TP: The architectural approach to the design of prisons is usually a product of the intersection of cultural, political, and socio-legal systems. Is there a particular trend or design philosophy that is currently shaping modern prison design in the UK? How about the rest of world? Are there any examples of stark contrasts you've encountered?
YJ: Prison design philosophy is led primarily by two imperatives: ‘value engineering’, which is building prisons as cheaply as possible; and ‘future-proofing’, which is building prisons to a higher security specification than is required for the population they will hold. What these two factors mean in practice is that designs are stripped back aesthetically and the architecture is hardened. So no trees, or landscaping, or art and sculpture – the things that soften the environment and make it a more attractive place to live and work – but in their place, higher walls and more gates, cameras and razor wire. It’s the architecture of despair. In the book, I write about many prisons around the world that have been designed with healing and humanity at their core (some of which I helped to design). But I also caution against thinking that a well-designed prison that looks attractive to an outsider is a soft option or is pandering to criminals. A ‘beautiful prison’ is still a prison.
TP: In your new book “An Architecture of Hope” you argue for more humane designs that move beyond the cycle of punishment towards rehabilitation and healing. What are the main arguments supporting this proposal?
People need to understand that the loss of liberty is the punishment, and that the design of prisons says something about society and our civilization. There are, of course, some cases that test my resolve on this. For example, in the book I discuss Anders Breivik, who murdered 77 people, including 69 young people on a summer camp on the island of Utøya in Norway in 2011. Breivik has been held in solitary confinement, but he has access to three cells, and a few ‘luxuries’, including video games, gym equipment and a typewriter. In 2016, he brought a lawsuit against the state for violating his human rights, saying his treatment was sadistic – and he won, in part. Likening himself to Nelson Mandela, he complained about the quality of food, the frequent strip searches, the solitary confinement, and the fact that he was often handcuffed while moving between cells. The court demanded his conditions be eased, and they also ordered the government to pay Breivik’s legal fees.
Discussions about the purpose of prisons tend to become both more intense and more morally ambiguous when they involve the most atrocious offences like Breivik’s. But the reality is that only 27% of men and 15% of women are in prison for violent crimes – and many of those (especially among women) will have been committed in self-defence or desperation. Most female prisoners are convicted for minor offences such as shoplifting or non-payment of fines. I believe that for the vast majority of offenders, imprisonment should be a last, not a first, resort as a response to crime, and prisons should aim to be therapeutic, not punitive. Even when we consider the most serious offenders, public revenge is not an appropriate motivation to deny someone an environment that is decent and humane, in my view.
TP: In your book you relate your academic search for an “architecture of hope” to a personal journey for healing. How has this personal experience shaped your views on architectural design of prisons?
Yes, the title has wider meaning because the book is actually a memoir. Throughout the narrative about my professional career, is woven a personal story about the end of a long relationship, and my changing relationship with my home. My partner of 25 years left me, and he left me with a 200-year-old house that he had destroyed. It was a monster that needed to be tamed. In taking on the restoration of it myself, I discovered hope and found a kind of freedom, even when something happened that altered my relationship with my home and dramatically curtailed my freedom (no spoilers! You’ll have to read the book!) The subtitle sums it up – ‘Reimagining the prison, restoring a house, rebuilding myself’.
TP: How would you respond to the argument that the security of a prison and its staff and the feeling by wider society, that justice-as-punishment is served, are more important than the need for rehabilitation of the prisoners?
The rehabilitation of offenders is all about the security of wider society! As I always say, the vast majority of people in prison will be released back into the community. Who would you rather have living next door to you? Or sitting on the train next to your daughter? Someone who has been treated with decency in an environment that has helped to heal them and instilled hope for their future? Or someone who has effectively been caged and dehumanised for years?
TP: Looking at the UK prison system, as it currently functions, what would you consider are the main obstacles to designing architectural facilities that support a more rehabilitative and humane prison system?
There are probably an infinite number of problems that can sabotage the best of intentions but in my book I outline six things that will inevitably scupper a well-meaning vision for a prison. One I’ve already spoken about – value-engineering – which invariably results in a lack of creativity in design. The second problem which fatally compromises the good design of a prison is overcrowding. I describe Limerick women’s prison, which is the most successful example of a trauma-informed design that I have worked on. But only twelve months after the facility opened, it is operating at 141% capacity, with many women sleeping on camp beds.
Many prison authorities try to head off problems of overcrowding by commissioning massive prisons, holding thousands of inmates, which is third on my inventory of bad ideas. Huge prisons holding 1,700-2,200 people, as our most recently built prisons do, never feel humane or healthy. Relatedly, taking a prison designed for one purpose and using it for an entirely different purpose, is fourth on my list of things to avoid. I’ve seen many a good prison design thwarted by its operational use. For example, when remand prisoners are put in a facility designed for long-termers, with better accommodation available for those who behave well, it inevitably compromises the design because un-tried and un-sentenced inmates remain in basic conditions, unable to ‘progress’, and are likely to be sent to other prisons on conviction.
Knee-jerk reactions to security problems is the fifth obstacle to enlightened design, e.g. when an isolated disturbance leads to a hardening of the architecture. In the book I describe a prison in New Zealand, where gardens were turned into yards, high mesh fences topped with razor wire were erected around them, wooden picnic style furniture was replaced with thin metal benches bolted to the ground, and everything which had been green was turned grey. All because of one incident that could have been handled differently. Finally, failure to recruit or retain staff inevitably compromises the smooth running of prisons. Insufficient numbers of officers and other staff means that even those prisons which have progressive intentions at the outset, will see their art classes discontinued, their family visit days cut back, and their therapeutic gardens unused.
TP: What was the biggest learning for you from making the transition from academic writing to penning a memoir?
I learned so many things about the art of writing that I’ve taken into my academic work – the importance of story-telling; basic things about writing craft – that short words and simple sentences can have more impact than convoluted sentences with multiple clauses. I rediscovered my love of vocabulary (my first degree was in English) and I brought literature and philosophy into this new style of writing. Above all, though, I learned that there is strength in vulnerability. As academics, we don’t admit to any flaws or fallibilities. We write about entering and leaving the research field smoothly and without any problems. We don’t confess the things that went wrong. In memoir, you expose yourself and that’s scary! But there’s no point in going in half-heartedly. I’ve already received messages from people who have read my book, who say they cried, they related to it, they found it inspiring…that’s a tremendous privilege for any writer.
‘An Architecture of Hope: Reimagining the Prison, Restoring a House, Rebuilding Myself’ is published by Scribe Publications’.
Yvonne Jewkes is Professor of Criminology in the Department of Social and Policy Sciences, University of Bath
Theodoros Papadopoulos is Co-Director of CASPS (Centre for the Analysis of Social Policy and Society), University of Bath