The Book That Saved My Life

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PEN Dust Jacket 01_12 v2.pdf 1 25/01/2012 16:48

An English PEN book

READERS & WRITERSwith a foreword by Jake Arnott

THE BOOK THAT SAVED

MY LIFE

First published in Great Britain in 2012by 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 WritingJake Arnott

Introduction – Words in ActionIrene Garrow

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

I Had a BeginningStephen Barraclough, HMP Lewes – First prize, Lives

FreedomCarol Clarke, HMP New Hall – Runner Up, Lives

InvisibleAshley Atkinson, HMP YOI Wetherby – Commended

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

FreedomDarren Jenkins, HMP Shepton Mallet – Runner Up, Lives

LibertyIan Petrie, HMP Perth – Runner Up, Lives

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

FreedomBoris Obadiaru, aged 17, HMP YOI Warren Hill – Commended

Evidence of FreedomA de Vos, HMP Bullwood Hall – Commended

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

FreedomAbdulqadir Deylani, HMP Bullwood Hall – Commended

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

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

Freedom Is CallingWayne Pugh, HMP Frankland – Commended

Accept our FreedomJason Smith, HMP Birmingham – Runner Up, Lives

The Sky, The Bard and the NightingaleDavid Carpenter, HMP Edinburgh – Commended

FreedomClaire, HMP Holloway – Runner Up, Lives

Prison Library Xmas TreeMark Sheehan, HMP Usk – Runner Up, Lives

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An English PEN book / Readers & Writers

Foreword – The Art of Reading and WritingJake 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 self-

awareness 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 Book That Saved My Life

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 ActionIrene 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 LifeDanny 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 BeginningStephen 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


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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FreedomCarol 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.

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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InvisibleAshley 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 DrugsLee 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!”

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


FreedomDarren 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

WHAT IS FREEDOM? HAVE I EVER BEEN

FREE? THE ANSWERS TO THESE TWO SIMPLE

QUESTIONS ARE OBVIOUS, RIGHT?

Ian H., HMP Wakefield


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.

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LibertyIan 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 DevotionsRoyales, 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!

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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29

FreedomBoris 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?


Evidence of FreedomA 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 UnboundKeith 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

32


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.


33

FreedomAbdulqadir 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


Review of Catch 22Daniel 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

34


35

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 long-

term 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.


Review of We’re all Doing Time by Bo LozoffPride 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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37

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.


Freedom Is CallingWayne 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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39

Accept our FreedomJason 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


40

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


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.

41


The Sky, The Bard and the NightingaleDavid 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.

42

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

43

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.


44

FreedomClaire, HMP Holloway – Runner Up, Lives


45

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

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

– pine needles making the same mess as they doat home, as it should be. Something else in thatbauble’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 ofa wonky eye: focus on three blue chairs arounda 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 – bloatedsquirming maggoty blobs, eager to lead me home.Maybe – maybe not.

Prison Library Xmas TreeMark Sheehan, HMP Usk – Runner Up, Lives


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The Book That Saved My LifeFrom 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.

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The Book That Saved My Life

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