The Book That Saved My Life

THE BOOK THAT SAVED MY LIFE An English PEN book

READERS & WRITERS with a foreword by Jake Arnott

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by English PEN, Free Word, 60 Farringdon Road, London EC1R 3GA 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Collection copyright © English PEN, 2012 The moral right of the authors has been asserted. The views expressed in this book are those of the individual authors, and do not necessarily represent the opinions of the editors, publishers or English PEN. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 978-0-9564806-5-1 Printed and bound in Great Britain by Aldgate Press, Units 5&6, Gunthorpe Street Workshops, 3 Gunthorpe Street, London E1 7RQ www.aldgatepress.co.uk Designed by Brett Biedscheid, www.statetostate.co.uk

Foreword – The Art of Reading and Writing Jake Arnott

Introduction – Words in Action Irene Garrow

The Book That Saved My Life Danny Cash, HMP Gartree – First Prize, Books

I Had a Beginning Stephen Barraclough, HMP Lewes – First prize, Lives

Freedom Carol Clarke, HMP New Hall – Runner Up, Lives

Invisible Ashley Atkinson, HMP YOI Wetherby – Commended

One Friend and Many Drugs Lee Pearson, HMP Wolds – Runner Up, Lives

Freedom Darren Jenkins, HMP Shepton Mallet – Runner Up, Lives

Liberty Ian Petrie, HMP Perth – Runner Up, Lives

Book review of John Donne’s Devotions Royales, HMP Preston – Commended

Freedom Boris Obadiaru, aged 17, HMP YOI Warren Hill – Commended

Evidence of Freedom A de Vos, HMP Bullwood Hall – Commended

Review of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein – or Prometheus Unbound Keith Mabbitt, HMP Coldingley – Runner Up, Books

Freedom Abdulqadir Deylani, HMP Bullwood Hall – Commended

Review of Catch 22 Daniel Archer, HMP Full Sutton – Runner Up, Books

Review of We’re all Doing Time by Bo Lozoff Pride Tsiko, HMP Wandsworth – Runner Up, Books

Freedom Is Calling Wayne Pugh, HMP Frankland – Commended

Accept our Freedom Jason Smith, HMP Birmingham – Runner Up, Lives

The Sky, The Bard and the Nightingale David Carpenter, HMP Edinburgh – Commended

Freedom Claire, HMP Holloway – Runner Up, Lives

Prison Library Xmas Tree Mark Sheehan, HMP Usk – Runner Up, Lives

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Foreword – The Art of Reading and Writing Jake Arnott

Whatever the advances in technologies of the imagination, reading and writing remain the most effective forms of escape ever devised by the human consciousness. Simple functions of the mind that have the ability to release us from mental confinement, to really move us. And they offer not just a way out, but a way in. In this collection the transformative power of literacy is deftly evoked by Danny Cash in his piece ‘The Book that Saved my Life’. He cites Eleanor Roosevelt and her analysis of ‘reading as a revolutionary act’. Scanning words on a page can stimulate reflection, understanding and the possibility of change. Not mere escapism but a more enduring liberation: the real freedom that comes with selfawareness and a sense of redemption.

Judging English PEN’s ‘Writing Freedom’ competition was a daunting task but an inspiring one. We had support from so many people working with prisoners, writers in residence, prison librarians, but mostly from the individuals that submitted their work. There were 300 entries from 70 prisons and each submission had something interesting and important to say. Narrowing it down to two winners and ten runners-up wasn’t easy and I’d like to acknowledge everybody who entered as being an essential part of this project, it simply couldn’t have happened otherwise.

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The brief was a challenging one, to explore the idea of freedom: either through personal testimony or by writing about a book they admired on this theme. The response was broad and astonishingly diverse, even among those in this collection. Powerfully honest life writing; shrewd literary criticism that draws out the relevance of the written word to personal experience. There are wonderful surprises here too, the discovery of freedom (and even love) in unexpected places; and a great playfulness of language, aptly demonstrated by Ian Petrie’s poem in Scots dialect.

This collection is something of a discourse on the art of reading and writing itself. And it has plenty to say on the importance of freedom of expression – a discussion we can all be part of.

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Introduction – Words in Action Irene Garrow Through literature, we can find our place in the world, feel we belong and discover our sense of responsibility. Michael Morpugo

English PEN’s Readers & Writers programme has been sending writers and their books into prisons in the UK for over a decade. Recently, we’ve taken Louis De Bernières in to a long term prison in Norfolk and Malorie Blackman in to HMP Holloway with her bestselling book. Anthony Horowitz spent a day in a Young Offenders Institute with his Alex Rider books and the poet Choman Hardi shared her poems with foreign national women prisoners. Throughout the year PEN writers take their words into prison communities of young men, old men, women, teenagers and foreign nationals.

Prison is a closed community with people locked up in their cells for long periods, away from family and friends, sometimes with mental health difficulties and at times alone. There is an audience and appetite for literature; we match our writers with the appropriate community and we send the books in advance thanks to the generous support of publishers and our funder, the Monument Trust.

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To celebrate PEN’s 90th anniversary year in 2011, we decided to launch our PEN Writing Freedom competition and promote the learning that can come from a good read and the sense of identity that a reflective piece of writing can provide. This year, we invited men and women prisoners to write about their Lives or review a Book that has been important to them, through the lens of Freedom. We now plan a yearly competition with different themes and we hope even more entries.

Readers & Writers would like to say a big Thank You to every librarian, every teacher, every officer who helped and every prisoner who sat down, picked up a pen and wrote one word after the other for this competition, proving that action and words together can speak very loud indeed.

