Tag: prison

Evidence and compassion: what is needed in our post-truth era

Author: | 13 Oct 2025

Listening to Robert Jenrick giving his speech to the Conservative Party Conference as Shadow Justice Secretary and Lord Chancellor, our law scholar Chris Walters was alarmed by how many of our leaders are currently going down the road of preferring feelings to facts.

I clutched my book in one hand and my prison ID in the other as I was escorted to the HMP Wandsworth book club on an evening in 2018. The book was Post-Truth by Lee McIntyre. It’s about the increasing trend of people believing their feelings rather than the evidence. I was reminded of it while listening to Robert Jenrick’s recent address to his party’s annual conference. It’s that clear some people have continued on that downward slope, seemingly abandoning all reason.

Jenrick delivered a speech which was equal parts cringeworthy comedy routine and dystopian nightmare. No, it isn’t accurate to say (as he did) that an Albanian man avoided deportation from this country because his child doesn’t like Albanian chicken nuggets. The case in question is complex, and concerns the welfare of a child who may have additional needs. The child’s dietary preferences were just one aspect and the judge set aside the deportation so more information could be gathered. Moreover, the decision was subsequently overturned by the Upper Tribunal, which makes Jenrick’s point all the more baseless.

What really goes on in an asylum hearing

I’ve been to an asylum hearing. They are unfairly adversarial. Despite what the media would have us believe, succeeding in an asylum claim is a difficult process. Most people seeking asylum receive less than £50 a week and basic accommodation, while trying to recover from traumatic experiences, and build a strong legal case.

The representative of the Crown, the Home Office Presenting Officer (HOPO), is often not a qualified solicitor and, while they are subject to an internal code of conduct, they are not held to the same high professional standards as solicitors.  Anthropologist John Campbell writes: ‘Indeed HOPOs are not bound by a professional code of conduct which means that, regardless of what is stated in Home Office professional standards guidelines, they are not legally required to assist the court to achieve a fair decision.’

HOPOs have often been criticised for being unnecessarily adversarial. This inequality of arms, coupled with the hostile environment introduced by Theresa May, means the demonisation of asylum seekers is set above facts, evidence, and compassion.

The vital principle of an independent judiciary

Jenrick also enlisted the help of a prop wig and zero evidence to lambast ‘activist judges’. Patricia Thom, President of the Law Society of Scotland, called his words ‘dangerous and unacceptable’, going on to say: ‘It is notable that Mr Jenrick has provided no legal basis for questioning the validity of judicial decisions with which he does not agree.’

As a qualified solicitor himself, you would expect Robert Jenrick to have more respect for evidence and the independence of the judiciary. Given his words, I don’t imagine he would pass the class I study about ‘Professional Skills and Responsibility’.

His comments about ‘two-tier justice’ were more than misleading. They are unconstitutional. Although we don’t have a single written piece of paper that makes up our constitution, the UK does have one spread across statute, common law, conventions, and tradition. One of the cornerstone conventions of our constitution is that ministers must not criticise the individual decisions of judges. This is part of the wider separation of powers; it helps ensure no branch of government wields too much power.

If you want to see the result of too much executive power, take a glance across the pond to Donald Trump’s America: masked and unidentified law enforcement agents snatching people as they got about their business; ‘Alligator Alcatraz’, where hundreds of people have gone missing; and soldiers deployed to the streets against civilians. It’s a campaign driven by misinformation and denigration of the rule of law; the courts can’t even keep up. Is this the brand of authoritarianism that Jenrick, Farage, and their ilk would have here? We must reject it with every ounce of our being.

What ‘traditional values’ truly means

I wish that, in the midst of this, we could look to Labour for support but, if anything, they seem to be courting these abhorrent views. Last month they suspended refugee family-reunion applications. That means that people who have already had their asylum claim accepted cannot be reunited with their wives, husbands or children. Shabana Mahmood, the Home Secretary, has promised to ramp up deportations, which plays right into this false narrative of immigrants being the enemy.

Any flag-waving Christian patriots would do well to remember that Jesus was a refugee. If they open the Bible, they will find any number of passages teaching compassion for asylum seekers, refugees, and immigrants. My favourite is Matthew 25:36-40: ‘For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me. […] Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did to me.’

If we genuinely want a return to our traditional values, how about the values of compassion and kindness? We stand on the precipice of a cliff. Below is hate, authoritarianism, and lies which deserve our vigorous opposition.

It’s time to reject that path. Our country’s future should be driven by law and policy which is evidence-led and compassionate, and which respects the independence of the judiciary.

Chris is a Longford Scholar studying the Diploma in Professional Legal Practice at the University of Edinburgh. He is also the Longford Trust’s fundraising manager and a trustee at the Human Rights Consortium Scotland.

