The Prison Cell

PALGRAVE STUDIES IN
PRISONS AND PENOLOGY
The Prison Cell

Embodied and Everyday
Spaces of Incarceration
Edited by
Jennifer Turner
Victoria Knight
Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology
Series Editors
Ben Crewe
Institute of Criminology
University of Cambridge
Cambridge, UK
Yvonne Jewkes
Social & Policy Sciences
University of Bath
Bath, UK
Thomas Ugelvik
Faculty of Law
University of Oslo
Oslo, Norway
This is a unique and innovative series, the first of its kind dedicated
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population has reached an all-time high, the series seeks to analyse the
form, nature and consequences of incarceration and related forms of
punishment. Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology provides an impor-
tant forum for burgeoning prison research across the world.
Series Advisory Board:

Anna Eriksson (Monash University)
Andrew M. Jefferson (DIGNITY - Danish Institute Against Torture)
Shadd Maruna (Rutgers University)
Jonathon Simon (Berkeley Law, University of California)
Michael Welch (Rutgers University)
More information about this series at

http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14596
Jennifer Turner • Victoria Knight
Editors
The Prison Cell

Embodied and Everyday Spaces
of Incarceration
Editors
Jennifer Turner Victoria Knight
Department of Geography and Planning School of Applied Social Sciences
University of Liverpool De Montfort University
Liverpool, UK Leicester, UK
Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology

ISBN 978-3-030-39910-8 ISBN 978-3-030-39911-5 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-39911-5
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This book is dedicated to Willow Jane Easton-Wooff
Acknowledgements
The origins of this book hark back to 2016 in Odense, Denmark. I am

grateful to Jennifer for entertaining the idea that resulted in this very
book. We both agreed that the prison cell demanded scrutiny. At the end
of our conversation at the drafty Danish bus station, we agreed to pursue
this work. I’d like to thank Jennifer for her determination, patience and
professionalism in creating this work. I’d also like to thank the contribu-
tors for their insights, our publisher Palgrave Macmillan and series edi-
tors. I am personally grateful to Professor Rob Canton and Professor
Dave Ward for their scholarly advice and patient reviewing when needed.
Lastly my lovely daughters, Olive and Lois.
Victoria Knight (Leicester, November 2019)
I would like to echo Victoria’s thanks to all of our contributors—many of
whom have been negotiating tricky logistics around access to prison
spaces and complex collaborations to deliver their chapters. These, of
course, are in addition to the many challenges presented by balancing
academic and personal lives. We are grateful to everyone for working so
hard towards and being so understanding of our rigid timetable and for
your positive responses to our most pedantic editorial instructions! We
very much appreciate the support of Palgrave Macmillan, including that
from Josie Taylor and the series editors in the development of the book
proposal and from Liam Inscoe-Jones to facilitate delivering it on time.
vii
viii Acknowledgements
Thanks also to Professor Ben Crewe for your warm encouragement via
the Afterword. It is also important to thank the other scholars who sub-
mitted abstracts, who we were unable to include in this volume. These
suggested chapters also offered rich, diverse and important contributions
but were simply too numerous for the book. We apologise to those col-
leagues for not being able to showcase their work on this occasion but
thank them for the support and interest in the volume, which served to
reinforce our confidence in the need for this collection specifically dedi-
cated to the prison cell. We hope that this book will provide a platform
for the development of associated work in this important area and look
forward to seeing it in print elsewhere. I would personally like to thank
Professor Kimberley Peters for her support in offering her expertise for
additional reviewing. Finally, I would like to thank Victoria for her will-
ingness to open up her own initial ideas to develop this collaboration and
for making the whole process both intellectually stimulating and a genu-
ine pleasure to be part of. Oh, and for digging out her A Level Biology
notes to entertain my most abstract ideas...
Jennifer Turner (Liverpool, November 2019)
Praise for The Prison Cell
“Just as cells are the building blocks of all organisms so too are they the founda-
tion of carceral life. They are places of pain, dislocation and resistance but also
of sanctuary, play and domesticity. In this innovative, informative and intrigu-
ing book the cell is placed under the penal microscope to reveal connections and
layers of meaning that would otherwise remain hidden.”
—Professor Ian O’Donnell, University College Dublin,
author of Prisoners, Solitude, and Time
“Anyone thrown into a prison cell begins to live in the shadow of madness,
according to the writer and imprisoned revolutionary, Victor Serge. This vivid
collection of essays challenges the reader to think into these shadows and search
for new meanings and fresh understanding of incarceration. The editors intro-
duce a fascinating analogy and disturbing sense of scale by likening the prison
cell to the microscopic biological cell. Just as prison cells “symbolically represent
the monolithic values of the prison”, so are they the living tissue of carceral
space, literally “the containers of prison life”. International in scope and enliv-
ened by a diversity of voices, including those of prisoners, this impressively
edited collection is a major and innovative contribution to studies of incarcera-
tion. Read it, borrow it, share it. Bring light to the shadow.”
—Dr Rod Earle, School of Health, Wellbeing and
Social Care, The Open University
Contents
1 Dissecting the Cell: Embodied and Everyday Spaces of

Incarceration 1
Jennifer Turner and Victoria Knight
Part I The Nucleus 21
2 ‘The Solitude of the Cell’: Cellular Confinement in the

Emergence of the Modern Prison, 1850–1930 23
Helen Johnston
3 Prison Cells as a Grounded Embodiment of Penal

Ideologies: A Norwegian-American Comparison 45
Jordan M. Hyatt, Synøve N. Andersen, and
Steven L. Chanenson
4 The Kubol Effect: Shared Governance and Cell Dynamics

in an Overcrowded Prison System in the Philippines 71
Raymund E. Narag and Clarke Jones
xi
xii Contents
5 ‘I Feel Trapped’: The Role of the Cell in the Embodied

and Everyday Practices of Police Custody 95
Andrew Wooff
Part II Cytoplasm 119
6 A ‘Home’ or ‘a Place to Be, But Not to Live’: Arranging

the Prison Cell121
Irene Marti
7 Prison as Palimpsest: The Dialectics of the Cell and

Everyday Life143
The ACE Steering Committee
8 Power in ‘No-Cell’ Detention: Spatial Restriction and

Domestication of Space for Foreign Detainees in Romania165
Bénédicte Michalon
9 A Family Cell: Visual Ethnography in a Prison ‘Mothers’

Section’187
Rossella Schillaci
Part III The Cell Membrane 213
10 Serving Time with a Sea View: The Prison Cell and

Healthy Blue Space215
Jennifer Turner, Dominique Moran, and Yvonne Jewkes
11 Hearing Behind the Door: The Cell as a Portal to

Prison Life239
Kate Herrity
12 Prison Cell Spaces, Bodies and Touch261

Elisabeth Fransson and Francesca Giofrè
Contents xiii
13 PrisonCloud: The Beating Heart of the Digital Prison Cell283

Jana Robberechts and Kristel Beyens
14 Carceral Projections: The Lure of the Cell and the

Heterotopia of Play in Prison Escape305
Hanneke Stuit
The Cell: Afterword327
Index333
Notes on Contributors
Synøve N. Andersen works as a researcher at the Unit for Social and

Demographic Research at Statistics Norway and is an Associate Professor
in the Department of Criminology and Sociology of Law at the University
of Oslo. Her work focuses on quasi-experimental analyses of Norwegian
correctional and family policies, comparative criminal justice and the
dynamics of co-offending networks and criminal careers.
Another Chance at Education is a group of authors that includes twelve

men imprisoned in a maximum security facility and nine individuals—
five of them undergraduate students—involved in higher education at
the University of Oregon who work with them. ACE serves as a steering
committee for the University of Oregon Prison Education Program’s
efforts within the prison, and its participation in the national Inside-Out
Prison Education Exchange Program, which brings together incarcerated
and campus-based students for college classes within penal settings.
Kristel Beyens is Full Professor of Criminology and Penology and direc-

tor of the Research Group Crime & Society (CRiS) at the Criminology
Department of the Vrije Universiteit Brussel (Belgium). Her research
focuses on contemporary evolutions in punishment, with special atten-
tion for penal decision-making and the implementation of prison sen-
tences and community sanctions.
xv
xvi Notes on Contributors
Steven L. Chanenson is Professor of Law at Villanova University

Charles Widger School of Law. During AY 2019–2020, he was the Crane
Fellow at the Program in Law and Public Affairs of Princeton University.
Previously, he was the chair of the Pennsylvania Commission on
Sentencing. He is also a managing editor of the Federal Sentencing
Reporter, the leading professional journal of brief commentary on sen-
tencing law, theory and reform.
Elisabeth Fransson is a sociologist and an Associate Professor at the

University College of Norwegian Correctional Service, Norway. Her
research includes prison architecture and philosophies of correctional
care, transitions into and out of prison and studies of children and youths
in prison. Her current publications include articles about the Norwegian
Youth Units, internet rape and court cultures. She is co-editor of Prison,
Architecture and Humans (2018).
Francesca Giofrè holds a PhD and is an architect and associate profes-

sor in the Faculty of Architecture, Sapienza University of Rome, Italy.
Her research focuses on innovation in the design and building process,
design for all and healthy cities. In particular, research within this frame-
work attends to health and social architecture. In 2019 she worked on the
renovation of a section of Rebibbia Prison, Rome. Her publications
include Prison, Architecture and Humans (2018) co-edited with
E. Fransson and B. Johnsen.
Kate Herrity obtained her PhD in 2019 for her thesis “Rhythms and
routines: Sounding order and survival in a local men’s prison using aural
ethnography”. Particular interests include sound and music in prisons,
sensory criminology and research methods. Awarded the Prison Service
Journal annual prize for outstanding article for “Music and identity in
Prison: music as a technology of the self ”, Kate is turning her PhD thesis
into a monograph alongside a number of other publications.
Jordan M. Hyatt is an Assistant Professor in the Department of

Criminology and Justice Studies, Drexel University. His work focuses on
randomised and quasi-experimental evaluation of correctional
Notes on Contributors xvii
rogramming, comparative penology and the development of evidence-

p
based criminal justice policies.
Yvonne Jewkes is Professor of Criminology at the University of Bath

and Visiting Professor of Criminology at the University of Melbourne.
She has been carrying out prison research for over 20 years and has spent
the last decade researching and writing about prison architecture and
design and their potential to rehabilitate. She has recently held two
Economic and Social Research Council grants to study these topics and
has worked as a consultant to prison architects and senior prison service
personnel around the world. Her work on various aspects of imprison-
ment has appeared in many publications, including Prisons and
Punishment 3 volumes (2008) and (with Ben Crewe and Jamie Bennett)
The Handbook on Prisons 2e (2016). With Ben Crewe and Thomas
Ugelvik, she is founding editor of the journal Incarceration and a series
editor of Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology. She is also the author of
the bestselling Media and Crime 3e (2015) and Media and Crime in the
USA (with Travis Linnemann, 2017).
Helen Johnston is Professor of Criminology at the University of Hull.

Her work particularly focuses upon the history of imprisonment, both
local prisons and convict prisons, licensing and early release mechanisms
and prison architecture. She has led and collaborated on funded projects
supported by the ESRC, AHRC, British Academy and the Leverhulme
Trust. Her work on these areas has appeared in many publications,
including Crime in England 1815–1880 (2015) and Victorian Convicts
(with Godfrey and Cox, 2016).
Clarke Jones is a criminologist and senior research fellow based at the

Research School of Psychology at the Australian National University.
Over the past 14 years, he has conducted ethnographic prison/jail studies
in the Philippines on high-risk offenders and applied this research to
train staff from the Bureau of Corrections and the Bureau of Jail
Management and Penology in correctional reform. Together with
Raymund Narag, much of this research has culminated in Inmate
Radicalisation and Recruitment in Prisons (2018).
xviii Notes on Contributors
Victoria Knight is a Senior Research Fellow at De Montfort University.

She is a prison sociologist interested in media and digital use in prison set-
tings. Her work has appeared in various journals and books, and she has
authored Remote Control: Television in Prison (Palgrave Macmillan, 2016).
Irene Marti studied social anthropology and sociology at the Universities

of Basel and Neuchâtel in Switzerland. Since 2013 she is a member of the
Prison Research Group (PRG) at the University of Bern, Switzerland
(http://prisonresearch.ch/). She is a PhD candidate at the University of
Neuchâtel and is working as a research assistant at the Institute of Penal
Law and Criminology at the University of Bern.
Bénédicte Michalon is a Senior Research Fellow at the French National

Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS), Bordeaux. She works on deten-
tion and house arrest for foreigners, and asylum seekers housing in rural
areas, with main fieldwork in Romania and France. She coordinated the
interdisciplinary team TerrFerme into spatial readings of confinement
(http://terrferme.hypotheses.org/). She is a member of the Institut
Convergences Migrations (http://icmigrations.fr/) as well as of the
Migreurop network (http://www.migreurop.org).
Dominique Moran is Professor in Carceral Geography at the University

of Birmingham, UK, and a co-director of the University’s Centre for Crime,
Justice and Policing. She is interested in theorisations of the ‘carceral’, and
her research focuses on lived experiences of carceral spaces. Founder of the
Carceral Geography Lab, she is the author of Carceral Geography: Spaces
and Practices of Incarceration (2015) and an editor of Carceral Spaces (2013),
Historical Geographies of Prisons (2015), Carceral Spatiality (Palgrave, 2017)
and The Palgrave Handbook of Prison and the Family (Palgrave, 2019).
Raymund E. Narag, PhD , is Assistant Professor of Criminology and

Criminal Justice in Southern Illinois University. He has conducted
numerous culturally sensitive trainings for the Bureau of Corrections
(BuCor) and the Bureau of Jail Management and Penology (BJMP) to
popularise best practices attuned to the Philippine penal and criminal
justice conditions.
Notes on Contributors xix
Jana Robberechts is a PhD researcher at the Research Group Crime &

Society, Department of Criminology, Vrije Universiteit Brussel (Belgium),
where her focus is on digitalisation in prisons.
Rossella Schillaci is a PhD student in Digital Media at NOVA

University of Lisbon, within the international program in collaboration
with the University of Texas in Austin and integrated at iNOVA Media
Lab, with a scholarship from the Fundação para a Ciência e a
Tecnologia (FCT). She teaches visual anthropology in University work-
shops and has co-founded the independent production company Azul
(www.azulfilm.com) where she has made several prize-winning docu-
mentary films, working on the themes of cultural traditions, migrations,
identities and imprisonment.
Hanneke Stuit is Assistant Professor in Literary and Cultural Analysis at

the University of Amsterdam and a Researcher at the Amsterdam School
of Cultural Analysis (ASCA). She is interested in spaces deemed periph-
eral in the globalised present, specifically prison spaces and the narratives
and metaphors generated in, about and around those spaces. Focusing on
contemporary South Africa (Ubuntu Strategies: Constructing Spaces of
Belonging in Contemporary South African Culture (Palgrave, 2016)), she
also researches the affective and political effects of renditions of the rural
in the cultural imagination.
Jennifer Turner is a Senior Lecturer in Human Geography at the

University of Liverpool. Her research is concerned with spaces, practices
and representations of incarceration, past and present. She is the author
of The Prison Boundary: Between Society and Carceral Space (Palgrave
Macmillan, 2016) and co-editor of Carceral Mobilities: Interrogating
Movement in Incarceration (2017).
Andrew Wooff is Lecturer in Criminology at Edinburgh Napier

University. His articles on police custody, rural policing, police education
and the special constabulary have appeared in many journals and books.
He is a member of the Scottish Institute for Policing Research and the
Police Custody Standards Board.
List of Figures
Fig. 1.1 A simple animal cell. (Source: Produced by author) 3

Fig. 3.1 A typical cell at SCI Phoenix. (Source: Authors’ collection) 53
Fig. 3.2 A typical cell at Halden Prison. (Source: Authors’ collection) 56
Fig. 3.3 The bathroom and personal storage area in a typical cell at
Halden Prison. (Source: Authors’ collection) 57
Fig. 5.1 A photograph of Bishop Auckland police station in Durham
(not the case study location), which illustrates the stark nature
of a police custody cell. (Source: Hill 2017) 112
Fig. 6.1 An empty prison cell. (Source: Andreas Moser, JVA Lenzburg) 124
Fig. 6.2 A homely furnished prison cell. (Source: Andreas Moser, JVA
Lenzburg)128
Fig. 6.3 Personalisation of the cell through decoration. (Source: A
prisoner, JVA Lenzburg). (Note: The pictures were taken by
prisoners during walking interviews whereby I asked them to
show me ‘their’ prison and taking pictures of places and
objects that are of any relevance for them) 130
Fig. 6.4 A prisoner’s ‘kitchen’. (Source: A prisoner, JVA Lenzburg) 132
Fig. 6.5 ‘To have it as nice as possible’. (Source: A prisoner, JVA
Lenzburg)134
Fig. 9.1 A 2-year-old child inside the prison ‘nursery’. (Source:
Schillaci (2016)) 187
Fig. 9.2 Children with their educators going back into Turin prison
from the ‘outside’ nursery. (Source: Schillaci (2016)) 190
xxi
xxii List of Figures
Fig. 9.3 Children saying hello through bars at 8:00 pm when they got
locked. (Source: Schillaci (2016)) 192
Fig. 9.4 The corridor of the nursery section with the gate at the end.
(Source: Schillaci (2016)) 194
Fig. 9.5 The interior of a family cell. (Source: Schillaci (2016)) 195
Fig. 9.6 Child eating standing on the chair as she cannot reach the
table. (Source: Schillaci (2016)) 198
Fig. 9.7 The table with the camping stove. (Source: Schillaci (2016)) 199
Fig. 9.8 One of the tricycles used by children in the prison. (Source:
Schillaci (2016)) 202
Fig. 9.9 A child in the corridor near all the iron windows open.
(Source: Schillaci (2016)) 203
Fig. 9.10 Children playing at the window. (Source: Schillaci (2016)) 204
Fig. 9.11 A mother speaking with a prisoner officer through the gate
that closes her section. (Source: Schillaci (2016)) 205
Fig. 12.1 Cell and corridor: the distribution (Source: F Giofrè) 268
Fig. 12.2 Sketch of the cell by Fabiana, prisoner in Rebibbia, Italy 270
Fig. 14.1 Image of a prisoner escaping from their cell used on Prison
Escape’s home page (Source: Sander Erdmann/Prison Escape) 310
List of Tables
Table 4.1 Inmate leadership titles and roles in the Philippines 78

Table 14.1 Overview of game stages in Prison Escape308
xxiii
1
Dissecting the Cell: Embodied
and Everyday Spaces of Incarceration
Jennifer Turner and Victoria Knight
It is all too easy now to underestimate cells. We have known about them
for such large fractions of our lives that, for the most part, we cease being
aware of how remarkable they really are. (Alberts et al. 1994: xxxiii)
The remarkable cells that Bruce Alberts and his colleagues were consid-
ering as ‘underestimated’ were biological cells: the critical components,
building blocks and hinge-points around which life itself is determined.
As Alberts et al. (1994) explain, cells are the basis of all living things.
These are ‘small membrane-bound compartments filled with a concen-
trated aqueous solution of chemicals’ that we must study ‘to learn … how
they are made from molecules and … how they cooperate to make an
organism as complex as a human being’ (Alberts et al. 1994: 3). By
J. Turner (*)
Department of Geography and Planning, University of Liverpool,
Liverpool, UK
e-mail: [email protected]
V. Knight
School of Applied Social Sciences, De Montfort University, Leicester, UK
© The Author(s) 2020 1

J. Turner, V. Knight (eds.), The Prison Cell, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-39911-5_1
2 J. Turner and V. Knight
examining any plant or animal structure microscopically, we will see that

it consists ‘of more or less distinct units—cells—which … in large num-
bers make up the structure or organ’ (Mackean and Jones 1975: 6).
Already, we can begin to see conceptual similarities to a prison—an
‘organism’ comprised of multiple rooms that are, largely, the same in each
given prison establishment. These rooms, which are most commonly
known as prison ‘cells’ typically represent the space around which life in
prison is located, arranged and orchestrated both in terms of physical
logistics and punitive philosophy. It is important that the prison cell is
not considered as directly comparable—intellectually or actually—to the
biological cell. Unlike its biological counterpart, the prison cell is not a
natural occurrence. The use of cellular confinement is a socio-political and
economic construction that, throughout the history of imprisonment, has
been instrumental in shaping the organisation of carceral space as one of
reform, separation, deterrence and isolation from the world outside
of prison.
The very naming of the prison ‘cell’ is taken-for-granted in most litera-
ture that focuses upon this particular carceral space. Although practitio-
ners and scholars researching and working in some contemporary prison
spaces—particularly those in the more-exceptional penal landscape of
Nordic countries or establishments that incarcerate children—revere the
term ‘room’ as a way to demonstrate progressive action in certain institu-
tions, ‘cell’ is the most commonplace of terminologies. Yet, unlike the
notion of the ‘carceral’, which finds its Latin roots linked directly to
incarceration, the etymology of cell does not find such a history secured
in punitive philosophy. Drawing from its French roots, a cell is described
as a chamber or storeroom. One the one hand, given such a definition, it
is possible to see how the word ‘cell’ has come to be used for the naming
of the room in which prisoners are detained. On the other hand, the
biological cell, discovered by Robert Hooke in 1665, also found suitable
this term, deriving from the Latin word for ‘small room’. In adopting the
word ‘cell’, the biological cell, then, became known as the container for
human life.
Typically, as the cells of any biological organ ‘are usually specially
developed in their size, shape and chemistry to carry out one particular
function there is, strictly speaking, no such thing as a typical cell’
1 Dissecting the Cell: Embodied and Everyday Spaces… 3
(Mackean and Jones 1975: 7). Yet, all animal cells have three certain fea-
tures in common: each consisting of ‘an outer membrane enclosing a mass
of cytoplasm in which is contained a nucleus’ (ibid.: 7, emphasis added)
(see Fig. 1.1). If we extend the analogy to carceral space, we might con-
sider the cell membrane to represent the walls of the individual cell; the
nucleus is the individual prisoner housed within it; and the mass of cyto-
plasm is all the other matter that is contained within the walls of the cell.
The nucleus determines the form and function of a cell; the cytoplasm
facilitates cell reactions; and the membrane prevents the cell contents—
the prisoner—from mixing with the outside medium. All of these com-
ponents are critical to the successful functioning of the overall
structure—in this case, the working of the prison itself. In this respect,
we may draw parallels between biological and carceral space. Whilst over-
arching penal rhetoric may vary country-by-country, the walls of a prison
cell serve the purpose of the prison; that is to hold individuals securely
and largely prevent contact with the outside world. Neither should the
contents of a cell come into contact with those of neighbouring cells.
Whilst it is necessary to acknowledge that the two hold fundamental dif-
ferences, the biological cell provides a conceptual apparatus for interro-
gating and making sense of the prison cell.
Moreover, and continuing the analogy, a biological cell membrane is
permeable; it permits but more so relies on transfers (Wood 1974: 39).
As Mackean and Jones outline,
Fig. 1.1 A simple animal cell. (Source: Produced by author)

Although each cell can carry on the vital chemistry of living, it is not capa-
ble of existence on its own. A muscle cell cannot obtain its own food or
oxygen. These materials are supplied by the blood and transported or made
available by the activities of other specialized cells. Unless individual cells
are grouped together in large numbers and made to work together by the
co-ordinating mechanisms of the body, they cannot exist for long.
(Mackean and Jones 1975: 11)
For the most part, transfers in the case of biological cells take place in a
controlled manner (usually from an area of high concentration to an area
of low concentration). However, there are also processes that take place,
which go against the gradient. This is known as active transport, where
particles are said to ‘interfere’ with the conventional workings of the cell
(Wood 1974: 41). This process allows us to reflect on the workings of the
prison cell whereby acceptable transfers may enter and leave the cell:
food, letters, library books; and others may cross the cell membrane in a
manner that goes against the grain: contraband such as drugs, alcohol or
mobile telephones. Accordingly, although there are other spaces of sig-
nificance in and around the prison establishment, the ‘life’ work of
prison—eating, sleeping, washing, ageing, socialising, working, learning,
entertaining, ‘rehabilitating’—is predominantly carried out in the space
of the cell: the ‘container’ of much prison life.
In short, the prison cell and the tripartite system of a biological cell
arguably demonstrate similarly functioning components. The biological
cell as analogy allows us to interrogate the nature and systems of carceral
space—two of the foci noted as central concerns of carceral geographies
(Moran 2016). It also provides an opportunity to (re)consider complex
biological theorisations of spatial relationships (such as biological system-
atics) that explain relationships between organisms, which may have
fallen out of favour since the poststructuralist turn, that challenge grand
structures and essence in favour of a world shaped by emergence that is
ever becoming (Cosgrove 1989). This work does not argue for a return to
biological analysis, to be clear, but it does contend that we might inter-
rogate space differently through drawing such analogies, with the recog-
nition that such spaces are not collapsible or intrinsically comparable.
Subsequently, thinking of the cell and unpacking the term through its
biological ‘traits’ provides much purchase for interrogating the processes

of emergence, development and experience of carceral spaces.
This is necessary, for although the prison cell has become one of the
central components of incarceration, it has received surprisingly sparse
treatment from academics. Much work from a variety of disciplines—
such as criminology, carceral geography, sociology, penology, psychology,
and architecture—has, of course, explored cell spaces as part of their
empirical and conceptual appraisals of carceral space more generally.
Such work is wide-ranging and it is almost impossible to highlight all
examples here. However, it is important to note that studies of cells in the
context of incarceration cover a variety of empirical settings, which range
from prison and police cells (Baksheev et al. 2010) to holding cells in
extradition camps (Schneider 2004). The academic focus on cells has also
come from a variety of different foci: security and safety (Cox and Skegg
1993; Reid et al. 2012), architecture (Fairweather and McConville 2013),
technology (Knight 2017), time and space (Leal and Mond 2001), racial
tensions (Trulson and Marquart 2010), the neoliberal economy
(Mitchelson 2014), and the media presentation of carceral space (Fiddler
2007). There is also a wealth of work on former carceral spaces, such as
sites of penal tourism where cells are often the stage on which ‘edutain-
ment’ narratives play out (Wilson et al. 2017). However, although the
cell is a focus, its definition and significance as a central component for
and through which carceral life is manifest is largely ignored. Important
work that attempts to theorise carcerality (Moran et al. 2018) or the
prison boundary (Turner 2016), tackles issues related to the cell, but such
work has not directed particular attention to the scale of the cell or on
what an interrogation of that particular space/spatiality reveals for our
wider understandings of prisons and other carceral spaces.
It is well documented in several key texts focussing on prisons (whether
academic, policy-directed or practitioner-led) that the cell is ordinarily
the primary space in which prisoners spend most of their day and will
fulfil this function for a number of months, years and decades. For exam-
ple, research often reveals significant time spent ‘behind the door’ in a cell
space, which can often extend to 23 hours a day for prisoners in maxi-
mum security facilities (see Sykes 2007 among many examples). Of
course, being a space in which most time is spent does not automatically
make it worthy of discussion. The cell warrants further attention because

it is the space at the centre of prison experience. Beyond the practical
aspects of everyday life noted above, research that explores the wider lived
experience of carceral spaces indicates that the cell is also a space for indi-
vidual resistances, personalities to be enacted, post-release plans to be
concocted, and dreams and aspirations to be explored and manifested
(see, for example, Crewe 2012; Ugelvik 2014). In the current climate of
contemplating rehabilitative strategies and fostering societal understand-
ing of prison and reform, it is pertinent to interrogate the everyday and
embodied experiences of incarceration and, of course, the spaces/spatiali-
ties in which they take place. Thinking through the balance of rehabilita-
tive strategy and wider management of the prison estate leads to other
considerations of the cell as intrinsic to and bound within decision-
making processes about the wider prison system. In the UK, architects
and planners of new-build prisons have come to replicate a standard
model for the prison cell across the estate (Moran et al. 2016) in an
attempt to regulate and make cost-effective the custodial environment.
Now, a generic cell design—often constructed through Building
Information Modelling software—is part of a governmental strategy to
regulate the estate to ensure safety and security for both staff and prison-
ers. More than this, using standardised designs, manufacturing processes
and regular suppliers for the physical components of the cell space nation-
wide ensures that the Ministry of Justice in the UK, for example, can
benefit from economies of scale, policies and procedures can be replicated
across the estate, and the experience of the prison cell can be regulated
through its standardisation. Cells have become the most easily replicable
part of the prison estate. They are firmly embedded into the library of
prison ‘parts’, so much so that some architects have admitted that they no
longer spend time focussing on these areas of the prison—instead hoping
to win bids with unique configurations of houseblocks or innovative
technological advances to reduce staffing or heating costs, for example
(Moran et al. 2016). However, in doing so, policy-makers often diminish
the significance and individuality of the embodied and everyday practices
that are critical to the lived experience of carceral space.
Accordingly, in seeking to highlight the ‘remarkable’ nature of cell
space, The Prison Cell focuses upon this central institution of carcerality.
Building upon recent work on carceral atmospheres (Turner and Peters

2015), cell capacities (Peters and Turner 2018) and extending work, for
example, that considers the importance of objects in carceral lives/cell
spaces (Baer 2005; Schliehe 2017) this volume explores the intricate
material, human and more-than-human connections that make cell space
function. To this end, the cell analogy, and thinking of the nucleus, cyto-
plasm and cell membrane of the prison cell permits a deep interrogation
of this central, but oddly overlooked, space. The book brings together a
series of chapters that negotiate the complexities of this type of carceral
space and address the significance of the cell in relation to the embodied
and everyday experiences of incarceration. Furthermore, the work in this
volume highlights the importance of the prison cell as a space that is cru-
cially connected to wider carceral space, recognising cells as more than
simply static entities and instead imbued with and embroiled within
practices and processes of carceral movement and mobilities (Turner and
Peters 2017). We highlight the array of processes and practices that shape
carceral life from this perspective to provide a unique volume that
advances our understandings, conceptualisations and experiences of the
space of the cell. As we have considered, the cell is an intriguing space—a
space many researchers find difficult to access practically, safely, decently,
morally and ethically. And, yet, the cell symbolically represents the mono-
lithic values of the prison where it largely remains uncontested, often free
from scrutiny and direct observation by staff, other prisoners and prison
visitors like researchers. As a response to this, this collection extends dis-
courses about the cell and offers novel accounts of the cell in its various
forms and in varying contexts. Together this book offers readers a capti-
vating journey deep inside the cell to characterise it as a distinctive, com-
plex and powerful space that has, above all, become positioned as central
to incarceration as a process and tool for penal power.
The Chapters
This body of work offers new insights for scholars, researchers and prac-
titioners. All of the contributions are theoretically informed and draw
from extensive and rich data. Our collection offers readers a potential
framework, as a metaphor, for understanding the centrality of the cell’s

role in the system of containment and punishment, as well as wider imag-
inations of the penal system. Imaginations of the cell are steadfast, often
rooted in cultural expectations—as cultural artefacts that are communi-
cated through television, literature and film—of how punishment and
incarceration is administered and experienced. Moreover academic stud-
ies, particularly in criminology, are grounded in Western ideologies and
too often our view of the prison and the cell are aligned to cultural con-
texts. These imaginations are, in many ways, challenged by the intensive
scrutiny contributors have offered. This volume draws upon a multitude
of international case studies from a global collective of authors across a
range of disciplines (including criminology, penology, anthropology,
sociology, geography, literary and cultural studies, media studies, archi-
tecture and law) to critique these persistent ontologies by provoking
renewed and extended understandings of the prison cell as an everyday
and embodied experience of imprisonment.1 Here these insights offer
rich discussions about the ways in which humans respond to the prison
at large; through sensory engagements with the physical environment
and the people around them in experiences that often include both adap-
tion and resistance to surroundings.
Part I: The Nucleus
In this section we introduce chapters that speak to the underpinning

mechanisms and aims of imprisonment such as forms of power and philo-
sophical interpretations. Here the chapters interrogate the role of the cell
as a conduit of power—where the cell is inherently interlinked with the
overarching ideology or management principles of the wider penal system.
In Chap. 2, Helen Johnston takes the reader on a historical journey
highlighting how English penal philosophies of the early nineteenth cen-
tury focused upon the prison cell. Johnston outlines how the cell was
constructed as a space of transformation, isolation, conflict and punish-
ment; a site in which the individual offender would, in theory, reflect
upon and repent their sins and alter their future behaviour. In revealing
the relationship between this particular space and the wider institutional
agenda, this chapter explains how the use of the cell as a pivotal part of
the disciplinary regime has persisted in the modern prison.
Leading on from this, in Chap. 3, Jordan Hyatt, Synøve Andersen and
Steven Chanenson further demonstrate how attending to contemporary
carceral design provides a perspective on the prevailing ideological and
pragmatic goals within penal systems. Hyatt et al. compare the distinct
penal ideologies of Norway and the United States through in-depth focus
on cells in a newly-constructed prison in each country. Here, they iden-
tify a contrast between utilitarian punishment goals like reintegration
and ‘normality’ through environmental-based rehabilitation and the pri-
macy of efficiency and other non-utilitarian correctional goals across
both contexts. In highlighting the myriad nuances of the Norwegian and
United States’ approach to cell design in their new-build prisons, this
chapter reveals the prison cell as a space that clearly communicates the
contemporary priorities of the prison system.
In Chap. 4, we turn to the prison cell in the context of The Philippines
where Raymund Narag and Clarke Jones attend to multiple occupancy
cells where prisoners are themselves deputised as part of a leadership struc-
ture called the mayores system to help with custodial, rehabilitative and
administrative tasks. This chapter draws upon qualitative data gathered
over 20 years to demonstrate how traditional Filipino culture imported
into prison reinforces a shared governance model that impacts how prison-
ers experience cell life and constructs the cell as a disciplinary tool (Foucault
1977), which, although somewhat contra to Western versions of inade-
quacy in terms of its infrastructural resources and levels of overcrowding,
results in positive outcomes for the prison system in this particular context.
The focus then shifts to the police cell—which exists as both a detain-
ee’s first encounter with carceral cell space and as a liminal space ‘betwixt
and between’ life within and outside of the criminal justice system—
where, in Chap. 5, Andrew Wooff reveals how cells in police custody
suites in the UK play a central role in police practice. Wooff argues that
police custody has, until recently, been treated in a fairly monolithic way
and is, instead, a complex and multi-faceted environment. In this chap-
ter, Wooff draws on observations and interviews with police officers and
custody staff to reveal the police custody cell as a space of monitoring risk
and managing emotional turmoil.
Part II: Cytoplasm
The next section of our book interrogates how prisoners and detainees
respond to their confinement within the boundaried parameters of the
cell space itself. The contributors’ insights provide novel readings of the
performative concept of being a prisoner through focus on the embodied
and everyday experiences of life in imprisonment in the cell.
In Chap. 6, Irene Marti’s ethnographically-informed study explores
the experience of long-term prisoners in Switzerland who have been given
indeterminate sentences and offers insights into the prisoners’ ways of
inhabiting a cell. Despite furnishing and maintenance being highly con-
strained by the prison’s regime, this chapter explores the prisoners’ indi-
vidual ways of (re)arranging their prison cell. Here, Marti reveals how
prisoners ascribe new meanings and values to the prison cell and create
personal and intimate space as a way of inhabiting a cell in a life situation
that is characterised by a high degree of uncertainty.
Following this, another interpretation of the prison cell is offered in
Chap. 7 by the Another Chance at Education (ACE) Steering Committee.
Here, this collaborative team of writers (including university undergrad-
uates, academic faculty members and serving prisoners) co-produced
their examination of dimensions of the cell as experienced by men in a
maximum-security penitentiary in the United States. In particular, ACE
opens up the cell as an emotional landscape, which posits them as muta-
ble spaces, often exhibiting many things simultaneously that are particu-
lar to their occupant(s). In exemplifying the complexity of prison cells as
a dynamic and significant space within the prison, this chapter reveals
them as not only constraining spaces, but also sites and sources of inge-
nuity and agency.
Bénédicte Michalon also interrogates power relationships through her
examination of cells in immigration detention centres in Romania in
Chap. 8. She examines the cell as a source of tension between spatial
restriction and domestication of space in a situation where cells are typi-
cally multi-occupancy. Cells in this context are also used for disguising
power relationships; under the pretext of respect for their privacy, the
detainees are driven to treat the cell as a domestic space. Their relations to
this imposed spatial unit are characterised by their heterogeneity.