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The Book That Saved My Life Danny Cash, HMP Gartree – First Prize, Books

Eleanor Roosevelt once described reading as a revolutionary act. She claimed that reading could revolutionise both the mind and the spirit. I wholeheartedly agree with her. You see, I was once there at the very brink of the abyss, no longer able to function, feel or even think straight. Then during my darkest hour I discovered a remarkable book that pulled me back from the edge, quite literally saving my life and transforming it in the process. Man’s Search for Meaning was written by a Viennese psychiatrist and neurologist called Viktor Emil Frankl. It was first published in 1946 after Frankl had survived more than three years in Nazi concentration camps including Dachau, Theresienstadt and Auschwitz. The book eloquently expounds Frankl’s theory that psychotherapy should take into account the soul as well as the mind and body. Hence the reason he became known as the psychiatrist who rediscovered the human soul. The concentration camps became a kind of macabre assessment ground for Frankl’s theories. Time and again he saw that those who were most likely to survive were those who lived with hope and optimism, effectively proving his nascent theory that the ‘why to live’ was an essential prerequisite to any ‘will to live’.

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His theory, which came to be called Logotherapy, focuses on helping a person find meaning in their lives even in the midst of pain and suffering. Logotherapy can be summed up in three key principles: The first principle is learning to turn pain and suffering into achievement. The second principle is learning to take responsible action and the third principle is deriving from feelings of guilt the opportunity to change oneself for the better. Frankl believed that living by these principles a person could add meaning to their lives, no matter how dire their current circumstances. He believed these principles helped a person to heal their soul. René Descartes likened the reading of a good book to a conversation with its author. That is certainly how it feels reading Man’s Search for Meaning. Frankl’s voice and compassion resonate on every page. Whilst reading it that first time I felt almost as if he was there in the room with me, teaching me, guiding me, rescuing me. He helped me to rediscover a purpose to my life. He taught me that no matter how dire the circumstances, no matter what has happened, I have the power to choose how I let those experiences affect me and how I react to the world around me. He showed me how to take the feelings of guilt and turn them into something positive and life-affirming. He reminded me that I could still make a positive difference to the world, that it was never too late. Man’s Search for Meaning was more than just another book. It was the book that saved my life.

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I Had a Beginning Stephen Barraclough, HMP Lewes – First prize, Lives When I was thirteen, my two nephews and I would buy a ‘Red Rover’. This enabled us to unlimited travel for a day on any red bus. Every Saturday morning we would set off and travel all over London. We visited the museums in Kensington, Madame Tussauds, The Planetarium, The London Zoo and many other places. Our favourite destination was the boating lake in Regent’s Park. We would hire a boat and row up and down the lake for an hour. Looking back at those times, I remember the sense of freedom that accompanied our journeys. Two years later, I left school and worked with my father as an apprentice painter and decorator. My father was an extremely competent decorator and he was an artistic man. We worked mostly in Kensington, Chelsea and Knightsbridge. The year was Nineteen sixty-six. England had just won the World Cup. The counter culture of the hippies was in full stride and the mini skirt was in fashion. The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan and numerous other highly accomplished bands were playing their music. Timothy Leary, a Harvard professor and advocate of experimenting with LSD sent out the message ‘Drop out, turn on, tune in’. It was an exciting time for a fifteen year old. The sixties encouraged people to liberate themselves from the norm. On the train going to and from work with my father, I read Ken Kesey’s, ‘One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest’. A book I have read twice since. My father and I worked at the playwright John Osborne’s house in Chelsea Square. Osborne’s play ‘Look Back in Anger’ was playing at the theatre next to Sloane Square station. I felt satisfied with my life as it was then. Working for my living gave me a structure from which independence and self-worth developed. That was then. Today I am a life sentence prisoner on recall. I suppose it is easy to be wise after the event. The first mistake I made was leaving my father’s

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employment after eighteen months. I wanted something different but I did not know what it was I wanted. I had made myself unemployed and I started drifting into an aimless existence. I was drinking on a daily basis. One of my nephews, Leon, who used to travel on the Red Rover with me, had begun using heroin. I started hanging around with him and his friend Frank. My drinking was getting worse. Frank and I started breaking into shops at night and within months we were both sentenced to borstal. On the prison bus going to Dover the lyrics of Joni Mitchell’s song, ‘you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’ kept reverberating in my mind. My freedom, which I had taken for granted, had been taken away. The following years developed into a pattern of drinking, offending and imprisonment. I just didn’t seem to care. In the nineties, I moved down to a seaside resort in the south of England. I had admitted, but not accepted, I was an alcoholic. If I had ten cans of beer, my only concern was where my eleventh can would come from. I rented a flat near my nephew, Leon. I would go for long walks along the seafront. Sometimes I would sit on a ledge on the lower part of a cliff face. I would sit in isolation looking out at a panoramic view of glittering sea. I had been living on the south coast for two years when, heavily intoxicated, I stabbed a man and he died. The following year I was convicted of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. I wondered how I would cope with several years’ incarceration ahead of me. One day I was listening to Terry Waite on the radio. He was telling how he developed strategies to help him cope as a hostage in solitary confinement. He would close his eyes and relive one of the journeys he carried out on his yacht. Mentally, he would go through all necessary manual tasks in relation to sailing. Suddenly, he wasn’t a hostage

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but a sailor on a blue ocean. I adopted Terry Waite’s strategies by mentally going over some of the long walks I had done in the past. It worked. I lay in bed at night and I was walking over the South Downs. There was a certain spiritual element about employing this form of imagination. As the time progressed, I got involved with Alcoholics Anonymous and the Twelve Step programme. The years passed and eventually I was released upon life license. My AA sponsor got me a job painting the exterior of offices at a yacht builder at the local marina. I was living at a hostel. After three months, having saved up some money, I was allowed to leave the hostel and move into my own rented accommodation at a coastal town in East Anglia. We had finished the required work at the yacht builder, so I arrived in my new accommodation unemployed. I had the freedom of a coastline and the sea once again. I did not know anyone in this small town and I became socially isolated. I started drinking again. The consumption of alcohol was forbidden on my license conditions. Eventually, I was recalled back to prison. Have I learnt anything? I have learnt that you cannot change your past but you can help shape your future. I have learnt that the word freedom has many connotations. In its simplest form, it is the freedom to come and go as you please. However, there is the broader role of freedom from addiction, from physical and psychological illness, from bias, from fear; from prejudice, the list is endless. I will be released again on license and I will have the freedom of choice to strive for recovery from addiction. That is my goal. A free mind is certainly as important as physical freedom.

