A prisoner serving life writes: ‘Why not help us instead of punishing us?'
The Theatre of the Oppressed (TOTO) project was one of the first therapeutic opportunities I have ever been given. It provided me with a safe space to share some of the reasons I believe my life has evolved around violence.
My father was abused by the Christian Brothers in Dangan, County Offaly. I have always felt his regular violence towards me was his attempt to keep me out of such institutions and harm, rather than him being a bad person.
However, his actions have meant that, since childhood, it has been engrained in me that violence is normal. In fact, I have been rewarded many times for using it and I am acclimatised to experiencing it.
My father's methods, as crude and inhumane as they were, have been in some way repeated, in the sense that in most of the institutions I have resided in, I have been subjected to separation from my family, restricted agency, punishments, beatings, sexual assaults, psychological abuse and expulsion.
TOTO was not me using a platform to justify any violence; rather it was an opportunity to explain the reality of my own and other people's lives, realities that many of the experts who attended the show could never have comprehended, let alone survived.
For example, as a child, I was tied to a table and lashed with a belt, in school I was assaulted by a teacher, in prison, I was smashed in the face with a riot shield and my clothes removed with a Stanley blade. Now the new form of abuse, which is psychological rather than physical, involves the constant discourse that people like me are not suitable for progression.
To me, TOTO briefly gave the audience members the opportunity to comprehend how violence, which may seem abhorrent to them, is simply a normal part of my life. It provoked questions around how intergenerational cycles of violence and crime can be interrupted.
A boy, a teen, a man spends most of his life being punished, but the solution as it stands is more punishment, based on policies constructed by people who have never stayed one night in my community or even walked around it without an escort.
After TOTO
So, TOTO has ended for now. However, I would like to ask the experts who attended the show a question: WHAT HAVE YOUS DONE SINCE?
I'm not being condescending or sarcastic in asking this question; rather it comes from the fact that psychologists, addiction counsellors, governors, justice representatives, judges, probation officers and even gardaí were all in the same room at one time, but so far it appears none have suggested follow-up strategies or collaborations to support the initiative of [facilitators, Senator] Lynn [Ruane], Grace [Dyas] and Clare [O'Connor].
We showed you what our existence is like, we showed you what is wrong with the system. What – if anything – are you doing to fix it?
I guess the question I am really asking is: why not help us instead of punishing us? I have had a lifetime of punishment and you become conditioned to it.
It therefore serves no purpose other than the storage of people who, with the right supports, could contribute so much to society, particularly in relation to addressing the issues raised by TOTO such as crime, addiction and social withdrawal that many of today's youth seem to be falling into.
There are many prisoners with the desire and potential to do so much good. TOTO demonstrated it on a micro level, so imagine if people stopped worrying about political favour through zero-tolerance language and actually engaged in projects on a macro level that truly addressed individuals' needs.
I have had a lifetime of punishment and you become conditioned to it. Photo: Moya Nolan
Prisoners are the ones who have committed the crimes; how have the experts not realised that, surely, they could be part of the solution?
I won't ever forget the feelings of acceptance, empathy, compassion and interest shown to me by Lynn, Grace and Clare. I don't have the words to explain what you meant to me during that process. The only comparison I can make is of a deaf person hearing for the first time or to witness a mute speaking for the first time.
Maybe I'm just getting too old for this shit, but think about the seven-year-old today who is acting up, because if he inflicts half of the harm I have inflicted on my family, friends, enemies and society as a whole, then as [convicted drug dealer] Larry Dunne once said: "If you think I'm bad, wait till you see what's coming behind me."
Extract from What We're Made Of by Men in Mountjoy Prison, facilitated by Lynn Ruane and Grace Dyas, €20 from Books Upstairs
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Irish Examiner
a day ago
- Irish Examiner
If we want to stop crime, we have to talk to those committing it
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:
Irish Examiner
a day ago
- Irish Examiner
A prisoner serving life writes: ‘Why not help us instead of punishing us?'
