside. The lack of welfare officers, the
rarity of home leave, the concept of visits and letter-writing as a
privilege which could be withdrawn as a punishment, and the denial of
permission to keep family photographs, were all indications of an
absence of serious interest in helping to maintain a prisoner’s contacts
with the outside world. Similarly, ‘vocational’ training was regarded
more as a means of making prisoners work hard than of training them
for a task to which they were individually suited. And the absence of
systematic programmes to teach basic literacy added to the impression
that the prison was regarded in reality as little more than a ‘warehouse’
for inmates, not a vehicle for their improvement. Above all, there
seemed to be little recognition of the special needs of people who were
destined to spend very long periods behind bars: the long-termers were
treated not very differently from the short-termers, and relatively little
thought seemed to have been given to the risk of mental deterioration
in an environment without stimulus. Thus, while the basic living
conditions were markedly better than I had expected, it has to be
recorded that the ‘psychological’ character of the institution (as, I
suspect, in most prisons in India) appeared to me harsh, negative and
even cruel.
IV PROSPECTS FOR REFORM

While the institution I visited may not have been entirely ‘typical’ —
indeed, was in a state with a relatively good record on prisons—the
above observations highlight some of the difficult issues facing penal
reformers in India. Prisons not only carry the weight of a bleak,
punitive tradition dating from the days of the British, but the long
years of neglect and lack of investment mean that any significant
reforms demand a massive injection of resources. The fundamental
problem here is that, as in many other countries, prison reform
occupies one of the lowest rungs on the ladder of political priorities.
49
MIKE MAGUIRE
India’s major government policy is set and its large-scale capital

expenditure is committed in a series of Five Year Plans.
Unsurprisingly, these are dominated by schemes for economic
development. Prisons, being regarded by most planners and
politicians as ‘non-productive’ (short-sighted a view as this may be),
did not until very recently achieve even token inclusion in a Five Year
Plan, and this came only after a lengthy battle by individuals within
the Ministries of Home Affairs and Welfare to include a meaningful
package for development in the correctional field. Budgets for
prisons have hardly kept pace with inflation, and, despite occasional
lip-service commitment to reform, the policy of the British before
1947—to run gaols as cheaply as possible—has not changed
significantly in practice (Baxi 1982; Khan and Chilad 1982;
Bhatacharya 1985; Gokhale and Sohoni 1988).
The problem was exacerbated by the decision in 1950 to leave
prisons as primarily the province of the states, which gives the
central government something of an excuse for its half-hearted
approach to reform. A further deep-seated reason for neglect lies in
the unforgiving attitudes of the general population towards
criminals, which, although fostered and maintained by the British,
existed long before and after they left (cf. Chhrabra 1970). Many
prisoners continue to be rejected by their local community upon
release, there is very little voluntary involvement in after-care, and,
except when political activists are imprisoned, few public pressure
groups demand reform.
Criminologists, too, have largely neglected the prisons. In an
excellent review of the literature, Srivastava (1982) concluded that,
while there were some useful Ph.D. theses, only two published books
(her own (1977) and that of Singh (1978)) were based substantially
upon primary empirical research within prisons. The vast majority of
academic writers, as I discovered myself in a trawl of more recent
literature, tend to recycle old material, relying upon out-of-date
statistics and official reports. This has greatly reduced their potential
for instigating change. Instead, the only effective exposure of prison
conditions and pressure for reform have come from journalists,
lawyers, judges and, indeed, international organizations such as
Amnesty International. For example, ex-detenus such as Nayar (1978),
Tyler (1977) and Kumar (1979) have written graphic accounts of their
time in gaol, another journalist Sheela Barse has fought determinedly
(including initiating law-suits) for the removal of children from gaols,
50
THE INDIAN PRISON
and Justices Bhagwati and Krishna Iyer made wide-ranging

pronouncements—as well as damning general comments—in
celebrated Supreme Court cases such as Hussainara Khatoon and Sunil
Batra. 11
Despite these praiseworthy efforts, only the tip of the iceberg has
been noticeably affected. The hugely daunting size of the problem —
nearly 1,200 gaols under the control of thirty-one different states —
ensures that even unequivocal instructions from the Supreme Court are
anything but universally implemented. Unless there are local people with
the time, resources and energy to file petitions of contempt, matters are
likely to remain unchanged in many parts of the country (Dhagamwar
1987).12
The one glimmer of light on the horizon at present is the
possibility of a positive reaction by the government to the Mulla
Committee’s comprehensive report. Certain periods in the past have
seen minor bursts of prison reform, and it may be that this will
produce another. One such followed the 1919 Indian Jails Committee
report, and another came shortly after Independence; many of the
new leaders had spent time in gaols, and devoted some attention to
the problem in the 1950s (including the drawing up of a Model
Prison Manual in 1959). The flurry of critical publications by ex-
detenus after the Emergency helped to attract some extra finance
towards prisons, as well as fuelling the pressure which led to the
setting up of Justice Mulla’s committee. Khan and Chilad (1982: 49)
saw these developments as the ‘modest beginning’ of a new phase in
prison reform, in which, at last, ‘institutional correction was
accorded the status of an issue, worthy of being discussed by the
political executive and the bureaucracy’.
In the six years since the Mulla Committee’s report, there has
been a certain amount of further progress, including increases in
the prison budget, some new instructions from the central
government to the states, and the setting up of a small policy
section within the Ministry of Home Affairs to consider the
implementation of the recommendations. The Eighth Finance
Commission in 1985 13 recommended the allocation of more funds
for the restructuring of prison buildings, and the Ministry of
Welfare put forward a plan for improving the welfare of prisoners,
including some attention to after-care, under the Seventh Five Year
Plan. Instructions to the states included a timetable for the
rewriting of outdated gaol manuals and recommendations for the
51
MIKE MAGUIRE
improvement of staff training, as well as a demand for quarterly

reports on progress.
It is not yet clear whether this is the beginning of significant
changes, or merely another short-lived period of interest. It has to be
noted that gaol conditions are no longer newsworthy and the clamour
for reform has largely faded. After six years, the Mulla report is still
‘under consideration’ by the state governments, and has yet to be laid
before Parliament. Despite the encouraging signs mentioned earlier,
there is a danger that it may meet a similar fate to all its worthy
predecessors.
In sum, effective penal reform will not be achieved until the central
government takes it really seriously and
1 Injects a vastly increased amount of money into the prison system;14

2 Enacts major new legislation, completely recasting the punitive
Indian Penal Code 1860 and Prison Act 1894;
3 Creates a national cadre of properly trained prison officers;
4 Sets up effective inspection machinery.
Ultimately, this may be best achieved by transferring full responsibility

for prisons from the states to the central government, or, if this remains
politically unfeasible, by building more federal prisons as ‘models’ for
the remainder (an engine of reform in other countries with a similar
federal structure).
Such a programme of reform requires a firm ‘political will’, which in
turn depends upon demands from the people. Unfortunately, in present-
day India, despite its openness in many areas of government and its
generally good record on human rights, the state of the prisons remains
a rather shameful secret, surfacing now and then, but basically an issue
in which neither the politicians, nor the vocal pressure groups, nor the
public, have an abiding interest or concern.
NOTES
1 For example, the National Security Act and the Conservation of Foreign
Exchange and the Prevention of Smuggling Activities Act.
2 This occurred most dramatically during the ‘Emergency’ of 1975–7, when
thousands of the government’s political opponents, including academics
and journalists, were arrested and detained. More recently, both Amnesty
International and the US State Department have accused India of violating
52
THE INDIAN PRISON
human rights, particularly in regard to suppression of terrorism in the

Punjab.
3 The traditional name for gangs of violent robbers. ‘Dacoity’ is an offence
under the Indian penal code.
4 The terms are used in the Indian Lunacy Act 1912, which has not been
revised.
5 ‘Children’ are defined in the Indian penal system as boys under the age of
16 and girls under 18.
6 ‘Sub-gaols’, some of which are very small, make up over two-thirds of all
gaols in India. Many are managed by part-time superintendents, and some
are, in effect, run by the local police (Baxi 1982:178–83).
7 Gokhale and Sohoni (1988:170) note that in 1974, the cases of 72 per cent
of the total persons arrested remained ‘pending’ at the end of that year.
8 It is by no means uncommon in criminal cases, including murder, in which
local politics are involved (and many assaults in India are connected with
politically-motivated disputes) or in which people with local influence are
involved, for pressure to be put upon senior police officers to drop the
charges. If this pressure comes from senior enough level, particularly in the
governing party, it is very difficult to resist (see, for example, Sharma 1977;
National Police Commission 1981; Baxi 1982; Gupta 1988). It is also
widely believed that the more professional thieves ‘pay off’ the police to
escape arrest.
9 Convicted persons in India are sentenced either to rigorous or to simple
imprisonment, the latter reserved mainly for minor offenders, who are not
required to work. Of the convicted population at any one time, no more
than 6–7 per cent will be serving simple imprisonment.
10 Baxi writes: ‘One would like to believe that Seraikela jail does not represent
the typical Indian prison. Unfortunately, all available evidence (random and
sketchy though it is, of necessity) reminds us that India is a sub-continent
full of Seraikelas’. However, this is not a fair conclusion from the other
evidence he presents. Nor does it fit, for example, with Datir’s evidence
(1978:378) of a low death rate in Maharastra prisons (32 deaths in 1970
out of an average daily population of 14,809).
11 The H.Khatoon case (see earlier) resulted in the release of thousands of
undertrials, and Sunil Batra (All India Report 1978 Sc. 1675 and 1980 Sc.
1579) outlawed the indiscriminate use of solitary confinement and bars and
fetters.
12 Dhagamwar (1987) writes: ‘Justice Bhagwati’s fond hopes of the High
Courts were to be disappointed. As the months passed the unpleasant truth
began to emerge. The Supreme Court was unable to discipline the
executive.’ Similar problems in the implementation of court decisions have
been met in the field of prison reform in the USA. There, courts have
sometimes appointed ‘masters’ to oversee the implementation of their
decisions (Bronstein and Morgan 1985).
13 In 1978, the Seventh Finance Commission had intervened in the prisons
area for the first time, recommending an allocation of Rs. 480 million
(about £20 million sterling) by the central government to states with
53
MIKE MAGUIRE
serious deficiencies in water supply, electricity and sanitation in their

prisons, as well as for new building.
14 A good illustration of governmental approach is the conference of Chief
Secretaries of the states in 1979, which was the first time ‘the top
bureaucracy in a country came round a table to discuss a relatively
insignificant subject like jails’ (Khan and Chilad 1982:48). While agreeing
upon reforms, including the adoption of the Model Prison Manual, they
failed to seek the necessary additional funds.
REFERENCES
All-India Committee on Jail Reforms (1983) Report of All-India Committee on
Jail Reforms 1980–3 (Justice A.N.Mulla, Chairman), New Delhi:
Government of India.
Baxi, U. (1982) The Crisis of the Indian Legal System, Delhi: Bikas Publishing
House.
Bhatacharya, S.K. (1985) ‘An assessment of the institutional treatment
programmes for adults and juveniles’, Indian Journal of Criminology and
Criminalistics 3, 4, pp. 136–41.
Bronstein, A. and Morgan, R. (1985) ‘Prisoners and the courts: the United
States experience’, in M.Maguire, J.Vagg and R.Morgan (eds) Accountability
and Prisons, London: Tavistock.
Chadha, K. (1983) The Indian Jail, Delhi: Vikas.
Chhrabra, K.S. (1970) Quantum of Punishment in Criminal Law in India,
Chandigarh: Punjab University Publication Bureau.
Crime in India 1983 (1988), New Delhi: Government of India.
Datir, R.N. (1978) Prison as a Social System, Bombay: Popular Press.
Dhagamwar, V. (1987) ‘The disadvantaged and the law’, paper to workshop
Poverty in India: Research and Policy, Queen Elizabeth House, Oxford, 1–
6 October 1987.
Diaz (1977) ‘The forgotten man of the criminal justice system’, Journal of
Correctional Work.
Gokhale, S.D. and Sohoni, N.K. (1988) ‘Whither correction?’, in S.V.Rao (ed.)
Perspectives in Criminology, New Delhi: Vikas.
Gupta, A.S. (1988) ‘Law and order in a democratic society’, in S.V.Rao (ed.)
Perspectives in Criminology, New Delhi: Vikas.
Khan, M.Z. and Chilad, B.S. (1982) ‘Policy shifts in institutional correction in
India’, Indian Journal of Social Work 43, no. 1, pp. 39–51.
Krishna, Iyer, Justice V.R. (1988) ‘From Macauley to Mahatma: an Indian
criminological odyssey’, Indian Journal of Criminology 16, no. 2.
Kumar, S. (1979) A Chief Minister’s Prison Diary, Delhi: Vikas.
Kynch, J. (1989) ‘Scarcities, distress and crime in British India’, paper to 7th
World Congress on Rural Sociology, Bologna, July 1988.
54
THE INDIAN PRISON
National Police Commission (1981) Compendium of Observations and

Recommendations of the National Police Commission, New Delhi:
Government of India.
Nayar, K. (1978) In Jail, New Delhi: Vikas.
Reckless, W.D. (1952) Report on Jail Administration in India, Delhi:
Government Publication Division.
Richardson, G. (1985) ‘The case for prisoners’ rights’, in M.Maguire, J. Vagg
and R.Morgan (eds) Accountability and Prisons, London: Tavistock.
Sharma, P.D. (1977) Indian Police: A Development Approach, New Delhi:
Uppal.
Sharma, P.D. (1985) Police and Criminal Justice Administration in India, New
Delhi: Uppal.
Shourie, A. (1980) Institutions under the Janata Rule, New Delhi.
Shukla, K.S. (1980) in T.N.Chaturvedi and S.K.Chandra (eds) ‘Correctional
administration in India—research trends and priorities’, in Social
Administration: Direction and Change, New Delhi: Indian Institute of Public
Administration.
Shukla, K.S. (ed.) (1987) The Other Side of Development: Social and
Psychological Implications, New Delhi: Sage.
Sinha, S. (1978) ‘The horrors of Seraikela Jail’, Economic and Political Weekly
13: 1,165.
Singh, I.J. (1978) Indian Prison: A Sociological Enquiry, Delhi: Concept
Publishing Co.
Srivastava, S.P. (1977) Indian Prison Community, Lucknow: Pustak Kendra.
Srivastava, S.P. (1982) ‘Research on correctional structures and administration
in India’, Indian Journal of Criminology and Criminalistics 2, no. 2, pp.
119–39.
Trivedi, B.V. (1978) Prison Administration in India, New Delhi: Uppal.
Tyler, M. (1977) My Years in an Indian Prison, Bombay: B.I. Publications.
55
Chapter Three
THE SLUZEWIEC PRISON IN

WARSAW, POLAND
A penal labour centre, or ‘half-open’ prison
MONIKA PLATEK
INTRODUCTION
A statement that prisons can be found all over the world would be a
truism were it not for a certain reflection related to it. Wherever they
are, prisons serve the purpose of restricting their inmates’ freedom; but
the interpretations of the functions and aims officially attributed to
them vary according to each state’s institutional and legal system. Also,
the tasks prisons actually fulfil behind their external, officially specified,
aims vary greatly from state to state.
Prisons have certain features in common:
– they do exist in every country;

– they serve as political instruments;
– their officially proclaimed aims are not the only ones they have;
– both the official and the actually fulfilled aims undergo changes that
reflect socio-political changes in the societies in which they function;
– in depriving their inmates of liberty they cause a life-threatening and
complex affliction.
Thus a description of just one Polish prison will be a picture of a

particular reality and an example of prison and imprisonment in Poland.
But it will have to leave out the innate socio-political problems of the
Polish prison system which deserve a separate and comprehensive
discussion, but can only be mentioned here.
In order to achieve a balance, it might be worth while considering the
data that characterize the whole of the Polish prison system before we
pass the gate leading to the Sluzewiec Prison in Warsaw.
56
SLUZEWIEC PRISON, POLAND
BASIC INFORMATION ON PRISONS AND PENITENTIARY

POLICY IN POLAND
For many years, penal institutions, their population, state of repair, and
tasks they fulfilled were a taboo subject in post-war Poland. Some
researchers interested in this subject were joined after 19561 by a group
of students from the Students’ Penitentiary Club, which had been
founded by an ex-convict who had spent many years in prison during
the Stalinist era. They had varying success trying to get inside prisons
and to study the prison reality.
It was only in the years 1980–1, in the period of Solidarity, that the
size of the prison population was made public for the first time, as well
as information about the inmates’ living conditions and about the
protests that took place in prisons all over Poland in that period. For the
first time, too, society itself demanded an improvement in the prisoners’
situation. From 1945, the average number of prisoners in Poland has
been higher than 100,000. The rate of prisoners per 100,000 of the
population was about 300, and after the introduction of the new penal
code in 1970 the average prison term exceeded 27 months. In 1981 the
number of prisoners went down, but this proved a temporary reduction
only. In 1982 the situation was back at ‘normal’; the fact that prisons
and detention centres were grossly overpopulated was carefully passed
over in silence.
The process initiated in the Solidarity period was felt several
years later. This time not only society but also the prison system
was ripe for reform. Struggling with overpopulation, a shortage of
trained staff made worse by more staff resignations, and economic
problems, the prisons themselves decided to introduce changes. This
process has been encouraged by more open access to previously
secret data.
The prison population in Poland

A report on the state of prisons in Poland, prepared in January 1989 by
the Central Prison Management and accepted by the Minister of Justice
(to whom prisons have been accountable since 1956), contains the
following statement: ‘A chronic overpopulation of prison units has been
a permanent feature of the system throughout the post-war period.
Amnesty acts reduced the populations of detention centres and prisons
but for very short periods.’2 In April 1986, the number of prisoners in
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Poland went up to 116,000, which made another amnesty act

necessary. 3 Passed in July 1986, it reduced the prison population to
102,000. From then on, for the first time in the post-war history of the
Polish prison system, the number of prisoners has been going down.
This is a result both of changes in penal law, and of a changing
sentencing policy. The latter change resulted in a broader use of
probation, reduced number of arrests, sentencing of women to prison
terms becoming exceptional, and less frequent prison sentences for
unintentional offenders, young adults and first offenders. As a result the
rate of prisoners per 100,000 of the population is now 177. Hardly a
reason to feel satisfied or proud (the world index being calculated at
about 100); but in the Polish conditions, this is indeed a positive
change.4
One should bear it in mind, however, when discussing the prison
system that the size of the prison population is only one of the elements
in the total picture. Just as essential are data on the prisons’ estate and
the condition and standard of prison staff.
The prison estate

According to the data for December 1988, the prison system included
149 basic units: 67 remand prisons and 82 penal institutions for
sentenced prisoners; there are also 66 external units under the direct
management of prisons and detention centres and 8 ‘social adjustment
centres’; the latter are compulsory for recidivists who have been termed
as such by the court, and who spend up to five years there after serving
their prison sentence.
About 70 per cent of prisons were built before the First World War,
in the 19th or 18th century; some are even older. So, as can be expected,
they are in a very bad state of repair. According to the Central Prison
Management, nineteen of them are unfit for use (which does not prevent
their being just as overcrowded as any other prison). 5 Twenty-six
prisons are badly in need of improvement, and in the case of six of
them, not even that would help, as they are beyond any repair. Sixteen
prisons lack a sewage system, and five lack central heating. All of them
are big institutions where 2,000 inmates, on average, have been
detained.
A peculiar feature of the Polish, as well as the East-European, prison
system is its connection with the state economy. Formally, it follows
from the provision of the penal code which speaks of re-socialization of
58
prisoners through work. This slogan has been bandied about and the
term ‘resocialization’ abused, until it is void of any meaning in Polish
penitentiary practice; the authorities have exploited prisoners,
sometimes quite openly, as a cheap or free workforce. It was, and often
still is, a thoughtless and wasteful exploitation, one that ruins health,
deprives the prisoners of any motivation to work, prejudices them
against society, fails to add to their development or, usually, to their
qualifications.
The Polish prison system is a big industrial tycoon, owner of 61 self-
dependent production units. Of these, 48 are industrial units (26
factories and 22 auxiliary industrial farms); there are also four
agricultural and nine building enterprises. All of them together can
employ about 26,000 prisoners. A very large group of about 30,000
prisoners work outside prison, building harbours, steelworks and
houses, or are employed in mines, ironworks and various factories.
There is also a broad category of jobs performed ‘quite free’ (that is, the
state does not pass on the cost) because the work is not concerned
directly with ‘production’. This group is given the euphemistic name of
‘public works’; it includes building roads, laying railway tracks, land
reclamation, installation of high-voltage line supports, work at
distribution depots. Leaving the details aside, it could be said without
exaggeration that the persistence of the very large prison population
was due to its existence as an inexhaustible source of labour, to be freely
disposed of by the authorities.6 The crisis of the Polish economy and the
resulting need to change production methods and the style of
management also helped to make possible the long-demanded prison
reform.
That reform is above all manifest in the trend towards reducing
the prison population. A provision was introduced in 1986 that was
truly revolutionary for the Polish conditions: the living space per
prisoner should be at least 2.5 sq.m. The main effect of this during
the first eighteen months of its operation was a reduction of the
prison population by about half; this was achieved first of all
through the use of various forms of release. The population went
down to about 60,000. In addition there was a retreat from the
assertion, as emphatic as it was preposterous, that a prisoner is
treated as a normal employee. The problem has at last been
acknowledged of paying prisoners less or not paying them at all just
because they are prisoners. Employment in prison is not added to the
prisoner’s qualifications for entitlement to benefits; consequently, his
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salary is lower and he has to work longer before he can retire.

Prisoners get no money during justified absence. So there is too wide
a discrepancy between the apparent meaning of ‘resocialization
through work’ and the term as it works out in practice.
The crisis is such that the prison management itself is now trying to
equalize conditions for prisoners and other employees.
Prison staff in Poland

The changes now introduced in the prison system are also aimed at
checking the loss of prison staff. There are about 27,000 regular posts
in the prison system, but it has always suffered staff shortages,
particularly of well-trained and educated employees. What probably
induced some of them to take a job in prison were the higher than
average wages and the earlier chance of getting proper housing. This
compensated for the disadvantages of service—its low status and
unpopularity in society, the need to be on duty for long periods if
required, mental fatigue, and so on. Today, however, owing to spiralling
inflation, the wages of prison staff are not as attractive as they used to
be; the general crisis is also apparent in the prison system’s housing
shortage and lack of financial means to develop building. An additional
burden for the staff is the paramilitary nature of service and the
permanent conflict between the educational staff, who amount to about
10 per cent of all prison employees, and the security staff, who are over
50 per cent. Those who quit tend to be aged under 30 and have worked
for five years on average. The deteriorating staff situation and
unattractive conditions of work intensify the negative attitude of those
who stay on.
Thus at the beginning of the 1980s, the prison system was in a
situation where changes became both urgent and necessary. The first
attempt at solving the crisis by means of increased repression, as used
repeatedly in the past, failed this time. The times had changed: Polish
society after 1980 was different from society before.7 But several years
passed before those in power who influence the country’s penitentiary
policy came to understand this.
THE SLUZEWIEC PRISON IN WARSAW

The above introduction, though short, was needed for a proper
appraisal of the processes that are now in progress in the Polish
60
prison system. They will now be illustrated through one penal

institution, which differs from other prisons but is not extreme in any
way.
Situated on the outskirts of Warsaw, it was built for the prisoners
of war who once cleared Warsaw of rubble. Its eight narrow barracks
with no sewer system were initially to be used for a short time only,
and pulled down afterwards. Instead, in 1951, they were separated
from one another by internal walls and tall wire fences. The whole was
surrounded with a high wall. Behind that wall, a building for the
administration was erected, and still another wall added which
enclosed that building. A prison and detention centre were established
there. Before, several dozen prisoners of war inhabited the barracks;
now the capacity was set at 1,540 prisoners, 8 cubic metres per person
according to the regulations. In practice, the population of the
Sluzewiec Prison often exceeded 2,000 inmates. Three double-decker
beds were put in small cells, and extra inmates slept on straw
mattresses on the floor. After work, the inmates were locked in their
cells.
Work occupied most of the prisoners’ time. There was no factory
in the prison itself; but I dare say it was not by chance that many
enterprises employing prisoners soon sprang up in the
neighbourhood.
The prison’s proper designation is ‘Penal Labour Centre for First
Offenders’, that is, it is a half-open prison. Its inmates should be
non-recidivists who still have up to six years of a prison term to
serve. At present, the average term still to be served does not exceed
two years. But just a few years ago the prison housed men sentenced
to six years or longer for petty offences. Attacked in the Seym
Bulletin (the official government record) in 1987 for the bad
situation in prisons, the ex-chief of the prison system put up the
following defence:
I believe prisons could and should function normally. But during the
35 years of my work there, I have never witnessed normal
functioning. Things go on from one operation or amnesty act to
another…. I do not want to be misunderstood. I do not intend to
criticise the penal policy as it is a result of a definite situation. It
follows from the prison staff’s experience, however, that policy
should be more stable…. If we send a man with six years still to
serve to a penal labour centre and take him to work outside—and
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MONIKA PLATEK
there are 30,000 such inmates—this means that other measures

instead of imprisonment might be applied towards them just as
well. 8
Despite this view, however, for many years the prison staff in
general backed this highly repressive penal policy, stating emphatically
that despite the difficult conditions the prisons would certainly
accommodate and employ all newcomers. This was achieved, however,
at the expense of prisoners’ rights and their conditions of
imprisonment.
It was only in recent years that the prison staff realized that although
they had no hand in sentencing, they were responsible for the
atmosphere inside the prison. Two years ago, the Sluzewiec Prison, with
its then capacity of 1,540, had 2,500 inmates crammed into it. In its
eight barracks, which many years ago were found not worth repairing,
and were now ready to be pulled down, men were kept crowded in cells
which opened only to let them go to work, and to accept on return.
Unsurprisingly, it was very difficult to maintain order in such
conditions. The proliferating and irregular penalties, far from bringing
improvement, made matters worse. Tensions and deep mutual animosity
between guards and inmates could be sensed immediately on entering
the prison.
Now, the new attitude to the role of prisons is an example of the
changes everywhere in Polish society. The Sluzewiec Prison is a good
example of those changes.
I visited the Sluzewiec Prison often over a period of three months,
and saw it become a new institution practically every month. Neither
the staff nor the management were changed; what changed
completely, however, was the atmosphere. It was enough in the Polish
conditions to let the staff behave more humanely and most used this
opportunity.
Though it is isolated from the world with double walls, the
Sluzewiec Prison bears the title of half-open institution. This is
because of the categories of its inmates and the fact that they work
outside the prison. Today, the half-open character also finds its
expression in the relaxation of rules. Such relaxation had already
been possible before, but it only occurred with the changed attitude
overall towards prisons.
Apart from the above-mentioned category of prisoners (intentional
offenders with up to six years still to serve), the prison
62
accommodates all unintentional offenders from Warsaw who were

not awaiting trial. Most of them are then sent on to other prisons.
Some, however, serve their terms in the Sluzewiec Prison for
economic or personal reasons (because of a short sentence or the
possibility of maintaining contacts with their families). The general
principle, however, is that intentional and unintentional offenders
should not be kept together.
Over 70 per cent of inmates are employed outside the prison. They
used to work in several dozen, and now work in about a dozen, firms
and factories, from building to heavy engineering and metallurgical
industry to dairies, meat processing plants and clothes factories.
Employment of prisoners is profitable for the firms: the Governor
stresses that it is only owing to the smaller population of inmates
that the number of work-places has reduced. At the beginning of
1989, the prison still had nearly 1,000 inmates; in April, there were
800, late in May, 600, and in the first days of July, as few as 500.
The only firm on the premises is a Design Office which prepares
designs for the prison system, the Ministry of Justice, and the Public
Prosecutor’s Office. Over twenty prisoners work there. Some also do
unpaid work, helping maintain the prison, the kitchen, laundry,
library, etc.
A small group of inmates do outwork. It is done in cells and consists
of easy and simple (though not always healthy) manual operations, such
as pasting envelopes or small wooden elements.
An event that was particularly influential with respect to the
changes now taking place was the transfer to Sluzewiec, in 1987, of
a special unit for imprisoned drug addicts. The acceptance of a
special, much milder, regime for drug addicts as compared with other
categories of prisoners is a peculiar feature of the Polish prison
system. Such units often employ specialists (psychologists, teachers,
sociologists), many of them truly committed and keen actually to
help that category of prisoner. It is quite clear that the vigour and
determination of the staff of the special ward (a woman psychologist
who is head of the ward and one senior sociologist) paved the way
to change for the entire Sluzewiec Prison. The beginnings were not all
that easy. The requirements for the new unit were that two selected
guards and nobody else should be assigned to the ward; the ward
should have a sewage system added; cells should be left unlocked; the
inmates should be permitted to wear their own clothes and to garden;
the unit head and the senior sociologist should also wear their own
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civilian clothes and not uniforms; the demand that inmates stand to
attention should be abandoned in the case of addicts; they should be
permitted to sit or lie down on the bed during the day; in some cases,
they should also be permitted to telephone their mothers, and their
family and friends should also have the opportunity to telephone
them. These are just a few of the long list of demands; the battle for
them lasted for months. On the one hand, this demonstrates the
extent of restrictions and rules imposed on a Polish prisoner; on the
other hand, the fact that they were achieved is an indication of the
avalanche of change that has been possible. Recently, only a part of
wards beside the special one was open during the day in the
Sluzewiec Prison. Today, cells all over the prison remain open daily,
and in three wards where the inmates go to work unsupervised by the
staff, the cells are also never locked at night This makes the
prisoners’ life easier indeed, considering the lack of WCs in the cells.
Moreover, contacts with the outside world have been greatly
extended. The visit, drastically restricted before to one hour a month
and strictly supervised, now lasts up to ten hours outside the prison,
at least once a month, such leaves being granted quite often. The
family reports at the prison, signs the prisoner out, and undertakes
to bring him back after a specified time, but always before 7 p.m.,
the time of the evening roll-call. What still grates on such occasions
is the verbal routine that accompanies these visits, making the
families feel they are collecting or registering a parcel rather than a
human being. It seems, however, that the staff have also started to
realize it little by little. Also, passes of up to five days, granted as
privileges, have become widespread. Before, only the selected, ‘tested’
prisoners could hope to get one; in practice, this applied to those
who collaborated with the staff and informed against their fellow
inmates.
The special ward for drug addicts seems also to deserve some
credit for the general trend to using privileges rather than
punishments in maintaining discipline. The value of maintaining the
prisoner’s contacts with the outside world, through passes and
additional visits, has been recognized. When visits outside prison and
passes are kept to the minimum, the problems of homosexuality,
homosexual rapes, self-mutilations, and other drastic symptoms of
prison subculture are present. These phenomena still plague many
Polish closed prisons. The staff are still patronizing towards the
inmates and treat them contemptuously; it seems, however, that the
64
conditions which make it possible for the staff to humiliate prisoners

and treat them as objects have now started to decline little by little
in the Sluzewiec prison.
The Governor’s recent decision to permit the inmates to have their
own television sets in the cells, although they still cannot have their
own radio sets, is truly revolutionary in nature. The reason is probably
that there is room for one small television set only in a cell now shared
by four to six people; and we can easily imagine the effects of all
prisoners simultaneously listening to their own radios, each set tuned
to a different programme—with ear-phones being both expensive and
hard to get in Poland. Besides, the cells have loudspeakers,
broadcasting programmes from the prison’s own centre, also operated
by the inmates. It cannot be denied, however, that underlying the ban
on radio sets was the fear that the prisoners might take to listening to
Radio Free Europe, still the most popular station in the outside world.
But today such a fear is nothing but a relic: it may therefore be
expected that the prisoners will be allowed to have their own radio
sets any time now.
The inmates still wear the obligatory prison clothes with the
institution’s stamp visible on the trousers and jacket alike. They also
wear such clothes going to work. More and more often, however,
they are permitted to wear their own clothes in prison, in winter
above all.
The prison has no school, though individual instruction at secondary
school level is organized for drug addicts. The remaining prisoners can
take vocational training courses, to be a stoker, or cook, for instance.
The courses offered are seldom attractive, but at least they fill in the
time of those who are willing to train.
The life of the prisoners at Sluzewiec is rather monotonous. They
are roused at 5 a.m.; work starts at about 6–7 a.m. and ends at 3.30
or 4 p.m. Back in the prison, they have dinner, then supper, and should
be in bed by 9 p.m. According to the regulations, prisoners should
have at least eight hours’ sleep, which is why the light is switched off
in the cells. In theory, the prisoners are free to practise sport or
participate in cultural and educational activities between dinner and
supper; but I have never noticed any inmates using the prison’s volley-
ball field. In the small clubs organized in all the huts, daily papers are
neatly arranged on tables. They seem to get an occasional dusting for
the visitors’ sake. Prisoners are permitted to subscribe to papers and
journals, but not all of them can afford it, particularly if all they have
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by way of cash is the remainder left of their wages after the deduction
of 70 to 75 per cent for the public purse.9 What the prison offers are
papers such as Trybuna Ludu or Rzeczpospolita, the official
government and party dailies; but the ruling party arouses no
particular interest or liking among prisoners. Despite these elements,
however, the everyday life in the Sluzewiec Prison has shaken off a lot
that was artificial or simply farcical. Admittedly, on noticing a
member of the staff, the prisoner still has to spring to his feet, stand
to attention and report. However, the titles of talks the staff prepare
for the inmates have ceased to feature those strictly ideological
subjects whose contents were equally alien to the audience and to the
compulsory lecturers.
Meals are still meagre, and hunger remains a serious problem for
prisoners. Nowadays, however, the family is at least permitted to
treat the inmate to an extra meal during a visit to the prison; this
was previously forbidden. Food parcels are allowed more frequently,
too.
Gastric ulcers, diseases of the nervous system, and bad teeth are
common among prisoners, and cases of lung diseases and mental
disorders are growing in number. But health provision is still highly
unsatisfactory, though with a much smaller number of prisoners, the
inmates now have at least a greater chance of receiving treatment. The
Sluzewiec Prison should have fourteen medical officers but this is not
the case. Permanently employed are: one general practitioner, one
dentist, and one nurse. Specialists, including a dermatologist, a
laryngologist, a phthisiologist and a neurologist, are employed part
time. According to the Governor, there is no need at present to employ
the entire staff of specialists full time.
The Sluzewiec Prison has a total of 200 established posts, the
changing size of its population exerting no influence on the number of
staff. A half of those posts are taken by the security department, and
20 by education staff. The rest are employed in managing and
financial departments, on records, the health service and the
administration. The immediate educational needs of inmates should be
met by the education staff but it is in their department that the
greatest number of vacant posts can be found. The Sluzewiec Prison
was not spared the general trend: those who left were the young, well-
educated tutors who refused to put up with the omnipotence of the
security department and the bad conditions of work. Hence the present
solution is to remodel the tasks of the security staff: instead of just
66
guarding and locking doors, the guards are to perform educational

functions as well. It is an experiment which may prove successful.
With a smaller prison population, anonymity of inmates decreases.
Open cells change the quality of the inmates’ contacts with guards.
The guard is no longer a dictator who decides whether the inmate
should be allowed to relieve nature. The two start talking with each
other, and the factors which breed mutual suspicion and animosity
decrease. This is possible in the Sluzewiec Prison in particular, as the
local guards and inmates have quite a number of common interests.
The latter are anxious to work outside where they can have many
contacts with the ordinary world. The former, instead, want to earn a
favourable opinion from their superiors. Each of the parties works for
the status and living conditions of the other party. Before, their joint
life was based on bullying and hatred: now, this is gradually being
replaced by mutual tolerance.
This is just the beginning of a long path. The Sluzewiec Prison is
one where in very bad living conditions and with no financial
subsidies, attempts are being made at ameliorating the effects of
deprivation of liberty, and to make it possible both for the inmates and
the guards to behave in a way acceptable in the outer world. This is
hardly an easy task since the prison life and rules—those valid at
present and those that came into force on 1 October 1989 alike—are
simply larded with artificiality: from the obligatory form ‘citizen’ with
which the guards and inmates are to address each other (but which is
generally considered offensive, the form ‘Mister’ being in universal
use) —all the way to the preservation of the prisoner’s unpaid work
and of jobs which, though paid, are nevertheless of no advantage
whatever on release and offer no preparation for earning a living even
for a few days. Prison remains a world that perverts and desocializes.
Moreover, the staff fear it might not be long before the present
situation is changed for the worse. How much longer will they be
permitted go give prisoners a ‘humane’ treatment, to aim for, even if
not to achieve, a certain ‘normality’? What does bring some hope,
though—may it not result from our credulity! —is the fact that at
present Polish penal policy seems to be fairly stable, and prison
conditions are tending gradually to be relaxed not only in Sluzewiec
Prison but also in institutions with a stricter regime.
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NOTES
1 In 1956, Polish society protested for the first time against the authorities.
As a result, considerable changes were introduced, including the first
suspension ever, or at least for some time, of the Stalinist totalitarian
methods of government. Further protests took place in 1968, 1970, 1976,
1980–1, 1986 and 1988.
2 See: System penitencjarny, Stan i wnioski (The Penitentiary System: State
and Conclusions), a report published for the Minister of Justice, compiled
by a team of functionaries of the Central Prison Management and accepted
by the Minister of Justice, Warsaw, January 1989.
3 On the use of amnesty in Polish penal policy see: M.Platek (1986) The
Amnesty and Polish Practice, Vienna.
4 For statistical data on the activities of administration of justice in 1988,
see: Statystyka sadowa i penitencjarna (Court and Penitentiary Statistics),
January 1989, Warsaw.
5 See: Biuletyn Sejmu z Komisji Administracji, Spraw Wewnetrznych i
Wymiaru Sprawiedliwosci (Seym Bulletin: Proceedings of the Commission
of Administration, Internal Affairs and Administration of Justice), 21
January 1987, Warsaw. For the statement of the then Director-General of
the Prison System see p. 5.
6 See: M.Platek (1987) ‘Economic aspects of imprisonment in Poland’,
unpublished typescript, Oslo-Warsaw; M.Platek, ‘Warunkowe zwolnienie a
praca skazanych w swietle ustawy i praktyki’ (‘Conditional release and
prisoners’ work in the light of law and practice’), in Z. Holda et al. (eds)
(1985) Praca skazanych odbywajacych kare pozbawienia wolnosci (The
Work of Prisoners), Lublin, pp. 90–103.
7 As a result of strikes which the working classes organized in 1980, the first
independent trade union of Polish employees, ‘Solidarity’, was established
in August 1980.
8 Seym Bulletin, op.cit., pp. 6–7.
9 If the prisoner is obliged to pay maintenance, the reduction is limited to 25
per cent, and the bulk of his salary paid in as maintenance.
68
Chapter Four
HELDERSTROOM PRISON,
SOUTH AFRICA
DIRK VAN ZYL SMIT
The writer begs his reader to excuse the frequent egotisms which he
does not know how to avoid, without using circumlocutions that
might have been more disgusting. (Howard 1929:xxii)
Thus wrote John Howard in 1777 in the introduction to The State of