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Freedom Carol Clarke, HMP New Hall – Runner Up, Lives An Extract “She’s such a good baby,” sighed my mum. But I screamed every night after this. “I love you so much,” cooed my dad. So I started getting anxious in case I did something that would make him stop loving me. “We’ve always been a strong, capable family,” my mum informed me. So I hid my weaknesses and fears, in case I let the side down. “She’s so kind and considerate towards the other children,” extolled my nursery school carers. So I decided my role in life was to serve everybody else, even if that meant being trodden on. “She’s very bright,” commented my first teacher. So I set myself high standards and lived in fear of failure. “We’re not an argumentative family,” declared my dad. So I appointed myself peace-maker and bottled up my own anger. “Don’t talk to strangers – they might try to hurt you,” warned the policeman who visited our classroom. So I made a mental note never to trust anybody.

“She’s hard-working, conscientious and sensible,” started my first school report.

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So I tried to live up to the description and never dared to relax or have fun, to have a giggle and misbehave with the other kids. “She’s never selfish or demanding – no trouble at all,” beamed my dad. So I pretended to be content with whatever came my way, and hid my real needs and desires. “I’II shield you from anything upsetting or frightening,” promised my mum. So I expected the world to be rosy, and developed no resilience to withstand life’s struggles. “I’II never hurt you,” vowed my dad. But I thought I deserved to suffer, so I harmed myself instead. “It upsets me when I see you sad,” cried my mum. So I never let my pain show. “Your family is well-respected,” the neighbours told me. So I kept up appearances and believed we were the perfect family. “You’re so well-behaved – you never get told off,” complained my sister. So I made sure I never did anything deserving criticism, and the mildest rebuke would threaten my whole sense of security.

“We’re such a close family, we don’t need friends,” announced my mum. So I stayed loyal to my roots and kept outsiders at a safe distance.

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“You’re lucky to have had a good Christian upbringing,” said my priest. So I pretended I was pure and holy, and felt guilty for having bad thoughts. “I’m so proud of you,” rejoiced my mum when I went off to university. So I determined to fulfil all her dreams, even if it meant suppressing my own. “You’re always so sociable,” commented my fellow students. So I perfected the small talk, for I felt I had nothing of importance to say, and saved my tears for when I was alone. “She’s well-organised and plans carefully,” read my first work reference. So I never learnt to appreciate flexibility, spontaneity or risk-taking. “You’re a valued and trusted member of staff,” reported my boss. So I left my job before she could discover I wasn’t perfect after all. “You’ve had so many opportunities and such a positive upbringing, you shouldn’t have any hang-ups,” declared my psychiatrist. So I concluded my depression was untreatable and tried to commit suicide. “We all love you,” chorused everyone I knew, when I regained consciousness five days later. But I hated myself and hated life. “You’re from a good background – I don’t understand what went wrong,” declared the judge, as he handed me the indeterminate sentence. “I have no option but to take your freedom.”

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Invisible Ashley Atkinson, HMP YOI Wetherby – Commended

I take drugs to make me thin, I dye my hair and cut my skin, Always trying to make them see, I aint happy being me! Deep inside, my quiet hell, You cannot hear my cries for help, I try everything to make them see, It’s awful to feel like me, Every day I try to look my best, Even though deep inside I’m such a mess, I just feel invisible, No-one sees life inside of me, Even when I walk on wire, Even when I set myself on fire, No-one understands that it’s hard to be me, Why do I feel invisible? When I should feel invincible, It’s just really tough to be like me, Whose gonna be the one to save me?

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One Friend and Many Drugs Lee Pearson, HMP Wolds – Runner Up, Lives

It was April 2002. I had only been out of prison for days; I was hanging around with a lad called Jimmy (we call him Fingers due to his fingers having been struck to his ear when he was born). We had known each other for years, we were both heroin users. I don’t know what happened but we had got into a downward spiral. We couldn’t get the hit we were looking for and were constantly out grafting (stealing whatever we could), to get what we needed to feed our habit. The day I wanted to get round to was a Thursday. As normal, we were out grafting (we couldn’t seem to get anything as it was one of them days where nothing was going right for us). Then our luck changed and Jimmy came to me saying he had just seen someone go out. We walked over to the house and I ‘popped’ one of the windows then we both climbed and took everything of value we could find. We went and sold everything for over £800. Finally life was looking up for us. We went and got some gear, it took us 10 minutes to get there, I phoned a lad I knew who would sort us with the gear we wanted.

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We met up in a car park where we done the deal then got back in the car. I passed Jimmy the gear and we headed for the garage on the motorway. By the time we got there, Jimmy had already got the gear ready to sort ourselves out. When we got back to Washington it was dark. I parked the car and we went to the flats. We were heading to my friend’s place but as we crossed the car park I heard shouting coming from a flat. I recognised the voice; it was another good mate I went to school with called Kenny. I told Jimmy to knock and ask if we could sort ourselves out in there. Kenny answered the door and asked what we wanted. I stepped out from round the corner and Kenny said “Hello Lee, what you doing here?” I told him that we needed somewhere to sort ourselves out as we didn’t want to do that out in the open. He said “Come in, come in. I hope you sort me out as well.” I knew he had been on the gear but I didn’t know he still took it. We all went into the sitting room. I got the gear and passed some to Kenny. He put it on his spoon; me and Jimmy sorted ourselves out. I had just had my hit. It was the strongest I’ve taken in a long time. I looked at Jimmy, he was sitting back enjoying the gear. I then looked over to Kenny and he was just having his hit, I told him to watch as it was strong gear. After only a few seconds I heard Kenny say “God, this is good stuff.” I looked over to see him stand up, but then he crashed back down. I shit myself. Jimmy and I looked at each other and said “Overdose!” As we said it, Kenny’s friend Danny came in and looked at Kenny on the floor. He asked what happened and we told him. He said Kenny had been taking all sorts of drugs with drink. I shouted “Phone the ambulance, quick!”