Domestication of the cell therefore does not appear to be a process of
emancipation, but rather a subtle but efficient way of maintaining order
within the cell’s walls.
In Chap. 9, Rossella Schillaci extends our enquiry into the prison cell
as a space for everyday interaction by drawing upon research produced as
part of the documentary film Imprisoned Lullaby to interrogate the suit-
ability of cell life for children in a prison mothers’ unit in Italy. The chap-
ter reveals how mothers must overcome several obstacles in raising their
children within the prison environment, particularly in relation to the
physical landscape of the prison cell and the daily routine of mother- and
childhood that must be contained within it, such as washing, eating and
sleeping. Schillaci explores how both mothers and children adopt several
strategies to use the cell as a space to build intimate relationships.
However, despite these deliberate goals of transforming prison life, such
intentions rarely attempt to construct the prison cell as a ‘home’. Instead,
all long-term emotional and material connections to this ‘cursed’ space
are deliberately avoided.
Part III: The Cell Membrane
In the final section of the book we present a series of chapters that illumi-
nate what we might term the prison cell boundary. The chapters in this
section focus on cell experiences that are tied to spaces outside of it—
other cells; connecting corridors; and spaces outwith the prison, among
others—to explore how inside of the cell and the outside of the cell sym-
biotically dis/connect. In particular, these chapters address how experi-
ences of the prison cell are developed through sensations and human
connections.
Jennifer Turner, Dominique Moran and Yvonne Jewkes explore the
significance of sensory interactions with blue space through the bars of a
prison cell window in Chap. 10. Much previous literature has explored
how the architecture of incarceration impinges on the lives of those resid-
ing in carceral space and rarely considers the prison environment as a
therapeutic space. Drawing on notions of therapeutic landscapes and
data collected from a UK prison in a coastal town where many cells have
a view of the sea, Turner et al. theorise the prison as a nurturing rather
than punitive environment by examining the relationship between the
prison cell and the lived experience of blue space. In doing so, this chap-
ter reveals the possibilities for both the disciplinary theorisation of thera-
peutic blue space and the micro-scale health benefits that may be
generated by a reconsideration of prison siting and environmental out-
look, particularly from the prison cell.
In contrast, moving away from previous studies that have employed a
primarily visual approach to prison research, in Chap. 11, Kate Herrity
draws on a research project on the significance of sound in prison using
aural ethnography in a local men’s prison in the UK. Herrity highlights
how sounds such as cell door banging and music permeate life in the
prison. In particular, these auditory experiences foreground cell life and,
for some, offer a source of sanctuary and/or enforce practices of ‘sousveil-
lance’ within the cell. In registering the sensory experiences that take
place ‘beyond our line of sight’ this chapter adds texture and depth to our
understanding of life in prison.
Extending focus to another of the senses, Elisabeth Fransson and
Francesca Giofrè explore the significance of touch in Chap. 12. The chap-
ter draws upon material generated as part of a comparative study in two
female prisons in Italy and Norway and disrupts traditional understand-
ings of the prison cell as an isolated unit within the prison by exploring
various prison cells, their boundaries and extensions. Here, Fransson and
Giofrè take inspiration from considerations of sensuous architecture and
the philosophy of touch to explore the intersection of spaces inside cells
and those outside of them such as corridors and thresholds. In doing so,
this chapter not only reveals the value of taking an embodied approach to
prison studies but moves beyond an often limited and singular under-
standing of what a prison cell is and can be.
The prison cell is not simply linked to spaces within the prison but also
inherently connected to spaces outside of the institution too. In Chap.
13, Jana Robberechts and Kristel Beyens discuss their research into the
digitalisation of the prison cell through the introduction of information
and communication technologies, which offer a variety of methods for
prisoners to communicate within and beyond the walls of the prison.
This ethnographic study of a Belgian prison equipped with the digital

platform PrisonCloud interrogates the impacts of this increasingly multi-
functional digital cell upon physical and social interactions. Drawing
upon observations and interviews with prisoners, prison officers and
administrative staff, this chapter interrogates the impact of the relocation
of activities within the everyday regime, such as telephone calling and
booking medical appointments, inside of the cell. Accordingly,
Robberechts and Beyens reveal how the use of in-cell digital technology
has the potential to alter prisoner-staff interactions in addition to rein-
forcing the prisoner’s position of dependency, as well as generating new
forms of isolation.
Also recognising the relationships between prison cells and the spaces
beyond them, Hanneke Stuit takes us, in Chap. 14, into the world of
real-life games to explore one example of how the prison cell enters into
our cultural imaginations. In this final empirical chapter, Stuit’s close
reading of the Prison Escape game, in the former prison in Breda, the
Netherlands highlights how the space of the cell is deployed as an entry
point into understanding the prison. The game, where as many as 200
players are locked inside the former prison and tasked with escaping from
it, evokes popular imaginations of the prison and panoptic architecture.
Here, principles of play rely on a metaphorically constructed, fantastical
lure of the prison cell, which engineers resistance to the landscape of sur-
veillance. Stuit posits the prison cell as a heterotopic, liminal space of play
offering an embodied, if limited, experience of incarceration which fore-
grounds reflection on the mechanics of intensified surveillance.
Moving Forwards
Returning at the end of this chapter to Alberts et al.,
Cells are small and complex: it is hard to see their structure, hard to dis-
cover their molecular composition, and harder still to find out how their
various components function. An enormous variety of experimental tech-
niques have been developed to study cells, and the strength and limitations
of these techniques have largely determined our present conception of the
cell. Most of the advances in cell biology—including the most exciting

ones of recent years—have sprung from the introduction of new methods.
(Alberts et al. 1994: 143)
Just like the biological cell described here, the prison cell is often regarded
simply as ‘the cell’—yet without careful attention it is hard to understand
its structure, composition and how it may function in relation to the
larger ‘whole’ of the prison and to penal philosophy. More so, although
there have been attempts to research or ‘study’ the prison cell, these shape
our present understandings and there remains a need to introduce new
methods to help us grapple with, make sense of, and understand the cell
for academic and policy purposes. As with cell biology, without contin-
ued development of, and adaption to, our approach to the study of prison
cells, our very conception and understanding of them is limited. Through
this collection we have offered some consolidation of what the cell is,
what it does and how it is experienced in a variety of different empirical
and theoretical perspectives in different contexts. The prison cell is
revealed as a crucial yet complex component in regimes of incarceration.
It is a paradoxical space where power and resistance converge, which is
both anaesthetising and overwhelming in terms of sensory experiences
and simultaneously removed from and interlinked with, spaces surround-
ing it in and beyond prison. The body of work presented in this volume
is wide-ranging and strong in its contribution to this field of interest.
However, it is, unsurprisingly, incomplete and we hope that new knowl-
edge and modes of inquiry continue to develop to interrogate this critical
space. In particular, this contribution draws from an array of disciplines
and the eclectic lenses applied in this book highlight the need to open
new ontological pathways to enhance our understanding of the cell, per-
haps most importantly in multi-disciplinary ways. By way of conclusion
to this introductory chapter, we offer four trajectories for development in
this area.
Our first consideration builds upon the very metaphor of the biologi-
cal cell that is set out in this introduction. Considering the prison cell as
a set of components akin to nuclei, cytoplasm and cell membranes offers
a new conceptual tool to unpack and underpin the complex actions, reac-
tions and interactions of the space of the cell. Much like recent work that
has driven the interrogation of the specificity of the ‘carceral’ itself (see
Moran et al. 2018), forward-going analysis of the prison cell may be
enhanced further through a (re)consideration of the theoretical and con-
ceptual foundations of the ‘prison cell’ as a tool for deployment both
within an academic and a policy-orientated scope. What does the prison
cell consist of? What does this definition include and/or exclude and does
this change the scope of research attention to it? In this volume,
although we include the likes of cells in immigration detention (which
are the focus of Michalon’s study in Chap. 8) collectively here under the
previously-mentioned renewed scope of the carceral (Moran et al. 2018),
in doing so there are key distinctions between these and traditional spaces
of the prison that could still be unpacked further from a conceptual point
of view. The biological prison cell, so to speak, reminds us to look more
closely at minute, forgotten details, and calls our attention to embodied
and everyday experience of carceral life. There may be other conceptuali-
sations beyond the biological cell analogy that offer similar, and/or var-
ied, considerations of this complex landscape.
Secondly, and likely in conjunction with any progression of our con-
ceptual toolbox, we offer a plea to extend the empirical range and scope
of research associated with prison cells. If our understandings of what
exactly the prison cell is and where it can be found are augmented, the
potential range of the field of study also increases. We now have the
capacity to study a range of different aspects of the prison cell from its
sonic properties (as in Herrity’s work in Chap. 11) to its architectural
design (explored in relation to the view from prison cell windows by
Turner et al. in Chap. 10) and its percolation into other cultural artefacts
related to the prison (such as in the escape game noted by Stuit in Chap.
14). As will be highlighted in this volume, there is a range of context-
specific manifestations of the prison cell but only some of which have we
been able to exemplify within this collection. In particular, difficulties of
access to not only prison spaces but, also, restrictions on academic schol-
arship in some countries may have a bearing upon the geographical range
of such studies. Particular types of cells are far more closed than others.
We could, for example, extend our enquiries to spaces such as detention
camps and military prisons but these spaces are often even more ‘closed’
than traditional prisons as research sites. Recent work, such as Moran
et al.’s (2012) work on prisoner transportation also reveals significant dif-

ficulties in appraising carceral space in contexts—here Russia—where the
specificities of the geographical landscape and infrastructure present quite
significant challenges. Whilst there may be immovable obstacles sur-
rounding some of the practical issues associated with access, there are,
perhaps, some considerations to offer in relation to how our work may
evolve methodologically to respond to these challenges.
In addition, although this volume has illuminated the prison cell as
vitally connected to other areas of the prison, much of this connection is
revealed by the recognition that, methodologically, most discussion of the
prison cell takes place outside of the cell itself. Although some authors have
been given favourable access to these spaces (such as that which facilitated
the documentary film that became the basis for Schillaci’s work in Chap.
9), for reasons of security, prisoner management and researcher safety,
interviews with prisoners often take place outside of the cell. In a similar
vein, it is also very difficult to capture experiences of cells at certain time
periods within the cycle of incarceration. For example, as Wooff (Chap. 5)
highlights, the transient and often unpredictable nature of police cells pres-
ents clear challenges to accessing participants who may only spend hours in
that particular carceral space. Indeed, the in-depth analysis of work such as
that offered here by Narag and Jones (Chap. 4) is predicated on a number
of years of ethnographically-informed research. These challenges may also
apply to researchers interested in other transitory cell spaces such as prison
reception areas, first-night centres and, at the other end of the journey,
rooms in half-way houses and temporary accommodation offered around
the time of release. Here, the practicalities of research converge with ethical
considerations surrounding informed consent and the tensions of conduct-
ing research with individuals who may be experiencing acute distress in
that particular location at that particular time. In the first instance, we may
consider the value of historical accounts (such as Johnston’s in Chap. 2) and
existing data sets—which are often available as data sets acquired through
public funding are usually required to be submitted to an archive for future
use—are an invaluable tool for tracing philosophical, political and cultural
understandings of incarceration without the invasive nature of the creation
of ‘new’ knowledge. However, where the nature of the research enquiry
makes this impractical, we could push further for the inclusion of a much
wider range of voices from within carceral space. As the contribution by

ACE (Chap. 7) will demonstrate, co-creative techniques that celebrate co-
authorship and co-production of knowledge from ‘within’ the prison cell
could be offered as a way to explore these spaces more effectively. Taking
lead from Robberechts and Beyens (Chap. 13), modes of digitisation—
which enable new interactions from within the prison cell—may present
new opportunities and new challenges for researchers reaching participants
who dwell inside cell spaces.
Finally, we use this volume to call for an extension of the relationship
between our empirical knowledge and the policy developments related to
it. As many of our chapters contend—most notably in the chapters offer-
ing comparative case studies such as those offered by Hyatt et al. (Chap.
3) and Fransson and Giofrè (Chap. 12)—there is a clear relationship
between penal philosophy and the prison cell; in terms of its physical
landscape, the regime that it serves and the possibility and capabilities it
can achieve. Many of the chapters in this collection reveal not only short-
comings of the prison cell—perhaps in terms of its suitability as a space
for dealing with particular groups of residents such as young families or
prisoners who are likely to spend extended periods in these kinds of
spaces (such as in Marti’s interrogation in Chap. 6 of prison cells for pris-
oners with indeterminate sentence)—but also the positive associations
with this space. In a penal environment where loss of liberty is deliber-
ately and acutely felt, further interrogation of the space in which prison-
ers spend most of their daily lives is likely to illuminate many occasions
of poor and good practice that have a wider implication for our under-
standings of the nature and purpose of carceral spaces more generally.
In sum, the prison cell, whilst a central part of carceral life, has not
achieved focused scrutiny because it is so pervasive, so central, so taken-
for-granted. It is both commonly accepted, yet critically unacknowledged
at the same time. Therefore, serious interrogation of this space is often
lacking. It is precisely because the cell is so discernible that we are in dan-
ger of missing the everyday, the mundane and the ordinary features of
incarceration. It is our intention that this volume provides a foundational
point from which to continue and expand our understandings of the
space of the prison cell: arguably—whether for good or otherwise—the
fundamental building block of life in prison.
Note
1. The scope and geographical extent of the book has resulted in a variety of
different terminology to describe the various spaces of, and individuals
involved in, incarceration. We appreciate that these terms can often be
interpreted differently depending on the disciplinary and geographical situ-
ation in which they are received but have retained the use of language com-
mon to the academic and social context from which the research emerges.
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Wood, D. W. (1974). Principles of Animal Physiology. London: Arnold.
Part I
The Nucleus
The nucleus is a large spherical or ovoid body enclosed in the cytoplasm

but separated from it by a membrane similar to the cell membrane… It is
the nucleus that ultimately determines the shape and function of the cell.
(Mackean and Jones 1975: 8)
2
‘The Solitude of the Cell’: Cellular
Confinement in the Emergence
of the Modern Prison, 1850–1930
Helen Johnston
In Western societies, during the nineteenth century, the newly established

‘modern’ prison used the architecture, physical structure of the prison
and, notably, the prison cell to induce conformity and reflection and to
punish those confined within. In England, from the 1830s, when the
prisons began to routinely use cellular confinement under the separate
system of discipline, until the 1920s and 1930s when prison regimes were
slowly ameliorating, the cell was established as a pivotal part of the prison
and its architecture. Once established, the cell would persist as the con-
ventional and most enduring feature of prison design and organisation as
well as the most notable space in the prisoner experience. This chapter
will explore the beginnings of the use of cellular confinement in late-
eighteenth and early-nineteenth-century England. It will then examine
the changing philosophies and practices that embedded ‘the cell’ in the
prison architecture and routine of the nineteenth century and early
H. Johnston (*)
Department of Criminology and Sociology, University of Hull, Hull, UK

24 H. Johnston
twentieth-century prison as well as considering the experience that cel-

lular confinement engendered.
In order to uncover these experiences, this chapter draws on a range of
historical evidence from archival research that documents the English
prisoner experience. Primarily, it draws upon prison administrative
records for local and convict prisons (governor journals, internal prison
records, for example) and government documentation in the form of offi-
cial investigations and annual reports through the Parliamentary Papers.
It also explores a range of published material from the period including
autobiographical accounts of prisoners (and social commentators) and
newspaper reports. Overall, this rich range of archival material will pro-
vide the basis for demonstrating how the cell was established as a pivotal
part of the prison experience and indeed how it was able to endure the
various changes in dominance of different justifications for punishment
over time. In addition, it will argue that the use of isolation and solitude
remained a central feature of the cell experience for prisoners well into
the twentieth century, a feature often overlooked in historical research on
prison in this period.
Prison ‘Reform’ in the Late Eighteenth Century

The ‘birth’ of the prison at the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the
nineteenth century saw the transition of prisons from a place of deten-
tion to a place where ‘transformation’ or ‘change’ could occur within the
minds of those confined (Foucault [1975] 1991; McConville 1998a;
McGowen 1998). The regimes, routines and practices within prison, as
well as the architecture and design of prisons would become central to
this (Jewkes and Johnston 2007). In the early phase of prison reform, the
architectural development and design of prisons was heavily influenced
by ideas about the physical health of prisoners as well as the moral envi-
ronment that the prison was seeking to create (Evans 1982). In England,
key reformers such as John Howard and Elizabeth Fry had pointed to the
poor conditions and physical health of inmates; the spread of diseases like
gaol fever in the pre-reform gaols and houses of correction; and to the
debauched and corrupting moral environment (Howard [1777] 1929;
2 ‘The Solitude of the Cell’: Cellular Confinement… 25
Fry 1827; McConville 1981, 1998a; McGowen 1998). Both physical

and moral health would influence the changes in prison design that
would ultimately inform the idea that the ‘cell’ or cellular confinement
offered the potential to address both of these concerning elements.
There was widespread prison building in late-eighteenth-century
England, as at least 45 new gaols or bridewells were newly constructed
(Evans 1982). However, this activity happened at the local level; there
was no government involvement in prison at this time as most of the
more serious offenders were either executed or sentenced to transporta-
tion overseas. In local prisons, prison architecture and design focused on
the prevention of the spread of physical disease. Prisons were often con-
structed using arcades with sleeping cells or rooms above, with the idea of
circulating air and providing ventilation or expelling ‘putrid’ air, which
was then believed to be the source of disease (Evans 1982; Jewkes and
Johnston 2007).
The proposals for the first government penitentiary were contained
within the 1779 Penitentiary Act, which occurred in the aftermath of the
American War of Independence as the American colonies could no lon-
ger take convicts previously transported there. The ‘Panopticon’ prison
design, as proposed by Jeremy Bentham, appeared in response to this
government call for a new penitentiary (under a tender within the 1779
Act). Bentham’s Panopticon design was based on ideas of surveillance,
inspection and observation. The proposed six-storey circular structure
building where prisoners, in cells facing a central observation tower,
would be in view of the guards at all times. The Panopticon was never
built despite Bentham’s continued efforts (Semple 1993; McConville
1981) and neither were the proposed government penitentiaries, instead,
the discovery of Australia had led to the establishment of a new penal
colony where over 160,000 convicts would be sent before its cessation in
1867 (Godfrey and Cox 2008; Johnston 2015). Yet the ideas about cel-
lular confinement and a space or place for penance remained and were to
reignite as a central part of discussion in the early decades of the nine-
teenth century.
The use of the prison cell would become a focal point of philosophical
discussions and architectural concerns in the early nineteenth century.
This discussion and the subsequent practice would have a profound and
26 H. Johnston
enduring effect on the ways which determined how prisoners would be

confined. In 1811, the Holford Committee again proposed a govern-
ment penitentiary. The penitentiary would hold prisoners before they
were transported overseas. Central to the proposed regime was solitary
confinement or seclusion in cells. The Committee reviewed existing
arrangements of this nature at local prisons across the country, notably
focusing on systems used at Gloucester Penitentiary and at Southwell
House of Correction in Nottingham. Indeed, the Committee concluded
that ‘many offenders may be reclaimed by a system of Penitentiary impris-
onment; by which Your Committee mean a system of imprisonment, not
confined to the safe custody of the person, but extending to the reforma-
tion and improvement of the mind, and operating by seclusion, employ-
ment and religious instruction’ (Holford Committee 1810–1811: 6).
Millbank Penitentiary opened on the banks of the River Thames in 1816
and its regime centred on cellular seclusion and isolation. Those held at
Millbank were subject to this system of isolation before being transported
to Australia. However, it was blighted by problems of staffing and out-
breaks of disease, as well as debates about the use of solitary confinement
and its effects on those subject to it (McConville 1981; Wilson 2002,
2014). Millbank’s demise was relatively swift as the attention of commen-
tators had already begun to shift and was increasingly influenced by
experiments into such practices used in prisons in the United States that,
as will be demonstrated, placed the ‘cell’ at the centre of debates about
how prisoners’ behaviour might be changed.
eparation and Silence: Isolation

S
and Contamination
By the 1820s and 1830s, cellular confinement was a major source of dis-
cussion in England informed also by practice from across the Atlantic. In
America, at Walnut Street prison and then Cherry Hill penitentiary, in
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and at Auburn prison in the State of New York,
two contrasting systems of discipline were in operation. At these two
locations experiments in the methods of the separate system in
Pennsylvania and the silent system in New York were being undertaken.

Both systems aimed to change offenders by limiting the contact that they
had with other prisoners and, therefore, the potential for further ‘moral
contamination’ but each relied on different practices to do so. The sepa-
rate system advocated the use of isolation in cells where prisoners were
confined alone to work, eat and sleep. The architecture of cellular con-
finement was therefore central to this approach. Prisoners were only able
to leave the cell for exercise or to attend services in the chapel. Outside of
the cell, they were instructed to wear masks or caps with low peaks to
obstruct recognition by other inmates (Ignatieff 1978; Forsythe 1987).
The competing silent system relied on silence at all times, so, whilst pris-
oners might sleep in cells alone at night, during the day they worked in
silent association with others. Thus under the silent system cellular isola-
tion was only used at night. It was thought that these systems would
induce prisoners to reflect upon their previous behaviour to reduce the
morally-corrupting influence of the prison environment and encourage
them to repent their sins and turn away from life of crime. As is implied,
religion was also a significant feature of the approaches, though notice-
ably more so in the separate system where the prison chaplain had a key
role. Isolation and silence would allow for reflection, repentance: within
the separate cell they would be solitary, reminiscent of monastic exis-
tence. Visits by the chaplain would break the silent monotony. It was
within the space of the cell that this religious transformation would take
place, as the chaplain of Parkhurst recounted:
It is [in their cells] that I get into their spirit and worm out their individual
traits and temptations, then that I can apply the Gospel remedy to each
lad, that I can listen to their regrets on account of past conduct, and to
their little tales of home scenes and recollections. It is there that I can calm
the troubled mind and cool the fiery temper roused by an imagined injus-
tice. (Cited in Forsythe 1987: 47)
In 1835, the government appointed inspectors of prisons, one of

whom, William Crawford, had visited the penitentiaries in the US oper-
ating both these systems of imprisonment. He presented a detailed
report demonstrating his support for the separate system.
28 H. Johnston
Subsequently, Crawford and another inspector, Reverend Whitworth

Russell, both advanced the benefits of the separate system and perhaps
inevitably due to their influence, ‘separation … was thought to be the
panacea for increasing crime’ (Tomlinson 1978: 62). Reporting on the
Eastern Penitentiary in Pennsylvania, Crawford wrote:
the cells are ranged on each side of the corridors in the wall of which is a
small aperture and iron door to each cell: through this aperture the meals
of the prisoner are handed to him without his seeing the officer, and he
may at all times be thus inspected without his knowledge. … A privy is
constructed in each cell in such a way as to preserve the purity of the atmo-
sphere, and prevent the possibility of communication from cell to cell. …
In the arched ceiling of each cell is a window for the admission of light. The
cells are eleven feet nine inches long, seven feet six inches wide, and sixteen
feet high to the top of the arched ceiling. … On arriving in his cell the
hood is removed, and he is left alone. There he may remain for years, per-
haps for life, without seeing any human being but the inspectors, the war-
den and his officers … For the first day or two the convict is not allowed to
have even a Bible … It is not, however, until solitude appears to have
effectually subdued him that employment of any kind is introduced into
his cell. (Crawford 1834: 10)
It was during this period that the cell was embedded within both the
philosophies of punishment and the architecture of the prison. The
organisation of prison and the idea of holding prisoners in cellular con-
finement was fixed and has largely remained in Western societies ever
since. In England, the overwhelming majority of prisons were under the
control of local authorities and not the government. The degree to which
they were interested in these new philosophies of punishment and prison
‘reform’ varied considerably. Though, as Tomlinson has observed, the use
of classified association from 1823 ensured greater focus on the individ-
ual prisoner and ‘the ultimate in classification was to keep every single
prisoner in his own separate cell’ (1978: 62).
Under the Prison Act 1839, the separate system was regularised for use
in all local prisons. Despite this, variation was still evident in practice: the
separate system was quickly implemented in some local areas, but other
regions held strong to the silent system or lacked any real system at all
beyond classifying prisoners according to their gender and crime (DeLacy

1986; Forsythe 1983; Johnston 2015; Saunders 1986). To encourage
conformity and uniformity in practice, the legislation also required all
new separate cells to be inspected and approved for use by a government
prison inspector. The Act stated that the cells must be of a sufficient size,
as well as lighted, warmed and ventilated and fitted with means by which
the prisoner could communicate with staff. By the 1860s, the use of cel-
lular confinement became the norm for most prisons as the government
pressed for more uniform practice across the country.
The second government penitentiary, Pentonville, had the separate sys-
tem built into its very architecture and fabric—opening in 1842—and
was to be a ‘model’ for the system. As Ferguson observed:
What a contrast to the pandemonium of associated criminals does the visi-

tor perceive who enters for the first time the walls of the Model Prison at
Pentonville! Instead of the noise and bustle of the old Newgates—absolute
stillness; a few silent warders only scattered here and there in the large and
lofty corridors containing a triple tier of cells, which range the whole length
of these galleries! … contrived to secure the complete isolation of 500 indi-
viduals from each other. They are fed at the same moment, rest at the same
hour, are out in masses in the open air. They are catechized in the school,
and respond in the chapel—yet man knows not man. There is continuity,
but no neighbourhood; and the very names of the prisoners are lost in the
mechanism which assigns numbers in their stead. (1847: 183)
As the above quote emphasises, the unregulated and noisy associating

rooms of the past (represented by Newgate) were to be replaced by the
regulated corridors of cells, cell upon cell, all identical and all silent. The
architecture of the prison and the cell construction ensured that prisoners
were ‘prevented from ever seeing each other; and, as silence will be in all
cases maintained, they will be separated as though they are miles apart’
(Illustrated London News 1843, cited in Davie 2016: 456).
Yet criticism quickly appeared in the press about both Pentonville and
the separate system more generally. Notably, the new regime was seen as
a potential source of mental illness in prisoners as well as being unneces-
sarily severe (Ignatieff 1978; Johnston 2006). As the Pentonville
30 H. Johnston
experiment progressed, periods of separation were reduced from an initial

18 months down to 12, and then eventually to 9 months, as evidence
emerged of the temporary and permanent effects of cellular isolation.
Although there was diverse practice in the many local prisons across the
country in terms of their adoption of the separate system, it remains the
case that by the early nineteenth century, the prison cell had become the
central focus of penal philosophy and practice. The cell was established as
a space of potential transformation in which, under the correct condi-
tions, prisoners could reflect on their own behaviour and past criminal
life, repent for their crimes and look at God for salvation and a new law-
abiding future. In ‘the solitude of the cell … alone with God and a
wounded conscience, the unhappy man is forced to exercise his powers of
reflection, and thus acquires a command over his sensual impulses which
will probably exert a permanent influence’ (Ritchie 1854, cited in
Priestley 1999: 37).
The separate system had been criticised even before Pentonville had
opened, but criticism of it was widespread by the 1850s (Henriques
1972; Johnston 2006). Yet, such criticism was contradictory. On the one
hand, commentators argued that the long periods of isolation in cells
were detrimental to the mental health of prisoners and too severe for
them to endure. On the other, it was argued that the regime was too soft;
that prisoners duped or manipulated prison chaplains into believing their
religious conversion and that isolation was not complete. Some commen-
tators maintained that other aspects of the regime such as the diet or
material conditions were too generous in comparison to that of the work-
house or those of the honest poor labourer outside prison. As one such
critic observed, ‘They provide for Bill Sykes1 and his friends … well aired
and ventilated, clean, tidy, winter-warmed, snug and cheerfully lighted
places of abode’ (cited in Tomlinson 1978: 65). Indeed, the construction
of or adapting a prison to the separate system was very expensive; each
cell had to be sufficiently well ventilated, heated, preventing sound, con-
tain a wash basin and water closet/toilet as well as being large enough for
labour as well as eating and sleeping.
By this time though, the prison cell was confirmed as the central space
in which prisoners would experience their incarceration and around
which all other aspects of the internal prison architecture should be
organised. As will be explored, although the separate system and its refor-
matory aims were lost in the subsequent years, the cell was permanently
established as fundamental to the organisation and architecture of the
prison and central to the daily regime. In the following decades, the call
for increasingly severe prison regimes to quell public anxieties about
crime and criminality saw the cell refashioned as a space of isolation.
Instead of a place of potential transformation through solitude and reli-
gion, it became central to a regime based on silence, labour and sparse
diet designed to deter both new and persistent offenders.
Deterrence and Isolation
By the mid-century, there were growing concerns about crime and recidi-
vism as well as the decline in the use of transportation to Australia (Bartrip
1981; Davis 1980; Sindall 1990). In combination with the growing criti-
cism of the separate system outlined above, penal regimes and prison
practices became increasingly dominated by a more deterrent philosophy
of punishment. This emphasis on deterrence would prevail at least until
the end of the nineteenth century and a major investigation into prisons,
provided by the Gladstone Committee in 1895.
The decline of the transportation of convicts to Australia from the
1850s had also ensured that new measures to house convicted criminals
were needed in England. To this end, the convict prison system was
established where prisoners who would previously have been transported
would instead serve long prison sentences known as penal servitude.
Therefore, from this period until the mid-twentieth century, there existed
two systems of imprisonment; short sentences (less than two years, but
overwhelmingly offenders served sentences of less than one month) were
served in local prisons administered by local authorities, and long sen-
tences termed ‘penal servitude’ which were served in government-run
convict prisons.
By the 1860s, concerns about increasing crime, recidivism and the
effectiveness of imprisonment in reforming offenders had influenced the
idea that prison conditions need to be more severe (Johnston 2015;
McConville 1995, 1998b). Both the Penal Servitude Act 1864 and the
32 H. Johnston
Prison Act 1865 led to increasingly harsher or more severe sentencing

and prison policies undermined by a view that a more deterrent system
was required. This translated into longer minimum sentences for new
and repeat offenders and severe living conditions based on the notion of
‘hard labour, hard board, hard fare’ aiming to achieve maximum deter-
rence in prison regimes. For those in local prisons, this entailed long
hours of hard labour (at the crank or treadwheel, for example, both
pointless repetitive activities), minimal diets and sparse living conditions.
The separate cells still existed in prisons but they were re-fashioned into
this new regime—the cell became a focal part of the deterrent regime—
becoming sites of isolation for deterrent rather than reformatory purposes.
Auto/biographical accounts from prisoners appeared more widely in
the latter decades of the nineteenth century and they demonstrate how
the dull, poorly-lit, sparse environment was experienced. Mrs
Maybrick wrote:
I stepped forward, but started back in horror. Through the open door I saw,
by the dim light of a small window that was never cleaned, a cell seven feet
by four. “Oh, don’t put me in there!” I cried. “I cannot bear it.” For answer
the warder took me roughly by the shoulder, gave me a push and shut the
door. (1905: 67)
Similarly, Frank Henderson—also a first time entrant to the prison

system—described the prison’s ‘silent and grim gates, [where] the cell
door was closed behind me, the lock was turned, and I and the reality
were left alone. About that dark cheerless cell, its cold bare walls, its
grated windows, its massive door, there was to me an awful certainty’
([1869] 2007: 18).
By this time, discussions about the isolation of prisoners had come to
the conclusion that nine months’ isolation was the most that prisoners
could or should endure. However, for most prisoners, this policy was
largely irrelevant. The majority of the prison population were short term
prisoners serving less than 28 days. Sentences of this length would be
served in separation, with labour (such as oakum picking or turning the
crank or making sacks or rope) carried out in the cell. Sentences were
short but served in harsh, sparse conditions and, for a significant
proportion of these prisoners, these conditions would be endured repeat-

edly as they experienced the revolving door of imprisonment. Recidivism
was of considerable concern in the latter decades of the nineteenth cen-
tury and the motivation for such harsh prison conditions. But, as
McConville (1995) has observed, these regimes were unremittingly severe
in character.
Therefore, local prisons, as today, turned over the largest numbers of
prisoners, either on remand or serving short sentences or indeed holding
those to be moved on to the long-term convict system. Administrative
records for prisons in the nineteenth century are peppered with the inter-
actions and conflicts between prisoners and the rules in these prisons.
Given the central part the cell played in the regime, it was often the case
that prisoners’ infractions of the rules would take place in the cell space.
Common disciplinary offences occurred in cells; smashing windows
panes, breaking prison property and shouting and singing from the cell
were regular offences against the prison rules. Prisoners sometimes
smashed or broke the meagre institutional items that they were provided
with. In local prisons, where the turnover of the prison population was
high, records are often patchy and do not necessarily survive but do offer
us a glimpse into prisoners’ experiences.
Visiting magistrates’ (monthly visitors to the prison who acted as
external inspectors or overseers) records, for HMP Liverpool for example,
cite numerous evidence of ill-discipline within the prison but also reveal
the frustrations of those confined within. The experience of Elizabeth
Hughes perhaps epitomises the emotions of offenders who experienced
the revolving door of imprisonment. Elizabeth had been committed to
prison for one month for offences relating to prostitution. Warder Bell
reported that the prisoner had been received the previous night at about
7 o’clock. She continued,
I heard the breaking of glass. I went to the prisoner’s cell and saw her
jumped off the table—some of the cotton she was working at and some of
her clothing was on fire. I opened the door and ordered her out, she refused.
She took up the blanket and threw it on the fire—I brought her out by
force—14 panes of glass in her cell were broken. (Extract from 3 47/
34 H. Johnston
MAG/1/3/3, Visiting Committee Reports (VCR), HMP Liverpool, 8

October 1889)
Hughes interrupted the officer’s report of the incident when she remarked,
‘Is that all you have to say? I’ll do it again’. The officer continued ‘When
I went in there was no one but myself—others afterwards came in—I did
not strike you in the face. You were taken out by force, it was necessary’.
Hughes stated, ‘I did it because I’m tired of coming to prison. I was only
out five hours. I’m tired of my life’ (Extracts as above). Hughes was placed
in a punishment cell for seven days and on ‘punishment diet no 1’ (bread
and water) for this offence.
In the latter decades of the century, committals for drunkenness were
at a high and this began a national debate on what to do about inebriacy
and those who were repeatedly confined for drunken behaviour. Then, as
in previous decades, those committed for such offences often spent their
lives between the prison, the street and the public house and the after
effects of drinking followed them into the prison cell. Records of local
prisons testify to the frustrations of those detained and the initial experi-
ences of detention in the cell. Many reported for disciplinary offences
often expressed that the ‘drink was not out of them’ or that they were
suffering what we would now call withdrawal symptoms. In July 1898,
Winifred McCormack was charged with breaking 12 panes of glass in her
cell window. She admitted the damage stating that she was ‘in the horrors
of drink at the time’, that it was night and she could not get medicine
(Extract from 347/MAG/1/3/3, VCR, HMP Liverpool, 29 July 1898).
Similarly, Ann Ward was charged with breaking 14 panes of glass in her
cell window in December 1898. She told the Committee, ‘I am very
sorry I had been drinking “very heavy”’ (Extract from 347/MAG/1/3/3,
VCR, HMP Liverpool, 21 December 1898). Whilst the frustrations of
these experiences were experienced in the local prison cell as distress or
resistance, they were at least short term. But for those serving long prison
sentences, the seclusion and isolation and lack of family contact were
much more enduring.
he Cell: Isolation and Loneliness