 

 

 

A good news story for prison education – and what it could be…

Author: | 9 Jun 2025

With prison education under strain, our Ambassador, journalist David Shipley, finds a new report ‘incredibly encouraging’ on the effectiveness of the in-cell education channel Way2Learn, part of WayOut TV that operates in half of all prisons

Prison education is a strange beast. Everyone seems to recognise how important it is, with research by the Ministry of Justice in 2018 having found that ‘people who had participated in education whilst in prisons were significantly less likely to reoffend within 12 months of release’. Part of this may be because people who leave prison with good literacy and numeracy are more likely to find, and keep a job after release. We know, of course, that being in work is one of the most significant factors reducing someone’s likelihood of reoffending. So the Ministry of Justice, and the Prison Service, want education in prisons to be widely-available and of good quality.

Unfortunately it often falls short. Ofsted, the education standards’ body responsible for inspecting education in prisons and young offenders institutions, ‘have long been concerned about the standards of education in our prisons’.

Partly, this is due to limited budgets and the resultant challenges around hiring good teachers to work in prisons. But the environment itself is a barrier to education. Our jails are becoming less safe, with assaults up 14 per cent in the last annual figures, and serious assaults up 13 per cent. Dangerous, crowded prisons make learning hard. If a prisoner is concerned about their physical safety, they may find it almost impossible to concentrate in a lesson. Those who are worried about their safety travelling from cell to classroom may decide to stay ‘banged-up’ and avoid the risk of education entirely.

Barrier of embarrassment and shame

Another barrier to education can be shame. Around two-thirds of prisoners having literacy skills below that expected of an 11-year-old, and many dropped-out or were excluded from the education system. As a result, and unsurprisingly, they find the thought of sitting in a classroom and having their lack of education made public embarrassing and shameful. This fear alone can deter many prisoners from participating in education.

In order to address these barriers, WayOutTV created Way2Learn a decade ago. This service offers 18 scheduled courses, covering everything from music and creative writing to food hygiene and construction. There are also courses on broader skills, like goal-setting and running a business. Prisoners participate by watching the course segments and then completing and submitting worksheets to Way2Learn, where they are marked. Results got towards qualifications awarded by UWE.

‘An avenue of learning’

Now academics from UWE have conducted an impact evaluation of Way2Learn. What they’ve found is incredibly encouraging. Prison staff, prison governors and former Way2Learn students all have very positive views on the service. Way2Learn gives prisoners a sense of purpose, improving their mental health, while also developing useful skills. It also provides ‘an avenue of learning for…men who struggle to engage with more mainstream or traditional learning’.

The report  is a fascinating and encouraging document. After reading it I reflected that Way2Learn shows what the future of much prison education could be. The Prison Service is determined to increase the use of technology in our jails. More and more prisons are rolling-out in-cell ‘laptops’, which inmates can use to contact staff, email friends and family and perform prison ‘life-admin’ tasks (but not go on the internet).

Way2Learn could and should be offered on these systems, allowing prisoners to study a wide range of subjects in their cells, and removing the need for paper forms. I do hope that Prisons’ Minister James Timpson reads this evaluation . It’s clear that the prison service could do much more by working constructively with Way2Learn.

Read our scholars’ stories

What funding is available for people with convictions or in prison to study for a degree? See our Scholarships page.

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.

The trick is to realise that it is for you

Author: | 26 Mar 2024

Longford Scholar, Darren Robert, has just graduated in scriptwriting from the National Film and Television School. Today he is in the running for a dream job at the BBC.  Here, he traces it all back to prison and daring to believe that higher education could be for someone like him – and someone like you.

There are a few things in my life that have been consistent; my mom, brother and sisters (except when my mother kicked me out), the neighbourhood I grew up in, the friends I had from that neighbourhood, being broke, and the feeling that somehow, I was going to make it out and everything would be okay. For a long time, I thought music would be that way out, but after getting locked up again at 25, after just being released at 25, whilst in the midst of working on my mixtape, I thought this music thing might not work out.

Crime was never really something I wanted to do; it was just something I fell into. Even while I was making money serving the local addicts, I didn’t really care for it. Knowing I wouldn’t be let back into the free world until the age of 28, I felt like that would be too old start all over again. Whilst lying on the top bunk letting my mind wonder, something that had been pushed to the back of my mind for some years came to the forefront. I watched my early life play out like the opening to a TV show; the journey back home from church late on a Sunday night, driving through the bleak run-down street known for prostitution that leads into my neighbourhood right next to the vicarage with the wall spray painted ‘Give me life, give me a job pop’. I always wondered who pop was, and what kind of jobs he had to offer. The whole thing became so clear to me.

At that moment I decided that I was going to write TV. But I had no idea what I was doing. I just got a sheet of A4 lined paper, wrote names in the margin and wrote dialogue. I didn’t realise I had to set the scene, or how I was supposed to lay it out. After refusing to go to education in the prison for a few weeks, as I knew I could get an extra gym session instead, the officers told me I’d be going on basic if I didn’t get down there.