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I turned Kenny over and checked to see he was breathing. He wasn’t, so I checked his pulse. There is one, but faint. I grab the phone and tell the woman on the phone that my friend has taken an overdose. I am scared; she asked if I knew what he had taken, I said I didn’t know. I wasn’t lying as I didn’t know what he had taken; not everything anyway. She said to give him mouth to mouth, but there was sick on his lips so I told Danny to do it. It didn’t seem to be doing anything then the woman said the ambulance would be there soon and to keep doing it. She told me loads of other stuff but I couldn’t make out what she was saying, it was like I wasn’t there. I kept looking over the balcony for the ambulance. I saw it come round the corner after waiting for what felt like hours but in reality was only 6 or 7 minutes. The medics came running to the flat and ask what happened, I told them he’d taken heroin. Just as they started to do something to Kenny, Jimmy shouted that the police were there. I panicked and ran out of the room, leaving my friend to the medics; Jimmy followed me. All we wanted to do was get away and block out what had happened. We needed to score, needed to get rid of the images that were rushing about my head. After scoring again, Jimmy and I split up, saying we would meet up later when things had died down; but we never did as Jimmy got locked up. A few days after Kenny died the police were still searching for me.

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Everywhere I went police had been before me and no-one would give me a place to stay. I had no friends, no-one wanted to know me or help me; even my family turned me away at the door. With nowhere to go, it was only a matter of time before I was picked up, and that is how I got to this point in my life. Ten years in prison, 15 years of drug addiction and one friend dead later. I used to think that I had been hard done by because I saw a friend die on the drugs I enjoyed; but now I think about his family and friends, how they feel, the pain they are going through and his little girl growing up without a Dad…

I WISH, LIKE THIS COMPUTER I TYPE MY THOUGHTS ON, I HAD A WORD CHECK IN MY LIFE. I HAVE USED THE PHRASE, “YOU NEVER REALISE WHAT YOU’VE GOT UNTIL IT’S GONE” ON NUMEROUS OCCASIONS. I WOULD LIKE TO BE ABLE TO SEE HOW MANY TIMES I HAVE SAID IT WITHOUT ONCE REALLY THINKING ABOUT THE ENORMITY OF THESE WORDS. Kate Walker, HMP Drake Hall

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Freedom Darren Jenkins, HMP Shepton Mallet – Runner Up, Lives

I was behind bars for most of my teenage years and the majority of my adult life so far. Ironically, I found my freedom when I came to prison. At 16 years of age I had watched as my best friend ‘came out’ to his family. He was disowned by all of them and ended up in Local Authority care. I was devastated, not only for him, but for me as well because from a very young age I knew that I was like him; that I was ‘different’. I didn’t like the things that other boys liked; I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in football, not really bothered by fast cars, and computer games were only just emerging and hadn’t yet gripped the teenage mind (though in later years I discovered I wasn’t really interested in those either!). Watching him ostracised by his family and friends left an immediate and lasting fear with me and I knew I couldn’t put myself through what he did. Instead, I buried my sexuality deep down and began to live a lie. This became my mental prison, and it ultimately contributed to my offending behaviour, which led me to become ensconced in a real prison. You might think that prison, with its macho, aggressive and testosterone-fuelled landings is a strange place to come to terms with your sexuality – yet that is exactly what I did.

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The landings of a B Cat Local prison aren’t really conducive to coming to terms with the fact that one prefers men instead of women. Everywhere I looked there was homophobia, mainly it was in the form of verbal abuse or taunting – even if the person at the receiving end was not gay. This behaviour reminded me of the school playground, but this time I was not to be put off. Enough was enough. I couldn’t have physical freedom for a number of years, and readily accepted this, but I could have mental freedom at last – and I wanted it. Slowly, I gained more confidence in telling people I met that I was gay. Even more slowly I built up confidence in challenging those who would use this against me. The most common complaint usually came from the hyper-macho ‘gym type’ muscle men who were concerned that I would look at them in the shower. I usually broke the ice by saying that without my glasses I am too short-sighted to see mine, let alone theirs! Gradually, the most amazing thing started to happen. People started accepting me for who I am – sexuality and all. I always feared that I would be rejected by people if I ‘came out’ but here, in prison, the opposite was true. The officers noticed the change in me, my new confidence and they asked if I would build upon this by helping others, and suggested that I start a support group. I jumped at the chance and, while new to the role and certainly making mistakes along the way, I got a group off the ground – something which I have done in every prison I have been in during my sentence since (3 in all, two of them with great success).

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One of the more positive things about all this is that I finally found love. Yes, it can be found in the strangest and harshest of places. The interesting thing about this for me was the level of acceptance of our relationship. Even though prison staff cannot condone relationships between prisoners, they certainly did nothing to hinder ours, even making sure that I was emotionally supported when my partner transferred to another location. And my fellow inmates were all the more supportive. During the whole of the time my partner and I were in the same prison I cannot remember a single homophobic comment or remark coming from anyone. Those who did not agree with homosexuality were able to keep their opinions to themselves while still recognising our value as individual human beings. Some two and a half years of distance has quelled our relationship, but I feel we are still being supported by fellow prisoners and prison staff (the latter offer their support by simply not making things like letter writing between us difficult). I have now faced my family with my sexuality, thanks largely to the confidence I built up on the landings and I am happy to report that there were no negative repercussions, though they struggled to understand why I felt that I couldn’t have told them sooner. It is a huge testament to the staff and the prisoners that I have met along my journey that I was able to finally find some self-acceptance and to begin to live the life that I have wanted so many years – I have finally found my freedom. With the level of homophobic hate crime on the rise in society, it would be interesting to collect some figures from the prison service about the levels of hate crime in our small individual prison communities. I’m willing

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to bet that they will be smaller in comparison, which is no small feat given the way that different personalities and characters and forced to share such close quarters in prison. Perhaps if society as a whole were encouraged to be as aware of the diversity of their communities as prisoners are, the levels of crime in general may fall? Freedom, for me, came in the form of releasing myself from my self-imposed mental chains. The next step is physical freedom and I am now looking forward to being released and not just experiencing a whole new life, but doing so with acceptance that I would have had all along if I’d opened up in the first place.