the Prisons. The particular circumstances of South Africa require a
similar indulgence from the reader.
In late July 1989 I applied to the South African prison authorities in
Pretoria for permission to visit a prison for adult males so that I could
respond to an invitation from the Howard League to describe such a
prison. I chose Helderstroom Prison simply because it was a prison I had
not been shown before and I knew that it was not one to which visitors are
usually taken. After relatively uncomplicated negotiations the prison
authorities agreed to my request During my two visits to Helderstroom the
authorities answered my questions with exemplary patience. I was allowed
to speak freely to junior members of the prison service and to prisoners of
my choice. However, the practical problems of lack of privacy and of being
an ‘outsider’, and so probably perceived as associated with the authorities,
made it hard to achieve adequate rapport with the prisoners. Subsequently,
in order to verify my impressions, I also interviewed a prisoner who had
recently been released from Helderstroom.
Although they occasionally expressed some anxiety about what I
might say, the prison authorities did not put any pressure on me to
submit my account to them prior to publication. Such pressure might
have been expected as the South African Prisons Act contains severe
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DIRK VAN ZYL SMIT
restrictions on the publication of ‘false’ information about prisons or

prisoners. If such information is published the onus is on the
publisher to show that he or she took reasonable steps prior to
publication to ensure the accuracy of the report. 1 Failure to meet
these requirements can result, on conviction, in a prison sentence of
up to two years and a substantial fine. 2 For many years the effect of
this penal provision, which was broadly interpreted by the courts,
was to inhibit drastically all reporting on South African prisons. In
1984, however, the Prisons Service came to an arrangement with the
major newspaper publishers: the authorities would regard the
requirements of the Act as having been met if the newspapers
undertook to submit all reports to them before publication and
published, with equal prominence, any comments that the Prisons
Service might wish to make (Stuart 1986). At the same time
restrictions were lifted on at least some of the numerous critical
accounts of South African prisons. 3
Commentators outside the national press are not covered by the
‘arrangement’, which, in any event, is of doubtful legal status. The
account which follows was not shown to the Prisons Service before
submission for publication although, inevitably, much of the
information was in any case obtained from official sources. I have
reported as accurately as I could. The provisions of the Prisons Act
played no part in my decisions on what to include or omit. The views
expressed are my own and quite clearly not those of the Prisons
Service.
II
Imprisonment is a key element in the system of social control in
South Africa. This is true in the general sense that a very high
proportion of the total population of the Republic of South Africa is
incarcerated, either awaiting trial or as sentenced prisoners. Thus,
the most recent Report of the Department of Justice reveals that
there were 110,481 prisoners on 30 June 1988 (Department of Justice
1988:142–3). Of these, 90,485 were sentenced prisoners. A further
unknown number of prisoners awaiting trial are detained in police
cells and thus fall outside the ambit, and the statistics, of the Prisons
Service. On 30 June 1988 there were, according to the figures
provided by the service, 306 persons per 100,000 of the officially
estimated population of the Republic of South Africa in custody as
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HELDERSTROOM PRISON, SOUTH AFRICA
sentenced prisoners. The ratio for all persons in prison on the same
date was 373 per 100,000. 4
The sentence of imprisonment appears to be imposed fairly readily.
There are no precise statistics but the Report of the Central Statistical
Services for 1 July 1986 to 30 June 1987 reveals that 380,094 people
were convicted by South African courts. According to the Report of
the Department of Justice for the same period 180,453 persons were
admitted to prison as sentenced offenders. From these figures it can be
deduced that 47 per cent of offenders sentenced by the courts spent
some time in prison. Whether they were sentenced without an option,
or went to prison because they could not afford to pay fines, is not
clear.
In South Africa prisoners are classified as ‘White’ (people of
European origin), ‘Asian’ (people from the Indian subcontinent),
‘Black’ (people of pure African descent) or ‘Coloured’ (people of
mixed race). These classifications, which are refined beyond what is
indicated in the parentheses, are offensive to many South Africans,
because they provide the basis for racial discrimination. In particular,
it is more acceptable to use the term ‘Black’ for any South African not
classified as ‘White’. However, as will become apparent, official
classification continues to play an important part in the operation of
the prison system. These figures reveal remarkable differences in the
proportion of prisoners from each racial category. On 30 June 1988
the figure per 100,000 for ‘Whites’ was 92 and for ‘Asians’ 78. In
contrast, the ratio for ‘Blacks’ (Africans) was 381 and for ‘Coloureds’,
851 per 100,000.5
In South Africa imprisonment also plays a vital part in what has
been called ‘regime maintenance’ (Potts 1984). A variety of
‘extraordinary provisions’ 6 allows for detention without trial. These
range from preventive detention, 7 detention for interrogation 8 and
the detention of witnesses 9 under the permanent security legislation,
and to the detention of reluctant informers under the legislation
relating to prohibited drugs. 10 Such detention may be for
indeterminate periods and is only subject to very restricted controls
on the abuse of state power. In addition, a State of Emergency was
declared in some parts of South Africa on 21 July 1985. 11 Since 12
June 1986 a State of Emergency has been in force throughout South
Africa. 12 Under the extraordinary Emergency powers any member of
the police force, the military or even the Prisons Service has the
power to arrest and detain. 13 Detention, which may be either
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DIRK VAN ZYL SMIT
preventive or for interrogation, is virtually indefinite (subject only to

the annual renewal of the Emergency) and subject to no effective
judicial control. 14
The various extraordinary provisions make it difficult to gain a full
statistical picture of the number of people actually incarcerated in
South Africa. Those held in prison under the permanent security
legislation and of the legislation relating to drugs are listed separately
in the official prison statistics (Department of Justice 1988: 142–3),
but those ‘temporarily’ detained in police cells are not recorded.
Emergency detainees in prison are included along with prisoners
awaiting trial and no accurate figures for them are available. It is
estimated that since the first State of Emergency in 1985, up to 30,000
people may have been detained under the emergency provisions
(South, 8 June 1989). At the time of writing, relatively few people are
being held under the State of Emergency. 15 However, many ex-
detainees have been placed under such draconian restrictions that they
are under virtual house arrest and thus removed from political and
community life.16
The South African prison system is a centralized bureaucracy
organized on quasi-military lines. Prisons Service policy is
determined centrally and applied throughout the country. The
military-style structure is strongly hierarchical and led by a
Commissioner of Prisons who holds the rank of Lieutenant-General.
As officer in charge of the Prisons Service, the Commissioner of
Prisons is answerable to the Director-General of Justice, who is the
civil service head of the Department of Justice into which the Prisons
Service falls, and the Minister of Justice who is the political head of
the department. The Prisons Service is divided into four regions
amongst which 28 prisons commands (or groups) and 206 separate
prisons are distributed. All follow strictly the guide-lines laid down
from the central authority.
The 206 prisons vary from small local gaols to large prisons which
serve the metropolitan areas and which may have more than 3,000
inmates. Twelve of them are rated as exclusively maximum security
prisons, but many of the remaining ‘medium’ prisons also house
prisoners who are rated as a maximum security risk. Minimum
security prisons are still at the stage of the drawing board. There are
a few specialized prisons for adult males. These include 16 prison
farms. At 6 prisons there are ‘production workshops’, at 8 prisons
‘building training centres’ and 26 prisons have ‘maintenance
72
workshops’. The prison population as a whole is relatively stable.

Over the past decade the number of short-term sentences has
declined, probably as a result of the demise of influx control on
‘Blacks’ (Africans). However, the number of long-term prisoners has
increased. On 20 January 1989, 64 per cent of all prisoners (69,666
persons) were serving sentences of two years or longer (Hansard
1989).
The prisons system has long struggled to provide accommodation
for all these prisoners. On 30 June 1988 it could house 83,668
prisoners and was thus 32 per cent overcrowded (Department of
Justice 1988:67). In spite of a policy of reallocating prisoners in order
to alleviate gross overcrowding in a particular area, individual prisons
are still often much more crowded than the national norm. The
staff:prisoner ratio in the service as a whole on 30 June 1988 was 1
staff member to 5.5 prisoners. This figure is an underestimate of the
actual ratio at individual prisons as it includes the central
administrative staff. Nevertheless the relatively high prisoner:staff
ratio explains, at least in part, why the total cost per prisoner was only
R13.28 (£3.04) per prisoner per day at the end of March 1988
(Department of Justice 1988:108 and passim).
III
The Helderstroom prison complex is one of the sixteen prison farms in
the South African prison system. It was established in 1971 and is
situated on 1,000 hectares of prime agricultural land, about 120 km
from Cape Town. The prison farm is relatively isolated, at the end of a
5 km stretch of unsurfaced road and about 30 km from the two nearest
towns of Caledon and Villiersdorp.
The first impression is of a neat modern village built on a hill and
clustered around two larger structures. Closer inspection reveals two
separate, virtually identical prisons a few hundred metres apart. These
are Helderstroom Maximum Security Prison and Helderstroom Medium
Security Prison (referred to as ‘maximum’ and ‘medium’ respectively).
On both the south and the north side of the hill are rows of staff
housing. On the northern side live the 182 ‘White’ members of staff and
the southern side houses most of the 150 ‘Coloured’ staff members. All
except ten of the 332 members of the Prisons Service live permanently
on the prison farm.
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DIRK VAN ZYL SMIT
On 9 August 1989 the two prisons together housed 2,397

prisoners, 1,300 of these in the medium security prison and the
remaining 1,097 in the maximum security prison. Helderstroom, as a
whole, had a staff:prisoner ratio of one staff member to 7.2
prisoners. All of the prisoners were sentenced and were serving
sentences of longer than two years for ‘ordinary’ common law
crimes. Helderstroom is not an admission centre and all prisoners
had been referred from other prisons. They were all ‘Coloured’ males
and all adult, except for some 60 juveniles (under the age of 21) in
a separate section of ‘medium’. It was explained that all the ‘Black’
(African) prisoners under the jurisdiction of the prison command, of
which Helderstroom forms part, were held at a similar prison some
80 km away, so that when interpreters were required they could be
provided at a central point. It was not thought necessary to explain
the absence of ‘White’ prisoners. In a sense, therefore, the racial
segregation was even more rigorous than is required by the Prisons
Act, the legislation that provides the legal framework for the South
African prison system. Section 23 (1) of the Prisons Act lays down
that
(b) as far as possible, white and non-white prisoners shall be

detained in separate parts thereof and in such manner as to prevent
white and non-white prisoners from being within view of each
other; and
(c) wherever practicable, non-white prisoners of different races
shall be separated.
Apart from the racial criteria and the length of sentence there did
not appear to be any reason why particular prisoners were being kept
at Helderstroom. No prisoners convicted of crimes against the security
of the state (sentenced political prisoners) were at Helderstroom,
although prison officers recalled that some years previously a group of
75 such ‘Black’ (African) prisoners had been held there. Nor were
there any emergency or security detainees. However, the State of
Emergency had not left Helderstroom unscathed. Some time before, a
maximum security section of a prison in a neighbouring command had
been cleared entirely to make room for Emergency detainees and some
of these prisoners had been transferred to Helderstroom. Since then
74
things had returned to ‘normal’. The occupancy rate on 9 August

could therefore not be regarded as abnormal. On that day the medium
and maximum prisons were overcrowded by 72 and 86 per cent
respectively. It is necessary to explain what these rates mean. The
norms adopted by the Prisons Service allow 3.334 sq. m per prisoner
in a communal cell and 5.5 sq. m per single cell. ‘Air space’ should be
4.25 cu. m per prisoner. These norms, the service argues, are generous,
given that most prisoners spend a large period of time each day outside
their cells.
In practical terms overcrowding at the level recorded in
Helderstroom maximum has severe effects, particularly where the
majority of prisoners are held in communal cells. At Helderstroom
maximum there was officially room for 590 prisoners. This would
mean that if the population was equally distributed the occupancy
rate of the communal cells was 253 per cent. During my second visit
on 16 August, however, it was explained to me that for some time a
number of prisoners had been housed in the second dining area. I was
told that on 9 August, 171 prisoners were accommodated in the
dining area which measures 23 m by 15 m. (My information was that
they had to roll up all their bedding and stow their possessions as
this area was still used for meals from 7.15 a.m. onwards.) The result
was that the remaining 668 prisoners were divided amongst 15
communal cells. This would mean that, if an optimum distribution
was achieved, there were 44.5 prisoners per cell. The size of these
cells, excluding the ablution area, was approximately 15 m x 5 m. In
other words, in a cell with 45 occupants, each prisoner had only 1.67
sq. m of floor space.
As far as physical structure, the maximum and medium buildings
were substantially identical in design. Official policy is not to
differentiate architecturally between these two types. Similarly,
treatment of higher security risks in the maximum prison is intended to
be substantially the same as in the medium prison. Under current policy
the privilege-category of a prisoner is not determined by his security
rating. Prisoners of all the privilege-categories are found in both prisons.
Those with the same ratings are housed together in particular cells or
parts of each prison.
At Helderstroom the joint headquarters was at the medium prison, as
were the offices of the welfare and employment officers, the hospital
and the morgue. The medium prison could accommodate slightly more
prisoners than the maximum because it included fewer single cells. My
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DIRK VAN ZYL SMIT
inspection of physical conditions was made mostly in the maximum

security prison but, unless exception is made, my observations could
apply to both prisons.
I was struck by how clean the prisons were and how well the
surroundings had been cared for. The maximum prison had been
prepared for a special inspection (certainly not something that I
requested or wanted!) and in the medium prison the normal weekday
routine was left uninterrupted.
Elaborate, almost bizarre preparations had been made for the
inspection on 9 August of the communal cells in the maximum. Here
the prisoners all sleep on the floor. (Only the prisoners in the medium
prison sleep on beds.) Their bedding, thin mats and blankets, had been
lightly rolled and twisted into most complicated forms and then
decorated with highly coloured bits of wool. In between the bedding
rolls paths had been made with crinkled paper and the intervening
area strewn with what looked like confetti. The walls too were
decorated with murals, often of nineteenth-century Boer generals or
twentieth-century political leaders. These too were festooned with
streamers. The total effect was of a deserted Christmas party which
had turned into a surrealist nightmare. This effect was heightened by
a choir which had been located in a nearby stairwell and which
boomed out echoing revivalist anthems throughout my ‘tour’ of these
cells.
One of the more detailed observations which I could make, apart
from the size of the cells and how crowded they must be, was the total
lack of privacy and personal space. Since there are no fixed beds the
whole room has to be arranged daily. This means that prisoners are
limited to one small locker each. I estimated each locker to be only 0.2
cu. m in size. Even these lack permanence. Thus in a cell designed for,
say, twenty-five inmates there would be twenty-five lockers. The
additional twenty or so prisoners would have to put their few personal
possessions into portable plastic boxes of approximately the same size
as the ‘permanent’ lockers. For the purposes of the tour these boxes
were bundled into a corner or into the bathroom area and covered with
a blanket.
The ablution facilities in the communal cells were very limited. Each
cell had a single toilet, a wash basin and three showers to be shared by
forty-five prisoners. The toilet was constructed in such a way that a
prisoner using it would be screened from the body of the communal cells
but not from others using the ablution area.
76
Outside these communal cells there was little about the physical
surroundings to inspire comment. The sick bays in both prisons
appeared clean and well equipped. The same applied to the kitchens,
the library and to the classroom that I saw. A noticeable feature of the
dining areas was that they were entirely bare. The prisoners have to
squat on the concrete and eat their food with spoons from single
bowls.
A prime feature of the prison buildings was the two large
quadrangles in each prison. They are surrounded on all sides by the
double-storey buildings of the prison. They measure approximately 50
m by 45 m and have concrete surfaces. A tennis court was the only
visible recreational feature in the quadrangle which I observed most
closely.
Outside the two prison buildings there is little at Helderstroom to
distinguish it physically from an efficient mixed farm. There are
several hectares of planted pasturage, grazed by sheep and cows. There
are workshops for the maintenance of farming and prison equipment.
There are small building operations. There are batteries of chickens
and sheds filled with pigsties, which make up the factory-farming
aspects of the whole enterprise. Along the banks of the picturesquely
named Riviersonderend (river without end), below the hill on which
the prison buildings and staff housing are situated, there are
intensively cultivated fields where several varieties of vegetables are
grown.
IV
A typical routine on a weekday at Helderstroom would be as follows:
Prisoners are woken at 5.30 a.m. and the cells are unlocked at 7.00
a.m. (In the summer the medium prison is unlocked at 6.30 a.m.)
Firearms are issued to the warders who take prisoners to work outside
the prison buildings. The warders inside are all unarmed. The
prisoners are mustered in the quadrangle for scripture reading and
prayers. Breakfast is taken at 7.10 a.m. The work teams are then
marched out at 7.30 a.m. Those who remain behind take part in
educational programmes, attend confirmation classes, go to the
library, meet social workers or the doctor, or participate in
‘recreational activities’ in the quadrangle. Those who work outside the
prison take lunch at their stations. Inside, lunch is eaten between
11.00 and 11.30 a.m. and the prisoners are then locked in their cells
77
DIRK VAN ZYL SMIT
until 2.00 p.m. After that they may resume the activities of the
morning. At 4.00 p.m. the prisoners who have been working outside
return and are all searched as a matter of routine. Supper is taken
between 4.00 and 4.20 p.m. At 5.00 p.m. prisoners are locked in their
cells until the next morning. At 5.15 p.m. most of the prison staff go
off duty. Lights in the cells are put off in the medium prison at 8.30
p.m. In maximum they remain on all night. That, simply, is the
structure of the day but almost every aspect of this routine has to be
detailed and qualified if one is to understand what it means in
practice.
A careful analysis of the numbers of prisoners marched out to work
on 9 August shows that relatively few were involved in farming
activities. Thus in the medium prison, 836, or 64 per cent, of the
prisoners were employed but only 321 of them worked on tasks which
could be identified with the farming activities of the prison. In the
maximum prison the picture was even less rosy. The number employed
was 341, 31 per cent of the total. However, none of them were
employed in agriculture. (More than two-thirds of those employed from
maximum were working on the construction of a new soccer field.) If
the total population of prisoners at Helderstroom is taken together it
can be seen that only 13 per cent of all the prisoners were actually
employed in agriculture.
From the perspective of rehabilitative ‘treatment’ and ‘training (of
prisoners) in habits of industry and labour’, 17 which together form an
important part of the statutory functions of the Prisons Service,
doubts can be raised about the efficacy of farm labour. Most of the
prisoners were used to perform the most menial tasks. Only a few
were involved in activities such as sheep-shearing, which require
more than a modicum of skill. The same was true of the maintenance
workshops where, at best, thirty prisoners were involved in activities
which required some knowledge of a trade. Indeed, broader questions
could be asked about the whole agricultural thrust of the prison, for
it seemed as if many, perhaps a majority of the prisoners, were from
the greater Cape Town urban area and were unlikely ever to find, or
wish to find, employment in agriculture. What the Helderstroom
farm does effectively, according to official accounts, is produce
enough meat, vegetables and dairy products to make the
Helderstroom prisons and also the smaller local prison in Caledon
self-sufficient in these respects. (Prison farm produce is not sold on
the open market.)
78
On might have expected that the shortcomings of the work

programme would be compensated for by the other activities
available to prisoners who were not being punished by being held in
solitary confinement. Some schooling was offered during the day, to
120 prisoners in maximum and 90 in medium. Prisoners who wished
to participate in a literacy programme were allocated to one
communal cell in each prison, so that they could study in the
evenings. However, one cell was not sufficient to meet the demand.
However, even if those who attended school during the day were
added to those who worked outside, the fact remained that the
majority of those detained in maximum were unemployed and
unoccupied during the day. On the occasion of my visit I found
almost 400 prisoners in a single quadrangle (of 2,250 sq. m) in
maximum, where they spent their time while others worked. Two
were playing tennis in a blustering wind. The others appeared merely
to be standing about. I was told by a prisoner who was the
enthusiastic chairman of the recreational committee that prisoners
also play darts, kerrim (a board game), volley-ball (on the tennis
court) and Rugby (on an outside pitch) over the weekends. There is
reason for scepticism over whether the large mass of prisoners were
actively involved in these activities.
Most of the specialized services offered by the prisons are also made
available to prisoners during the morning and afternoon work periods.
Perhaps most prominent amongst these are medical services. Each
prison has its own medical orderlies and clinics. The orderlies fulfil
first aid functions and also perform tasks such as weighing prisoners
and dispensing prescribed medicine from a trolley which is wheeled to
the dining areas in the morning and evening. A doctor, the district
surgeon of the nearest town (Caledon), who is a medical practitioner
in government employ, visits each of the two prisons once a week to
attend to prisoners who have reported sick. He sees about seventy to
eighty patients in the course of the morning and also the few serious
cases which might be referred from the other prison. There is no
doctor available at short notice. In emergencies the ambulance at the
prison is used to take seriously ill prisoners to Caledon Hospital,
where they are treated by qualified personnel. There are no
psychologists at Helderstroom. The prison psychologist from the
command headquarters some 80 km away visits at most once a
fortnight.
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DIRK VAN ZYL SMIT
Prisoners’ needs for social services are supposed to be met by social

workers employed by the Prisons Service. The centralized social work
section at Helderstroom has a staff of six, of whom three are qualified
social workers. In theory therefore they each have enormous case-
loads. However, it appears as if, apart from completing essential
forms, they only help when requested. Only those who are regarded as
susceptible to treatment (behandelingsvatbaar) are attended to
throughout their stay in prison. However, all prisoner are ‘prepared for
release’ by the social workers. What this entails did not become clear
to me.
As far as could be ascertained, the daily routine met the prisoners’
basic needs. Clothing appeared to be adequate. On my second visit
on 16 August, a cold and rainy winter morning, the prisoners
appeared to be dressed reasonably warmly in a variety of khaki
clothes. Some had jackets but the issue of these has apparently been
discontinued. Those who had to go out were issued with waterproof
capes. The food that I saw appeared adequate and none of the
prisoners obviously starved, but I did not study a full menu. The gap
from the supper to breakfast is excessively long (particularly on
weekends when ‘supper’ is at 3.15 p.m.). I also noticed on 9 August
that the actual cooking of the supper was completed by mid-morning,
as the midday meal consisted only of sandwiches. However, I was
told that prisoners may take some of the bread from supper with
them to their cells.
There are some variations of the daily routine. On rainy days
only a few prisoners go out to work and most are simply kept in
their cells. I was told that over weekends only a very limited
number of prisoners go out to perform essential services. Others
may be involved in Rugby or soccer matches on Saturday mornings
or (non-compulsory) church parades on a Sunday. In the afternoons
they all remain in the quadrangles between 2.00 p.m. and supper at
3.15 p.m. Most of the prison staff go off duty at 4.00 p.m. over the
weekends.
Prisoners in the single cells at maximum are regarded as the
‘hardest cases’ and their routines are somewhat restricted. They do
not work outside the prison or attend classes. They take exercise in
a quadrangle away from the prisoners in the communal cells. They
are divided into two groups of about one hundred which, in order
to separate warring factions, are not allowed to exercise
simultaneously. Although not subject to a ‘punishment’ regime,
80
their time in the open is in effect only 50 per cent of that of other
prisoners.
The routine of prisoners sentenced to solitary confinement in
punishment cells (to which they may be sentenced by an officer’s
court) is also severely restricted. They are allowed only the two
statutory half-hour exercise periods per day in a separate, smaller
quadrangle of 10 m by 20 m. The regime in the punishment cell may
include periods of ‘reduced diet’ (half the daily intake) and ‘spare diet’
which consists of only 200 gm of maize meal twice daily, boiled in
water without salt and 15 gm of soup powder boiled in 530 ml of
water once daily. 18 I was told that this spare diet is weighed
meticulously. Apart from isolation and dietary punishments an
officer’s court may sentence male prisoners under the age of 40 years
to corporal punishment. I did not investigate this aspect thoroughly,
but was told that at Helderstroom corporal punishment was imposed
about twice a month, in the prison as a whole.
V
The dangers of total estrangement from the outside world are
particularly severe in as isolated a prison as Helderstroom. They
exist not only for the prisoners but also for the staff who live in a
separate community away from the influence of towns and villages.
However, staff members assured me that they had adequate contact
with the surrounding farmers and with the townspeople of Caledon,
to which the children are bused to school each day. Many of the staff
had grown up in villages and on farms and professed a preference for
a quiet life.
From the prisoners’ point of view the privilege system is an important
determinant of how much contact they are allowed with the outside
world. All the prisoners at Helderstroom are in the privilege-categories
2, 3 and 4 of the four possible ‘notches’ in the system. (Category 1, the
lowest category, is apparently only used for recently admitted prisoners.)
This means that they are entitled to receive and send 20, 30 or 40 letters
per year depending on their privilege category. Category 4 prisoners
may also receive a daily newspaper. All this communication is strictly
censored and prisoners are specifically prohibited from expressing
complaints about prison conditions in their correspondence. In practice
the prisoners at Helderstroom do not subscribe to newspapers. (I was
told that only the sentenced ‘political’ prisoners who had been held
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DIRK VAN ZYL SMIT
there earlier, had done so.) Prisoners are allowed to hear uncensored
news bulletins on the state-controlled radio. Category 4 prisoners are
also allowed, once in a few days, to watch videos on television sets
brought to their cells. All prisoners at Helderstroom are allowed access
to the library. In practice utilization of the library is relatively low. Less
than one book per prisoner per month is borrowed in maximum and
two per prisoner in medium. An unknown percentage of the prisoners
is illiterate.
Visits are also allowed. A category 2 prisoner may receive twenty
30-minute visits a year while a category 4 prisoner may be visited 30
times annually for up to 40 minutes. Such visits are tightly controlled.
Only category 4 prisoners are allowed contact visits and a warder is
always present. There is no provision for conjugal visits. The distance
of Helderstroom from the metropolitan area of Cape Town inhibits
visiting severely. However, NICRO (the charity concerned with the
welfare of offenders) has organized a bus service which runs from
Cape Town to Helderstroom on two Sundays a month. Isolation
remains a problem. I spoke to a prisoner serving a consecutive
sentence of 48 years in total for multiple armed robberies (an
exceptional sentence by South African standards), who had not been
visited for a year and whose family, he said, ignored all his
correspondence.
Nothing concrete could be established about the reconviction rates of
the prisoners at Helderstroom. This must handicap the Institutional
Committee which serves both prisons and which is responsible for
calculating projected dates on which prisoners can be released either
unconditionally (that is, if they do not forfeit the remission which they
are provisionally allocated on admission), or conditionally on parole.
The Institutional Committee makes recommendations about release to a
higher authority and also attends to the reclassification of prisoners.
The impression with which I was left was that, in the absence of
information on likely reconviction rates or other statistical projections,
the Institutional Committee followed bureaucratic guide-lines very
closely.
82
VI
The attitudes of staff and prisoners to each other and to themselves
reflect in many ways the social and even linguistic structures of the
society as a whole. Prison life in South Africa throughout most of this
century has been dominated by prison gangs which exist in virtually all
prisons. Helderstroom is no exception and the prisoners confirmed
that they either were or had been members of prison gangs. In
particular, those with whom I spoke (not necessarily a representative
sample) claimed membership of the ‘28’ gang, a gang whose activities
were focused on the procurement of catamites in prison. (Sodomy is a
major problem for both the authorities and the prisoners at
Helderstroom. Several of the prisoners in the single cells at
Helderstroom asked to be put there for protection from homosexual
assaults. Prisoners are warned against AIDS, but not issued with
condoms.) Both prisoners and staff emphasized, though, that gang
activity had decreased and that, particularly in the medium prison, the
gangs did not hold sway to the same extent as they had done in the
past. This was supported by the fact that, unlike several other prisons
in the region, there had not been a gang murder at Helderstroom in
recent years.
The attitudes of the staff as a group are also interesting. In many
ways the staff facilities and the inter-personal relationships reflect the
apartheid structures of a small South African town. The separate
residential areas which I have described are mirrored in separate
messes and clubs and even in the separate buses that take the children
to their segregated schools in the nearest town. The only mixing
between racial groups at a social level appears to be a joint Rugby
team. Yet, at the official level, there have been changes. The chief
social worker and the full-time chairman of the Institutional
Committee are both ‘Coloured’ and both hold the rank of captain. As
far as I could observe, they are accorded the formal respect due to
their rank. (They outranked most other prison staff members. In the
military hierarchy of the Prisons Service the officer in charge of the
whole Helderstroom complex has the rank of lieutenant-colonel and
the heads of the medium and maximum prisons are both majors.) The
prisoners did not perceive a great difference between the attitudes of
‘White’ and ‘Coloured’ staff.
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DIRK VAN ZYL SMIT
The question of the relationship of the staff to the prisoners is

complex. The policy of the Prisons Service is that prisoners of all races
should be treated equally and some steps have been taken to remove
racially discriminatory provisions from prison legislation. However,
the formal policy of separate but equal treatment has not been (and
probably can never be) fully implemented. To take a single example,
all ‘White’ prisoners sleep in beds, while this ‘privilege’ is only being
extended selectively to those prisoners not classified as ‘White’.
Moreover, the social distance between ‘White’ staff and prisoners is
great. This reflects itself in the language. Although there is a common
language (Afrikaans is the mother tongue of probably well over 90 per
cent of both staff and prisoners at Helderstroom), it is spoken very
differently by prisoners and staff. Amongst themselves the former
speak a dialect which has developed in the gang context. Towards
authority prisoners attempt to speak a more ‘acceptable’ form of
Afrikaans. Like French, Afrikaans has a formal and informal second
person pronoun. As a matter of course staff would address prisoners
with the informal jy (tu in French), but would not accept being spoken
to by a prisoner in that way. Prisoners tend to use circumlocutions to
avoid the second person form. Officially, prisoners should address the
members of the service by the ranks, ‘warder’, ‘sergeant’, ‘major’, etc,
but the more obsequious forms of ‘chief’, ‘baas’ (boss) and ‘oubaas’
(old boss) have not died out.
VII
What, one wonders, would John Howard have made of
Helderstroom? He might well have been impressed by the cleanliness,
by the situation of the prison, by the prison garb and, perhaps, by the
food. Yet he would have found much to criticize. Foremost would
undoubtedly have been the accommodation. There is simply not
enough space at Helderstroom to accommodate all the inmates
adequately, let alone to meet Howard’s ideal of ‘so many small
rooms or cabins that each criminal may sleep alone’ (Howard 1929:
21). A space of 1.67 sq. m to lay down a thin mat amongst forty-five
others is not acceptable by any standards. The lack of privacy in
general is extreme. The meals, even if sufficiently nourishing, are
taken in the most congested and undignified circumstances
imaginable: six hundred prisoners are crouched tightly together back
84
to back in two rooms on the concrete floor of a dining area which

is so constricted that only a couple of rows of prisoners can move
simultaneously. In spite of its overcrowding, Helderstroom does not
appear to be a particularly harsh prison by South African standards.
Gang killings and escapes were both less prevalent than elsewhere.
Ironically, some prisoners regarded it as desirable because of its
‘better facilities’.
What Helderstroom illustrates is the scope of the pressures facing
the South African system. The numbers simply overwhelm any
serious efforts at the rehabilitation of prisoners. The prison officers
are reduced to mere turnkeys, concentrating on containing rather
than training prisoners. This is not to say that more could not be
done to make this containment more humane. A view of prisoners as
fellow citizens whose human rights are to be respected might be more
effective than the current attitude: paternalism combined with a
conception of prisoners as very different creatures. Changes in the
wider South African policy leading to the full abolition of
segregation might result in such a shift in attitude. However, the
more fundamental problem of limited resources will remain. If the
current high proportion of the steadily growing South African
population continues to be imprisoned, no future South African
government will be able to provide the facilities necessary for the
rehabilitative training of prisoners, or even for their detention under
humane conditions.
NOTES
1 Section 44 (1) (f) of the Prisons Act 8 of 1959.
2 Section 44 (1) of the Prisons Act 8 of 1959.
3 Hugh Lewin’s Bandiet (1976), Harmondsworth: Penguin, is now available
in South Africa after having been prohibited for many years. Breyten
Breytenbach’s The True Confessions of an Albino Terrorist (1984),
Johannesburg: Taurus, has been freely available in South Africa since its
publication.
Some attempt was made to restrict the distribution of the doctoral
thesis of J.Mihalik (Gevangenisstraf: Die Noodsaaklikheid vir
Alternatiewe Strawwe (1986) (unpublished LLD thesis, Pretoria:
University of South Africa), because of the inaccuracies which it is alleged
to contain, but Mihalik has subsequently published on aspects of his
work in the respected South African Law Journal: J.Mihalik (1988)
‘Executive manipulation of prison sentences: has the sentencing authority
moved to the executive?’ SALJ 105:494–518, and J.Mihalik (1989) ‘“The
85
DIRK VAN ZYL SMIT
taming of the bad, or Unspeakable Cruelty”? —prison disciplinary

offences’, SALJ 106:319–38.
A much wider interest in prison law has emerged in recent years. Much
of the writing is highly critical of the way the courts have developed South
African prison law. See, for example, J.H.van Rooyen (1981) ‘Aspekte van
reg om geregtigheid met betrekking tot gevangenes’, Tydskrif vir
Hedendaagse Romeins-Hollandse Reg 44:17, and D.van Zyl Smit (1987)
‘“Normal” prisons in an “abnormal” society?’ Criminal Justice Ethics
6:37–51 and the sources cited there.
The ‘scientific’ literature on prison conditions is smaller. However, an
‘outside’ researcher was allowed to make a comprehensive study of prison
gangs in the early 1980s. After some hesitation this was published in 1984
(J.M.Lotter and W.J.Schurink (1984) Gevangenisbendes: ’n Ondersoek met
spesiale verwysing na nommerbendes onder Kleurling gevangenes, Pretoria:
HSRC). A very flattering account of the South African prison system was
produced by a visiting Swiss criminologist, W.T.Haesler (1986)
(‘Sudafrikanischer Strafvollzug. Eindrucke einer Studienreise im September/
Oktober 1984’, Zeitschrift für Strafvollzug und Straffalligenhilfe 35:11–
17). In my view this account is somewhat superficial (see D.van Zyl Smit
(1986) ‘Nochmals: Sudafrikanischer Strafvollzug’, Zeitschrift für
Strafvollzug und Straffalligenhilfe 35:280–4).
Apart from the material on ‘ordinary’ imprisonment there is also a large
body of legal and sociological literature on detention without trial. See
D.Foster, D.Davis and D.Sandler (1987) Detention and Torture in South
Africa, Cape Town: David Philip, and the sources cited there.
4 These figures should be treated with some caution. The ratios might be
misleadingly high because the official population estimate of 29,617,000
for June 1988 is held by some demographers to be a drastic underestimate
of the real population. It should also be noted that the figures refer to the
Republic of South Africa. They thus exclude the populations of the
‘independent’ national states of Transkei, Ciskei, Venda and
Bophuthatswana. It is also not clear whether offenders from these countries
are being held in South African prisons.
5 Calculated on the basis of information in the Annual Report: 142, and
official estimates of population on 30 June 1988.
6 A distinction can be drawn in South Africa between ordinary procedural
rules which, broadly speaking, meet procedural due process requirements
and which are designed to deal with ‘conventional crime’ on the one hand,
and, on the other hand, a parallel body of drastic or extraordinary
provisions which do not meet the most elementary standards of the rule of
law.
7 Sections 28 and 50 of the Internal Security Act 74 of 1982.
8 Section 29 of the Internal Security Act 74 of 1982.
9 Section 31 of the Internal Security Act 74 of 1982; cf. also section 185 of
the Criminal Procedure Act 51 of 1977, which provides for the detention
of witnesses in cases involving serious common law offences.
10 Section 13 of the Abuse of Dependence-producing Substances and
Rehabilitation Centres Act 41 of 1971.
86
11 Proclamation R121 of 1985 under the Public Safety Act 3 of 1953.