‘You shouldn’t be here, you should be in university.’

So, I went down, not wanting to lose my TV, and was put into an English class. English was pretty much the only thing I was good at in school academically, though my grades didn’t prove that. When I was young my mom would make me stand in front of the heater and do my spellings while she grilled me from the settee. So, I guess I owe my reading and writing skills to her.

In this English class on this one day that I went down to education, there was a substitute teacher from the Open prison across the road. Real nice lady, very smartly dressed, I even noticed the classy Rolex she had on. She gave me a piece of work to do, which was to read a paragraph, and then write a paragraph about it. I don’t remember what it was I read or wrote but I remember her reaction to it. ‘Ughh, with writing like this you shouldn’t be here, you should be in university!’

It was strange to hear knowing that my schoolteachers most likely felt I was exactly where I belonged. I felt very encouraged by her response, and in my head, I was thinking,‘funny you say that, I was just thinking about being a writer.’

I never saw her again after that day, but I consider her a guardian angel who came to point me in the right direction. I was shipped out a few days later to a Cat C prison. When the education people came to see me about what I’d like to do whilst at their establishment, I said, ‘I want to get into screenwriting’. I didn’t think that would be something the prison would offer but I had heard about Open University and hoped there may be something I could do through them.

Plus, I thought if I could do something like that, it would keep officers off my back about going to work. The lady found me a course with Stonebridge Associated Colleges in Scriptwriting for Film, TV, Stage and Radio. I also found in the prison library two sheer assets for what I wanted to do; Teach Yourself Screenwriting, and the script in book form to Reservoir Dogs, one of my favourite films. I’ll be honest, I took the books from there and kept them for myself until I was released, because I just knew that I needed them more than anyone.

‘Me of all people, an A+, I couldn’t believe it’

When the work started coming through, I got straight to it. I put up pictures of Bafta and Oscar awards in my cell for motivation (and also manifestation) and knuckled down, although it took me a lot longer to get work done as I was writing scripts by hand and learning as I went along. The tutor was very forgiving with the time I was taking, and as there were no deadlines. I didn’t feel pressured. He also seemed to like my work. I sent the last piece of work off after my release in 2016 and was ecstatic when they sent me back a diploma with an A+ grade. Me of all people, an A+, I couldn’t believe it. But I didn’t want to stop there. I wanted to continue learning. I just knew for certain I was on the right path this time. I looked up local university courses and finally settled on Creative Writing and Film and TV Studies at Wolverhampton University, where I started in September that year.

I had never written essays before and struggled with the academic side of things, but creatively I was doing well. I was learning the craft quickly and got praise for it by my tutors. But this was mostly in the form of short stories. There wasn’t much actual screenwriting going on. Having had to repeat a year as I lacked in some work, my final year was from 2019-2020. By this time, I had grown slightly bored of the course, as it wasn’t specific to what I wanted to do. A friend and mentor of mine that I had met on a media course whilst inside had told me about the National Film and Television School and said that’s where I needed to be. He said that’s the cream of the crop. It’s where shows like Eastenders come and cherry pick their writers. He said you go there, and you complete the course, and they give you an agent. I thought I should check it out.

‘I feel like I know who I am again, and where I’m going’

I had some mental pushback, believing that a school like that probably wouldn’t want someone like me, but when I went down for the Open Day, I saw an actual Bafta and an actual Oscar award in the flesh, and I was immediately sold! I knew I had to be here. I completely forgot about the undergrad and focused on the NFTS. It was risky, as the course only accepts 10 people per year, but I didn’t care. I filled in the long application form and attached a pilot script I had written and sent it off. On my birthday that year in July, I got the email saying I was accepted, and I was over the moon. But in December I was arrested again, and in January I was sent to prison for 6 months. I was due to start in February. I was gutted. I thought it was over. But the school stood by me and allowed me to defer. I started in 2022, made the move to Buckinghamshire and got to work. I had no idea how I was going to pay for the course, or my living, but luckily landed a scholarship from the BBC which covered it.

Two years and some change later, I am now a Master of Arts, Film and Television, I have an agent and I am in the running to work on a high-level TV show. None of this could have been done without all the help along the way from tutors who work to see people making use of their talents. Ever since I made that decision to start writing, I’ve felt like I know who I am again, and where I’m going. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s definitely been worth it, and now I can look forward to the future.

I truly believe that education is the key. The trick is to realise within yourself that it is for you too. Don’t believe what you’ve been made to believe your entire life, that you belong in a box, mentally or physically. Education can and will open your mind and your life to new realities, and you can bring forth the positive lifestyle change that you desire.

Don’t be afraid, make the decision.

If you believe you could do a university degree, too, contact Clare Lewis, the Longford Trust’s scholarship manager to find out how.