WHAT IS FREEDOM? HAVE I EVER BEEN FREE? THE ANSWERS TO THESE TWO SIMPLE QUESTIONS ARE OBVIOUS, RIGHT? Ian H., HMP Wakefield

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Liberty Ian Petrie, HMP Perth – Runner Up, Lives

Noo gaither roon abody, I’ll tell ye a tale, Fit am gaun tae dae, aince am oot o’ the gaol, Am sailin’ awa,’ far fae my island hame, An nivver nae mair, will I see it again. I’ve bent on ma foresail and heist’t ma main, Am heidit due East, tho’ ma hairts ful’ o’ pain, But freedom I’ll hae tho’, an’ nane can hurt me, As lang as my boatie an’ me’s ay at sea. Am nae re’lly fashed gin we dinna mak speed, For peace an’ quaet is aa that I need, Maybes I’ll turn Sooth and jist heid for Skye, An’ sail intae Snizort at anchor tae lie. Noo hunger an’ wint, weel they’ll nae bother me, Gin aathing I aet’ll hae come fae the sea, The difference ye’ll find aat’s atween you an me, Is you’re stuck wi’ your lot, an’ I’ll be set free, Aye, you’re stuck wi your lot, an I’ll be set free.

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Book review of John Donne’s Devotions Royales, HMP Preston – Commended We all like to read how the oppressed rise as victors over their oppressors; the weak over the strong and those most unlikely to receive justice ascend heights over and above their adversary. This process of impending liberty can often be ambiguous and many unforeseen events frequently dominate one’s circumstances before any visible signs of success are noted. Seventeenth century London is the scene. A third of the capital’s population have fallen to the bubonic plague. Prophets like those of old appeared on the streets proclaiming God’s judgement had arrived because of the sins of the nation. Donne was the Dean of St. Paul’s and had been afflicted with illness and was at the threshold of death. Probed continuously by physicians, his treatments were often vile and bizarre. The application of vipers and pigeons were used in an attempt to remove ‘evil vapours’. As he lay dying he begins a no-holds-barred wrestling match with his maker. Donne was a fighter but also a desperately weakened man. Would God hear him? Did he even exist? The question we have all asked before; why me? Donne, then, began to do what many have done before, some with success, and reprieve and some who, in vain, have tried to force the hand of God. What would Donne choose? An endless struggle ensues with Donne and God Almighty. Beset with a fear for his life, will he yield to a silent God? John Donne was in turmoil!

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Many of us would agree that in extreme times of crisis, we rationalise and try to work out things for our own good. We labour endlessly to determine why God would allow such things to happen to us – if indeed he is real? The dread of imminent death; the unknown; doubt and anxiety of not fully understanding the pain of our situation, serving only to torment us. Often through life we become acquainted with suffering that either brings about a man’s demise or aims to strengthen him. I see this in Donne’s life. I see a man who, despite all the odds, discovers something special; extraordinary! His Godly tenacity moves me to a place of seriousness; contemplation. It concedes me to detect my own apathy and limitations even to the point of wanting to deny myself of every hindrance just to know a glimpse of my own future. A future where everything will one day be tolerable, new, fresh and wholesome. Through his grief and suffering at the mercy of this dreadful disease Donne attacks God, mocks him, then grovels and pleads for forgiveness. In his despair, Donne’s attitude changes. Interestingly, he begins to re-examine his life. When looking back on all the events that had taken place in his life he gains insight and understanding. He discovers that in times of loss and affliction that he had resented, they were the very things that had brought about spiritual growth. Hardships had actually purged him of sin. His very character had been refined through the fairness of God. Poverty had taught him true dependence upon God and cleansed him from greed. Failure, imprisonment and public disgrace had rescued him from prideful ways and selfishness. Was it then, that God’s own hand had blocked Donne’s career? Would God, then, in his mercy, reinstate Donne and spare his life?

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Freedom Boris Obadiaru, aged 17, HMP YOI Warren Hill – Commended An Extract What is freedom? Before anyone can answer this almost cliché of a question, they must ask: how much does a man desire it? For everyone is free, it just depends on how free you want to be. I’ve spent the last 17 months incarcerated. I’ve only ever left prison to go to court and back. And once to get my teeth braces, which I’d had for three and a half years, removed. Now that made me feel free! These 17 months have been spent in two different youth offending institutes. Two institutes both miles away from the postcode I trapped myself in – in fear of venturing out and getting in to serious trouble. Was I free then? I was so concerned with the prestige of being respected by some and feared by many that I allowed my heath and future to suffer. I was so regularly under the influence to ‘pass the time’ and escape the shackles of the government that even when sober I was so… apathetically lethargic. My face was always so glum that I was named Dom Unjolly. My school grades dropped, my behaviour diminished and my stamina was almost nil. But it didn’t matter; after all, I wasn’t in jail like some of my friends. I could go and see a girl or buy a packet of crisps from an off licence, as long as it was within my postcode. That made me free, right? Didn’t it?

