NOTE ONE. UNTITLED
At first they knocked timidly. They knocked and complained quietly, “I have no water,” “Have you forgotten about me? I’ve been here almost a month...” Then the pounding and shouting turned into blood-curdling pandemonium. For a minute I was disoriented. Human rights advocate Oleksandr Kostorny, a veteran visitor to penitentiaries, took a closer look at me and instantly read the avalanche of emotions on my face (a close friend of mine calls it “reading from negative matrixes).
Apparently wanting to encourage me, he practically shouted in my ear: “Now you can proudly tell your colleagues that you visited a place where few women have stepped foot.” Thinking back later, I understood what Kostorny meant, but at the time I was struggling to retain what was left of my composure and understand what the prisoners were shouting, but it was not possible. There was a deafening chorus of pleas, curses, and desperate voices of both young and old, pounding on metal doors, the sound of metal bolts. All you could hear in the suffocating atmosphere was one big “Aaaaa!”
A young television journalist rushed into the corridor, saying, “Now I know why it’s so hard for us to get access.” “What do you mean, hard?” someone asked behind her. “Today representatives of any civic organization can visit and talk to inmates after filling out the required paperwork. Lately we have not denied access to anyone, although there haven’t been many visitors.”
For a while the warrant officer escorting us did nothing. He was probably giving us time to take stock of the situation. Then he put things to rights in a no-nonsense fashion. Not all the punishment cells — we had gone downstairs to the colony’s “sanctum sanctorum” — were opened, only where the pounding was especially loud. After opening the door, the assistant public prosecutor listened to the complaints and then went to another cell. Emotions aside, after the doors were opened no one had anything special to complain about. Some said their water tap didn’t work, two young prisoners asked to be transferred to a different cell, with better air circulation. Only one of the most desperate inmates started complaining about his difficult material situation: “Look! I have nothing, they will let me out in a few days, and where will I go?”
But his question wasn’t really the subject of my visit, which was public assistance in monitoring the penitentiary system. The frantic prisoner was set to be released, but his door was locked even faster than in other cells. Although, come to think of it, my visit did have a bearing on the subject, along with a prison guard’s comment on the shouting inmate:
“It’s interesting; all these years he’s been so quiet and now when he’s up for release after 20 years, he started getting nervous.”
I interrupted him and asked:
“Why are they all so thin and pale?”
There was a pause, perhaps a hint that my question was improper. Then the chief warden said with ill-concealed irritation:
“Because it’s not a health resort. We didn’t invite them here. It’s their own doing.”
I choked on my next question. “Where do these inmates sleep in these stone punishment cells?” I could answer it myself, remembering movies about prison life. There is supposed to be a bed that is attached to a wall and lowered for the night. Each cell is narrow and the bed serves as a very small bench. The inmate cannot sit on it and rest because “it’s not a health resort.”
After touring the premises of this maximum security penal colony (popularly known as the trydtsiatka, “thirtieth,” whose male inmates are habitual criminals), I found myself thinking that the place looked almost familiar. The film industry inundates us with movies about prison life, and I had seen everything before: the “caged sky,” stone solitary confinement cells, and the inmates’ gray faces that were so alike it takes a bit of time before you can distinguish old faces from young ones. Their eyes were identical.
“Of course you pity them, especially after listening to their stories about serving their terms even though they didn’t commit any crimes. You feel like crying,” says the stern warrant officer. “Sure, they’re all pale and hungry. But today they have more rights than we do and they keep filing complaints. To whom can I complain? Why don’t you have any pity for us? There are four guards on duty at night for 100 prisoners. I step into a cell and keep asking myself if I will come out alive. Do you know how much I’m paid? Do you know what the inmate-personnel ratio is in Europe? It’s ten times higher here on both counts.”
His face was distorted with rage, and the ring of keys clanked in his shaking hands. At that moment it seemed louder than an empty metal barrel being struck. For some reason I was reminded of an early morning program featuring performances of original songs. A talented girl, who was a student at an institution of higher education in Kyiv, was singing about prison life with inexplicable enthusiasm. The host asked, “What are you longing for?” She replied, “There are lots of things I haven’t experienced. I have not been married and haven’t felt lonely in a prison cell.” The wise and experienced host waved his hands. “What are you talking about, child? You must have watched too many bad movies.”