T
in Long-Term Imprisonment
Prisoners’ experiences in the long-term estate were slightly different from
those of the local prison inmates discussed above. Those confined in the
long-term system were not committed directly to these prisons and there-
fore were not going into cells directly from the courts. They were not
therefore suffering from immediate entry shock to the prison or suffering
the instant effects of confinement. Those confined in the convict prison
system would first be committed to a local prison and then would be
removed to the convict prison estate, as all the convict prisons were in
London and the South of England. Under a sentence of penal servitude,
separation had evolved into the first stage of the sentence as separate con-
finement for up to nine months, usually served in Millbank and
Pentonville convict prisons.
Records of prisoners in the convict system of course present similar
evidence to the frustrations of short-term prisoners, but this was also
compounded by the geographical and physical isolation of being placed
in the long term system. For prisoners from the North of England and
the Midlands, the likelihood of visits from family or friends was limited
by the long geographical distance and by expense. Only 12.4 per cent of
all convicts ever received a visit and, for those with multiple sentences,
this significantly declined as relationships with those outside fractured
(Johnston and Godfrey 2013; Johnston 2019). In the local system, even
by the 1920s, no visits were permitted until eight weeks into the sentence
(B.2.15 1924).
Detailed analysis of their whole prison record as well as reconstructing
their lives also allows us to see other evidence about their lives and the
pressures they were facing. For example, although in the initial years of
the convict system there had been short-lived prison nurseries, women
confined in the convict prisons after the mid-1860s were unable to have
children with them inside prison. Depending on the age of the child,
those women without partners or people to care for them would find
their children sent to workhouses or confined to terms in industrial
schools under the Industrial Schools Act 1866 due to their mother’s
36 H. Johnston
offending (Johnston 2019). Evidence from these records demonstrates

the frustration and anxiety that lack of family contact or ‘bad’ news
(deaths in the family or loss of employment) from home could have on
those in prison. Families and loved ones on the outside were often living
in precarious situations, renting rooms or lodging, perhaps moving
around seeking employment, and therefore many letters were returned as
‘not found at that address’ or ‘addressee unknown’. Perhaps unsurpris-
ingly, for those in the convict system who had served multiple sentences
their connections to those on the outside diminished with each sentence.
The frustration, upset and sometimes distress of bad news were experi-
enced by the prisoner within the isolation of the cell (Johnston 2019).
The second stage of penal servitude was served on the public works,
during the mid to late nineteenth century, at a range of prisons built or
adapted for this purpose: Brixton, Chatham, Chattenden, Dartmoor,
Fulham, Parkhurst, Portland, Portsmouth and Woking. Cells in these
establishments varied enormously but all of this development was over-
seen or directed by Joshua Jebb, initially the Surveyor-General from 1844
then the first Director of the Convict Prisons from 1850. Jebb firmly
believed that ‘separation is the only basis on which the discipline of a
prison can exist’ (cited in Forsythe 1987: 45). Some of these prisons were
adapted but those entirely constructed also incorporated different types of
cells. For example, at Chatham, Portland and Dartmoor, temporary cells
made from corrugated iron sheets were used. Whilst prisoners spent the
day working at the quarries or on naval dockyards, their night-time accom-
modation were cells separated by corrugated iron. From the Directorate’s
point of view, this offered a portable construction and was cheaper finan-
cially. Thus, cell construction was not as fixed as might be expected. These
cells remained in use until the mid-1890s when they were replaced; whilst
they had offered an immediate solution for Jebb in constructing the long-
term prison system in the 1850s and 1860s, they were small. They were
only 206 cubic feet in size, which was about a quarter of the size of the 819
cubic feet dimensions of a standard night and day cell. This was justified
since convicts occupied these cells from 5 p.m. to 7 a.m. and during
days when the weather was too bad to work (PCOM 7/3). Yet, the
construction must have also allowed prisoners the possibility of

communicating through the partition walls as well as exposing them to

the cold and the heat during the more extreme weather periods of the year.
By the early 1890s there was increasing criticism of the prison system.
Du Cane’s tight hold over the system (as both Director of the Convict
Prisons and the local prisons after they were centralised in 1877) was a
major source of criticism due to his autocratic and militaristic approach
to leadership (Forsythe 1990; Harding 1988; McConville 1995). There
was also concern that the deterrent approach had gone too far. As an
anonymous writer of a series of articles that appeared in the Daily
Chronicle in 1894 summarised, the system was devoid of hope and
reform, characterised by an endless monotonous regime. He observed;
‘our local prison system … enhances the faults of solitary confinement,
and is marked more conspicuously than it by many terrible evils, cannot
be maintained on its present military and purely centralised basis’ (29
January 1894: 5). In calling for a Royal Commission to inquire into the
prison system, the ‘Special Correspondent’ (thought to be Reverend
W. D. Morrison, chaplain of Wandsworth Prison) argued that:
The ponderous iron gates, that hide more human misery than any other
corner the civilised world contains, rarely open to receive a critical visitor.
More perhaps might go if more knew or cared. But few know or care. The
great machine rolls obscurely on, cumbrous, pitiless, obsolete, unchanged.
The silent world—silent save when on some Sunday morning hundreds of
voices may be heard in melancholy chorus of prayer or song—goes on
receiving new citizens and discharging old ones, like the greater world
around it. (Daily Chronicle, 23 January 1894: 5)
By June 1894, the Home Secretary had appointed a Departmental

Committee on Prison chaired by Herbert Gladstone. The committee col-
lected a vast amount of information and evidence from those who worked
in prisons as well as ex-prisoners. In 1894, the imprisonment of Oscar
Wilde for offences under the Criminal Law Amendment Act also drew
public attention to the prison system; during the years of his incarcera-
tion, he also published ferocious criticism of the brutality of the prison
system (Wilde [1898] 2002).
38 H. Johnston
The landmark Gladstone Committee report in 1895 did ameliorate

some aspects of the severity of the prison system and advocated a combi-
nation of deterrence and rehabilitation in penal policy. Regarding sepa-
rate confinement, Du Cane continued to urge the view that ‘cellular
isolation was essential to the prevention of contamination and “that a
great number of prisoners … are below par mentally … the thing to do
with them … is to put them under control permanently”’ (cited in
Forsythe 1990: 26). The Committee did not agree that separate confine-
ment induced reflection in prisoners, but they largely supported Du
Cane’s position that it was a ‘deterrent; and a necessary safeguard against
contamination’ (1895: 20). Therefore, in the first few decades of the
twentieth century, prison regimes were marked by continuity rather than
any significant change and cellular isolation remained the dominant fea-
ture of the prisoner experience (Bailey 1997; Brown 2013; Forsythe
1990). Most of the Gladstone Committee’s recommendations applied to
the long-term prisoners and thus, the majority of the daily prison popula-
tion housed in local prisons were still subject to cellular isolation or sepa-
ration and silence in daily regimes. Thus, despite Gladstone’s discussions,
the common prisoner experience was one of cellular seclusion.
Brocklehurst wrote, in 1898, of his 28-day sentence of solitary
confinement:
Imagine a blind man denied human intercourse, with power of motion

only in a space 14 feet by 7, whose only contact with a limited outside
world comes through the ceiling, walls and iron door, and you can form a
faint idea of what life in prison must be. A prisoner sees nothing beyond
the limits of his cell; feels only its discomforts; tastes the prescribed prison
fare; hears limited sounds of his strange environment; and smells little
beyond the scent of creosote as it exhales from the oakum. (Cited in
Anderson and Pratt 2008: 181–182)
In 1910, the Chairman of the Prison Commission, Evelyn Ruggles-Brise,

and the Home Secretary, Winston Churchill, attended the opening night
of a controversial play by John Galsworthy called Justice, which criticised
the prison system but notably focused upon the effects of separate con-
finement, continuing a recurrent debate that had persisted for the last
seven decades (Nellis 1996). These events demonstrated the contested

and often contradictory ways in which policies were implemented even
in periods which are often regarded as more enlightened or progressive
such as Churchill’s tenure (Bennett 2008).
Thus debate about separate confinement and its effects continued in
the 1920s and 1930s. The unofficial inquiry into the prison system,
English Prisons To-day was published in 1922. It was compiled by two ex-
prisoners Stephen Hobhouse and A. Fenner Brockway—who were con-
scientious objectors to the First World War—and drew together a large
amount of evidence on separation as well as prison conditions more
broadly. By the 1920s the cell was still pretty sparse. Hobhouse and
Brockway’s report on the prison system in 1922 explains that:
The warder unlocks the door leading into the great hall of the prison, and,
with his bunch of jangling keys at hand, he accompanies the new inmate
to the cell destined for his home. Here his name becomes lost, and he
assimilates himself to the cell by buttoning on to his coat the unsightly yel-
low badge, inscribed with some such device as “A.3.21” or “C.2.8”, which
had been hanging over the door of the empty cell. The warder sees that the
cell water-can has been replenished and that the cleaning materials are not
exhausted. The door is banged and double locked, and the prisoner is left
alone with his thoughts.
The cage in which he now finds himself is a stern and bare little room,
of which the measurement are as a rule seven feet by thirteen and nine feet
high. Its furniture consists of a wooden table (either movable or fixed), a
small stool without a back, and a bed-board. The window is so high up that
it is necessary to stand on the stool to look out of it, and this, to make mat-
ters worse, may be regarded as a punishable offence. (Hobhouse and
Brockway 1922: 96)
Similarly, Florence Maybrick, imprisoned for the murder of her husband

in 1889, found separate confinement ‘by far the most cruel feature … it
inflicts upon the prisoner at the commencement of her sentence, when
most sensitive to the horrors which prison punishment entails, the voice-
less solitude, the hopeless monotony, the long vista of to-morrow, to-
morrow, to-morrow stretching before her, all filled with desolation and
despair’ (1905: 75).
40 H. Johnston
The debate about the use and the extent of separate confinement con-
tinued into the early decades of the twentieth century, although some
aspects of this were curtailed by the recommendations of the Gladstone
Committee since most of their recommendations applied to long term
prisoners. Despite some amelioration for long term prisoners, separate
confinement was not abolished for all prisoners until 1931. The bulk of
the prison population, located within the local prison system, therefore
continued to spend the majority of their incarceration isolated in their
cells. Whilst sentences were short, due to the progressive stage system
(prisoners moving through 28-day stages based on time and behaviour)
this meant that most of their prison experience was confinement with in
their cell at the first stage.
Conclusion
During the nineteenth century, the emergence of the modern prison
placed the cell at the centre of the new penal philosophies and practices.
Since that time, it has remained pivotal in the organisation of prisons and
‘the physical hub of the new prisoner’s unfamiliar future’ (Priestley 1999:
27). In the early years, the cell had been a space for moral reflection and
religious enlightenment but, as Forsythe observes, the ‘remarkable feature
of the history of cellular isolation was its persistence as an article of faith
amongst prison disciplinarians in England long after the fundamentalist
and extreme faith in its powers of moral regeneration had evaporated’
(2004: 768). The persistence of the cell was secured by its capacity to
accommodate the changing or dominant disciplinary regimes over time;
more reformative in the 1820s and 1830s as shown, but also at the centre
of more severely deterrent prison regime dominated by isolation, silence
and exacting suffering on the prisoner in the latter decades of the century.
The dominance of practices of separation across decades of the modern
prison experiment also challenges the widely-held views of the 1920s and
1930s as a ‘golden age of penal reform’. Under the direction of Alexander
Paterson, one of the Prison Commissioners, this period is held to epito-
mise liberal views on imprisonment; namely that people should be sent
to prison ‘as punishment rather than for punishment’ (Ruck 1951: 23).
But the use of separation or separate confinement and its persistence in

prison regimes demonstrates the deeply rooted ways in which the cellular
confinement was central to the regime and how regimes were very slow to
adapt and often considerably contested (Brown 2013; Forsythe 1990).
Indeed, even after the initial period of separation, those in local prisons
and those in convict prisons would still spend, routinely, between 16 and
17 and a half hours per day in a cell (Hobhouse and Brockway 1922).
Separation through cellular isolation continued as penal administra-
tors clung to the use of cellular confinement as a mechanism of discipline
and control and in the belief that it offered both the prevention of moral
contamination and the opportunity for reflection. The Victorian prison
architecture remained and, as one chairman of the Prison Commission
observed, ‘nothing less than dynamite could rid us of these grimy and
forbidding fortresses’ (Scott 1959: 85, cited in Forsythe 2004: 768).
Note
1. Bill Sykes was a notorious habitual criminal in the popular novel Oliver
Twist by Charles Dickens serialised in 1837–1839.
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3
Prison Cells as a Grounded Embodiment
of Penal Ideologies: A Norwegian-
American Comparison
Jordan M. Hyatt, Synøve N. Andersen,
and Steven L. Chanenson
Introduction
The design and furnishing of prison cells can have a profound effect on
how incarceration is experienced. This is not accidental, as myriad deci-
sions are made during the construction process for new prisons specifi-
cally to shape the usage and meaning of these spaces. While many such
decisions are pragmatic, others are ideological, reflecting the goals and
J. M. Hyatt (*)
Department of Criminology and Justice Studies, Drexel University,
Philadelphia, PA, USA
S. N. Andersen
University of Oslo, Oslo, Norway
S. L. Chanenson
Villanova University, Villanova, PA, USA

46 J. M. Hyatt et al.
priorities of the correctional and social systems in which the prison is

situated (c.f. Johnston 2000; Jewkes and Johnston 2007). Carceral spaces,
including cells, can be considered an explicit and static manifestation of
the correctional goals prevalent at the time of its design, including
those that pertain to the balance between punishment and
rehabilitation.
Prison architecture evolves over time (Johnston 2004; this volume),
though often slower than the ideals and pragmatic reforms that both
shape the day-to-day functioning of correctional systems and which may
diverge from the official, stated goals of imprisonment. Examining the
architectural features of a prison space can thus provide insight into the
intended character of a penal institution at the time it was built. This
approach also provides an opportunity to compare similar spaces across
jurisdictions and over time. Differences in the social, political, and eco-
nomic structures that support penal systems often make comparative
penological analyses challenging (Tonry 2015) and, by examining the
built environment of prisons in general and of the cell in particular, a
common language for such comparisons can emerge.
This chapter focuses on the physical design and use of the cells in two
diverse systems: the United States, as represented by Pennsylvania, and
Norway. In Pennsylvania, we focus on SCI Phoenix, the newest correc-
tional institution in the Pennsylvania system. In Norway, we examine
Halden Prison, which was designed explicitly to reflect the modern ideals
of the Norwegian Correctional Service (NCS). We examine the context
of incarceration, the stated goals of the respective prison agencies, and the
physical living environment of those incarcerated. Thus, the cell becomes
a lens through which prevailing correctional goals and philosophies can
be examined and compared.
The foundations for this comparative analysis are based upon data
derived from four main sources: (1) official documents from correctional
agencies; (2) media articles; (3) a series of interviews conducted with
prison leaders at both institutions, and; (4) field notes taken during sev-
eral visits to both facilities. Interviews were conducted in a semi-structured
format with the governor (Norway) and superintendent (Pennsylvania),
3 Prison Cells as a Grounded Embodiment of Penal Ideologies… 47
parallel leadership positions, at the two facilities during 2018–2019. Site

visits were conducted on multiple occasions between 2015 and 2019 at
both facilities.
Cell Architecture and Penal Ideology

The design of a correctional environment can strongly influence the sub-
jective impressions of the carceral spaces, as well as the ways those spaces
are used and the complex interactions between the incarcerated persons
and the authority of the state unfold (Moran and Jewkes 2011). The
physical environment can encourage hope, facilitate rehabilitation, or
reinforce a sense of justified retribution, institutionalisation, and depriva-
tion (Hancock and Jewkes 2011). In short, the architecture of a prison
space embodies the complex, intangible forces—sociological, political,
and philosophical—that shape the punishment process.
In one taxonomy, there are two broad categorical classifications for the
philosophical purposes of punishment: utilitarian (e.g. rehabilitation,
deterrence) and non-utilitarian (e.g. retribution, just desert) (see e.g.
Frase 2005).1 For present purposes, the word utilitarian indicates that
particular elements of the experience of incarceration are explicitly
intended to facilitate desistance from crime, increase community reinte-
gration, and/or encourage other positive outcomes. These approaches are
often lauded as “humane” and are reflected in cell-based experiences that
further the incarcerated person’s rehabilitation. For present purposes,
non-utilitarian elements of punishment are those that are not designed to
change future behaviours but are, instead, tied in a retributive way to the
past actions of the offender (e.g. the severity of the offence). Within the
penal environment, this philosophical emphasis can produce cell-based
experiences that reflect practical requirements of the penal system (e.g.
cost, security)—potentially at the expense of the incarcerated person’s
rehabilitative experience. Though not necessarily the stated intent in this
context, an emphasis on practical aspects of non-utilitarianism (e.g. effi-
cient population management) can create a living environment that has
the potential to functionally and subjectively take on retributive
characteristics.
Many correctional systems announce that they pursue seemingly

incompatible philosophies in the design of their cells and the facilities in
which they are located. Attempting to classify any cell or correctional
system as purely or, even predominantly, rehabilitative or retributive,
glosses over the complexities of the modern correctional experiences and
contemporary hybrid theory (Morris 1974). For example, in describing
Halden Prison, Governor Høidal notes that even a facility recognised as
humane must balance these goals:
Rehabilitation is important. We punish but … we will use the time in our

prison to help [prisoners] to be better persons and to help them to be moti-
vated to be rehabilitated… In Norway, we also focus on security…what
[we] call the static security, that’s the walls, the bars, the cameras… And we
have what we call organisational [security], and that’s how we organise the
prison and the environment. (A. Høidal, interview, 2018)
By recognising this complexity while examining the nature of a prison

cell—an environment informed by many of these same complexities—it
is possible to explore how societies were balancing these incarcerative
goals with regard to the design of the environment in which carceral time
was to be experienced. Examining the cell can thus illustrate the extent to
which incarceration is designed to advance one philosophical approach
over another: to rehabilitate and to help (utilitarian) or to manage and to
punish (non-utilitarian).
Jurisdictional Backgrounds and Context

Pennsylvania is one of 50 American states, each enjoying a high degree of
independence in setting penal policy. It is located in the Northeastern
part of the United States and is the fifth largest state by population with
more than 12.8 million people. At 725 per 100,000 people, the incar-
ceration rate is higher than the United States’ average (Prison Policy
Initiative n.d.). For those individuals sentenced to state prison in 2017,
the average minimum sentence was 2.8 years and the average maximum
term was 6.5 years (Pennsylvania Commission on Sentencing 2018).2
Among other options, Pennsylvania law allows offenders to be sentenced

to a fixed term of incarceration, incarceration for the balance of the
offender’s natural life, and to execution, although a de facto moratorium
on capital punishment is in place.
The Pennsylvania Department of Corrections (DOC) is a state-level
agency with an annual budget of more than $2.2 billion and which cur-
rently incarcerates approximately 46,000 individuals in 24 prisons called
State Correctional Institutions (SCIs) and one boot camp. The DOC, as
expressed in its mission statement,
…operates as one team, embraces diversity, and commits to enhancing

public safety… Our mission is to reduce criminal behavior by providing
individualized treatment and education to inmates, resulting in successful
community reintegration through accountability and positive change.
(Pennsylvania Department of Corrections 2019a: n.p.)
This core mission is integrated into the operation of SCI Phoenix; the
Superintendent of the facility describes how local efforts to implement
rehabilitative, utilitarian goals are ongoing throughout the incarceration
process: ‘[R]e-entry begins on the day of reception… [a]nd that’s a fairly
new philosophy for us’ (T. Ferguson, interview, 2019).
Located more than 3700 miles (6000 km) from Pennsylvania, in the
Northern part of Europe, Norway currently has a population of just over
5.3 million people. It is a social democracy with a universal welfare sys-
tem; unemployment is relatively low and trust in governmental institu-
tions is high (Esping-Andersen 1990). The egalitarian history and security
provided by the welfare states in Norway were pivotal in shaping the
current prison system (Pratt and Eriksson 2011). This justification can be
extended to include the design and contents of penal living areas.
The NCS is responsible for carrying out all penal sanctions in Norway.
NCS is a nationwide governmental agency, housed under the Ministry of
Justice and Public Security, with an annual budget of approximately
USD 570 million (5 billion NOK). As of December 2017, the total
prison capacity was 4127 individuals. The Norwegian incarceration rate
is approximately 44 per 100,000 adults. Norwegian prison sentences are
relatively short; in 2017, 56 per cent of incarcerated people were released
after 90 days of incarceration, and 86 per cent returned home within one
year. The maximum sentence length is 21 years for almost any offence3
(Norwegian Correctional Service n.d.-a).
The explicit goal of the NCS is to ‘is to ensure a proper execution of
remand and prison sentences, with due regard to the security of all citi-
zens, and attempts to prevent recidivism by enabling the offenders,
through their own initiatives, to change their criminal behaviour’
(Norwegian Correctional Service n.d.-a: n.p.). Moreover, the ‘principle
of normality’ lies at the very core of the NCS (Høidal 2018; Vollan 2016).
The normality principle means that an incarcerated person’s existence in
prison should mirror, as much as is possible, the existence of a citizen
elsewhere in society (Norwegian Correctional Service n.d.-a). According
to NCS leadership,
The principle of normality is valid per se because it supports a humane

approach in the execution of sentences. The penalty shall be felt as a pen-
alty, but still be executed in a way that reduces the negative impact of being
incarcerated … [T]he normality concept is closely linked to the principle
that deprivation of liberty is the actual penalty, and that other rights are to
be observed as much as possible… Supporting the principle of normality
means organizing a daily routine in prison that, as far as possible, reflects
daily activity in society outside the walls. (Vollan 2016: 91)
Framing the Facilities
Pennsylvania’s SCI Phoenix, located 35 miles (56 km) outside of
Philadelphia, opened in July 2018. Designed to confine 3830 people in
the general population (Pennsylvania Department of Corrections 2019b),
Phoenix took more than a decade and a reported USD 400 million to
build (DiStefano 2018). Phoenix was constructed to meet several goals,
primarily couched as practical. In preparation for its opening, the
Secretary of Corrections noted, ‘[Phoenix is] energy efficient, it accom-
modates individuals with disabilities, but beyond that it has great sight.
If you’re a corrections officer, it’s really important that you can see every-
thing’ (Dennis 2018). The primacy of functionality was intentional; the
facility was explicitly designed to ‘suppor[t] the DOC in housing more

inmates to better fit the Department of Corrections’ population needs
while reducing operational costs’ (Heery n.d.: n.p.).
As a newly constructed prison, the DOC had an opportunity to build
a facility in line with their overt correctional needs and philosophies,
which, as noted by Superintendent Ferguson (interview, 2019), empha-
sises the functionality of the prison: ‘I don’t want to say [Phoenix is]
punitive because I don’t ever think that we’ve been punitive, but I think
that we have become more aware in what [it] needs to look like [to oper-
ate]’. She also notes that, in constructing Phoenix, the emphasis was on
designing a facility that could manage the large population by using ‘the
appropriations provided to put us in the best technology, [give] us the
best technology[,] short lines of sight, the ability to segregate the popula-
tion in the event of an emergency, [and] control access points’.
SCI Phoenix is a campus comprising 20 individual buildings spread
out over 2.5 square miles (647.5 hectares), including 15 nearly identical
housing units. The facility is surrounded by multiple levels of fencing
topped with razor wire; the perimeter border is about 1.5 miles (2.4 km)
long. The fields around the facility are occasionally visible through the
barriers. This reflects a change from its predecessor facility, SCI Graterford.
‘The only time [a prisoner] had to go outside at SCI Graterford [was] if
you chose to go outside for recreation. Here, you have to go outside for
everything’ (T. Ferguson, interview, 2019). For example, in this facility,
residential and common spaces are designed in a way that ‘make it easier,
and ultimately less expensive, to transport inmates to and from court’
(Heery n.d.: n.p.). Phoenix contains an extensive network of video cam-
eras in public spaces. The scope of the surveillance network underscores a
pervasive emphasis on formal measures of control.
Halden Prison is located near Halden, a small city in the Southeast of
Norway. It opened in 2010 and is currently Norway’s second-largest facil-
ity with 252 prison cells. Halden cost approximately 2.2 billion NOK
(USD 250 million) to build. As a newly designed and constructed prison,
Halden is an explicit attempt to embody what the principle of normality
could look like in practice (Kriminalomsorgen 2019: 20). Governor
Høidal notes the centrality of this mission:
We punish, but when a person is in prison we will use the time in our
prison to help them to be better persons and to help them to be motivated
to be rehabilitated. [Therfore,] they wanted to try to make the prison
system more like society on the outside…. [so] when they designed Halden
prison they wanted to make a prison that did not necessarily look like a
prison; it can be a campus, could be a hospital, it can be a school, or
another [kind of ] institution… The Minister of Justice told the archi-
tects…that it should be a high-security prison. So, the main thing for the
architects was that it should be “hard” with security, but it should also be
“soft” to take care of [the prisoners]. (A. Høidal, interview, 2018)
In this instance, ideology trumped some pragmatic limitations, including

the fiscal concerns that have influenced subsequent construction projects.
Halden was the first Norwegian prison to use an interior designer
(Norwegian Correctional Service n.d.-b), with many architectural and
aesthetic choices reflecting this influence. Located in a dense forest,
Halden Prison is surrounded by a circular, 0.87 mile (1.4 km) long and
19.6 ft (5.17 m) high perimeter wall made of solid concrete. The wall is
topped with a rounded bolster to prevent anyone from scaling it, and
there are security cameras and other sensors placed at regular intervals
along its length. The wall is omnipresent, blocking all views of the sur-
roundings, and, as ‘t]he prison’s defining feature… [it] is visible every-
where the [prisoners] go, functioning as an inescapable reminder of their
imprisonment’ (Benko 2015: n.p.).
Like Phoenix, Halden is a multi-structure prison. There are a total of
seven buildings within the walls, including two multi-level housing units
(Høidal 2018). These buildings are arranged in a semi-circular design and
surround a large copse of trees (Statsbygg 2010). There is heavy usage of
earthy tones and natural or unprocessed materials, including wood and
unpainted metal, in both the construction of the buildings themselves
and for interior furnishing. Such materials can, in contrast with the con-
crete and stainless steel found in many other prisons throughout the
world, create an uncommon sense of lightness, space, and openness
(Hancock and Jewkes 2011; Moran et al. 2016). This was an intentional
aesthetic choice made by both the designers and correctional leaders
involved in the creation process (Erik Arkitekter n.d.; Statsbygg 2010). A
concentric arrangement of secure perimeters is also evident at Halden.
A Comparative Examination of Prison Cells

At SCI Phoenix, a typical cell is 81 ft2 (7.53 m2) and is designed to house
two individuals4 (see Fig. 3.1). At its longest, the cell is 12 ft 8 inches
(3.86 m) from front-to-back and 7 ft (2.13 m) across at its widest. The
door to the cell is made of thick metal and contains a window to the liv-
ing unit that must remain clear at all times. Ferguson notes that ‘[t]hey
Fig. 3.1 A typical cell at SCI Phoenix. (Source: Authors’ collection)

have to have windows for security reasons in case there are some issues
related to things for tactical purposes… You have to have the ability to see
in there’ (T. Ferguson, interview, 2019). The colour palette is neutral and
in keeping with the design and aesthetics of the rest of the facility. The
walls are a uniform, institutional yellow colour, the same as the majority
of the other spaces occupied by incarcerated persons. All of the furniture
within the cell is constructed of seamless, welded, and unpainted stainless
metal. The construction of the space, with high ceilings and bright lights,
challenges stereotypes of prisons as dark spaces, though this illumination
and openness feel sterile and functional, rather than appealing, as it leaves
no corner unexposed or obscured.
Each cell contains the same basic fixtures. All furniture in the unit can
neither be moved nor adjusted. A bunk bed is secured in place at the
corner formed by the side wall and the back of the room. Each of the
identical bed spaces has a slight recess where the incarcerated person’s
mattress fits neatly. The other pieces of furniture in the cells include a
small desk with two round, backless stools secured to the wall opposite
the bed. Next to the desk is a cabinet and a small shelf is bolted to the
wall in the vicinity of the sink/toilet combination, as is a small electronic
intercom through which staff can be contacted if needed. There is little
confusion with regard to the function of the cell’s layout; the necessities
for basic living are present, though they are structured to facilitate con-
trol, security, and observation. One cannot mistake a cabinet bolted to
the floor and made of robust metal to be anything other than a tradi-
tional American carceral fixture.
Phoenix was designed to facilitate “lines of sight” for correctional staff
and the cell’s environment reflects this prioritisation. Accordingly, only
limited personalisation of the space is permitted. With the exception of
photographs and letters, most personal property in the cells must be pur-
chased from the DOC, supplementing the sense of uniformity in light of
prevailing security concerns.
Most of the light in the cells at Phoenix comes from the overhead fluo-
rescent illumination, which is controlled by staff at the central command
desk and operated on a set schedule. Each cell has a single window,
located on the back wall and roughly opposite from the entry door. The
window is tall and narrow with dimensions of approximately seven inches
(0.17 m) wide by 53 inches (1.34 m) high. These windows have no bars,

are made of thick, unbreakable glass and cannot be opened. Accordingly,
the windows give off an indirect light for most of the day. These windows
do, therefore, not appear to be designed to provide a view or a sense of
space; rather they reinforce a sense of just how close—but completely
unreachable—the outside truly is.
The bathroom facilities reflect a similar calculation, prioritising near-
constant monitoring over individual needs and, perhaps, dignity. Within
Phoenix’s cells, there is a metal combination toilet and sink, with the
bowl of the sink resting at the top of what would be the water reservoir
on a standard toilet. There are no knobs on the sink or the toilet; the
toilet flushes and water is dispensed when buttons are pressed. The con-
struction of the entire unit is therefore seamless, preventing access to the
plumbing where contraband could be hidden. Located near the entrance
to the cell, the toilet is in full view of the occupants of the cell, as well as
any staff or individuals who may be looking in through the window in
the door. The showers are located in the common areas, most often in a
set of stalls located at the end of each tier of cells.
At Halden Prison, each cell is designed to house one person and is
roughly 86 ft2 (8 m2), with an additional 21 ft2 (2 m2) dedicated to an
adjoining bathroom (see Fig. 3.2). This layout was intentional and seen
as meaningful, as the governor observes:
It’s also very important for the design of the prison cell that it should look
like, well, a small, hotel room. [M]any of the visitors who can come here
and look at the prison say [this]. So I think it was important that the room
should [not feel like a prison]. [I]t’s very important, especially [that] toilets
[are] placed outside the room. Other prisons [built] in the 70’s [in Norway],
they didn’t have toilets in the rooms, but that part of the normality prin-
ciple now; you have [a] private [bathroom]. (A. Høidal, interview, 2018)
The bathroom has a wooden door with no observation window and is

adjacent to the cell’s entrance. Immediately after the bathroom, there is a
wooden closet with space for both personal items and a small refrigerator.
Beyond that is a low, wooden bed frame that is secured to the wall and
custom-designed to eliminate any small spaces where items could be
Fig. 3.2 A typical cell at Halden Prison. (Source: Authors’ collection)
hidden (A. Høidal, interview, 2018) (see Fig. 3.3). A small light is located

on the wall, controlled by the incarcerated person, often above the bed. A
rectangular desk, lacking drawers, sits in front of the window. The accom-
panying chair is free-standing and upholstered. A low bookcase is affixed
to the wall across from the bed. All furnishings in the cell are made of the
same blonde-coloured beech wood. The walls are painted in a soft palette
of green, blue and grey colours intended to have a calming and stress-
reducing effect (Statsbygg 2010: 16).
Fig. 3.3 The bathroom and personal storage area in a typical cell at Halden
Prison. (Source: Authors’ collection)
At Halden, each cell features a large rectangular window that is 2.55 ft

by 5.64 ft (0.78 m by 1.72 m) and located behind the desk and in line
with the entry door. There are no bars on this window, though it is com-
prised of thick, unbreakable glass. Most cells, by design, offer a view of
the woods at the centre or the trees at the periphery of the prison campus.
Thick fabric curtains, accessible from within the cell, are affixed to the
window. Governor Høidal notes that:
[The cells] have a big window and they look out into the forest. So, it’s a
nice view from the window of Halden Prison; it’s very green. [However]
many inmates cover the windows with curtains because they don’t want to
look out because…: It’s too nice I think, they want to be out. (A. Høidal,
interview, 2018)
A small grate, running the length of the vertical side of the window, can
be opened to allow for fresh air and a slight breeze to enter the cell; the
grate is controlled at the resident’s discretion. These choices are
intentional; architects designed Halden in a way that would expose both

staff and incarcerated people to natural light (Erik Arkitekter n.d.;
Statsbygg 2010). The private bathrooms in each Halden cell contain a
porcelain toilet and sink that is mounted to the wall, as is common in
most homes. The shower stall has hardware that parallels what is available
in the community (Norwegian Correctional Service n.d.-b). The bath-
room space is fully tiled and has a standard glass mirror. Policies relevant
to privacy are similarly intended to embody the normality principle. In
this case, and as noted above, this means that the bathroom has a full,
opaque door that can be shut at the incarcerated person’s discretion.
At Phoenix, security and control are paramount concerns, including at
the level of the cell. Superintendent Ferguson notes that ‘the housing unit
design at SCI Phoenix [was] very deliberate…. Phoenix got it right’. She
added that ‘from a correctional mindset when you walk into Phoenix, if
you [are] from a correctional profession, you can’t help but love the place.
It’ll leave you in awe’ (T. Ferguson, interview, 2019). The cell doors in
Phoenix are constructed of thick, grey, painted metal with a small, verti-
cal window located in the upper portion. This window is unobstructed at
all times. A small hatch located in the middle of the door, operated only
from the outside of the cell, allows food and other items to be passed into
the cell. A similar hatch, located at floor level, allows for the cell to be
drained, in case of flooding. The cell door is controlled by correctional
officers at all times and opens by sliding along tracks embedded within
the walls. Cell residents cannot control their doors.
Halden, despite efforts to encourage reintegration through normality,
is a correctional facility. Safety is addressed through both “static” (e.g.
locks, cameras) and “dynamic” (e.g. incarcerated person-officer relation-
ships) measures, where the latter remains a top priority (Høidal 2018).
Incarcerated people remain under near-constant surveillance and security
procedures except when they are actually in their cells. The cell doors at
Halden are made of thick metal painted in a light grey colour. In their
construction, they are similar to the doors at SCI Phoenix, though the
observation window is, by default, covered with a metal hatch. Governor
Høidal (interview, 2018) notes that they intend that prisoners have ‘total
privacy… we don’t [usually] check the prisoners [when in their cells] or

in the night’. Officers can open all doors, though they are trained to
knock before opening doors and rarely watch cell occupants surrepti-
tiously. The doors can also be closed (and locked from the outside) by the
incarcerated persons and, after the workday is over, they are permitted to
return to their cells where they may close the door to obtain a measured
amount of privacy.
Interestingly, and despite manifest differences in the layout and fix-
tures, leaders in both Pennsylvania and Norway hold that the individuals
that live in these spaces accept the cell environment as usual and accept-
able, given the context and alternatives. At Halden, Høidal argues that
the efforts to build a cell that aids in rehabilitative efforts have been suc-
cessful (but, see e.g. Brottveit (2018) and K. (2018) for more critical
accounts):
[Prisoners] think they have what they need in the cells, they think they
have privacy, they can go in and lock the door… in the daytime from the
outside. … But they can go into the cell and be private, and I think the
other inmates respect that if you want to be alone you can be alone and
read or look at football on the tv or whatever. I think the [prisoners] are
quite satisfied with the standard of the room; they have what they need.
(A. Høidal, interview, 2018)
Ferguson reflects on a more tacit acceptance of the living environment at

