Tag: Longford scholar

A green forces helmet and a black mortar board

Facing up to identity issues

Author: | 27 May 2025

Scholar Isaac Rasmussen is proud to have been a Royal Marine. But what happens when you’re not anymore? He reflects on belonging, loss and forging a new identity.

In my first blog for The Longford Trust, I touched on identity. I mentioned how identity was a major factor in how difficult I found transitioning from military to civilian life, which subsequently contributed to me falling foul of the law. I posted about that blog on social media and it sparked some interesting conversation between my friends and former Royal Marine colleagues.

I am proud to be able to call myself a Bootneck (Royal Marine) but I do not think of myself as the most ‘corps pissed’ as we would describe a person whose blood runs with the corps pattern colours, (blue, yellow, green and red, if you are interested). Nevertheless, once I had left the corps, the contrast of military and civilian worlds set in, and I suddenly find myself in a crisis of identity. With hindsight, I should have seen it coming but, as I was leaving the Royal Marines with a particularly bad taste in my mouth, why would I be bothered about an identity I no longer ‘cared’ for?

Identity crisis

Being in the military is a defining identity. The Royal Marines provided me with the opportunity to sink my teeth into something that would scratch an innate need to test myself, take risks. I would say lean into it, if you must. Walk it, talk it, breathe it, but keep something for yourself, something defining outside of the world you have become one with. Be proud but be prepared to move on. Find a replacement for the itch. It doesn’t have to be like for like: risk is risk, the stakes don’t have to always to be as high, or dangerous.

Veterans give a chunk of their lives to their country, sometimes most of their adult lives. When you leave, the wages stop but the brotherhood that you have become part of also fades. Not because it is not strong, more that it is just not practical to keep up that level of camaraderie after you leave. When the noise falls away and the basic responsibilities of life begin, you are left with less like-minded people to rely upon, and a level of pride that will not allow you to ask for help.

Taking on a new identity

I struggled, and I’m not the only one. Many veterans have been left, it seems, with PTSD, a high suicide rate, alcoholism and growing numbers within the prison system.  Yes, it’s about money, finding work but it’s also about identity. Becoming a career criminal could become your identity.

So who am I now? I’m a student, doing a degree, with ambition, a new story to tell. I often feel out of place in my new town, with new goals and new environments. However, academia and the world of journalism and media have welcomed me and my experiences with open arms – constantly pushing against all my doubts and reminding me that my differences, my experiences, in many ways, give me an upper hand.

Filling the void

The thrill now is in meeting deadlines at university, achieving a goal at work, making friends, public speaking, and exploring my country. This is what I intend to focus on, to fill the void after leaving life in the military, to help myself guard against making damaging decisions.

The challenges I have faced since leaving prison have been difficult – and why should they not be?  Success is born and bred in facing difficulties and finding the right direction on the compass of life. It is where those like me, with fire in their belly, find ourselves and our identity.

Read Isaac’s previous blog.

One man Will dressed in a graduation gown with a certificate, being congratulated by another man Peter

They say education is freedom. I learned that while I was locked up

Author: | 13 Feb 2025

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.