12 Proclamation R109 of 1986; the State of Emergency has been renewed
annually as required by the Public Safety Act See Proc R95 of 11 June
1987, Proc R96 of 10 June 1988, and Proc R85 of 9 June 1989.
13 Reg 3(1) read with reg 1 (definitions) of the ‘Emergency Security
regulations’ Proc R86 of 9 June 1989.
14 Reg 3: a large body of case law and comment on these provisions has
grown up in the past few years. For an overview, see E.Mureinik (1989)
‘Pursuing principle: the Appellate Division and review under the State of
Emergency’, South African Journal of Human Rights 5:60–72.
15 According to The Human Rights Commission more than 200 people are
being held without trial in the Republic of South Africa. These include at
least 53 people held under the Emergency Regulations, Weekly Mail, 25
August 1989.
16 The Human Rights Commission documented 551 restricted persons in June
1989. It estimated that up to 900 could have been restricted, Weekly Mail,
30 June 1989.
17 Section 2(2) (b) of the Prisons Act.
18 Section 54(2) (f) of the Prisons Act read with prison reg 101.
REFERENCES
Department of Justice (1988) Report of the Department of Justice for the
Republic of South Africa for the period 1 July 1987 to 30 June 1988
(referred to as the Annual Report).
Hansard (1989) House of Assembly Debates, Questions and Replies col. 856,
26 April.
Howard, J. (1929) The State of the Prisons, Everyman’s Library, London: J.M.
Dent .
Potts, L.W. (1984) ‘Custodial detention and regime maintenance in the Republic
of South Africa’, New England Journal of Civil and Criminal Confinement
10: 301–52.
Stuart, K. (1986) The Newspaperman’s Guide to the Law, Durban:
Butterworth.
87
Chapter Five
BREDA PRISON, HOLLAND

From water cell to container cell—the state of
the Dutch prison
ANTON M.VAN KALMTHOUT AND DIRK VAN DER LANDEN
THE DUTCH PENAL CLIMATE: REPUTATION AND REALITY
1595: the water cell

For centuries, the Dutch prison system has had the reputation of being
progressive, moderate and humane. This reputation dates back to 1595,
in which year a men’s house of detention was opened in a former
monastery in Amsterdam. This was followed two years later by the so-
called ‘spinning house’ for women. Differentiation was completed in
1603 by the establishment of a special correctional institution for
youthful delinquents. These initiatives put into practice the idea
developed by Coornhert (1587) and other progressive humanists in the
second half of the sixteenth century that the punishment and treatment
of criminals should not primarily serve as a deterrent and means of
putting them out of the way, but rather as a means towards reform and
education. 1 These aims were to be achieved through hard physical
labour, religious education and strict discipline. In the ‘Rasphouse’, two
inmates were required to rasp at least 600 kg of wood per week, an
activity that was stimulated by frequent corporal punishment.2 This
house of detention enjoyed international fame. In the first place, the
regime with its underlying penitentiary concept was considered to be
more meaningful and civilized than the scaffold or forms of corporal
punishment that were commonly used at that time. In the second, the
city government derived economic advantage from it.
The institution had in 1599 already acquired a monopoly on the
rasping of wood for the ship-building industry. Having this hard and
unpleasant work done by prisoners cut two ways. First, the earnings
88
enabled the house of detention to be run without financial aid from the
city government. Second, it was reasoned, the prisoners, who were
recruited from the ranks of vagabonds and other socially useless and
dangerous idlers, through hard labour (sometimes fourteen hours a day)
could be reformed into hard-working members of society who, after
their release, would be able to earn an honest living.
In the seventeenth century the countless visitors to the rasping house
from England, France, Scandinavia, Hungary, Italy and Germany took
home enthusiastic reports. This enthusiasm was not always based on the
humanitarian starting-points of Coornhert and Spieghel. In his study,
The Embarrassment of Riches, an Interpretation of Dutch Culture in the
Golden Age, Simon Schama relates that many of these foreign visitors
actually ‘were struck by the formidable system of disciplinary
punishments that backed up the house regime’ (Schama 1987:23). This
was another factor to which the Dutch prison system owed its fame.
The system varied from deprivation of meat rations to floggings at the
post with a ‘bull’s pistle’.
The reputation of the Dutch prison system was also partly based on
fiction and hearsay. The most persistent fiction is that of the water cell,
mentioned in many reports. Inmates of the rasping house who refused
to work were said to be moved to more industry by a treatment in this
cell. The earliest description of this dates from 1612:
In the vestibule or entrance to the house there is running water, and

beside it, a room with two pumps one on the outside and the other
in the inside. The patient was brought thither so that by pumping
into the room first as high as his knees, then as high as his waist, and
as he was not yet prepared to give his attention to St. Pono [that is,
to the devotion to labour] as high as his armpits, and finally up to
his neck, when fearing he would drown, he began his devotion to St.
Pono by furious pumping until he had emptied the room, when he
discovered that his weakness had left him and he had to confess his
cure. (Schama 1987:23)3
Schama points out that this sole and—apparently—authentic Dutch

source was actually a satirical pamphlet to which little or no realistic
content could be ascribed. The title of the pamphlet, History of the
Wonderful Miracles…in a place called the tuchthuis, also suggests rather
‘a bizarre fable’ or ‘a sadistic fantasy, concocted from half-digested
gobbets of hearsay’ (Schama 1987:23). Nevertheless, for two centuries
89
the reputation of the ‘progressive’ Dutch penitentiary system was

inseparably tied to the highly praised water cell and other disciplinary
punishments.
1777: the isolation cell

It is to John Howard’s credit that he did not allow himself to be misled
by rumours, but based his description of the foreign penitentiary
systems, in The State of the Prisons, rather on level-headed personal
observation. He made short work of the water cell: ‘On careful
inquiry, I learned, that what has been said of a cellar, in which such
transgressors are put to pump or drown, is not fact’ (Howard
1977:126). This, however did not lessen John Howard’s admiration
for the Dutch prison system. He applied different measures, such as:
differentiation in execution of punishment (separate prisons for men,
women, juveniles and the mentally disturbed); the mildness of the
criminal law (the relatively limited use of imprisonment, the possibility
of early release, the relatively short term of imprisonment); the quality
of medical and mental care; hygienic conditions within the prison; and
the use of paid labour as a means of correction. These characteristics
made a strong impression on Howard. Their aim, just as it had been
two hundred years earlier, was correction and reform. In contrast to
the days of the rasping house, prison sentences were undergone in
complete isolation instead of in small work-groups. The fiction of the
water cell was replaced by the reality of the isolation cell in which the
prisoner was kept day and night. This was done to prevent criminal
infection and stigmatization and to increase the chance of moral and
social improvement. These were the attributes which gave the Dutch
prison system at the time of Howard its reputation of progressiveness,
a reputation which it still enjoys today. But the question remains: how
much of that reputation conforms with reality?
1989: the container cell

Abroad, The Netherlands still has the reputation as a country with a
mild penal climate. In this regard, reference is made, among other
things, to the small number of prisoners per hundred thousand
inhabitants and the relatively short term of the unconditional prison
sentences. (See Table 5.1.)
90
Table 5.1 Number of prisoners per 100,000 population on

1 February 1988
Source: Prison Bulletin 10, December 1988:20
However, it is risky to use, as so often is done, the average prison

population as a criterion for the mildness of the penal climate, because such
an approach does not take into account the extent of criminality, the types
of crimes, or the relative length of prison sentences. This is especially
relevant to the Dutch situation. A comparison of Dutch prison statistics
with those of the neighbouring countries shows that a considerably higher
percentage of Dutch prisoners receive a prison sentence that has to be
served immediately. The average length of these unconditional prison
sentences imposed by Dutch judges is, however, considerably shorter. In so
far as the Dutch reputation derives from judicial sentencing policy, it is only
in the short length of the unconditional prison sentence, not the frequency
with which it is imposed: over 85 per cent of unconditional prison sentences
in the past twenty years were shorter than six months, and more than half
of these were of one month or less. Other factors that contributed
significantly to this image of a liberal and humane penal climate were,
among others, generous application of the so-called expediency principle by
the Public Prosecutor (until recently, the prosecution of almost 50 per cent
of all solved crimes was waived for policy reasons), the extensive network
of public assistance through the Probation Service, and the manner in
which prison sentences were executed.
This image has in recent years begun to deteriorate. This is due to the
sharp rise in registered crimes that began in the 1970s in combination
91
with the economic crisis of the same period, and which ultimately led
to a complete deadlock in the penal system. The police could no longer
carry out their responsibilities in the desired manner. The Public
Prosecution Office and the judiciary were seriously overtaxed and the
prison system had to contend with a shortage of cells. This shortage was
largely due to a lack of good alternatives for short-term imprisonment
on the one hand and the imposition of more and longer prison sentences
on the other, mostly in connection with illegal drug trafficking. The
concomitant increase in pre-trial detention, for which no adequate
alternative exists, has also contributed to a continuing crisis in the
prison system. These factors combined have led the government to
publish a detailed policy plan, Samenleving en Criminaliteit (Society and
Criminality) proposing a long-term solution to these problems by
combating crime. The most important pillars upon which this plan rests
are:
1 Reducing the number of short-term prison sentences by introducing

alternatives that do not involve deprivation of liberty, such as the
Community Service Order;
2 Combating the most common forms of petty crime, such as
vandalism, shoplifting, and alcohol abuse, through a combination of
official prevention measures with emphasis on restoring the function
of social control and official supervision;
3 A tougher approach to the more serious forms of crime, which
include not only those considered ‘classical’ serious crimes, but also
the newer forms, such as large-scale bank and insurance fraud,
practices with illegal corporations, serious environmental crime, as
well as organized crime in the areas of drug traffic, illegal gambling,
illegal arms traffic, white slavery, etc.
To bring this about, it has been suggested that the threat of punishment
for a number of crimes be heightened, that new penal provisions be
created, and that, together with an intensified tracing and prosecuting
policy, prison capacity be considerably expanded. Realization of the
latter is being pursued with such industry that in less than ten years
prison capacity will be tripled.
The favourable reputation of the Dutch penal system is largely due
to its starting-points and aims. While these—its tradition—have not
been affected by the new policy plan, the same cannot be said of the
process of implementation. There has been a tightening of the regime
92
and the security measures within the prison (for example, mandatory
urine tests for drugs and frisking), economizing on social, medical
and psychological assistance, decreased facilities for sports and
recreation, forced carrying out of prison sentences in institutions not
meant for that purpose and the re-use of buildings which had earlier
been written off—creating a discrepancy between reputation and
reality. For a Dutch prisoner today, confinement in a container is not,
in Schama’s words, a ‘bizarre fable or a sadistic fantasy’ but an
everyday reality, in spite of all the idealistic aims of the prison
system.
THE USE OF PRISON WITHIN THE DUTCH PENAL SYSTEM

With the introduction in 1886 of the Dutch Penal Code, the system of
sanctions that had been borrowed from the French code pénal was
greatly simplified. Besides imprisonment, the code recognized only two
other main types of punishment: detention and fines. Prison was
assumed to be the proper punishment for crime. Detention and fines
were reserved for misdemeanours, or less serious offences. For certain
crimes, a fine could in principle be imposed as an alternative
punishment, but such a punishment was considered of an entirely
different order and only suitable for the lightest form of the crime in
question. More than a hundred years later, and without much change
in the punishment status of crimes, the law now emphasizes that in
principle the fine takes precedence over the prison sentence. The law
now requires that in imposing a punishment or measure involving
deprivation of liberty, the sentence must specify the reasons for
choosing this type of punishment. In crimes for which prison is the
statutory punishment, a fine may nevertheless be imposed. This
represents official legal recognition of the primacy of the fine over the
prison sentence.
The final step in the gradual reduction of imprisonment will be the
introduction in 1990 of the Community Service Order as an independent
fourth main type of punishment. This is meant as a replacement for a
short prison term of up to six months. Practice has followed the
legislator in this case. Every year about 5,000 prison sentences are
replaced by Community Service; other criminal convictions, about three-
quarters of the total, involve a fine. Detention as a main form of
punishment is only incidentally used, mainly for notorious traffic
offenders, and is in its implementation practically the same as the short
93
prison term, so here we may forego a separate discussion of this type of

sanction.
Another way in which the legislator has tried to limit the
imposition of imprisonment is through the suspended sentence: the
total lifting of punishment as long as certain conditions are kept. All
prison sentences up to one year may be suspended. Since 1 January
1987 this opportunity has been extended to include prison sentences
up to and including three years, with the restriction that at least two-
thirds of the sentence must be served. In practice, the suspended
sentence is second in frequency to the fine, in sentences imposed by
the judge. Of all penalties imposed for crime, approximately a half
are fines, more than a quarter are totally suspended sentences and
somewhat less than one quarter are totally unconditional prison
sentences. This means that in Dutch criminal law procedure,
imprisonment still plays an important role, although it is no longer
dominant.
A prison sentence can be determinate or can be for life. A sentence
is at least for one day, and at most for fifteen years, or if the judge can
choose between life imprisonment and a determinate sentence, at most
twenty years. The minimum of one day applies to all punishable
offences where a prison sentence can be imposed. The maximum varies
according to the crime, but even with an accumulation of punishable
offences they may not exceed the above mentioned fifteen or twenty
years.
A convict sentenced to an unconditional prison term does not have to
serve the entire term. At a certain time, usually after two-thirds of the
sentence has been served, with a minimum of six months, the prisoner
is eligible for early, supervised, release.4 The original idea was that this
supervised release be considered a privilege, a bonus for good behaviour
during detention, and as a transitional phase between total deprivation
of liberty and total freedom. For this reason, it was subject to
conditions. In practice, the so-called ‘conditional release’ became a right
of the prisoner with almost no control over his observance of the
conditions. Since 1 January 1987 this right has been formally recognized
by law, and the system of conditional release was replaced by
unconditional automatic early release. Only in exceptional cases, for
example when a prisoner has seriously misbehaved during detention, is
it possible to encroach upon this right. Conditions can no longer be
placed on automatic early release. Hence, revocation is no longer
possible.
94
The relatively few long prison sentences have contributed to the

high reputation of Dutch criminal procedure, but in recent years,
there has been a turning of the tide. Alongside the gradual
reduction of short prison terms can be found a marked increase in
long prison terms and pre-trial detention. While the average prison
term in 1982 lasted 3.2 months, in the subsequent six years it
increased to 5.6 months (Staatscourant 1989). This is mainly due to
the increase in serious crime, in particular to the enormous flood of
drug cases. 5 The number of unconditional prison sentences for drug
crimes makes up nearly 10 per cent of all unconditional prison
sentences, while the total term imposed accounts for about 30 per
cent of all sentences for Penal Code crimes. 6 In 1990 50 per cent of
all prisoners are in some way connected with drug crime and almost
a third of them are, or become, addicted during detention. In some
prisons more than two-thirds of the prisoners are addicted to hard
drugs. 7
These figures will only increase when the plans for extending prison
capacity are realized, for more than 60 per cent of this extra prison
capacity is intended for drug offenders.8 In 1981 the available prison
capacity for adults was approximately 3,850 places. In 1989 there was
a need for about 7,600 places. The estimate for 1994 is almost 9,000
places. This includes more than 600 places in institutions for mentally
disturbed delinquents. 9 In 1990 about 6,000 male and female adult
offenders are deprived of liberty in some way (offenders serving
detention or prison sentences, pre-trial detention or detention at the
government’s pleasure).
This detention is being undergone in 33 remand centres, 26 prisons
and 8 judicial and non-judicial institutions for mentally disturbed
delinquents. These institutions have an average capacity of 100 cells.
The smallest establishment houses 20 inmates and the largest about
150. Some penitentiary complexes include more than one institution.
The so-called ‘Bijlmerbajes’ in Amsterdam, for example, consists of
six high-rise apartment buildings, each containing a separate
institution with its own administrator, staff, regime and supervisory
commission.
A number of Dutch institutions date from the nineteenth century
and can hardly satisfy present-day standards. Some of these have a
wing structure, and others have Bentham’s panopticon as a model.
The establishments built in the last twenty years are in
accommodation and facilities comparable to the living quarters built
95
for students during the same period, except for the omnipresent
electronic surveillance. Other institutions, in particular the open and
semi-open ones, are housed in rebuilt barracks, in a former boarding
house for migrant workers, in former monasteries and in an old
mansion. The newest architectural design is a stack of containers, or
prefabricated sections, placed in the yard of a prison or house of
detention.
The average ratio of staff members to inmates in these institutions is
0.9:1; this includes everyone from the prison director to the organist and
from the prison officers to the librarian and the psychologist. Together,
the prison officers and workshop supervisors form about 60 per cent of
the total staff.
PRISON ORGANIZATION AND VARIETY
Starting-points in the execution of prison sentences

The Dutch prison system is organized on a number of principles which
together form a guide-line for the division into different types of prison,
the spread of prisons throughout the country, the choice and training of
personnel, and for the architectural structure of new institutions. These
basic principles are set down in various national agreements, such as the
Constitution, the Code of Criminal Procedure, the Penal Code, the
Prison Principles Act, the Prison Decree-Law, and international
agreements such as the European Convention for the Protection of
Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms, the International Covenant
on Civil and Political Rights, and the European Prison Rules. The
principles set down in these various forms of legislation provide the first
line of ideas about the manner in which prisoners are divided among the
different institutions, and influence the actual treatment of and relations
with the prisoners. The most important starting-points are discussed
below: the principle of minimal restrictions, the legal status of the
prisoner, preparation for freedom, the community as a standard,
differentiation and selection, and the centralization of penitentiary
management.
The principle of minimal restrictions

The Prison Principles Act stipulates that suspects who have not yet been
convicted (that is, those in pre-trial detention) may be subject to no
96
restrictions other than those strictly necessary for their detention or to

maintain order. A similar starting-point with no legal counterpart
applies also to convicts. The government must concretely justify its
encroachment on the civil rights of convicted prisoners and may not a
priori assume itself justified. A prison sentence pronounced by the judge
in principle can only imply the deprivation of physical liberty of a
citizen, either as such (imprisonment), or for other reasons (pre-trial
detention, detention at the government’s pleasure, etc.). In concrete
terms, this principle of minimal restrictions means that the prisoner has
the same civil rights as any other citizen, unless the realization of these
rights is impossible under the necessary conditions of detention. The
prisoner has, for example, an active as well as passive right to vote, the
right of association and assembly, the right of religious freedom, the
right to marry, the right to freedom of expression and the right to
privacy (for example, the right to consult his or her own doctor or
specialist).
The notion that imprisonment only means physical deprivation of
liberty, no more and no less, and that every element of harsher
punishment must be avoided, is not entirely unchallenged. In the
literature and on the political level it is regularly suggested that the
mildness of the penitentiary system on this point has gone too far
(Teldersstichting 1988: esp. 61ff.; van Veen 1986:28–42). Particularly
with regard to the perpetrators of serious crimes there is a plea for
turning back the clock and for developing a special prison sentence
where the principle of minimal restrictions would not apply. This
category of prisoner should be subjected to a harsher regime
involving, among other things, no extended visiting, strict visitation
rules and separation of the prisoner from the visitor by a glass
partition, restricted use of the telephone, much restraint in the
granting of leave, and abolishment of the right to automatic early
release. Up to now, the legislator has not followed this line of
thinking.
The legal status of the prisoner

It is inevitable that every judicial deprivation of liberty brings with
it a lowering of the legal status of the citizen in custody. However,
the question will always arise of which rights might be retained in
prison and which must be given up. The central point is the legal
protection of the citizen against the state. In the 1970s and 1980s,
97
especially under the influence of the new Utrecht school, led by

Peters and later by Kelk, the emphasis on the protective rather than
the instrumental function of criminal law, significantly contributed
to the reform of criminal procedure. 10 . This signally concerns the
area of criminal law administration where until recently there was
an almost complete lack of legal protection: the detention phase.
Geurts has emphatically called attention to this matter (Geurts
1962). There was an almost total lack of any formal regulation of
legal status. In so far as it was possible to talk about a material
legal status, it was primarily based on favours, not on rights that
could be demanded. Rights were granted solely by the prison
authorities, who had broad discretionary powers both in this
respect and in the imposition of disciplinary punishment
Supervision was almost completely absent, since the prisoners had
no right of complaint or appeal. Deprivation of liberty leads not
only to dependency and arbitrariness, but also to deprivation or
limitation of a number of essential rights which in themselves had
no relation to detention (right to vote, freedom of religion, privacy
of correspondence, right to certain social payments).
Now, in the last decade of the century, the legal status of prisoners
has been considerably improved: a legally guaranteed contestable
complaint and appeal procedure has come into existence and
disciplinary punishment has been considerably mitigated. Detention
law has developed from a fairly neglected area of criminal law into a
speciality, the influence of which on other areas of law cannot be
underestimated. The law on ‘strengthening the legal status of
prisoners’ (Prison Principles Act 1977) now enables a prisoner to lodge
a complaint with the complaints commission of his institution against
any disciplinary punishment imposed upon him, 11 as well as any
measure imposed upon him by or through the director, which deviates
from the rights granted him by the regulations of the institution.
Explicitly mentioned is the violation of his right of correspondence and
of visitation. The complaints commission is formed by three members
of the Supervisory Commission. The latter is a mandatory board for
all institutions, consisting of independent citizens, and including a
judge, a lawyer, a doctor and a social work expert, whose job is to
supervise ‘the treatment of the prisoners in the institution and the
observation of the regulations established in their regard’. The
complaints commission can wholly or partly revise a decision made by
or through the director if:
98
1 The decision is in conflict with a prison regulation;

2 The decision, after assessment of all pertinent interests and
circumstances, is considered unreasonable or unfair.12
In certain cases the prisoner may be awarded money or some other form
of compensation. Both the plaintiff-prisoner and the director of the
institution can appeal to a higher body in The Hague.
Apart from the fact that the complaint is not handled in public, the
complaint procedure is in all aspects covered by legal guarantees. It is
a contestable procedure in which both sides are heard, with the
possibility of conducting a defence and hearing witnesses. The prisoner-
plaintiff has a right to free legal assistance and the decision must be
communicated in writing and accounted for to the party involved. 13
Together with this advanced elaboration of the prisoner’s right of
complaint—a development which according to Kelk is unique in the
world (Kelk 1983:8)—the 1977 law involved a number of alterations in
the disciplinary punishments to be applied within the institution. Among
others, the following were abolished: confinement in a punishment cell;
putting in chains; provision of only bread and water rations;
withholding of visitation, of the right of correspondence, of reading
material, of canteen articles, etc. In their place, new disciplinary
measures were instituted: isolation in the cell for a maximum of two
weeks, a fine and a reprimand. Partly in connection with these far-
reaching revisions of the Prison Principles Act, the Prison Decree-Law
was also improved in many of its aspects. These include: allowing more
extensive contacts outside the institution (correspondence, telephone
conversations, improvement in the way information is provided,
including to non-Dutch-speaking prisoners, abolition of mandatory
prison uniforms and broadening of the regulations for leave). The 1977
complaints and appeal legislation has given rise to an extensive
jurisprudence which, in Kelk’s words, can be characterized by
‘refinement of justice, further elaboration of norms and rules and filling
gaps in the regulations, in regard to both material and procedural norms
in the detention situation’ (Kelk 1983:8).
The resocialization principle

Since 1951, the leading principle in the execution of prison sentences
has been that ‘while preserving the character of the punishment or
measure, its execution should serve the preparation of the prisoner for
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his return to society’ (Prison Principles Act 1977, article 57). It has come
under pressure in recent years because of economy measures and the
filling of penitentiary institutions beyond their capacity. Nevertheless,
preparation for return to society is still the main principle determining
what happens inside the institution. It is realized in many ways, not so
much in the sense of granting favours, but rather by offering facilities
to which every prisoner is entitled.
Thus, every institution provides the opportunity for education
and training, for social and religious counselling differentiated as
much as possible according to the various beliefs, for courses in
creative and social skills, for taking part in discussion groups and
for the use of the library facilities. Specialized officials have been
appointed to fulfil all these tasks. Together with the provision of
these internal facilities, the attempt is made to hinder as little as
possible contact with the outside world. In practice, this means that
the prisoner has visiting rights (a minimum of one hour every
fourteen days), the right to free correspondence with anyone (in a
number of institutions without supervision of the director) and,
depending on the regime, the right to make and receive telephone
calls and to go out on leave. Although still considered a favour,
various forms of leave have in recent years increasingly been
granted.
In addition, prisoners are allowed to have radio and television in their
cells. This is done not only to improve knowledge of the outside world
but also to save on personnel costs. Video programmes are increasingly
replacing active recreational facilities. The communal execution of the
prison sentence, and the differentiation and selection to be discussed
below, are also ways of putting into effect the resocialization principle.
Community life as a standard

In Howard’s time also, the resocialization principle played an
important role in carrying out the prison sentence. Then, unlike now,
it was thought that this could best be achieved through reflection in
total isolation. In 1951, the legislator broke radically with the existing
system of cells. The Fick Commission, which prepared these
alterations, looking back at this cell system, wrote: ‘One does not
know which is more striking: the noble character of the writers, the
integrity of their intentions, their admirable philanthropy, or their
truly frightening lack of any psychological insight.’ 14 This does not
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mean that the legislator has completely abolished detention in a cell.

The starting-point is now that the prisoner should spend most of his
day in the company of others, and the remaining time, the time for a
good night’s rest, in the cell. In a number of institutions prisoners also
receive their meals in their cells. This is viewed as part of the
prisoner’s right to privacy. Plans of the justice department to solve the
cell shortage by putting more than one prisoner in a cell have therefore
met with much opposition, largely from the prisoners themselves, and
have subsequently been withdrawn.
Differentiation and selection

Criminal contamination, which in Howard’s time was combated by
completely isolating each prisoner, is now avoided by internal and
external differentiation. External differentiation means the
designation of separate prisons for groups of prisoners who ‘fit’
together according to certain criteria. Internal differentiation and
selection occur within the institution itself. Criteria for
differentiation and selection are: sex, age, length of prison term and
type of crime, personality, assumed degree of dangerousness,
nationality and domicile of the convict. Another criterion is whether
the convict was already in custody at the time of his sentencing.
Nowadays it is also taken into account whether the prisoner is
addicted to drugs or alcohol. Some of these criteria are stipulated by
law, and others have developed in practice.
This means that prisons have developed into one type or another.
There are prisons and houses of detention for women, men or juveniles,
in open, half-open or closed institutions, institutions for short or for
long prison terms, institutions for those who have ‘turned themselves in’
or those already in pre-trial detention, in special institutions for traffic
offenders (drunken drivers), for the mentally disturbed, or for dangerous
criminals.
In addition, for some years experiments with ‘day detention’ have
been in progress (in effect, meaning return to prison each night),
especially as a means of preparing the detained for the return to society,
and with ‘weekend imprisonment’. A series of the latter type is
exclusively meant for short-term prisoners.
Together with external differentiation, internal differentiation also
takes place, most clearly in the larger institutions. This means that
within an institution special sections of wings are arranged according
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to the needs of certain categories of prisoners, such as drug addicts,

escape-prone or otherwise dangerous criminals, and mentally
disturbed prisoners. More and more institutions are setting up special
‘drug-free’ sections for ex-drug addicts or for prisoners who do not
wish to come in contact with drugs. These sections or wings are
characterized by a different regime from that of the rest of the
institution. The above mentioned selection and differentiation takes
place at different times.
It is important to note that neither the judge who imposes the
sentence nor the public prosecutor, though formally responsible for the
implementation of the prison sentences, may interfere with the manner
of execution. Selection and differentiation still remain the business of
the administration; it runs four selection advice committees which must
give advice in the selection of, respectively, juveniles and adults with
short prison terms, long-term prisoners, and candidates for open
institutions. The administrations of the prisons concerned also take part
in these selection advice committees. Selection within the institutions
takes place under supervision of the director, according to internal
procedures.
Centralized management
Since the beginning of the nineteenth century, prison management
has become more and more centralized. This is true of the relations
within the institution as well as the relations between the institution
and the Department of Justice. Final authority over all prisons is in
the hands of the Minister of Justice. He determines the domestic
regulations of the various institutions as well as the limits within
which the prison director must remain in carrying out his duties. The
authority of the department over the individual institutions is further
emphasized in a number of regulations. For instance, permission to
interrupt a sentence or to leave an institution must be granted by the
minister; he also regulates the diet of the prisoners. However, the all-
powerful minister can sometimes be forced by law to make
concessions. Moreover, the legal provisions in which certain powers
of the minister are set down are rather ‘openly’ formulated. The
minister can do almost anything, but does not have to do everything.
In practice this means more autonomy for the prison director. This
tendency has been quite noticeable in the last few years. Recently,
directors have been able to establish their own personnel policy and
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to make independent decisions regarding shifts in the budget of the

institution. Decision-making within the institution itself also seems to
be overly centralized in the person of the director. According to the
Prison Decree-Law, article 7, the officials who work in the institution
must strictly obey the director. But even here his authority is not
absolute. When charged with making certain decisions the director is
obliged to seek advice. The advisory procedure is spelled out in the
domestic regulations. In addition, these regulations require certain
‘discussions’ to be held, several examples of which will be mentioned
below in the description of the Breda Remand Prison. Finally, the
director can delegate certain duties to his subordinates without losing
his final authority.
Detention in practice
The organization of the Dutch prison system broadly outlined above can
be seen as well thought-out, advanced and consistent. But it is not just
the theoretical concept which is important here, but rather
implementation in daily practice. In this respect the picture is less
optimistic. This is not so much due to shortcomings of the concept itself,
but rather to the cell shortage, the far-reaching economy measures and
the concomitant hardening of the penitentiary and criminal law climate.
This has increasingly led to the overshadowing of penitentiary practice
by a return to repressive measures.
An important factor is also the change in prison population. We have
already mentioned the sharp increase in unconditional, long prison
sentences. While up till now the majority of prisoners were those serving
short prison terms, there is now a tendency—in itself praiseworthy—to
replace the short prison term of up to six months with alternatives not
involving deprivation of liberty, in order that the existing and still to be
realized prison capacity can be reserved for long prison sentences. This
means that the composition of the prison population is subject to
considerable change. Drug addicts, foreigners, mentally disturbed
individuals and hardcore criminals now form its nucleus. Problems
resulting from this are: the danger of contamination by AIDS,
deterioration of relations among the prisoners (drug dealing, corruption,
threats, use of violence), racial conflicts, anxiety among personnel and
prisoners. Add to this the buildings, which very often are out of date,
or the emergency facilities which have hastily been put together, the
personnel shortage (not only quantitative but also qualitative), and the
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relative decrease in funds, and here is a fact of life for which the
theoretical concept has no answer.
In this state of affairs the differentiation and resocialization principles
are losing their meaning. The penitentiary authorities, headed by the
Ministry of Justice, are looking for an answer to this problem, but
increasingly less in accordance with the principles described above, and
more in measures for supervision, security and repression. The
atmosphere from day to day is determined by compulsory urine tests,
increased supervision of visiting, body searches, diminishing recreational
possibilities and restrictions in granting leave. All this leads to tension
not only among the prisoners but also among the personnel, not to
mention the tension between personnel and prisoners. Such a climate is
not conducive to a humane and resocialization-oriented treatment.
Under these circumstances the danger exists that even good prison rules
and regulations, still one of the most important pillars on which the
penitentiary concept is based, may not work or may even be counter-
productive.
THE BREDA REMAND PRISON
Introduction
In the following section we describe one of the sixty-seven Dutch
penitentiary institutions. For several reasons, we have chosen a
remand prison. Most prisons are of this type and most prisoners are
detained in such an institution. Pre-trial custody alone accounts for
almost 40 per cent of the entire Dutch prison population. 15 Despite
what the name suggests, a remand prison is not only used for pre-
trial detention, but also, because of the cell shortage, for short and
medium sentences. The remand prison also functions as a prison for
fine-defaulters, as a temporary holding place for deported foreigners
and as an intermediate station for long-term prisoners and mentally
disturbed delinquents waiting to be placed in a long-term prison or
psychiatric institution. The remand prison therefore has a more
heterogeneous population and presents a more representative picture
than a specialized prison. In addition, the Breda Remand Prison is
one well known to one of the authors, a member of the supervisory
board.
The Breda Remand Prison is intended mainly for male prisoners. It
has a capacity of 107 places, 8 of which are intended for temporary
104
detention. The remaining 99 places are primarily intended for those in

pre-trial detention and those sentenced to prison. In addition there are
four so-called ‘isolation cells’ for undergoing disciplinary punishment in
the form of solitary confinement. (Solitary confinement may not exceed
14 days.)
The Remand Prison is a closed institution which means, among other
things, that security plays an important role. Within the limits of
optimal security, and with the restrictions deriving from the
arrangement of the building, the institution endeavours to achieve the
following objectives:
1 A humane execution of the detention;

2 The prevention or limitation, as much as is possible, of the
damaging effects of detention;
3 The provision of individual assistance in building up the prisoner’s
resilience for when he returns to society.
Later we will see what these objectives actually mean with regard to
how things work in the institution. But, in the next two sections we
will first take a closer look at the Breda Remand Prison’s building
and the security measures. Some years after completion of the dome-
prison, or panopticon, in Breda, work was begun at the rear on a
new court-house and a house of detention. This came into use in
1892. The Prison Principles Act of 1951 designated it both as a house
of detention for men and women and as a government workhouse for
women. This last designation was short-lived, as less than a year
later its function was taken over by the house of detention in
Middelburg. Since the women’s section was closed in 1960 it had one
function, as a house of detention for men. This changed again on 1
January 1990, when it reverted to offering facilities for both men and
women.
Because of the increasing need for special prisons for women the
house of detention was then reserved for women. The men’s house of
detention was moved to the container cells (k) and to the adjacent
panopticon (j). The building has been modernized several times over the
years. In the 1970s, a new three-storey administration building was
built, with room on the ground floor for the reception, administration
and management (c). On the second storey there are a room for staff
members, a library, an education centre and a recreation hall, while on
the top floor the staff members’ rooms and a hall for religious services
105
Figure 5.1 The Breda Remand Prison

Key:
(a) Entrance
(b) Front part of the building
(c) Director’s office; administration; On the second storey: sport/recreation hall
(d) Work-rooms
(e) Gymnasium
(f) Prisoners’ living quarters
(g) Punishment/isolation section
(h) Exercise yard
(i) Former court-house
(j) Panopticon (special prison, the ‘Boschpoort’)
(k) Container cells
Source: Adapted from Jonkers, W.H.A., et al. (1979) Het penitentiar recht (Penitentiary law) 10:311
106
are situated. To the left of the administration building on the ground

floor are the isolation cells (g) and to the right the yard for exercising
the prisoners (h). At the back are the work-rooms (d) and the
gymnasium (e). Next to the administration block is the prisoners’ living
quarters: a rectangular block of cells, with two wings on the upper
floors (f).
The standard facilities in each cell include a bed, a table and chair,
a night table, a clothes closet and an armchair. Ninety per cent of the
cells have a television set; they are rented for 6.70 florins a week
($3).
In 1984 it had been established that the building could no longer
meet present-day standards. There were no toilets or running water in
the cells, the washing and shower facilities were in a deplorable state
and security could no longer be satisfactorily guaranteed. There was a
general lack of maintenance throughout, which necessitated far-reaching
renovation. This has been carried out in stages since 1986 and was
completed in 1989 by the installing of a toilet and washing facilities in
every cell. It is remarkable that the institution has been able to remain
in use during this building period. This was only made possible by a
great extra effort on the part of the personnel to keep security, reception
and counselling at an acceptable level, and by adjustments in the
institutional regime.
Security
Security has been considerably improved as a result of the above
mentioned renovation. There has been an effort at eliminating the flaws
in the security system and, among other things, the following have been
put into use:
1 A new, protected entrance area (a), with a waiting room for visitors;
it is equipped with a detection-gate;
2 A new visiting hall for visitors and new consulting rooms for legal
counsel, rehabilitation, etc., the use of which prevents much of the
movement of prisoners and visitors in and through the entire
institution;
3 Observation by camera along the wall of the yard where prisoners
take exercise, a measure which further improves security;
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4 An automatic call-up and alarm system for the security personnel,

to safeguard those who are regularly alone with groups of
prisoners. The nature of the prison population is changing and
staff have been in more personal danger in recent years. Security
measures therefore taken include: regular cell inspection; detection
routines for visitors and prisoners; frisking and inspection of body
and clothing of prisoners. The system is now completely
operational.
The prison population