Phoenix, as well as the different populations housed within:
[F]or the inmates… the physical design is more tolerated by long-term

offenders than short-term offenders. I think that those in long-term sen-
tencing seem to adapt better to the actual physical plant, meaning ‘this is
what you’ve got, these are the neighborhoods and the house, I’m gonna
make the best of what I got. (T. Ferguson, interview, 2019)
These perceptions underscore the gulf between the implementation of

cell design, as well as the implications for the foundational goals behind
the broader system, in these two correctional contexts.
nderstanding Commonalities and Differences

U
in Function and Design
Despite their differences, corrections in Pennsylvania and Norway share
a common historical foundation in the Pennsylvania Model of prison
design (Johnston 2000). This model was adopted worldwide, including
in Philadelphia’s Eastern State Penitentiary (Johnston 2004) and Oslo
Prison in Norway (Langelid and Fridhovd 2019). Philosophical shifts in
Norway (Pratt and Eriksson 2011), as well as logistical hurdles and ideo-
logical challenges in Pennsylvania (Rubin 2015), forced both systems to
repudiate their shared approach to prison construction and embark upon
divergent paths.
Interestingly, Phoenix and Halden enjoyed contemporaneous design
and planned construction trajectories, although Phoenix opened almost
eight years after Halden because of myriad administrative and construc-
tion challenges (DiStefano 2018). Given that the design process took
place at approximately the same time, the developers and leaders in both
nations had access to the same research on rehabilitation and correctional
efficacy as well as the same building techniques, and were further-
more subject to contemporaneous macro-level fiscal pressures. Halden
cost approximately USD 250 million to build and Phoenix was con-
structed with a budget of approximately USD 400 million. At Phoenix,
with at least 3830 standard cells, this translates to approximately USD
103,000 per cell (or USD 51,500 per bed); at Halden, on the other hand,
USD 992,000 was apportioned per single-occupant cell. Though a use-
ful, if roughly-estimated5 metric, the differences within the resultant
prison cells cannot be predominantly attributed to fiscal factors; differ-
ences in cells were also driven by ideology and the resulting allocation of
resources.
As in every high-security prison, safety—manifested as a high degree
of control over all aspects of incarcerated people’s lives—is paramount in
both facilities. Both Phoenix and Halden exist, at their core, to manage
people. Both boast an extensive web of cameras and officers keeping a
watchful eye on the perimeter and the incarcerated persons, highlighting
the clear differentials in power and agency between those imprisoned and
staff. As Foucault noted, the goal is to create a state of constant visibility

and scrutiny to allow for the free exercise of the penal authority (Foucault
1977: 201). For example, consider the similarities in the architecturally
designed ability to monitor people in their cells and the differences in the
functional use of that power. In both facilities, staff have the physical
ability to look in the cells whenever they want; a power reflected in the
layout of the cell, the doors with hatches and the electronic surveillance
systems. It has been argued, after all, that the source of power derived
from the gaze of the other comes from the subjective knowledge that one
is being watched (Crossley 1993). Clearly, Phoenix staff can see more
because the toilet is on display within the cell while the bathroom at
Halden lies behind an opaque door that can be shut. Yet, the basic
point—that people incarcerated in both Norway and America may be
observed in the closest thing they have to a private refuge—remains.
The physical differences presage the policy distinctions. At Phoenix,
closing the cell door only does so much for the resident; the window on
the cell door is always available to the staff as well as others passing by. At
Halden, closing the cell door is very much like closing the door to an
apartment in society; the observation window is shut by default. The staff
must take an affirmative step to see inside the cell. This is where Halden’s
security needs may, under appropriate circumstances, trump its rehabili-
tative goal of normality. Staff at Halden report that they rarely open the
hatch (A. Høidal, interview, 2018).
Within the cells, the overnight experience in the two institutions pres-
ents a revealing contrast, highlighting the interaction between cell design,
correctional needs, and the experience of living in these spaces. At
Phoenix, staff are required to engage in a counting process several times
while the incarcerated people are attempting to sleep. The staff are
instructed to look in the cell and visually verify both “flesh and move-
ment” for everyone. If they cannot do so by extending their gaze into the
cell with the light from the pod, they will shine a flashlight into the cell
and bang on the cell door until they have seen all that they must. At
Halden, staff leave the housing unit once the incarcerated persons are
locked in their cells for the night; a small number of officers operate a
central security centre from a different building overnight. Just as no one
normally checks on most adults during the night outside of the prison
environment, Norwegian officers generally do not peer into the cell again
until they unlock it in the morning. In short, there is an interaction
between the physical structure of the cells and the ways in which the cells
are managed by the prison authorities.
The architectural differences between the two facilities can be stark. At
Phoenix, the totality of structures and supervision seems to suggest that
while the design of the cells is not supposed to be part of the retributive
punishment overtly, it is also not taking on much of a direct, functional
role in the rehabilitative process. These are cells for the storage of human
beings during their incarceration. For example, the choice to design cells
with exposed toilets values efficiency and safety through near-constant
monitoring over competing—and potentially incompatible—notions of
privacy and dignity. The cells and physical environment at Halden, in
contrast, give primacy to the normality principle and reflect more of a
rehabilitative purpose of punishment. For example, the choice to design
cells with obscured toilets values notions of privacy and dignity over
competing—and potentially incompatible—interests in security.
Even areas of philosophical agreement can produce different results.
For example, at Halden, “static security” measures are similar to those at
Phoenix: locks, metal detectors, cameras, and walls form a perimeter
around cells. These restrictions are perceived as necessary for both secu-
rity purposes and to create a foundation for a living environment onto
which the normality principle can be mapped; they are both functional
and means to an end. In Pennsylvania, many of these same ideological
decisions are similarly purposeful. They, however, reflect the needs of a
drastically different system that must house, feed and monitor correc-
tional populations that are many times larger, and where safety for incar-
cerated persons and staff remains of paramount concern.
At the same time, the construction of the cells and housings units
reflect a design choice with clear implications for how incarcerated per-
sons experience incarceration. In Pennsylvania, the focus on the cell has
revolved around the short term (the functioning of the prison) and the
facility level, not on the long-term (rehabilitation of the individual) and
the societal level (rates of recidivism). American penal institutions have
largely focused on incapacitation, that is, removing offenders from the
community for the duration of their sentence, as a significant
correctional objective. Alternatively, an overt and expressed focus on

rehabilitation has been the hallmark of Norwegian corrections since the
1980s (Pratt and Eriksson 2011; Høidal 2018). The principle of normal-
ity has become essential because, according to NCS leadership, ‘it reflects
[societal] values’ (Vollan 2016: 93). However, although the Norwegian
context has been constructed with an eye towards the normality princi-
ple, Halden is still a prison. At Phoenix, where control and observation
are more overt and the lack of privacy apparent, there is a degree of trans-
parency that may be obfuscated when an austere metal chair is replaced
by a cushioned couch.
Normality in Norwegian corrections, as Engbo (2017: 332) notes, car-
ries a meaning most often related to ‘words like social reintegration and
rehabilitation’. Taking the replication of a community-like environment
as a core tenet, the cells at Halden appear to strive towards that goal,
providing many obvious examples. These spaces are permitted, within
the rules of the facility, to provide a form of customisation, comfort, and
autonomy paralleling that of an apartment in the community. The furni-
ture and toilets in the cells are almost identical to those found in many
Norwegian homes. The goal, according to Norwegian prison officials, is
to create an experience in the cell that adheres to the principle of normal-
ity as much as is possible, suggesting once again the primacy of a rehabili-
tative purpose of punishment. While aspects of control and the subsequent
deprivation of some liberties, are unavoidable, the construction of the
cell in light of normality is seen as an effective way to blunt this impact
and preserve the rehabilitative nature of the experience at Halden.
Normality may, intended or otherwise, become a veneer over the realities
of a high-security prison environment. For many who are imprisoned,
the most damaging ‘pains of incarceration’ are a consequence of the basic
nature (and goals) of confinement inherent in all prisons (Hancock and
Jewkes 2011). While providing a modicum of fresh air and a bathroom
may, on the surface, appear well-positioned to ameliorate these harms,
this is not universally accepted. Even a liberal conceptualisation of a cus-
todial environment can be perceived as unfair and overly burdensome
(Shammas 2014), and being locked into a cell, even one that looks like a
hotel room, can be seen as restrictive and, at times, torturous.
Phoenix provides a counterfactual that is much more common in cor-

rectional spaces worldwide. Nothing in the cells is intended to be “nor-
mal”, nor to reflect a sense of community-based living; the systematic
preference for an environment that was designed to facilitate the non-
utilitarian, retributive processes of incarceration over humanity is appar-
ent. These tensions are reflected in the design of the bathrooms. For
instance, the externally visible location of the toilets in the two-person
cells is accepted by DOC as a security and control matter, especially in
the context of efforts to reduce drug smuggling and violence. Privacy is
sacrificed to preserve safety. Phoenix, moreover, views the improved safety
of using a metal—as opposed to ceramic (which can be broken into sharp
pieces)—toilet or sink as more important than whatever negative effects
may be associated with its institutional message. Halden was designed to
weigh these factors differently (A. Høidal, interview, 2018). For instance,
at Halden staff are implicitly willing to take what some might view as
security risks for the sake of the normality principle and an opportunity
to foster rehabilitation by providing those individuals with the level of
privacy most non-incarcerated people have in the bathroom (A. Høidal,
interview, 2018).
Another area where experiences within the cell environments differ is
with regard to the ability of an incarcerated person to interact with nature.
This can have a profound effect on the quality of life and health (Moran
and Turner 2018). At Halden, ensuring this level of engagement was a
key goal for the architect, as they clearly state that, ‘[n]ature is actively
involved as a social rehabilitative factor in the architecture’ (Erik Arkitekter
n.d.: n.p.). Within the cells, this is apparent in the ability to access fresh
air through a secure grate and through the placement of large, clear win-
dows facing a copse of trees in almost every cell within the facility.
Phoenix, though providing more natural light than older American pris-
ons, offers only a narrow, slit window in its cells. Like Halden, Phoenix
was constructed in a manner that was intended to be “green”, employing
many cutting-edge, environmental friendly measures. The focus has been
on energy efficiency, recycling policy and on the reduction of costs associ-
ated with older methods of heating, cooling and operating a correctional
facility. This reflects an approach that prioritises the reduction of resource
consumption—and the sustainability of the correctional system—over
the size of the facility or substantive nature of the prison experience

(Moran and Jewkes 2014). Little of the natural world is visible from
Phoenix’s cell; Pennsylvania prioritises the functioning of the system over
and above any utilitarian aspects of incarceration, while their Norwegian
counterparts consider access to nature to be potentially rehabilitative (cf.
Moran and Turner 2018) and, therefore, a meaningful element of incar-
ceration. As a result, incarcerated person in the two facilities are likely to
experience this interaction with nature quite differently.
Finally, it is worth restating the perspectives on which these descrip-
tions and observations are based. In both cases, prisons and correctional
systems are described with the language from those that control the sys-
tem and describe an environment as it was intended to be perceived. In
many cases, especially with regard to Halden, these conclusions are
echoed in media around the globe. While these descriptions provide
insight—and an opportunity for comparison—key voices are missing.
For instance, one individual formerly imprisoned at Halden found the
colours, intended to be soothing (see Statsbygg 2010), to be unimport-
ant; the beechwood furniture offensive in its blandness; and the bath-
room minimally tolerable (K. 2018). Others have described many of the
features of the cells at Halden, discussed here as humane and normal, as
ineffective and oppressive, especially during long periods of confinement
in the cell itself (Brottveit 2018: 209). While similar subjective descrip-
tions of the experience of residing in the cells at Phoenix are not yet avail-
able, it is reasonable to assume that the level of relative deprivation,
abundance of visual scrutiny and profuse formal control are unlikely to
foster more positive perceptions of those cells. What is clear is that the
ways the cell is experienced and how it is intended to be perceived, can
drastically diverge; these perspectives should therefore be heard and
considered.
Conclusion
Both Pennsylvania’s SCI Phoenix and Norway’s Halden prison were built
with an expressed intent of simultaneously confining and improving the
lives of those who are imprisoned; this is reflected in their nearly parallel
mission statements. These goals are mediated or encouraged by the envi-

ronments in which the incarcerated persons reside. For example,
Pennsylvania’s more control-oriented approach to the carceral environ-
ment is dictated by a more retributive legal structure and society. Non-
utilitarian goals of efficiency and security are paramount inside those
prisons. Norway’s rehabilitative emphasis is facilitated by a social welfare
system and levels of public trust that are largely unparalleled. These pri-
orities are reflected in the design of prison cells and, in turn, communi-
cated to those who must reside within. This does not mean that
rehabilitation is unimportant to Pennsylvania correctional officials, nor
that the Norwegians are unconcerned with security. Tellingly, the DOC
leadership has made it clear that as the Department of Corrections, it
must strive to correct the behaviour of incarcerated people (T. Ferguson,
interview, 2019), while their peers in Norway stress the need to provide
security for the communities within and outside of the prison walls
(A. Høidal, interview, 2018). Indeed, the leaders of both Phoenix and
Halden independently described their overall goals in similar terms—to
improve public safety by improving the behaviour of the people in their
charge. The layout and furnishing of the cells in each facility mirror the
very different approaches taken to achieve this goal, the balance each
society strikes between these at-times competing interests, and the per-
ceived role of the cell in promoting desistance from crime.
While no one aspect of life in custody—physical or programmatic—
can define the experience of incarceration, prison cells provide an impor-
tant piece of the puzzle. Carceral design choices—made with increasing
intentionality by correctional officials, policy-makers, and architects—
reflect the ideologies that are prevalent at the time the plans are drafted.
As ‘the design of the prison environment is crucial to its operation and to
the impact it has on the achievement of correctional goals for incarcer-
ated people, staff and public users’ (Fairweather 2000: 47), the manner in
which these spaces reflect an overarching penal ideology should also be
considered. The messages communicated by the cells in both Pennsylvania
and Norway speak volumes about the goals and means within each sys-
tem and reverberate far beyond the prison walls.
Notes
1. We focus our discussion here on the rehabilitative aspects of utilitarian-
ism. A smaller literature exists that discusses the prison environs as deter-
rent in itself (e.g. Nagin 2013). This aspect of utilitarian punishment did
not arise in this examination of these two prisons and their design
processes.
2. Sentences are a range, with defendants spending at least the minimum—
and no more than the maximum—in prison.
3. A 30-year sentence is possible for war crimes. One other exception is so-
called preventive detention, which is a functionally indefinite sentence
used only for the most dangerous and high-risk offenders (see e.g.,
Norwegian Correctional Service n.d.-a).
4. Consistent with legal and operational requirements, including the
Americans with Disabilities Act, a small number of cells are designed for
one occupant. Single-celling is also used to prevent physical assaults and
other victimisation (T. Ferguson, interview, 2019).
5. These rough calculations simply divide the estimated budget by the total
number of general cells. This is a very rough proxy for the allocation of
resources per cell, as it fails to take into account construction of addi-
tional, non-standard cells, the size and nature of the remainder of the
facility, material and labour costs, as well as myriad of other factors appro-
priately employed in a cost-benefit analysis.
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4
The Kubol Effect: Shared Governance
and Cell Dynamics in an Overcrowded
Prison System in the Philippines
Raymund E. Narag and Clarke Jones
Introduction
The Philippine correctional system is now the most over-crowded system
in the world (IPCR 2018) with its prisons1 registering an average over-
crowding rate of 582 per cent. Though already overcrowded prior to
President Rodrigo Duterte’s ‘war on drugs’, the inmate population has
increased by more than 67 per cent (from 120,000 to 200,000) in just
two years (2016–2018). A bottleneck in the criminal justice system has
also now formed for offenders in pre-trial detention, where they spend an
average period of 512 days before cases are decided by the courts.
Consequently, some facilities now register overcrowding rates of more
than 2000 per cent. This means that cells that could comfortably house
up to 10 inmates, now accommodate as many as 200 (BJMP 2018).
R. E. Narag (*)
Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, IL, USA
C. Jones
Australian National University, Canberra, ACT, Australia

72 R. E. Narag and C. Jones
Making matters worse, the rapid growth in the inmate population has
not been matched with corresponding increases in cell space, personnel,
and resources to safely and securely house inmates (Narag 2018).
The rapid growth in the inmate population combined within limited
personnel and resources negatively affects the living conditions of inmates,
the working conditions for staff, and the health and well-being of both
guards and inmates alike. A custodial personnel to inmate ratio of 1:7 is
prescribed in the BuCor Modernization Law of 2013. Yet, the actual
ratio currently stands at 1:80 and is further stretched to 1500 if shift pat-
terns and leave of absences are included. The Manila City Jail Male
Dormitory, for example, which was designed for 1200 inmates has more
than 6000 inmates and is ordinarily guarded by only 12 custodial officers
on a regular shift. Operational resources are also lacking. Prisons have
limited budget for facility maintenance and operational activities. The
food budget for each inmate is set at PhP 60 (USD 1.10) per day which,
by most accounts, is insufficient to buy food for all the inmates in the
heavily overcrowded multi-occupancy cells. Therefore, inmates are forced
to rely on families to bring in food during visitations and, in some pris-
ons, inmates grow their own produce for sale and distribution. On entry
into a prison, inmates are provided with a yellow t-shirt and toiletries
(soap and toothpaste), after which they are expected to provide for them-
selves. The budget for medicine and medical services are also severely
limited to PhP 5 (USD 0.10) per person per day, making sick inmates
dependent on visitors and volunteer groups for medical assistance. In
many cases, personnel utilise their own money to transport sick inmates
to the hospital. Only around 5 per cent of inmates are provided with beds
in the cells, with the majority sleeping on floors, in stairwells, or on
makeshift hammocks. Coupled with a lack of ventilation, and in some
cases running water, several inmates die due to skin rashes, heart attack,
tuberculosis, and other communicable diseases (Chavez 2018). In Metro
Manila’s 43 jails alone, around 40 inmates die each month due to disease.
While there are variations in cell conditions—on account of the legal
status of the inmates (remand versus convicted); facility population size
(ranging from less than 100 inmates to 26,000 inmates); location (acces-
sible urban areas versus remote rural communities) and other important
variables—the overall description is the same: correctional facilities in the
4 The Kubol Effect: Shared Governance and Cell… 73
Philippines are extremely overcrowded, under-staffed, and under-

resourced resulting in both inmates and correctional officers suffering
from material and resource deprivations.
Using western standards, it would be easy to conclude that the
Philippine correctional system is failing or has failed. With the high levels
of congestion in the cells, one would expect to see frequent rioting,
escapes, and serious assaults (Franklin et al. 2006; Gaes and McGuire
1985). Indeed, extant western prison literature suggests that prisons fac-
ing extreme material deprivations are difficult to govern (DiIulio 1987).
Additionally, by western correctional standards, the determination of a
successful prison or jail facility includes ‘the provision of a safe and secure
environment’ where an offender’s quality of life meets basic welfare needs
(Management and Training Corporation Institute 2006: 1). Furthermore,
a successful prison ‘must have programs that prepare the offenders for
re-entry into society, thus protecting the public from further effects of
crime upon the release of the offenders from custody’ (Management and
Training Corporation Institute 2006: 1). Criminologists have also pro-
duced a range of performance measures for evaluating prisons, using vari-
ables like rates of prison violence, the quality of prison health care, the
degree of overcrowding, and rates of recidivism (Volokh 2013).
The western literature also suggests that the inadequacy of goods and
services induce the formation of illegitimate inmate coping mechanisms
that undermine the capacity of prison administrators to manage the cell-
blocks (Sykes 1958). For example, due to lack of goods and services, an
underground prison economy develops that facilitates the entry of con-
traband and compromises prison security (Kalinich and Stojkovic 1985).
The lack of personnel and resources also lead to a vacuum of governance
(Darke 2014; Skarbek 2010, 2016) where powerful inmate gangs take
control of the day-to-day cell administration (Butler et al. 2018; Dias and
Darke 2016). These gangs may take over the entire prison system, captur-
ing the loyalty of the inmates and undermining the legitimacy of prison
staff. In Sao Paolo, Brazil, for example, due to overcrowding, insufficiency
of personnel, and state repression, a powerful prison gang emerged in 80
per cent of the prison system and has taken over its management (Darke
2018; Dias and Darke 2016). This penological knowledge induces the
articulation of policies that advocate for the removal of inmates’ role in
governance, the suppression of gangs and other inmate groups, and the
non-utilisation of inmates’ pre-prison skills and resources.
As will be later explained, these scenarios have not been realised due to
a range of inmate coping mechanisms, some of which are tied to the
importance of Filipino cultural norms, such as communal living, family
and friendship support networks, and sharing of food. The Philippine
correctional system has also not manifested into a system where the pres-
ence of overbearing prison gangs (called pangkats) run the facilities. In all
cases, correctional officers still have some operational control (Jones et al.
2015). Even though inmates in prisons are usually members of prison
pangkats, the facilities continue to function relatively free from major
disturbances, and recidivism is low despite the multiplicity of deficits
(Narag and Jones 2017). Additionally, despite these deficits, inmates have
developed unique coping mechanisms to improve their quality of cell life,
improve safety, and provide opportunities for rehabilitation. These cop-
ing mechanisms have largely formed from the importation of outside
Filipino cultural values and traditions into the cells, which have come to
form a unique microcosm of Filipino life commonly found outside of
prisons.
Through longitudinal, participant observation studies and interviews,
this chapter provides a unique understanding of how prison personnel
and inmates deal with these harsh realities of cell life in the Philippine
correctional system. We explore how Filipino inmates define what is
meant by living in a cell. At the outset, it must be mentioned that cells in
the Philippines are multi-occupancy cells by design, which ideally could
accommodate between 4 and 10 inmates. However, in reality, the cells
accommodate as many as 200 inmates, which is a stark contrast to the
single occupancy (or two inmate) cells in western developed countries.
This multi-occupancy nature of the cells, where inmates live commu-
nally, has a direct bearing on how cells are managed and operated and
affects how Filipino inmates experience cell life.
Similar to the ‘mutations’ (Martin et al. 2014: 9) exhibited by some
prison systems in contexts of resource deficits (Garces et al. 2013), we
describe how Filipino correctional officers and inmates alike develop nec-
essary and mutually acceptable mechanisms to cope with the hardships of
prison cell life. Specifically, we document the ‘give and take’ relationships
that develop to overcome the ‘pains of imprisonment’ (Sykes 1958); the

organisational structures and informal processes that sustain coping
mechanisms; and the cultural narratives employed by both inmates and
staff that are commonly drawn upon to justify specific courses of action.
We then describe the evolution of a staff-inmate shared governance sys-
tem where specific inmates take on active roles managing fellow inmates
in the multi-occupancy cells, which includes providing safety and secu-
rity, opportunities for rehabilitation, and administrative and supportive
functions to aid their fellow prisoners. These informal coping mecha-
nisms all take place with the guidance and direction of correctional
officers.
We argue that these unique cell dynamics and coping mechanisms
contribute to the development of a liveable space despite the harsh mate-
rial conditions. We further argue that the Filipino cultural values of dam-
ayan (helping one another), bayanihan (community spirit), and padrino
(patron-client relationship) are imported (Irwin and Cressey 1962) into
the prisons. These values help to mediate the nature of staff-inmate rela-
tions and differentiate it from other types of prison governance that
developed in other parts of the world. Specifically, we differentiate the
developmental nature of Philippine ‘shared governance’ model from the
predatory Latin American ‘self-governance’ model where inmates had
developed strong oppositional values against the custodial guards (Darke
2014). As will be explained in the conclusion of this chapter, these
dynamics characterise how Filipino inmates experience life in the multi-
occupancy cells, which is quite different from how inmates in other
countries experience cell life. Highlighting the positive ramifications of
this emergent ‘customary order’ (Aguirre 2005), this chapter concludes
with a discussion of the limitations and sometimes futility of introducing
western-based correctional management models (Garces et al. 2013) that
are not attuned to the Philippine cell realities and are therefore rejected
by the guards and inmates alike. In most cases, these western models of
correctional management try to take all leadership responsibilities away
from the inmates, strip prisoners of identity, limit guard-inmate interac-
tions, and reduce opportunities for family visitations.
A Note on Data Collection

The authors of this chapter have extensive engagement with the Philippine
correctional system. The first author was himself once a detainee for almost
seven years while undergoing trial for a crime he did not commit in one of
the most crowded jails in Metro Manila. He had a first-hand experience of
the intricacies and dynamics of the cell life in a male-only adult jail. After
eventually being declared not guilty by the trial court, he took interest in
prison reform and has since been an advocate for the past 20 years, docu-
menting and writing extensively about his experiences both behind bars
and now outside as an active correctional reformist. The second author has
conducted ethnographic research in Philippine correctional facilities over
the past 10 years and has been a regular visitor involved in training and
advising correctional officers working in the adult male prisons and jails.
Both researchers have conducted ethnographic research in over 50 cor-
rectional facilities (including remand jails and prisons for convicted fel-
ons) and, combined, have conducted over 85 semi-structured and
unstructured interviews with male inmates and over 120 semi-structured
interviews with correctional officers over a ten-year period (2007–2017).
While there are significant variations on how inmates and correctional
officers live their lives in the Filipino prison facilities, in this chapter, the
authors provide a silhouette of the common life behind bars.
Vibrancy Amidst Scarcity

Instead of failing, due to the material resource scarcities we described
previously, cells in the Philippine demonstrate vibrancy amidst scarcity.
Most cells we visited were clean and tidy, and some cells were colourfully
painted and decorated. Inmates are usually respectful—they address visi-
tors with ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’, they answer questions deferentially, and they
are compliant with the directions of the correctional staff. Despite over-
crowding, inmates make way for visitors to pass, making sure that visitors
will not feel harassed.2 Despite physical difficulties, inmates’ faces are
generally upbeat, and many inmates are eager to share experiences and
exchange pleasantries with other inmates or visitors. During weekends,
cells are usually festive, with visitors bringing food, children running
around the corridors, and inmates from other cells or cell blocks called
brigades trying to sell clothes, equipment, and other personal belongings.
We commonly hear from first-time visitors and volunteers that ‘they feel
safer in the prisons than in the streets’. Upon entering the prison for the
first time, a prison volunteer recounted:
At first, I was shocked. I never thought inmates would be out of their cells
moving around freely. My image of a prison is that inmates are in their
cages. But I saw inmates crisscrossing the yard, selling different products
and handicrafts. There is a bakery managed by inmates […] I see placards
greeting the bosyo of a brigade on his birthday and a pangkat (gang) cele-
brating its anniversary like a fiesta. And there was a basketball tournament
and an inmate mayores speaking to the participants urging them to be
sportsmen […] like a true politician […] it is surreal, I thought I was just
entering another barangay (village). (Prison volunteer, Female 1)
Overall, there is a sense of tranquillity in the cells, as most inmates seem

to just get along with each other. While this may vary between facilities,
our observations and interviews with inmates and correctional staff in
different facilities suggest that the description pictured above represents
the normal situation of the cells. This lead us to the question: what
explains this resiliency in the face of resource scarcity? What are the cop-
ing mechanisms utilised by inmates and prison staff to overcome the scar-
cities of the cell? What makes the coping mechanisms in the Philippine
cells different from the coping mechanisms developed in other countries
with similar levels of resource deprivations? Below, we describe the
dynamics of these coping mechanisms and the rationale utilised by cor-
rectional officers and inmates to justify their existence.
Dynamics and Rationale
of the mayores System
One of the most ubiquitous characteristics of Filipino cells is the mayores
system. Although the exact titles vary, this is an intricate inmate leader-
ship structure (see Table 4.1).
Table 4.1 Inmate leadership titles and roles in the Philippines

Cell leadership title Responsibility
Mayor de mayores Head of the Mayors (brigada or cell block)
Mayor Head of the cell
Vice Mayor Deputy head of cell
Chief Bastonero In-charge of discipline
Kulturero In-charge of head-counting
Chief Buyonero In-charge of cleanliness
Chief Jury In-charge of conflict mediation
Chief Mahinariya In-charge of night security
The names of inmate leaders and their positions are prominently dis-
played on the cell walls and these leadership roles impact significantly on
cell life. In bigger facilities, a brigade structure also develops where a
mayor de mayores (leader of the mayors) is created. Supported by a cadre
of leaders, the mayor de mayores is in-charge of a group of five to six cells
in the brigade. Our interviews reveal that, to be an inmate leader, one
must have a good standing among the correctional officers and inmates.
An inmate leader in a BuCor prison mentioned:
It is not the BuCor who created the system of nanunungkulan (inmate

leaders). It is the inmates themselves. We chose to govern ourselves. Because
it is overcrowded, inmates get bored and fights can easily break out.
Everybody suffers. So we took upon ourselves to create rules. We have rules
inmates need to follow… However, to be effective, you need to have the
endorsement of the staff. And be respected by your fellow inmates. (Inmate
leader, Male 1)
In most facilities, leaders are elected by their fellow inmates but their
positions need to be endorsed by the correctional staff. The inmate lead-
ers (also called nanunungkulan) are informally deputised by the correc-
tional officers to perform custodial functions, such as implementing cells
rules and regulations, mediating conflicts among the inmates, enforcing
disciplinary infractions, and maintaining the upkeep of the cells and bri-
gades. They also informally perform rehabilitation functions, such as
making sure inmates participate in educational and spiritual programmes
and generating resources for sports, educational and cultural activities.
Correctional officers also utilise inmate trusties3 to supplement these pro-

grammes. Trusties are selected by the cell leaders and are assigned to work
for personnel to augment the correctional officers in clerical and admin-
istrative work. In bigger facilities, trusties also supplement rehabilitation
activities by serving as teachers in the Alternative Learning Systems
(ALS), medical assistants for health services, and paralegal aides that assist
inmates in their criminal cases. Thus, inmates who are teachers, nurses,
lawyers, engineers, and other professions from the outside are highly
sought after by the inmate leaders and correctional officers for their
expected professional contribution to the facilities and to the daily opera-
tions of the cells.
Based on our interviews with mayors and senior correctional officers,
the mayores system is purportedly designed by both the correctional offi-
cers and inmates to cope with the lack of personnel. Correctional officers
admit that they utilise the inmate leaders as ‘force multipliers’ (BuCor
custodial officer, male 2). Accordingly, it is easier for them to call the
inmate leaders and task them to disseminate information, instead of call-
ing inmates individually. This way, they are ‘unburdened of their tasks’.
Additionally, most correctional officers frame the use of inmate leader-
ship ‘as a form of rehabilitation for the inmates’, which, by their accounts,
gives inmates roles in governing the cells where inmates can ‘develop
leadership skills that they can utilise in the outside world’. Accordingly, it
keeps them busy and pre-occupied, thus reducing boredom and conflict
(Conley 1980). A prison rehabilitation officer surmised:
Some inmates are college-educated. We have one inmate who taught com-
puter studies in a University. He has helped us design software that tracks
the participation of inmates in our activities. His software can also monitor
inmates who have visitors […] Just imagine if he stays in his cell doing
nothing. His talents will be wasted. (Prison Rehabilitation Officer, Female 1)
When asked why inmates are utilised as classification officers, a prison

rehabilitation officer answered:
Why not? They are college graduates. They have relevant education. They
have writing skills. We utilise them so that they can be busy while they are
here. […] So, we use them to help supplement our workforce. (Prison
Rehabilitation officer, Male 3)
By giving inmates roles, they also surmise that inmates are ‘trusted’,
which is an important mechanism for inmates to keep a positive self-
identity (Goffman 1961). Thus, a unique characteristic of the correc-
tional management in the Philippines is the evolution of the makatao
(humanistic) approach: correctional officers compensate the material
deprivations by developing personalised and intimate relationships with
inmates. In the BuCor, for example, the official organisational slogan is:
‘we are your family, friends and sanctuary’ (Narag and Jones 2017).
Thus, in our multiple visits to prisons, it is common to observe inmate
leaders spending time in wardens’ offices casually discussing ‘problems of
the community’ over a cup of coffee. In the Philippines, the warden is
usually the head of the prison, so their direct contact with inmate leaders
provides him or her with valuable information about cell dynamics, how
their inmates are coping, and whether there are any potential issues aris-
ing in the cells. It is also not unusual to see inmates doing administration
work, such as typing up inmate records in the document offices. These
types of administrative positions are usually prestigious and usually
sought after as they can provide advantages and power over other inmates.
For example, one inmate with accounting qualifications in New Bilibid
Prison rose to gang leadership status after he was given the role of helping
look after the prison’s financial records. We also regularly observed former
inmates being employed by wardens as drivers, cooks, and utility workers
in the same facilities upon release. A custodial officer confessed:
Let us be honest, without the inmate leaders and trusties, this Bureau will
breakdown. That is why, the moment they arrive, we always ask “who
among these inmates can be utilised?” In this Bureau, we don’t have enough
lawyers, whereas, among the inmates, how many of those are lawyers. They
can help our paralegal offices. (Custodial officer, Male 8)
As a result, we observed that inmate leaders take their positions seriously.