This silly girl is not the only one who thinks like this? People should be taken on guided tours to places like this penal colony. Then law-abiding behavior would increase at an unprecedented rate.
I walked down the corridor in a straight line, lawfully and obediently breathing in the musty prison air. I was heading for the canteen to taste a prisoner’s ration of soup and bread (baked in prison). The bread tasted good, but the soup was too greasy. The inmates laughed and explained that they knew about our visit three days ago. So I guess I didn’t taste what is actually served in the prison cafeteria.
NOTE 2. SAD LIKE LIFE ITSELF
Inmates entered one at a time to talk to representatives of several civic organizations. Even those serving their third and fourth terms behaved themselves; they were reserved and obedient, like little children. Yurii O., who has already served 20 years (and was supposed to know all there was to know about life) was not sure he would get his pension. He had spent some time working in the colony but did not know whether they were making deductions to the pension fund. He also seemed to understand little of what he was told by the administration (the same goes for me), but he thanked them and left.
Roman H. said his fiancee had used up the rest of her savings to buy paint for the prison, but he didn’t get the promised incentive. He shuffled his feet and spread his hands in amazement. Roman politely explained that incentives were given for good behavior.
Mykola M. was more aggressive and complained that he didn’t even have a toothbrush. He cannot file complaints because he can’t afford an envelope, and the prison shop hasn’t had any lately. You could tell that the prisoner was overexcited. He almost shouted that all his clothes were hand-me-downs from his fellow inmates. He was ready to work but never wrote an application. He made a mixed impression. It was hard to answer his questions not only because of his reactions, but also because in the last 10 years the colony has not received any shoes or caps from the state, let alone toothbrushes.
The supply of humanitarian aid from individuals and civic organizations is inadequate. The state supplies only 47 percent of the colony’s needs, and the prison has to earn the rest by itself, through its farm, carpentry workshop, and sponsors. The government covers only two hryvnias’ worth of food a day per inmate. Not surprisingly, no one said “Our health is good and please come again.” An “initiative group” claimed that the prison doctor was giving inmates one pill divided into two, one for “for the head” and the other “for the stomach” and that inmates were not being paid their wages, and so on.
Another group of inmates made completely different statements. The fact that several months ago an incident in the penal colony made the headlines all over Ukraine, when 22 inmates attempted suicide by slashing their veins, seemed quite natural. The commission that was instantly dispatched to the colony arrived at the conclusion that violations had been committed. But it was also reported that inmates were under the influence of a strong personality and really did damage their health, although they only made superficial cuts to their skin; that the trydtsiatka’s conditions were not the worst, and that elsewhere prisoners lived in even worse conditions (hardly comforting).
Be that as it may, the inmates who tried to take their own lives were not satisfied with the way they were living, if one can speak of satisfactory life with regard to people living under rigid prison restrictions. This is not Sweden where an inmate can order his meals from a menu, where TV sets are everywhere, and sports fields are far superior to those in our private higher schools.
NOTE 3. ABOUT LAWS AND MORALITY
Jerzy Lec, the Polish poet and aphorist, writes: “Imprisonment does not isolate one from history.” This aphorism has many implications: prison does not isolate an inmate from history being created in the country; prison is a hypertrophied model of public life. Of course, the fact that we could visit and talk to people held in punishment cells is proof that we have some elements of democracy. Indeed, those inmates were a bit scared to see a group of people suddenly appearing and asking if they had any complaints. True, under different conditions they would have said something specific. As it was, with officers of the prison administration standing nearby and watching them sullenly, the message was clear. These representatives of the public would leave in 10 minutes, and the inmates would remain under the thumb of their jailers, who are not always merciful and fair.
With few exceptions all these inmates are guilty of wrongdoings. Our imperfect society is largely to blame for many people ending up in jail. The banal truth is that, if you are born in an alcoholic’s family and if your father has served several prison terms, there is only one way for you to go. Suppose we put this aside for a moment, inasmuch as our society is unable to solve such problems and provide relatively equal opportunities. Let’s discuss things that can be changed. Let us proceed from the concrete thesis that we can believe: people who live on the outside are much better than those who are in jail. This means that they have moral obligations toward those who are weaker than them and who have sinned. Therefore, they are obliged to take care of them.