Reduce demand for prisons, not meet it

Author: | 22 Oct 2023

Longford Scholar Chris Walters (currently working at the Trust’s Fundraising Manager) shared some reflections on October 22 with readers of the Independent in a personal Comment article for the paper about the plans the government has announced to cope with the overcrowding crisis in prisons. Drawing on his own experiences, Chris questioned whether the proposals will actually ease the problem. We are sharing the article here, with thanks to the Independent.

 

With the government’s latest plans to address our prisons crisis – the jail population is at an all-time high, with as few as 550 spare places left in the system – justice secretary Alex Chalk asks us to believe the unbelievable. He cites Covid-19 and industrial action as the significant pressures filling up our prison estate. But even in 2015, 60 per cent of our jails were overcrowded.

Again, Mr Chalk lauds his government’s efforts to return offenders on parole who breach their licence conditions to prison, even if it contributes to overcrowded jails as if this didn’t happen before, and isn’t indicative of wider failures in the criminal justice system

Criminals are “dangerous” – except for the ones the government has earmarked under its proposals to free up capacity: those convicted of less serious offences who warrant early release, and those minor offenders being spared a jail term altogether. It is a plan that belies a wilful misunderstanding of the criminal justice system.

‘I’ve witnessed swarms of rats, tried to keep clean in filthy showers, and in 2018, during the freezing Beast from the East, I worried I wouldn’t survive the night as icy wind blew in through the broken window.’

I served two years in prison, from 2018 to 2019 – first at HMP Wandsworth, and then at HMP Ford. Despite what Mr Chalk may believe, there aren’t spacious single cells just waiting to be transformed into doubles. Shoving more prisoners into a cell is hardly a solution to an overcrowding issue. The bleached bones of the UK prison estate have long been picked clean by ambitious ministers just like him who demand that prison governors find more capacity.

And what are these non-essential maintenance works which Mr Chalk says have now been stopped, thereby opening up more cells for use? From all accounts, our prisons are run-down and unhygienic. I’ve witnessed swarms of rats, tried to keep clean in filthy showers, and in 2018, during the freezing Beast from the East, I worried I wouldn’t survive the night as icy wind blew in through the broken window.

All the while prisoners and staff are battling for survival, they don’t have the capacity to work on rehabilitation. And so, when prisoners are released, they often return – and so the prison population rises, and the government responds with a vow to get tougher on crime and builds more prisons.

Meanwhile, there is a growing number of prisoners on remand, not yet convicted of a crime, which is an indication of a wider problem in the criminal justice system. There is a severe backlog of criminal cases – some people are now waiting five years for a trial date – and the government’s insistence on locking people up for longer will not help.

Mr Chalk crassly described the proposed growth in the prison estate as meeting demand, but it’s more apt to say it is feeding a fire. Until there is ground-up radical reform, we will have this same conversation again and again and again.

People on remand are held in prison conditions so poor that two separate European nations have recently refused to extradite people to this country if they face imprisonment. The justice secretary has proposed to increase the sentence discount for people who plead guilty. He said this is to “[…] encourage people to plead guilty at the first opportunity”. Those on remand are presumed to be innocent, and when held in such poor conditions, it is especially unjust and immoral for him as the Lord Chancellor – upholder of our legal system – to coerce them into pleading guilty.

‘It doesn’t matter how good your education programme is if prisoners are confined to their cells for most of the day in overcrowded jails’

The government has given some ground, it seems, almost begrudgingly. Mr Chalk has described Imprisonment for Public Protection (IPP) sentences as a “stain on our justice system”, and yet only pledges to implement one of the 22 recommendations found in the report by parliament’s Justice Committee, which examined IPP sentences. Further use of community orders and a reduction in short custodial sentences are welcome, but don’t “grasp the nettle”, as Mr Chalk puts it. Most prisoners are serving custodial sentences of over a year and won’t be affected. Moreover, these plans put further strain on services inextricably linked to the prison system such as probation, healthcare and housing. It will inevitably be charities who pick up the slack.

Actual long-term reform gets short shrift from Mr Chalk. He has pledged that prisons will be “geared to help offenders turn away from crime, to change their ways, and become contributing members of society”. But he says nothing about how that is to be achieved.

Prisons minister Damian Hinds has rightly recognised the importance of education in reducing reoffending, promising a brand new Prison Education Service. This is a great move, but meaningless unless the issue of offending is addressed holistically. It doesn’t matter how good your education programme is if prisoners are confined to their cells for most of the day in overcrowded jails.

‘We can reduce the demand for prisons by meeting the needs of our people’

The government is well aware that the most important factors in reducing reoffending are education, employment, housing and maintaining family ties. Yet it seems they are more concerned with increasing the quantity of their prisoners than the quality of their prisons. A quality prison should reduce the prison population, as we have seen in Sweden, Norway and the Netherlands.