Our interviews suggest that inmates take pride in being inmate leaders
and they are conscious of their roles in correctional management. An
inmate leader commented,
The reason why I want to be a nanunungkulan (leader) is because I get the

chance to speak to important people. I had never talked to a congressman
and senator before, but in the prison, I talked to them and I represent my
fellow inmates. (Inmate leader, Male 4)
Our interviews further suggest that inmates try not to engage in activities
that destroy the trust accorded to them by the wardens and subordinate
correctional officers. The majority of the inmate leaders see themselves as
katuwang (appendages) of the correctional management. Inmate leaders
actively participate in solving problems, such as, overflowing septic tanks,
malfunctioning water and electrical systems, and other maintenance
needs. In some facilities, inmate leaders contribute to the payment of
electrical, water, and cable expenses. Thus, a defining characteristic of the
inmate leadership structure in the Philippines is its developmental or
rehabilitative nature, where inmate leaders take pride in their position of
responsibility and even learn leadership skills that can help them upon
release. Therefore, inmates tend to strive to take on leadership roles in
their cells, which not only provides them with benefits but also helps
with keeping individual prison violations to a minimum. The opposi-
tional culture (Jacobs 1977), which is commonly noted in other prison
systems, is notably absent. Though this setup is susceptible to abuse by
individual corrupt guards and inmate leaders, as will be described later,
there are systematic efforts to overcome these abuses in most cells and cell
blocks. As will be expounded below, the mayores system reflects the
Filipino culture of bayanihan (heroism) where individuals with talents
and skills are expected to lead community members for mutual benefits.
Dynamics and Rationale of the kubol System

Another pervasive trait of Filipino cells is the presence of kubols, tarima
(makeshift beds), and other improvised housing arrangements. Correctional
officers tacitly allow inmates to construct kubols within the facilities.
Inmates petition officers for building materials to be brought into the facil-
ities, where they can either add on new space to existing facilities or con-
struct layers of beds to maximise space within a single cell. The kubols
provide a sense of privacy for the inmates, particularly during visitation

hours when visitors are permitted inside the cells or stay overnight for con-
jugal visits. In the process, inmates claim ownership of their kubols and
personalise them: decorate them like their own house, display family pic-
tures, and regain their personal space. Though not all inmates can have
instant access to kubols and tarimas due to the lack of space, owning one is
within the reach of everyone: inmates who have stayed the longest (and if
they display good behaviour) are prioritised when previous owners are
released or transferred to other facilities. With informal supervision from
staff, cell space becomes privatised and sold on to other fortunate inmates
as a form of kubol real estate.
Interviews with correctional officers suggest that they allow inmates to
construct kubols for ‘humanitarian considerations’. Correctional officers
are sympathetic to the conditions of the inmates and they are cognisant
of the congestion levels that have reached subhuman conditions. A prison
custodial officer opined:
Look, government does not have money. We have been requesting for
money to have a building refurbished or a facility constructed. But the
request does not get approved in Congress or if approved, it is not released
by DBM (Department of Budget and Management) on time. So we just
allow inmates to construct facilities. Anyway, when they get released, that
property belongs to the BuCor. Should we not allow that? […] if we don’t
allow, where will the inmates sleep? […] These inmates are people too!
(Prison Custodial Officer, Male 1)
Thus, for the correctional officers, allowing inmates to construct kubols

addresses the inadequacy and failure of the government to provide more
accommodation. Correctional officers argue that since it is the inmates
themselves who paid money for the kubols, then it is not an additional
cost to the government. They consider it as a form of Build Operate and
Transfer (BOT) scheme, where inmates build the facility, operate it while
they are still in prisons, and transfer ownership to the authorities upon
release. In the process, inmates are invested in keeping their kubols. They
have a stake in cell conformity—a disorderly cell may invite the attention
of the warden, which can lead to the destruction of the kubols. Additionally,
if found worthy of having a kubol, correctional officers may also allow

inmates to construct other facilities, such as prayer rooms, schools, bas-
ketball courts, and other amenities. Based on an informal, unstated agree-
ment, correctional officers allow the use of these inmate-made facilities if
‘it does not compromise the safety and security of the jail or prison’ (Jail
warden, Male 3). Thus, the defining trait of the kubol scheme is its role to
create more accommodation space, relieve congestions, and extend gov-
ernment resources. Unlike in other prison systems where privatisation
and commercialisation of housing structures arise (Darke 2014; Skarbek
2010), kubols in the Philippines are still state regulated. While abuses do
occur, such as the constructions of very elaborate kubols (sometimes with
flat-screen televisions, air-conditioning, private bathrooms, and queen-
sized beds), correctional officers consciously regulate the construction,
sale and use of the kubols and other inmate-constructed structures. As
will be explained in more detail, the kubol dynamics capture the social
ordering of the inmates: those with bigger and more elaborate kubol
spaces enjoy considerable esteem but they have higher expectations to
become model cell citizens.
Dynamics and Rationale of the rancho System

A third common trait among Filipino cells is the rancho system. Rancho
(also called kasalo) is a mechanism where inmates with resources are
paired with inmates without resources. Inmates with regular visitors and
those who can access money from the outside are considered very impor-
tant preso (VIPs 4). Inmates without visitors and without access to
resources are called buyoneros. A rancho usually consists of two to three
VIPs and four to six buyoneros. The rancho serves as the basic family unit
in the cells. In a cell of 100 inmates originally designed to house just four,
there could be as many 10–15 ranchos. VIPs in the rancho provide for the
food, clothing, medicine, toiletries, and other needs of buyoneros in the
rancho. In return, the buyoneros cook food (which is usually provided raw
by the staff), wash clothes, and run errands for the VIP inmates. When a
rancho member gets sick, other members have the responsibility to take
care of their sick member. VIP inmates may bring cash (as much as PhP
2000 [USD 40] per week of visit) and may initiate a business inside the
facility (selling snacks to inmates and visitors, engaging in livelihood
activities, etc.) and utilise the buyoneros as business employees. VIP
inmates with kubols may also share them with their buyonero members
when the buyoneros receive visitors. Aside from economic and material
support, the rancho also provides social and emotional support to cell
members. Rancho members also prepare inmates for court trials by con-
ducting mock hearings, provide transportation money to released rancho-
mates, and comfort members undergoing personal problems. Older
members of the rancho are called Tatay (father) or Kuya (older brother)
and are given higher esteem compared to the younger members. The
most senior inmates (usually 60 years and above) and those who are
infirm are exempted from cell duties. The pseudo-family structure of the
rancho ensures that the inmates toe the line: if the family members are
difficult to get along with or they are not good rancho or cell citizens, they
can be expelled from the rancho or the cell. An inmate in a Metro Manila
Jail confided:
No one will help an inmate except a fellow inmate. You are with them day
in and day out. Your ranchomates are your family because they are there all
the time. Sometimes, you disagree but that is natural. You must contribute
and sacrifice for the family so everyone gets better. If you don’t, then like a
family, they will gossip about you. (Inmate leader, Male 15)
Correctional officers encourage the formation of the rancho system.

Our interviews suggest that correctional officers facilitate the use of
inmate rancheros (food distributors) so they can equitably distribute food.
They justify the role of the VIPs in terms of food and resource augmenta-
tion. From the 120 correctional officers we interviewed, there was unani-
mous agreement that without inmate resources, the majority of the
inmates would be physically emaciated. A jail gate officer intimated:
It is important to allow inmates bring food inside. I know it is a lot of work

searching food for contrabands but it is part of Filipino culture to share
food. It is their happiness […] If you eat home-made foods, it reminds you
of home, your mother or wife. (Jail Chief Gater5, Male 2)
In the process, inmates have access to outside food and lessen their depri-
vation of goods and services. Thus, in almost all correctional facilities, a
talipapa (cell store) emerges where canned goods, condiments, fresh
meat, vegetables, medicine, soap, kitchen wares, and other necessities are
sold. Correctional officers may also allow VIP inmates to bring in appli-
ances, such as electric fans, cooking utensils, television sets, and other
appliances, if these are ‘communally used by their ranchomates’ (BJMP
regional director, Male 5). The entry of these materials provides an oppor-
tunity for inmates and staff to collectively overcome the substandard con-
ditions. Correctional officers draw resources from the VIP inmates to
bring sick inmates to hospitals, administer rehabilitation programmes, to
paint the cells, and so on. Thus, the defining trait of the rancho system is
its role as a ‘communal resource’. While the rancho scheme is also suscep-
tible to abuse by corrupt correctional staff and inmates for their personal
gain, there are built-in mechanisms to overcome abuses. As will be elabo-
rated upon later, the rancho system embodies the Filipino cultural values
of damayan where inmates are expected to contribute to the wellbeing of
every member of the cell community.
ying the Coping Mechanisms Together:

T
Staff-Inmate Shared Governance
The formation of the inmate leaders, the constructions of the kubols, and
the dependence on the rancho resources are indeed ubiquitous character-
istics of the multi-occupancy cells in the Philippines. Their pervasive
presence suggests that correctional officers have fully incorporated these
informal practices in their management regimes. These coping mecha-
nisms are simultaneously designed and negotiated by the correctional
officers and inmates as a response to the shared experience of material
deprivations. The developmental nature of this ‘give and take’ relation-
ship translates to a collaborative form of staff-inmate shared governance,
where correctional officers take command of the facilities but with maxi-
mum participation accorded to the inmates. Inmates are given a leeway
on how to manage the cells if they support and conform to the direction
and authority of the correctional officers.
However, the emergence of inmate coping mechanisms is not unique

to the Philippines. Contemporary and historical studies document the
prevalence of the roles of inmate elites in prison governance (Aguirre
2005; Darke 2013; King and Valensia 2014; Marquart and Crouch,
1984; Oleinik 2006; Skarbek 2010). However, what differentiates the
Philippine model is that these other types of governance structures are
more likely to result in violent tensions within a facility, which affects the
overall quality of life inside the cells and the overall security of a facility
itself. For example, contemporary studies in some Latin American pris-
ons describe the formation of predatory model of inmate self-governance,
which arose due to the abandonment by the correctional staff of their
roles in managing the cells (Biondi 2017; Darke 2013, 2014, 2018; Dias
and Darke 2016; King and Valensia 2014). Prison officers have confined
themselves to just guarding outside perimeters, with the primary role of
making sure that inmates did not escape (Darke 2014). In inmate self-
governance, inmate leaders have developed a very strong pro-inmate ide-
ology that has taken root inside the prison cells, which challenges the
ideological basis of prison authority. An oppositional culture (Jacobs
1975) creates a divide between inmates and staff. Coupled with the emer-
gence of violent gangs, which have co-opted the inmate leadership struc-
ture, inmates often engage in brutal displays of power (Biondi 2017).
This display of power symbolically undermines the prison authority’s
claim as the sole wielder of the use of force. Such extremes have not devel-
oped in the Philippines, which is evident by the low number of inmate
infractions in the cells. In contrast to prisons in countries in Latin
American where inmate self-governance is prevalent, prison authorities in
the Philippines are actively engaged in the management of the cells,
despite the low ratio of guards to inmates, and the lack of space and
resource. They still have the ultimate control of the use of force. A prison
custodial officer declared:
Inmates are on a long leash. We allow them to feel as if they are free, but,
if we have to, we can shorten the leash to restrict their freedom. Ultimately,
we are in control but play their game. (Prison custodial officer, Male 5)
Additionally, the formation of pangkats is developmental in nature in that

they can provide leadership role models for other inmates. The pangkats’
main mantra, as stated in the Pangat Magna Carta, is to respect the author-
ities and to keep the peace in the cells (igalang ang mga empleyado). These
observations led us to the following questions: what led to the formation
of shared, instead of self-governance, in the Philippines? Are cultural val-
ues imported from the outside responsible in determining the type of
inmate governance in countries with similar levels of resource deprivations?
mergent Findings: The Impact of Outside

E
Cultural Values On Staff-Inmate Shared
Governance in the Philippines
Our analysis of observational and narrative data suggests that the devel-
opmental and collaborative nature of the staff-inmate shared governance
scheme is made possible by the Filipino values and norms that are
imported inside the prison cells. The cultural values imported inside
mediate the impact of the coping mechanisms. This differentiates the
developmental nature of Philippine staff-inmate shared governance
model with other forms of governance described previously.
Scholars suggest that inmates bring with them their pre-prison charac-
teristics and outside indigenous cultural values inside the cells (Irwin and
Cressey 1962; King and Maguire 1994). Scholars on Filipino culture sug-
gest that the Philippines can be characterised by horizontal and vertical
social relations. Horizontal relations pertain to the collectivist nature of
Filipino society. In this type of relationships, Filipinos give premium to
damayan (helping one another) and bayanihan (community spirit)
(Enriquez 1993). Group needs are given primacy over individual needs.
This is best captured by the Filipino saying, ang sakit ng kalingkingan ay
sakit ng buong katawan (the pain of the pinky finger is a pain of the whole
body). It is also manifested by the traditional respect given to authorities
and older people by virtue of seniority. Vertical relations, on the other
hand, pertain to the enduring effects of colonial mentality. Accordingly,
the various colonial governments utilised the Filipino elites in the
subjugation of the Filipino masses, creating a cultural divide between

socioeconomic classes that endured up to the present day (Hutchcroft
1998; Ileto 1979; McCoy 2009). In these types of relationships, Filipinos
give premium to patron-client associations, where individuals at the
lower status give deference to individuals in the higher socioeco-
nomic status.
These outside cultural values are manifested in the mayores, kubol, and
rancho systems. The collectivist culture dictates that the mayor is consid-
ered the ‘father of the cell’ and he is culturally expected to provide for the
needs of the children (cell members). Thus, cultural tenets, like tayo ay
pamilya (we are family) are regularly invoked by the cell leaders to mobil-
ise support from cell members. Inmates are expected to offer their talents
and resources for the upkeep of the cells. On the other hand, inmates
naturally submit to the authority of the inmate leaders. Undermining the
authority of duly elective representatives and creating group discord
(baryo-baryo) are considered violations of this cultural mandate. This cul-
tural imperative thus pre-empts animosity between inmates and inmate
elites. In the same vein, the jail warden is considered the ‘father of the
whole facility’. Using this Filipino cultural tenet, the warden can also
invoke compliance among inmates as ‘members of the jail family’. The
warden can thus call upon inmates to volunteer their services to augment
prison operations. This cultural bind prevents the formation of an oppo-
sitional culture (Jacobs 1975) between inmates and staff. Instead, a per-
sonalistic patron-client relationship develops between inmates and staff.
In this setup, staff extend privileges to subservient and loyal inmates in
exchange of their continuing compliance to prison rules and
regulations.
The construction and use of the kubol and the formation of the rancho
system are also consistent with Filipino cultural values. Though the kubol
is assigned to a particular inmate, other inmates can regularly use the
kubols by invoking the ethic of damayan. It is similar to the practice of a
host sharing the best rooms in their house when a visitor stays overnight.
This limits the privatisation and commercialisation of the kubols. The
ranchomates are also expected to behave in a particular decorum. Members
of the rancho are expected to protect the good image of the rancho as
wayward activities of one member may put the entire rancho in a bad
light. For example, a ranchomate who perennially misses a headcount due

to oversleeping will reflect poorly on the leadership and unity of the ran-
cho. A VIP inmate who exploits the labor of a buyonero will be frowned
upon by other ranchos. These cultural mandates serve as built-in mecha-
nisms that curb the potential abuses in the rancho system.
onclusion: The Cell as Experienced by

C
the Filipino Inmates
Filipino inmates thus experience cell incarceration in a contextually-
determined setting. The cell becomes a microcosm of life outside the
facilities. The porousness of the facilities suggests that they can re-create
their pre-prison lives inside the cells. Inmates’ pre-prison characteristics
are fully recognised and valued, and serve as their initial card in negotiat-
ing their life within the community. Lawyers will be addressed as ‘attor-
neys,’ teachers will be called ‘sirs’ by inmates and correctional staff alike.
Inmates can engage in self-help mechanisms that nurture their ‘agentic’
(Aguirre 2005) engagement in cell and prison life. They are not mere
recipients of the actions of the prison authorities, rather, they co-
articulate and co-implement the visions and policies of the facility. This
setup provides mechanisms for inmates to preserve their self-identity
(Goffman 1961), which is usually corroded in institutional security-
laden settings. Furthermore, inmates who abide by the rules of the cus-
tomary order can rise to the ranks of inmate leadership, acquire bigger
spaces, and enjoy prestige in the cell and prison community. This pro-
vides an opportunity for inmates to normalise their conditions (Gutierrez
2012), where good work is recognised and rewarded and bad actions are
frowned upon and penalised. Thus, the cell becomes a disciplinary tool
(Foucault 1977) to inculcate the importance of following the rules,
respecting authority, understanding other peoples’ concerns before mak-
ing imprudent actions, and navigating through tense and depriving con-
ditions. Inmates who do not or cannot follow the informal rules will
remain on the lower rung of the social hierarchy. This daily grind, expe-
rienced in very compact settings, eventually impacts the behaviour of the
inmates inside the cells and long after they are released. Indeed, inmates
who had stayed in prisons for a couple of years speak of the leadership
and survival skills called diskarte, which they ‘learned inside the prison’
and are useful in free-world living. Even among inmates who stayed in
detention centres and jails for only a few days and weeks speak highly of
the importance of following the rigid rules. They surmise, ironically, that
if Philippine laws are respected and followed with the same passion and
regularity as cell rules and regulations, Philippine society will be peace-
ful and progressive. Though by default, and not by design, the emergent
prison practices rehabilitate individuals into valuable members of the
society because they inscribe upon them cultural values that give pre-
mium to such notions as community, hard work, and respect for others.
However, we are not attempting to downplay the problems that occur
from time to time in the Philippine cells. As previously noted, the mate-
rial deprivations take a toll on the physical and mental health of inmates
and correctional officers. Though generally subservient, prison distur-
bances do occur, especially when crowding levels hit critical points.
Additionally, when left unchecked, unscrupulous correctional officers
and inmate leaders can work in tandem to abuse the VIP system, engage
in the drug trade, and foment violence. Power struggles between and
among inmate leaders and correctional officers may also accrue when
newly-arrived wardens do not conform to the shared governance scheme.
In some facilities where prison pangkats are present, the family culture
can sometimes mutate to a tribal culture with its attendant rivalry and
quest for territory. Indeed, these events happen, which tends to disrupt
the equilibrium (Sykes 1958) of the prison climate. However, when such
disturbances occur, correctional officers and inmates re-invoke the cus-
tomary order to establish peace (Jones et al. 2015).
The staff-inmate shared governance model described in this chapter
helps with the day-to-day management of correctional facilities in the
Philippines. However, reliance on inmate leadership structures and
resources is usually considered anathema to principles of modern correc-
tional management. Correctional officers in the Philippines are regularly
advised by western experts to abolish the mayores, kubol, and rancho sys-
tems. Thus, the operation manuals of the correctional agencies explicitly
prohibit the use of the shared governance scheme. This creates ambiva-
lence and confusion among the lower-level officials who recognise and
depend on the customary order. Additionally, removing these coping

mechanisms without addressing overcrowding, and the lack of personnel
and resources, may push the mutation from shared governance to self-
governance. As explained at the outset, two years of implementation of
the drug war has made the prisons extremely overcrowded. Restrictions
on the entry of resources and destruction of kubols had been earnestly
implemented. While resilient and subservient, our interviews suggest
that some inmates may eventually articulate an oppositional ideology
that could radically mutate the prison climate in the direction of the
Latin American prison experience. As one inmate from a highly restric-
tive maximum-security facility recently mentioned:
They have taken away our kubols, they reassigned us to different cells, they
disallowed our pangkats to function, now it is free for all. There are no more
rules, matira matibay (survival of the fittest). Inmates are patient and they
can take the blows. But if there are inmates articulate enough to mobilise
us to action, violence will erupt. (Inmate leader, Male 10)
Finally, the staff-inmate shared governance scheme is rooted to the

Filipino culture that is imported inside the facility. It is developmental
and collaborative in nature. It transforms the cell experience from one
of spaces of deprivation and misery into that of a dynamic, supportive
community. It promotes self-help and protects the self-identity of the
inmates, translating to lower levels of recidivism. Removing these coping
mechanisms will further expose inmates to depriving conditions. Thus,
instead of doing away with these indigenous structures, we argue that the
shared governance scheme must be formalised and fully incorporated
into the correctional manuals. By formalising these structures, excesses
and abuses can be regulated or curbed.
Notes
1. In the Philippines, the correctional system is three-tiered. The detention
centers are managed by the Philippine National Police (PNP); the jails are
managed by the Bureau of Jail Management and Penology (BJMP) and
the Provincial governments; and the prisons and penal farms are managed
by the Bureau of Corrections (BuCor). Detention centers and jails offi-
cially house inmates undergoing trial, however, due to prolonged pretrial
proceedings, majority of inmates end up serving their sentences in these
facilities. Thus in the Philippines, detention centers, jails and prisons are
interchangeable and are collectively called “kulungan”. In this chapter, we
use the term ‘prison’ to also mean jails and detention centers.
2. In the Philippines, due to lack of visitation areas, most prisons allow visi-
tors to enter the cells.
3. Inmate leaders (nanunungkulan) and trusties are two different classes of
inmates who participate in shared governance. Inmate leaders have politi-
cal roles; trusties have administrative/clerical roles. They also differ in level
of prestige in the inmate community. However, trusties can become
inmate leaders if they gain the trust of the inmates in the cells.
4. Preso is Spanish for prisoner.
5. An officer in charge of gate security and of frisking visitors upon entry.
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5
‘I Feel Trapped’: The Role of the Cell
in the Embodied and Everyday Practices
of Police Custody
Andrew Wooff
Introduction
Once someone has been arrested, they are taken to police custody in
order for investigations into the allegations made against them to be
examined. Legally, therefore, police custody is the cornerstone of the
British criminal investigations process, facilitating decisions taken about
whether to charge or release detainees (Skinns et al. 2017b). Until
recently, police custody was interpreted as a fairly benign space where
detainees were held before decisions were taken. Recent work, however,
has argued that far from being a passive experience, the cell becomes a
place of emotion where detainees contemplate and consider the impact
of detention on their future lives (Wooff and Skinns 2018). Liminality is
a useful concept for exploring this emotional uncertainty of being in a
cell. More commonly applied in health and education settings (Atkinson
and Robson 2012), it refers to the ‘interstructural state’ in which the
A. Wooff (*)
School of Applied Sciences, Edinburgh Napier University, Edinburgh, UK

96 A. Wooff
person is ‘betwixt or between’ socially constructed identities (Turner

1967). Although I have argued elsewhere that police custody in general
can be considered a liminal experience for many detainees (Wooff and
Skinns 2018), time in the cell in particular is frequently the period where,
emotionally, detainees experience the liminality of custody. Not only are
they cut off from the outside physically and metaphorically, but when
detainees are in their cell they are acutely aware that the decisions being
taken about them will potentially impact on their future life. Jewkes
(2011: 278) argues that, in the context of those who are on indeterminate
sentences, liminality is frequently experienced when we go from a period
of stability to ‘one of ambiguity’. The cell in police custody is the space
where detainees experience those feelings.
Indeed, environmental psychology can provide theoretical under-
standings of the impact of the building design on the social interaction
among users, with a growing body of scholarship linking prison architec-
ture to the way that prisoners and staff interact (Beijersbergen et al. 2016;
Jewkes 2013; Laws and Crewe 2016; Crewe et al. 2014; Liebling 2004;
Moran 2013; Moran et al. 2018). Understanding the role of the police
custody cell in the way(s) that relationships between risk, emotion and
resistance can be managed by staff at the scale of the cell can elucidate
understandings of this carceral space. In particular, emotions in police
custody tend to be intensified (Wooff and Skinns 2018). These emotions
can be heightened by the physical environment of the cell, where the
detainee is kept in a highly controlled, windowless and stark space, often
uncertain of the outcome of their case. It is also a space where staff exert
control over detainees by monitoring, regulating and managing emotions
through their (in)actions in a bid to minimise risk to detainees and staff.
Frequently the cell is used to de-escalate situations, where detainees who
are arrested and are too violent, un-cooperative or incoherent through
drink or drugs to be dealt with immediately, are taken straight to the cell.
This makes the time a detainee is in a police cell an inherently risky
period, where risk of suicide and self-harm is heightened (Williams et al.
2017). As a result, the cell can be a place where the detainee exercises
their power in the context of custody, resisting, being violent and, impor-
tantly, a place where emotions are actively managed by staff.
5 ‘I Feel Trapped’: The Role of the Cell in the Embodied… 97
As in prison settings there is a complex interaction between risk and

emotion, with resistance commonly being the culmination of the emo-
tional turmoil experienced by a detainee in a police custody cell. Following
Laws and Crewe’s (2016) work on emotion management in prisons, the
police custody environment can impact emotionally on the detainee in a
number of ways. This includes the cognitive change, which refers to how
we ‘reappraise or transform’ and ‘how we think of situations’ (Laws and
Crewe 2016: 538), but can also refer to the emotional realisation that
often occurs when someone is brought in to custody that their life may
alter significantly once a decision has been taken about whether to charge
or release them. In other words, although the average time someone tends
to be held in police is 9–10 hours (Skinns 2011), the particular spaces in
a custody suite elicit different emotions and these can cause ‘emotional
aftershocks’ in the life of an individual once they have been released
(Wooff and Skinns 2018). The role police staff have in managing these
emotional transactions is also significant and it is the police cell that is a
site for this.
Although the charge bar1 and the broader custody environment is
important (see Roach Anleu et al. (2015) for a discussion of emotions in
courtrooms), particularly in considering ‘emotion zones’, this chapter
focuses specifically on the cell within the custody suite. The cell is where
the detainee tends to spend most of their time when they are in police
custody: it is where, aside from being interviewed or getting fingerprints
and DNA taken (which tends to be brief ), the detainee will be held. It is
also the site where rights and entitlements can be given or denied, under-
scoring the lack of control the detainee has in the situation and the power
differential between the staff and suspects. Uniquely in the criminal jus-
tice estate, police custody cells increasingly have closed-circuit television
(CCTV). CCTV is one way that officers manage the risk of detainees
self-harming, putting those deemed as a high-risk in cells (where avail-
able) with CCTV. However this also raises complex questions about pri-
vacy versus risk and the extent to which officers can monitor and intervene
to support and manage the emotional turmoil of detainees. The chapter
will draw on data gathered as part of a research project examining risk
and efficiency in police custody in Scotland and will use the lens of the
police custody cell to consider how the emotions of the detainee can be
98 A. Wooff
managed by considering the risk posed by the person and inter-relatedly,

their emotion as often expressed through forms of resistance. This chap-
ter will argue that understanding the cell as a site of risk, emotion and
resistance in a dynamic way allows interrogation of the way(s) that the
cell can be used to manage emotion.
Methodology
The chapter draws on data from a study funded by the Scottish Institute
of Policing Research, entitled ‘Measuring Risk and Efficiency in Police
Custody in Scotland’ (2015–2017). In order to develop an understand-
ing of the varying nature of police custody across Scotland, two contrast-
ing case study locations were selected. The urban case study was a large,
inner-city custody suite operating a fairly typical management structure
with 52 cells. The rural case study operated a dispersed custody model,
where the remote rural custody estate was managed by a central urban-
based custody Sergeant and team. These contrasting locations offered
varying opportunities and challenges and offered insights in to how the
cell was a site of risk, emotion and resistance.
This chapter focuses exclusively on how staff manage risk, emotion and
resistance in the police cell and draws upon 12 semi-structured interviews
with staff and 15 hours of observation across the two custody sites.
Participants included Custody Sergeants, Custody Inspectors, Police
Constables (PCs) in custody and Police Custody Support Officers
(PCSOs). Strategic interviews were also conducted with senior custody
managers, at the rank of Superintendent. Non-participant observation
was conducted by observing different shifts working in a custody suite on
different days and times, including Friday and Saturday nights and
recording ‘systematic description of events and behaviours’ (Marshall and
Rossman 2011: 79). Data were transcribed, coded and analysed and the-
matic analysis allowed themes to be developed such as the ways that risk,
emotion and resistance were managed by custody staff via the space of the
prison cell.
he Cell as a Site of Physical

T
and Emotional Risk
Managing risk and ‘risky’ populations is a core part of the role of working
in custody. As Williams et al. (2017) note, a lack of bespoke training on
mental health and a ‘one-size fits all’ approach to risk assessment leads to
custody staff feeling under pressure and ill-equipped to deal with the
multitude of risks related to health. Those detainees coming into custody
frequently have complex healthcare needs that pose a risk to the detainee
and also to the staff managing them. As Rekrut-Lapa and Lapa (2014)
note, those coming into police custody with mental health issues are over
represented compared to the general populations. Hence it is likely that
staff are required to manage complex healthcare risks of detainees (see
Rekrut-Lapa and Lapa 2014; Skinns 2011; Williams et al. 2017). As this
chapter will demonstrate, the custody cell is a site where many of these
risks, such as those of self-harm and violence, can be amplified. The cell,
then, is a site of increased risk of harm where the ‘corrosive effects of the
custody environment’ (Cummins 2008: 41) can be observable. Staff are
therefore tasked with managing and monitoring these acts of harm and
the space of the cell is central to this interaction.
Some forms of self-harm in custody can be understood as a form of
resistance that allows the detainee to exert some control over the situation
(Cummins 2008). Staff practices are significant in order to mitigate fur-
ther risk of harm and the process of monitoring is central to their work
around containment within the cell. In Cummins’ (2008: 44) study, he
notes that in the cell, the ‘most common methods of self-harm used in
these incidents were ligatures and head butting/punching the cell walls’.
Preventative methods are often deployed such as putting detainees in a
rip-proof blue suit. However, interestingly, Cummins (2008) notes that
the blue paper suits, in themselves, do not prevent incidents of self-harm
taking place. Conversely they discovered that due to the indignity detain-
ees felt while in these suits, being placed in them might actually be a
contributory factor towards self-harm (Cummins 2008). Dignity and the
conditions of the custody cell, therefore, appear to be important in help-
ing to reduce self-harm in the cell. That is, the cell itself can impact on
100 A. Wooff
the emotions of the detainee. As a result, staff have to navigate and

respond to these situations.
As this chapter highlights, the cell environment often makes it chal-
lenging to effectively manage risk due to the custody estate dating back
many years (Skinns et al. 2017b). This impacts directly on the conditions
of the cell and type of environment, with older buildings described as
‘subterreanean’ with a lack of light and ventilation problematic in cus-
tody suites across the Police Scotland custody estate (Skinns 2011). The
impact of the environment of police custody on staff and detainees is
beginning to be examined, with Skinns and Wooff (2020) noting that
detainees felt they were treated with more dignity in custody suites in
which detainees perceived as having better conditions. As one sergeant
explains the cell remains the key space of risk within the custody suite:
Yes, when a detainee is put in the cell that can be risky. We obviously do
risk assessments [these are a set of standard questions asked to all detainees]
when we are booking people in and anyone I am worried about I tend to
put in the observation cells, and make sure they are being monitored. But
sometimes it isn’t possible to do a risk assessment straight away or people
deteriorate … you need to constantly be thinking ‘what if?’ (Sergeant,
urban suite)
This quote highlights that risk is the lens through which staff in custody
most often view detainees, particularly inside the cells. It shows the
importance of considering risk in a dynamic way,2 but also highlights the
cell as a key site of risk within the custody suite. This is particularly the
case when detainees are sent ‘straight to the cell’ (Williams et al. 2017).
This tends to happen to detainees who are particularly drunk, heavily
under the influence of drugs or are being violent:
When people are first brought in and they are a potential threat, the cops
will have done their part, i.e. they will be maybe handcuffed to the rear, fast
strapped on the legs around the knees and the ankles, and if they’re going
to spit, they’ll have a spit hood on the prisoner as well. Generally someone
like that isn’t going to stand here and give their name, date of birth, what-
ever, so they are then taken up to a cell with no risk assessment. (PCSO,
urban suite)
When a detainee is taken straight to cell, the ‘risks are amplified’

(Williams et al. 2017). That is, the risk to both the detainee and staff is
increased if the detainee is taken to the cell without going through the
normal ‘booking in’ processes. Yet, in these instances, the cell is deployed
as a safe space for the detainee to calm down and be closely monitored.
Safety of the detainees is compounded by the safety of staff. The risk to
staff emerges as both the physical risk that a detainee may harm them
because they are being violent and from the wider threat to their liveli-
hoods if someone dies in police custody:
We’re trained, there’s officer safety training that we do once a year, and it’s
about a two man teaming or three man teaming someone into a cell, to get
them safely into the cell and unwrapped from handcuffs and restraints and
such in a safe way for the prisoner and the staff … it’s about everybody
getting out of that cell safe and the prisoner being safe as well. Risk wise,
when someone is in a cell and we know they are a spitter or whatever.
(PCSO, urban suite)
In this example the cell is an area of risk for the officer especially when a
detainee is being violent. This is particularly true in the older custody
estate, where cells tend to be enclosed and cramped and it can be hard to
carry out approved cell-exit tactics.3 The cell in these circumstances
becomes a key point where the physical (and emotional) risk of harm is
heightened to both staff and detainees and the cell becomes a containing
space for the staff to manage the emotional outpourings of detainees.
Furthermore in older custody facilities, the cell space can be an extra
burden for the staff to manage, where the physical design can hinder the
approved cell exit tactics by having narrow doorways which reduces the
number of staff able to carry out the procedure. In this sense, the police
custody cell has the potential to become a physical site of danger for the
staff and resistance for the detainee (see later sections). When detainees
are put in their cell, they can be placed there for a number of hours before
being processed, receiving their rights and accessing an appropriate adult
or lawyer as required. Minimising risk in the police custody cell therefore
requires careful consideration of the health of detainees, both physically
and mentally. As one Sergeant notes, ‘[managing] that risk is about
102 A. Wooff
making the right decision, particularly when they are in cells to avoid the
worst scenario of death in custody’.
The risk of harm to a police officer is only one dimension of the cell as
a site of risk. As Skinns et al. (2017a) highlight, risk in police custody
appears to be more about the risk posed to detainees, usually as a result of
a complex set of vulnerabilities. As McKinnon and Grubin (2010) note,
mental health issues feature frequently among people coming in to cus-
tody, with the police cell being identified as a time of particular risk. One
of the best ways to minimise the risks to inmates is through the use of
CCTV (Williams et al. 2017). The Royal Commission on Criminal
Justice (Doxford 1993) recommended the use of CCTV in custody, while
as Newburn and Hayman (2002) note, the Police Complaints Authority
recommended CCTV was expanded beyond police custody areas and
into individual cells. In Scotland, most custody centres have at least one
cell with CCTV, most have two or three cells with CCTV and newer
suites are being designed with CCTV in every cell. Naturally, risk assess-
ments and decisions have to be taken about which detainees to put in the
cells with CCTV—normally those designated as most vulnerable. All
respondents to Williams et al.’s (2017) study suggested that CCTV in
cells was invaluable in helping minimise risk in these spaces. In my study,
respondents also highlighted the importance of CCTV in helping mini-
mise risk in custody cells, drawing a clear link between the built custody
environment, risk in cells and CCTV:
CCTV is invaluable, but you’ll have seen, some of our estate is pretty
old … not very modern and lacking in technology. It’s not very modern
and the cells, well without CCTV you feel a bit blind. As a custody ser-
geant I’m wary when people are in cells without CCTV, yes PCSOs [police
custody support officers] are doing checks, but you never know. CCTV
adds a safety net. (Custody Sergeant, urban suite)
CCTV in these circumstances is there to help staff monitor detainees,

but it also underlines the social control that it enables. At the scale of the
cell, CCTV symbolises the exertion of control by the officers in a space
which, albeit temporarily, is someone’s private space where they use the
toilet, sleep and eat. Although in cases where there are specific worries
about a detainee they may be put under ‘constant observation’ (moni-

tored by a police officer or PCSO at all times), there is a larger group of
detainees who may not need immediate healthcare input, but who never-
theless pose a risk of self-harm or alcohol withdrawal (Skinns 2011). The
case study locations had limited CCTV provision and, as Skinns (2011:
83) notes, ‘CCTV is only as good as the people monitoring them’. In one
of our case study locations, police officers were expected to sit in a room
and monitor four small TV screen CCTV cameras for up to two hours
at a time:
As the Custody Inspector shows us round what feels like a rabbit warren of
corridors and cells, we reach what looks like a cubby hole. In there are four
TV screens, not the modern flatscreen type, but old square thick monitors
about 14 inches across, two flickering. It is possible to make out the blurry
outlines of two detainees. There is a PC in there staring at the four screens
with his phone out. Walking in behind, the Inspector snidely remarks that
he shouldn’t have a phone out whilst on constant observation duty. He says
he has been there for two hours, his radio battery has died and he needs
relieved by the next shift. He hasn’t been able to call the booking in desks
because they are too far away and he hasn’t been able to leave his constant
observation. (Observation notes, urban suite)
The College of Policing (2018) has guidelines on the monitoring of

CCTV, with clear evidence that someone should not monitor more than
four CCTV monitors at a time and that the monitors should have a clear
picture. Additionally, a recent inspection by Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of
Constabulary in Scotland (2018) noted a number of deficiencies in the
monitoring of CCTV in the custody estate in Scotland:
For example, at one centre we visited, no one was monitoring the CCTV
screen on which a detainee should have been constantly observed and, at
another centre, we found magazines in an area only used for constant
observations, suggesting staff may not be sufficiently focused on their task.
Custody staff also told us about officers engaged in constant observations
using their mobile phones. (Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary in
Scotland 2018: 15)
104 A. Wooff
These accounts highlight the limitation of CCTV and the challenges

of monitoring someone constantly on a small CCTV screen whilst they
are located in their cells. Aside from the physical limitations of monitor-
ing CCTV, questions also remain about whether the proliferation of
CCTV is entirely beneficial to the detainee or whether it is a mechanism
through which the police can be more readily held to account. It enables
the cell to be a site of constant observation, where although risk can be
minimized by its use, the notion of constantly being observed in a private
space could be problematic for some detainees. Such is the routinisation
of CCTV being deployed in custody cells, this nuance is rarely consid-
ered. Officers routinely talked about CCTV helping reduce the risks to
them in relation to CCTV in cells, enhancing their own feelings of safety:
The cameras are there; I see them as my protection. I know that it protects
me. Some of the prisoners know it’s there, so they play up to it. But ulti-
mately I’m more concerned for what it would mean for me. So it is my
protection. (PC, urban suite)
For this PC the CCTV helps to mitigate against physical risks.

