They say education is freedom. I learned that while I was locked up
Our Longford Scholar Will Pendray graduated last week (pictured left with Trust director Peter Stanford). As he waited in line to walk out on stage to shake hands with the Vice-Chancellor, he thought about all that had happened to him in prison, and since, all that he had lost and missed and been denied and refused. And how his graduation proved wrong the people who had counted him out.
Every door slammed shut. My life was put on hold. My future, it seemed, was no longer in my hands. But the first time I opened an Open University textbook in my cell, it wasn’t just a way to pass the time. It was an act of defiance, a quiet rebellion against the limitations of a system I refused to be defined by.
At first, it didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like frustration. Prisons in this country aren’t built for learning; they’re built for punishment. The noise is relentless; shouting, alarms, doors banging. You study with one eye on your work and one eye on your surroundings, because you can’t afford to lose focus for too long. You carry books in one hand, keeping the other free, just in case.
But that was just the start
Some days, I unplugged my TV and shoved it under my bed, replacing its allure with the weight of a textbook instead. I studied through the chaos and the noise of the wing, through lockdowns that kept us behind doors for days on end, through nights when sleep was impossible, my mind racing with the life I was letting go of and the life I hoped to build when I was free.
And in those pages, I discovered a way forward. Each book I opened reminded me that, even in confinement, my mind was free to roam. Learning gave me movement in a place designed to keep me still. It allowed me to redefine myself. I wasn’t just another prisoner. I was a student.
The moment it hit me
People like me don’t often get the chance to go to university. As I sat in my seat at the graduation ceremony, watching the other students cross the stage, it hit me. Some twirled, some stopped for selfies with the vice-chancellor, others strutted with confidence like they were walking a catwalk. Their families cheered. Their friends clapped.
And I sat there, tilting my head back, widening my eyes, trying to stop the tears from falling. I wasn’t crying for them, though I was happy for their achievements. I was crying for me. For the journey that led me here.
I thought about how I was supposed to start my Master’s in 2020, but the pandemic had other ideas. I thought about the day officers frog-marched me from open conditions back to a closed prison on suspicion of something I was later acquitted for, just months before I was due to begin university.
I thought about that first morning back, when the chaplain knocked on my cell door to tell me my father had passed away in the night. I thought about attending his funeral in handcuffs, how I nearly wasn’t allowed to go at all.
I thought about all the moments that could have broken me. And yet, somehow, I kept going.
Giving up would have been easier. But I refused.
When my name was called, there would be no fancy celebration, but I would walk across that stage with my head held high.
Because I had earned my place.
Because despite everything, I was here.
The narrative needs to change
People thought it was over for me when I went to prison. But really, it was just the beginning.
Too often, we are defined by our mistakes. Society tells us that once you’ve been to prison, your future is already written. That education isn’t for people like us. That the best we can hope for is survival.
That narrative needs to change.
I’m not an exception. I’m proof of what’s possible when people in prison are given access to education, when they’re seen as more than their past. And if you’re reading this, whether you’re currently inside, recently released, or just trying to find a way forward, know this: your future is still yours to write, and every setback is an opportunity for growth.
It won’t be easy, some days you’ll want to quit. But keep going.
One day soon, you’ll walk across that stage. Not as the person they tried to confine, but as the one you fought to become. And when you do, hold your head high, because the world counted you out. But you proved them wrong.
Will Pendray recently completed an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Brighton, achieving an overall distinction. His debut poetry collection Overgrown will be published later this year.
