If we want to stop crime, we have to talk to those committing it

Irish Examiner

a day ago

The latest figures on severe overcrowding in Irish prisons have prompted renewed calls for creative thinking, but here's an idea that rarely gets traction: we need to include prisoners in the discussion. How can we tackle crime if we don't listen to the people who commit it?
Thousands of books — and myriad articles — have been written about men in prison, but so very few are written by the men themselves. That is why What We're Made Of, a new book written by men in Mountjoy Prison, should make us sit up and take notice.
Written by a section of society that gets little support — and less empathy — it challenges, inspires and chips away at the kind of prejudice that leads many inmates to say they feel they have been sentenced twice; once by the judges and, on release, by the indelible stigma that locks them out of so much.
But this is not, in any way, a sentimental call to go soft on crime. Instead, it is a clear-eyed look at its root causes and an impassioned call to society to help break the cycle of poverty and violence that traps so many people within it.
'What We're Made Of' brings together an exceptional body of work created by men in Mountjoy as part of The Factory on the Royal Canal project, a year-long programme facilitated by Senator Lynn Ruane, pictures' and artist Grace Dyas. Picture: Gareth Chaney/Collins
As one prisoner writes: 'I am sorry to every person I have ever harmed. I wish I could take it back, I genuinely do. But I can't. I have to live with that shame for the rest of my life. My goal now is to stop the cycle. I want to share my experiences so that the next generation doesn't have to make the same mistakes.'
What We're Made Of, however, does more than simply share those experiences. It brings together an exceptional body of work created by men in Mountjoy as part of The Factory on the Royal Canal project, a year-long programme facilitated by Senator Lynn Ruane and artist Grace Dyas.
In that time, prisoners were encouraged to become writers, actors, set designers and directors. They wrote two original plays, Prison Rules and Pedro's Dream, which were staged in the prison for an invited audience of 150 decision-makers, politicians and advocates.
Taking inspiration from Augusto Boal, the Brazilian creator of Theatre of the Oppressed, the audience was invited to become 'spect-actors', that is, spectators who watch, listen and then take action. This is theatre as an agent of social change.
The audience was also asked a question which permeates What We're Made Of: What have you done to tackle the embedded structural inequalities that mean most, if not all, of the people in prison come from working-class backgrounds?
If that all sounds a little theoretical, it roars into vivid life when Pedro — the pen name chosen by all the contributors — takes the stage at the book's launch (by Ray D'Arcy) in the Museum of Literature Ireland (Moli).
Here's a sample of his powerful performance, which comes from the prologue to Prison Rules: 'Ask any 10-year-old child sitting in a so-called 'Deis' classroom what they would like to be when they are older. I am certain they won't say: homeless, drug-addicted, drug-dealer, alcoholic, prisoner, or dead before their time after falling through the cracks in our broken society. But too often this is the case… I believe there is a subtle oppression at play here, the soft bigotry of low expectations.'
Here's another thought-provoking snippet: 'As [actor and playwright] Emmet Kirwan so eloquently put it on the Late Late Show, it wasn't the people in tracksuits who bankrupted the country and caused untold misery, it was the people in business suits. White-collar crime and cronyism cost the exchequer millions a year but there are no white-collar criminals or politicians on my landing.'
A cell in Mountjoy Prison: Prisons condemn thousands of people to spend 'demoralising groundhog days' on the inside before being released with a stigma that can't be expunged.
And, finally, a thought experiment from the play's epilogue: Before returning to his 12x6 cell, Pedro asks us to imagine a hospital, a clean, state-of-the-art, publicly funded hospital that costs tens of millions of euro a year. There is, however, one big problem. For every 10 people it treats, seven come back with the same issue within a year.
It wouldn't be long before such an ineffective money-pit was closed down, but prisons — with those very same statistics — condemn thousands of people to spend 'demoralising groundhog days', to use another Pedro's evocative term, on the inside before being released with a stigma that can't be expunged.
Actor Neilí Conroy, playing the part of Ireland, gives a jolting performance that lays bare a truth that we don't want to face. It is so much easier to paint all prisoners as rule-breaking, drug-taking 'scum' and lock them up.
"Go into that cell now,' she says, 'I don't wanna look at you. I'm getting your father to build a high wall all around you.'
Then, from the back of the room — just behind me — a man stands up to challenge her. For one toe-curling moment, the assembled invitees think there is going to an awkward scene. And indeed there was a scene, a deeply moving one that was all part of the launch performance.
Except it is not a performance at all. As Pedro (a now-former prisoner) starts talking, it is crystal clear that we are, if not guilty, then responsible for perpetuating stereotypes and failing to look at the reasons people end up in jail.
The solution?: 'If I had help when I was a child… maybe I would not be here today… I ask you [Ireland] to let me help you help those who were in my position… so the next generation of broken children don't cause the pain that I have caused.
"Please don't wait till they are in prison to fix them. Let's work together to teach these young people about themselves.'
What We're Made Of provides a manual, one that is urgent now as Irish prisons, creaking at the seams, are forced to pack three or four people into cells designed for two.
As Pedro says: 'I am here as punishment, not for punishment.' It might not be a popular message but, as Pedro points out, the cycle of violence can end only if everyone is included: 'It takes many parts of society — the gardaí, the teachers and the State bodies — to perpetuate the cycle. It will take all of us to end it.'
Speaking of ends, there are no plans to rerun a project that prisoners and their families said gave them a kind of hope they had never felt before.
The draft budget for a new 19-24 month programme for 40 men is €110,000, says Senator Ruane. To put that in context, it costs almost €100,000 to keep one prisoner in jail for a year.
'The men are putting every penny from the book sales into a prospective new project with younger men. Their ambition is to create a meaningful legacy and give the younger men opportunities they didn't have,' she says.
Ask artist Grace Dyas what she hopes to do next and she'll tell you she wants to be sent back to prison. We might do all we can to help her get there.
What We're Made Of costs €20 and is available from Books Upstairs: booksupstairs.ie