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Evidence of Freedom A de Vos, HMP Bullwood Hall – Commended Trying hard to survive in this Black rain… Black on black crime, that’s Black shame… Pictures of lost ones in a Black frame… Respect to Malcolm he got a Black aim… That’s what I really called a Black brain… Cause when he got shot He left a black stain. Red, gold and green on a Black chain… Walking around, free the Black name. Remember when we got whip With a black cane? Hanging upside down in black Black shame… Now they got a President With a black dame So called evidence of a Black brain…

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Review of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein – or Prometheus Unbound Keith Mabbitt, HMP Coldingley – Runner Up, Books I often wonder at this beautiful and fantastic story as to whether Shelley’s idea for the book was intended to express a simple fantasy or if it was some sort of visionary glimpse of a world at the time it was written, was on the brink of great industrial, scientific and medical advances. Some 200 years ago, transplanting organs, growing stem cells, even donating organs would be lived only in the minds of poets, philosophers and madmen. The most prominent question of all that this story raises, especially being aware of Shelley’s (née Wollstonecraft) ventures into women’s rights, is “does man have the right to play God?” In my view the question loses its importance as you make your way through the plethora of more essential issues raised in the story. The ‘monster’ becomes more of a prop for the reader to study and question the beliefs, ideas and morals of themselves. Who is right? Who is wrong? The monster? The creator? Or is it ourselves? Was Shelley merely forcing the arrogance we uphold, especially when confronted with our own monstrous acts, to face itself in the mirror she had produced? When we consider the almost puerile nature of the birth of this story, written as a ghost story whilst on holiday with her husband Percy and Lord Byron on the shores of Lake Garda, it is hard to believe the magnitude of its force in regards

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to questioning ‘man’s’ integrity and more so an insight into a world that we as humans may be leading ourselves. If we look at the ‘monster’, Shelley created him with all the feelings that we as humans strive for and very few are able to retain. Sensitivity, intelligence, compassion, love – his beauty came from within but we as the superior being discount this and make our judgement regardless. Every ‘ism’ known to man and woman is brought into the frame by Shelley in the most beautiful and heartfelt way. The wonderful thing about this story is that it doesn’t take an intellectual to decipher the hundreds of issues it raises and, to me, more enjoyable is that once read the self-questioning begins and the answers are eternal, changing, evolving as the individual reader observes him/herself and the world around them. Frankenstein is a beautifully crafted story that has at times been abused and misinterpreted by unsympathetic storytellers and filmmakers, which has led many seeing only a simplistic horror story at best. The only nuts and bolts within Shelley’s book are those that hold together the fabric of mankind, and not those that Hollywood uses to portray the naïve image of evil’s head. Frankenstein is more than a story, it is a door opening into a world within which we all live but fear. I have read this book many times now and will read it many more times to come.

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Freedom Abdulqadir Deylani, HMP Bullwood Hall – Commended An Extract Now, how is it possible to feel free, when you know that people are suffering? Can you obtain the peace and freedom which surrounds you? The truth is you can’t. That’s why there is a system that keeps you busy, every single day in your little world, so you don’t have the chance to think, or react to the thoughts, concerning the lives that suffer, the lives that starve and the lives that die every day. That’s why there are drugs, money corruptions and careers for everyone to chase, the one that suits one best. That’s the reality we live in, the illusion of this world. We call it freedom.

WHEN I LOOK OUT OF THE WINDOW I CAN SEE THE SEA. THE BIG OPEN SEA. AND I CAN SEE THE BARBED WIRE AND THE FENCING. THROUGH A BARRED WINDOW. PICTURES OF MY FAMILY ARE STUCK ONTO THE WALL. AND I’M STUCK IN HERE. Natha Adwarkwa, HMP YOI Warren Hill 33

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Review of Catch 22 Daniel Archer, HMP Full Sutton – Runner Up, Books

Joseph Heller’s hilarious account of the brutality of conflict is bittersweet. His characterization of the protagonists in turmoil is brilliant. The anti-war novel now represents an unwinnable situation. ‘Catch 22’ is a riddle wrapped up in a conundrum. The book exposes the lives of American pilots stationed in Italy during World War II. The hero Yossarian discovers – much to his horror – that no matter how many bombing raids he completes, the number is increased. When he reaches the required flights, to qualify for a return to the USA, the count is extended. The process continues and continues. ‘Catch 22’ is a blockbuster novel that is as pertinent today as it was when it was released in 1961. Perhaps the beginning of the hippy movement, its powerful message is immortalized in the Collins English Dictionary: ‘A situation in which a person is frustrated by a paradoxical rule or set of circumstances that preclude any attempt to escape from them.’ Yossarian is surrounded by madness. He has to deal with a Major who will only see his men when he is out. He lives with an airman who believes his cat is trying to kill him. Fearing insanity or death he fakes illness and constantly hides in the hospital. Yossarian’s adventures while feigning sickness supply numerous amusing situations. He is asked to be a dead airman because his parents have arrived to visit

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him. They know he is not their son but play along with the deception. A ridiculous predicament which is extremely funny. Our hero constantly complains about the patient in the bed next to his. The man is covered from head to toe in white bandages. Yossarian objects because he is dead. No one believes his prognosis, so the corpse remains. ‘Catch 22’ has a rich array of characters. The generals are portrayed as homicidal maniacs: the colonels are sycophantic morons; the majors as dithering idiots, and the pilots as crazed stooges. Milo, the supplies manager, sells the unit’s provisions to the Germans and pays the enemy to bomb the barracks for profit. He also tries to serve cotton as food because he is lumbered with a huge amount of the commodity. The madness of war corrupts everyone. One by one, Yossarian’s buddies are killed. If the German’s don’t shoot them down, stupidity accounts for them. The meaning of ‘Catch 22’ reminds me of my present predicament. Being a longterm prisoner in a no-win situation is no different to the meaning of the book. Many prisoners, way past their tariff, are kept in gaols because they are deemed a risk to the public. The risk can’t be proven or disproven, it only has to be implied. The example is one of many the qualifies for the Catch 22. ‘A situation in which a person is frustrated by a paradoxical rule…’ ‘Catch 22’ portrays a war. It is also pertinent to all walks of life.