The justice secretary should seek to reduce demand for prisons by lobbying in cabinet for wider reform. Prison staff and Legal Aid solicitors’ pay must reflect the important role they play in our society. Prisons must meet minimum basic standards to ensure prisoners re-enter society with dignity. The National Health Service must expand and receive more funding to better address mental health issues in the community. The government must do more to prevent homelessness and poverty.

Overcrowded prisons do not exist in a vacuum separated from the other pressures on society. They are the result of inadequately addressing those pressures. We can reduce the demand for prisons by meeting the needs of our people.

 

Going into Uganda’s prisons: a journey in two parts

Author: | 29 Aug 2023

In July, two of our scholars went to Uganda on a travelling scholarship, funded by the Henry Oldfield Trust, to spend the month working alongside the charity Justice Defenders in the country’s jails. Here Victoria, one of the two, reflects on what was for her a transformative journey. The good things that happen in Uganda’s prisons, she argues, set a good example to the UK

When I embarked on a journey to Uganda on a Longford Trust travelling scholarship, and was hosted there by Justice Defenders, little did I know that this adventure would challenge my perceptions, reshape my perspectives, and leave an indelible mark on my life. For six long years, I had vowed to never step foot inside a prison again, scarred by the wasted time of my previous incarceration. However, fate had other plans as I found myself breaking that vow and venturing into nine different prisons within just three weeks, this time not as an inmate, but as a visitor and advocate.

My Ugandan experience began in the vibrant city of Kampala, where I was immediately captivated by the beauty of the land. The lush forests, diverse trees, and bountiful crops painted a vivid picture of nature’s abundance. However, beneath this beauty lay a complex reality – the livelihoods of many Ugandans depend on agriculture and self-employment, leading to a cycle of imprisonment due to petty crimes.

The journey commenced with visits to three prisons in Kampala – the Luzira female institute and two male prisons. Here, I was introduced to the coloured labels that defined sentences within Ugandan institutions: yellow for remand and short sentences, orange for longer terms, and white for those with death sentences. Inside the female institute, I met incredible women, and their children, each wearing their sentences with resilience. They were part of Justice Defenders, a group empowering individual prisoners who lacked financial means with legal knowledge so as to represent themselves in court.

Helen and Grace, two of these remarkable women, had transformed themselves into paralegals after receiving training from Justice Defenders. Helen’s words resonated deeply: “Courts can be frightening… Uganda v Helen, and it’s mind-blowing, the whole country against me. I hated prosecution when I was in court, but studying law has made me realise they are just exercising their jobs.”

The empowerment these women gained through legal education was not just about personal transformation; it was about helping their fellow inmates and advocating for justice. As I conversed with these women, their compassion, resilience, and commitment to change were palpable. They were eager to learn about the UK’s Indeterminate Sentences for Public Protection (IPP) and Extended Determinate Sentences (EDS) system, expressing concern and curiosity about its implementation. Their thirst for knowledge was fuelled by their desire to transform not only themselves but their communities as well.

Heading into a male prison in Kampala, the atmosphere felt different. The men were serious, contemplative, and structured. With a focus on helping newcomers navigate the legal system, the male paralegals embraced their roles as “fellow members of Justice Defenders”. Their dedication to legal education and rehabilitation was awe-inspiring. The emphasis on knowledge, articulated with seriousness and conviction, showcased the transformational power of education and purpose.

‘For six years, I had vowed to never step foot inside a prison again. However, I found myself breaking that vow and venturing into nine different prisons within just three weeks’

When my journey moved on to the mid-central Mubende region in Uganda, there was a shift in focus from the city’s prisons to a wider community engagement. Justice Defenders extended its reach beyond prison walls, working to reintegrate released individuals back into society. In many communities, acceptance of ex-convicts was a challenge, leading Justice Defenders to conduct community awareness sessions and radio talk shows, collaborating with legal professionals and community leaders to foster understanding and second chances.

The establishments in Mubende were largely farm prisons, emphasising rehabilitation through agricultural activities. Paralegals played a crucial role due to limited staff, and officers often collaborated closely with inmates to foster personal growth and skills development. The dedication and training of staff within Uganda’s prisons stood out as a remarkable difference from other systems. The emphasis on rehabilitation and transformation was evident, reflecting the belief that every citizen has a role to play in prison reform.

During a visit to the crown court in Mubende, the dynamics of Uganda’s legal system unfolded before my eyes. Plea bargaining took centre stage, with many men choosing to plead guilty to avoid lengthy trials or higher court proceedings. Sentencing in Uganda diverged from what I am accustomed to, and the absence of a formal criminal record system intrigued me. This unique approach sought to reintegrate individuals seamlessly into society after their release.

One profound experience in Mubende was witnessing a prison governor advocating for inmates in court. This personal touch emphasised rehabilitation and the belief in second chances, fostering a sense of hope among the inmates. The stories of individuals like Paul, who had endured years of imprisonment due to injustice, revealed the strength of human spirit and the power of advocacy in the face of adversity.