Interestingly, whilst CCTV is encouraged in police custody cells, it is not
commonplace in prison cells (Allard et al. 2008), perhaps underlining
the different purposes of the cell. In custody, advocating the widespread
use of CCTV in cells suggests that the right to monitor and surveil a
detainee is more important than a right to privacy in the cell. In prisons,
the cell represents a (more) private space, with Laws and Crewe (2016:
535) arguing that ‘personal cells were used as spaces where more chal-
lenging emotions could be processed and ventilated’. However, despite
what the application of widespread in-cell CCTV might say about the
ways that staff view the custody suite cell, this study identifies the cell as
a site of pain—where boredom, anger, fear, shame, guilt and worry
coalesce as detainees are forced to spend a lot of time reflecting on what
has happened.
Managing Emotional Turmoil

Because of the nature of police custody, painful emotions are undoubt-
edly a feature of the detainee journey. Emotions have been considered as
‘deviations from rationality’ (Mercer 2005: 98) but, as Hughes (2009:
199) argues, emotions are at the heart of human existence and ‘take on
even greater importance during times of conflict’, stress and pressure.
Indeed the cell is a space of emotional pain, where detainees regularly
vent their frustration and anger; focusing on the way that the cell is a site
for this emotional turmoil is important for understanding how emotion
management in a custody suite operates.
The cell is a particular spatial context, where connections are imbued
with power, a lack of explicit choice and a space where the detainees’ bod-
ies and environment are impermanent, but are affected by interactions
between and with others in generating new forms of embodied material-
ity. The design of a police custody cell, for example, is stark, without any
form of stimulation. There are no televisions, the cells are painted in
beige monotone, books are rarely offered or available, and there is no way
of telling the time (see Wooff and Skinns (2018) for further discussion).
A mattress is available in most cells, while pillows and blankets are offered
to detainees considered not at risk of self-harm.
In contrast to the stark visible nature of the cell, it is often the site of
the most colourful emotional outpourings in custody. In part this is
because, when in the cell, the detainee is ‘behind closed doors’ and in the
most private sphere in custody, notwithstanding the impact of CCTV
discussed above. As Skinns and Wooff (2018) have argued, it is the space
in custody where the physical space impacts on the body and the reality
of the situation hits home. Indeed, the transition to the cell from other
spaces in the custody suite is significant, with different areas of custody
eliciting different emotions. Previous work argues that ‘emotional realisa-
tion tends to happen at the charge desk, whilst cognitive change and a
more contemplative mood tends to happen in the cell’ (Wooff and Skinns
2018: 11), highlighting the importance of understanding the cell as a
space within a custody suite.
106 A. Wooff
This is particularly clear with detainees who experience ‘a cognitive

change’, described by Laws and Crewe (2016) as the ways that we reap-
praise or transform how we think of specific situations. Police custody
cells are the site where this often happens in a police station, because it is
the site where people are sent to calm down when they are brought in and
are acting violently. As one police officer noted:
We send them straight to cell if they are being argumentative or violent. It’s
not worth the hassle. (Custody Sergeant, urban suite)
Not only is this disorientating for the individual—particularly if they

wake up from alcohol or drug-related sleep—but the cell becomes a site
that is used to try and encourage an emotional change in detainees. Here
they are actively encouraged by staff to calm down and manage their
emotional outbursts. As one PCSO notes:
You do see a lot of detainees change when they go to the cell. Sometimes
they come in kicking and screaming and within a few minutes are really
upset. (PCSO, rural suite)
The cell in this context can be a site of distress, pain and panic. This is
something which reinforces the findings of other studies, underlining the
importance of understanding painful emotions in this context (Williams
et al. 2017; Skinns et al. 2017a). In the study by Skinns and colleagues, a
detainee talks of being ‘devastated … the fact that I was sitting in that
cell, the room just felt like it was closing in on us’ (Skinns et al. 2017a:
11), highlighting the link between the physical environment of the cell
and the sense of reflection and despair.
These emotions were heightened through the deprivation of particular
liberties and staff are thus significant in regulating entitlements. At the
time of the observations, the cell represented a place where additional
punishment could be metered out by depriving detainees of particular
entitlements. This was particularly the case for detainees who were
assessed as high risk by staff, with reading material being an example
which was given to detainees in an ad-hoc way and used as a way of
getting detainees to behave. When asked about reading material in cells,

a Sergeant explained:
We don’t routinely give reading material, but if someone is in here for the
weekend or has been behaving we’ll usually give them something …
depends [on behaviour] really. (Sergeant, urban suite)
HMICS (2018) also noted that the provision of books and magazines
was dependent on local custody staff. While giving detainees something
to read may seem like a small point, the deprivation of small humanising
elements of the cell can have a broader implication for understanding
power within the custody setting. Beyond this, without the distraction of
something to read or do, boredom, claustrophobia and deep self-reflection
are more likely (Wooff and Skinns 2018). This is even more apparent
with entitlements such as sanitary products and toilet roll:
When I ask about the toilet roll when we are walking round, a PCSO
remarks that ‘we don’t give it out routinely because of risk of harm’, when
I ask what sort of harm, he states that ‘we had a swallower once.’
(Observation notes, urban suite)
Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary in Scotland (2018) also

highlight the importance of maintaining the dignity of menstruating
women in custody, highlighting the need for ‘providing a varied and ade-
quate supply of sanitary protection, changes of underwear, access to
handwashing facilities and more frequent showers’ (2018: 19). The
inspection highlights a number of deficiencies across the custody estate
relating to access to handwashing in cells and a lack of female custody
staff at many of the smaller facilities. When in the cell, this means female
detainees are often required to ask male staff for assistance. Not only is
this lack of provision degrading to the detainee, but serves to underline
the way that the physical custody cell can negatively impact on both the
body (with a lack of physical sanitary ware) and the mind. Beyond the
emotional turmoil caused by being arrested and held in a cell, the depri-
vation of these particular entitlements also symbolise a broader power
being applied by Sergeants in police custody (Wooff and Skinns 2018).
108 A. Wooff
Additionally, the loss of dignity through deprivation of particular entitle-

ments within the cell reinforces the emotional burden that being locked
in a cell can impact on the detainee.
Beyond the loss of dignity experienced by some detainees, the depriva-
tion of everyday items can also enhance the emotional isolation felt
within a custody cell. For example, the deprivation of a phone, a clock or
music can make the detainee feel particularly isolated, reflective and ‘in
limbo’ (Skinns and Wooff 2020; Wooff and Skinns 2018). Time is inti-
mately linked to experiencing liminality, with our sense of time being
linked to the organised daily rhythms (Hale et al. 2010). The ‘temporal
disruptions’ through, for example, waking up in a police custody cell
disorientated and confused after being arrested, is heightened by a lack of
sense of time in the cell. None of the Police Scotland custody cells have a
clock, which, alongside the lack of natural light in custody suites, means
that detainees (and staff) are often unaware and disorientated when it
comes to the time:
The detainees forever buzz us [from the cell], constantly some of them.
Often it is to ask for the time, when they are getting out … but you can’t
ignore it. (PC, urban suite)
Detainees can press a buzzer to either summon staff or speak via an inter-
com to staff, on top of being checked at a minimum of hourly. Staff often
take a long time to respond to buzzers, especially when it is busy, under-
lining the isolation of being held in a cell with little mental stimulation,
where time tends to pass slowly particularly when reflecting on what life
may be like once released from the cell and the ‘emotional aftershocks’
which may ensue (Wooff and Skinns 2018). The cell here becomes a
closed, locked and isolated box. Rather than minimising the emotional
turmoil, through the simple action of not responding to buzzers in a
timely fashion, staff can heighten the distress among detainees. At least in
other spaces in the custody suite outwith the cell, the detainee is accom-
panied at all times and therefore has the opportunity to communicate
with staff.
Time and the liminal nature of being in the police cell, therefore, play
an important role in understanding the way(s) that the negative emotions
associated with being in custody can be minimised. Not only are detain-
ees deprived of everyday interaction by ‘being cut off’, but also experience
a loss of control over the processes, both metaphorically (they do not
know the outcome of the case and the implications of this on their life)
and, sometimes, physically (the police using coercive control to force the
detainee into complying with processes) (Skinns and Wooff 2020). The
way the cell is designed physically and used to exert control by staff leads
to it being the site of much emotional uncertainty and anxiety, which
both makes it a particularly risky place, but can also lead detainees to
resist in different ways.
The Cell as a Site of Resistance

The custody cell not only provides a space of risk and a space of intensi-
fied emotion, but frequently is also a site of resistance. Resistance is a
concept which has been discussed at length in both the prisons and car-
ceral geographies literature. As Moran and Jewkes (2015) note, the car-
ceral geographies literature has focused on, among other things, the role
of the incarcerated body in creating spaces; and draws on Sibley and Van
Hoven’s (2009: 1016) call to understand space as ‘produced and re-
produced on a daily basis’. In particular, Jewkes (2013: 128) notes that
‘the powerful construct and exercise their power, but the weak tactically
create their own spaces within those places; making them temporarily
their own as they occupy and move through them’. The relatively short
temporal nature of the police custody environment means that cells are
only occupied for, on average, 9 or 10 hours (Skinns 2011). This means
that there are limited opportunities (and materials) available for detainees
to exercise their power in creating the custody cell as their own.
Thus, resistance in police custody tends to be relatively short lived,
most clearly being articulated as physical violence (either to the self or
others), banging, shouting and swearing and some more passive forms of
resistance in the cell (such as continually pushing the cell buzzer, refusing
to leave the cell or damaging the cell). A lack of material goods (pens,
pencils, paper) means that bodily fluids can be a form of resistance in
custody. Much of the literature on ‘dirty protests4’ focuses on prisons,
110 A. Wooff
with, for example, the dirty protests of the troubles in Northern Ireland
being highlighted (Aretxaga 1995; Conlon 2016). While dirty protests
do occur in police custody—I have seen this situation twice when under-
taking fieldwork—they tend to link to the anger and frustration at being
deprived certain rights and entitlements (e.g. toilet roll) rather than as
part of a wider, more coordinated political statement. It is therefore an
overt protest to their containment.
As Skinns (2011) explores, being locked in a police cell is the epitome
of a loss of control, highlighted by the imbalance of power relations and
the reliance of staff to respond to their requests, particularly personal
hygiene items. In Skinns’ (2011) study, detainees discussed the impact of
being locked up without a rhythm and without any control over any part
of the process or the custody cell. Resistance to the processes of police
custody, however minor, can reinsert a degree of power over contain-
ment, for example, forcing staff to attend the cell frequently or not com-
plying with requests for information. The staff’s experiences of dealing
with resistance are observable through emotional outburst as described in
the previous section. At one point during my observation:
A young guy, 20 or so, is brought in kicking off and being aggressive. The
sergeant at the charge bar asks his name at which point he hurls some abuse
and continues to fight and shout. Sergeant instructs him to be taken
‘straight to cell’ where he is lifted unceremoniously and taken to the first
available cell. Two PCSOs follow them down and he splays his arms and
legs, refusing to go in to the cell […] The officers perform a ‘cell exit’ and
leave him shouting ‘I f∗∗kin hate this, I feel trapped’, to which the six staff
say ‘well you are’ with a chuckle… (Observation notes, urban suite)
This is one example of a situation which is repeated across the custody

estate on a daily basis. The detainee in this example spent the next five
hours banging the cell door, shouting loudly. The lack of empathy shown
by staff heightened his agitation. He was monitored on CCTV, but his
aggressive nature meant that the risk assessment, fingerprinting and pho-
tographing could not be carried out. Over time the staff do their best to
negotiate with him:
Once the detainee has had time to ‘calm down’, I witness the staff repeat-
edly make attempts to reason with the young guy, go to the cell and tell
him if he calms down he will get out quicker, he’ll be able to get a cup of
tea and be processed. His anger still apparent through the banging and
shouting. (Observation notes, urban suite)
By constantly banging and shouting, detainees highlight their frustration

by being in a cell, but also resist the suggested behaviour norm of ‘getting
your head down’ to help the time pass more quickly (see Wooff and
Skinns 2018; see also Herrity (2018; this edition) for discussion on the
impact of noise in prisons). The noise associated with a detainee banging
on the police custody cell door or wall is not always seen as a negative by
staff. While the staff acknowledge that detainees who resist by creating a
loud noise whilst inside the cell maybe annoying and present a physical
risk to staff, the staff recognise that the noise at least symbolises that they
are alive:
It’s the silent ones you need to worry about. Or say they’ve been banging
their hand in the cell, I might get the doctor to come and look. More likely
than not, I have to say it would be for more psychological stuff. The inju-
ries are easy, because injuries come in, you get them to the hospital, the
likes of heart pain, get an ambulance and get them to the hospital. It’s more
like psychological stuff, people come in and you’re a bit concerned have
they got psychiatric issues. (Sergeant, rural suite)
This Sergeant recognises that physical harm is observable and treatable,

however, the invisible harms present challenging and complex work for
staff. As has been explored earlier, the risk of the detainee injuring them-
selves in the cell is one of the key concerns of custody staff (Williams
et al. 2017). Yet this is perceived much easier to manage than those that
present with mental health problems.
The cell is also often used as a physical space for passive resistance.
Shouting and banging tend to be the most obvious forms of resistance in
a police cell, however, more passive forms of resistance were also apparent
in the fieldwork. For example, acts of graffiti were apparent in some of
the cells that were observed. Graffiti has long been associated with
112 A. Wooff
resistance (e.g. Ferrell 1995) since it is a physical marker of an unwilling-

ness to comply with the rules. Police services anticipate such acts of resis-
tance and rules and the repercussions are clearly outlined in cell signage
(similar to that in the cell depicted in Figure 5.1), which indicate that if
occupants’ commit criminal damage they will be charged.
Interestingly, Fig. 5.1 also evokes the idea that the custody cell is a
‘home’ (‘Would you damage your own home?’), a slightly ironic and
cruel statement given how desperate many detainees are to be at home (or
how many may actually be homeless) and how stark and dehumanising a
custody cell environment is. Nevertheless, despite the warnings, graffiti is
a fairly regular occurrence in police custody. A lack of writing materials
tend to mean that graffiti is scratched in to the paint and on one occasion
I witnessed this being picked up on (the limited) CCTV:
Fig. 5.1 A photograph of Bishop Auckland police station in Durham (not the case
study location), which illustrates the stark nature of a police custody cell. (Source:
Hill 2017)
I am sitting with a PCSO who is monitoring a camera, a detainee with his

back to the door and blanket round. After a few mins the PCSO says ‘I
think him in cell 2 is writing on the wall’ … the PCSO rushes down the
corridor and I see him going into the cell on the camera. When he comes
back he explains the detainee was just scratching at the wall, but ‘luckily no
damage was done or that would be another charge’. (Observation notes,
urban suite)
Similarly cell buzzers tended to create friction between staff and detain-
ees. As Skinns (2011) highlights, this may be about the practicalities of
continually having to respond to a persistent detainee buzzer call (or car-
rying the associated risks of switching it off completely), but control and
power were also apparent features of the interactions:
As a detainee is taken to his cell he becomes more agitated and presses his
cell buzzer lots of times. I see a PCSO reasoning with the detainee … I
presume he’s asking him to stop … At first the staff respond fairly quickly,
but after repeated buzzing over a period of 45 minutes, staff are less respon-
sive to it. There is a brief discussion about turning it off, but the detainee’s
cell isn’t covered by CCTV so they decide not do this. Instead they stop
responding [except to normal checks] and hope the detainee will get bored
and stop buzzing which he does. (Observation notes, urban suite)
This interaction shows that the buzzer is a symbol of the way that the
physical attributes of the cell can be used as a passive form of resistance,
while also underlining the subtle power (beyond the obvious legal power)
that the staff have over detainees in this environment. Indeed, as Skinns
(2011) notes, being held in a cell is a terrifying prospect for some, some-
thing magnified when staff do not respond to buzzer calls. However, for
others, annoying the staff by repeatedly ringing the buzzer represents a
small opportunity for them to exert some form of power over the staff in
the suite. Yet, in the context of the police cell, staff often perceive that
such acts, like the graffiti or the repeated buzzing, occur because the
detainee is simply bored. Acute boredom is a commonplace experience
during cell containment where overcoming this sensation can be a chal-
lenge (Armstrong 2018; Knight 2017). However, in this respect, the
activities apparently stimulated by boredom are managed by the very
114 A. Wooff
recognition and reliance of that particular emotion. Here, staff express

their hope that cell occupants will simply ‘get bored’ of their own acts of
resistance.
Conclusion
Despite the small geographic space occupied by a police custody cell, it is
arguably the most important part of a custody suite for understanding
the relationship between risk, emotion and resistance in the police cus-
tody environment. This chapter has argued that far from being a passive
space, the cell is a space through the emotions of the detainee can be
managed by considering the risk posed by the person and inter-relatedly,
their emotion as often expressed through forms of resistance. The cell is a
site of risk for staff, where uncertainty pervades about on-going drug and
alcohol withdrawal; the implications of the emotional turmoil that being
locked in a cell might have on a detainees; and the impact of forms of
resistance, including self-harm, might have on a detainee’s well-being.
It is important to consider the agency of the detainee in the custody
setting, understanding that space and place determine personal experi-
ence and social practice (Sibley and Van Hoven 2009). Moreover, the
design of the cell plays an active role in the emotional and embodied
experience of the detainee, with the bare walls, lack of basic goods and
lack of a sense of time impacting on those in the space. As Wooff and
Skinns (2018) note, the physical space of custody at the micro-scale
therefore explicitly and implicitly interacts with those that are contained
within it, deprived of their liberty. More than this, staff harness police cell
space as a tool through which to comprehend (and often alter) the detain-
ees’ experiences of emotion, risk and resistance. Understanding the way(s)
that power and control are used at the scale of the cell goes some way to
supporting and developing a more dignified experience for the detainee,
while also acknowledging the importance of mitigating risks within the
cell environment. Indeed, beginning to understand the complex links
between the painful emotions of detainees, the resistance that they may
exhibit and the risk that they present in the police custody cell is an
important practical step for improving the police custody cell environment.
Notes
1. The charge bar is the desk where the Sergeant and booking in officers are
located. It is where a detainee is booked in to custody; where details of the
arrest are relayed; where a risk assessment is normally carried out; where
the rights and entitlements of the detainee are explained; and where a
search is carried out. It is also the place where a charging decision is relayed
to the detainee. Most of these are raised platforms, which practically
allows a better view and therefore control of detainees, but arguably also
symbolises the power of the police over suspects (Skinns 2011).
2. Dynamic risk assessment is the process of continually identifying poten-
tial issues, assessing risk, taking action to reduce risk, monitoring and
reviewing those decisions and accounting for the actions taken.
3. These are the authorised professional practice from the College of Policing
which describe how staff remove restraints from detainees within the cell
and then exit the cell safely, with minimum risk to staff and detainee.
4. ‘Dirty protests’ is the vernacular for smearing excrement on the walls of
the cell. This rose to particular prominence during The Troubles in
Northern Ireland in the late 1970s.
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Part II
Cytoplasm
Under the light microscope, [cytoplasm] appears to be a uniform, semi-

fluid, structureless substance containing a variety of particles and occupy-
ing most of the space inside the cell. The electron microscope, however,
shows that it is by no means a structureless jelly but consists of a variety of
folded tubes and passages, called the endoplasmic reticulum, which com-
municate with the external medium and nucleus. (Mackean and
Jones 1975: 7)
6
A ‘Home’ or ‘a Place to Be, But Not
to Live’: Arranging the Prison Cell
Irene Marti
Introduction
In general, prison scholars describe the prison cell as an ambiguous place.
On the one hand, they agree that the cell is probably the only place in
prison where prisoners can spend unobserved time and experience pri-
vacy and relief from prison pressure (Cohen and Taylor 1972; Toch
[1977] 1996; Ugelvik 2014). On the other hand, the cell is seen as not
really ‘their space’ either, because ‘nothing is theirs here [in the prison]’
(Wacquant 2002: 378). The cell remains a domain that is highly con-
trolled by the prison system. A first look at the inside suggests that the
prison cell is a very small and narrow place. In Switzerland, the size of a
cell is generally 12 m2; possibilities for movement and activity are there-
fore very limited. As prisoners are held in single cells, when the doors are
locked they have no possibility for (direct) interpersonal communication.
I. Marti (*)
University of Bern, Bern, Switzerland
University of Neuchâtel, Neuchâtel, Switzerland

122 I. Marti
Therefore, they are forced to ‘do time’ alone. Finally, it is the place in
prison where individuals have to spend most of their time. From the
institutional perspective, the cell is primarily the place where prisoners
are supposed to rest.
This chapter ‘enters’ the prison cell using an ethnographic lens and
looks more closely at the individual experience of this particular place by
prisoners. In the case study detailed in this research, prisoners are held in
indefinite incarceration in Switzerland and therefore do not know if they
will ever be released. These offenders committed serious sexual or violent
offences and are held, after the duration of their initial sentence, either in
prison for security reasons (according to Art. 64 Swiss Criminal Code
[SCC]), or in therapy in the case where the offenders are suffering from
‘serious mental disorders’ (Art. 59 SCC). From a legal point of view, both
Art. 64 SCC and Art. 59 SCC are preventive: these are safety ‘measures’
and not a ‘punishment’. However, in contrast to other countries such as
Germany, the regime of detention in Switzerland is the same for prisoners
held in indefinite incarceration as for those serving finite sentences
(Künzli et al. 2016). Due to a more severe practice with respect to the
release of high-risk offenders labelled ‘dangerous’ and categorised as pos-
ing an ‘undue risk’ to society, this prison population has increased since
the 1990s (Schneeberger Georgescu 2009). Prison scholars agree that
long-term imprisonment has ‘profound existential implications’ (Crewe
et al. 2016: 3). However, prison studies usually focus on prisoners who
serve regular sentences and thus will eventually be released, or on those
who serve ‘real’ life sentences where the end date is usually death (Leigey
and Ryder 2015).
In an effort to expand the focus of enquiry, this chapter provides
insights into how prisoners sentenced to indefinite incarceration in
Switzerland inhabit the prison cell. While cell furnishing and mainte-
nance is highly constrained by the prison’s accommodation regime, it also
provides room for manoeuver. Inspired by Michel Lussault and Mathis
Stock’s (2010) ‘pragmatics of space’ approach, this chapter explores how
prisoners (re)arrange spatial elements and thereby ascribe new meanings
and values to the cell and create personal and intimate space. It begins
with the presentation of the research context and methodology. Following
this is a description of the prison’s accommodation regime. The ensuing
two sections shed light on two types of arrangements of the prison cell,
6 A ‘Home’ or ‘a Place to Be, But Not to Live’: Arranging… 123
which reflect the prisoners’ different ways of dealing with imprisonment

and their uncertain future.
Research Context and Methodology

The analysis that follows is drawn from ethnographic data (DeWalt and
DeWalt 2002) that I generated between 2013 and 2015 using document
analysis, participant observation, informal discussions, and in-depth
interviews carried out with 22 prisoners (most of them sentenced to
indefinite incarceration) in two high-security prisons for male offend-
ers—the JVA Lenzburg and the JVA Pöschwies—in the context of a study
on end-of-life in Swiss prisons.1 In addition, this chapter draws on fur-
ther data generated as part of my PhD project on the lived experience of
prisoners sentenced to indefinite incarceration. Between 2016 and 2017,
I carried out document analysis, participant observation, informal dis-
cussions, walking interviews, and in-depth interviews with 19 male pris-
oners in the same two prisons.2
The Prison’s Accommodation Regime

On a national level, no explicit rules exist regarding the material condi-
tions of the prison cell in Switzerland (Baechtold et al. 2016: 159). The
standards are mainly defined on the level of each individual institution.
However, several cantonal guidelines suggest single-cell occupancy as ‘the
norm’.3 Since the revision of the SCC in 2007, the so-called ‘principle of
normalization’ serves as the point of reference for questions concerning
the materiality of the cell. Thus, the material conditions of the cell must
correspond to ‘average living conditions’ (Art. 75, para. 2, SCC, my
translation). Resulting from this are minimal requirements regarding
lighting, ventilation, sanitary facilities, furnishings, and the size of the
cell (Baechtold et al. 2016: 159–160). In addition, the Federal Office of
Justice has formulated explicit standards that come into force when
authorities must decide on subsidies to be allotted to new penal institu-
tions (BJ 2016). For example, 12 m2 has been determined to be the mini-
mum size required for a single cell (Baechtold et al. 2016: 160). In terms
124 I. Marti
of lighting, heating, and sanitary facilities, the norms should correspond

to the rules concerning general housing construction in Switzerland. The
cells should receive enough daylight, have access to running water, and be
equipped with a flushing toilet. They must be furnished with a bed, a
chair and a table, and a wardrobe or clothes rack. Finally, the addition of
personal objects, namely wall decorations, should be ‘generously permit-
ted’ (Baechtold et al. 2016: 160, my translation) Fig. 6.1.
Fig. 6.1 An empty prison cell. (Source: Andreas Moser, JVA Lenzburg)
In the internal rules of the prisons I visited, it is indicated that the

prisoners can furnish the cell in a ‘homely’ manner and have ‘personal
objects’ in their cell (JVA Lenzburg 2011; JVA Pöschwies 2016, my trans-
lation). Prisoners are authorised to hang pictures and put up photos on
the wall. However, where they can (e.g. on the pin board) and cannot be
put (e.g. on the door and the door frame) is clearly defined. It is prohib-
ited to hang pictures that are considered ‘shocking’, ‘defamatory’, politi-
cal, or religious, and to display photos and symbols that have a ‘provocative’
effect on others. Erotic images are allowed if they do not violate ‘the
morality of someone with normal sensitivity regarding sexual issues’ (JVA
Lenzburg 2011, my translation); pornography is prohibited. The prison-
ers can buy additional furnishings, such as a rug or a reading lamp.
However, numbers are limited and they generally must all fulfil specific
standards. They can buy plants from the prison garden, but keeping flow-
ers in the cell is forbidden. Stuffed animals are accepted, if they are not
bigger than 25 cm. Moreover, it is not permissible to obstruct the view
into the cell (e.g. by installing a curtain on the cell door). The use of a
towel as a tablecloth is also not allowed. If the prison furniture is not
fixed, the prisoners can move it; however, they are not completely free to
do so. For instance, furnishings must not be moved to the so-called wet
area (where the toilet and the sink are installed), and they must be upright,
that is, ‘put on their legs’ (JVA Pöschwies 2016, my translation). Prison
officers regularly have to ‘search’ the cells for prohibited objects (such as
weapons and mobile phones) that prisoners might have illicitly acquired.
Finally, prisoners can be transferred anytime and their personal items can
be withdrawn—with or without notification.
In addition to the instructions regarding cell furnishing, there are sev-
eral internal rules regarding the maintenance of the cell: ‘The cell and its
furnishing must be tidy and clean, and clearly arranged at any time’ (JVA
Lenzburg 2011, my translation). According to the Oxford English
Dictionary, ‘tidiness’ refers to ‘the state or quality of being arranged neatly
and in order’. ‘Dirt’ is defined, according to the same source, as ‘a sub-
stance, such as mud or dust, that soils someone or something’. However,
as emphasised by Douglas (1966: 2), ‘there is no such thing as absolute
dirt: it exists in the eye of the beholder’. In prison, the order and tidiness
of the cell is regularly controlled by prison officers. They are thus the ones
126 I. Marti
who hold the power of definition. Whether a cell is kept ‘tidy and clean’
is always the result of a subjective assessment, and shaped by the prison
officers’ individual ways of using authority as well as their impressions
and stereotypes regarding certain offenders:
This morning, I accompanied two prison officers during their assignment

to inspect some of the cells while the prisoners were at work. … Whenever
a cell was in a perfect order, they named it “military”. According to [the
first prison officer] this was “especially the case with the Muslim”. [The
second prison officer] said that “especially the pedophiles” were, in con-
trast, “extremely grubby”. (Fieldnotes 7.4.2016)4
These assessments may have powerful consequences. They can lead to

remarks in the prisoner’s record—for example, ‘the cell is overloaded and
chaotic’ (Fieldnotes 6.4.2016)—and immediate sanctions in case it is
decided that the cell order does not correspond to the rules.
All these rules clearly demonstrate that although the cell is considered
to be the prisoners’ ‘personal’ space, it remains a domain that is highly
regulated by the prison management.
Prisoners’ Ways of Arranging the Cell

Although cell furnishing and maintenance is highly constrained by the
prison’s accommodation regime, the prisoners’ ways of inhabiting the cell
are never fully determined by the prison. They use, appropriate and (re)
arrange the institutional spatio-temporal order that defines the prison cell
through individual practices and thereby create personal and intimate
space. Inspired by the geographers Lussault and Stock and their pragma-
tist approach, inhabiting is here understood both as a way of concretely
residing in a cell and more generally as relation to the world. From their
perspective, being in the world is not about ‘being in space’—in the sense
of being on Earth (as in a Heideggerian terminology)—but about ‘coping
with space’ (Lussault and Stock 2010). Yet, the authors prefer the termi-
nology ‘doing with’ instead of ‘coping’ as, from their perspective, the
expression ‘to cope with space’ makes sense when space is considered as a
problem, which is certainly not always the case. The authors argue that
actors may encounter and mobilise space as either a ‘problem’ or as