To give a picture of the average prison population in Breda, we will
describe the situation on 1 April 1988 (Ministry of Justice 1988 1, 2).
On that day there were 107 inmates. The average prison term of 165
days was well above the national average of 130 days.
Of the 107 inmates, 67 per cent were in remand or pre-trial
detention, 7 per cent were under ‘subsidiary’ detention, 24 per cent were
serving prison sentences and 2 per cent were waiting for a place in an
institution for mentally disturbed delinquents. The crimes for which
they were imprisoned were: larceny and embezzlement 42 per cent,
violent crimes 22 per cent, drug crimes 19 per cent, sexual offences 7
per cent, misdemeanours 5 per cent, and various other offences 5 per
cent.
Personal characteristics of the prisoners were as follows. Almost
30 per cent were 23 years of age or younger, 36 per cent were
between 23 and 30, 20 per cent between 30 and 40, and 14 per cent
were older than 40. Eighty-two of the prisoners were Dutch, 10 were
Turkish, 11 were Moroccan, and 4 had other nationalities. This
variation in nationality is reflected by the religious beliefs. Slightly
more than 21 per cent were Islamic, about 48 per cent Roman
Catholic, about 9 per cent Protestant, and 3 per cent professed
another religion. Regarding the addiction problem, the picture
coincides fairly well with the national picture in prisons: 21 per cent
were addicted to hard drugs, and 9 per cent to alcohol. The same can
be said for the level of education. On the average this did not go
further than basic secondary school, plus, in most cases, an
unfinished vocational training. An estimated 25 per cent of the
prisoners were totally or partly illiterate.
108
Treatment of the prisoners
The regime
A humane treatment, aimed at limiting the damaging effects of
detention and emphasizing individual assistance alongside security, is
the basis for the regime. We will now take a close look at how this ideal
is realized.
In the first place the prisoners at Breda should be suitably received,
cared for and counselled. At first sight, the arrangement of the building
does not lend itself to such an individually-oriented approach. The
prisoners are housed in a cell building of three storeys. There is an open
connection between the upper floors, allowing open and direct
communication between them, and there are short walkways. The
choice of an identical regime for all prisoners was partly due to this
building arrangement and partly in order to maximize capacity. The
disadvantages are that the prisoner may very quickly feel lost in the
totality of the institution and that there is little room for personal
contact between guards and prisoners.
Another objection is that no special facilities can be provided for the
large group of alcohol and drug addicts, or for the mentally disturbed.
The latter are being found more often in remand prisons as a result of
capacity shortages in specialized mental institutions. The possibility for
treatment for them within the remand prison is practically nil. The
absence of a differentiated regime causes much tension in connection
with the drug-related power structure, corruption of prisoners and
supervisory measures on the part of the prison management (urine tests,
cell inspection, visitation) which do not only affect addicted prisoners.
The fear of the spreading of the AIDS virus among prisoners and
personnel has recently arisen as a new problem. It is handled
pragmatically, among other things by giving direct information within
the institution and by handing out condoms to prisoners who request
them. Since there has been no final decision on the national level about
this problem, the prison management does not make syringes available
to addicts. A compulsory AIDS test has been rejected in The
Netherlands for ethical reasons.
In order to keep the negative effects of the uniform regime to a
minimum, the prisoners have been divided among six living sectors. The
prisoners in each are exercised together, participate jointly in the various
109
activities, etc., and there is a permanent team of prison officers caring

for and counselling them. The general rules governing the prison regime
allow the prison management considerable freedom in putting the basic
principles into practice, so the regimes of the various institutions vary
considerably. The regime in Breda can be considered moderate. This is
evident from the small number of complaints and appeals that have
been lodged against management decisions, the flexible application of
visiting and telephone regulations and the say allowed the prisoners by
the management in matters concerning their own living situation.
Personnel
Approximately sixty prison officers have a central role in the treatment
of prisoners. Since 1977, the majority of prison personnel are no longer
guards in the traditional sense, but officers who in addition to a security
function also have the job of caring for and counselling the prisoners.
At present prison officers share the responsibility for the treatment and
counselling of prisoners and are very much involved in making
recommendations about them. They are also expected to run activity
programmes in the areas of recreation, sport, education and social and
personal development completely on their own. This has had far-
reaching effects on the quality of people sought for the position of
officer.
While earlier a secondary school education was considered sufficient,
supplemented by a short period of internal training, an increasingly
specialized professional training is now required. Much attention is
given to work counselling and in-service training. Nevertheless, many
prison officers find the combination of security and counselling difficult.
It is thus not surprising that the rate of absence due to illness is very
high among prison officers; in 1987 it amounted to 14 per cent of the
total work time. However, the character of most officers shows that
resocialization is no empty promise.
In addition to the 60 prison officers there are 45 functionaries
associated with the institution, 10 on a part-time basis. Besides
management, administration and the 5 guards in the traditional sense (a
total of 21 persons), we find among the functionaries: 3 religious
counsellors, a doctor, a psychologist, a work counsellor, a social worker,
2 nurses, 2 organists, a teacher, a sports instructor, a librarian, 7 work
superintendents, a bath superintendent, a canteen manager and a
seamstress. Outside experts are also involved, such as: the district
110
psychiatrist, the Islamic imam, the consultation bureau for alcohol and
drugs, rehabilitation services, and the bureau of legal assistance. This
last bureau holds a legal counselling hour for prisoners once a week in
the prison.
The staff to prisoner ratio of 1:1 coincides with the national average.
It is the most important expenditure in the prison system. The total cost
of operating one prison cell per day, excluding personnel costs, is about
170 florins (about $80); including personnel costs, it comes to about
400 florins (about $190).
Activities
The prisoners in Breda are able to take part in a broad range of
activities. On the one hand this lessens the problem of idleness and
boredom, and on the other the prisoner has to a certain extent the
opportunity to plan his own day and thereby increase his self-
sufficiency. This is also an attempt to check the process of
depersonalization which is common in a total institution. For this reason
too, the prisoners do not wear prison clothes, but are allowed to wear
their own clothing. These are not to be considered favours, but rights
to which the prisoner is entitled. This is especially true of activities that
can be considered to be derived from their constitutional rights, such as
the right to education, freedom of religion and freedom of association
and assembly. At the same time, however, the prisoner who has chosen
a certain activity is expected fully to participate in it and to do so with
motivation.
The prescribed planning of the day enables as many prisoners as
possible to take part in the programmes on offer. The day is divided into
blocks, each with its own available facilities of which certain living-
groups may make use. Some living-groups work during the morning
block and have their recreational activities in the afternoon, while other
groups have the reverse schedule. The activities in question can be
divided into: labour or work, sports and fitness, education and library,
arts and crafts, and group work led by the probation service. The idea
that work has an important function in the resocialization process has
remained unchanged since the days of the rasping and spinning houses.
It is compulsory for prisoners. Non-prisoners, those on remand, also
have a right to work.
In practice, more than 90 per cent of all inmates in Breda take part
in work. Those who do not remain locked in their cells during work
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time. With the exception of weekends, the prisoners work a little over
three hours a day. The work is done in five work-rooms and consists of
the manufacture of fish boxes, packing and assembly work, metal work
and textile work. It allows the prisoners to earn a maximum of 27.25
florins (about $13) a week.
Forty-five to 60 per cent of prisoners regularly take part in physical
exercise and fitness-training lessons. At a fixed time the prisoners are
called up in large or small groups to take part in various forms of
exercise which are organized in a completely furnished sports hall, a
fitness area and in the outside accommodation. There is an ample
selection of sport activities: games such as football, hockey, volley-ball,
basketball, badminton, and also fitness training, gymnastics and
athletics. The prisoner may participate in these activities a minimum of
twice and a maximum of four times a week.
Much attention is given to education. The teaching staff give courses
in remedial education, literacy and social training. There are one Dutch
and three foreign language courses, courses in secondary school subjects
and in traffic education. In the education annex of the library, which
was completely renovated in 1987, there is also a language laboratory.
Efforts in education, however, are frustrated by the relatively short stay
of prisoners in the institution and the resultant lack of continuity. In
1984 two small rooms were designated for arts and crafts, one for
drawing and painting and the other for woodworking. The prisoners
can participate once or twice a week in these activities; a maximum of
six prisoners may at the same time be in one room. The probation
service in the court district of Breda conducts group work with the
purpose of helping people to meet one another, to exchange experiences
and to help both one another and themselves. The groups are centred
around a certain theme, such as addiction, justice and detention and the
relationships of prisoners.
Daily routine
As an example of an average day in the prisoner’s life in the Breda
Remand Prison, we have chosen a Monday schedule:
06.55 Morning call

07.00 Opening of the cells and roll call
07.00–07.30 Toilet and washing-rounds of 10 minutes per inmate,
distribution of medicine, breakfast
112
07.30–0800 Planning the day

07.45 Bell for the morning work team
07.50–11.00 Work
10.00–10.15 Coffee break
11.00–12.00 Exercise outside of containers, cell inspection
11.30 Distribution of mail
12.00–12.45 Dinner in the cell
13.00–14.15 Library
13.00–14.00 Fitness
13.00–14.30 Arts and crafts
14.15–17.00 Opportunities for education (optional)
14.15–15.45 Visiting (twice a week for one hour) plus frisking and
body search
14.00–15.40 Social consultation hour
14.45–15.00 Sports (max. 4 times a week)
13.30–17.00 Bathing on call (max. 4 times a week)
15.15–15.30 Tea break
16.00–17.00 Exercise
17.45–18.30 Supper
18.45–21.30 Recreation (max. 10 hours a week)
19.00–21.15 Discussion groups led by the religious counsellor
19.00–21.45 Opportunity to use the telephone (max. 10 minutes
twice a week)
20.15–21.15 Toilet rounds
21.45 Locking in the cell
23.00 Lights out (or, on request, at 00.30)
08.00–18.00 Consultation with medical staff
We have given a schedule for a group that works in the morning. The
schedule for prisoners who work in the afternoon (from 13.30) is
reversed.
Some facilities are available on other days than Mondays. The
dentist has his consultation hours on Tuesdays from 8.30 to 14.00,
discussion groups led by the probation service take place on Tuesdays,
Wednesdays and Thursdays from 16.00 to 16.45, and the canteen is
open on Thursdays from 8.00 to 12.00 and from 13.00 to 17.00. This
is run by an outside grocer. The prisoners may spend up to 60 florins
(about $25) a week on consumer goods. Payment is made via a current
account system within the prison. Prisoners are not allowed to handle
cash.
113
Apart from this schedule, a prisoner is allowed the opportunity on

any day, though in principle not during work time, to be visited by his
lawyer or rehabilitation officer, or to speak to an employee of the
bureau of legal assistance. He may also ask to speak to members of the
supervisory commission. One member of this commission, the so-
called ‘month-commissioner’, visits the prison at least twice a month.
He speaks to prisoners who have entered a request for this, and
regularly attends meetings of the prisoners’ committee. The month-
commissioner also acquaints himself with other prison business, and is
asked to visit every prisoner in solitary confinement. Every month he
makes a report of his findings, a copy of which is sent to all members
of the commission and the prison management, and which is discussed
during the monthly commission meetings. Once a year the supervisory
commission receives the entire prisoners’ committee during such a
meeting.
Every Saturday morning a barber is available in the prison. At
weekends there is a simplified day schedule, without work, library,
education or other training and sport activities. During the weekend
the prisoner spends a lot of time in his or her cell, with only a church
service, a few hours of recreation and the required exercise as
variation. For the last few years, warm meals have not been prepared
in the prison kitchen but have been delivered by a catering service.
The prisoners have a wide choice on the menu. Dietary wishes for
medical, religious or ideological reasons are taken into account. The
schedule does not contain activities organized by the prisoners
themselves. In the institution there is a prisoners’ committee which,
in consultation with the management, plans the programmes for
public holidays and decides which video programmes are to be shown
on the internal video network of the prison. Here special attention is
paid to the wishes of foreign prisoners. The prisoners also publish
their own magazine.
Conclusion
Although the Remand Prison at Breda has not remained untouched by
economy measures, shortage of capacity and the changing nature of the
prison population, the climate has remained fairly moderate and
individually-oriented. There is seldom serious tension among the
prisoners themselves or between prisoners and guards. Many problems
are solved informally. This relative stability is also evident from the
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number and types of official complaints made to the complaint

commission of the supervisory commission. In relation to previous years
the number of complaints has gone down considerably, as shown in
Table 5.2.
Table 5.2 Complaints made by prisoners at Breda Remand Prison
The complaints were lodged in connection with disciplinary punishment

for trying to escape (twice in 1988), exercise, food, censorship of an
article for the prison magazine, and placement in solitary confinement
because of danger of violence from other prisoners.
This has been a description of a typical prison in The Netherlands.
There are prisons which are more open to the outside world, especially
the open and half-open prisons; there are also those with a much stricter
regime, namely the special prisons for those sentenced to long terms.
There are prisons where the building arrangement is better, and there
are also some which would suffer in comparison with Breda. Between
these extremes the Breda Remand Prison, taking all aspects into
account, gives a representative picture of the Dutch prison system. All
things considered, this picture can still be called a positive one.
It is doubtful whether the same will be true after 1990, when the
entire Remand Prison will be housed partly in the old, neighbouring
panopticon and partly in the recently placed containers. Howard was
one of the first to call attention to the influence of the buildings on the
living climate in the prison. Two hundred years later, locking up
prisoners in a panopticon and in containers shows that hardly any of
this awareness remains.
115
NOTES
1 For an overview of the history of the Dutch prison system and penal theory
see: Hallema, A. (1958) Geschiedenis van het Gevangeniswezen,
hoofdzakelijk in Nederland, The Hague, and de Monte-Verloren, J. Ph.
(1937) Geschiedenis der Nederlandse Strafrechtswetenschap, Amsterdam.
2 A rasp was a coarse kind of file, used for scraping, rubbing down or
finishing wood.
3 Historie van de Wonderlijcke Mirakelen, die in menichte ghebeurt zijn, en
de noch dagelijk ghebeuren, binnen de vermaerde Coop-stad Aemstelredam:
In een plaats ghenaempt het Tucht-huys, gheleghen op de Heylighewegh
(1612), Amsterdam. The English translation of this fragment is by Simon
Schama, in The Embarrassment of Riches (op.cit.), p.23.
4 `Automatic early release, however, does not apply to those sentenced to life
imprisonment. Such a prisoner can, via an appeal, ask that his sentence be
commuted to a determinate one. He may then be released after serving two-
thirds of his time.
5 See especially the departmental note Samenleving en Criminaliteit, een
beleidsplan voor de komende jaren (Society and Criminality, a policy for
the coming year) (1985), in which this issue is dealt with.
6 See Centraal Bureau voor do Statistiek (Dutch Central Statistical Office)
(1987) Criminaliteit en Strafrechtspleging (Criminality and Criminal Law
Procedure) and Interdepartementale Stuurgroep Alcohol-en Drugbeleid
(ISAD) (Interdepartmental Steering Committee for Policy on Alcohol and
Drugs) (1986) Heroverweging 1986 Drug-en alcoholbeleid
(Reconsideration 1986 of policy on drugs and alcohol), annex 6, pp. 5–6.
7 See Interdepartementale Stuurgroep Alcohol-en Drugbeleid (ISAD) (1985)
Drugbeleid in beweging (Drug policy in motion), p. 11; Erkelens, L.H.
(1986) Drugvrije detentie (Drugless detention), The Hague: Government
Advisory Group, p. 13; and the report (1985) Drugvrije detentie (Drugless
detention), The Hague: Government Advisory Group.
8 See Structuurplan Penitentiare Capaciteit (Master Plan Penitentiary
Capacity) (1985), The Hague: Justice Department.
9 These figures are based on the recent report Voorzieningenbeleid
delinquentenzorg en jeugdinrichtingen: 1990–1994 (Policy for facilities for
delinquents and institutions for youth: 1990–1994) (1989), The Hague:
Justice Department, and on two reports De capaciteitsprobelm bij het
gevangeniswezen (Capacity problems in the prison system) (June 1981),
The Hague: Justice Department, and De capaciteitsbenhoefte van het
gevangeniswezen (Capacity needs of the prison system) (January 1984), The
Hague: Justice Department.
10 See among others Peters, A.A.G. (1972) Het rechtskarakter van het
strafrecht (The legal character of criminal law), Deventer; Kelk, C. (1976)
Rapport rechtspositie gedetineerden (Report on the Legal Status of
Prisoners), Utrecht; The Kempe-bundle: Recht-Macht-Manipulatie (Law-
Power-Manipulation) (1976) published by the Utrecht school, Utrecht;
Kelk, C. (1978) Recht voor gedetineerden (Justice for Prisoners), Alphen
116
aan de Rijn; and Kort begrip van het detentierecht (A short explanation of
the detention law) (1983), Nijmergen.
11 This commission was established by the Department of Justice on 5
November 1964. In 1967 the commission issued a final report which also
contained a bill. A summary of the events that led to the change in the law
and its further history was given by A.C.Guerts in his valedictory speech:
‘De rechtspositie van de gevangene of hoe het was, is en zou kunnen zijn’
(‘The legal status of the prisoner: how it was, is and might be’) Deventer,
1981.
12 Article 57, Beginselenwet Gevangeniswezen (Prison Principles Act).
13 For further information on the complaints and appeals law, see: Kelk, C.
(1978) Recht foor gedetineerden, op.cit.; Balkema, J.P. (1979) Klachtrecht
voor gevangenen (Complaints law for prisoners), Alphen aan de Rijn;
Jonkers, W.H.A., et al. (1979) Het penitentiar recht (Penitentiary law),
Arnhem; Van Ratingen, P. (1983) Recht en gevangenschap (Law and
imprisonment), Deventer.
14 Report of the Commissie voor de verdere uitbouw van het
Gevangeniswezen (Commission for the further development and extension
of the prison system) (1947), Staatsdrukkerij, The Hague, p. 9.
15 On 1 February 1989 in The Netherlands there were 5,291 persons
imprisoned. The percentage of unconvicted prisoners, which are almost
always kept in houses of detention, was at that time 38.5 per cent. See
Prison Bulletin 10, December 1988, p. 20.
REFERENCES
Coornhert, D.V. (1587) Boeven-tucht ofte Middelen tot mindering der
schadelyke ledighghanghers (Scoundrel reform, or the means of reducing
dangerous idlers), first published in Amsterdam.
Geurts, A.C. (1962) De rechtspositie van de gevangene (The legal status of the
prisoner), Assen.
Howard, J. (1977) The State of the Prisons (bicentennial edn, facsimile reprint
of first edn of 1777), Abingdon.
Jonkers, W.H.A., et al. (1979) Het penitentiar recht (Penitentiary Law),
Arnhem: Gouda Quent .
Kelk, C. (1983) Recht voor Geinstitutionaliseerden (Justice for the
Institutionalised), Arnhem.
Ministry of Justice (1988) Beleidsplan huis van bewaring Breda (Policy plan,
Breda Remand Prison), Breda, supplement 3.
Schama, S. (1987) The Embarrassment of Riches, an Interpretation of Dutch
Culture in the Golden Age, London: Collins.
Staatscourant, government newspaper, 28 August 1989.
Teldersstichting, B.M. (1988) Strafecht en rechtshandhaving (Criminal law and
law and order), The Hague: Liberal Party Working Group Report.
117
van Veen, Th.W. (1986) ‘Wat beneemt de vrijheidsstraf?’ (‘What does prison
take away?’), in 100 jaar vrijheidsstraf (100 years of imprisonment),
Groningen.
118
Chapter Six
MATAGALPA PRISON, NICARAGUA

GINNY BAUMANN AND KEVIN BALES
INTRODUCTION
Nicaragua is a nation in transition, and its prison system reflects the
remarkable and sweeping changes in life and government since the end
of the Somoza dictatorship in 1979. These changes, such as the transfer
of land to co-operatives and poorer peasants, the literacy campaign and
the present drive to clean up the country’s water sources, all
demonstrate a thrust of government policy very different from the
regime which ended in 1979. In many ways the Nicaraguan prison
system is an exemplar of this shift in political philosophy and policy.
Many of the current members and officials of the Nicaraguan
government were held in the nation’s prisons prior to the revolution. A
government with such a high proportion of its members having first-
hand and intimate knowledge of prison life is rare, and explains, in part,
the equally rare views of the Nicaraguan government on the nature of
imprisonment. On the continuum of penal philosophy which stretches
from the punitive to the reformative, the Nicaraguan penal system has
placed itself on the far edge of reform.
The pursuit of these principles by the Nicaraguan penal system occurs
within strict shortages of basic resources. Two political situations have
detracted from the physical improvement of the prison system. The first
of these and the most immediate was the war which was fought along
the Honduran border and elsewhere between the Nicaraguan forces and
the ‘Contras’, who were armed and supported by direct grants from the
US Congress. Government resources have been constantly diminished by
the need to prioritize defence.
In addition to the consumption of resources by the Contra war, it
might well be expected that military invasion would harden government
119
attitudes towards those whose actions were deemed anti-social or anti-

government. It is certainly true that a State of Emergency was in effect
for most of the period of hostilities, being lifted in January 1987. This
State of Emergency restricted certain freedoms, including the right of
habeas corpus (restored in non-political cases in 1985). However, the
State of Emergency did not suspend other significant sections of the
Statute of Rights and Guarantees of Nicaraguans. In particular those
articles of the statute survive which forbid cruel, inhuman, or degrading
punishment. The abolition of the death penalty following the revolution
remained intact. As will be discussed below, the treatment of detainees
suspected of security offences is still open to serious questioning, but the
operations of the penal system itself continue within the bounds set by
the Statute of Rights.
The second limiting factor was less immediate, but of greater
potential impact. This was the trade embargo which was enforced
on Nicaragua by the United States. Before the revolution the USA
was, by far, Nicaragua’s most important trading partner. Today the
impact of the embargo is to be seen everywhere in the economy, as
well as in the prisons. Despite the fact that the government has
greater calls on its meagre resources than building more
comfortable prisons, the physical plant of the prisons has been
steadily improved. Workshops and gymnasiums, for example, have
been added to the main prisons. Most prison facilities are now
operating below their capacity and, unlike those in many more
industrialized countries, do not suffer significantly from
overcrowding. In Central America it stands out as a model of high
quality provision drawn from a small resource base.
THE PRISON SYSTEM

In 1980, just after the revolution, the Inter-American Commission on
Human Rights visited Nicaragua and inspected ten prisons around
the country. Seven of these ten they regarded as ‘deplorable’ —
overcrowded, poorly serviced, and dilapidated. Their report
explained these conditions in terms of the inheritance of the
crumbling Somoza penal system. ‘Of necessity’, they wrote, ‘the
Government had to use the former regime’s detention institutions,
which in the best of times had been rudimentary and which
deteriorated notably in the years prior to the fall of Somoza’ (IACHR
1983:99). Americas Watch also found crowded prisons in 1982,
120
primarily in the two main prisons which were used to house

‘Somocistas’. Since the inspection of the system in 1982 many
changes have taken place, particularly in the physical plant and in
the organization of the prison regime. In broad outline: the prison
population of Nicaragua is estimated at a little over 7,000 inmates.
About 235 of these are members of the Nicaraguan army or police
serving sentences imposed by military courts. Of the remainder about
three-quarters (5,328) are common-crime offenders. Another one-
fifth (1,515) are either charged or convicted of security-related
offences. This latter number had been much larger; it included, until
the recent amnesty, more than 2,000 former National Guardsmen
and others convicted by the 1979–81 special courts; of these only 39
remained in prison in October 1989.
There are two main prisons in Nicaragua, fifteen small prison
farms, and a number of detention centres run by the Directorate
General of State Security. The prison at Tipitapa, near Managua, is
the largest. Until the recent amnesty it housed just under 3,000
inmates at 80 per cent capacity; some 2,000 of these were former
members of the National Guard. The other major prison, Heroes y
Martires de Nueva Guinea (or ‘Zona Franca’) is also near Managua,
and is used for those awaiting trial. The fifteen prison farms,
including one for women, are recently-built, low security facilities. In
addition to the main prisons and prison farms there are gaols in
several cities.
The prisons are classified as open, semi-open, or closed. The
allocation of inmates to any one of these depends on their participation
in the five-stage programme which leads to probation and release. The
five stages are:
Stage 1: A closed ordinary prison system, without work;

Stage 2: A closed prison, but the inmate is allowed to work and receives
privileges and more family visits. If an inmate demonstrates
good behaviour he or she may, after serving 30 per cent of the
sentence, progress to a semi-open system. Most inmates
progress to this second stage immediately after conviction and
sentencing, depending upon their willingness to join in work
programmes and education;
Stage 3: A semi-open prison or low security gaol, the inmate being free
to move about the grounds and working outside the facility
during the day. After serving a further 20 per cent of their
121
sentence in a semi-open regime, inmates are moved on to an

open system;
Stage 4: An open system with no security measures. Prison officials do
not carry arms and the facility is run by an elected council of
inmates. There are weekly visits, once a month the inmate is
given a weekend leave, and once every six months is allowed
home for a week. After another 10 per cent of the sentence is
served in the open system of Stage 4, the prisoner is placed on
probation and allowed to go home;
Stage 5: A probationary period in which the prisoner continues to report
to the police, but lives and works normally. The prison
officials are supposed to provide each probationer with
employment at this stage in the rehabilitation process, but it is
unclear whether or not this is possible in the current economic
crisis.
As can be seen, the total sentence can be reduced by as much as 60

per cent if the prisoner is placed directly into Stage 2 after
conviction. At all stages good behaviour and a good work record
make possible the earning of more privileges. All prisoners are urged
to pursue educational and cultural activities. Pardons and
commutations are also granted on the basis of good behaviour, and
there is a reasonable expectation of a sentence being reduced once a
prisoner has progressed to the open system of Stage 4. As an example
of the reduction of sentence, some inmates, including ex-National
Guardsmen, serving twenty- to thirty-year sentences, had reached the
open system of the fifth stage within eight years of incarceration.
There has been one independent study of the open farm system
(McCabe 1986). This study, conducted between 1982 and 1984,
found a recidivism rate of 15 per cent among participants. It also
stated that ‘90 per cent of the respondents indicated that their
experience in the programme had helped them to see more clearly the
forces at work in their lives and had in fact helped them to take more
control over their lives’.
The International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) has made
extensive and unrestricted visits since 1985, three or four times per
year, to Tipitapa and Zona Franca. The Red Cross primarily visits
those inmates who are former National Guardsmen or who have
been sentenced for counter-revolutionary activity. In addition, since
1985, the Red Cross has run seminars, with government agreement,
122
for members of the National Penitentiary Programme and the

police.
Despite some criticisms which will be considered below, the basic
assessment of the Nicaraguan Prison System must be positive. The
Catholic Institute for International Relations, who inspected the system
in 1986, stated that
In a continent notorious for appalling prison conditions, where

brutality and corruption are the norm, Nicaragua’s penal system
stands out as a genuine effort to find a more humane yet affordable
alternative. Such criticism as there is concentrates on lack of
resources, which is a feature of the Nicaraguan economy as a whole
and is not limited to the prison system. (1987:66)
The Nicaraguan penal system has several features unique in Central

America and, in the case of Matagalpa Prison, these special features are
examined in more detail.
MATAGALPA PRISON
The prison in Matagalpa had been built to hold a maximum of 600,
and in January 1989 there were 530 occupants. Food consisted of a
relentless but sufficient diet of rice and beans (typical of the
population in general). Most of the prison seemed to be laid out in
large open ‘wards’ with bunk beds rather than individual cells. There
was a high standard of cleanliness throughout the prison. By the
standards of some prisons in economically developed countries,
Matagalpa prison was spartan and comfortless, but conditions seemed
no worse than those faced by most of the rural population in
Nicaragua.
Underlying the programme at Matagalpa is the belief that people
are able to change in fundamental ways. The analysis of crime put
forward by the present Nicaraguan leadership is one based mainly on
social deprivation, lack of opportunities and corruption by values of
greed and individualism. The Education Officer of Matagalpa Prison
went as far as to say that when systems of exploitation can be brought
to an end, crime as a major social phenomenon will disappear. This
philosophy is matched by the general willingness of the Nicaraguan
people to accept ex-offenders back into the community. It may be
123
concluded that without the experience of events since 1979, this ‘faith
in the possibility of change’ could not have become the guiding
principle of the prisons.
If the aim of the prison system is to reform the individual, the
method is education. This understanding of the role of education can
partly be explained by the experience of the literacy campaign which
was carried out throughout Nicaragua shortly after the revolution.
This massive mobilization against illiteracy, mainly put into effect by
older schoolchildren, brought basic reading and writing skills to all
but 12 per cent of the population. Only months before this campaign,
over half of the population were illiterate. The Nicaraguan
government explains that this immediate involvement of the rural
population and the huge changes and challenges which literacy
brought to their lives is one of the main reasons that the revolution
has been sustained.
In the prisons, formal education is available in the subjects taught in
Nicaraguan schools, so that prisoners can complete the six grades of
elementary schooling. It is worth stressing that all of this teaching is
done by the prisoners themselves rather than by prison officers.
Likewise any prisoner with skills in a basic trade will be encouraged to
share them with other inmates. In the prison at Matagalpa, prisoners
spoken with there seemed proud of the responsibilities they held as
teachers and trainers in the prison. Prisoners being trained in woodwork
explained that their major frustration was with the shortage of tools and
materials.
Prisoners’ education is enhanced by a wide range of cultural
activities. The performance of dance and drama attended during the
inspection of Matagalpa Prison was a good testimony to the efforts
being made to draw out the creativity and self-expression of the
prisoner. Inmates had the chance to join special groups for music,
drama, dance and art. Complaints were of insufficient guitar strings,
paints and brushes. Until the United States sanctions on Nicaragua and
its backing for the Contra war come to an end, these limitations on
living standards will continue to affect prisoners as much as they affect
the rest of the population.
The education programme is an essential part of the five-stage
progression through the prison system. The prisoners’ willingness to
participate in cultural, training and education activities is partly what
determines the speed with which they move through the system and the
124
frequency of access to various benefits. Equally important in deciding

their progress is their willingness to join in work schemes.
At the bottom end of the ladder are those inmates, mostly
Somocistas and ex-National Guardsmen, who refuse to work or join
in education. They end up simply serving out the full term of their
sentence, unless affected by the various amnesties. For those
prisoners who co-operate, the regime is semi-open after the first third
of their sentence. This means they are taken on a daily basis to farms
and other work-places outside the prison. Prisoners are later
transferred to open farm prisons. Each of these farms has only about
fifty inmates, under very light surveillance by unarmed staff.
Prisoners have a full-day visit from their families once a week. Those
in open prisons have a 48-hour pass each month to go home, and
have eight days ‘holiday’ twice a year. Last year, only 2 per cent
broke the rules and disappeared. This frequent contact with families
is given strong emphasis by the prison authorities, who see it as one
of the key elements both of encouraging prisoners to participate and
in preparing them for successful reintegration. Even as early as the
second stage of imprisonment conjugal visits are permitted every
fifteen days.
There is an attempt to involve the families in improving life in prisons
and there are ‘Family Councils’ attached to each prison with the right
to make proposals on education programmes, living conditions and on
ways to resolve problems within prisons.
It is hard to be accurate about the ‘success’ of the Nicaraguan prison
system in reforming offenders and reintegrating them into society. The
government claims its success is shown by a remarkably low 5 per cent
rate of recidivism.
THE RIGHTS OF PRISONERS IN NICARAGUA

Part of Nicaragua’s claim to be a ‘freer’ society lies in its treatment
of offenders. Given the challenge to this claim by those who label the
country ‘totalitarian’, the state of the prisons takes on a special
significance. It is as true for Nicaragua as for any country that the
full political importance of its prison system lies in its possible role
as an instrument of social terror. The best way to illustrate this point
is to show the role of prisons in the pre-revolutionary Nicaraguan
regime.
125
Somoza’s gaols were a central component of a huge apparatus of fear.

They were, and were intended to be, a massive deterrent to political
opposition. Under Somoza, there were scarcely any official prisons as
such; rather, the National Guard command posts were used for
detention. Reports from human rights organizations at the time indicate
systematic abuse of prisoners, especially of political prisoners. The
pervasive nature of torture, disappearance and killings and the fact that
they went unpunished suggests that these violations were officially
sanctioned. Men and women were not held separately and women in
detention faced rape and physical abuse. A Matagalpa prison official
claimed that the US government arranged for officials who had served
in the Korean and Vietnam wars to go to Nicaragua to teach the
National Guard methods of torture. Advisers came from Argentina for
the same purpose.
The Nicaraguan government states that it has made a clear break
with the use of imprisonment as a means of political repression. Chapter
1, Article 4 of the 1985 Ministry of Interior guide-lines sets out that the
penitentiary system must completely end all types of torture, violence,
physical or psychological mistreatment of prisoners. All prisoners are
made aware of these rights.
At the head of the prison system is Tomas Borge, the Minister of the
Interior. Just before the revolution he spent seven months in detention
chained to a wall. At this time, his wife Yelva was tortured to death.
Many of the present officials of the Nicaraguan government have their
own horrific experiences to relate about Somoza’s prisons. After these
experiences they set out to rebuild the prison system, from the
perspective of prisoners turned gaolers.
After the marking of Nicaragua’s ‘Tenth Year of Freedom’ in 1989,
how do the prisons measure up to the government’s claims? The
Nicaraguan government does not suggest that all abuses of prisoners
have been overcome. As in any prison system, violations still occur.
What it does claim, and what there is evidence for, is that anyone, of
whatever rank, who uses violence or brutality against prisoners will be
tried and punished if convicted. The Inter-American Commission on
Human Rights reported that any prison warders found guilty of
beating prisoners were punished. In the two principal Nicaraguan
prisons, Tipitapa and Zona Franca, Americas Watch in 1982
‘encountered no credible reports of beatings or similar mistreatment’
(1984).
126
TREATMENT OF FORMER NATIONAL GUARD MEMBERS

If any section of the Nicaraguan prison population were at risk, it
would be those prisoners who had served in Somoza’s National Guard.
It is clear that the main prisons in which they are held are no longer
overcrowded and that if they choose to do so, these prisoners can
participate in the full range of activities. Until recently the most serious
problem noted by outside observers was the approximately 1,000
former members of the National Guard who were held in Tipitapa and
who refused to take part in the five-stage programme of rehabilitation.
With a sizeable number of these prisoners now pardoned, this situation
has apparently been resolved.
As well as those prisoners given an amnesty, the Catholic Institute for
International Relations estimates that at least 260 ex-Somocistas have
already worked their way through the five stages of imprisonment and,
although given long sentences, have now been released on the basis of
their behaviour. In 1989 most of the former National Guardsmen were
released by the Nicaraguan government. This amnesty was part of an
agreement made by Nicaragua with four other Central American
countries in an effort to bring peace to the region. In March 1989 some
1,900 of these Somocistas were pardoned. Previously, in November
1987, 985 prisoners had been released.
The Nicaraguan government has found this policy of amnesty
hard to make acceptable to the general public. Memories of
National Guard atrocities are fresh in the popular mind; in the last
year of the dictatorship between 40,000 and 60,000 people died at
their hands. At the time of the pardon the Minister of the Interior,
Tomas Borge, met many groups of the war-wounded and the
relatives of past victims. In a speech made to one group he argued
that they had need to ‘give up some of [their] justifiable rage’
(Independent 1989). On the same day President Ortega addressed a
gathering that included women who held pictures of relatives killed
by the Contras. In his address he stated that ‘he wouldn’t be in
favour of the pardon, but peace is worth much more’ (Independent
1989).
PRE-TRIAL DETENTION
While there is sufficient evidence of protection of prisoners within the
prison system itself, questions must be raised about the use of pre-trial
127
detention. Under the State of Emergency, the Directorate General of

State Security (DGSE) was allowed to hold people suspected of political
offences indefinitely in detention for investigation. Serving inmates are
also sometimes removed to these centres when they are suspected of
involvement in other crimes. In some cases that were drawn to the
attention of the Juridical and Human Rights Commission of the main
Protestant organization (CEPAD), people had been held for as long as
three months without being interrogated. Americas Watch estimated in
1986 that at any one time, 300 or more prisoners were held in DGSE
facilities. This tallies fairly well with government figures.
It is disturbing that until recently there was no access to DGSE
holding centres by Red Cross officials. But at the same time lawyers and
family were generally permitted to make regular visits. Americas Watch
stated that ‘As best we can determine, torture as that term is generally
understood is not practised in Nicaragua as a means of eliciting
information or confessions, nor as a form of punishment’ (Americas
Watch 1984) but its report goes on to detail cases where harsh
interrogation techniques were used (see also Amnesty International
1982). Americas Watch gives as examples prisoners put several days in
small darkened cells, and the use of sleep deprivation and threats. Those
testifying to these abuses often explained that their treatment was due
to the intrigues of local government officials, who were accusing them
of collaboration with the Contras. Talks between the government and
opposition parties in the summer and autumn of 1989 led to
improvements in the detention centres. Inspections were carried out by
outside groups for the first time, and changes, such as putting windows
into dark cells, took place.
INVESTING IN BETTER PRISONS

It is a commonly understood element of the rights of prisoners that
prison conditions should be such as to maintain life and health. It was
particularly on the grounds of overcrowding and poor physical
conditions that Nicaraguan prisons were severely criticized in the
opening months of the new government.
In 1979, when it came to power after a long and vicious civil war the
new government detained between 7,000 and 8,000 former members of
the National Guard. Of these, 4,300 were tried and received prison
sentences, and the rest were released. There was nowhere to put these
prisoners except back into the former regime’s gaols, where they did
128
indeed face sub-human conditions, especially of overcrowding. In

October 1980, the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights
reported on this situation. By the time the report was published, three
out of ten of the inspected prisons had already been shut down.
Americas Watch said that by 1986 overcrowding had been solved in the
largest prison (Tipitapa), and inmates had more facilities for work and
recreation and for family visits. As explained above fifteen new ‘open
farm’ prisons have been constructed and more of these are essential if
the Sandinista prison guide-lines are to be fully put into action.
In Matagalpa, the achievements of the prison system were reflected
in the very positive attitude of inmates and in the aspirations of prison
staff. The general message was not to look back at past crimes but
forward to a more worthwhile place in society. In sum, the Nicaraguan
penal system is one which deserves closer examination, not just because
of the option it presents for other developing countries. The use of open
and semi-open prisons, as well as the rehabilitation and education
programmes, means a lower cost to the community both economically
and socially. Prisoners tend not to re-offend, family relationships are
maintained, and above all, through education prisoners are provided
with the opportunity of a different role in society.
REFERENCES
Americas Watch (1984) Human Rights in Nicaragua, New York.
Amnesty International (1982) Report of the Amnesty International Missions to
the Republic of Nicaragua—August 1979, January 1980, and August 1980,
London.
Catholic Institute for International Relations (1987) Right to Survive— Human
Rights in Nicaragua, London.
IACHR , Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (1983) Report on the
situation of human rights in the Republic of Nicaragua, Washington, DC.
Independent, 14 March 1989, ‘Nicaraguans Told Price of Peace’.
McCabe, B. (1986) Report on recidivism quoted in Central American Historical
Institute Update, vol . 5, no. 31, 24 July.
129
Chapter Seven
NYKÖPING CLOSED
NEIGHBOURHOOD PRISON,
SWEDEN
NORMAN BISHOP
INTRODUCTION
The Howard League’s request was for a description of the general
characteristics of the Swedish prison system and a more detailed account
of a typical Swedish prison taking adult male prisoners. But what is
typical? Typical of what? What criteria shall be used to determine
typicality? And in what sense can one prison be typical of an entire
system?
Let us leave these questions for the moment. In fact, the prison I have
chosen to describe is a medium security neighbourhood prison.
Explaining why I have chosen such a prison as ‘typical’ and describing
it more closely will make more sense after a general description of
imprisonment in Sweden.
IMPRISONMENT IN SWEDEN
Frequency of use
When compared with the frequency of use of all sanctions, it is apparent
from Table 7.1 that imprisonment has been and still is used sparingly.
Of course, the table shows only the relative and proportional use of
imprisonment. How many sentenced prisoners are received each year?
What is the size of the prison population on average throughout the
year?
As Table 7.2 shows, there has been an increase in the number
received over the last twenty years but the size of the average prison
population has remained fairly stable.
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NYKÖPING PRISON, SWEDEN
Table 7.1 Use of various sanctions 1857–1988
Sources: von Hofer 1983; Statistics Sweden 1988
Table 7.2 Numbers of sentenced prisoners received and average prison

population 1970–88
Note: The figures for 1975–9 represent an annual average

Sources: Statistics Sweden 1988 and *KVS 1989 (preliminary figures for the budget year 1988–9)
Time in prison and conditional release

The stability of the average population is explained by the fact that
most prison sentences are fairly short and that, as the number of
receptions has increased in the last nine years, so the average time spent
in prison has fallen. Of the 16,000 sentenced prisoners received during
1988, 52 per cent had sentences of up to three months. A further 16 per
cent had sentences from three to six months whilst the proportion of
those serving from six months up to one year was 17 per cent. For 14
per cent the sentence was one year or longer. Only three persons with
life sentences were received during 1988 (KVS forthcoming).
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A further factor contributing to the stability of the average prison

population are the provisions on conditional release. Conditional release
for most prisoners has long been automatically granted after two-thirds
of the sentence has been served. However, since July 1983, conditional
release on sentences of up to two years is granted after half the sentence
has been served providing that a two-month minimum has been
completed. Relatively few prisoners are sentenced to more than two
years. A special decision is taken on the conditional release of this latter
group, but even so, many are released after serving half, or between half
and two-thirds of the sentence. Virtually all are released by the time that
two-thirds has been served. Even life imprisonment in most cases means
only eight to eleven years in prison. (At the time of writing—September
1989 —it seems likely that the two-thirds rule will be re-instituted. It is
hoped, however, to reduce the scale of punishment available to the
courts for many offences not involving drugs or violence so as to avoid
an increase in the average prison population.)
Offences
What are the offences that have been committed by those that the courts
send to prison?
In 1987, 24 per cent of nearly 15,000 receptions had been found
guilty of drunken driving, 23 per cent were guilty of some kind of
theft, 16 per cent were guilty of crimes of violence, 7 per cent were
guilty of serious drug offences, 6 per cent had committed fraud, 3
per cent had been sentenced for offending against military
regulations; the remaining 21 per cent had been sentenced for
various offences under special legislation, for instance, the Aliens
Act. About 11 per cent of prisoners were sentenced in the same
judgement for two or more offences carrying similar scales of
punishment (KVS 1988).
A sentence to imprisonment for serious drug offences usually means
that the offence was trafficking in drugs. Personal drug misuse per se
does not lead to imprisonment. Of course, those who traffic in drugs
may or may not be drug misusers.
The day-fine system as it is used in Sweden means that for many
years now no prisoners have been received for non-payment of fines.
Under this system, which is also used in Germany and which, in an
adapted form, is now being proposed in England and Wales, the amount
of the fine is linked to disposable income and the ability to pay. Thus
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a particular offence may merit a fine of 30 day units, in the court’s view.
The actual amount of cash to be paid is determined by calculating the
defendant’s disposable income after certain essential deductions have
been made. The balance, reduced to a daily sum, is then multiplied by
the number of days so that the court knows it is within the capacity of
the defendant to pay. A defendant on state benefit might finish with a
fairly nominal daily sum; a prosperous businessman very much more.
The aim is to equalize the impact of the penalty as well as to avoid
imprisonment for fine default.
Types of prison: general organization of the system

If we exclude the remand prisons, there are only two types—
neighbourhood prisons and national prisons. Both types can be open
or closed. Most closed neighbourhood prisons would, however, be
classified internationally as of medium security. Closed national
prisons vary; some are of medium security, others are of maximum
security.
At the moment, the national prisons come directly under the
National Prison and Probation Administration. During the
budgetary year 1987–8 there were 1,222 prisoner places in 16
closed national prisons (or closed wings of national prisons) and
472 places in 9 open national prisons (or open wings of national
prisons). Sweden’s largest national prison, Kumla, has 175 places.
Most national prisons have fewer than 100 places. Three national
maximum security prisons have special security wings which
provide a total of 25 places for particularly dangerous prisoners.
National prisons take prisoners serving sentences of more than
twelve months as well as prisoners transferred to them for
disciplinary or other special reasons.
The neighbourhood prisons (58 of them on 1 July 1988), together
with the remand prisons and the probation districts, are grouped in 12
regions under regional directors. Such prisons have only 40 to 60 places.
In all, they can accommodate just over 2,200 prisoners.
I have described in detail elsewhere how the present organization of
the prison system came into being in 1974 (Bishop 1987). The main
reasons underlying the 1974 re-organization were the need to reduce
the negative effects of imprisonment and to improve the practical help
given to prisoners. To this end, new legislation and new forms of
organization were introduced. Both enable prisoners, as far as
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possible, to serve their sentences near their home communities (the

proximity principle) and to have wide opportunities to work or study
outside the prison as well as to maintain contact with families and to
utilize local social and educational services and cultural and leisure
organizations (the normality principle). Generous provision is made
for leaves from the prison. In fact, over 43,000 leaves were granted
during the budgetary year 1988–9 of which 4 per cent were misused
by absconding, late return, intoxicated on return, smuggling attempts,
etc.
The prisons which are intended to give special emphasis to the
principles outlined here are the neighbourhood prisons. Prisoners
sentenced to up to one year’s imprisonment are normally placed in
them. Prisoners may also be transferred to neighbourhood prisons from
national prisons for the terminal part of their time in prison (up to four
months) to prepare them for release.
In order to give effect to the proximity and normality principles it
was necessary to close a number of older prisons which were ill-
adapted to the aims of the re-organized system, and build new
neighbourhood prisons. Twenty such prisons have been constructed
since 1974.
Why is a medium security neighbourhood prison ‘typical’?

