Read their writes...

I was told to leave everything but my photo I.D. in the car. My keys had to placed in to the metal trough, while the uniformed man behind the glass replaced them with a simple numbered disc. The laminate, with the word 'VISITOR' emblazoned across it, white on red, had to be worn at all times. Five minutes later, the door slammed shut behind me and with a jangle of keys, was immediately locked. I was in prison.

To say I was a little nervous would be an understatement. The only correctional facility I'd visited before, bar the detention room in school, was a young offenders institution. I was there as part of a football team invited to play some of the offenders, in an effort to give them something to look forward to, and to have some contact with the outside world. I remember walking out on to that pitch, located right in the middle of the courtyard, looking at the biggest sixteen year olds I'd ever seen, while voices of 'encouragement' rang out from the barred windows of the surrounding cells. That was intimidating enough. But this...this was another level.

'We've got 40 inmates leaving us today, and another 40 coming in to replace them' explained my guide, and for the next hour, my bodyguard. 'The majority of them will be high as kites, so we've got to be careful with how we treat them. What medication to give them, and where best to put them while they come down, that sort of thing'. Right.

Thankfully, I wasn't here to speak to the newest crop of addicts detained at Her Majesty's pleasure. I was here to speak to three inmates about reading and writing.

The prison has a programme that encourages its guests to improve their confidence with words, by allowing them to create and write stories which they can then send home to their families. I met them in the prison library. It was just like any public library in the country, except all the doors were locked, and the trolleys of books were being pushed around by loud, burly looking skinheads, their light blue t-shirts exposing their heavily tattooed arms. This was the scariest library on the planet.

Two of the men I spoke to hadn't ever written anything creative in their lives, but now they were being presented with the finished product of their labours, and the pride on their faces was evident. Both had written stories for their children, and you could see they couldn't wait to send them out. 'Its just a bit more personal, like.' said one of them. 'I've been in here for a few months, and it looks like I'm going to be away for a year at least, so its good that I've got a way to stay in touch'.

What bowled me over though, was meeting the third inmate. He was a fifty year old man, who until he was forty-seven, had never learnt how to read or write. Prison had shown him how, and now there was no stopping him. 'I write for the prison magazine about my travels to South America' he explained. 'The other lads like reading them, and we have a laugh about the places I've visited'. He went on to tell me that had he had these skills earlier, his life would have been different. 'I know for a fact I wouldn't be in here now. I'd have a job, then when it came to moving on to the next level, I had to leave because I couldn't fill out any forms. I was embarrassed' he said, before adding 'you don't need to know how to read or write to nick stuff, do you?' Fair point. The ability to read and write is something most of us take for granted, and life without it was something I hadn't really contemplated.

Now, its easy for someone to say how their life could have or would have been different. The fact of the matter is that these people were in prison for a reason. There is also an argument that all this sort of scheme does is create educated criminals, and very few of them change their ways as a result. All I can say is, listening to this man talk about being able to write to his girlfriend, about writing for the magazine, and about the pride he feels when he hears one of his stories being read out, 'and it sounds proper, like', I couldn't help but feel pleased for him. For a minute, he wasn't a criminal. He was just a fifty year old man down on his luck, who had been given the opportunity to better himself, and had seized it with both hands.

I left the library with a slight warm feeling inside. That was soon replaced by sheer terror again though, as my guide placed an arm across my chest as we walked back across the courtyard. Some prisoners were walking between buildings. 'We tend not to move when the inmates do' explained Mr.Costner. 'If something kicks off, they might try and grab you. Then we'd be in a bit of trouble'.

You don't need to know how to read or write to know that was an understatement.