‘a common thread emerged – the transformative power of education and empowerment’

Throughout my journey, a common thread emerged – the transformative power of education and empowerment. Inmates turned paralegals were not defined by their pasts; they were defined by their newfound purpose, knowledge, and commitment to change. Their dedication to legal education and their communities was inspiring, reminding me of the importance of viewing individuals beyond their mistakes.

As I reflect on my time in Uganda, gratitude fills my heart. The opportunity to learn, connect, and witness the dedication of both inmates and advocates was a gift beyond measure. The experience left an indelible mark on me, shaping my understanding of justice, rehabilitation, and the potential for transformation. My journey with the Longford Trust and Justice Defenders was not just a visit; it was a transformative voyage that redefined my perspective and enriched my life.

Want to know more about our travelling scholars and their trip in July 2023 to Uganda.  Read more here.

What Uganda’s prisons can teach us

Author: | 22 Aug 2023

In July, two of our current Longford Scholars were awarded travelling scholarships by the Longford Trust so they could spend a month in Uganda working in its prison system with the charity, Justice Defenders.  One of them compares what he saw there with what he had experienced in a UK jail – for better and for worse.

Asanta Sana and welcome to my blog about the recent trip I made to Uganda to work with the NGO Justice Defenders. I learnt this chant as I went into Luziro Men’s Prison in the capital, Kampala. It is a sign of appreciation and greets you in the most respectful way. I heard it in all 12 of the prisons I visited during my time there, both in the city and in the rural areas. To say I was nervous stepping into an African prison is an understatement, but that chant made me feel at ease.

I kept asking myself was how on earth had I ended up in a Ugandan prison? Luckily this time I wasn’t getting banged up at roll call. Instead, I was exchanging my experiences of prison in the UK with prisoners there, and learning from the Justice Defenders. It had been a big step for me applying for Longford Trust’s travelling scholarship (supported by the Henry Oldfield Trust) to go to Uganda. I had only been released 18 months earlier and I hadn’t been abroad for 16 years. But like always, the team at the trust reassured me that I would be in safe hands and have my eyes open to international justice. They weren’t wrong…

“Welcome to the Pearl of Africa” read the sign as I landed in Uganda. The humidity was stifling and the insects gave me a warm welcome by defeating my repellent. The boda boda’s were ready.

Driving to Kampala from the airport had me in awe. The scenery was amazing, a 10-storey mansion adjacent to a tin-shack, both surrounded by the greenest of gardens. The closer I got to the city centre, the busier the streets became.  Downtown Kampala is a hive of activity. I could have done my shopping for my whole four-week stay within the first five minutes of arriving there without even leaving the car. Freshly-picked fruits, cleverly balanced on top of heads, plastic containers, and even a set of car window wipers were just a few of the items available if I had wound down the window. This new way of life was going to take a bit of getting used to.

Slowly adjusting to my new surroundings, it was time to meet the Justice Defenders. I arrived at their office, a lovely house transformed into a well-structured workspace with a spacious back garden. The team introduced themselves and gave me the warmest of welcomes. Soon I was on the road again, this time to Luziro Women’s Prison. The prison staff made us feel comfortable and introduced us to the Officer in Charge (OC).

Listening to her talk about the women in her care was touching, her passion and humanity moving. I asked about violence and self-harm, as this is a major problem we face in the UK prison system, but in reply learnt that the OC hadn’t broken up a fight or reported an incident of self-harm since she started running the prison. And she had been there for many years, it is worth noting.

At first it seemed hard to believe, but as soon as we started walking around the grounds any doubt I had was gone. The women were calm, interactive and looked out for one another. The epitome of this came when we met the paralegals among the prisoners. The Justice Defenders’ model is to equip those inside with law- and legal-research skills so that they can use them to represent their fellow inmates.

These trained paralegals do this in the Justice Defenders office, a large portakabin located in the centre of the prison. They have internet access, up-to-date laptops and a library of law books. Each morning, the paralegals open their surgery and interview fellow prisoners. They are trained to look for unfair practice, misapplication of the law and mitigating circumstances. When they identify any of these, they will advocate on behalf of the inmate. Watching them in action was astounding for me. We have similar mentoring going on in UK prisons but there always seemed, to me anyway, a power imbalance where inmates often disliked being told what to do by a fellow inmate. Yet this model was replicated in all of the prisons I visited. After a bit of thought, I put it down to the Justice Defenders.

In Uganda, legal aid is not a thing. Therefore, if you have no money, the only way, to get help with your case is through taking advice from a prisoner-paralegal.

It explains why the Justice Defenders are heralded as “gods” within the Ugandan prison system. In visit, the inmates and staff would perform poems and sing music all in praise of Justice Defenders. I felt lucky to be a part of a team that had such a powerful impact on people’s lives.

I found it difficult delivering sessions to those in the prisons on stress management since those listening to me seemed super chilled and happy. However, once I had gained the trust of the prisoners, they opened up and spoke about how the cramped conditions often left them feeling stressed and claustrophobic.