‘empowerment’ (Lussault and Stock 2010: 13). More concretely, by
encountering places, actors make use of spatial elements and thereby get
‘playfully or in a constrained way … over distances, transgress boundaries
and … arrange and … rearrange things, and, through discourses and
other kinds of acts shape the quality of places’ (Lussault and Stock 2010:
15). Space is therefore both a condition and a (material and immaterial)
resource for practices (Lussault 2007: 215–218). Lussault and Stock fur-
ther argue that space and action are co-constructed. One the one hand,
practices create spatial arrangements and define qualities of places. On
the other hand, spatial discourses and imaginaries with spatial content as
well as spatial elements (e.g. physical accessibilities and limits) are present
in individual practices (Lussault and Stock 2010: 16).
From this analytical perspective, by inhabiting a cell, prisoners auto-
matically (re)arrange it and thus attribute new meanings and values to
the cell. The prison cell (and, as I argue, the prison in general) can thus
not be reduced to a space in the sense of a (pre-defined) container that
contains people, but, as I argue, apprehended as a formally established set
of arrangements of space and (clock) time that is used and appropriated and
constantly (re)arranged by individuals through their everyday practices.
Using empirical examples, I illustrate in the following, simply put, two
types of arrangements of the prison cell: the cell as ‘a home’ and the cell
as ‘a place to be, but not to live’.
Arranging the Cell Into ‘A Home’
During fieldwork, I visited some of the prisoners with whom I estab-

lished closer connections inside their cells. It began with an invitation
from Clément, who was eager to show me his cell:
Clément welcomed me by saying: “Welcome to my three-room-apartment,

reduced to one room”. He smiled. His “apartment” indeed looked quite
cosy and is well furnished: there are two rugs on the floor, a TV, a stereo
system, a computer, a wall clock, pictures on the wall, cooking utensils and
a lot of spices. We stepped in and he explained to me how he arranged the
three “rooms” or areas (the cooking area, the wash corner, and the living
128 I. Marti
area) and talked about his strategies to make the best out of this limited
and highly controlled place: “you have to use space to a maximum”.
(Fieldnotes 8.2.2016)
As this example suggests, the prison’s accommodation regime does not

prevent prisoners from transforming their cell into something else, for
instance, into, as they said, a ‘home’ (see Fig. 6.2). This arrangement can
be carried out through a wide range of techniques: (1) through narratives,
(2) through the arrangement and use of objects, (3) through the
Fig. 6.2 A homely furnished prison cell. (Source: Andreas Moser, JVA Lenzburg)
application of domestic patterns of movement and activities, and (4) by

using the senses.
Regarding the prisoners’ narratives about the cell, many of them
explicitly used to name their cell their ‘home’, or ‘room’. ‘I don’t say cell,
I say: This is my room, my studio (laughs)’ (Darko 6.5.2016). Also, they
use the expression ‘to live’ (leben/wohnen) regarding their cell, which in
German means far more than simply existing. Narratives of the cell as a
home might reflect what Tuan ([1977] 2001: 32) considers as a basic
human need: the need to ‘anchor’ one’s personality in objects and places.
According to the author, ‘[a]ll human beings appear to have personal
belongings and perhaps all have the need of personal place, whether this
be a particular chair in a room or a particular corner in a moving carriage’
(Tuan [1977] 2001: 32). For Tuan ([1977] 2001: 144), home involves
emotions; it is an ‘intimate place’, a place where people feel safe and cared
for and a sense of attachment and rootedness. Home is also related to
familiarity. Through ‘routine activity’ people transform ‘unknown space’
into ‘familiar place’ (Tuan [1977] 2001: 73). From this perspective, the
transformation of the cell into a home appears as a result of an almost
‘natural’ process, based on the very basic human need to belong some-
where combined with a process of familiarisation.
These two aspects, the feeling of belonging and familiarity, also came
out in the prisoners’ narratives. Many prisoners said that the cell became
their ‘favourite place’ in prison because there they could find peace and
quiet, away from other prisoners. The expression ‘to have got used/accus-
tomed’ was also mentioned during the interviews, often followed by the
expression that ‘this is home now’: ‘I got used to it, I know everything
now [how the prison functions] … I feel myself at home now, so to speak’
(Erich 19.10.2017).
Leder (2004) sees a more active intention behind the transformation
of the cell into a home. He interprets it as ‘reclamation of space’ to
‘humanize’ the prison: ‘If spatiality has become constricted, ruptured,
disoriented, even reversed, [there are prisoners who] will do what is pos-
sible to reverse the reversals. [They] will make of [their] cell a home’
(Leder 2004: 58). This takes place not only through narratives, but also
through furnishing. Indeed, the prisoners I talked to also made use of the
spatial and material elements in the cell to transform it into a home (as
illustrated in Fig. 6.2). Even though the possibilities are limited, through
130 I. Marti
the (re)arrangement and usage of particular objects they create what they
consider a ‘homely ambiance’. They typically put rugs on the floor, buy
plants, and put pictures on the wall.
I want to furnish it so it doesn’t look like a cell anymore, but rather a space
where one sees that there is someone living in there, there lives a person, a
human being, someone who also feels comfortable. So, I want to put a
carpet, plants … things like that. (Leo 23.3.2016)
Leo’s statement echoes Ugelvik (2014: 73–75) who defines the trans-
forming of the cell into a home as a ‘freedom-creating-action’, whereby
prisoners challenge their ascribed position as a prisoner and ‘making
themselves into something other than a prisoner’. The personalisation of
the cell, especially through decoration (see Fig. 6.3), is also described as
Fig. 6.3 Personalisation of the cell through decoration. (Source: A prisoner, JVA
Lenzburg). (Note: The pictures were taken by prisoners during walking interviews
whereby I asked them to show me ‘their’ prison and taking pictures of places and
objects that are of any relevance for them)
an attempt to express ‘personal identity’, as a way to ‘manoeuvre within

the space of the other’ (Baer 2005: 215).
I argue that by transforming the cell into a home through narratives,
furnishing and decorating, prisoners not only personalise space with the
aim to ‘humanize’ the prison (Leder 2004) and ‘to leave their marks on
the prison landscape’ (Baer 2005: 210), they also manipulate their ‘sense
of size and spaciousness’ (Tuan [1977] 2001: 54). In addition to the
acquisition and arrangement of objects, when furniture is not fixed, pris-
oners usually move it (within the frame of possibilities), such as David,
who thereby created ‘more space’ and a friendlier ambiance:
I moved the desk a little further down, closer to the window … and the
cupboard, I pushed it closer to the bed, so, like this I have more space up
there. Because [fellow prisoners], when they come into my cell, they mostly
sit on the bed, one on the chair, so if another one wants to join us then he
has to bring his own chair or sit on the floor. So, it’s practical to have a bit
more space up there. (David 2.5.2016)
Through a particular arrangement of furniture and objects, Kurt trans-

formed ‘his room’ in a way that he sometimes even forgets that he actu-
ally is in prison:
I have birds, which I got from a mate … And I bought plants, and on the
floor, I have put a carpet. And on the walls, I hung a few pictures, and my
flag, my country flag. Sometimes, when I come into my room, I don’t
know whether this is my house or prison (laughs). There is no difference at
the moment, because I’ve been here for 10 years, it feels like I was born
here (laughs). (Kurt 3.5.2016)
The creation of a ‘homely’ ambiance can also be something temporary,

by ‘misusing’ prison furniture and objects and transforming them into
something else. Very common is the dismounting of the cupboard door
to create a table, big enough for four prisoners to enjoy a meal together.
As this last example suggests, the transformation of the cell into a
home takes place also through domestic patterns of movement and activ-
ities (see also Ugelvik 2014: 118). Prisoners in all the prisons I visited
have the possibility to socialise in the evening. During these get-togethers
132 I. Marti
Fig. 6.4 A prisoner’s ‘kitchen’. (Source: A prisoner, JVA Lenzburg)
in someone’s cell, they mainly engage in cooking (by using ‘the kitchen’,
illustrated in Fig. 6.4) and eating together, watching a movie, or playing
games, with the principle aim to create a ‘cosy atmosphere’ (Hugo
23.3.2016), and to live moments of ‘peace’ (Clément 24.3.2016) and
‘normality’ (Louis 22.3.2016). One prisoner told me that he lives ‘like a
family life’ with two younger fellow prisoners, whom he has ‘practically
adopted’ (informal conversation, 8.2.2016). They used to visit him in his
cell to eat together, to lie on his bed and relax, to watch a movie, or to
listen to music together. Another prisoner told me how he and his ‘best
friend’ in prison celebrated Christmas together by sharing a bottle of
wine in his cell that they illicitly bought from a fellow prisoner (Fieldnotes
23.2.2016). Although temporary (at least in prison), according to Tuan
([1977] 2001: 140), human encounters are essential in the experience of
home, because, often ‘the value of place [is] borrowed from the intimacy
of a particular human relationship; place itself offer[s] little outside the
human bond’. He argues that although for most people possessions and
ideas are important, ‘other human beings remain the focus of value and
the source of meaning’ (Tuan [1977] 2001: 138–139).
Finally, I claim that the transformation of the cell into a home also
takes place through a particular use of the senses. There are many prison-
ers who ‘do not see’ the bars in front of the window anymore because they
do not want to see them. David uses a particular smell to create a homely
ambiance—which is also a way to keep memories of his past (and his
previous home) alive, invisible for others:
From time to time I offer myself the luxury of buying a small bottle of
eucalyptus oil from the medical service to put a few drops on my pillow. I
tell them that this helps me to breathe better, but actually the reason is a
sentimental one … My wife used to put eucalyptus leaves in her pillow …
It smelled really good. (David 2.5.2016)
Lastly, through music—for instance by playing the guitar or listening to

their favourite songs—prisoners transform the cell into a place where
they can immerse in their ‘own world’ (Leo 23.3.2016) and transcend the
prison context.5
As I have shown in this section, the prisoners’ ways of transforming the
cell into a home can be regarded as a ‘natural’ process linked to familiari-
sation with the environment and getting used to prison. It can also be
defined as an attempt to express individuality and to challenge the pris-
oner status. I argue that to arrange the cell into a home is also rooted in
the prisoners’ intention to make the best of this situation and not to
worry too much about their (uncertain) future. While showing me his
cell (illustrated in Fig. 6.5), Erich first pointed to his newly purchased
coffee machine, the plants he has, and the pictures he put on the wall,
and explained to me: ‘This is where I live … and since I have to be in
prison, I at least want to have it as nice as possible’ (Erich 18.10.2017).
Markus made a similar argument. When I asked him whether the cell
is a place he feels comfortable, his response was:
Well … I feel good in this place, as far as you can say so, because it’s my
place, it’s my home. Of course, it’s a prison cell, but since I haven’t a home
outside anymore and will never have one again, I got used to it. It’s not a
134 I. Marti
Fig. 6.5 ‘To have it as nice as possible’. (Source: A prisoner, JVA Lenzburg)
resignation, it’s more … not an adaptation, you come to terms with it

somehow, it’s somehow a pragmatic decision to take that as your home.
And it doesn’t bother me. (Markus 28.8.2017)
As Crewe et al. (2016) suggest, this is a typical pattern found by long-

term prisoners beyond the early sentence phase. They define it as a way of
coping to make the problems of imprisonment more manageable over
time: to accept the situation and using it positively. As they argue, long-
term prisoners who are further into their sentence experience the present
no longer as a form of stasis because life is no longer considered ‘on hold’
(in the past, or being lived elsewhere) and consider the prison as their
‘home’ now and ‘the only place where life could meaningfully be led’
(Crewe et al. 2016: 10). Similar to this, I argue that transforming the cell
into a home is also about ‘normalising’ incarceration and transform it
into ‘a frame of action’ (see Vigh 2008: 11). As Marco told me, to per-
ceive imprisonment as his ‘normal life’ allows him ‘to regain mental free
spaces’. It enables him to feel ‘safe’ and comfortable and to go about his
life (Marco 4.5.2016). However, some prisoners mentioned that this

requires giving up hope, letting go their pre-prison self, and cutting off
their bonds to the outside world as it is too painful to emotionally live in
two different worlds. As I illustrate in the following, in contrast to prison-
ers who transform the cell into a home, I met prisoners who said that
they would ‘never’ want a cell to be their home.
Arranging the Cell as ‘A Place to Be, But Not to Live’
Lars was one of the prisoners with whom I had frequent contact during
fieldwork. I spent several days with him, helping him at his work place.
At the end of our time together I visited him in his cell:
In the afternoon, I searched for a prison officer who was willing to escort
me to Lars. Once we arrived at his cell, the officer knocked at the door and,
after a few seconds, opened it. Lars came to the doorstep and welcomed
me … I was surprised: the cell was almost empty! This is not at all what I
expected, especially because Lars is one of the prisoners who will probably
have to stay in prison for the rest of his life. I noted that he didn’t wear
shoes and apologised for wearing shoes myself and asked if I should take
them off. He declined. I felt a bit lost and uncertain facing this empty cell.
No cooking utensils, no pictures, no decoration at all, except the flag of his
home canton above his bed, which he mentioned several times during our
collaboration. He remained silent, kept looking at me, and I felt the need
to start a conversation. I started to comment on what I saw … I then went
to the window and asked: “what kind of view do you have?” and he replied:
“none, there’s just the courtyard”. I mentioned that he had hardly any pri-
vate stuff, like pictures. He then took a photo album out of the cupboard
and showed me some pictures of his family. I wanted to know if he had
requested a bigger cell [long-term prisoners do have this option] to which
he replied “no, I am anyway hardly inside. Just for sleeping. And besides
that, with a bigger cell one has much more to do [he refers to the clean-
ing]”. We then had a chat about my project and soon after we said good-
bye by shaking hands … Again, at his workplace the following day, Lars
explained to me that he doesn’t intend to furnish the cell to be “too cosy” …
To him, to settle in means “to accept” his situation and this would mean
“giving up on himself ”. (Fieldnotes 17.2.2016)
136 I. Marti
Lars made clear to me that the cell is a place he does not want to belong
to. He did not decorate the cell in a personal way (with exception of the
flag), he described it simply as a place he uses for sleeping, a place without
any view. At a first glance, he also did not act like a typical ‘host’ (he did
not care whether I took off my shoes or not, did not start a conversation),
until he showed me pictures of his family members.
Lars’ narrative of the cell as a place to be, but not to live is shared by
many others. For these prisoners, to transform their cell into a home
would basically mean to create a ‘cosy’ ambiance. For them, to feel com-
fortable in prison is equivalent to acceptance of incarceration and giving
up hope (see also Milhaud 2009: 291). Rolf mentioned in this regard that
‘[i]t’s important for me that I never get used to my cell, and never to
incarceration. I don’t want that. I must avoid it. Otherwise, I will perish.
It would mean abandoning freedom’ (Rolf 6.5.2016). Anton told me: ‘it
makes my hair stand on end when someone starts to talk about his cell by
calling it “my room” … for me it’s just a cell … It’s a place to be, but not
to live’ (Anton 24.3.2016). In contrast to Leder (2004: 58), who labels
such an attitude a ‘strategy of escape’ by emphasising that prisoners who
do not want to feel at home in prison consider their ‘true home’ to be in
the outside world ‘albeit one from which they are temporarily exiled’,
most of the prisoners I met and who share this attitude did not mention
their home to be outside. This could be because most of them have lost
contact with their families and friends and many of the places they used
to know have disappeared. Everything has changed outside over the years.
However, some prisoners talked about their dreams of establishing a new
life abroad, creating a new home. This is in line with the argument of
Cohen and Taylor (1972: 93) who stated that, as for long-term prisoners
the future in prison is unthinkable, they rely upon ‘ideas about a future
life outside to sustain themselves through their temporally undifferenti-
ated days’. But, for the prisoners I talked to, the future is nearly unthink-
able in the outside world too. They fear that (in case of release) they will
be too old to find a job, and that the pension they would be granted
would not be sufficient to live a decent life. Their ideas about a future life
consist therefore less of concrete plans and more of dreams and visions:
A mate of mine whom I have met here and who is now in another prison …
we still stay in touch, we call each other … when he is on a holiday [tem-
porary release]. And once he is outside, he will go to Brazil, he has a house
there. And should I ever get the chance to get out again, I could go to Brazil
too, that’s already fixed. Here in Switzerland, I will anyway no longer have
any chance. (Hugo 25.6.2013)
Today I had a chat with Marco. […] He told me about his prospects. He
maybe gets Art. 59 or 63, then he would be out even faster. For him, an
“intermediate step” would be quite ok. He also told me that he had been
doing therapy again for some time now. I asked about his future plans. He
wants to work in the IT business, to support customers independently, to
repair PCs, of which he understands something. He would like to travel,
perhaps emigrate to Belize. He gets a Disability Pension, on which he
thinks he could live quite well. He would like to open an Internet cafe that
would eventually be operating without him. (Fieldnotes 4.4.2016)
Even though the future is difficult to imagine, most of these prisoners

are still ‘fighting’ against their situation and hoping for their release. They
say that fighting is something that keeps them alive; it is a way of resis-
tance. Therefore, they are strongly concentrated on the future and con-
stantly waiting for something that may happen—an appointment at the
court, a visit from a lawyer, a transfer to a more open prison and, perhaps,
their eventual release. However, because of their strong hope for change
and their intense orientation to the (uncertain) future, these prisoners are
constantly suffering the ‘pains of uncertainty and indeterminacy’ (Crewe
2011: 513) and have difficulties giving meaning to their present life in
prison. In contrast to prisoners who want their cell not to look like a cell
anymore but rather a home, these prisoners do not call their cell a home,
as they do not want to feel at home. In material terms, they also do not
want to arrange their cells in a homely way; they want the cell to remain
a cell.6 For most of these prisoners’ this means to have only few objects
and personal items in their cell—sometimes their cells are almost empty
(and look similar to a complete empty cell as illustrated in Fig. 6.1). This
echoes Leder’s (2004: 58) argument that prisoners who do not want to
create themselves a home in prison, they want to ‘refuse to become com-
plicit with it’ and ‘orient to the outside world’. As Heinz explains:
138 I. Marti
My cell is functionally furnished. I have everything I need … and it’s clean.

But I didn’t put posters on the wall or things like that; I don’t want to fur-
nish it like an apartment that suits my personal taste. I keep telling myself:
this is not mine. (Heinz 3.5.2016)
Just like Heinz, Anton also emphasised that he arranged his cell in a
purely functionally manner: ‘It [the cell] is expediently furnished. A com-
puter, a printer, books, envelopes, paper, CDs, a stereo system. But oth-
erwise, nothing else’ (Anton 24.3.2016). Not having any (or only a few,
but hidden) personal objects can also be understood as a means of pro-
tecting one’s privacy in the sense of ‘reserve’ as defined by Cohen and
Taylor (1972), which means to not reveal certain personal aspects of one-
self. However, there are also prisoners who want to create a home while
keeping it ‘functionally furnished’. In this case, it is more a matter of
personal taste—‘I don’t have any plants. I’m not that much of a plant
person’ (Marco 4.5.2016)—or because it is thought to make the room
feel smaller when there are too many objects in it.
Nevertheless, the prisoners who disassociate themselves from the
prison through their narratives and ways of arranging the cell also
expressed feelings of belonging and attachment. This became apparent,
for instance, when they were describing to me their feelings after they
realised that their cell had just been searched—‘like after a burglary’
(Anton 24.3.2016). As Jonathan told me:
I always think: they have been here again. I realise that they have searched
the cell and think: they have been here again. Wednesday and Friday I
clean the cell, the floor and everything, and then I can see footprints on the
floor. That’s how I notice that they have been in my cell. (Jonathan 2.5.2016)
Ugelvik (2014), claims that the feeling of ‘space belonging to me is [a]

practical question […] a room becomes my room by me taking residence
in it’ (Ugelvik 2014: 117). Taking residence in a room or a house is con-
nected to the arrangement of things due to personal needs (and taste). It,
therefore, always also ‘reflects those who live there, their perceptions,
habits and practices’ (Ugelvik 2014: 117). Indeed, even though some
prisoners may decide not to arrange it in a cosy way and do not want to
feel to belong there, they do store and arrange personal objects that they
keep in their cell in a way that suits them best. Maybe they have only the
very basic items handed out by the prison, such as plates, cutlery and
cups, a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, a towel, clothes, and shoes. But
maybe they also have some more ‘private’ things: a postcard from a friend,
photographs of family members (although kept invisible for others), or a
note that confirms their next visit.
I argue that the feeling of attachment may also be a result of the fact
that the cell is the place where they can be alone and pass unobserved
time, where they sleep, have sex (with themselves or fellow prisoners), get
dressed, use the toilet (see also Ugelvik 2014: 121)—all activities that are
(at least in so-called ‘Western’ societies) considered as ‘intimate’ and ‘pri-
vate’ and not performed in public (see Hall [1966] 1982). The cell is also
the place in prison where they are ‘not on show’ (Ugelvik 2014: 123);
where they can freely express those emotions they usually try to control
or hide in front of staff or fellow prisoners. Hence, independently of
whether the prisoners intend to transform the cell into a home or not, the
cell constitutes (to some degree) a personal and private territory (see also
Goffman 1961; Toch [1977] 1996), which, in one way or another, pris-
oners try to defend by using a wide range of techniques. As I observed,
these techniques include trying to influence the frequency and accuracy
of cell searches by behaving ‘inconspicuously’ and thereby strengthening
the borders of their personal territory; or getting to know the prison offi-
cers’ rhythms and routines to be able to catch the right moment to engage
in (what they consider as) intimate and private activities.
Conclusion
As this chapter illustrates, using an ethnographic lens and the concept of
inhabiting offers the potential to explore the prison cell and, more con-
cretely, the prisoners’ ways of residing in it. Here, it is possible to trace the
prisoners’ subjective experience detached from predefined assumptions
and concepts of what the prison cell (as well as the prison as a whole) is
and what it does. In the academic literature, the prison is often explored
by qualifying it per se as a ‘bad’ or ‘dehumanizing’ place (O’Donnell
140 I. Marti
2014: 179) where prisoners face above all a wide range of ‘pains’ and
‘deprivations’ (Sykes 1958); and have to find strategies to ‘survive’ this
extraordinary or ‘extreme’ situation (Cohen and Taylor 1972). Without
neglecting these understandings of the prison, using the concept of
inhabiting in relation to cell space facilitates an approach to the prison as
a place where these people live their ordinary everyday lives. It enables the
exploration of prisoners’ agentic and practical engagement with the cell,
and imprisonment in general, without necessarily labelling it ‘resistance’
or ‘adaptation’ to the prison environment (as previous research often
does). It thus also sheds light on the usually unnoticed, apparently insig-
nificant and banal activities, habits, and routines that prisoners develop
and carry out when residing in this place. This particular focus on the
prison cell reveals the manifold expressions of the prisoners’ ways of deal-
ing with imprisonment, such as focusing on the present, accepting
imprisonment and creating a ‘home’ in prison, or, in contrast, maintain-
ing focus on the future, hope for release and continually expressing dis-
tance from the prison and all the spaces that it encompasses.
Notes
1. The project End-of-Life in Prison: Legal Context, Institutions and Actors was
funded by the Swiss National Science Foundation (SNSF) (http://www.
p3.snf.ch/Project-139296).
2. The PhD project Living the Prison: An Ethnographic Study of Indefinite
Incarceration in Switzerland was also funded by the SNSF (http://p3.snf.
ch/project-159182).
3. In Switzerland’s federal political system, legislation in the field of criminal
law is a matter for the federal government. The execution of sentences,
however, generally falls under the responsibilities of the cantons
(FOJ 2010).
4. All fieldnotes and quotations from prisoners have been translated from
German by the author. All names have been replaced by pseudonyms.
5. See also Herrity (this volume) for a discussion of the significance of sound
in cell space.
6. Here it is important to note that the significance prisoners attribute to the
cell can change over time and according to the situation (see also Lussault
and Stock 2010: 17). For instance, during our first meeting within the
scope of a formal interview in 2016, Markus vehemently expressed the
position that he would never call his cell a home. In 2017, after several
more meetings and informal discussions, during the walking interview I
conducted with him, he first showed me his cell, which he named ‘my
home’ (Markus 28.8.2017).
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7
Prison as Palimpsest: The Dialectics
of the Cell and Everyday Life
The ACE Steering Committee
The recent proliferation of work that has introduced and given momen-
tum to research in carceral geography has enriched our understanding
of various aspects of incarceration. Scholars in this area have generated
insightful engagements with the primary bodies of theory that are often
enlisted in the effort to better understand how, why, and where human
beings are forcibly enclosed, and some of the ramifications thereof
(Moran et al. 2018). In this growing body of literature, there are calls,
that are both methodological and ethical, for a fuller representation of
the voices and experiences of those who are incarcerated. This chapter
is a pioneering effort to respond to that call and to contribute to an
examination of various dimensions of carceral realities, as they are
The authors of this chapter are Shaul Cohen (corresponding author), Bianca P., Daniel, Don S.,
Emily Kalbrosky, Eric, Jaime, Jason Christner, Jimmy, John Knight, Jordan Pickrel, Josh Cain,
Julie Williams-Reyes, Kathleen Dwyer, Kehala Hervey, Kosol, Kyle Hedquist, Michael, Phoebe
Petersen, Sang Nguyen, and Shannon Fender. Names appear as requested by each participating
member of the ACE group. The authors would like to thank Dr. Diane Baxter for her comments
on early versions of this chapter.
The ACE Steering Committee (*)

Department of Geography, University of Oregon, Eugene, OR, USA

144 The ACE Steering Committee
understood by a group of men who currently reside in the Oregon State

Penitentiary and have collectively served over 250 years of their sen-
tences there and at a number of other prisons in the United States. Our
group includes prisoners1 ranging in age from 27 to 81 years old, who
been incarcerated for periods ranging from 8 to 35 years. The sentences
of some of the authors have recently been completed; others have a few
years to many decades remaining on their time; and some will never be
released. These men are joined as authors of the chapter by two faculty
members, five students, and two alumni from the University of Oregon
who are the ‘outside’ members of the ACE group (Another Chance for
Education) in the Oregon State Penitentiary; together the group has
been working for a decade to foster educational opportunities in pris-
ons and juvenile detention facilities in Oregon and elsewhere in the
United States.2
In this chapter, we focus on the prison cell as we consider the evolving
relationship between that construct and its occupants as the years of
incarceration accumulate and the prisoners’ orientation to their world
evolves, drawing attention to the diversity of experiences that occur there.
We also address the prisoners’ efforts to ‘domesticate’ the space they
inhabit, and ways in which the cell can function as an emblem that sup-
ports the emotional needs of the prisoner and serves as a way to project
identity in a manner that communicates messages about territory and
status to other prisoners and staff (Turner 2016). Our first-hand narrative
begins with the cell in the broader construct of prison ‘neighbourhoods’,
and subsequently examines how location and function shape the experi-
ence of the cells’ occupants and affect those living in close proximity
within the institution.
While very appreciative of work in the sub-discipline of carceral geog-
raphy, from which we have learned much, our reaction to studies to date
in this and other disciplines is one of ‘yes!, but…’. Theorisation and
empirical studies of prisons tend to fall into binaries that don’t fully cap-
ture the dynamism of the cell in relation to self, power, and place, even
when authors are specifically critiquing the simplified descriptions of
prison life. Our overarching sense is that the prison environment is fre-
quently so fraught and multifaceted that descriptions in the literature
often lose important dimensions of the fluidity, complexity, and
7 Prison as Palimpsest: The Dialectics of the Cell and Everyday… 145
simultaneity of opportunities and constraints in which prisoners forge

agency, deploy tactics, and nurture and maintain identity. The aspects of
the cell we address—prison neighbourhoods, the domestication of the
cell, and the evolving nature of the cell for its occupants over time—illus-
trate our central argument that the space and experiences of this key area
of imprisonment are malleable. In this malleability, we find an essential
point of contact between the lives of those who are incarcerated and the
struggles of less powerful people everywhere; that is, for all that is denied
or imposed on the resident of the cell, there is both need and opportunity
to shape the place in which we live out our most fundamental existence
(Frankl 1959). Whether in a carceral setting or in the ‘free world’, human
adaptability and resourcefulness are powerful forces, despite institutional
efforts to limit or eradicate them.
Cells have been discussed as liminal spaces. Authors have rightly
pointed to the complicated natures of space and time (Moran 2015), and
there is on-going and productive conversation around Foucault’s (1977)
lack of attention to autonomy (Dirsuweit 1999); Goffman’s total institu-
tion concept and its scope (1961); and the absolutism of Agamben’s bare
life (1998). Our hope in this chapter is to avoid the ‘reductive binaries’
(Earle 2014: 429) that tend to depict prison life as a list of situations and
circumstances; instead, we view prison more like a kaleidoscope, with
patterns and moments that reflect an on-going process.
Some authors do capture elements of incarceration that are part of the
incredible complexity of these worlds. As James notes, the prison cell is ‘a
space of constant negotiation and uncertainty’ (2018: 154) and Moran
et al. refer to a ‘continuum’ of qualities and conditions within the carceral
(2018: 677). Both of these observations highlight the ‘churn’ of the
prison experience, something that infuses our understanding of the dif-
ferent functions that cells have because of the agency exercised by their
occupants, and the counter current of authority exercised by the state. As
Andrew3 sees it, the cell ‘takes on many forms that depend on the needs
of the prisoner’. His characterisation shows that, alongside the recogni-
tion of the cell as a mechanism of constraint that belongs to the state, it
can also be a place of attachment, and these different experiences can
reside in a prisoner simultaneously.
Our inside authors have figured out how to ‘do time’, and thus the
personal observations in this chapter should be seen as those of veterans
of the system, and we caution against efforts that overly simplify the
prison experience, or map too broadly from one situation to another.4
Foucault’s attention to the institutional aspiration to create docile bodies
is important (particularly when one considers the level of mental health
issues in prisons, and the extremely high rates of medication in use in
many of them), but with an eye towards Bourdieu (1990), de Certeau
(2011), Jewkes (2013) and Scott (1985), we argue that many incarcer-
ated individuals create their places, their identities, and organise their
cells through continual actions of assertion and denial. This may come as
a surprise to some, given the extreme conditions of incarceration and the
fundamental loss of freedom, but Relph points out that to ‘have roots in
a place is to have a secure point from which to look out on the world, a
firm grasp of one’s own position in the order of things’ (1976: 38). A
person inside a cell is still a person, despite the elements arrayed to deny,
diminish or extinguish their selfhood.
As noted by Sibley and Van Hoven ‘space within the prison is both
transparent and opaque’ (2009: 199), and stakeholders act in ways that
are visible and invisible. The activity within the cell is an effort to make a
place that serves its occupant(s), and which the prisoner endeavours to
keep private, at least in part. This happens in dialectic with the continual
steps taken by the prison administration—through the process of design,
the use of electronic surveillance, and human observation—to make the
cell visible, and to maintain a place that is different from that desired by
its occupants. At times, this tension feels like a competition, as the resi-
dents of the prison—whether individually or collectively—attempt to
increase their ability to act and to improve their lot. For its part, the
prison administration and the individuals employed by it act to imple-
ment their objectives in a fashion that is as safe and effective for them as
possible, which is often not in accord with the desires or needs of those
in custody. For those in prison, in whatever capacity, there is an unceas-
ing stream of decisions that constitutes a cost-benefit approach to daily
activities. While there are some rules that are always enforced (particu-
larly those for more serious violations), it is often uncertain as to which
rules will be enforced at a given time, and which rule staff members will
apply in some fashion, in some parts of the prison, to some people, for
some reason.5
To convey the myriad currents that flow through and around this
highly complex place, we offer an image that reflects our experiences of
cells and their manifold functions: that of the palimpsest—something
that is used and reused, inscribed and re-inscribed, in which traces of dif-
ferent layers are evident, though sometimes indistinct or occluded. By
this, we mean that the cell is always being written, erased, and overwrit-
ten through the intricacies of power, and that the inscription done there
by the different stakeholders unfolds sequentially, though much of what
transpires does so concurrently. Brian says that for those spending a long
period of time in them,
the cell is predictable in a sense, and we struggle with the sameness and
boredom, while at the same time you always feel like you don’t know what’s
going to happen next. I hate the boredom, but sometimes it’s better than
the alternative. In the end though, it’s mostly patterns, ours and theirs [the
staff’s], blending together.
Chuck adds: ‘Some of the time we feel like we control our cells, and
sometimes they feel like they control our cells. Really both are true and
neither are true a lot of the time’. It is observations such as these that add
detail and nuance to earlier studies of this sort, and suggest to us the
palimpsest and capture pragmatic elements of the cell in prison life.
In offering commentary on the lives of those who are incarcerated, we
add our voices to the analyses of who ‘owns’ what in the prison; what con-
stitutes agency and autonomy; and what power can mean in these lives
(Moran 2015). Without in any way denying or minimising the negative
elements of incarceration, we fall within the group that finds at least some
‘positives in the carceral experience’ (Jewkes 2013: 127), and see the cell as a
‘repository of socially and politically relevant traditions and identity which
serves to mediate between the everyday lives of individuals and the… insti-
tutions which constrain and enable those lives’ (Agnew and Duncan
1989: 7). The cell is more, though, than a repository; it is a space in which
many of the overarching dimensions of incarceration are enacted, resisted,
and contested. Indeed, the cell is an amalgam in which a number of
elements combine in ways that yield a variety of individualities amidst the

drive for standardisation and anonymity that marks mass incarceration.
This writing draws upon our sustained exploration of the relationship
between incarceration, agency, and identity, and our engagement with
the literature on prisons and on the policies that shape our work. The
chapter is therefore a synthesis of what we learn from the scholarship on
incarceration elsewhere, and our individual and shared experiences inside
these (and other) prison walls. We include quotations from individual
members of the group, but write as a community that has drafted this
chapter collectively. Our use of the term ‘we’ should not be taken to mean
that we are unaware of the stark divide that separates the incarcerated
members of the group from those living in ‘the free world’ outside.
Rather, it is an affirmation that we form a community of common inter-
est in which we are able to draw upon a range of knowledge that gives us
insight, breadth, and strength. It should be noted that our writing process
was to break into smaller groups focusing on specific aspects of the cell,
and the chapter as a whole represents both consensus and synthesis.
While all of those involved in the writing are listed as authors, and the
personal quotes included herein come from ACE members, we have cre-
ated pseudonyms for the attribution of these quotes in order to maintain
collective ‘ownership’ of what is by nature a tapestry of individual
experiences.
The Neighbourhood and the Cell

Where an individual lives within the prison is affected by a number of
variables, and, inasmuch as the cell is formally assigned to its occupants
by the administration, that determination predominantly resides with
the staff. Among the factors that have bearing are the nature of the sen-
tence (length and category of crime), the conduct of the prisoner (though
reward and punishment are at times unrelated to or only partially the
result of the behaviour of the prisoner), age, physical and mental health,
sexual orientation, race, and availability of beds. Neighbourhoods within
a prison, like neighbourhoods elsewhere, can provide benefits and con-
tain risks that have little to do with a particular cell and its occupants, but
rather reflect patterns or perceptions that adhere to a larger scale than a

single dwelling. Though not a prominent aspect of our current circum-
stances, gang life can be a significant marker of territory and identity, and
the dynamics of power related to that form of social organisation can
map onto entire prisons, or at the smaller scales of block, tier, or even an
individual cell.6
One significant aspect of the experience of the cell is encapsulated by
our inside authors as ‘location, location, location’. A common reference
made by both prisoners and staff is that of ‘a small town’ as a simile for
the geography of the prison, where its cell blocks or even individual tiers
are compared to neighbourhoods. While the prison has a number of cen-
tralised places—the chow hall, the yard, the showers, and the industrial
areas—the cell blocks have distinct characters and patterns.7 Some of the
attributes of location are simple, such as desire for proximity to friends
and distance from adversaries, for good lighting (more to see by, less to
sleep with), comfortable temperatures (like most prisons in the United
States, this penitentiary is not air conditioned, and heat—and cold—are
distributed unevenly), and regular air flow (which is important since each
cell contains a toilet, and access to showers is limited).
In the ‘Honours Block’ at OSP, there are solid metal doors on the cells
(with a window near the top) that can reduce noise and distraction and
enhance privacy in comparison with the barred cells on the other block.
The Honours Block, which can be earned by serving 5 years without
incurring any disciplinary action, is markedly different from the other
blocks in that its residents are able to circulate on the open area of their
floor during times when prisoners are not restricted to their cells; all of
the other blocks lack that configuration, and their inhabitants are locked
in their cells when they are not engaged in some activity (work, eating,
yard, showers, chapel, visiting, and so on).
Throughout the prison, aspects of location can be specific to the cir-
cumstances of the prisoner, an example of which is proximity to the ‘box’,
where the security staff are based on the tier or cellblock. For most pris-
oners, being close to the box is undesirable in that it reduces privacy,
increases risk, and comes with the hustle and bustle of the work of the
staff. The only advantage of proximity for the average prisoner is a some-
what diminished risk of theft. However, for the part of the population
that is particularly vulnerable to attack—homosexual and transgender

prisoners,8 those convicted of sex crimes, those who collaborate with the
administration, and ‘snitches’, or simply those who are viewed as a target
of some sort—being close to the box may provide a measure of security
(Copes et al. 2011).
In addition to proximity to the box, the location of the cell on the tier
has other important dimensions. Prisoners are prohibited from entering
any cell other than their own, and are restricted in their mobility when
outside of their cells; thus residing at the far end of a tier can draw even
more attention to foot traffic that is outside of the prescribed movement
for permitted activity. Non-compliant use of the cell may be less visible
in some parts of the prison, but may, at the same time, be all the more
suspicious for creating activity where it otherwise would not be concen-
trated. Foot traffic can also exacerbate the tensions around privacy, and
some prisoners prefer a remote location where they will be less frequently
observed and disturbed by others. This can mean though that they will
pass by more cells on their way to and from other parts of the prison, and
in doing so they are ‘subject’ to seeing what goes on elsewhere. This may
be interesting and useful, but it might also be distasteful, and there are
things happening that prisoners ‘don’t want to see, and really shouldn’t
see’ as Charles puts it. And if an individual observes, or is even in a posi-
tion to observe illicit activity, it creates the possibility of snitching, and of
being considered a snitch, thus proximity to other cells can create a vari-
ety of hazards for the viewer and the viewed.
The Cell Diversifies Over Time