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Review of We’re all Doing Time by Bo Lozoff Pride Tsiko, HMP Wandsworth – Runner Up, Books “Excuse me sir, I had a ‘ghost visit’, my partner didn’t turn up. I’m worried about her and the kids, can you allow me to make a phone call to her, so that I know if everything is okay at home?” “Sorry mate, I can’t help you.” As most of us prisoners are aware, such cold-hearted treatment from officers can easily bring a dark side in all of us. We’re all Doing Time, a book written by Bo Lozoff, is a guide for getting free. Everybody wants to feel good. Consciously or unconsciously, every living thing moves through time trying to feel more complete and satisfied than the moment before. This book is a treasure trove and a meeting about Truth, just as if you were sitting in a hidden cave or on a faraway mountaintop. The original idea behind this book was to help prisoners, but the Truth it reveals is so sacred and profound such that whoever and wherever we are, in or out of prison – we’re all doing hard time until we find freedom inside ourselves. It seems we are the unlikely bunch filled with doubts, fears and many forms of self-hatred, the upside is we happen to be the keepers of the precious flicking flame of Truth in this age, and the reason why it survives is we keep it flickering in our hearts. Access to spiritual power is blocked and it takes self-honesty and hard work of sitting quietly and still every day, no matter where we live, how we spend our days or what we did in the past. This book is a companion and encouragement

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for each of us to look inward to find a place within us which feels at peace with who we are, at peace with guesses we make as we move through life. We all would at some point love to stop lying to ourselves, screwing things up and feeling vaguely incomplete. Reading this book helps things fall into place beyond words and pictures, advocating for faith, patience and sense of humour as steps to finding life rather than just existing. The journey through the pages concerns the lives of people in many prisons; some critics have pointed out that nothing much has been said about prison reform. The writer is objective and factual on the prison systems throughout the world and he believes they are ugly, barbaric, counter-productive and insane. He also goes into detail on how someday our descendants will look back on our time with shock that such otherwise sophisticated people could’ve treated prisoners the way they do now. This excellent read is aimed at changing our vision and the writer goes on to say that change begins with looking at two worlds we live in at the same time: the outer world of appearance and the world of spirit. In the initial world, life looks different from one minute to the next, one person to the next, one age of the world to the next, but from the ‘Big View’, the world of spirit, there’s only one process going on: we’re born, we have good times and bad times, we go through a range of emotions, we face multiple problems and challenges that make us feel good or bad about ourselves, we learn things and forever wonder about other things and then move on into the unknown. To my understanding, according to the writer, if you seek to understand the whole universe, you will understand nothing at all. If you seek only to understand yourself, you will understand the whole universe.

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Freedom Is Calling Wayne Pugh, HMP Frankland – Commended Freedom is calling So answer the call Shake off the shackles The chain and the ball Taste it, embrace it Let your senses run free Put it all into words And send them to me Let me look through your eyes See what you see Please do this for me So hold on with both hands To this precious possession That makes no demands You’re stronger, much wiser And loved by us all Yes freedom is calling So answer the call.

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Accept our Freedom Jason Smith, HMP Birmingham – Runner Up, Lives People learn through trial and error. In Jack’s life he felt his errors were far removed from society. Removed from the people he had never felt belonging. Judged by people who had never known hunger. By people who laughed at the scruffy black kid and called him a tramp. Jack learned that people at school did not accept him. He started truanting. However, because he enjoyed learning the little card cut words, he never stopped learning the magic of words. Often, Jack waited from early morning for his single parent to bring home food. Shadows would lengthen and stars fill the sky, but Jack’s belly remained empty. Scared and lonely he gave himself an A+ for burying fear deep, and a Masters degree for stealing and keeping food well-stocked for siblings’ sake. Jack learned it was wrong to steal in the eyes of the law and the eyes of those people he thought different. Where he belonged, theft was normal life. It seemed alright to steal as long as he evaded capture. Prison came with numbers Jack could never forget. He learned to walk and talk in ways that showed no weakness to the predatory bullies. Ways no to get caught breaking the rules and to not be angry at things out of his control. Prisons’ walls, bars, fences, hotplate, landings, walkways, all held deep wisdom to impart when he slowed down and became in-tuned to the pulsing heart that beat didactic. The spirit of many was deeply ingrained in every footstep he retraced. Just as he saw the essence of people leak away, Jack also felt the flame of knowledge ever

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prevalent. Whether it was how to pick a lock, or how to creep and hurt with pool balls and sock, there were lessons to be learned. Jack learned how to live with endless time, locked together in struggle. The hours enclosed by four walls could have dominated his mind, leaving an opening for depression and madness. Instead the will to persevere, to better himself, to pierce destiny, helped him stay optimistic about his life. Jack clutched every opportunity to learn. Being released taught Jack many lessons too. How to live with no money and routine, because it had been taken away and none freely given back. How not to return to the easy but dangerous ways of getting back. How to pay council tax, water rates, TV licence, laundry, heating and buy food, without feeling despair slowly creeping behind and finally succumbing to the care of an institution most hated. Jack learnt prison is an ever present presence hungry to recall. Living free had turned against him. The society in which he had never felt belonging pushed him ever backward towards prison. He was not welcome. In prison again, Jack continued to learn. He had time and motivation to learn how to be accepted into society. The resources were in place for reorientation and education. Jack immersed himself into a pool of knowledge and absorbed like a sponge. He strived to meet the specifications of finding a place in society to fit in. On release dates, Jack was never free. Probation would not let go. Probation, that first defence against released criminals, placed him into a living hell where all the negatives were condensed. A hostel. A prison outside of prison, a prison embassy where rules become law and once broken, absorbed back into the faceless multitude of numbered stock. Prison provided Jack with an education. Every lesson had been re-trodden until a bold walk finally became a trudge, and still the society in which he needed to belong