Seeing the way they had to live, and hearing the accounts of how tough that was, made me feel very emotional. Most of the prisons are overcrowded, and the small living space available had almost ten times the optimal capacity housed there. It was a sight for sore eyes. How do you remain hopeful and energetic in such conditions, I asked the guys. They simply answered, “we have each other, and we get some nice food”.

Such a positive attitude made the conditions easier to bear. Some in the men’s prisons referred to the OC as “Father”, testament to the way they are looked after. It really felt like a family unit in most of the prisons.

So, what have I brought back from visiting prisons and the courts in Uganda? Gratitude for the UK legal aid system for one thing. Having access to legal representation, regardless of income, is vital in a fair justice system. My biggest conundrum is wondering how our system is so violent and rates of self-harm are so high when, in a system in Uganda with such challenging conditions, there are no such problems. I still haven’t come up with an answer, but I am working on it.

On a personal level, I am following the Ugandan tradition of being appreciative for the good things I have in my life. And I am more committed than ever to prison reform as well as truly grateful for the opportunity made possible by the Longford Trust, the Henry Oldfield Trust and Justice Defenders.

More details of our travelling scholarships as part of our employability programme

 

 

 

Closing the Education Gap for Prisoners

Author: | 28 May 2023

Prison is often described as ‘a microcosm of society’ but that bears little resemblance to what goes on behind the walls, reports our current Longford Scholar Carolyn*, who is doing a PhD in women’s education provision in prisons. So much potential is going to waste because of the failure of prison education to provide the challenges that match the needs and hopes of prison learners.

During my induction at my first prison, like all new prisoners, I undertook initial education assessments. These are designed to provide a snapshot of ability. The prison teachers then looked at the floor while explaining to me that prison rules required me to undertake Level 2 English and Maths qualifications, despite me having been a teacher before my interaction with the criminal justice system, with a degree in English Literature, a PGCE and a Masters degree in education. My experience of education in custody was from the start characterized by frustration, inflexibility and short-sightedness.

No other accredited qualifications were available at the prison. Instead, I applied for an external course funded by the Prisoners’ Education Trust. I chose Copy Editing but, when I was transferred to a different prison, my course book was lost in the move. I was told I was unable to request new materials or take on a new course without completing the first.

Failing has no consequences

In 2021-22, Ofsted inspections were carried out in 22 prisons. Only one was deemed to be offering a decent standard of education. If similar results had been reported by the same organization for 22 schools outside the prison walls, urgent action would have been taken, new staff brought in, and ‘special measures’ imposed. In prison, such poor judgements appear to have no consequences at all.

The 2022 Ofsted report of my first prison found that the education department ‘requires improvement’ across all five of its categories. Whilst this two-word judgement captures much of my experience there, however, it does not reflect the handful of wonderful, supportive and inspiring teachers, committed to improving the attainment and prospects of their learners. If only they could be given autonomy to do their jobs, and offer basic training in any areas learners want to upskill in, real and positive change could be achieved.

The ups and downs

My second prison was at the other end of the M4.  In contrast to the first, it seemed to be an educational utopia with a much wider curriculum, including many qualifications on offer, all of which were consistently oversubscribed. I jumped at the opportunity to take the Level 2 Fitness Instructor course. And when I wasn’t in the gym, I could usually be found in the gardens doing a horticulture qualification.

When I was released from prison towards the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic, this learning became the foundation for a lockdown project to redesign part of my parents’ garden. Both of the courses I took in that second prison also arguably benefitted my mindfulness and wellbeing but still I was left wondering to what extend they had been successful and elevating in an educational capacity.

Employed as a Teaching Assistant at the second prison, my role was to support other prison learners with the Functional Skills courses (equivalent to GCSE level in English and maths). Those who made progress took pride in their achievements, but I also noticed that some made little-to-no progress. When I asked them about it, they openly explained that they failed the exams on purpose to ensure that they could stay on the course, in a warm and dry classroom, with ready access to biscuits. If they had passed it, they said, it would have automatically resulted in being timetabled to work in the gardens or kitchens.

Gender stereotyping

Like many others in prison, I experienced the disparity that exists in the regime there between the systemic dismantling of the self and the confiscation of agency on the one hand, and the expectation that I would better myself and magically emerge rehabilitated on the other. The futility and Kafka-esque routine of prison dampens motivation and aspiration. Yet prisons are teeming with untapped potential desperate to be harnessed.

As a minute 4% of the total prison population in the UK, women often feel sidelined in a prison system that is not built for them. The education arena is no different. As an education offer, hair and beauty courses cater for a tiny proportion of the female cohort, but the reality is that women in prison want to improve their circumstances as long as there is relevant opportunity. Less gender-stereotyped courses would be enthusiastically received. Accredited and practical courses such as catering and hospitality are, to be fair, becoming increasingly more available in prisons. This is excellent progress but there is still a long way to go to meet the needs of women in prison.