The first reason for choosing to describe a closed neighbourhood
prison is quite simply that, numerically speaking, it is
representative. This type of prison deals with a larger proportion of
received prisoners than any other type of prison. A further reason
is that although the closed neighbourhood prisons do not take the
most serious or dangerous offenders, they do take prisoners who
are criminally experienced and with serious personal and social
problems. For instance, the proportion of drug misusers among
prisoners received in 1988–9 who were serving a sentence of more
than two months and who were known to have been using drugs in
the two months prior to their incarceration was 14 per cent in the
open national prisons, 27 per cent in the open neighbourhood
prisons, 54 per cent in the closed national prisons and 58 per cent
in the closed neighbourhood prisons. For all prisons the proportion
of drug misusers received was 45 per cent (Krantz and Nilsson
1989).
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I chose to describe one of the new neighbourhood prisons because it

is typical not only in its prisoner population but also in its architecture,
staffing and activities. These new neighbourhood prisons were not
constructed solely for male prisoners. In order that women prisoners
might have the same opportunities as men prisoners (the small number
precludes building special neighbourhood prisons for women), modern
neighbourhood prisons have accommodation for both sexes. The
women’s wings are separated from the men’s wings but daytime
activities are shared.
I was surprised to be asked to include recidivism figures in the article.
In my view it is difficult to see what conclusions can be drawn from
them. They can certainly not be used as a measure of the effectiveness
of prison rehabilitation measures. Successful resettlement is almost
certainly more dependent upon the opportunities afforded to the
prisoner on release and the quality of after-care than the assistance given
during a brief stay in prison. In any case, no routine recidivism statistics
are available by type of prison. A large-scale recidivism study is being
undertaken by the Research and Development Group at the National
Prison and Probation Administration but no findings are available at
present.
THE NYKÖPING CLOSED NEIGHBOURHOOD PRISON
Introduction
It is not difficult to come into Nyköping1 Prison as a visitor if one has
some serious purpose in mind. I telephoned the governor, explained why
I wanted to visit and was invited to come at once. Of course, I have
worked in the prison administration and am known to the governor but
earlier this year Newsweek had been there and during my visit a San
Francisco lawyer telephoned and asked to visit. Permission was given
immediately.
The physical environment

The appearance of the prison, which was built in 1985, is typical of
the new neighbourhood prisons. It consists of a two-storey set of
buildings in pleasant red brick. It is situated on a main road passing
through the industrial area of the town. Despite the double wire
fence and barred entrance gate there is little to suggest to the passer-
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by that this is a prison. It could as well be a factory or office similar

to those around it. All buildings are inter-connected and reached by
corridors painted and decorated in light colours. Art reproductions
hang on the walls and in one long corridor and in the dining room,
a local artist has painted attractive murals. There are a number of
locked doors at strategic points; these can also be locked from the
central control room. The general impression given is more that of a
well-equipped hostel than a prison. There is absolutely no prison
smell.
There are five rooms for prisoners in each of eight self-contained
living units (four units on each floor), in other words, forty prisoners
can be accommodated. Each unit has its own set of showers and a
small well-equipped kitchen-cum-pantry combined with a breakfast
room. There is also a small common room in each unit. Each room
has its own toilet separated from the living space in the same way as
in most modern hotels. There are no bars on the windows;
strengthened laminated glass is used instead. Recreation rooms and a
sauna are provided for common use in four of the residential blocks.
There is a single large gymnasium. Coin-operated telephones are
installed in the inmates’ living quarters. In addition to workshops
with places for about twenty-five prisoners, rooms are provided for
education and training in social and life skills; one of the rooms
consists of two well-equipped home kitchens. An office and
examination room are provided for the doctor and there is a small
sick bay. Two observation rooms can be used to house inmates who,
on returning to the prison, are under the influence of alcohol or
drugs.
The units, but not the individual prisoners’ rooms, are locked up at
night. The rooms I saw were clean and quite acceptably tidy. There is
no ambition to have quasi-military orderliness in prisoner rooms; they
are expected to approximate to normal living circumstances outside
prison. The cleaning of the communal areas is a joint responsibility of
the prisoners living in that unit.
Staff
In addition to the governor and a social work assistant, there are 17
basic grade prison officers, 3 principal officers, a chief officer, a
workshop chief and 3 workshop instructors, a senior nurse as well as
clerical and kitchen staff—35 persons in all.
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The prisoners
When I visited the prison in September 1989 there were 31 prisoners
there. Only one of them was a woman and she was leaving the same
day. (I shall later discuss the problems arising when there is a minority
of women prisoners in a predominantly male prisoner environment.)
About three-quarters of the prisoners come from the town and its
environs whilst about one-quarter come from more distant towns in the
county or, in some cases, even further afield.
During the budgetary year 1988–9, at least 57 per cent of prisoners
received were known to have been using drugs during the two months
immediately prior to coming into prison. Three-quarters of these drug
misusers were either injecting or taking drugs in some other way daily
(Krantz and Nilsson 1989). A minority of prisoners were in prison for
the first time; most had either been in prison before or at least been on
probation, often three or four times.
Routines and programmes

On coming to the prison, prisoners spend a week in an introduction unit
(one of the five-man units) and are given information about the prison,
its rules, its programmes, etc. At the time I visited, a lecture by one of
the ‘senior’ inmates was in progress; he was talking about the week he
had just spent at a prison centre, previously a miners’ village. This, since
being acquired by the National Prison and Probation Administration, is
now used for courses, sometimes with the participation of prisoners’
families.
Daily routine is as follows. Between 06.30 and 07.30 prisoners are
expected to wake up (a clock radio is in each room), prepare and eat
breakfast in the living units. Work or study goes on from 7.30 to
12.00, with a fifteen-minute coffee break at 9.30, and one hour for
lunch in the scrupulously clean and pleasantly decorated communal
cafeteria. Staff and inmates share the same dining-room and food,
though staff tend to eat at other times than inmates to avoid
queuing. (I ate an excellent lunch there—fried fish fingers, a sauce,
good well-peeled potatoes and salad with choice of milk, fruit juice
or water to drink, served as attractively as it was prepared.) There
are no complaints about food. Work and classes are continued from
13.00 to 16.30 with a fifteen-minute break at 14.45. The evening
meal is served in the cafeteria at 17.00. Locking-up time for the
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living units is at 19.45 but organized leisure activities can continue

until 21.30. Room silence is expected after 23.00. The schedule on
the weekends allows for getting up and breakfast at the inmate’s
choice, unlocking of the living unit at 9.00, and similar times for
meals as on weekdays.
Work and study

Seventeen prisoners were in the workshops. Some were doing very
simple assembly work—counting out nuts, bolts and washers or
measuring out short lengths of flex for electric plugs and putting them
in little plastic bags, or filling larger cartons with bags of small
components, etc. The work was in no way interesting or challenging.
But there was also a variety of machinery (such as lathes and presses)
for metal work and a section for industrial painting. Different articles
are made depending on the orders that can be secured from outside
firms. As part of the current experiments with decentralization, the
workshop chief is responsible for securing suitable work and selling the
products.
Workshop staff complained bitterly that they were expected to
produce good quality work using prisoners who lacked skills and
stayed only a relatively short time in the prison (the average is about
three months) using machinery which even if it was new when
installed, when the prison was opened some four years ago, was old-
fashioned. They wanted modern microcomputer-controlled machinery,
arguing that this would enable greater prisoner involvement and
improve both efficiency and the obtaining of interesting work. Then,
they thought, the workshops would be more like those outside prison
and therefore a better training. They felt strongly that they did not get
adequate support on this matter from regional and central
management.
No disciplinary officers were present in the workshops. As one
workshop instructor put it, ‘We have to see inmates as our work
colleagues and secure their collaboration somehow.’
No educational activities were in progress on the day of my visit.
However, the municipality provides teachers under the national BASE
Scheme (Basic Adult Special Education) and also for training in social
and life skills. About five prisoners were involved in these activities,
which take place during the afternoon. Another five inmates were
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engaged for half of the day in a home economics course run by the
prison authorities in the well-appointed double kitchen mentioned
above. The course lasts five weeks and is apparently much appreciated
as a source of home cooking.
Prisoners are paid for both work and study. Average work and study
wages are around 350–400 Swedish crowns per week (approximately
$55–65).
Letters, recreation and visits

Prisoners can write as many letters as they wish but must pay the
postage themselves. (Postage rates had gone up shortly before my visit
I heard on the day I was at the prison that the local postman was
pointing out that prisoners were still using the older, cheaper rates.
The local post office was allowing the letters to go through but asked
for the matter to be dealt with. One of the staff undertook to bring the
matter to the prisoners’ notice. I thought that this was an interesting
indication of the understanding shown by a local administration.) In
general, mail is not examined unless there is reason to suppose that it
contains contraband, escape plans, etc. Mail to and from a defence
lawyer or Swedish authorities and administrations may not be
examined.
In addition to the usual recreational activities (such as table tennis,
billiards, television, and organized activities until 21.30) there is
provision for extra-mural activities on each weekday evening. Prison
officers take small groups of inmates out to football matches, theatre,
ice hockey, and so on. The prison’s treatment planning board decides
which prisoners can take part. Prisoners must be able to show through
a urine test that they are ‘clean’ from drugs before going out on any
activity.
As is usual in Swedish prisons, emotional contact and sexual relations
between a prisoner and his or her visitor are considered to be private
matters for which due provision is made. In consequence, visits take
place in private rooms with no staff present. But this policy can lead to
drugs being smuggled into the prison. At Nyköping Prison, inmates state
on arrival which relatives, or other persons with whom they have close
ties, they would like to visit them. Discreet enquiries are made about the
potential visitors through the police, the probation office and, possibly,
the social welfare services. Criminal and drug-dependent visitors are in
general not allowed. Approved visitors telephone the prison and arrange
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a suitable time for visiting once a week, with an extra visit possible on
the weekend if space allows. Weekday visits are allowed from 17.15 to
19.15 and at two-hour intervals on the weekend beginning at 9.45.
Inmates change clothes under supervision before and after a visit and
may be searched.
Drugs
Inmates are routinely urine tested for the presence of cannabis,
amphetamines and opiates on arrival and thereafter as necessary to
prevent drugs from being smuggled into, or used at, the prison. The
analysis of urine samples is an expensive business. Routine analyses
make use of an automated process which has a 95 per cent probability
of being correct. A higher level of certainty requires a verification by an
independent method, which adds to the cost. An analysis for cannabis,
the opiates and the amphetamines costs 75 Swedish crowns or about
$11. The national bill for urine analyses during the budgetary year
1988–9 was just over 4.3 million Swedish crowns or a little over
$650,000. At Nyköping Prison the Governor prefers to make regular use
of verification even if this means that, for cost reasons, the number of
urine tests must be limited.
During the budgetary year 1988–9, a total of 383 urine tests,
including those done on reception, were conducted at Nyköping Prison.
Of these, 107 were positive for cannabis, 30 for amphetamines and 7 for
opiates. (An inmate can be positive for more than one type of drug.) No
conclusions can be drawn from these or similar figures about the extent
to which drugs are available or used at the prison. Drugs can and do
come into the prison—it would be impossible to prevent this without
sealing the prison off completely from society. The Governor believes
however that the generous programme of extramural activities and
prison leaves, for which freedom from drugs is an essential condition,
together with good staff-inmate relations, keeps illicit drugs down to an
acceptably low level.
Tests for HIV infection are often conducted at the remand
prisons but, during 1988–9, were supplemented by 41 tests at the
Nyköping Prison. None was positive but two prisoners were
received who had been tested elsewhere and were known to be HIV-
positive on arrival.
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Disciplinary infractions and their punishment

Escapes, attempted escapes and drug-related infractions are the
commonest reasons for disciplinary reports and punishment. The Prison
Treatment Act 1974 provides for only two disciplinary sanctions—a
warning and a decision that up to ten days of time in prison shall not
count as time served. (There is a maximum aggregation of 45 days for
multiple infractions provided that the prisoner is serving more than a
four-month sentence.) Over and above the formal disciplinary
punishments prisoners may be transferred away, usually to a national
prison, as ‘unsuitable’.
During the budgetary year 1988–9 about 140 prisoners were
received at Nyköping Prison. For the same period, warnings were used
on 18 occasions and ‘lost time’ was used on 50 occasions. There were
13 transfers from the prison for misbehaviour: 7 for escapes or
attempted escapes, 4 for repeated drug misuse, one for violence to
another inmate and one for repeated alcohol misuse. Not all the
disciplinary punishments related to offences in the Nyköping Prison;
some prisoners had escaped from another prison and, after
apprehension, were re-admitted via Nyköping where they were subject
to disciplinary punishment. The Governor, who has himself had
experience as a prison officer, is no great believer in formal
disciplinary reports. Unless the infractions are serious, he believes that
it is better to discuss them, especially those involving conflicts between
staff and prisoners. In the four and a half years that the prison has
been open there is one recorded instance of violence being used against
staff by a prisoner.
Staff-inmate relations
The governor considers that the level of disciplinary infractions and
punishments is acceptably low and attributes this mainly to good staff-
inmate relations. As a visitor one gets a general impression of a relaxed
but businesslike atmosphere. Prison officers for the most part wear a
uniform of blue shirt and blue trousers, sometimes with a tunic. Three
or four keys of Yale size open all doors so there is no obvious display
of keys. All staff wear a small plastic label showing rank or function
and name. Relations between prisoners and staff seemed to be quite
informal. In most of the direct conversations that I overheard, first
names were used on both sides and I was subsequently told by an
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inmate that this was very common. Five of the prison’s seventeen prison
officers are women who perform the same tasks as their male
colleagues.
I interviewed one of these women prison officers who, at the time
of my visit, was in charge of the ground floor living units. She gave
an immediate impression of friendly capability. Her earlier work
experience had been in the health service but, on the advice of a
friend, she had decided to try the prison service. She told me that
a woman prison officer among mostly male inmates is subjected to
a good deal of testing-out. Prisoners want to see if they can ‘get
away’ with behaviour which would not be tolerated by a man. Some
of the testing-out takes the form of trying to find out about the
private life of a woman prison officer. It was absolutely necessary
to find ways of setting limits, she considered. Once this had been
achieved she thought that she had no more difficulty in handling
inmates or dealing with difficult situations than male officers.
Sensitivity enters into this, however, as the following example
shows.
Like her male colleagues she is required from time to time to
supervise the taking of urine samples. To avoid faked samples the
inmate must be naked when urinating and under close observation.
Women prison officers are not excused from taking their turn at this
duty, one which even many male prison officers find unpleasant. ‘I
know,’ she said, ‘that for many foreign prisoners it is shameful to be
observed by a woman in this situation. And it would be hard for them
to tell me so. I may have to do it anyway, but there are times when I
try to arrange for a male colleague to do it instead to spare a foreign
prisoner’s feelings.’
She is convinced that women prison officers can make a unique
contribution. One prisoner took no interest in his personal hygiene
and was resistant to the attempts of male prison officers and other
inmates to get him to wash and shower more often. But when my
interviewee told him that he must do so he complied willingly. She
also said, ‘Prisoners come very often to us women to talk about
worries and difficulties with wives, girl-friends, children and other
very personal problems. It seems that they do not find it so easy to
talk with men about such matters.’ But some male prison officers
have reservations about the usefulness of women prison officers, ‘so,
if you are a woman, you have to prove that you can do the job one
hundred and twenty per cent!’ This means that she and her female
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colleagues talk a good deal with each other about the job and its
difficulties.
This woman prison officer is active in a working group which is
drawing up plans to present to the Governor about creating completely
drug-free living units. Prisoners would apply to enter these units and
agree to intensive urine testing. Being drug free would entitle them to a
range of extra privileges and benefits.
In describing this project she said, ‘It would be better for the
prisoners and better for us on the staff. After all, the prison is our
working environment as well as the place where prisoners work and
live. I think we all have a right to be free from this pest.’ (The
Governor approves of this planning, which he also sees as an
important way of increasing staff involvement in the work of the
prison.)
I asked if she liked the work. Did it offer job satisfaction? She said
that she had been two years at the prison and despite all the
difficulties found the work deeply satisfying. In fact, this was obvious
from her whole attitude and manner; my question was really
superfluous.
A prisoner’s views
I also interviewed a prisoner (the one who had been lecturing to new
inmates in the introduction wing). He was 55 years old and had at one
time been sentenced to the now-abolished indeterminate sentence of
internment, which was intended for seriously recidivist offenders. He
had seen the inside of a good many prisons since his career began in
the 1950s. He thought the Nyköping Prison offered decent living
conditions and that prisoners were treated by the staff as human
beings. There were good opportunities for work, education and leisure.
He had seen over the years how drugs had come to influence the lives
of prisoners whilst they were in prison. He told me what has been well
documented in research (Åkerström 1985, 1986)—that even in the
Nyköping Prison it was often necessary for new prisoners to be able
to prove to others on arrival that they had not been informers to the
police, prosecutor or the court about others involved in drug
trafficking. There was, in his view, not much wrong with the prison or
its staff; it was the involvement of inmates with drugs that was the
problem. Threats and debts because of drugs were what he deplored
most They might not be common but even limited blackmailing
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pressures were bad for the inmate community. The five-man living
units could be bad from this point of view ‘though after the
introduction week everyone usually gets some choice of living unit and
can find others he gets along with’.
The inmate council

Prisoners have a right in law to discuss together matters of common
interest and present their views to the Governor. On alternate Thursdays
the prisoners hold a community meeting unattended by staff. An elected
inmate council meets the Governor on the other alternate Thursdays if
there are proposals to put forward or grievances to be discussed on
behalf of the prisoner collective.
Criticisms
There is a danger that my picture of this prison makes it look too
good. Perhaps so—but, in my view, there is little doubt that a
prison of this kind does make a serious and by no means
unsuccessful attempt to remove some of the negative effects of
imprisonment. This is not to say that there is no room for criticism.
And a number of features of the prison which look good at first
sight reveal themselves on closer examination to have disadvantages
or to present problems.
The criticisms of the workshop instructors have been mentioned
above. In short, they consider that with modern computer-regulated
machinery and improved support from central or regional management
they could secure better orders and achieve better selling. In their view
this would heighten prisoner interest in work and enhance the training
effect of work. Present legislation makes it obligatory for prisoners to
work or study if fit. The workshop staff would like to see this
obligation abolished. Instead they would like to see a minimum wage
paid to all prisoners regardless of whether they worked and studied.
But for those who did work and study there would be substantially
increased wages.
The interview with the prisoner suggested that it is by no means
certain that the five-man living units are wholly beneficial in character.
The Governor concurred with this view. The staff on duty must keep
an eye on all the activities in the prison and cannot give so much time
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to the living units. They visit the units but do not work in close and
continuous contact with the prisoners in them. Then, too, the living
units are locked up at 19.45 and the prisoners are left in contact with
each other. There are positive aspects to this— prisoners need not
experience ‘cell terror’ by being locked in. If they cannot sleep they
can get up and make a sandwich or a drink in the pantry or talk to
a mate. On the other hand, though, it is easy for the group to talk
crime, plan escapes or drug deals and put pressure on weaker members
of the group.
One consequence of the 1974 re-organization was a reduction of
the earlier procedures and possibilities for prisoner differentiation.
The advantages of neighbourhood prisons were thought to out-weigh
the possible disadvantages of grouping different kinds of prisoner
together. In the light of fifteen years’ experience, which includes an
increasing awareness of the part played by drugs and drug trafficking
in the life of the prison community, there is reason to ask if a greater
measure of differentiation now needs to be provided. This would
mean making it possible to differentiate so that, for example, women
prisoners were not a small minority in a neighbourhood prison where
young and old, experienced and in-experienced offenders, drug
misusers and non-drug misusers tend to be mixed together. There are
current plans to reduce the number of regions and to incorporate the
national prisons in the new regions. These plans are part of a scheme
for reducing the decision-making powers of the central
administration in favour of a far-reaching decentralization of the
prison system. But another aim is to improve possibilities for
differentiation of prisoners.
At Nyköping Prison the Governor thinks that this is especially
necessary for women prisoners. It is undoubtedly positive that the much
smaller number of women prisoners can have access to families and
local social services, etc., in the same way as men. Before 1974 all
women prisoners served their sentences in the only women’s prison that
existed in Sweden and many were therefore great distances from their
homes. On the other hand there may be only one or two women
prisoners and thirty or more men prisoners in a neighbourhood prison.
The women prisoners under these circumstances can be unhealthily
dominated by some of the men and relationships which are damaging to
both partners grow up.
At Nyköping Prison the staff have seen an 18-year-old girl become
attracted to an older drug misuser and marry him despite all efforts to
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NORMAN BISHOP
ensure waiting until after release from prison to test the relationship.
The history of the pair after their release has been one of wife-beating,
separation and the taking into care of the couple’s child. They have seen
a number of similar unhappy examples. A neighbourhood prison for
women prisoners only has recently been started in the Stockholm region
and is attempting to deal with the special problems of women prisoners.
The experiment is being evaluated.
Another point is of general nature, but was also mentioned at the
Nyköping Prison. The 1974 re-organization emphasized the
importance of the responsibility of the probation services in planning
for the release of prisoners. The probation services were also intended
to initiate co-ordinated action by other relevant social services as part
of this preparation. So the probation services had to be in close
contact with prisoners in the neighbourhood prisons and with a
network of social services. In practice, it has proved difficult to
achieve what was originally hoped. Effective co-operation has been
hampered by the fact that each organization is governed by its own
rules and regulations (and these are not always understood outside
that organization), conflicts can occur and, within the probation
services, there have been many staff changes and resignations. If there
is no fully efficient collaboration with and between local probation
and social services the work of a neighbourhood prison is seriously
jeopardized. The government’s attention has been drawn to this
problem by the National Prison and Probation Administration in its
budgetary request for 1990–1. Whatever the outcome of that initiative
the Governor of Nyköping Prison is urging that joint treatment
planning meetings should be held between representatives of the
probation service, the labour exchange, the social services, etc. He
considers joint treatment planning to be especially necessary for
prisoners with particularly difficult social circumstances or personal
handicaps.
As a final note on criticisms I should like to add the following. It
seemed to me that there was a good deal of healthy self-criticism
among the staff I met at the Nyköping Prison. The critical views that
they expressed were often well reasoned and followed by ideas on
improvements. Much of the criticism brought forward and described
briefly above has also often been documented in two lengthy research
reports on the functioning of neighbourhood prisons published by the
National Prison and Probation Administration itself (Krantz,
Pettersson and Bishop 1981, Krantz and Pettersson 1984). Why,
146
asked the staff I spoke with, does no one listen to us? Why do we
have to adjust to a number of changes conceived at the central
administration which seem to us to take no account of the reality we
see and deal with? And when everyone can see that there is an
obvious weakness in something we are doing, why does it take so
long to effect change? Why, for example, have twenty new prisons
been built, every one with its five-man living units when everyone
can see that there are problems around the idea? Why, they asked,
have we not experimented to keep what is good in the idea and get
over some of the difficulties?
These are not only good questions which demand answers. They are
also an indication of a potential among the staff for growth and
change in an effort to reduce still further the damaging effects of
imprisonment. As such they deserve to be taken seriously. Not to do
so is to create cynicism and apathy. In the world generally there are
disturbing pressures which make for ever larger prison populations,
more and more prisons and harsher prison conditions. There have been
real attempts in Sweden, I believe, to resist these pressures. The prison
1 have described is a part of that attempt. The future, as always, is an
open question. But choice plays a part in the future that becomes the
present. Will we go on or go back? The only certain thing is that we
cannot stand still.
NOTE
1 Nyköping is pronounced as ‘noo-sherp-ing’, with even accentuation of the
three syllables.
REFERENCES
Åkerström, M. (1985) Violence and threats among prison inmates. Report no.
1 985: 2 (Swedish only), Research and Development Group, KVS , S-601 80
Norrköping.
—— (1986) ‘Outcasts in prison: the case of informers and sex offenders’, in
Deviant Behaviour 7: 1–12, Hemisphere Publishing Corporation.
Bishop, N. (1987) ‘A present-day prison system: structural and functional
requirements’, in symposium report, The Centenary of Deprivation of
Liberty in The Netherlands, The Hague: Ministry of Justice. Also published
in Council of Europe Prison Information Bulletin 7, July 1986.
147
NORMAN BISHOP
Hofer, H.von (1983) Brott och straff 1 Sverige 1750–1982 (Crime and
punishment in Sweden 1750–1982), Statistics Sweden (a Swedish government
publication) 115 81 Stockholm.
Krantz, L. and Nilsson, M. (1989) Drug misusing prisoners during the financial
year 1988–9, forthcoming report (Swedish and English), Norrköping:
Research and Development Group, KVS, S-601 80.
Krantz, L. and Pettersson, T. (1984) New neighbourhood prisons: follow-up
interviews four years later, Report no. 1 984: 1 (Swedish only), Norrköping:
Research and Development Group, KVS, S-601 80.
Krantz, L., Pettersson, P. and Bishop, N. (1981) New neighbourhood prisons:
the initial phase at Orretorp, Tygelsjö, Helsingborg and Luleå prisons,
Report no. 35, (Swedish only), Norrköping: Research and Development
Group, KVS, S-601 80.
KVS (1988) Annual Report of the National Prison and Probation
Administration (abbreviated to KVS in Swedish) for the budgetary year
1987–8 (English summary), S-601 80 Norrköping.
KVS (forthcoming) Annual Report for the budgetary year 1988–9 of the
National Prison and Probation Administration (abbreviated to KVS in
Swedish) (English summary), S-601 80 Norrköping.
Statistics Sweden (1988) Yearbook of Judicial Statistics (a Swedish government
publication), Stockholm.
148
Chapter Eight
GEURRERO CENTRE FOR

REHABILITATION, MEXICO
BRIAN SMITH
Mexico is a country with over three thousand years of continuous

civilization, but knowledge of its history, culture and people has tended
to be either minimal or—worse—affected by the kind of stereotypes we
acquire from film or television. People and even nations are often
pigeon-holed according to people’s preconceived ideas, which are of
course seldom accurate. This is certainly the fate of the Mexican people.
I have visited Mexico on a number of occasions and seen both major
cities and rural areas. In both, a warm, dignified and considerate people
provide a marked contrast to the simple peasants or scruffy bandits who
are all too often seen on screen.
As a magistrate on the Nottingham bench, I had visited a number of
English prisons and young offenders’ institutions during the weeks
immediately before my visit to Mexico. I would not claim specialist
knowledge of penal systems in Britain or overseas but offer my
observations as those of an interested and reasonably informed member
of the general public.
I last visited Mexico for almost a month during May and June 1989.
I chose to try to see the system and situation in a more rural area of
Mexico. The country is divided into thirty-two states which are in many
respects self-governing, with laws differing from state to state, although
all are subject to the national federal law.
The area I visited, Geurrero State, is in the south-west coastal area of
Mexico and includes that idyll of jet-setters—Acapulco. It was from
there that I began my efforts to enquire into the operation of the judicial
system in the area. My interest was entirely personal and motivated by
my recent visits to, and my impressions of, the English prisons and
young offenders’ institutions.
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BRIAN SMITH
It took almost three days to make the appointments necessary to meet

three local judges. Until recently very few Europeans and hardly anyone
from England had visited this area and they did not appear to have had
any previous requests from foreign visitors for information, visits to
courts or access to their prisons. I had taken a letter of introduction
from my own bench and from the Magistrates Association. Without at
least some form of official introduction it would have been almost
impossible to get the co-operation and approval necessary to visit any
government penal centre or institution.
The three judges I met included the first woman judge to be
appointed in Geurrero State. I was most impressed by their apparent
concern for the individual and his or her rights. Ample opportunity
appeared to exist for local people to obtain free advice on basic legal
problems. A constant flow of people was being seen by various clerks
and secretaries, while at regular intervals one or other of the judges
would be called away to advise on a particular problem or situation.
Because of the way in which my visit to the judges and the prison was
arranged, I am quite confident that no ‘set-piece’ situations or activities
had been organized just for my benefit or to create a more favourable
impression of the judicial system or the detention centre.
The basis for the Mexican legal system is the Napoleonic Code
which means a supposition of guilt until proved otherwise. My first
reaction to this basic precept was that it must be a difficult and
sometimes hopeless task for the average ‘campesino’ (worker) to cope
with. Despite the fact that the Mexican government spends almost 25
per cent of its budget on education, a high proportion of the
population is still relatively poor, semi-literate and ill-equipped to
grasp even the fundamentals of the legal system, let alone to take it
on in what would appear to be a very one-sided battle against the
establishment and its administration. That they have managed to
cope with it at all is perhaps some credit to at least a reasonable level
of fairness within the system. The prisons do not appear to be full to
overflowing as in so many European countries. There are not
constant outcries against the police, courts and prisons, so perhaps
the Code works in a sufficiently balanced way, so as to blend at least
reasonably well with the democracy so fervently fought for in
Mexico’s history.
The judicial system is at the primary level operated by locally
appointed judges who seemed to have very similar power and
jurisdiction to English magistrates. The next level are in fact
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GEURRERO CENTRE FOR REHABILITATION, MEXICO
magistrates, who appear to have a similar area of responsibility to our

Crown Court judges. Finally there are federal judges, who have a
general and overriding authority over the other levels of jurisdiction.
They also handle those cases concerned with major crime or of national
concern and interest.
As far as I could discern none of the courts operates on any form of
jury system. All cases are handled by one of the three levels of
jurisdiction, someone usually sitting alone. An arrested person must be
brought before a judge within forty-eight hours, who will then decide if
there is a case to answer. If so the alleged offender may be held in
custody to await trial. In Geurrero State this waiting period was
apparently not too long but it appeared that in other areas delays and
crowded court lists inevitably meant some people spending a
considerable time in custody.
Defendants who do not have their own lawyer may select one, from
a list, who will then represent them entirely free of charge. However,
these state lawyers tend in many cases to be the newest and very often
amongst the least experienced in the profession. The prosecution is
handled by the state.
On the morning of my visit the courts were only dealing with a
limited number of very minor matters, mostly drink related. These
resulted in fairly short sentences to the local prison, often of only 3 to
7 days, or up to 3 months for the more habitual drink offender. The
Mexicans seem to be following a general trend in renaming their penal
institutions, and many prisons are now referred to as ‘Centres for
Rehabilitation’.
One of the judges agreed to accompany me on a visit to one of these
centres. The Geurrero Centre for Rehabilitation is located in a
comparatively deserted, rugged area of the mountainous region some
thirty to fifty kilometres from Acapulco.
The first impression was, to say the least, somewhat awe inspiring
—smooth, dark grey, concrete walls stretching up about ten metres
with raised gun-towers approximately every 100 metres. These were
manned by guards whose only access to the towers was by way of a
single rope which they had to climb in a gymnastic fashion; they then
pulled up the rope and remained in the towers for the rest of the shift.
They could therefore spend a considerable period of time in the
towers, in full uniform, in temperatures of anything up to 100 degrees
Fahrenheit, or more. Virtually all the guards carried at least a side-arm
and, usually, a semi-automatic rifle. I questioned the need for such a
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BRIAN SMITH
display of guns and they seemed to find it difficult to justify them. It

certainly did not appear to be because they had any great fear of
violence or mass escapes. The guards were apparently not given any
regular weapons training and I felt that they really carried the
weapons more as part of their uniform and tradition than because of
absolute necessity. The group I talked to could only recall one prisoner
escaping in recent years; he had been shot during his escape and even
then was not recaptured.
Admission into the complex followed a similar pattern to that I had
seen in the English prisons: searches, registration, allocation, different
coloured uniforms for the various categories of prisoner, etc. I met the
governor—although he is now more generally called the ‘Principal’,
apparently in keeping with the educational and rehabilitative emphasis
which this particular centre tried to use with its inmates. As we walked
around the complex, the Principal dressed informally in shirt sleeves, no
guns or armed guards with us at all, the whole atmosphere appeared to
be very relaxed. Many of the prisoners smiled and exchanged a few
words either directly with the governor or with people in our party.
Despite this I still had a strong impression that the Principal was clearly
in control of the centre and that he would be unlikely to tolerate
breaches of the rules.
A noticeable feature of the Geurrero Centre was the relative
freedom the inmates had to move within quite large areas of the
complex. But access outside their own particular areas was only
achieved by those issued with special access cards that had to be
signed by one of the guards. A very limited number of guards was
apparent around the centre. Considering the extensive area the
complex covered and the large and varied number of the inmates,
considerably more guards or prison officers might have been expected,
with a much more rigid control over the movements and integration of
the prisoners.
The Principal offered me complete freedom to visit and photograph
any part of the complex. It occupies an area of approximately 20
hectares and includes an administration block for the courts and
associated administrative staff. Men, women and juveniles are all
housed in the same complex, although in segregated areas. The centre
can accommodate up to 2,000 inmates at any one time.
The centre is almost entirely self-sufficient, growing a wide
variety of crops, raising animals—it included a very sophisticated
pig breeding and rearing programme—and literally hundreds of
152
rabbits and chickens. A number of large and efficiently run

workshops made a wide range of products for use in the centre and
for sale in nearby towns. I was most impressed with the quality,
variety and complexity of some of the items prisoners were making
and the apparent pride they had in the quality of workmanship. The
work did not appear to be just one of those relatively soul
destroying, ‘anything to keep them occupied’ jobs that many prison
inmates are forced to undertake. The prisoners were actually
making complete items of furniture, doors, window frames, pottery
and jewellery. They also made most of the furniture and fittings
used in the prison buildings. I understand that they were working
to commissioned orders for a very wide range of goods and
products, which were then sold in government-run shops in local
towns. The proceeds were used to maintain, run and develop the
prison. All the buildings I saw in the complex were well maintained,
clean, light and well ventilated.
The female inmates were mainly employed in a domestic capacity as
cleaners, cooks, etc., or in the laundry. Women made up only a minor
proportion of the prison population in Geurrero and I was assured that
this situation was reflected throughout Mexico.
The prisoners are allowed out of their cells from around 5.30 in the
morning until 6.30 in the evening, during which time a majority of them
would be involved in some type of work; this is because for every two
days they work they can earn one day’s remission of sentence. I was told
that they receive three meals a day and a very small amount of payment,
although this did not appear to be directly related to the amount of
work they did.
I did not have an opportunity to see any meals being served whilst I
was there so I cannot be sure of either the quality or quantity. On my
way out, however, I saw dozens of plastic bags full of fruit and other
food, which had been left by family and friends for the prisoners. This
extra food seems to have been provided more as a gesture by the family,
than as basic sustenance.
Ample time is allowed for sport and recreation and various football
pitches, basketball courts and other facilities were dotted around the
complex. There was even a well equipped playground which could have
been dropped into any English park almost unnoticed but which looked
rather incongruous in the centre of a Mexican prison complex.
Basic education now seems to play an increasingly important part in
the rehabilitation of offenders. The Geurrero Centre apparently made
153
BRIAN SMITH
every effort to ensure that all the inmates received at least some form
of educational tuition during the period of their sentence. Those inmates
classed as illiterate were obliged to take a compulsory form of basic
education, with the aim that they would at least be able to read and
write by the time they were released. Those offenders taking part in this
more intense form of education were also expected to work, not
towards a reduction in their sentence, but in order to support the
education they were receiving. This was apparently reasonably well
received by the offenders involved, as even this basic standard of
education would be sufficient to improve considerably their potential
for employment and thus for higher earnings after their release. I was
told that the incidence of re-offending was very low but I was not given
any actual figures in support of this.
Cell accommodation is divided into single or two-storey blocks, each
comprising 60 to 80 cells of approximately 2m in width and 3 to 4m
long, with a barred, ‘gate-type’ door at each end. This allows at least
a reasonable throughput of air; the mid-day temperatures are usually
around 80 to 100°F, sometimes more. Each cell housed two or, in some
cases, three people. There was little or no evidence of ‘home comforts’
in the cells, the walls of which were plain concrete, with cot-type beds
and what really amounted to a hole in the wall to house each occupant’s
personal effects. The only forms of decoration were photographs of
family, children and, in a majority of cells, some form of religious
symbol, usually a picture or statue of ‘Our Lady of Guadalupe’.
The cells did not have any form of integral sanitation and each block
had a central toilet and shower unit. At the time of my visit virtually all
the cells were open and those prisoners in them were free to move
around, certainly in the area of their own cells and blocks.
Virtually all the inmates I saw and spoke to were friendly, smiling and
quite pleased to show me the work they were doing. I certainly felt
much more at ease moving around this institution by myself than I did
when visiting some English prisons and institutions. There was certainly
not the constant locking, unlocking and clanging of doors nor was there
the feeling of oppression that is so often felt when moving around most
prisons.
The oppressive regime I had anticipated was not apparent and the
whole complex seemed clean, active and designed as far as possible to
provide reasonable conditions and amenities for its inmates. There were,
however, no signs of television, a cinema or the usual indoor recreations.
Visitors are allowed on Thursdays and Sundays for just thirty minutes.
154
I was assured, though, that this time is seldom adhered to, with most
visitors remaining for most of the afternoon.
After this visit to the Geurrero Centre, I discussed the prison and its
regime with people both inside and outside the criminal justice process.
Geurrero cannot be described as ‘typical’ in that it does not include the
most serious offenders, including those convicted of serious violence or
large-scale drug offences. But it does illustrate the trend towards the
rehabilitation of offenders which the Mexican authorities seem to be
making, and the increasing efforts which are being put in towards
improving accommodation and educational facilities.
155
Chapter Nine
GELDERN PRISON, FEDERAL