Yes, we can argue about the lack of funds for expectant mothers and the sick, but all this is interconnected. What that old inmate was shouting through the bars was terrible not only for him but also for those who will be standing next to him after his release. If a person has nothing to eat and nowhere to live, he will try to get some food and a roof over his head at all costs. Desperate circumstances will force him to commit another crime. Then a child, a weak woman, or a sick elderly person may become his victim. Is the state taking any steps to prevent recidivism?
Vasyl Tupchii, senior assistant to the Lviv prosecutor responsible for implementing court rulings in criminal cases, explained: “Today, fortunately, convicts retain their homes for the duration of their sentences. This increases their chances of returning to a normal life. Parcels are accepted without restrictions, and a higher percentage of the convict’s monthly earnings is transferred to his personal account, regardless of other deductions, provided he fulfills his quotas and obeys the rules. However, the greatest achievement is the fact that inmates’ prison employment records are included in their seniority record to accrue pensions after their release from prison — of course, if such insurance deductions are made to the Pension Fund of Ukraine in amounts provided by law.”
This is the moment of truth, when legal norms contradict life’s realities. No money can be transferred to convicts’ personal accounts and the pension fund because wages paid in penal colonies are meager and there are no customers. “People on the outside have a hard time finding jobs, so what can you expect from prisoners?” some will say. They are both right and wrong because everything is interconnected. Therefore, that state should take steps to provide jobs in prisons, even low-paying and unskilled work. Mind you, I was shown amazing examples of cabinet work at the trydtsiatka. Of course, chief wardens, accountants, and other personnel responsible for production must be decent people and not steal from people who have been robbed by life. In tsarist Russia there was a network of trustees’ boards that did much to ensure that the lives of convicts did not turn into a living hell. Their work was performed on a voluntary basis, without passing any special laws. Today we have a network of supervisory commissions. Under the Implementation of the Criminal Code, they are authorized to exercise public control over penitentiary activities, particularly in terms of convicts’ rights, releases, and help in case of necessity.
Unfortunately, such supervisory boards often exist in name only. People seldom ask for help with finding jobs, obtaining a place in senior citizens’ homes, or housing assistance. People may not believe that such assistance is possible, but most likely because such assistance is never provided. Supervisory commissions are attached to local self-government authorities. Right after they are created, they turn into organizations of yes-men because they are made up mostly of local officials. They have created themselves and are controlling themselves, so to speak.
We should have not just one or two organizations but fifty or sixty agencies that monitor prisons, like there are in EU countries. The supervisory council for the implementation of criminal punishments in Lviv oblast is one of a handful of civic organizations in Ukraine that works with penitentiaries for adult prisoners. It is credited with organizing numerous visits to penal colonies and jails, and organizing soccer matches and exhibits of art produced by prisoners.
Ukraine has some 150 civic organizations that are actively fostering the social rehabilitation of convicts. Of course, this is not enough. Ukraine’s 180,000 convicts require material and spiritual help; they require enthusiastic volunteers who will work in penal colonies. It is interesting to note that we have somehow upgraded our laws, which still need to be improved, but even guided by existing laws we could have started living like normal people, provided, of course, these laws observed all moral dictates.
I would like to conclude my somewhat chaotic notes with a quote from Rev. Ihor Tsyr, a Greek Catholic priest: “We should remember that inmates are also human beings created by God not for hell but for heaven. They also have immortal souls and require spiritual nourishment and salvation. In most cases, these are people who were raised in orphanages and children’s homes, children of alcoholics and divorced parents, people with mutilated lives and wounded hearts. That is why they need love, attention, warmth, and mercy. Many of them saw a priest for the first time only in prison and heard that Jesus loves, that they are needed by someone in this vale of tears. If people forget about them, our heavenly Blessed Virgin Mary still loves them. When I tell them this, I see tears in their eyes and hope for a better life. For me, these convicts are my beloved prison flock; they are my happiness, my wealth!”
Rev. Tsyr was telling the truth about his love for the inmates. Between 300 and 500 prisoners attend his sermons. They listen to him and start feeling better. But should only priests help to ease our life on earth, instill hope, and direct people toward the path of righteousness?