What success looks like

There is potential for prisons to reduce radically the cost of reoffending (standing at £18.1 billion per year, according to published Ministry of Justice figures in 2019) across the board. At the very least what is needed is a review of the current limited education offer for women and the introduction of some intelligent changes. The availability of education at an appropriate level is paramount, as is curriculum content that will support a woman to invest in a positive future on release. Access to improved digital learning tools, and also supervised access to the internet, would help to level the playing field, especially for those taking distance learning courses.

My experience of prison education was mixed but it has given me the blueprint for my research PhD – exploring women’s experiences of, and access to, education in prison. With the support of a Longford Scholarship and mentor, I am keen to begin exploring a gender-responsive and trauma-informed approach to education in women’s prisons. This would mean that women in prison have access to education opportunities to help them elevate their circumstances and live a positive future, free from crime. This could have a significant positive impact on intergenerational offending, and hence reducing offending rates for both men and women.

 (*Scholar’s name has been changed)

If you feel you could benefit from a Longford Scholarship, or know someone who could, contact Clare Lewis for details about how to apply.

 

 

“You Alright, Mate?” 

Author: | 10 Sep 2021

Introducing Chris. Chris is a new Class of 2021 Longford scholar who starts university this Autumn.

Here he explores the unwritten rules of prison, and post-prison, encounters….

When we used to pass each other in prison, whether inside or out, in browbeating heat and in rain that wriggles up your sleeves, you would say, “You alright, mate?” And I wondered if you really meant it. Were you just saying, “I acknowledge your existence,” which is, I suppose, still meritable in its own way, or did you really, genuinely care?

If I had said, “No, I’m not alright,” (which I often was not), would you have frozen mid-step, concerned and aghast at my change of answer? Would you have invited me over for tea and sat me down for a chat? Would you have listened to me worry about where I was going to live or fret about getting into University? What if I admitted I’d missed my brother’s wedding and that my partner was leaving me? Would you have told me it would be alright? Hugged me? Got me put me on an ACCT**?

If the answer to all of these is “No”, then I would rather you hadn’t acknowledged me at all.

Twice in one week when someone asked the question I said “Yes, I’m alright,” and they replied “Yeah, I’m good thanks,” which really underlined to me how meaningless the whole interaction was.

Some people didn’t say anything to me when we passed; not even a, “You alright, mate?” and I’m not sure if I resent them or admire their courage for breaking the mould. Other people didn’t used to say it but then they started to – like the guy I helped get a new mattress, or the man whose Comp 1** I wrote. Which led me to believe there might just have been some sentiment buried within it.

I often thought after our exchange about how many we might have left in us before one of us was released.

Neither of us knew we were saying goodbye by saying “You alright, mate?” but one day I doubt either of us remember, we did- and you were gone like yesterday’s bread.

I thought our performance well-rehearsed. But when I see you in Epping Forest we silently, mutually, telepathically decide to improvise. You are taller, your hair less wavy, and missing the roll-up that lived behind your ear but it is you. Our eyes lock and our hands come together as if that is how we always greet each other and this time I say it, “You alright, mate?”

I’m acutely aware of those around me. My brother and his wife, her sisters and brother, her sister’s boyfriend, his wife and their four kids – I’d never met most of them until today. I wonder if you and I will bravely attempt a longer conversation; if I can introduce you to them and say, “This is a man I have never told you about but here he is. The extent of our relationship is that we used to ask each other if we were alright up to three times a day without ever meaning it for more than a year.”

You say, “Where do I know you from?”

It strikes me as an odd question when we are already shaking hands.

“You were in Ford,” I reply, pointedly leaving out the ‘HMP’ in case your companion isn’t aware.

“Yes,” you say, “What’s your name?”

“Chris,” I say. “My name is Chris.”

We freeze there, like two dancers unsure of who is supposed to lead. My tongue caresses my bottom lip as I begin to form a word. I want to tell you about all that has changed: that I have a job, a girlfriend, somewhere to live, a scholarship to University; that it all has turned out better than I could have hoped – but I think how pompous I’ll sound and the words die with a breath on my lips.

“Who’s this?” My niece says, cutting through the tension in the way that only a child can.

“My…friend,” I say, hoping you won’t object.

“And these are your…?” you say.

“My family. This is my family.”

And that feels strange yet correct for me to say, like a stiff new shoe that fits just right.

I feel the moment slipping away and move to end it.

“Alright,” I say, “Good to see you. You take care.”

“Alright,” you say.

And we’re away: two boats shunted off the docks; two birds taking wing; two prisoners, free.

—————-

** Assessment, Care in Custody and Teamwork, or ACCT, is the official term for suicide watch

** Prison complaint form

 

Chris is studying a law degree with a Patrick Pakenham Award.