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turned the sign to ‘no vacancy’. His past would never be forgotten. Over-qualified and denied work. Delivering CV after CV and attending interview after interview could have drained his spirit, but Jack’s cup remained half full and ready for more. All the years Jack spent paying for crimes, most of what he’d had before faded away. The laughs and support from family became ghostly, in limbo. Just like waiting for booked visits, he watched others pretending to be happy, until officers took him away. Jack’s close ones had given up on the family ghost. Lacking love early in life, Jack had a heart that opened readily for a partner expressing love. After all the letdown expectations and betrayals he should have been cold and cautious, but for him it was true that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have experienced love at all. Prison time had taken his heart’s desire and crushed it underfoot like a cigarette butt, more than once. The lack of contact on visits, expensive phone calls, being apart, all caused the end of relationships. Each time Jack experienced a death inside, but he had learnt, hope is everywhere for those who have the eyes to see. Jack learnt through trial and error and fifteen years’ experience of the prison system. Trapped in the cycle of prison, he ponders whether his efforts to fit in society will ever pay off. Throughout prison he bettered himself, to succeed. Now in middle age he understands clearly. To lock away criminals, prison works. To educate, prison can work. Prison as punishment, never fails; people can try, Jack reflects; but as society does not give ex-prisoners a chance, it is society who fails those released. Jack sighs and turns on the TV. He listens to a quote from the leader of the society in which he strived to belong, then his ever optimistic self turns pessimistic. He repeats the quote, “The thought of prisoners voting makes me physically sick.” Jack feels despair creep behind and speaks aloud, “So what, when having paid for their crimes and set free, do those same prisoners make you sick too?” Jack wondered if he would ever be truly free.

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The Sky, The Bard and the Nightingale David Carpenter, HMP Edinburgh – Commended A bronze blue sky hangs high over the Corstorphine Himavant Casting pastel shades over freedom within the city, Tracing paths once trodden, now will o’ the wisp, departed. A singing bard looks skyward – the good times are killing him – And hears the nightingale freely weep with joy and sorrow. The sky sings songs of freedom, clear and pure, yet longs to be Singing with the nightingale of the sad times and the good.

WHO SAY YE A WONDROUS LIFE. HAPPINESS; SUNSHINE; ROSES; HEAVEN AND EARTH. BUT MY ROSES DID NOT BLOOM; MY WONDROUS LIFE WAS SADNESS; RAIN; BLACK ROSES’ HELL ON EARTH AND DOOM. Cheryl Robinson, HMP Downview

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Freedom Claire, HMP Holloway – Runner Up, Lives I heard a lot of people talking about travelling to these different festivals, but I was only 15. My sisters would pack and go to Glastonbury every year, so when they offered to take us, we jumped at the chance. I had a good laugh whilst I was there, listening to all the different bands and DJs. Things were quite trippy. I ended up getting lost for a day or two the first time, but after that, I went every year. Even to different festivals, using different drugs and meeting different people. When I was 16, I wanted to be like my sisters, going out, getting dressed up and meeting other people. So this is where I started, firstly wanting the best clothes and shoes. Having money in my pocket to do what I wanted seemed important to me. Having the best, even though I didn’t have the money. I worked full time at a cereal factory, not bad pay, but not enough for what I wanted. I started shoplifting; Topshop; Debenhams; Warehouse. Any shop I could steal from. I’d steal to keep and steal to sell. More money, more shoes, perfumes, bags and nights out. The first time I came to prison I was 21. I knew I was coming to prison, so it didn’t shock me. I was prepared, with all my stuff packed. Me and my mum travelled to court. When the judge said 3 months my mum started crying. I assured her everything was going to be OK.

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My first days were OK, until I got into a couple of fights. I was sent down the block, GOAD’ed. Governor’s orders. First time in prison and had to spend my sentence in the block. Over the Christmas period I was there, only one book I had to read. First book and best book I probably ever read. I couldn’t wait to get out and taste my mum’s food again, and smell the fresh laundry. I also was dying for a beer and missed hugging my boyfriend.

I’M YOUNG, I’M CLEAN, I’M ALIVE AND I’M PUTTING MY LIFE BACK TOGETHER STEP BY STEP. PUTTING MY PAST BEHIND ME AND MAKING RIGHT THE WRONGS. I’M HAPPY. AND THAT IS FREEDOM TO ME. THE BEST FEELING IN THE WORLD. Sandra Hope, HMP Eastwood Park 45

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Prison Library Xmas Tree Mark Sheehan, HMP Usk – Runner Up, Lives – pine needles making the same mess as they do at home, as it should be. Something else in that bauble’s broken reflection; a small shift in perspective & ‘I’ vanishes. Too many colours, & the tinsel doesn’t balance – wouldn’t be allowed to happen at home. Best to dismiss razor walls in the corner of a wonky eye: focus on three blue chairs around a beech-effect reading table – could be Malpas library, perhaps Waterstones, a mochaless Starbucks, maybe. Always the fat xmas fairy at home: never a hollow star. If I crawl beneath, maybe a warren of tites & mites, maybe catacombs hiding blobs of happiness – bloated squirming maggoty blobs, eager to lead me home. Maybe – maybe not.

NOW THAT I’M IN PRISON I REALISE JUST HOW MUCH OF MY FREEDOM HAS BEEN TAKEN AWAY FROM ME. Tina Syson, HMP Drake Hall

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The Book That Saved My Life From Readers & Writers – the literature education programme of English PEN Edited by Irene Garrow and Philip Cowell English PEN is one of the UK’s leading literature and free speech charities, based at the innovative Free Word centre in Farringdon, London. We promote the freedom to write and the freedom to read. The founding centre of a worldwide writers’ association, established in 1921, we are supported by our active membership of leading writers and literary professionals with an elected Board led by the distinguished author Gillian Slovo. Our education programme develops the writing of prisoners, detainees, refugees, asylum-seekers and other socially-excluded groups. We also run a full programme of public events, and award prizes to outstanding British and international writers. Special thanks to Jake Arnott, Ella Simpson (HMP Holloway) and Inside Time, and to our funders The Monument Trust, A B Charitable Trust, Scotshill Trust, the Allan and Nesta Ferguson Charitable Trust, the Pack Foundation, the Morel Trust and the Limborne Trust. Support the work of English PEN – find out more at www.englishpen.org.

English PEN is a company limited by guarantee, number 5747142, and a registered charity, number 1125610.