REPUBLIC OF GERMANY1
CHRISTIAN KUHN
What is the situation of many of the so-called ‘criminals’? Behind

peep-holes, between bed and toilet, with the knowledge that they are
left alone with their problems, and abandoned. Their labour they see
as hard labour, their sentence seems too high and unjustified. The
worst for them is to feel that they are powerless in the hands of an
omnipotent system. Immediately the prisoner arrives he has to strip
in front of the guards, to bow down for inspection, to clean himself
and then to be dressed in the prison clothes. Inmates say that they
have to leave their personality at this moment in the deposit room.
Things that are important, even essential, to them are taken from
them. Whatever they do, the whole day is under control and
regulation. Each favour has to be requested in writing. Sentence is not
only detention. The inmate is losing all right of self-determination or
self-government so that he feels that finally his own life is not
anymore owned by himself. Decisions are taken about him. He is
accommodated in a very small room, without any possibility of
privacy, surrounded by fences and walls. The inmate feels like a
second- or third-class-man…
This (a close translation) is part of an article in the inmate newspaper

Die Posaune (The Trombone), brought out in the prison of Geldern in
Nordrhein-Westfalen, Federal Republic of Germany. It is a reflection on
the prison situation. The execution of a punishment must by its nature
be an evil. Yet can it, despite its destructive elements, help to solve the
problems of those concerned? Does it try, as far as possible, to keep the
dignity of each one afflicted by it? These are questions which have to
be answered not only by the penal system as a whole, but also by each
prison within it.
156
GELDERN PRISON, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
I shall be trying to describe life in the German prison of Geldern, as

far as it is possible to do so after having spent one week there. Of course
this description is incomplete and subjective, but it will be an attempt
to focus on some central points.
Geldern Prison was built in the 1970s and became operational in
1979. It has space for 551 adult male inmates. This is a so called
geschlossener Vollzug, for serious offenders (a closed penitentiary, as
distinct from the offener Vollzug—open penitentiary). The average age
of the inmates is about 27 years and there are about 30 prisoners
serving life sentences. In this prison there are no terrorists and few
foreigners.
The ground plan of the prison is like a comb: four parallel wings
with two or three floors each, containing the cells. The wings are
connected by a building containing administration and workrooms.
Twelve ‘departments’ or prison wings each have 52 single rooms and
one four-bedded room for the inmates. On 10 July 1989 there were
490 inmates.
The responsibility of implementing prison sentences lies with the
individual states within the Federal Republic of Germany. The state of
Nordrhein-Westfalen started a process of penal reform in the late 1970s
with the intention ‘to re-incorporate the offender into society’ and ‘to
enable the prisoner to live without becoming liable to further
prosecution’. Therefore, in the words of the Minister of State, Herr
Krumsiek, it requires social training to enable prisoners to become ‘more
self-responsible, self-confident and active’.
The number of prisoners in Nordrhein-Westfalen has reduced from
about 18,000 in 1984 to about 14,000 in 1988. The ministry has
consequently reduced the number of available cells for inmates by
changing the cells in the prison of Werl into living units with kitchens
so that the prison lost some of its 800 capacity. There has also been
an emphasis on the development of open prisons; Nordrhein-Westfalen
now has 3,700 places in such institutions, which is almost half the
total for the Federal Republic of Germany. The state also uses
‘Urlaub’, or home leave periods, in order to try to counteract the
problems of isolation from the home environment which inevitably
arise in prison.
Prisoners come to Geldern after they have spent some time in one of
the two special prisons for allocation. After his arrival in Geldern a plan
for the remainder of his sentence is worked out, based on discussions of
his personal situation, the wishes of the prisoner and the possibilities
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CHRISTIAN KUHN
available. The prisoner has the right to discuss his wishes personally
with the warden, or Governor. There are good educational
opportunities, at an advanced level, but these are not compulsory. There
are other work options, too.
Vocational training and work

Education and vocational training are what Geldern Prison is all
about, and it provides this facility for the whole state. For this,
inmates of other prisons transfer to Geldern, even those who would
not normally be obliged to be in a closed prison. The training centre
was planned and established at the very beginning of the life of the
prison. Now, long-term inmates have the chance of a solid training and
more and more are given the opportunity at the beginning of a long
sentence.
Three parties are involved in the programme: the Ministry of Justice,
the Labour Exchange (promotion, provision of machinery) and the
group ‘Reso’ (Resozialisation) of the unions. The manager of the
training centre remarked that on several occasions claims have been
made by the public that inmates are educated on the most modern and
expensive machinery while ‘outside’ a lot of young people are unable to
find a job.
About half of the prison capacity, that is, 220 places, are
available in the education centre. During July 1989, 167 inmates
were so involved, while another 34 took part in a special course in
order to complete their primary school education (an eight-year
period) and be prepared for their trade or profession. Twelve
different ‘craftsmen’ jobs are taught in the education centre, in
courses lasting about 18 months each (40 hours a week, two-thirds
practice and one-third theory). Finally the graduate gets a skilled
worker certificate, which does not show that he has had his training
in a prison. Foreigners who are to be deported after sentence do not
get this training because of the criteria for selection imposed by the
labour exchange. Since the centre began more than 1,000 prisoners
have passed through, and 78 per cent of them completed their
training course.
The inmates participating in the training programme are housed
separately from the other prisoners, in two of the four wings. Their
regime is different from that of the other prisoners; the rules
concerning leisure time are, for instance, more liberal, with cell doors
158
open until 21.00, so that everybody is free to move around. In the

other wings the inmates are much more restricted. The atmosphere
also seems different in the training centre. There are no problems in
this group over personal cleanliness, but the problem can arise with
the other prisoners. When electing deputies (the inmates elect
‘speakers’ who have some sort of shared responsibility for the prison
regime) the voting rate of the inmates involved in the training
programme was about 70 per cent while for the other inmates, it was
only about 40 per cent. This significant difference illustrates the
variation between the two wings. If necessary, the training programme
can take precedence over penal measures (for example, if solitary
confinement is imposed it can be served during the weekends so as not
to disturb the training course).
In general all inmates work in the prison and there is enough work
for all inmates. On 7 July 1989 about sixty inmates were not at work
through illness, refusal, or lack of ability.
There is a large metal-processing workshop which prepares motors
for an outside company and pays very good salaries (up to DM 300 per
month) but also requires hard work. There is a printing workshop, a
chip-processing workshop and several domestic services including the
kitchen and laundry.
A small number of prisoners are simply not able to cope with the
work environment and for them a special training course is run, with
the aim of giving basic work skills and disciplines and enabling them to
become accustomed to the working week. When I visited, some six
prisoners were participating in this course.
The working day lasts eight hours and the payment to the inmate is
about DM 9 ($5) per day. Prisoners pay 1.5 per cent of their salary for
unemployment insurance, but they do not have any social security
insurance—though they would like to have it. This point is made
regularly by the prisoners’ representatives.
Half the salary can be used to buy food from the prison shop and the
other half is put aside for the time of release. At their request, interest
may be paid to the prisoners on this part of their money. Three weeks
per year the inmate is free not to work. The inmate newspaper claims
that during this ‘holiday’ period the breakfast is not as good as that
provided when prisoners are at work.
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CHRISTIAN KUHN
The daily routine

Working days:
05.45 Wake up (Reveille)

06.00 Cells are unlocked
06.30 Breakfast
06.50 Prisoners go to work
07.00 Work starts
10.00 Refreshment
10.15 Work continues
11.45 Return to cells
12.00 Lunch
12.45 Work resumes
16.00 End of work
16.30 Exercise
17.30 Showers, change of laundry
18.00 Dinner
18.30 Start of leisure, or free time
21.00 End of leisure time
22.00 Day ends
Electricity remains on in the cells after 22.00 for the radio, lamp and
water heater.
On weekends and holidays reveille is one hour later and the day may
be spent in leisure activities or as free time.
Leisure time
One hour a day is allowed for exercise. There are four courtyards,
partly grassed. Besides this there is a soccer ground, some smaller
sporting facilities, a large gymnasium and other training facilities. About
ten prisoners, at the time of my visit, were excluded from recreational
activities for reasons of security.
About 80 per cent of the inmates are active in sport. Soccer, volley-
ball, table tennis and basketball are played. Every year twelve prisoners
are trained to become soccer referees, and they then take charge of
matches within the prison. This referee training is conducted at a
professional level, so the inmate is able to continue it after release; it
provides practical help in social integration and may also help with
160
attitudes to authority, the acceptance of discipline, and in accepting

criticism. Matches are regularly organized with teams from other
prisons, with outside groups and with the guards. Two staff members
are responsible, full time, for sporting activities. Two table tennis teams
take part in the county championship and they play about forty matches
a year in the gymnasium at the prison.
The prison has a library with about 8,000 books; it also boasts a rock
band and a range of courses covering handicrafts, interaction-
experience, creative painting, and literature. An exhibition of paintings
by the prisoners raised money which has been given to a charity
founded by the parents of children suffering from cancer.
During the prisoners’ free time a range of voluntary activities is
available covering alcohol problems (with Alcoholics Anonymous) and
special counselling for drug-addicted prisoners or those diagnosed as
HIV-positive.
About ninety of the prisoners are married and since April 1988, a
marriage counsellor has worked in the prison. In December 1988 about
fifteen couples were able to spend an afternoon together with their
children celebrating a so-called Familiennachmittag, or family get-
together.
Life in the prison

My overall impression was of a very organized institution. The food is
adequate in quantity and the quality satisfying, with special diets for
Muslims, invalids and vegetarians. Prisoners have about 780 gm of fresh
fruits each week.
Visitors from outside are allowed twice each month for an hour’s
visit. More extended visits are possible and often granted. The visiting
rooms are relatively small, however, and the connection to public
transport rather poor, involving a bus journey and a walk. Many
complaints concern the fact that there is no shelter for visitors waiting
outside the prison before they are allowed in for visits. Only an old
shelter protects against the rain.
Since the autumn of 1989 three special ‘long-term visiting rooms’
have been available. There prisoners are able to meet without
supervision, providing the visitors are family members (parents,
children) or their wives (providing they have been married at least six
months). The rooms were nearly finished when I visited. They are in
effect small flats, with sitting and cooking facilities, toilet and shower.
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They have a special entrance, separated from the entrance used by other
visitors. Since such facilities are for conjugal visits, they need to be
sympathetically and sensitively arranged and from what I saw, that will
be achieved very well.
The plan to develop such facilities came after a delegation of
parliamentarians of Nordrhein-Westfalen had paid a visit to the prison
of Barcelona. They were impressed with what they saw and instructed
their own Minister of State to create similar facilities in some of the
prisons for which they are responsible.
Three times a year each prisoner is allowed to receive a parcel with
food and tobacco from outside: at Christmas and Easter (weighing 3 kg
each) and once at a time of his choice (of 5 kg). HIV-positive prisoners
can receive a monthly food parcel. These prisoners are integrated into
the ordinary life of the prison, not separated from the other prisoners,
but only work where there is a minimum risk of injury. If any develop
AIDS, they are transferred to hospital.
Hard drugs are not of particular importance in the prison, but
cannabis, or hashish, plays a significant role. About 30 per cent of the
inmates are reported to have used it. Prison staff are constantly trying
to control drug abuse, with urine sampling, regular cell changes (to
minimize concealment) and surprise searches. That they have had some
success is demonstrated by the price of a gramme of cannabis, which has
risen to DM 40 ($20) from between DM 20 and DM 30. The latter price
is the one which obtains in most other prisons, according to information
provided by an inmate, and is not very different from the ordinary street
price. The relatively high price in Geldern indicates that cannabis is not
easily and everywhere available. Alcohol is strictly prohibited
throughout the prison.
Disciplinary measures, strictly regulated by law, range from
restrictions on leisure time, shopping and visits, to solitary
confinement for a maximum of four weeks. During solitary
confinement, the exercise period for the prisoner can be cancelled and
this often happens. Solitary confinement is imposed about 40 times a
year, restrictions on shopping in about 70 cases, restrictions on leisure
in about 250 cases. In an emergency the inmate can be physically
secured to a bed (Fesselbrett), but this is, for all practical purposes, not
in use. If used, the Governor has to report the fact after three days to
a higher authority.
Self-inflicted injury is rare and does not seem to be used to put
pressure on staff to achieve a prisoner’s particular demands. The
162
statistics for 1988 record two cases of self-injury and five of refusal of
food. Since the opening of the prison in 1979 there has been one case
of suicide.
According to law the prisoner can have up to 21 days a year on
‘Urlaub’ (home leave). He can leave the prison providing that the
balance of his sentence is less than 18 months. In Geldern up to a third
of the inmates are entitled to this benefit. In 1988 there were 2,200
requests for ‘Urlaub’; 1,250 were granted. The rate of those failing to
return punctually was 2 per cent.
A full-time doctor takes care of the medical service. In discussion
with inmates the question was raised as to whether the diagnoses were
always careful enough, but prisoners who are seriously ill are in any
case transferred to a hospital run by the justice department (at
Froendenberg) or to a public hospital. Specialist doctors visit the prison
regularly or prisoners may be escorted to facilities in the community.
The process for making a complaint is regulated by law and prisoners
are carefully informed about their rights.
There is an establishment of seven posts for social workers, but
in fact only six are filled at present. Similarly, only two of the three
positions for psychologists are filled. The reason is that vacancies
must remain unfilled for six months for economic reasons. One of
the social workers claimed that he and his colleagues have to use
much of their time for administrative work: progress reports or
comments, in cases where conditional release or parole is being
considered. He himself had to prepare no fewer than 432 reports in
1988. This takes so much time that there may not be time enough
for the social work needs of prisoners. He questioned whether,
under these conditions, the work can be handled in a satisfactory
way.
There seemed to be no particularly strong ‘subculture’ and relatively
few cases of violence between prisoners. That was confirmed by an
inmate who had been imprisoned for twelve years and had been in two
other prisons before coming to Geldern. In describing Geldern Prison in
a generally positive way he claimed that the possibilities for illegal or
uncontrolled activities were too few. The situation is different in each
wing and, according to a senior prison officer, there are inmates who
live in fear. But there seemed to be no large, organized, subcultural
structure of power or tyranny.
The reason may be not only the strict control the prison regime has
but also the different opportunities to discuss prisoners’ problems at
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different levels. Conflicts are part of life. Learning to handle them in

different ways helps to prepare the prisoner for life in freedom. That
conflicts can arise, is positive; that they are kept under control in
different parts of the system (inmates, prison officers, management) is
necessary. A situation in which all conflict is kept down, and no one is
challenged, is not ideal.
A good example of this is the way the inmate newspaper Die Posaune
discusses controversial topics, such as problems between the newspaper
team and the in-house radio service Die Trommel; questions about the
cleanliness of the courtyard; discussion of a particular attitude of a
member of staff; criticism of the goods offered by the prison shop, and
so on. The paper also describes events which passed successfully:
pavement painting by some prisoners together with others in a local
street, sporting events; it gives counsel on legal matters and discusses
general issues in society. The paper appears every two months and is
edited by the Governor.
In this connection it is worth mentioning the development of ‘shared
responsibility’ schemes which have been obligatory for all prisons in
Nordrhein-Westfalen since 1979. In free and secret elections all inmates
can elect deputies to a council. All deputies are elected for two years and
they have to be approved by the Governor. They meet once a week
without supervision. They are not allowed to take up issues on behalf
of a single prisoner, but can discuss with the management general
questions concerning the life in the prison— local rules, food, leisure
opportunities and so on. The climate of co-operation that this engenders
allows big events such as an open air concert to happen without any
problems.
A Beirat (advisory board) for the prison is appointed according to
law, and six members drawn from politics, the Church, and unions meet
regularly. They provide some overseeing of the work of the prison,
represent the community; they allocate an hour a week to deal with
prisoners’ complaints.
Education in prison
In 1989 a special occasion took place in Geldern: the first graduation of
an inmate. A 28-year-old inmate had finished his university studies and
graduated twice: in business and economics. Thirteen prisoners who
study full time are located in a special department. An open university
provides them with the necessary material for their studies by post.
164
Since the installation of this study centre in 1983, some 36 prisoners

have started full-time studies and have then been partially released or
transferred to other prisons (open prisons or halfway houses). The most
popular courses are economics, electrical engineering, mathematics and
science-based subjects.
The open university material is not free and any student prisoner
who has no funds available for such a course is entitled to seek help
from the Ministry of Education, though any such grant is repayable
by the prisoner. However, students who have sufficient funds and
do not qualify for help from the Ministry of Education are
subsidized by the Ministry of Justice—and these grants are not
refundable. This curious bureaucratic anomaly is clearly unjust and
is much resented.
The staff
There are 180 prison officers at Geldern and, with office personnel,
specialist services, teachers, etc., the overall total is about 250 staff.
Before being employed the potential prison officer has to take a test
in writing, mathematics and psychology. Candidates are tested in
Geldern Prison and about 60 per cent of them are refused after
undertaking these tests. The prison officers wear a uniform, but no
badge of rank. They do not carry weapons during the day, not even a
stick or rubber truncheon, but are issued with a pistol for night duty.
Firearms have been used just once since the prison was opened: warning
shots when a prisoner tried to escape.
There is, as some of the officers noted, relatively strong competition
for high-ranking posts. But overall, many officers still seemed to think
that playing safe, being inconspicuous and making no mistakes was the
most useful career plan. That meant being unwilling to look for
promotion since, inevitably, it meant a higher risk. One of the seven
shop stewards (two of whom work part time in order to free themselves
for this union responsibility) confirmed this.
Many of the guards support the new targets of the prison
administration, with its emphasis on resocialization, but there are also
some who do not agree and a few who make no secret of their
aversion towards the prisoners. To counterbalance this, a few are
highly committed and even spend their leisure time on a voluntary
basis if help is needed, for instance, to escort a prisoner on an outside
visit.
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Next to the prison buildings are some 42 flats (of from 94 to 148
sq.m) used as staff accommodation. The rent is low, but the
neighbourhood around the prison suffers from being seen very
negatively and there is a feeling that the prison, with its housing, has
become little more than a ghetto.
Summary
To determine whether a prison is performing a useful function one could
ask three questions (arranged according to priority):
1 Is the physical and, as far as possible, the psychological integrity of

the inmate secure? Is he safe in life and limb against threat from
other inmates? Against excesses by the guards? Against torture? Are
food and medical services adequate?
2 Is the dignity of the inmates protected as far as possible? This covers
clothing, food, sanitation, the avoiding of arbitrary and petty rules,
the availability of work, leisure facilities and visits from family and
friends.
3 What does the prison offer for the further development of the
inmate? This may be on the professional, personal, social and, if
necessary, therapeutical level.
Problems can appear in all these three areas, whether from the
legislative framework, the structure of the institution, or from the
personal failings of those responsible for implementing the regime.
I thought that at Geldern the first and the second questions could
be answered satisfactorily, so far as one can tell within a visit of a
week. Concerning the third (opportunities for vocational
development and training) the prison seems to be exemplary. Doubts
do appear in connection with social work help and therapeutic
assistance and these seem to derive from the organization of the
institution. Because of the burden of reports and other administrative
obligations, many of the psychologists and social workers are often
considered as a part of the administrative system rather than as a
confidential resource for the prisoners. Here is a fundamental
problem: a penal system which on the one hand has to punish (by
definition) and on the other hand wants to offer help—a help which
only can be realized if mutual trust is established. The prisoner has
to cope with the mixed message that the same institution is
166
encouraging him with one hand while beating him with the other.
This tension surfaces openly in the role of the social work services
which at the same time invite the inmate to trust and co-operate,
even to the extent of revealing his weak points, yet exercise control
and make judgements that directly affect his life. In discussions with
prisoners psychological stress was identified as a problem and it
seems to be inherent in the dual aims of the existing structure.
This is not to argue against a penal system which offers social and
therapeutic help—on the contrary. It demonstrates the necessity of
setting up a clear framework of conditions within which such help could
be realized to the best advantage of both prisoner and staff. To this end
one could envisage:
1 A gradual separation of administrative and therapeutic decisions

(which needs mutual confidence and a sharing of power).
2 A development of the key position held by volunteers, who are
automatically outside the administration. In Geldern about 20 per
cent of the inmates are in regular contact with voluntary prison
visitors who have their own legally defined status. They have their
own opportunities for visits and are listened to by the
administration in decisions about the respective inmates they
know. A special role is also held by two full-time priests in
Geldern (one Catholic, one Lutheran) who both seem to have the
confidence of the prisoners. A large room for church services,
which is only used for religious purposes, is available to them and
the atmosphere of trust and confidence which has grown up
between them and the prisoners is obviously important. The priests
also have a group of volunteers who help in a range of situations
from craft work to debt counselling, and in the provision of help
on release.
3 It is also worth considering whether therapeutic help could be
provided which is not part of the prison administration. In two
small units of the penal system in Nordrhein-Westfalen, Duren and
Gelsenkirchen, this is already well established. Treatment may be
paid for privately under this system, but may also be paid for by the
prison authorities if recommended by the prison doctor. Any refusal
of treatment ought not to be considered as automatically negative,
nor should privileges depend on the ‘progress’ of any treatment
plan.
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A strategy based on these principles may create other problems. I

realize that those working in the ‘therapeutic’ areas may not wish to be
distanced from the means of making other decisions about the prisoner
during his imprisonment. Separation of functions may be only a limited
answer and if ‘administration’ and ‘care’ become too distanced or
alienated it is unlikely to be of benefit to the prisoner. In Geldern Prison
I saw this tension being played out in some of the staff roles, but there
were also key individuals who managed to achieve a positive balance.
One of the senior prison officers successfully combined a responsibility
for security with the equally important role of empowering prisoners to
take more responsibility for themselves. Nevertheless such individuals
are rare. A gradual division of help and control, which keeps choices
open for the prisoner, which values voluntary participation and which
keeps re-integration in the community as its most important goal,
remains the overall aim. Meanwhile, Geldern Prison is a step along the
way.
NOTE
1 This chapter was written before the recent reunification of East and West
Germany.
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Chapter Ten
THE TEXAS DEPARTMENT OF

CORRECTIONS, USA
R.W.BURNHAM
When John Howard died, ‘Texas’ was known only to a small number of
Mexicans, American Indians and the occasional settler who had been
thrown out of, or wandered away from, the established ‘colonies’ to the
north and east. In historically accurate terms these settled states had
ceased to be colonies fourteen years before Howard’s death, but that
probably did not much matter south and west of the Red River which
forms the north-east boundary of what was then known as Tejas, or
Tehas.
More settlers of North European stock gradually moved into
present day East Texas at the end of the eighteenth century. A Spanish-
dominated civilization had already spread north and east from
Mexico. There was a continual potential for conflict between the two
cultures, which eventually came to a dramatic crisis in the San Antonio
area. The Spaniards had earlier established a chain of missions to
‘civilize’ the local population along the San Antonio River. Those
beautiful mission buildings are still a major feature of Texas
architectural history. One of them is called the Alamo and in 1836
became one of the shrines, not only of Texan history, but of the history
of the United States. The Mexicans, under General Santa Anna, tried
to retake some of the land that the newcomers had taken over. About
150 of those North European settlers chose to barricade themselves
inside the Alamo Mission, turn it into a fortress, and to defy Santa
Anna’s army of around 5,000.
Instead of ignoring the Alamo and its small garrison, and pressing
on to fight the main Texan army, Santa Anna decided to take the
Alamo by storm. He succeeded, and all the resisters, including the
famous Davy Crockett, died. Officially they are national heroes, but
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R.W.BURNHAM
there are revisionist versions of history which make some, including

Crockett, rather less heroic. The stand at the Alamo, however, did its
job. Santa Anna lost so much time and so many men in a pyrrhic
victory, for which he need never have fought in the first place, that
when he finally met the full Texan force under General Sam Houston
he was utterly defeated. Thereafter Texas became an independent
country, with its own embassy in London, and ultimately a state of the
Union.
That summary of early Texan history is included, not just for general
interest, but to illustrate several factors which have always been
characteristic of Texan culture, and so have influenced the history of
prisons in the state. These factors are: conflict between cultures; a high
proportion of displaced people and difficult arrivals; speed of social
change; and perhaps above all, and certainly the most publicized,
violence.
People from other cultures have compared living in the United States
with living in a speeded-up film. That is perhaps strongest in California,
where the feeling takes the form that the future has arrived before it was
due. In Texas it may be described as the past constantly almost catching
up with the future, leaving no stable present time. The Texas prison
system may well have been one of the fastest expanding systems in
recent history. That makes it very different from the prisons and
bridewells about which Howard wrote. One of the themes running
through The State of the Prisons is that with a few exceptions, neither
numbers nor conditions of prisoners have changed very much since
Howard first visited.
The ratio of prisoners, primarily adult males, to the population of
Texas as a whole has usually been high, and higher than for most other
American states. Prisons are big business in Texas. There can be few
jurisdictions where the location of a major university programme was
determined by the location of the oldest prison.
The prison population now stands at around 40,000, which was that
of England and Wales prior to the 1980s increase, against a total state
population of rather more than half that of England and Wales. In
keeping with the tradition of doing things in a big way, the Texas
authorities have always built large prisons. The Huntsville Unit, which
is the original prison and is still in use, and known unofficially but
universally as The Walls, accommodates close to 1,800. Huntsville was
then a small agricultural town, and the population of the state probably
a lot less than one million. Wandsworth and Pentonville, in London,
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THE TEXAS DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS, USA
with rather less capacity, were built at about the same time to serve
what was then the largest city in the world.
The Texas Department of Corrections (TDC) has continued to build
big, and presumably Howard could not even have begun to imagine
something like the Ellis I Unit, of over 2,000 beds. In Ellis I there are
more people (300) on death row, than the total in any single prison that
Howard saw. Death row is actually a prison within a prison. These
details are given to emphasize the enormous difference of scale between
any problem Howard dreamed of and the problems facing recent TDC
directors.
The size of the state in the early days of the administration of
justice led to a remarkable form of attempted commital to prison.
According to one of my sources1, it is the origin of the American term
‘railroading’, which has long been used as a slang term throughout the
USA to mean compelling somebody to do something they do not want
to do, and for which the legal or other administrative justification is
marginal or dubious. In the late nineteenth century, the railroad
network across the state was complete. The story goes that trains from
distant towns had special coaches attached (or there were even
dedicated special trains) to bring those sentenced to imprisonment for
serious offences to Huntsville. Sometimes a resident of one of those
towns was thought by one of his fellow citizens to be particularly
obnoxious or dangerous, even though it was not possible to prove
anything against him in law. A few of his fellow citizens would wait
until the train was about to depart, nobble him and throw him on the
train, slip the guards a few dollars and wave goodbye. When the train
got to Huntsville, the prison authorities refused to admit him as there
was no committal warrant. He therefore had the choice of making a
new home somewhere or making his way back to a town about whose
public feelings he could have no doubt, but knowing that if he did not
change his ways the whole thing might happen again. It would be
interesting to know the ‘success rates’ of such informal justice, but
statistics are, understandably, lacking.
One long-standing feature of Texas prisons dating from the early
times, and which occurred intermittently in many American prison
administrations in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, was
that of ‘leasing out’ prisons. Under that system an entrepreneur would
pay the state to utilize the labour of the prisoners, normally by
contracting them out to local farms. That frequently led to abuses and
indeed sometimes to bizarre results. When in California, I was told
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R.W.BURNHAM
that the site of San Quentin prison was determined by the fact that a
leased prison hulk was inadequately tethered on the north-east side of
San Francisco Bay. During a violent storm it broke away and drifted
westwards until it hit land on the barren headland of San Quentin. It
was easier to transport the guards there and order the convicts to start
building their own new prison than to build new ships and take them
back to Vallejo. As with the railroading story, I could find no
confirmation, but the story of privatized prisons floundering without
control or direction across San Francisco Bay, landing close to where
Sir Francis Drake’s memorial plaque was later found, may not be
without a criminological moral.
The starting-point of that digression in time and place was that of
leased prisons and the problems they increasingly raised for a socially
responsible legislature. The development of a civil service style of
correctional administration can serve as the starting-point for my
main theme, a comparison of Howard’s concerns with the changes,
reforms and setbacks of prison administration in Texas since the
Second World War. We could start with a review of his most famous
chapters at the beginning of The State of the Prisons, especially the
chapters entitled: ‘General view of distress in prisons’; ‘Bad customs
in prisons’; ‘Proposed improvements in the structure and
management of prisons’. Those chapters summarize his main
concerns, which are then illustrated in the narrative of the text with
descriptions of individual institutions. As I discussed the history of
changes in prisons with officials or ex-officials of TDC, or colleagues
at the Criminal Justice Center, I came to think that the most logical
order in which to look at the contemporary response to the questions
that Howard raised was not the same as that which he followed in
those chapters. Therefore I have taken the different topics in the
order that my sources thought appropriate and provided references
to at least some of the specific instances of those problems that
Howard gave in his text.
The main question to which I return intermittently throughout
t h i s c h a p t e r, a n d w i t h w h i c h i t c o n c l u d e s , i s o n e r a i s e d b y
implication in Howard’s writings, but not addressed directly by
him. That is the question of whether, in respect of prisons at least,
people make the system what it is, or the system makes the people
what they are. The history of TDC in the last decades has provided
a remarkable case history of that problem, with examples of the
arguments for and against each point of view. Such a review
172
n a t u r a l l y i n c l u d e s q u e s t i o n s o f s t a f f i n g q u a l i t y, r u l e s a n d
regulations, classification, control of different kinds of abuses,
prison employment and cleanliness, system comparison and where
ultimate decision-making power is located.
The first step in the modernization of TDC was to appoint someone
to improve what was widely acknowledged to be an unacceptable
situation. Lee Simmons became director of TDC in 1930 with a
reputation of being a hard but completely honest law enforcement
officer. The ‘straight cop’ took over the ‘bent screws’, but lasted only
four years; the explanation given being that he was a catcher, not a
keeper. It seems a frequent theme in penal history that the two
professions do not trust each other, at least as regards doing each
other’s job. After Simmons’s departure in 1934 the situation
deteriorated and escapes became a major problem, to such an extent
that a most unusual political event occurred. Some ten years later the
main plank in the platform of Beauford Jester as candidate for State
Governor was prison reform, and he was elected on that campaign
issue.
Modern Texas prison administration essentially dates from the steps
Jester took to ensure that the prisons were run by an accountable board
of people with a strong social conscience. Both the way he selected
people and the status and accountability he gave them might have been
suggested to him by John Howard.
Jester, his successor and the director they appointed, O.B.Ellis, all
placed their central emphasis on the quality of staff, and the higher the
grade, the more the quality counted. Ellis, according to his successor
Beto, had two overriding overt concerns. The first was to enable the
prison system to feed and clothe the prisoners through its own efforts.
The second was with humane conditions in prisons, demonstrated above
all by cleanliness. Howard would surely not have objected to either,
although the idea of a department of corrections would have been very
strange to him and the idea that it could act as a system to feed and
clothe itself would presumably have seemed a desirable but unreal and
irrelevant objective.
Ellis was succeeded by Beto, who has become a man of considerable
controversy, both with supporters and detractors, in writings about the
history of prisons. He was, and is, a strong advocate of the position that
the right people make the system. One recent penal scholar, Di Julio, in
his analysis of what is wrong with American prisons, regards Beto as a
desirable role model (Di Julio 1987). A recent book by Martin and
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R.W.BURNHAM
Ekland-Olson is much less positive (Martin and Ekland-Olson 1987).