I am 38 years of age and serving life imprisonment, but imprisonment is something I have experienced in one form or another since the age of seven. I have been witnessing, experiencing and involved in violence throughout my whole life, yet nobody has ever meaningfully engaged with me in relation to addressing the causes. The Theatre of the Oppressed (TOTO) project was one of the first therapeutic opportunities I have ever been given. It provided me with a safe space to share some of the reasons I believe my life has evolved around violence. My father was abused by the Christian Brothers in Dangan, County Offaly. I have always felt his regular violence towards me was his attempt to keep me out of such institutions and harm, rather than him being a bad person. However, his actions have meant that, since childhood, it has been engrained in me that violence is normal. In fact, I have been rewarded many times for using it and I am acclimatised to experiencing it. My father's methods, as crude and inhumane as they were, have been in some way repeated, in the sense that in most of the institutions I have resided in, I have been subjected to separation from my family, restricted agency, punishments, beatings, sexual assaults, psychological abuse and expulsion. TOTO was not me using a platform to justify any violence; rather it was an opportunity to explain the reality of my own and other people's lives, realities that many of the experts who attended the show could never have comprehended, let alone survived. For example, as a child, I was tied to a table and lashed with a belt, in school I was assaulted by a teacher, in prison, I was smashed in the face with a riot shield and my clothes removed with a Stanley blade. Now the new form of abuse, which is psychological rather than physical, involves the constant discourse that people like me are not suitable for progression. To me, TOTO briefly gave the audience members the opportunity to comprehend how violence, which may seem abhorrent to them, is simply a normal part of my life. It provoked questions around how intergenerational cycles of violence and crime can be interrupted. A boy, a teen, a man spends most of his life being punished, but the solution as it stands is more punishment, based on policies constructed by people who have never stayed one night in my community or even walked around it without an escort. After TOTO So, TOTO has ended for now. However, I would like to ask the experts who attended the show a question: WHAT HAVE YOUS DONE SINCE? I'm not being condescending or sarcastic in asking this question; rather it comes from the fact that psychologists, addiction counsellors, governors, justice representatives, judges, probation officers and even gardaí were all in the same room at one time, but so far it appears none have suggested follow-up strategies or collaborations to support the initiative of [facilitators, Senator] Lynn [Ruane], Grace [Dyas] and Clare [O'Connor]. We showed you what our existence is like, we showed you what is wrong with the system. What – if anything – are you doing to fix it? I guess the question I am really asking is: why not help us instead of punishing us? I have had a lifetime of punishment and you become conditioned to it. It therefore serves no purpose other than the storage of people who, with the right supports, could contribute so much to society, particularly in relation to addressing the issues raised by TOTO such as crime, addiction and social withdrawal that many of today's youth seem to be falling into. There are many prisoners with the desire and potential to do so much good. TOTO demonstrated it on a micro level, so imagine if people stopped worrying about political favour through zero-tolerance language and actually engaged in projects on a macro level that truly addressed individuals' needs. I have had a lifetime of punishment and you become conditioned to it. Photo: Moya Nolan Prisoners are the ones who have committed the crimes; how have the experts not realised that, surely, they could be part of the solution? I won't ever forget the feelings of acceptance, empathy, compassion and interest shown to me by Lynn, Grace and Clare. I don't have the words to explain what you meant to me during that process. The only comparison I can make is of a deaf person hearing for the first time or to witness a mute speaking for the first time. Maybe I'm just getting too old for this shit, but think about the seven-year-old today who is acting up, because if he inflicts half of the harm I have inflicted on my family, friends, enemies and society as a whole, then as [convicted drug dealer] Larry Dunne once said: "If you think I'm bad, wait till you see what's coming behind me." Extract from What We're Made Of by Men in Mountjoy Prison, facilitated by Lynn Ruane and Grace Dyas, €20 from Books Upstairs
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