AFTERTHOUGHT

Out of the cage

BEVERLEY NICHOLS

This is a plea for a total revolution in the practices and principles of our prisons—a revolution that goes far beyond the feeble reforms that are currently peddled. What I want, and believe to be possible, is the total abolition of a large proportion of our present prisons and the transference of their in- mates—particularly those serving long sentences—to an island within the jurisdic- tion of the Queen's domain. Before you ask me which island, or start muttering about Devil's Island, your attention is drawn to the following facts.

Let us begin with money; the moral issues can be tackled later. One of the main reasons why our prisons are such a blot on the face of the welfare state is shortage of cash. There is no money for new buildings, for adequate security measures, for any of the com- plicated educational apparatus that must be involved in any schemes for rehabilitation.

Has it never occurred to anybody that the prisons in themselves are—or could be—an immense source of revenue? In terms of real estate, at current levels, the metropolitan areas now monopolised by such mon- strosities as Wandsworth and Wormwood Scrubs would command astronomical sums if they were auctioned in the open market. The hideous desert of Holloway alone covers an area of nearly twelve acres, and similar tracts of desolation are sprawled all over the country. At a time when international business is fighting for space in our capital is it not the ultimate economic lunacy that such tracts should be reserved as deserts and set aside for the sole purpose of keeping thousands of potentially productive men rotting in cages—at an individual cost, in- cidentally, of £20 per prisoner per week? And at a time when our police forces are grossly undermanned, is it not the ultimate social lunacy that some of the finest human material for the police forces—the prison warders—should be engaged in a profession that is no more productive and certainly less elevating than that of the keeper of a monkey house?

If we can answer 'yes' to these two ques- tions, we must agree that our scheme, should it ever be put into practice, would guarantee an immediate and spectacular bonus of money and of man power.

Let us revert to our 'island', for this is the base from which any constructive revolution must be launched. Before we pin-point it on the map, let us draw a picture of the ideal territory we should envisage, if we had all the world to choose from. What should we demand, and why?

Odd as it may seem, I should begin with sunshine and a hot climate. Sunshine is physically and mentally therapeutic. Mens sana in corpore sano has a crucially topical connotation. Every criminal is mentally sick, but when we analyse this sickness, when we put the germs of his disease under the microscope, we reveal a pattern in which the mind and the body, the malfunctioning of the brain and the misapplication of the brawn, are inextricably interlocked. Tens of thousands of slum children might have been saved from disaster if their small twisted bodies could have sweated out their juvenile complexes on the summer sands.

The word 'sweat' is an important one. It is an honest., earthy word, with a special significance in the context of this argument because it meets the mockery with which one has been made all too painfully familiar, over the years, by those who may be described as 'anti-islanders'. They say. ... `So you want to pamper our prisoners? Give them a charming interlude lying on the beaches in the sunshine, paying for their misdeeds by a sort of extended package tour in a tropical paradise?' We want nothing of the sort. We want to make them sweat it out. And what will they be sweating for?' The answer to that not very imaginative question, must depend on the nature of our island—its location, its resources, and its physical characteristics. Our 'island', for the moment, may still be hovering on the horizon, but is it too unreasonable to suggest that there are locations on this planet where fields still wait to be ploughed, seeds to be sown, treasures to be unearthed? And that in the sheer physical efforts of the men who would participate in these adventures, there might be at least a hope of redemption for

them and enrichment for the world at large? Or do we prefer the picture of three thugs in a cage, shivering in the cold, plotting escape, planning further assaults upon society, glowering at each other . . . and sometimes, in desperation, joining together, physically, to warm themselves in a hideous parody of love?

'Escape'. That is the second key word in the programme. Escape from our island frigates racing to the rescue? Bloodshed on

must be made impossible, or at any rate so difficult that it could only be achieved with

the cooperation of an international organisa- tion under the direction of a super James Bond. 'But tough and desperate men' ... so argue the anti-islanders, 'will escape from anywhere. What about the danger of insur- rection? Of guards being overpowered . . .

the beaches?' Such disasters, no doubt, could occur, but are they inevitable, or even prob- able? At the risk of sounding faintly Hitlerian, a few guards armed with tommy guns are a match for any mob. Even if the guards were overpowered, what then? What would the prisoners rip? Dive into shark- infested seas? Send out radio messages to the London School of Economics? Well . . . what?

But there is one deterrent against escape which might be more effective than any physical barriers or natural obstacles. This is

where we enter moral territory. When men escaped from Devil's Island they were escap- ing from hell . . and though we are a long

way, morally and geographically, from Devil's Island, a fifteen-year stretch in a

British prison, to the average man, is a foretaste of hell. He has an overwhelming motive to escape, and the motive grows

stronger with every day of confinement. In our island, this motive would be absent, not because he would be living a life of luxury but because he would be . . well . . . liv- ing.

But where do we find our island? A few people reading this article may also have read The Sun in My Eyes—a light-hearted travel book which I published last year to commemorate a trip round the world. One of the purposes of that expedition was to find the sort of dream island to which an ageing author might retire in order to reflect upon the follies of mankind, with particular em- phasis upon his own shortcomings. I didn't find the island. though I came very near to it, and if I'd had £20,000 to spare I would have bought it—an uncharted gem of land as green as a cabuchon emerald, lurking at the end of Cedar Passage, between Sumatra and Pulu Be. It is Indonesian, and is probably still for sale, because Indonesia wants foreign currency. It is one of hundreds scat- tered all over the southern seas. With the sort of capital that would be available from the sale of even a small proportion of our malodorous human zoos, we could acquire an entire archipelago.

Of course there would be problems, na- tional, international, legal, strategic. Of course there would be endless difficulties to be sorted out. But one problem there would not be. There would be no moral problem.

In this whole conception there is an essential virtue, an intrinsic cleanliness. There is no virtue, no cleanliness in 'Wormwood Scrubs'.

The very name reeks of eviL As the poet Blake wrote ... 'A Squirrel in a cage sets all heaven in a rage'. Me too.