The reforms which have characterized the post-Ellis-Beto era derived
from the actions of the believers in the supremacy of detailed legal
guide-lines. The focus of the next sections is on those areas where the
Ellis-Beto doctrine is seen at its best, and when it dominated TDC policy
for twenty-five years. Ellis’s obsessions, as noted, were self-sufficiency
and cleanliness. One big advantage of self-sufficiency in food and
clothing was that the demand on the public purse was much reduced.
The state legislature was thereby able to be much more generous in
capital grants for future building, and for improving the salaries of
correctional officers.
The quality of staff was a recurring theme with Howard, and he
placed emphasis on both appropriate remuneration (Howard 1792:
128, 129, 140, 158) and training (145, 173–4, 206, 222). In Howard’s
time, the main problem in respect of remuneration was that the gaoler
was expected to generate his own income, by what often amounted to
extortion from those in his charge or their family and friends. Howard
was, therefore, in favour of a civil service system, although that
concept was relatively new in the administration of Britain. Texas
faced a similar problem throughout the ‘leasing’ period of the late
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The standing of TDC officers
as worthy of the wage of a respectable craftsman was not established
until the Ellis era.
As an example, when Ellis died in 1962, a newly-recruited TDC
guard received $256 per month with fringe benefits such as uniforms,
and cannot have been highly regarded in a society which measures
status by money. Both Ellis and Beto were as proud of their success
in raising the salary and status of guards as they were of any other
achievement. Howard would surely have approved of all that, but as
so often in penal reform, the very advance of which the reformers
were so proud led to an ironic and unforeseen development. An
urgent need arose in the late 1970s and early 1980s to recruit many
new prison guards. That crisis coincided with the beginning of an
economic crisis, which saw south-east Texas in particular
transformed within two years from one of the boom areas to one of
the depressed areas of the USA.
For some decades, working for TDC had been a family tradition,
and I met officials who were proud to be third generation prison
men. In the towns around the main prisons, above all Huntsville, a
culture of loyalty to TDG and a commitment to integrity and
174
consistency had become established. The standards of humanity and

gentility expected of guards, or shown towards prisoners, may not
have been those of Alexander Paterson or the Howard League; but
there were standards, which were informally learned and informally
but forcefully demanded of the guards. In the early 1980s that
tradition was broken by the need for new guards in combination with
the growing unemployment rate.
It is widely believed both within TDC and by its critics that the
relatively high pay levels established by the reforming directors of
the 1950s and 1960s led to applications by, and the recruitment
of, men who did not know of or subscribe to the old codes. The
result was that the informal system of control by mutual
understanding, with some mutual respect between prisoner and
guard, was greatly weakened. The same good pay and conditions
also coincided with the equal opportunities legislation which
declared, in essence, that for all practical purposes there is no
difference between the sexes. The recruitment of women therefore
added to the degree of unsettling change experienced by the TDC
system. Women guards supervise showering and conduct body
searches on male death row. These guards seem unmoved, while
many of the prisoners object; one can only speculate on what
Howard’s views would have been.
If there is a moral in the sequence of events as recounted above, it is
that in penal reform there is always the potential for more influences to
operate than those the planners have in mind.2
Howard’s second concern with the quality of staff was with
training, although he did not use that word. The improvement of the
quality of work performed by criminal justice personnel through
improved training has been much talked about and advocated since
at least my own days as a trainee assistant governor almost thirty
years ago, and probably well before that. Examination of what is
entailed and what is expected have produced ambivalent conclusions,
less clear than the raw conviction that training is a good thing: but
overall the evidence is favourable. Beto has very definite ideas on
this. Pre-service training is essential so that the staff know the rules
and how to work in a disciplined system. In-service training is
desirable only when it fulfils a felt need. Staff in a contemporary
prison service or department of corrections come to believe that
further training, or advanced training, or some other form of
inservice training, is necessary if they are to become more
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‘professional’. One TDC guard remarked to me that it is like fibre in

the diet. You don’t miss it until somebody tells you that you need it;
then you regard it as indispensable.
It is easy and almost certainly wrong to be cynical about in-service
training. It is the only way yet devised to improve the professional
morale and standing of a criminal justice agency, but, especially with
lower ranking staff, it is extraordinarily difficult to demonstrate
results.
Howard would have approved of the improvement in pay and
conditions of service and greater emphasis on training but he might have
been quite surprised at the eventual outcome of well-meaning initiatives.
He would probably have been less confused or surprised at the
implementation of some of his other priorities. One of the most
fundamental of those was the importance of clearly-stated and widely
publicized rules of conduct for both staff and prisoners (Howard
1792:148, 152, 154, 166–9). Howard continually pointed out the
arbitrariness of prison discipline, and the fact that such an evil was
made possible primarily by the absence of formal, written, and
published rules. He might have been surprised to know that before Ellis
became director in 1950, the same was true in Texas. The importance
which Ellis laid upon the drafting and promulgation of such rules is
generally regarded as one of his major contributions to the civilizing of
Texas prisons.
In addition to his open priorities discussed above, Ellis took office
with two unpublished goals: the elimination of brutality and the
elimination of petty theft. Both evils were perpetrated by both staff
and prisoners. The abuse of prisoners by staff was a serious problem
before Ellis took over. A major item in his creed was that prisons
should be lawful. Each is a mini-society, and any society should be
safe for all the members of that society. He considered that, since
society had the right to lock people up, it had a corresponding
obligation to ensure the safety of those locked up. Critics of the Ellis-
Beto era contend that they traded off abuse by staff for abuse by
inmates, in order to achieve a controlled and disciplined prison
environment. That conflict of views has its fierce advocates on both
sides, and I am neither well informed nor dispassionate enough to
comment on it From the presumed perspective of John Howard, the
Ellis-Beto administrations overall emerge with credit, because they
did insist on the publication of official rules, and that was a big
breakthrough.
176
To refer once again to the unpredicted and possibly counter-

productive side effects of the legal reform movement, the effect on
the ‘rules’ question has been at most unfortunate in the eyes of many
basic grade staff. In the earlier regime it was accepted that rules had
to be general to some extent, and open to change to allow for
adaptation to changing circumstances. After the courts intervened,
the concern of the administration has to be not to leave itself open
to any kind of charge of ignoring court rulings. To quote an
anonymous source: The first rule in running prisons has always been
to cover your arse. It is now the second, third and fourth rule as
well.’ In the more elegant terminology of another source,
fossilization has set in and the push to drive out abuse has stifled the
exercise of initiative.
One feature of prison rules as published in most administrations is
that they require different provisions for different categories of prisoner.
The concept of different categories requires the concept of classification,
and that was one of Howard’s preoccupations (Howard 1792:127, 219).
In his day, the main problem, to which he referred frequently, was the
separation of adults from juveniles. In TDC institutions that separation
was established and maintained many decades ago. It is apparently still
the case that in some local, county gaols adults and juveniles are housed
together, sometimes for periods of several weeks. The little evidence I
could obtain suggested that the explanation was the usual one in
criminal justice short-comings: a rising demand not met with increasing
resources. Also the problem is increasingly severe the more local the
gaol.
Howard might well have been impressed by the importance given
to classification by TDC, despite the fact that it seems to be
unfashionable in western European administrations. Its associations
with the treatment model, which has been so widely rejected, render
it unacceptable. TDC has a Diagnostic Unit through which all
newly sentenced prisoners pass. Beto describes diagnostic units as
the Ford Edsells 3 of American corrections, although he does not
claim to have invented the metaphor. He still defends their use on
the grounds that ‘For selfish reasons a prison administrator needs to
know as much as he can about each prisoner, especially incoming
prisoners.’ The priority of the TDC classification scheme is to
establish the needs of each individual prisoner. That diagnosis is not
so much for therapeutic reasons as for administrative and
management purposes.
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R.W.BURNHAM
The classification exercise provides another arena for the conflicting

points of view as to the relative importance of good people as opposed
to good systems. It is a debate which presumably would have appealed
to Howard although his own views seem to have been that they are
equally important. In the history of TDC since the Second World War,
the struggle for supremacy of the contrasting viewpoints has been a
Leitmotiv. The Ellis-Beto-Estelle (Estelle was Beto’s successor) era was
one in which the primacy of getting good people to do the important
jobs was unquestioned. Since the Federal Court in the Eastern District
of Texas, and subsequently the Fifth Circuit Federal Appellate Court
seated in New Orleans intervened, the pendulum has swung and the
emphasis has been on detailed rules to cover all contingencies, the
implementation of which is far less dependent on the quality of
individual personnel. One of Beto’s constant themes is that
classification is something which can be carried out properly only by
staff who have both human insight in general and a specific knowledge
of the prison system and the background of most of its clients.
Classification by computer, howsoever sophisticated the algorithm, is
not appropriate.
It is notable how classification is used as an instrument of control.
That is clearly true and officially acknowledged in TDC. It could
well become equally true in other systems as they grow to the size,
complexity and pressures of TDC. In TDC the classification status of
all prisoners is reviewed at least once a year, and sometimes as often
as every ninety days. The decision resulting from that review can lead
to a change of housing, work, and other living arrangements within
an institution, or a change of institution. Not surprisingly it is
regarded as an important and effective management tool. The
visibility and accountability of the decision, or lack thereof, might
have caused Howard some anxiety, but again he was not faced with
proposing reforms for a prison system anything like as complex as
TDC.
Another of Howard’s themes was the damage done by mind-altering
substances in prison (Howard 1792:126, 135, 145, 159, 234). That
rather ponderous phrase is used because in an unknown but not
insignificant number of contemporary prisons the problem still exists,
but the actual substance has changed. Howard protested against the use
of alcohol in prisons, whereas the substances of abuse today in most
administrations are drugs which are taken in small quantities and
therefore can be smuggled in.
178
The sale of beer by the gaoler in late eighteenth-century Britain was

apparently universal—Howard called it the ‘tap’ and seems to have
regarded it as a necessary evil. His aim was to eliminate the
importation of distilled spirits, for which his main rationale was the
damage they did to health. That damage occurred in two ways. First
was the direct effect of the dosage level on the general health of the
prisoners. Second, and less obvious, was the diversion of resources
from their ‘proper’ use of obtaining good food, to that of acquiring the
drink.
The situation in TDC today is very different. Food is provided by
the administration, while no alcohol is allowed, and it is difficult to
smuggle it in. The main anxiety about diet which I heard expressed, at
least by the administration, was that with the introduction of ‘fast
food’ facilities, prisoners were showing the same dietary self-
destructive tendencies as young teenagers traditionally have done.
They prefer ‘junk food’ laden with additives, cholesterol and calories,
but with very low nutrition value, to the less exciting but more
nutritious food offered by the institution. Abuse of alcohol seems to be
almost non-existent.
TDC officials believe that TDC is less badly affected than other
prison administrations with respect to the smuggling in of narcotics and
other drugs. Regular and thorough cell searches reveal syringes,
hypodermic needles and other components of ‘the works’ only rarely.
The drug problem is mostly limited to substances which produce
recognizable behavioural patterns, normally some sort of muddled state
or light-headedness. The explanation is either imported marijuana or the
diversion of inhalants such as glue and paint stripper from the
workshops. The sudden increase in staff from outside the prison culture
may have resulted in there being more guards who themselves use
marijuana in a limited recreational way, and who may not be averse to
sharing a few joints with their charges. While senior officials recognize
this as a problem requiring constant monitoring, the level of anxiety
about it remains low, and it is not seen as the forerunner of a future
threat.
While substance abuse has changed in both scope and nature, one
of the other problems that vexed Howard (1792:124, 128, 216) is
still a major, and similar, difficulty for the TDC authorities. That is
the need to provide employment for prisoners. In medieval
Christendom the appropriate saying was The devil makes work for
idle hands’. The idea was expressed in several languages. The version
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R.W.BURNHAM
with which I was introduced to my housemaster role in the prison

service by an experienced principal officer was ‘One thing more
difficult than a busy Borstal boy is an idle Borstal boy.’ I believe that
it is as close as we can ever come to a universal truth in the history
of prisons—that lack of work for prisoners is the greatest cause of
indiscipline, unrest and unhappiness among the prisoners. Idleness is
feared there with good reason, and also to an obsessive degree, for,
as has been observed, if men believe something to be true, it is true
in its consequences.
One of Howard’s obsessions was indeed that idleness and
unemployment was the cause of many of the problems facing a
prison administration. He would find an immediate echo in the
different administrative offices of TDC in 1989. I have rarely if ever
met a prison administrator, who does not subscribe to the doctrine
that work for prisoners is the best training for life after release, and
that it is also the best mechanism for running a humane and tidy
prison. Neither have I come across much evidence to show that they
are wrong.
One of the reasons advanced for the absence of meaningful work
for prisoners in some administrations is that of the resentment of
the outside world. The products of prisons are seen as taking over
the market for the products of honest working men. That argument
has been very forceful in some countries for the last three or four
decades at least. Another of the ironies of penal reform is that it
seems not to apply in Texas, one of the spiritual centres of
capitalism. The weak tradition of trade unionism in Texas has been
a major cause for the profession of the prison officer to develop in
a very different way from in Europe. That same absence of union
power has resulted in the absence of opposition to the marketing of
TDC inmate products, either cotton measured in hundreds of tonnes
or individually carved armadillos. Howard was strongly opposed to
prison unemployment in the different circumstances with which he
w a s f a m i l i a r. H e w o u l d h a v e d i s a p p r o v e d o f i t e q u a l l y i n
contemporary western Europe and contemporary TDC, but he
would have had to look for quite different explanations for its
occurrence.
Agricultural hard labour, primarily the cultivation of cotton, had
long been a prominent feature of TDC activity. The policy of Ellis,
to feed and clothe the prison population from its own resources, has
already been mentioned. Beto continued the policy but expanded
180
the scope of inmate productivity to include building on a large

scale. For many years new TDC plant, and some other related
buildings, were built by prisoners; this included making the bricks.
One of those buildings is the Criminal Justice Center at Sam
Houston State University. The prisoners who built it left their own
rather macabre memento by incorporating a hangman’s noose into
one of the rafters, with a nearby door leading into empty space and
a four metre drop.
In the late 1970s the policy of building by prisoners was
abandoned and the work put out to contract, as in most other
jurisdictions. The usual explanation offered was the sudden need for
more prisons. That need arose partly from the increasing number of
convictions and sentences, and partly from the measures necessary to
satisfy the newly-imposed court requirements. Prison labour may be
efficient in terms of costs, but it is slow and requires a high degree
of commitment of the staff at all levels. Organizing prisoner labour
is, in fact, a very demanding job and one reason for the decline in its
use was the effort it required of staff, including high level staff, to
make it work properly.
Whatever the reason, the practice has now largely disappeared, and
prisoner idleness is at a much higher level. As we can be sure that
Howard would have approved of the constructive use of prisoners’ time
and energy and training in work habits, so we can probably also assume
that he would have been disappointed in and disapproving of the latest
trend.
One aspect of the TDC policy which seems to me to be both
enlightened and enduring is the trouble which is taken to identify
markets for work projects, particularly from the public sector, which
again may sound surprising in capitalist Texas. For instance, one
small independent public sector agency, the local school bus system,
has made a contract for the maintenance of the buses, with another
public sector agency, TDC. While the two agencies save each other
money, they also keep out private business. The end result is
curiously close to the situation which might be expected in a much
more left-wing administration and with a high degree of efficiency
and accountability.
The TDC administration is increasingly gearing its work programmes
to the requirements of the State Purchasing Agency, as well as the
expanding parts of the private sector. A successful field of trade training
for prisoners is computer maintenance and utilization. Thus, while
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R.W.BURNHAM
painting and decorating courses have rather faded because people do

not want ex-prisoners inside their houses to decorate them, it is
apparently much more acceptable to have an ex-prisoner in your house
to repair your word-processor. At the time of writing, I understand that
the computer training course has the highest rate of job placement for
discharged prisoners of any vocational training programme in Texas
prisons.
Along with unemployment and idleness, Howard hated dirt and
over-crowding (Howard 1792:135–7, 142–3, 151, 171–2). Beto is
again a fellow spirit, for his recipe for the basic necessary conditions
for a good prison, or any other total institution, consists of four
absences:
1 Absence of idleness;
2 Absence of noise;
3 Absence of filth;
4 Absence of odour; the smell of disinfectant is a bad sign. It is a way of
simulating cleanliness while actually covering up other odours of far
less salubrious origin.
Cleanliness in TDC institutions has been a priority with the

administration since Ellis’s time at least. It was ensured primarily
through the ‘building tender’ system: Some prisoners had a special
status, half-recognized officially, derived from their job of ‘tending the
building’ (hence the name), that is, to make sure that the cell blocks
were kept clean. They were rather like the red-bands or trusties in
British prisons. Their role included keeping an eye on the conduct of
their fellows.
Perhaps in accordance with the less gentle side of Texas culture,
‘keeping an eye on’ was extended to forceful physical control,
including arranging for ‘necessary’ beatings; and this abuse of power
brought the ‘building tender’ system into disrepute. The issue became
a central topic in the court rulings of recent years and the ‘building
tender’ role was abolished. The cause of cleanliness has, however, not
suffered because the function has been reintroduced, with strong
safeguards. Certain prisoners, known as ‘support service inmates’, who
have no authority, are responsible for cleanliness and some minor
clerical work. But they are no longer the hard men who unofficially
run the prison.
182
One cause of overcrowding in contemporary prisons, not only in

Texas, has been the rise in the number of sentences of imprisonment
imposed by the courts. Howard protested about overcrowding in
conditions of a more or less stable prison population. The extent to
which it could have been foreseen and thus pre-empted by a more
alert administration, which tried to foresee coming trends, seems to
be a matter of disagreement among prison administrators, critics and
researchers in many jurisdictions. Beto is very proud, and I think
justifiably so, that in the early 1960s he asked the Texas legislature
at every session for a considerable amount of money to build for the
future, and received it. Thus TDC was able to cope without
overcrowding with the inexorable but still moderate increase in
demand for capacity during the period 1955 to 1975. It is less sure
that anyone in 1975 could have foreseen the dramatic increase in the
demand for places in the ten years to follow. Likewise, if they had
foreseen it, persuading political authorities to react on anything like
the required scale and at the required speed would have been very
difficult. I think it can be said fairly, that the management response,
in a political climate moving steadily to the right, was always likely
to be too little too late: but that observation applies in many
jurisdictions other than Texas, and has the advantage of being based
on hindsight
The need for more prisons has appeared in many jurisdictions
over the last fifteen years. If the overcrowding which Howard so
decried is not to become worse, let alone be diminished, either
courts must change their sentencing practices or more prisons must
be built (Howard 1792:170, 221, 224–5). There are, of course, the
alternatives that people behave better and commit less crime; or
that the police become less effective and catch fewer villains. But
the former seems regrettably unlikely and the latter, over all,
undesirable. More prisons entail more ground on which to build
them. Public resistance to having a new prison near them is a
common experience of administrations. It is known in Texas by the
increasingly common term of NIMBYism—‘Not In My Back Yard’.
Howard might well have experienced some kind of contemporary
equivalent, and therefore, have been interested in the latest turn of
events in Texas.
The effect on TDC of the change in the employment pattern of the
state when the oil boom failed has already been mentioned. One
discovery in the wake of that economic crisis by local communities
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R.W.BURNHAM
is that prisons mean jobs, and a general boost to the local economy.
I understand that more local communities have applied to TDC to be
considered as ‘host’ towns for new prisons than TDC has plans to
build them. The belief that unemployment increases both crime and
the prison population independently as well as directly has long been
held by criminologists of different persuasions. While the evidence
for the validity of the hypothesis is much debated, the evidence
against it is almost non-existent. It seems that in the case of Texas
there is yet another irony of penal reform: unemployment increases
the prison population, but also makes it possible to provide the new
prisons for which the need has been created. Alas, there are no
grounds, literally, for optimism on the part of European prison
administrations from that example. There is still a lot of spare or
marginally used land in Texas.
The increasing control of TDC by the Texas courts has been
referred to several times already. The crucial case, something of a
watershed in Texas prison history, was Ruiz v. Estelle. It was first
brought in 1972, but its implications became clear only several years
later. The case was so complicated that it has already generated at
least two books (Crouch and Marquart 1989, Martin and Ekland-
Olson 1987) and more might be on the way. It would be appropriate
here simply to give a brief outline of events, and then limit any
review to the ways in which it is relevant to John Howard and his
cause.
There is a much stronger tradition in American society than in
British of rectifying perceived private wrongs by means of litigation.
When the defendant is a public body of some kind, the chief executive
officer is quite often named in the law suit. When Ruiz v. Estelle
appeared in the court lists in front of Federal Judge Justice, it seemed
a fairly run-of-the-mill event, for several prisoners had filed suits
before. Ruiz sued TDC for violations of his rights under the first,
fourth and eighth amendments to the Constitution of the United
States.
The state decided to defend the charges. Opinion in Texas prison
circles, with hindsight, seems to be that TDC should simply have
admitted that various provisions for prisoners were unsatisfactory
and inadequate. It could then have pleaded force of circumstances
and lack of resources, not as a defence but as an excuse. As it was
Judge Justice had to rule against it with all the authority of the
Supreme Court of Texas. Instead of a telling-off, with time to put
184
things right, TDC found itself under a much more strict court order
with which it could not negotiate and which gave it little flexibility.
Through some clever legal work on behalf of other prisoners bringing
litigation, various other cases were incorporated into the Ruiz
decision.
The results of the decision are still making themselves felt. As far
at I could judge it, the general feeling among the present day staff
is that there have been some gains to both the prisoners and the
system, and some losses, but the gains have been bought dearly and
slowly and the losses may be irreversible. The main gains are a
better staff-inmate ratio, and a greater focus on programmes for
inmate recreation and on putting the prisoners’ time to better use,
apart from compulsory work. The main losses have been in the
relations between staff and the prisoners. Most prison reformers,
including Howard, have emphasized that any rehabilitative effect
which prison may have will derive primarily from the quality of the
relationship built up between a respected member of staff and an
individual prisoner. It seems that on human relationships within the
prison the long-term effects of the Ruiz decision have been mostly
negative.
I should emphasize that the summary account given above is not at
all official, and has no claim to comprehensiveness or objectivity. I have
simply reported the reactions of various past and present TDC officials
with whom I spoke, and of some of my colleagues on the faculty of the
Criminal Justice Center. Those interested in an authoritative and
detailed account are referred to the books cited, but are also advised
that the whole issue is one on which sides have been taken, and
disinterested views are rare.
The significance of the Ruiz case and its aftermath for any analysis
of the significance of the work of John Howard lies within the example
it gives of a certain approach to penal reform. To pick up on an earlier
theme, there are two main traditions in penal reform. The first,
stretching from Howard through Paterson to Ellis and Beto, is, as
observed, that the crucial step is to find the right people, particularly for
the top jobs. With good men, goodness will trickle down, and discretion
will be wisely used to allow flexibility and fairness to coexist, even in
a prison. The critics of that view ask what happens if, or indeed when,
goodness fails to trickle down far enough or fast enough. They tend to
answer by pointing to such undesirable developments as the ‘building
tender’ system.
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R.W.BURNHAM
The alternative to the ‘good men’ model is the ‘good rules’ or good
system model. The unfolding of the implications of the Ruiz decision
illustrate the weaknesses of that approach. Perhaps the most important
of these is the difficulty of long-term planning, because it is impossible
to predict what events will be brought before the courts, and how the
courts will decide upon them. There is a permanent element of
uncertainty built into the situation, which undermines the willingness of
administrators to make long-range commitments or plan for flexibility.
It tends to encourage any tendency to the suppression of initiative, and
to foster cautious conservatism, perhaps to the point of atrophy.
I have represented both approaches simplistically, to draw out the
contrast specifically because it seems that Howard favoured both
approaches, but did not have the experience of both to see the
contradictory implications. For instance, ‘I am persuaded that a good
gaoler can more easily manage his prisoners by humane attention than
by severity and heavy irons’ (Howard 1792:145) (writing about
Maidstone County Gaol). Four pages later, when writing about
Aylesbury Bridewell, he said, ‘the prisoners here wished that the
magistrates had made rules also for them’ (Howard 1792:149). (The
‘also’ refers to the fact that the magistrates had made rules for the
county gaol close by.) It is possible to infer from these passages and
others in The State of the Prisons that Howard believed in both the
good man theory, and in control by the courts. On the local scale in
which he was operating, the two approaches may indeed have been
symbiotic. My experience in Texas and with other large contemporary
prison systems leads me to wonder whether in future the best we can
hope for is to obtain some kind of a mix of the two, and avoid the
worse features of each.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
I wrote this chapter as the George J.Beto Chair Professor at the Criminal
Justice Center, Sam Houston State University, Huntsville, Texas for the
spring of 1989. I wish to record my gratitude to the Dean and Faculty
of the Center for that opportunity, and for my professionally valuable
time in Huntsville. George Beto, now in semi-retirement but still
teaching at the Center, is one of the main actors in the story. He was
also my main source of information, and a personal friend; he could be
considered the co-author of this chapter. In so far as it comments
extensively on his main life work, usually but not always positively, it
186
seems more appropriate that his contribution, while fully acknowledged,

should be classified as ‘informal’. He also put me in touch with the
other two main Texas Department of Corrections (TDC) or academic
sources whose knowledge I have used. I should mention in particular
Associate Warden J.Lampert of TDC, and my faculty colleagues at the
Criminal Justice Center.
NOTES
1 Dr Wayland Pilcher, Professor of Criminal Justice, Sam Houston State
University.
2 The Texas (and presumably elsewhere in the USA) version of Murphy’s
Law is ‘There is always one more son-of-a-bitch than you reckoned on.’
3 A model of car introduced by Ford Motor Company in the 1950s with
much fanfare, and a subsequent record of being unbought by the public.
The term has become synonymous for many Americans with the ‘well-
intentioned but ill-thought-out’ product.
REFERENCES
Crouch, B.M. and Marquart, J.W. (1989) An Appeal to Justice: Litigated
Reform of Texas Prisons, Austin, Texas: University of Texas Press.
Di Julio, J.J. (1987) Governing Prisons: a Comparative Study of Correctional
Management, New York: The Free Press.
Howard, J. (1792) The State of the Prisons in England and Wales (facsimile of
4th edn), vol. 2.
Martin, S.J. and Ekland-Olson, S. (1987) Texas Prisons: The Walls Come
Tumbling Down, Austin, Texas: The Texas Monthly Press.
187
JOHN HOWARD
A biographical note
DICK WHITFIELD
The bi-centenary of the death of John Howard in 1990 has given rise
to a number of commemorative events in varying parts of the world, of
which this book is one. That in itself is some indication of the influence
his life and work still bring to bear—and, perhaps, an equal indication
of the lack of progress which makes it still necessary. His book, The
State of the Prisons, a uniquely systematic description of conditions in
British and European prisons in the last part of the eighteenth century,
is an astonishing monument.
In the course of this odyssey, and at a time when travel was usually
uncomfortable and often dangerous, he travelled nearly eighty thousand
kilometres on horseback and spent some £30,000 of his own money in his
determination to improve prison conditions; he entered prisons in disguise
in defiance of governments who feared the power of his pen; was
captured by pirates; quelled a riot single handed and more than earned
John Wesley’s tribute to him as ‘one of the greatest men in Europe’.
This account of his life and work is included as a reminder of how
one man, from unremarkable beginnings, could have such a remarkable
impact in a sphere characterized only by indifference. Sir Walter Scott
later wrote, ‘Without courage, there cannot be truth; and without truth
there can be no other virtue.’ Howard had the courage to put his
conviction into practice. He saw the pains of imprisonment and used
truth as the agent of change, not from any intellectual theory or
ideology but through a sense of compassion for other human beings. His
own story provides a fitting conclusion for this book.
Reliable facts about John Howard’s early life are hard to come by; his
birth, on 2 September 1726, is variously located at Enfield in Middlesex
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JOHN HOWARD: A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
and Hackney in East London. What follows are the most reliable facts
which his early biographies (John Aiken, 1792 and James Baldwin
Brown, 1823) provided and which have subsequently been checked and
accepted, as far as possible, from his own works and from later
accounts.
The Howard family background was solid, middle class and
prosperous. Howard’s father was a London merchant and small
businessman who specialized in upholstery and carpets and the family
also owned a small farm at Cardington in Bedfordshire, some 80 km
north of London.
John’s formal education began at the age of six, when he was
sent to the school of a Mr Worsley in Hertford. It continued at Mr
John Eames’s Moorfields Dissenting Academy in London, but it
seems that young Howard did not take readily to formal learning
and to the end of his life he remained only indifferently literate. His
published works were normally edited by a friend before being
submitted for printing. He did not proceed to university in his
seventeenth year but was instead apprenticed for £630 to the
London wholesale grocery firm of Newnham and Shipley, in
Watling Street. It was a large indenture payment and coming, as it
did, soon after his father’s death in March 1743, was probably
intended to secure a profitable mercantile future for him. It was
certainly a comfortable start; his allowance permitted him an
apartment, a body servant and two horses. However, he got out of
the commitment and at the age of 20 embarked on the first of many
journeys to Europe. It seems to have been an independent version
of the Grand Tour and was an early indication of the restless urge
to travel which he never lost. Howard later said that ‘my
continuing long…in any place lowers my spirits’, and he tried to
cure what was described as ‘a species of nervous fever and of a
general weakness of the whole system’ by visiting resorts such as
Bristol Hot Wells. It was a debilitating time and he felt he survived
it for two reasons—a ‘rigorous regime’, which included a vegetarian
diet, and the devoted nursing of his widowed landlady, Sarah
Lordore (or Lardeau) at his lodgings in Stoke Newington.
They married on 15 October 1753, but it proved to be a short-lived
union for she died only two years later. Shortly afterwards Howard left
Stoke Newington and moved back to central London, to St Pauls
Churchyard, where he owned several houses in the neighbourhood. His
reaction to his new situation was perhaps predictable—he decided to
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DICK WHITFIELD
travel again, both for interest and to reflect on his own future. Early in
1757 he sailed for Portugal, intending to view the results of Lisbon’s
great earthquake but his ship, the Hanover, was captured by a French
privateer and passengers and crew were all taken prisoner and held in
France, first at Brest and then at Morlaix.
John Howard became the spokesman for the group and was
eventually released on parole to return to England to negotiate the
exchange and release of his fellow-prisoners—a task he successfully
accomplished. There followed a rather more conventional period where
his activities seem to have differed little from the other young gentlemen
of his day; he studied scientific works on medicine and the natural
sciences and pursued a particular interest in taking thermometer
readings under varying conditions, including some from the craters of
Italian volcanoes. In 1756 he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society
and he continued his temperature recordings, contributing to its journal
on three occasions.
His second marriage was more conventional. His bride Henrietta
Leeds was a distant cousin, then aged 32. She came from an eminent
legal family and the wedding took place at Croxton, Cambridgeshire,
where her family had a home, on 2 May 1758. Perhaps it was this legal
background which encouraged Howard to enter into a formal
agreement with Henrietta which laid down that ‘to prevent altercations
about those little matters which he had observed to be the chief grounds
of uneasiness in families—he should always decide’. How much
Henrietta kept to the terms of the arrangement we do not know. The
couple returned to the Howard estate at Cardington in Bedfordshire at
first but moved for a time to Lymington on the Hampshire coast later,
for the sake of her health. Henrietta’s frail constitution could not
withstand the rigours of childbirth, however, and after seven years of
marriage she died soon after giving birth to their son, John.
The infant John was to become the disappointment of his father’s life.
Little is known for certain about his early upbringing or education
although we do know that John Howard was criticized for both
neglecting him (because of his many absences) and for imposing an
unduly repressive regime when he was at home. John, Junior, went to
school at Nottingham and—briefly—to the University of Edinburgh. It
was at St John’s College, Cambridge, which he entered in the summer
of 1784 that matters really came to a head, however. He was dismissed
for gross misconduct, which seems to have centred on drug taking and
homosexual activities. The following year, while Howard was on a tour
190
of prisons in Europe which was to last 14 months, his son became

psychotic. He was committed to a private asylum in Leicester, where he
remained until his death in 1799.
The seven years of his second marriage were a stable and satisfying
period for Howard and the time when he largely established himself as
a country gentleman. He became a model landlord, a horticulturalist (he
won a gold medal from the Royal Society for some successful
experiments with a variety of potatoes) and he began to put into
practice some of the notions of public service which he felt appropriate
to his station in life. He became the road supervisor for his parish and
oversaw the construction of a unique causeway road to Cardington; the
model cottages on his estate for industrious and sober tenants were
much admired and his considerable energy and interest in education
were put to good use locally.
Cardington parish at that time was a small agricultural community
of some 900 people, mostly concentrated in Cardington village or the
three surrounding hamlets. Most were labourers and were tenants of
either Howard or the lord of the manor, Samuel Whitbread. Howard,
who was becoming a country gentleman with some town property (as
opposed to his father, who would have seen himself as a London
merchant with a country house), set about enlarging and redecorating
his ‘country seat’. But it was the ability to become a socially
responsible landlord which gave him most satisfaction. Some two
dozen of his tenants were re-housed in new brick, thatched houses,
each with its own garden, and he was careful to look after their
employment, health and education needs in return for steady work,
church attendance and sober habits. By 1782 he was paying for 16
boys and 7 girls aged 4 to 11 to attend the local school, and
contributing money to build the local workhouse.
After his wife died, Howard again took to travelling; but
Cardington was now firmly established as his base and he had
sufficient esteem in the eyes of his neighbours to be appointed High
Sheriff of Bedforshire in 1773. So began the chain of events which
ensured that his name remains so widely known, two centuries later,
because with the title of High Sheriff came the responsibility for the
county gaol.
Most High Sheriffs regarded this responsibility as purely nominal,
impinging rarely and normally only when a new gaoler had to be found.
The gaoler was appointed, made his living as best as he could from
bribes, favours, anxious relatives and profits from the already meagre
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DICK WHITFIELD
food allocation—and was allowed to get on with it. Yet everyone knew
of the abuses which had grown, flourished and even became
institutionalized in this laissez-faire prison system. There were probably
around 5,000 prisoners on any one day in England at that time, spread
between almost 250 gaols, prisons and houses of detention. Up to 500
were in the largest establishment, Kings Bush Prison in London, but
most were in small town and provincial lock-ups in which only a
handful of prisoners were kept. Many of the smaller gaols formed the
rear of public houses with the publican doubling his duties with that of
gaoler. To avoid the window tax many were either devoid or severely
deficient in natural light.
That, in many ways, was the least of the problems. Among the
customs prevalent in gaols were those such as garnish, fotting or
chummage, which all gave the same message to newcomers—‘pay or
strip’. Those having no money were forced to give up their clothes and
sleep on the bare floor, often with fatal results. Prisoners were loaded
with irons, which made walking and sleeping painful or near
impossible; gaolers would, of course, grant dispensation for those who
could pay sufficient to have them removed. Howard, writing in 1775,
notes:
Convicts were generally robust young men who had been accustomed
to free diet, tolerable lodgings and rigorous exercise. On entering
Hereford prison they were ironed: thrust into close, offensive
dungeons, some of them without straw or bedding and remained two
thirds of the 24 hours utterly inactive. Ely Gaol was the property of
the Bishop and because of the insecurity of the old prison the gaoler
chained the victims down on their backs on the floor, across which
were several iron bars, with an iron collar with spikes about their
necks and a heavy iron bar over their legs.
Worst of all were the arbitrarily imposed ‘delivery’ or discharge fees

which often meant innocent people spending substantial periods in
prison (having been found not guilty) until hard-pressed relatives raised
the necessary cash for release and the gaoler was prepared to let them
go. The net result of a system which mixed young and old, debtors and
criminals, men and women, first offenders and old lags indiscriminately
was, inevitably, that prisoners were exploited, brutalized and deprived
of even the few rights that the law allowed them. In turn, prisoners
192
survived by exploiting and brutalizing their weaker fellows, thereby

reinforcing all the anti-social tendencies which had driven them there.
Howard probably knew some of this, even if vaguely, long before he
became High Sheriff. Most of his contemporaries would have shrugged
their shoulders and let it remain as part of the natural order of things.
Instead, Howard visited Bedford Gaol and, shocked by what he saw,
determined to do something about it. He was particularly disturbed by
the practice of detaining prisoners until their ‘board and lodging’ fees
had been paid to the gaoler and wondered why a salary could not be
paid to avoid the corruption inherent in the fee system. It was typical
of the thoroughness of his approach that he immediately decided to visit
sixteen gaols in nearby counties so that he could gauge the extent of the
evil, look for alternative solutions and make out a proper case for
reform.
It was a shocking experience and to the abuses of the gaolers was
added the deadly lottery of gaol fever and smallpox, pneumonia and
diphtheria. Of gaol fever, which we now know as typhus, Howard later
wrote:
From my own observations I was fully convinced that many more

were destroyed by it than were put to death by all the executions in
the kingdom. But the mischief is not confined to prisons— multitudes
catch the distemper by going to their relatives and acquaintances in
the gaols; many others from prisoners discharged; and not a few in
the courts of judicature…. Even if no mercy were due to the
prisoners, the gaol distemper is a national concern of no small
importance.
This was no understatement: the problem went back at least a century

to the ‘Black Assize’ at Oxford where ‘all who were present died in 40
hours; the Lord Chief Baron, the Sheriff and about 300 more’ (Pettifer
1939:17). In 1730, at the Somerset Assizes, the deadly fever similarly
affected judges, barristers’ clerks and prisoners until several hundred
were dead, and in 1750 there was a virulent outbreak at the Old Bailey.
Among those present at the trials, the Lord Mayor, two judges, an
alderman, an under-sheriff and fifty others, from prisoners to jury-men,
all perished.
Howard subscribed to the contemporary theory that the disease was
transmitted by vapours (it is, in fact, caught by man through the bites
of body lice) and well knew how much at risk he put himself each time
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DICK WHITFIELD
he entered the noxious cells. A handkerchief drenched in vinegar was

often all that could be done but he added, ‘I seldom enter an hospital
or prison before breakfast; in an offensive room I avoid drawing my
breath deeply; and on my return sometimes wash my mouth and
hands.’
The emphasis in Howard’s books on simple hygiene, on ventilation,
sanitation and the whitewashing of interior walls is hardly surprising.
Some biographers have commented on the excessive detail in which he
considers every part of the physical aspects of imprisonment—the air
supply and water and sewage arrangements, bathing, sterilization of
verminous clothing, beds, bedding and diet. Yet Howard saw, all too
often, that the effect of a prison sentence might be health so broken that
the ex-prisoner was unemployable.
There were other issues, too. ‘In some gaols you see’, wrote Howard,
‘boys of twelve or fourteen eagerly listening to the stories told by
practised and experienced criminals, of their adventures, successes,
stratagems and escapes.’ Howard not only proposed segregation by sex
and of hardened felons from the younger, more tractable ones; he
proposed day rooms, useful work and single cells. These were not the
ideals of a humane but impracticable observer— Howard pursued the
problem with unusual rigour and much to the amazement of many of his
friends.
Within a year he had given detailed and authoritative evidence to the
House of Commons and been instrumental in the passage of two bills
which abolished gaolers’ fees and enabled counties to pay for a proper
service; which allowed discharged defendants to be set at liberty in open
court; and which not only improved sanitation and health arrangements
but made it obligatory for justices to have a concern for the health of
prisoners. It was a startling achievement in such a short time. Howard
was not only thanked by Parliament for his humanity and zeal; he even
had copies of the Act printed at his own expense and distributed to all
gaol keepers.
In doing so, he probably realized how difficult the process of change
was likely to be. The new regulations were, at first, systematically
evaded by all those with vested interests and he recognized that to
pursue the path he had begun he was going to have to reinforce the need
for change again and again. During 1775 he continued prison visiting in
England and expanded his enquiries to the continent. Two years later his
most famous work, The State of the Prisons in England and Wales, with
preliminary observations and an account of some foreign prisons, was
194
published. It provides an extraordinarily careful and detailed picture

and records—factually and unemotionally—the abuses which
characterized the whole system.
Above all, he made sensible, measured recommendations for
improvement. As noted earlier, many of these concerned the design,
construction and physical requirements, but he had an equal amount
to say about the administrative aspects. Pressing for the abolition of
the pernicious fee system had been an obvious target but he also
pressed for liquor taps to be banned and the sale of drink to inmates
to be closely regulated; for the gaolers to be resident at the gaol
instead of offering only minimal supervision if they lived away from it;
for the provision of chaplains and doctors and the detailing and
publishing of prison rules and regulations. He also advocated the
appointment of prison inspectors and made it clear that he expected
them to be as thorough as he himself had been, probing every corner
and speaking with every prisoner.
His great virtue was that he did not rely on a single visit, but
frequently returned after a period of years and was able to comment on
progress—or lack of it—and the way in which new legislation was being
implemented. He remained an extraordinarily influential one-man
pressure group and continued to give evidence on prison conditions to
the House of Commons.
Howard had to deal with criticism, too. The usual views were
advanced—that he would make prison too ‘soft’ and too attractive; that
treating lawbreakers well would encourage more crime and that
prisoners were undeserving and irredeemable, anyway. He met these full
on. He was adamant that his proposals would not destroy the deterrent
value of prisons; on the contrary, the prohibition of all ‘riotous
amusement’ would ensure that they were ‘sufficiently irksome and
disagreeable, especially to the idle and profligate’. His statement on the
handling of prisoners is worth quoting in full:
The notion that convicts are ungovernable is certainly erroneous.

There is a mode of managing some of the most desperate, with ease
to yourself, and advantage to them. Many of them are shrewd and
sensible; manage them with calmness, yet with steadiness; show them
that you have humanity, that you aim to make them useful members
of society; let them see and hear the rules and orders of the prison,
and be convinced that they are not defrauded in their provisions and
clothes by contractors or gaolers; when they are sick, let them be
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DICK WHITFIELD
treated with tenderness. Such conduct would prevent mutiny in

prisons and attempts to escape; which I am fully persuaded are often
owing to prisoners being made desperate, by the inhumanity and ill-
usage of their keepers.
Howard practised what he preached. During one of his European

tours he arrived at a prison in the Savoy where a full-scale riot was in
progress and two warders had already been killed. Despite vehement
advice to stay out, he insisted on entering the prison on his own, where
the calmness and mildness of his approach enabled negotiations to
begin. He listened to grievances, gave some measured advice of his
own and enabled a savage dispute to be settled by both sides with
dignity.
Howard’s reputation in Europe was, if anything, more influential
than at home. He visited prisons in France, Holland, Austria, Prussia,
Denmark, Sweden and Russia—but it took time to establish his
authority and certainly his relationships with administrators and
staff were often initially imbued with deep suspicion or outright
opposition.
He had to use subterfuge and bluff on many occasions, and was
not above resorting to disguise. He sometimes smuggled in a small
set of balance scales in order to be able to weigh the prisoners’
rations when he discovered how much the system was open to abuse;
he was also quite capable of openly exploiting the rules, if needed.
Refused admission to French prisons, he discovered an ancient
regulation which permitted entry to those giving alms to the
prisoners, so promptly made use of it. In fact, only three significant
prisons remained unvisited by Howard: the Bastille, the Prison of the
Inquisition in Rome and the Doge’s Prison in Venice. Elsewhere, his
reputation and his persistence opened all gates, even in Tsarist
Russia.
The State of the Prisons went through four editions as Howard’s
travels and experience grew and a second book, An Account of the
Principal Lazarettos in Europe, reflected his later interest in military
hospitals, lazarettos for the sick, and ways of combating the plague. He
was very much involved in the process of publication as this account
makes clear:
Lodgings were taken near to the printers and no journeyman printer

could have worked harder than Howard himself did. He rose every
196
morning at two, and worked at the correction of proofs till seven,

when he breakfasted. Punctually at eight he repaired to the printing-
office and remained there until the workmen went to dinner at one,
when he returned to his lodgings and, putting some bread and raisins,
or other dried fruit in his pocket, generally took a walk in the
outskirts of the town during their absence, eating, as he walked
along, his hermit fare, which, with a glass of water on his return, was
the only dinner he took….
When he had returned to the printing-office, he generally remained
there until the men left work and then repaired to Mr. Aiken’s house,
to go through with him any sheets which might have been composed
during the day; or, if there were nothing on which he wished to
consult him, would spend an hour with some other friend, or return
to his lodgings, where he took his tea or coffee, in lieu of supper; and
at his usual hour retired to bed.
(Gibson 1901)
It was a spartan regime. Howard himself told an interviewer in 1789

that his daily diet consisted of ‘two penny rolls with butter or sweet-
meats, one pint of milk, five or six cups of green tea and at bedtime
a roasted apple’. Although tolerant of the religious beliefs of others,
his belief in the work ethic and his intolerance of alcohol made him
insist on a stern regime for others. There is a record of a severe
lecture he delivered to Capuchin monks in Prague whom he found
were living far more expansively than his own abstemious style
would permit.
The cost of his travels and his books (many of which were distributed
free or sold at a subsidized price) was heavy. His annual income when
he died was £496, which may seem a fortune compared with the £20
earned annually by a farm labourer but was modest compared with that
of most country gentlemen. His son’s incarceration at the Belle Grove
Asylum cost £200 per year and by the 1780s he was having to dispose
of properties in London and Middlesex in order to pay for his European
journeys. For the final tour he even borrowed £1,000, interest free, from
his friend and neighbour, Samuel Whitbread. In all, between 1773 and
1790, he is reckoned to have spent £30,000 of his own money and to
have devoted a third of his time to his crusade to record and improve
prison conditions. This short, thin, sallow man went quietly and
doggedly about his business; observant, methodical, fired by religious
enthusiasm and a passionate conviction until his message was too
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DICK WHITFIELD
insistent to be denied. He believed in self-reformation, a voluntary

rather than a coercive process, and wrote:
Our present laws are certainly too sanguinary, and are therefore ill
executed; which last circumstance, by encouraging offenders to hope
that they may escape punishment, even after conviction, greatly tends
to increase the number of crimes. Yet many are brought to a
premature end, who might have been made useful to the state.
I the more earnestly embarked in the scheme of erecting
penitentiary-houses from seeing cartloads of our fellow creatures
carried to execution; [many of whom] I was fully persuaded might,
by regular, steady discipline in a penitentiary house have been
rendered useful members of society; and above all from the pleasing
hope that such a plan might be the means of promoting salvation of
some individuals—of which, every instance is, according to the
unerring word of truth, a more important object than the gaining of
the whole world.
Howard saw many of the practices he wanted to introduce already

being used in Europe. In Holland, he reported that ‘there are so many
rooms, that each prisoner is kept separate’; in Switzerland felons had a
room to themselves ‘that they might not tutor one another’. He added:
to the penitentiary-houses I should wish that none but old, hardened

offenders, and those who have…forfeited their lives by robbery,
housebreaking and similar crimes, should be committed; or, in short
those criminals who are to be confined for a long term, or for life.
Holland was the country that impressed him most:
I leave this country with regret as it affords a large field for

information on the important subject I have in view. I know not
which to admire most—the neatness and cleanliness appearing in
prisons, the industry and regular conduct of the prisoners, or the
humanity and attention of the magistrates and regents.
Howard’s influence as a kind of unofficial gadfly and inspector of

prisons was significant; his parliamentary and legislative contribution
more so, although in retrospect there seem to have been missed
opportunities and errors. He was at least partly associated with the
198
decision to introduce ‘hard labour’ into prisons, but far from providing
regular, steady discipline and useful work it became drudgery of the
hardest and most servile kind, a hated example of the additional pains
of imprisonment. And he advised Parliament, when a House of
Commons committee was enquiring into the provisional continuance of
the prison hulks system in 1778, that conditions had improved since his
earlier criticisms and that he would support continued use of the hulks
until transportation could be resumed. Considering the wretchedness for
which these floating prisons later became infamous it was an unhappy
endorsement and one can only assume that his short-term view of a
particular problem was allowed to obscure his longer term aims.
Perhaps the best judgement comes from one of his contemporaries,
Burke, in a speech at Bristol:
he visited all Europe—not to survey the sumptousness of palaces or

the stateliness of temples; but to dive into the depths of
dungeons…to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain, to take the
gauge and dimensions of misery, depression and contempt; to
remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the
forsaken and to compare and collate the distresses of all men in all
countries. His plan is original; it is as full of genius as it is of
humanity. It was a voyage of discovery, a circumnavigation of
charity. Already the benefit of his labour is felt more or less in every
country. I hope he will anticipate his final reward by seeing all its
effects fully realized in his own.
(Stoughton 1884)
Apart from prisons, Howard’s abiding interest was in the

prevention and treatment of contagious diseases and his later visits to
hospitals and lazarettos (port-side institutions where suspect goods
and personnel could be quarantined) were just as important to him as
his continuing battle against gaol fever. He had no formal medical
training but had physicians as close friends, carried a medical kit on
his travels and actually prescribed treatment on occasions. His work in
this area won him honorary membership of the London Medical
Society.
Perhaps inevitably, he eventually contracted typhus at Kherson, in the
Crimea, in January 1790 and was dead within a few days. He was
touring Russia and Eastern Europe in search of new material and had
already accumulated notes on forty-one prisons and hospitals. Such was
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DICK WHITFIELD
his reputation that 2,000 people attended his funeral in Russia and one
of the first statues in St Paul’s Cathedral in London was not of a
sovereign, statesman or saint—but a simple, teetotal, vegetarian
traveller who, as the inscription notes:
Had the fortune to be honoured whilst living

In the manner which his virtues deserved;
He received the thanks
Of both houses of the British and Irish parliaments
For his eminent services rendered to his country
And to mankind.
Our national prisons and hospitals,
Improved upon the suggestions of his Wisdom
Bear testimony to the solidity of his judgement
And to the estimation in which he was held
In every part of the Civilised World
Which he traversed to reduce the sum of
Human Misery.
All of this is a world removed from Howard’s own wishes. ‘Lay me

quietly in the earth’, he requested, ‘…no monument to mark where I am
laid. Place a sundial over my grave and let me be forgotten.’
His work has ensured a different fate.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Howard’s own major work, The State of the Prisons in England and
Wales, was published in Warrington, Lancashire, by William Eyres in
1777, 1780 and 1784 and his Account of the Principal Lazarettos in
Europe by the same publisher in 1789. A second edition of the latter
work was published posthumously in London in 1791, as was a fourth
edition of The State of the Prisons a year later. Subsequent editions have
included the famous Everyman’s edition (J.M.Dent, London, 1929) and
the splendid Patterson, Smith reprint of the 2nd edn (Montclair, New
Jersey, 1973, 2 vols), from which quotations are made in this chapter.
Books on Howard and his work are varied and considerable in
number. A full bibliography by Leona Baumgarter was published by the
Johns Hopkins Press (Baltimore, 1939) under the title: John Howard
(1726–1790), Hospital and Prison Reformer: A Bibliography.
200
Some important works on Howard are:
Aiken, Dr J. (1792) A view of the character and public services of the late John
Howard, London: J.Johnson.
Brown, J.B. (1823) Memoirs of the Public and Private Life of John Howard, the
Philanthropist, London: Underwood.
Dixon, H. (1849) John Howard and the Prison World of Europe, London:
Jackson & Walford.
Freeman, J. (ed.) (1978) Prisons Past and Future, London: Heinemann.
Gibson, C.S. (1901) John Howard, London: Methuen & Co.
Howard, D.L. (1958) John Howard: Prison Reformer, London: Christopher
Johnson.
Pettifer, E.W. (1939) Punishments of Former Days, Bradford: Cleggs.
Southwood, M. (1958) John Howard: Prison Reformer, London: Independent
Press.
Stoughton, J. (1884) Howard the Philanthropist and his Friends, London.
201
NAME INDEX
Alexander, Daniel 13–14 Howard, John 1–2, 3, 10, 115; on

Anderson, Erik 7 administration 195; An Account
of the Principal Lazarettos in
Barse, Sheela 51 Europe 196–7; on alcohol 178–
Baxi, U. 35, 53 n.10 9; biography 188–200; on
Beto, G.J. 173–4, 176–8, 181–3, classification 177–8; on
185 cleanliness 13, 182, 194; as
Bhagwati, Justice 35–6, 51 country gentleman 191, 197;
Borge, Tomas 126, 127 criticisms 195; death and funeral
Breytenbach, Breyten 85 n.3 199–200; on differentiation 194;
Brockway, Fenner 3–4 early life and education 188–9;
Brydensholt, H.H. 8 in Europe 196, 197–8; evaluation
Burke, Edmund 1, 199 198–9; on health and disease 13,
Butler, R.A., and prison building 5 193–4, 199; as High Sheriff of
Bedfordshire 191–3; marriages
Chilad, B.S. 51 189–91; and Netherlands prison
Churchill, Winston 2 system 6, 90, 198; on
Coornhert, D.V. 88–9 overcrowding 183; on prison
discipline 176; proposals for
national penitentiary 5; quoted 1,
Datir, R.N. 34, 48, 53 n.10 69, 84; on staff 3, 174, 175–6,
Dhagamwar, V. 53 n. 14 185, 186; The State of the
Di Julio, J.J. 174 Prisons 69, 90, 170, 172, 186,
Downes, David 6, 9–10 188, 194–6; visits Maidstone
Prison 13, 186; on work 179–81
Ekland-Olson, S. 174 Howard, John Jr 190–1, 197
Ellis, O.B. 173–4, 176–7, 180–2, Hurd, Douglas 16
185
Estelle, 178, 184–5 Iyer, Krishna 51
Geurts, A.C. 98 Jenkins, Michael 7–8

Gibson, C.S. 196–7 Jester, Beauford 173
Gregory-Smith, Graham 24
Kelk, C. 98, 99
Hewlings, David 7 Khan, M.Z. 51
202
NAME INDEX
Krumsiek, Herr 157 Peters, A.A.G. 98

Kumar, S. 50–1
Richardson, G. 37
Lewin, Hugh 85 n.3 Roberton, Alan 7
Martin, S.J. 174 Schama, Simon 89, 93

Mathieson, Thomas 4 Schoen, Ken 8
Mihalik, J. 85 n.3 Scott, Sir Walter 188
Miller, Jerome 3, 8 Simmons, Lee 173
Mulla, A.N. 37, 51 Singh, I.J. 50
Murray, Ken 7 Sinha, S. 40
Spieghel, 89
Nayar, Kuldip 32–3, 50–1 Srivastava, S.P. 50
Ortega, Daniel 127 Theroux, P. 23

Tulkens, Hans 8
Paterson, Alexander 175, 185 Tyler, M. 50–1
Perrie, Bill 7, 8
Ward, D.A. 2
Wood, Frank 7
203
SUBJECT INDEX
NOTE
Page references in italics indicate tables.
ablution facilities, South Africa 76 Breda Remand Prison 104–15;

abolition of prison system, 3–4 buildings 105–7, 106, 115; daily
access to prisons 41, 69–70, 150, routine 112–14; food 114;
152 population 108; staffing 110–11;
accountability 25, 57, 173 treatment regime 109–12; work
administration: Howard on 195; 111–12
Netherlands 102 ‘building tender’ system 182, 185
after-care: India 40, 50, 51; Sweden buildings: new 3, 5–6, 17, 96, 120,
135, 146 134–6; unsuitable 39, 51, 58,
age, prisoner: India 34, 35, 42; 61, 62, 93, 103
Netherlands 108; W.Germany bureaucracy: India 36; South Africa
157 72
AIDS: Netherlands 103, 109; South
Africa 83; W.Germany 162 canteen: England and Wales 22, 23–
aims, prison 56, 105, 123–4 4; Netherlands 113
alcohol abuse: England and Wales capacity, prison 4, 6, 18, 92, 95,
179; illegal brewing 27; 100, 109; and internal reform 8–9
Netherlands 109, 111; Catholic Institute for International
W.Germany 161 Relations 123, 127
All-India Committee on Jail cell, water 89–90
Reforms 31–2, 34–5, 37–8, 51–2 cells: communal 42–3, 75–7, 79,
Americas Watch 121, 126, 128, 129 123; isolation 90; open 63–4,
amnesties: Nicaragua 121, 125, 67, 154, 159; punishment 81,
127; Poland 57–8, 61 99; shared 43, 61, 65, 101, 154;
Amnesty International 50 single 42, 43, 48, 80, 83, 100–1
apathy, tendency towards 3 censorship 81, 115
architecture, new 3, 96 central prisons, India 41–5
arts and crafts, access to 22, 112, 161 chains, abolition 99
assembly, right of 97, 111 children see juveniles
association, right of 97, 111 classification see differentiation
authoritarianism 2, 8 cleanliness: India 48; Mexico 153,
154; Nicaragua 123; South
bail, India 37 Africa 76, 77, 84; Sweden 136,
bail hostels 14 137; USA 173, 174, 182;
Bail Information Schemes 10, 14 W.Germany 164
Barlinnie Prison, special unit 7 closed prisons 18, 133–5, 157
beds: India 37, 42–3; Mexico 154; clothes: prison 17, 65, 80, 84, 99;
South Africa 76, 84 prisoners’ own 63, 65, 111
beliefs, religious: Netherlands 108, 111 Commissioner of Prisons, South
body searches 104, 108, 140, 175 Africa 72
204
SUBJECT INDEX
Community Service order 92, 93 discipline: India 39, 40, 42, 48;
commutations, Nicaragua 122 Netherlands 89–90, 98, 99, 105,
compensation 99 115; Poland 64; Sweden 141;
complaints procedures 98–9, 110, USA 176; W.Germany 162
114, 115, 115, 163, 164 discrimination: among prisoners 44–
conditions: as described by Howard 5; racial 71, 74, 84, 103
192–4; England and Wales 17; dispersal units 18
India 37–8, 41–5, 48–9, 52; and drama 124
internal reform 9; and new drug abuse: and crime 95, 132;
buildings 6; Poland 57, 62, 67; England and Wales 27–8;
South Africa 84 Netherlands 95, 102, 103, 108,
condoms, provision 109 109, 111; Poland 63–4, 65; Sweden
contact with outside world 49, 99, 134, 137, 139, 140, 143–5, USA
100 see also families, contact 178–9; W.Germany 161, 162
with
contamination, criminal 90, 101 education: England and Wales 23,
control, social: Netherlands 92; 24, 28; India 40, 47; Mexico
South Africa 70, 71, 85 153–4, 155; Netherlands 100,
convict overseers, India 45, 46 110, 111, 112; Nicaragua 122,
convict warders, India 39, 45 124, 129; Poland 60, 65, 66–7;
corporal punishment: Netherlands by prisoners 124; South Africa
88–9; South Africa 81 77, 79; Sweden 134, 136, 138–9;
corruption: police 30, 36–7; prisoner W.Germany 158–60, 164–5 see
103, 109; staff 38, 39 also vocational training
costs per prisoner 73, 111 England and Wales: lifers 19–20, 24,
counselling: Netherlands 100, 107, 26; prison building 5, 17; prison
109–11; W.Germany 161, 167 population 4–5, 14–16, 15, 16
creativity, encouragement 124 see also Maidstone Prison
crime rates, Netherlands 91–2, 95 escapes 85, 102, 115, 141, 152, 173
crisis, prison 14, 60, 92 ethnic minorities: disproportionate
Crown Prosecution Service 10 numbers in prison 15; and prison
cultures, conflict 170 food 22–3, 161
custody, protective 33 exercise: availability, England and
Wales 20; India 42; Netherlands
‘dacoits’ 31 112, 114; South Africa 80–1;
dance 124 Sweden 136; W.Germany 160–1,
death penalty, abolition 120 162 see also recreation
death row, USA 171, 175 expansion of existing prisons 17
deaths in gaol 40 expediency policy, Netherlands 91
debt in prison 18, 143–4 expenditure: England and Wales 17–
depersonalization 111, 156 18; India 37, 39, 49–50, 51–2;
‘depth’ of imprisonment 6 Netherlands 104; new building 6;
detention: day 101; for interrogation Nicaragua 123
71–2; Nicaragua 127–8; pre-trial expression, free 97
see remand; preventive 31, 71–2;
of reluctant informers 71; without families, contact with 63, 66, 125,
trial 71–2; of witnesses 71 128, 129, 134, 145, 161
‘detenus’, India 31, 42, 50, 52 farms, prison 72, 73–85, 121, 125,
diet: reduced 81; spare 81; special 129, 152–3
22–3, 114, 161 see also food Feltham Youth Custody Centre,
differentiation: England and Wales rebuilding 3
13; Netherlands 90, 101–2, 104, Fick Commission 1951, Netherlands
109; Sweden 145; USA 177–8 100–1
director, prison 102–3
205
SUBJECT INDEX
finance see expenditure 75–6, 78, 83; social work 79–80;

fines: day-fine system 132–3; staffing 74, 83, 85; work 77–9,
England and Wales 16; 80
Netherlands 93–4; Sweden 132–3 Heroes y Martires de Nueva Guinea
fitness training 20, 112 Prison, Nicaragua 121, 122, 126
flogging 89 HIV infection 140, 161, 162
food: India 22, 28, 40, 43–4, 48–9; home leave see leave
Mexico 153; Netherlands 114; homosexuality: India 48; Poland 64;
Nicaragua 123; Poland 66; South Africa 83
reduction 81, 89, 99; South hospitals: England and Wales 18;
Africa 80, 84–5; Sweden 137; India 47; South Africa 77
USA 179; W.Germany 161, 162 Howard Association 4
force, threat 2 Howard League for Penal Reform,
France, prison building 5 formation 4
freedom, religious 97, 111 Huntsville Unit, Texas, buildings 170
‘Fresh Start’ scheme 6, 25 Hussainara Khatoon v. Bihar 1979
furlough, India 48 33, 34–5, 36, 51
gangs, prison, South Africa 83, 84, 85 illiteracy 34, 42, 49, 82, 108, 154
Geldern Prison: buildings 157; daily imprisonment: frequency of use 130,
routine 160; discipline 162; 131; pre-trial see remand;
education 158; food 161, 162; rigorous 39, 45, 47; simple 45,
inmate council 164; inmate 53 n.9; weekend 101
newspaper 156, 159, 164; leisure India: daily routine 45; lifers 34, 42,
time 160–1; medical services 163, 48; prison population 31–40, 35,
166; staff 164, 165–6, 168; 42; prison system 30–1; staff 42
visiting 161; vocational training Indian Lunacy Act 1912 32, 53 n.4
158–9, 166; work 159–60 Indian Penal Code 1860 52
Germany, Federal Republic: prison industrial relations 25
population 9, 157; prison system informers 18–19, 71
157, 166–7, see also Geldern inmate councils 144, 164
Prison inspection: Britain 17; Howard on
Geurrero Centre for Rehabilitation: 195, 198; India 39, 40, 52;
accommodation 154; armed Nicaragua 128; South Africa 76
guards 151–2; buildings 151; Inter-American Commission on
daily routine 153; education 153– Human Rights 120, 126, 129
4, 155; food 153; freedom of interrogation: Nicaragua 128; South
movement 152; recreation 153, Africa 71–2
155; women prisoners 153; work isolation, effects 81–2, 157 see also
153, 154 solitary confinement
governors, contribution 7, 152
judge, role of 102
habeas corpus, right of 120 Juvenile Justice Act 1986, India 32–3
handcuffs, as punishment 48 juveniles: and anti-penal move 9;
health care see medical services England and Wales 16; India 32–
Helderstroom Prison 69, 73–85; 3, 51; South Africa 74; USA 177
conditions 84–5; daily routine
77–8, 80–1; education 77, 79; law and prison, South Africa 69–70,
food 80, 84–5; gangs 83, 84, 85; 85 n.3
isolation 81–2; Maximum leasing of prisons 171–2, 174
Security Prison 73–4, 75–6, 78–9,
80–1; medical services 79;
Medium Security Prison 73–4,
206
SUBJECT INDEX
leave: India 48, 49; Netherlands 97, Mulla Committee see All-India
99, 100, 104; Nicaragua 121–2, Committee on Jail Reforms
125; Poland 64; Sweden 134,
140; W.Germany 157, 163 National Guardsmen, Nicaragua
leisure see recreation 121–3, 125, 127, 128–9
letters: India 48, 49; Netherlands National Police Commission, India 34
98, 99, 100; South Africa 81–2; national prisons 133, 145
Sweden 139 neighbourhood prisons 133–5
library, access to 47, 77, 82, 100, Netherlands: prison organization 96–
112, 161 104; prison population 9, 90–1,
life, quality of 17, 24, 35 91, 103, 104, 108; prison system
literacy programmes 49, 79, 112 88–90, 93–6; staffing 96, 102,
local prisons 17–18, 28 110–11; ‘waiting list’ system 5
Long Lartin Prison, improved see also Breda Remand Prison
conditions 8 newspapers, access to 65–6, 81–2
lunatics, criminal, India 31–2, 38 Nicaragua: Directorate General of
lunatics, non-criminal, India 31–2 State Security 128; prison
buildings 120–1, 128–9; prison
Macauley, Lord Thomas Babington population 121; prison system
38–9 119–23, 125, 129; State of
Maidstone Prison: canteen system Emergency 120, 128 see also
23–4; daily routine 20; education Matagalpa Prison
23, 24; food 22, 28; life normality principle 134
sentences 19–20, 24, 26; Nyköping Prison: buildings 135–6;
prisoners’ views 23; Probation criticisms 144–6; daily routine
Service 25, 26–7; Psychology 137–8; discipline 141; education
Department 19, 24, 25–6; 138–9; inmate council 144;
rebuilding 13–14; security population 137; prisoners’ views
category 18, 28; Segregation Unit 143–4; recreation 139–40; staff
18; staff 25–6; as training prison 136, 141–3, 146–7; use of drugs
17–18, 19, 28; visited by Howard 140; work 138–9, 144
13; vocational training 21–2, 23;
Vulnerable Prisoner Units 18–19; offenders: habitual 42; unintentional
work 20–1, 22 63
management: centralization 102–3, officers: contribution 7, 110–11,
145; India 38, 39; Netherlands 141–3; industrial relations 25
102–3, 110; Poland 60 open prisons 18, 19, 96, 115, 122,
marriage, right to 97 125, 129, 133, 157; half-open
Matagalpa Prison: education 124; 61, 62, 96, 115, 121–2, 125, 129
food 123; philosophy 129; overcrowding 5; England and Wales
population 123; work 125 17–18; Netherlands 100, 103;
mechanism of system 8 Nicaragua 120–1, 128–9; Poland
medical services: India 40, 47; 57, 58; South Africa 73, 75–6,
Poland 66; South Africa 77, 79; 84–5, USA 183
Sweden 136; W.Germany 163,
167–8 see also psychology ‘panchayat’ system 45
services panopticon model 95, 105, 115
Mexico: legal system 150–1; work pardons, Nicaragua 122, 127
153, 154 see also Geurrero parole: England and Wales 26–7;
Centre for Rehabilitation India 40, 48; South Africa 82
Minnesota Sentencing Guidelines passes: Nicaragua 125; Poland 64
Commission 6, 10 payment see wages
mosque, provision 23
207
SUBJECT INDEX
Penal Code: India 38–9; Mexico Poland 58; and shared casework
150; Netherlands 93 25, 26–7; Sweden 146; and youth
Penal Practice in a Changing Society, sentencing 15
White Paper 1959 5 property offenders, India 34
penal theory: Netherlands 88–9; protests, Poland 57
Nicaragua 119 proximity principle 134, 137
people, effects on systems 172–3, psychology services 19, 24, 25–6,
178, 185, 186 63; South Africa 79; W.Germany
planning, long-term 186 163. 166
Poland: prison population 4, 57–3, Public Interest Discontinuance
59, 61, 62–3; prison system 56– project 10
60 see also Sluzewiec Prison punishment, and rehabilitation 47
police, corruption 36–7
police cells, prisoners held in 17, 70, radio, access to 65, 82, 100, 160
72 rasping house, Netherlands 88–9, 111
policy, repressive 33, 38–9, 61–2, recidivism: Mexico 154; Nicaragua
103–4, 126 see also sentencing 122, 125, 129; South Africa 82;
policy Sweden 135, 143
population, prison: changes in 103, recreation: India 47; Mexico 153,
108; decline 7, 9–10, 58–9, 63, 155; Netherlands 93, 100, 104,
66–7, 157; expansion 4–6, 14– 110–12, 114; Nicaragua 129;
15, 15, 42, 57, 61–2, 85; and Poland 58, 65; South Africa 77,
internal reform 8–9; and racial 79, 80; Sweden 136, 139; USA
classification 71 see also under 185; W.Germany 160–1
individual countries Red Cross, International Committee
possessions, personal 42, 49, 154 122–3, 128
poverty, and conviction 36–7 reductionism 4
pressure groups 9, 50, 52 reform, criminal justice 3–4, 10
Prison Act 1894, India 39, 52 reform, prison 3–4; India 30, 38–9,
Prison Decree-Law, Netherlands 99, 49–52; internal 7–10, 57, 62,
103 146–7; limited extent 2–3, 6;
Prison Principles Act, Netherlands negative 4; Nicaragua 119;
96–7, 98–100, 105 opposition to new building 5;
Prison Reform League 4 Poland 57, 59, 63–4; positive 4;
Prison Treatment Act 1974, Sweden pressure groups 9, 50, 52; and
141 reduction of population 6–7; USA
prisoners: foreign 108, 114, 142, 173–7, 185–6; W.Germany 157
158; inmate council 144, 164; refurbishment 17
and internal reform 8; legal status regime maintenance 71
97–9; mentally disturbed 102, rehabilitation 111, 114; England and
103, 108, 109 Wales 24; India 39, 40, 46–7, 49;
prisoners, political: India 31; Mexico 151, 152, 153–4, 155;
Nicaragua 126; South Africa 82 Nicaragua 122, 127, 129; South
prisoners’ committee, Netherlands 114 Africa 78, 85; Sweden 135
Prisons Act 1959, South Africa 69– release, conditional: Netherlands 94;
70, 74 Sweden 132 release, early: India
privacy: Netherlands 97, 101; South 48; Netherlands 90, 94, 97
Africa 76, 81, 84; W.Germany 156 religion, provision of places of
privilege system: Nicaragua 121–2; worship 23, 167
South Africa 81, 84 remand prisoners: increased numbers
probation service: England and 14–15; India 31, 32–7, 41–2, 45;
Wales 10, 14, 15, 25, 26–7; Mexico 151; Netherlands 92, 95,
Netherlands 91, 111, 112, 113;
208
SUBJECT INDEX
96–7, 104–5, 108 see also Breda sexual offenders 18, 19

Remand Prison slave system, India 32–3
remission: India 48; Mexico 153; sleep deprivation 128
South Africa 82 Sluzewiec Prison 60–7; daily routine
reparation, opportunities 21 65–6; drug addict unit 63–4, 65;
research, paucity 50, 85 n.3 education 65, 66–7; food 66;
resocialization: Netherlands 99–101, medical services 66; population
104, 105, 110–11; Poland 58–9; 61, 62–3; psychology service 63;
W.Germany 165, 168 staffing 66–7; treatment of
respect, mutual 7 prisoners 64–5; visiting 64, 66;
responsibility for prisons, India 52 work 61–3, 64, 65, 67
restrictions, minimal 96–7 social adjustment centres, Poland 58
rights, prisoners 8; India 37; Mexico social skills training 23, 24, 112,
150; Netherlands 97–9, 111; 136, 138, 157
Nicaragua 125–7; Poland 62; social workers: India 47; South
South Africa 85; USA 184 Africa 79–80; Sweden 146;
routine, prison 20, 45, 65–6, 77–8, W.Germany 163, 166–7
80–1, 112–14, 137–8, 153, 160 sodomy: India 48; South Africa 83
Ruiz v. Estelle 184–6 solitary confinement: India 48;
rules and systems 185–6 Netherlands 90, 99, 100–1, 105,
rural peoples, disproportionate 114, 115; South Africa 81;
numbers in prison 30, 34, 48 W.Germany 159, 162
Somocistas 121, 125, 127
sanitation: England and Wales 23; South Africa: classification of
India 37–8, 39, 43, 48; Mexico prisoners 71, 82; prison
154; Netherlands 107; Poland 58, population 4, 70–1, 73–5, 85;
61, 63; South Africa 76 prison system 72–3; State of
Scotland, prison population 5 Emergency 71–2, 74 see also
security: measures 93, 105, 107–8; Helderstroom Prison
prison categories 18, 28, 41, 72, space allowance: Poland 59, 61;
75, 133 South Africa 75, 76, 84–5
security offenders, Nicaragua 120, 121 staff: attitudes 25, 83–4; corruption
segregation, racial 74, 83, 85 38, 39; educational 60, 66;
segregation units 18 effects of overcrowding 5; and
selection, Netherlands 101, 102 improved conditions 7–9, 66–7;
self-expression, encouragement 124 security 60, 66–7; shortages 17,
self-injury 64, 162–3 57, 60, 66–7, 73, 103;
self-sufficiency of prisons 78, 173, staff:prisoner ratios 42, 73, 74,
174, 181 96, 111, 185; training 38, 39,
sentences: alternatives 10, 15–16, 52, 110, 175–6; treatment of
92, 93, 103; consecutive 82; life prisoners 64–5, 66–7, 84, 104,
19–20, 24, 26, 34, 42, 48, 94, 109–12, 141–3, 164, 165–6, 176,
131–2, 157; long 15, 19–20, 28, 185; wage levels 25, 60, 174–5,
42, 44, 49, 73, 95, 115; 176 see also governors; officers;
maximum 94; medium 15; reform, prison, internal; training
minimum 94; short 15, 18, 34, statistics, availability 16, 33–4, 42,
41–2, 45, 73, 91, 131–2; 71–2, 135
suspended 94 status, legal 97–9
sentencing policy: England and Students’ Penitentiary Club, Poland 57
Wales 15, 28; and internal reform sub-gaols, India 34
9–10; Netherlands 90–4; Poland suicide 163
58; South Africa 71; United Sunil Batra case 51
States 6, 10
209
SUBJECT INDEX
supervisory commission, Netherlands Utrecht University Law Faculty,

98, 114, 115 influence 9, 98
surveillance 96, 125
Sweden: imprisonable offences 132– Vera Institute of Justice 10
3; prison population 130, 131–2, videos, Netherlands 100, 114
131; prison system 130–5; violence: against prisoners 126, 141,
staffing 136, 141–3; work 134 176; amongst prisoners 18, 103,
see also Nyköping Prison 141, 163, 176, 182
synagogue, provision 23 visits: conjugal 82, 125, 139, 161–2;
contact 82; England and Wales
tagging, electronic 14 28; India 41, 48, 49; by lawyer
‘team’ system, India 45, 46 114, 128; Mexico 155;
telephones, access to 23, 64, 97, 99, Netherlands 97, 98, 99, 100,
100, 110, 136 104, 110, 114; Nicaragua 121–2,
television, in cells 65, 82, 100, 107, 125, 128, 129; Poland 64, 66; by
155 rehabilitation officer 114; South
Texas: history 169–70, 171; prison Africa 82; Sweden 139–40; by
population 170, 183 volunteers 167; W.Germany 161
Texas Department of Corrections: vocational training: England and
buildings 170–1; cleanliness 182; Wales 21–2, 23, 28; India 40, 46,
court control 184–5; 47, 49; Netherlands 100; Poland
differentiation 177–8; food 179; 65; Sweden 138, 144; USA 182
history 172–3; local attitudes to volunteers, contribution 167
prisons 182–3; modernization vote, right to 97
173–4; and prison population Vulnerable Prisoner Units 18–19
183; rules 176–7, 178; staff 173,
174–7, 185; work 179–82 wages: England and Wales 22; India
Tipitapa Prison, Nicaragua 121, 46–7; Netherlands 112; Poland
122, 126, 127, 129 59–60, 66; Sweden 139, 144;
top security prisons, control W.Germany 159
problems 8 water supply: England and Wales
torture: India 31, 39; Nicaragua 13; India 37, 39, 43
126, 128 weapons carried by staff 41, 77,
training, staff see staff, training 151–2, 165
training prisons 17, 18, 19, 158–60 welfare provision, India 40, 47, 49, 51
treatment regimes: Netherlands 104, women: in Mexico 153; in
109–12; Nicaragua 127–8; Poland Nicaragua 126; in prison staff
64–5, 66–7; South Africa 84 25, 142–3, 175; sentencing 58;
special prisons 105; in Sweden
‘undertrials’, India 31, 32–7, 41–2, 45 135, 137, 142–3, 145–6
uniforms: prisoner 99 see also work: England and Wales 20–1, 22,
clothes; staff 64, 141, 165 28; India 38, 40, 42, 45–7;
urine testing: Netherlands 93, 104, Mexico 153, 154; Netherlands
109; Sweden 139, 140, 142, 143; 88–9, 111; Nicaragua 121–2,
W.Germany 162 125, 129; outside prison 18, 61,
USA: leasing out of prisons 171–2, 62–3, 65, 67, 77–8, 80, 125,
174; prison building 5, 170–1; 134; outwork 63; in penal theory
prison population 4, 5–6, 170, 88; Poland 58–60, 61–4, 65, 67;
183–4; prison reform 53 n.14; South Africa 77–9; Sweden 138–
prison system 172–3 see also 9, 144; USA 179–82; W.Germany
Texas Department of Corrections 159
youths see juveniles
210

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THE STATE OF THE

EDITED BY DICK WHITFIELD

LONDON AND NEW YORK

List of figures and tables vii

1 MAIDSTONE PRISON, ENGLAND 13

2 THE INDIAN PRISON 30

3 THE SLUZEWIEC PRISON IN WARSAW, POLAND: A

4 HELDERSTROOM PRISON, SOUTH AFRICA 69

5 BREDA PRISON, HOLLAND: FROM WATER CELL TO

6 MATAGALPA PRISON, NICARAGUA 119

7 NYKÖPING CLOSED NEIGHBOURHOOD PRISON,

8 GEURRERO CENTRE FOR REHABILITATION,

9 GELDERN PRISON, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF

10 THE TEXAS DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS, USA 169

JOHN HOWARD: A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 188

Name index 202

Kevin Bales is Senior Lecturer in Policy Studies at the Polytechnic of

Monika Platek is an assistant professor at the Institute of Penal Law,

As to what is still wrong, I set down matter of fact without

Europe. These essays on prisons across the world follow Howard’s

We must not allow optimism or hope or benevolence in these matters

As associated reality is the regressive character of prison conditions.

THE PENAL TRINITY

circumstances capacity may act as a brake on population expansion.

from somehow being predetermined, are the consequence of action

REFORM FROM WITHIN

only two top security prisons to avoid serious control problems.

the prison system has a tendency to create more problems than it

Of crucial importance is an ‘unwritten contract’ between staff and

also endorse an openness and frankness about conditions within the

the roots of reductionism seem to drive not so much from a free-

Many efforts by practitioners to achieve criminal justice reform are

Rutherford, A. (1986) Growing Out of Crime, Harmondsworth: Penguin.

MAIDSTONE PRISON, ENGLAND

principle of Ipswich by Blackburn, Howard’s disciple’ (Melling

Table 1.1 Average daily prison population, England and Wales

hoped, to reduce what many see as an unnecessary and wasteful use

Table 1.2 Prisoners per 100,000 population on 1 September 1988

Source: NACRO (1990) Information Bulletin no. 25 (January), London:

Every year, the Home Office, as the government department

where short sentences may be served in their entirety); closed ‘training’

have settled into the routines imposed by a long sentence of

07.45 Cells unlocked

yet; the hope is to undertake a wide range of light assembly work on

minority groups in Kent wing, together with a mosque and

1 The availability of telephones came easily top of the list. At

He agreed that the prison had a long-standing reputation of having a

The springboard for these changes was ‘Fresh Start’, a concerted

to provide a service to other prisons in the area and the problems

Secretary introduced new guide-lines some years ago which severely

THE INDIAN PRISON

My starting-point was a search for details about ‘conditions in a typical

In the following pages, I shall first present a broad picture of the

population. (The Punjab Jail Manual (1975:345) even states

was to keep them in as long as possible, for without them the

While there is no evidence of such practices being widespread in the

categories omitted (not to mention possible undercounting in some of

Hundreds of them are dumb, simple persons, caught in the web of

Justice Bhagwati’s leading opinion burns with red-hot anger; the

Table 2.1 Selected characteristics of convicted persons in