While for some the cell remains inherently punitive throughout their
incarceration, for many, including the imprisoned authors of this chap-
ter, the experience of the cell evolves as individuals age and mature over
the course of their sentence.9 From the initial experiences of adapting to
life in prison to later coping with the losses associated with aging in
prison, the cell remains central to the carceral experience and can grow
more important over time. It functions as a tool of punishment initially,
and this aspect endures in some respects even as the cell can become an
office and a home, and has immense power in shaping an individual’s

experience in prison. As a powerful example of this, DeShaun who is now
in his ninth decade of life says that ‘The work that I do now is very similar
to the work I did on the outside. I have files, paperwork, and preparation
notes on my desk in my cell. My cell is the closest thing to the outside I
have. I have a radio, TV, and artwork’. For individuals like DeShaun,
who is serving a life sentence, reframing the cell to home and office serves
a powerful function in claiming control and defining when and how to
feel ownership, even in the face of the realities of ‘the cell’ as the basic unit
of confinement.
Eli illustrates some of the mental journey experienced by (some) pris-
oners, saying, ‘I realized that I was only hurting myself by continuing to
consider the cell my punishment. Some guys refuse to be comfortable in
their cells, but I think I can best improve myself by being as relaxed in my
environment as possible, wherever that may be’. Frank captures the shift-
ing geography of the prison for himself as he ages by observing that
My friends and acquaintances tend to live, work, and socialize in the same
small area of confinement that I do now. I used to own this place [i.e., the
prison], and knew the goings-on of everything in here as only a prisoner of
youth and good health could. The prison yard is for the young and healthy,
old men retire to the comforts and security of what the blocks and their cell
can give them.
At the beginning of a period of incarceration, the cell can induce feel-

ings of claustrophobia and dread, while at the same time constituting a
place outside of the flow of prison traffic: a base of sorts from which a
prisoner can have a measure of respite and learn what is necessary to
acclimate to prison life, or to the specific ways of a particular prison or
place within it. This is necessary in relation to the formal rules of the
institution and the unwritten but influential rules of the prisoners them-
selves that shape the daily geography of the prison and determine what
can and cannot be done in different locations (Cresswell 1996). After
being sentenced to more than five decades in prison, Gary describes how
‘the reality set in that I would never be free again. The cell became a cage,
and like any other animal, I knew that I had to adapt to my surroundings
if I wanted to live and make the most of my existence’.
One of the elements that is immediately challenging upon incarcera-
tion is constant surveillance—both informal and formal—as suggested
by Bentham’s Panopticon (Foucault 1977). The conceptual ‘freedom’
that our members discuss in relation to their cells and neighbourhoods
also relate powerfully with the mentality required to adapt to shifting
priorities and personalities of the prison staff over time. Studies that have
begun to outline the ‘emotional geography’ of carceral spaces comment
on the difficulty of maintaining equanimity when faced with the loss of
autonomy and aspects of privacy (Crewe 2009; Dirsuweit 1999; Milhaud
and Moran 2013; Philo 2001; Sibley and Van Hoven 2009). Though
there is a regular turnover in staff, as the period of incarceration grows in
length, prisoners become familiar with some of the security officers, and,
similarly, officers come to recognise those that they see on a regular basis.
The attitudes of staff members, and their overall orientation to their
work, have profound implications for those subject to their authority.
Thus the ‘emotional landscape’ of incarceration can include a dialectic
between those incarcerated and their captors, and the mood, character,
and mental health of the staff have to be recognised as having a significant
impact on the experience of those who reside in the facility.
In regard to people passing by a cell or stopping outside of it, three
general categories are identified by prisoners: friend, stranger, or enemy.
Most of our ‘inside’ authors classify staff in this fashion and feel more, or
less, relaxed during particular shifts depending on who is on duty. With
greater experience, prisoners are better able to navigate the differences in
approach on the part of the security staff, and thus avoid much of the
‘hassle’ that can come in response to the actions or attitudes—perceived
or real—on the part of the prisoner. This is extremely important in the
life of those incarcerated, for while they don’t like being observed within
their cells, or even having their cells viewed by others, the stakes are much
higher when their cells get ‘tossed’, or searched.
As Hank notes, ‘One of the things we have to figure out is how to keep
people out of our space’. When the cell is searched, or even simply entered
into by staff members, prisoners feel a sense of trespass and violation.
They are unable to forbid this practice and know that it can happen at
any time, thus their sense of ownership and (relative) emotional safety is
compromised by staff entrance to the confines of the cell. Some of the
men that have made adjustments to prison life, in general, and to the
patterns of specific staff in particular, note the infrequency with which
their cells are tossed, and believe that this is because they have accrued
social capital with staff and other prisoners. Having social capital, which
is an element of the prison ‘currency’ of respect, helps them maintain ter-
ritorial boundaries, and this allows a greater sense of ownership of their
space (Sibley 1995).
As time passes for the prisoner, so too it passes for those they are con-
nected to on the outside. Among the many pains of incarceration is the
particular sense of helplessness and loss that accompanies growing infir-
mity and the deaths of family members. The grief and rage that can mark
the approach and then experience of bereavement is one that our mem-
bers note as being particularly powerful, and this can accompany the
sickness and death of friends behind bars as well. While trauma of this
sort is understood and respected by the prison community, Isaac notes
the disdain in prison for the showing of emotion ‘in public’, that is, in the
prison’s shared spaces like the chow hall, the yard, and the various work
and activity areas. The cell thus serves as a sanctuary in which one can
mourn in relative privacy. Further, the cells of those who die while incar-
cerated can remain associated with a former occupant long after their
death, and, in that respect, Jose observes that ‘the cell can act as a ceme-
tery’ as well, even if it’s not a burial place.
Kareem points to the importance of possessions for long-term prison-
ers in maintaining connections with the world outside (Turner 2017),
and says that
as someone who is serving a sentence without the possibility of release, I

began to collect a lot of stuff. I had books, cups, lots of photos from home.
As the years went by, I would send my family pictures of my “home” [i.e., the
prison]: me on the yard, at work, and with my new “family.” I want them to
see that I have a life, but because of the restrictions on cameras [which aren’t
allowed on the cell blocks], I can’t show them what I’ve done with my cell.
Kareem’s efforts to mark time through the accumulation of possessions,

and the communication about that material stake to others, align with
Fiddler’s (2010) focus on the importance of memory in the making of

space and place. Luke asserts that
A man’s cell is surely part of his identity. It’s common knowledge that pris-
oners don’t actually own their own cell in any penitentiary and that they
are accustomed to moving quite often, but it is also true that many of the
men that become warehoused in this system can spend a couple of decades
or more in the same cell. If a man occupies a space for so long does this
create a claim of ownership?’
His sentiment highlights the cognitive work of the prisoner, who knows
that he is not sovereign, yet feels a right of possession. For those serving
long sentences, in particular, this relationship between occupant and cell
becomes all the more personal and powerful. As any human being relates
to shelter, safety, community, surroundings, neighbours, and so on, the
prisoners who face decades of their life confined to one loosely controlled
‘home’ must map their sense of belonging onto carefully proscribed
senses of permanence, ownership, and belonging.
Domesticating the Cell
The cell can become a locus of agency and an expression of individual-
ity—and of humanity—as the prisoner learns to take advantage of what
is allowed, and to extend beyond that in the tension between the possible
and the permissible.10 With time, prisoners learn how to partition the
very small area available to them—the cell, part of a cell, or part of a
dormitory—and to populate that space in ways that make it personal,
and in some respects, to create privacy for some of their most significant
possessions (Baer 2005; Moran 2015; Schliehe 2017) and activities. In
making such efforts, prisoners must be cognisant of the rules applying to
contraband (Gibson-Light 2018; Kalinich and Stojkovic 1985) and pro-
hibited conduct regarding use and modification of prison space.
Particularly in shared spaces, infractions make a prisoner vulnerable to
official sanction and can constitute a risk for other occupants of the space
as well. As noted above, when prison officials enter a cell, the potential
harms extend to the entire space, and to all of those living therein. When
the administration seizes the property of prisoners, it reduces their cell to
the ‘standard issue’ and strips them, again, of their individuality and
accumulated history.
Thus, while privacy and individuality are central desires, steps taken to
create them come with a set of practical concerns that generate a cost-
benefit dynamic. This is reflected in the dichotomy between wanting to
shield some possessions or activities from public view, while using some
items or actions to communicate specific messages to those in the prox-
imity of the cell. Matt uses the term ‘curb appeal’ to suggest the relation-
ship between what is—and what isn’t—observed, and the value of the cell
for those living within one: if the cell looks good or has desirable items
within it, the owner/occupant gets a positive ‘bump’ in status. For some,
this leads to extremely high standards of cleanliness or small modifica-
tions such as waxing the floor inside of the cell (Sloan 2012) or arranging
artwork for display, like any modifications to a home in order to reflect
the personality and status of the resident. Quirks of prison-wide mainte-
nance also come into play, as items such as sinks have been replaced with
different models over the years, leading to small elements of difference in
some cells, for which the occupants sometimes place great significance in
an institution built on sameness.
Within this constrained space, there remain myriad ways of creating
self-expression, self-possession, and humanity. While Owen speaks of the
importance of photographs—a widely shared sentiment—Pao points out
that some images, such as family photos, key moments in life, or personal
favourites, are placed or concealed in a manner that reflects a desire to be
able to draw upon them while also keeping them private (Milhaud and
Moran 2013). In a shared cell, items can ‘brand’ all of the occupants with
whatever associations there may be with the possessions of one individ-
ual, such as gang insignia or inflammatory material. Some images,
though, afford an opportunity for common ground or mutual apprecia-
tion, such as favourite celebrities, military unit insignia, sports triumphs
and such, and even with staff members, there are opportunities for human
connection in that way. Others note, though, that images can be markers
of identity or affiliation with particular communities that may be in con-
flict or exercise some degree of territoriality within the prison, and thus
when such emblems are displayed, they can constitute one of the many
fences or borders mentioned above.
Given the tight confines, domesticity touches upon things beyond the
visual. The auditory and olfactory have impacts that affect the quality of
life and the level of comfort within the cell (see Herrity, this volume, for
particular consideration of prison soundscapes). In the Oregon State
Penitentiary, headphones are required for watching television or listening
to music, but talking, singing, snoring, and other sounds compromise
privacy and can be a source of tension and create a feeling of intrusion.
Movement within the cell is felt—literally—by those nearby, and is thus
subject to negotiation between cellmates. Nate calls this ‘the dance’, and
says that it is an important factor in getting along with neighbours. He
points out that if he moves from his (upper) bunk to the ground without
care to step lightly, others will complain about the jolts that are trans-
ferred from his cell to theirs. And of course, there are issues of hygiene
and placement of the body within the cell that are commonly noted, and
captured by Kantrowitz (1996: 60) with the phrase ‘spatial
meticulousness’.
In some places, the cell can serve as a kitchen: some blocks ‘cook’ with
hot tap water, others have access to a microwave oven in a day room avail-
able to some of the prisoners. Cell cuisine is an important element of
social and economic life (Gibson-Light 2018; Valentine and Longstaff
1998), and is part of what Goffman (1961) terms ‘secondary adjust-
ments’, ways of coping with and sometimes getting around the restric-
tions that constrain daily life. As noted by Collins Jr. and Alvarez, with ‘a
little creativity’ with food, prisoners can ‘travel to the places of [their]
youth by imitating the meals’ their families made, and can ‘show some
appreciation for… friends by hosting a spread that lets [them] all feel like
humans rather than numbers for a while’ (Collins Jr. and Alvarez 2015:
xxi). As with all prison life, these domestic pursuits also hold the risk of
conflict—food that is deemed overly ‘smelly’ or unpleasant can be a
source of complaint to neighbours and therefore must be negotiated and
renegotiated, and so is again subject to the rules—written and unwrit-
ten—that surround each individual in their quasi-private space.
The cell serves other functions of course. Ugelvik (2014: 121) com-
pares the cell to a home and says that ‘prisoners must simulate all the
rooms… from the most public, such as the hall and dining room, to the
most intimate and private, such as the toilet and bedroom’, and this is
true, though it considerably overstates the material circumstances prior
to the incarceration of many prison residents. There is also a divide among
prisoners, with some comfortably referring to the cell as their house or
home, whereas others vehemently reject that term, insisting that they will
never be ‘at home’ while incarcerated. The cell, though, can be a reposi-
tory, and Rob says that the things on his shelf, ‘four bottles of lotion,
deodorant, coffee and creamer offer me a sense of comfort, knowing that
I’ll be ok for a while, these are assets that I own’. The cell can also be a
studio for art or music, and for tattooing, something that is forbidden
but offers a way of artistic expression that allows prisoners to make state-
ments of attachment to a place, of longing for family, of protest, of fierce-
ness, and many other things. The cell can also be a place to fight, an
‘arena’, where violence may escape the attention of the administration,
and therefore spare participants (and bystanders) procedural sanction,
and possible violent intervention by the staff. In some ways, this reality
again both echoes and undermines the analogies to a home in the ‘free
world’ with illicit activities—small and large—taking place in relative
privacy.
Summary
Ugelvik argues that the ‘pronoun “my” in “my cell” and “my room” does
not reflect any real ownership, that much is clear’, and that ‘a lot of effort
is put into creating the illusion of ownership, the feeling of a private life’
(2014: 218). We understand what he is saying, and acknowledge that, in
legal terms, his first assertion is correct and that, in some respects, owner-
ship in prison can be illusory. At the same time, this characterisation
strips the prison life of authentic meaning and dismisses the agency that
prisoners experience as real. This issue is far more than semantic. Sibley
notes psychological dimensions in geography and the critical importance
of the home as ‘a boundary of the self ’, something that serves a vital func-
tion in forming and maintaining the ‘sense of individuality’ (1995: 94).
Our work emphasises the emotional landscape in a prison, partly in

terms of where and how space for feeling and for expressing feelings is
created behind bars (Baer 2005; Crewe 2009; Crewe et al. 2014). Sam
and Terry share their observation that within the prison there are many
unseen borders and fences and that these operate at a range of scales from
the institution as a whole to the micro geography of the shared cell,
wherein emotion does not have to be suppressed to the same degree. Even
there though, emotion is often managed, both because of the pain of
incarceration and attendant loss for the individual and for the conse-
quences of being perceived as weak by others as the walls of the cell
remain permeable.
The aspects of prison life that we have described in this chapter high-
light the complications of living in circumstances that are severely con-
strained, yet also illustrate the ingenuity—and need—of prisoners in
utilising the cell as a source of and location for agency. In shaping the cell
in ways that are both permitted and prohibited, prisoners manage to per-
sonalise what is intended to be standardised and, in so doing, exercise a
measure of power that belies the notion of the docile body. Characterisations
that argue that ownership and privacy are either actual—and thus often
not part of a prisoners legal status or reliably part of their regular exis-
tence—or chimeric, are too reductive and fail to reflect what prisoners do
with space and time as they live in particular moments and over the
course of lengthy sentences.
In considering the interplay between the letter of the law and the spirit
of prisoner life, we find that the concept of attachment helps explain
aspects of the carceral experience that we argue constitute agency and
give meaning to life and are an area of vital emotional expression and
individuality. Antonsich describes the categories of belonging, ‘as a per-
sonal, intimate feeling of being “at home” in a place’ and ‘as a discursive
resource which constructs, claims, justifies, or resists forms of socio-
spatial inclusion/exclusion’ (2010: 645). He points to differences between
formal characteristics of belonging such as citizenship and the ‘personal
intimate, private sentiment of place attachment’ (2010: 645). As noted
above, there are pronounced differences among prisoners in terms of
referring to their cell as their home; and feelings about rootedness, pos-
session, and place evolve over time. Yet even for those who reject the
nomenclature of home, there are genuine modes of attachment that serve

as belonging within the inclusion/exclusion dynamics of incarceration.
In some respects prisons are designed to be placeless, yet in the com-
plicated and overlapping systems of authority—formal and informal—
are the mosaics of geography for people without political power (Cohen
2000); the placeless yearn for a place in the worlds they inhabit. For those
in prison, this world is the featureless cell, the variegated block and the
maze of borders and fences that delineate daily existence but don’t com-
pletely circumscribe the lives of those living therein. While mechanisms
of state power are writing a set of narratives for and about prisoners,
many people who are incarcerated, including the inside authors of this
chapter, are etching their own versions of self and community as part of
the palimpsest that gives character to the cell, the block and the prison.
Notes
1. Over the years there has been some discussion in our group about what
term to use for people who are incarcerated. When we began our prison
education work the Department of Corrections used the term ‘inmate’,
which was and continues to be stamped on the clothing of those living
here. That term was deemed pejorative by a majority of our group, and
we opted to use the term ‘prisoner’, or one who is held against their will.
Recently Oregon has shifted to the term ‘Adult in Custody’ (though the
clothing continues to be marked with ‘Inmate’ and the Oregon DOC
emblem), but that term has not gained much acceptance. Any nomen-
clature used in this context is political; see for example Hickman (2015)
for a review of some of the terms and their implications.
2. Our education work in Oregon’s prisons began as part of the national
Inside-Out programme, which is based at Temple University. In the
spirit of that organisation, our academic courses and other activities in
carceral facilities include ‘outside’ participants who we bring in to par-
ticipate in shared learning opportunities with people who are incarcer-
ated. The ACE group functions as a steering committee for the University
of Oregon’s Prison Education Programme, and is composed of individu-
als who voluntarily take on leadership roles in relation to education spe-
cifically and in many other prison programmes as well.
3. All quotes from personal observations have been made anonymous, an

aspect of our writing process which we discuss more fully on p.148.
4. It is our sense that the Oregon State Penitentiary is less harsh and has
more positive opportunities than many other maximum security prisons
that we have been in or read about. It is also important to note that while
prisons are highly regimented institutions, they are also in many respects
quite arbitrary, thus we represent these experiences as solely our own
even within this facility.
5. In Oregon’s jails and prisons punishments can be part of the regular
judicial system, that is, as a consequence of formal charges and a trial; as
part of an internal administrative process; or simply as a decision made
by a staff member. At the extreme end of sanctions are the death penalty,
additional prison sentences, and the loss of opportunity for earlier release
by the parole board. Solitary confinement of varying length is also a very
serious threat, as is transfer to another prison, which can be enormously
disruptive for a prisoner and for their family. Other consequences can
include loss of jobs, fines, suspension of ability to participate in prison
club activities or to go outside, and ‘celling in’, which is a short-term
confinement to the cell. In prison physical pain and humiliation can also
be administered in different manners and contexts.
6. While gangs are not as influential at OSP as they are in some prisons,
they do exist, and their territoriality manifests on the prison yard, in the
chow hall, and in some parts of the cell blocks. Beyond specific gang
affiliation, race is a significant factor, and African-American and White
prisoners do not cell together, which is to say that such a pairing would
be unacceptable to some of the population and lead to violence; and the
prison administration choses to avoid that dynamic. As in most prisons
in the United States, at the Oregon State Penitentiary there is a hierarchy
of status that dictates some aspects of social relations, including who
can—or cannot—live with whom. The top echelon related to the charges
for which an individual was convicted is the taking of another person’s
life, and the bottom echelon is filled by those convicted of child abuse or
rape. Those at the bottom of this pecking order are often targeted, and
for that reason and ‘guilt by association’ they are usually assigned to a cell
with others of similar standing. ‘Regular’ prisoners generally do not want
to reside with or even next to those who have this pariah status.
7. At OSP there are the typical jobs preparing food, cleaning, and so forth.
There are also jobs for some of the prisoners in the facilities of Oregon
Corrections Enterprises, a quasi-private contractor that operates metal

and wood shops, and industrial laundry, and a call centre within the
prison. The issue of prison labour is a complex and interesting topic that
is beyond the scope of this chapter (see LeBaron 2012). Among our
authors are men who work in each of these areas.
8. Discussion of prison culture in relation to LGBTQ individuals is outside
the scope of this paper, and the authors recognise the problematic nature
of the marginalisation—including ‘neighbourhood’ marginalisation.
9. See also Marti (this volume) for a discussion of the changing relationship
with the prison cell over time and across a prison sentence.
10. See also Michalon (this volume) for a discussion of agency and resistance
in cell space.
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8
Power in ‘No-Cell’ Detention: Spatial
Restriction and Domestication of Space
for Foreign Detainees in Romania
Bénédicte Michalon
Introduction
Confinement of foreign nationals in detention centres is distinct from
imprisonment. It involves, in particular, the use of holding premises that
are distinct from prison establishments. Institutionalisation of detention
specific to foreign nationals has resulted in the opening of ad hoc ‘centres’
that are not within the remit of prison administrations. The administra-
tions in charge of immigration control have, since the 1970s (in France)
and 1980s (in the USA), frequently installed detention centres in existing
premises previously devoted to other purposes. Some initially possessed
an economic purpose: hangars and warehouses (in Marseille), builders’
prefabs (in the Paris region) or shipping containers (e.g. in Italy). Others
were of an institutional nature: former prisons (in Berlin), prison wings
(in Cyprus) or former accommodation centres for asylum seekers (in the
Czech Republic). Finally, detention centres have been installed in civil
B. Michalon (*)
French National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS), Bordeaux, France

166 B. Michalon
buildings, notably in hotels (e.g. in Toronto). The existing architectural

aspects therefore guided the material arrangements of such confinement
and any interior alterations that may have been made for this purpose.
Inside these disparate places, the main living spaces of the detainees
(which I shall refer to as ‘cells’ in this chapter) are most often comprised
of communal spaces intended to ‘accommodate’ several people. The
propagation and generalisation of the policy of detaining foreign nation-
als since the beginning of the 1990s in Europe (MIGREUROP 2017)
and even more markedly at the beginning of the twenty-first century
throughout the world (Flynn 2014; Nethery and Silverman 2015) have
resulted in new dedicated structures being built, for example, in the states
that have become members of the European Union since 2004. Collective
confinement has continued to be the norm in such detention facilities.
The political will to distinguish places of detention for foreign nation-
als from prison establishments is also reflected in the use of specific ter-
minology. The official names tend to euphemise their actual purposes and
to ‘normalise’ the conditions that foreign nationals have to endure. Those
names highlight supposed purposes of welcome, such as in the case of the
‘first aid and reception centre’ in Lampedusa (Italy); they also stress
accommodation and housing, for instance, in the ‘guest houses for for-
eigners’ in Turkey. In the same vein, the cells are also called ‘rooms’ or
‘dormitories’. This language that seeks to dissimulate the constraint is so
powerful that it is repeated by the independent agencies that inspect
places of deprivation of liberty, as well as by many researchers.
Consequently, according to the most broadly used vocabulary, there are
no ‘cells’ in detention centres.
In addition to such spin, there is relative ignorance of the interiors of
these premises. Certain works in social sciences have alluded to the role
of the material environment in the constraints exerted by the state on
confined persons. In particular, they have demonstrated how the spatial
layout and the resulting policing practices contribute to the definition,
codification and legitimisation of administrative detention (Fischer 2017;
Larsen and Piché 2009; Michalon 2015). The works devoted to architec-
tural thinking concerning detention and the space taken up by the cells
are nevertheless scarce. They emanate from critical architects who ques-
tion the role of their discipline in migration policy. Indeed, it occurs that
8 Power in ‘No-Cell’ Detention: Spatial Restriction… 167
architects are called upon by governments to contribute to better social

acceptance of confinement schemes, as was the case for the construction
of the detention centre on Christmas Island in Australia (Grinceri 2016).
In this case the authorities asked the architects to design a space that was
as similar as possible to a domestic space (Anderson and Ferng 2013).
While these available publications do not go into the details of the archi-
tectural projects and only give limited explanation of what detention cells
resemble, they insist on the restricted participation by architects in the
debates concerning reinforcement of immigration controls. They also
reveal the political desire to ‘dematerialise’ detention through making it
nearly impossible to obtain blueprints, photos or images. These places are
just as ‘undocumented’ as the people within them (Chaks 2016).
This state of knowledge is in stark contrast with the profusion of think-
ing with regard to cells in prison environments. Indeed, cells have occu-
pied a place of central importance in penitentiary and architectural
theories on ‘modern’ prisons since the start of the nineteenth century.
They have progressively been established as the basic spatial unit in west-
ern prisons (Besson 2018; Johnston this volume). Other than aiming to
standardise detention conditions, cells were intended to make it possible,
via isolation and separation, to carry out an initial mission of correction
and then dissuasion (Johnston 2010, this volume). They then went on to
play a broader security-based role (Cliquennois 2006). Today, this spatial
unit is a focus for the discourse of humanising the conditions of impris-
onment and the independent agencies that inspect places of detention are
calling for the generalisation of individual cells. Social science research
has, nonetheless, shown that its architecture is not sufficient in gaining
understanding of the place occupied by cells in penitentiary projects. The
everyday experiences of prison users show its central role. As such, cells
are a common thread in the way that the different players in the prison
world experience custody (e.g. see Milhaud and Moran 2013; Narag and
Jones, this volume; Scheer 2016). There are a multitude of experiences of
cells, influenced by many factors. Consequently, they comprise a social
construct (Bony 2015).
Based on these results of research on prisons, it is via analysis of the
experience of the two main groups of actors present in detention centres
in Romania—namely, confined foreign nationals and police officers of
168 B. Michalon
the General Inspectorate for Immigration (Inspectoratul General pentru

Imigrări, IGI)1—that I examine the role of cells in detention schemes.
Indeed, they seem to act as a material and symbolic intermediary in the
relations of power that characterise the confinement of foreign nationals.
More specifically, they contribute to the tension arising from the clash
between spatial restriction and domestication of space. This tension is
used by the agents of the state to exert their power over the detainees.
The chapter elaborates on the tension between agency and getting
detainees to participate to the power dynamics. To begin with, I analyse
the manner in which the cell represents a central tool in carrying out their
missions for the police officers who are in daily contact with the detain-
ees. I then address the individual relations that the detainees have with
this spatial unit in which they spend most of their time. The cell therefore
appears as a contradictory space. On the one hand, its maintenance might
be considered to give agency to the detainees. But, on the other, it appears
as an insidious technique to get detainees to participate in a state-regulated
version of what the ‘good’ behaviour should be. In that respect, the power
dynamic is reverted back to the state.
Researching Detention in Romania

The discussion focuses on Romania as a case study. Two detention centres
for foreign nationals were opened in Otopeni and Horia near to Arad in
1999 and 2001, within the scope of negotiations for the country’s admis-
sion to the European Union. They fall within the remit of the IGI and are
intended for the confinement of three categories of foreign nationals:
persons who are not or are no longer entitled to residence in Romania,
persons who are considered to be a ‘threat’ to national security and public
order, or persons who have received a criminal conviction accompanied
by withdrawal of the right of residence and application of an expul-
sion order.
The two centres are split into several sub-sections. The zone reserved
for detainees is made up of actual confinement facilities (cells and imme-
diately adjacent corridors or walkways) and areas occasionally used by the
detainees (canteen, courtyard and sports field, infirmary, etc.). Their
architecture differs. One is structured around a central corridor that leads

into the cells and communal areas; the police control room is located in
the middle of this corridor. In the other, of panoptic arrangement, the
cells are positioned opposite the control room behind two sets of metal
gates and remain visible to the control room. At the time of this research,
the first centre had a detention capacity of 160 people, while the other
could confine 50 people.2 Their cells share common features. They are
designed for four people. They are sparsely equipped, featuring two bunk
beds, a table and a few chairs, a wardrobe and a bathroom. The appear-
ance is uncontestably evocative of a prison: the windows are barred, the
doors have an eyehole, and the persons confined must ring a bell to call
the police personnel. The first centre also includes cells for 12 people and
two solitary confinement cells used to punish.
The empirical data was gathered in Romania over nine months in
2009, 2010 and 2014. I was authorised by the IGI to carry out the survey
in the two detention centres, and I conducted interviews with detainees
without a police presence or any specific form of surveillance. I was able
to hold informal discussions with the personnel during their service and
was also authorised to carry out a series of individual interviews with
police officers. This data was enhanced by volunteer work performed over
six months for a non-governmental organisation (NGO). I was autho-
rised to conduct interviews with people assisted by the NGO on its
premises, generally on several occasions and without any presence of
NGO employees. I completed this work through interviews with officers
of the immigration control schemes. The data analysed herein thus comes
from interviews with approximately 30 foreign nationals who were in or
had left detention and approximately 20 IGI police officers. At the time
of the fieldwork, the detainees’ group was largely male; only one woman
who had been detained was interviewed. The staff of both centres was
also largely male. The analysis developed here therefore concerns a very
masculine context; it would probably be different if applied to a more
feminised context.
170 B. Michalon
A Tool for Police Power

In some detention centres, the detainees are, when they leave their cells,
in direct contact with the humanitarian workers coming to assist them
(Fischer 2017) or the employees of private companies recruited for the
maintenance of the premises (Tassin 2016). This is not the case in
Romania, where only police officers are permanently present in the
detainees’ living areas and in physical and/or visual contact with them
outside the cells. The cell can be considered a mode of control ‘by the
walls’: the materiality is intended to facilitate the monitoring of prisoners
by confining them. The staff are consequently available for other tasks
(Demonchy 2004). However, police officers also hold prerogatives which
necessarily involve cellular space. Police work appears to be grounded on
diverse uses and values of the cell.
A Space of Categorisation and Assignment
As with any place of deprivation of liberty, arrival at the detention centre

is followed by an ‘admission ceremony’: one of the processes of ‘mortifica-
tion’ (Goffman 1961) designed to transform the foreigner into a ‘detainee’.
This is grounded in a series of physical, administrative and spatial opera-
tions: full search, medical examination, then processing of a file by a
policeman who allocates the new detainee’s cell and bed. Cell assignment
strategies differ from one institution to another. In some, detainees can
express their preference (Bosworth 2014). In Romania, the police allo-
cate foreign nationals to the cell spaces. In doing so, they impose both a
social order (through categorisation) and a spatial order (through distri-
bution) inside. During the fieldwork, the two centres were under-filled.
It could allow for individual occupation of the cells. Nevertheless, the
managers of the facilities preferred collective occupations. Their choice
highlights some concerns of the police and their will to facilitate surveil-
lance by concentrating detainees in space. Indeed, staff were mobilised on
tasks outside the detention area as such.
The policy of collective occupation of cells is also a way of materialis-
ing the influence of the state on individuals by forcing them to cohabit
with strangers. The allocation of detainees to cells—an ‘art of distribu-

tions’ (Foucault [1977] 1995: 141)—appears to be common practice at
detention centres for foreign nationals (e.g. see Bosworth 2014; Martin
2012). It is based on different types of categories: official (undocumented
foreign nationals, convicted foreign nationals; men, women or families)
or unofficial ones. The latter may be due to the staff’s cultural or racial
stereotypes. For if, in some countries, staff of detention facilities are
trained on ethnic and cultural issues and on how to mobilise them in
their duties (Khosravi 2009), this is not the case in Romania. A police-
man admitted that ‘before we didn’t know anything about this and it all
comes with experience’ (Interview, policeman, 2010).3 Experiences
involving grouping together or separating detainees according to catego-
ries are part of a learning curve in the day-to-day task of monitoring.
As in other detention centres (Fischer 2017), officers are careful to
avoid regrouping in cells that could lead to conflict or protest move-
ments. Conversely, they try to enable relationships that may contribute
to calming detainees. As often as possible, people categorised as being
from a same cultural or religious group are put together; groups consid-
ered by the police officers to have potentially problematic relationships
are kept separate:
Everyone from the ex-Soviet states has problems with coloured people.
Therefore, we make sure that they come into contact very infrequently. For
example, we don’t put them in the same cells. (Interview, policeman, 2009)
When assigning a bed to a new detainee, police officers also take into
account the detainee’s previous custodial experiences, be they in prisons
or detention centres. These past experiences are judged in an ambivalent
way. They can be considered to be a stabilising influence:
Detainees with a previous prison background have a positive effect on the

others because they are used to prison, and can explain that a detention
centre is not a prison. They help to maintain a balance in the group since
they are already acclimatised. (Interview, policewoman, 2010)
172 B. Michalon
However, these prior custodial experiences are also seen as a potential

source of tensions. The hypothesis of possible ‘cross-contamination’ from
criminal convicts to other foreign nationals legitimises the police to
enforce surveillance: ‘They can transfer problematic behaviour to others
and teach them things they have learnt in prison that cause problems’
(Interview, policeman, 2010). Those detainees are seen as able to intro-
duce ‘a kind of dangerous criminal expertise … that can cause friction
with police officers, and be at odds with the ideal picture of a placid and
accommodating detainee’ (Hall 2012: 102). The distribution of detainees
in cells is a social and spatial assignment; it is therefore a political choice.
It materialises some of the rationales of police work. The cell space par-
ticipates in an eminently concrete way in relations of power between
detainees and staff.
Cellular Regime and Surveillance
The functions of cellular space in police work go beyond social and spa-
tial distributions and assignments. They determine the monitoring
through time management and the imposition of (in)visibility regimes.
The experience of the cell is closely intertwined with the schedules of the
prisoners (Milhaud 2017) and those of the guards. The detention regime
differs significantly between the two facilities in Romania. In one of
them, the detainees can only go out three hours a day to eat in the can-
teen and to move around freely in the common areas. Here the facility’s
walls are largely entrusted with ‘guarding’ the detainees; rendering for-
eign nationals invisible behind the cell walls is the principle that prevails
here. Meanwhile, the police officers carry out other tasks. Their day-to-
day surveillance activities consist of the opening and closing of the cell
doors at the scheduled times, the accompaniment and monitoring of
movements in and possibly outside the premises and responding to calls
by means of the eyehole fitted to all cell doors. In the morning and eve-
ning, they open the cells to count the detainees. In this facility, surveil-
lance mainly involves rendering the detainees invisible during most of
the day.
In the other centre, detainees can leave their cell and walk on a corri-
dor closed by railings for most of the day. They can also access a ‘leisure’
room, located on the lower floor, during the afternoon but have limited
time to go out into the courtyard. Here, the surveillance is based on vis-
ibility and visual monitoring. This centre is organised on a principle of
panoptic architecture, according to which the staff must be able to see
what is going on in the cell, which this policeman expresses when he
explains that the cell doors remain open during the day because:
people shouldn’t be left alone, and we should always be able to see every-
thing they do … including when it is too quiet. That is when we have to go
make sure everything’s OK—even if we only go into the corridor. Although
they are constantly observed and monitored, people must have their pri-
vacy … You need to show you’re vigilant, but in as pleasant a way as pos-
sible. Detainees must have respect for their privacy, but also know they
cannot do whatever they want because they are being watched. (Interview,
policewoman, 2010)
However, the doors of the cells are metallic and opaque—unlike the rail-
ings in the Benthamian project. Being able to see permanently into the
cell means that the door must remain open all day long. The cell here is
somehow a space of forced visibility.
The general cell regime may, however, be modified in cases of breaking
of rules and regulations, disobeying of policemen’s orders and altercations
between guards and detainees or amongst detainees. The cell serves to
reaffirm police power. In one centre, the person to be punished is trans-
ferred to a different floor so that they no longer come into contact with
their fellow detainees. In the other centre, the punishment depends on
the gravity of the alleged acts: ‘The decision to resort to force is only made
gradually, and when violence has occurred. Otherwise, we go through a
series of stages’ (Interview, policeman, 2010). In less serious cases, detain-
ees are kept locked in their cell all day long. For a greater degree of con-
flict or wrongdoing, policemen can lock the detainees into isolation cells,
which are located in the immediate vicinity of ‘normal’ cells. Solitary
confinement cells are commonplace in detention centres. It confirms that
foreign nationals’ control schemes rely on punitive mechanisms, that the
174 B. Michalon
persons under control experience them as punishment and that this alters
the notion of justice, as theorised elsewhere (Bosworth, 2012, 2017).
Imposed Domestication?
The cell can be considered to be of central importance in the work of

police officers because it transforms the exercise of power. As emphasised
by Milhaud and Moran, the absence of privacy is both a prerequisite and
a form of punishment in custodial settings (Milhaud and Moran 2013).
Privacy is generally defined by the ability to be alone, at least occasionally
(Dirsuweit 1999). An analysis of police work in Romanian detention
centres shows that the role of cell space is actually more complex than
having or not having the possibility to be alone. The guards describe the
cell space as a private space and frequently use the issue of privacy to jus-
tify their actions. One could therefore consider, at first sight, that the
police grip weakens where the recognition of a private space for the
detainees could arise. However, this apparent limitation of surveillance
goes with subtle changes of the ways of imposing power over detainees.
First, although police officers are the only ones to be allowed to open
and close cell doors, they end up setting limits within areas that come
within their remit. The threshold of the cells has a particular symbolic
importance. Police officers say that they do not enter cells except when
necessary: ‘the cells, those are private spaces’. They count detainees from
the threshold of the door. The cell door is said to be only crossed for cer-
tain reasons (search, conflict between foreign nationals, riot, etc.).
However, this practice remains ambiguous: when called by the bell, the
guards look inside the cell through the eyehole and talk to detainees
through the door. The argument of the private character of this space can
be used to keep the cell closed and to make use of the technical objects
that incarnate the state’s power in the first place.
On a second level, the police discourse about the cell as a private space
also expresses what is presented as tolerance vis-à-vis the modifications
made to the layout of the cells by the detainees. The director of a centre
takes as an example the use of blankets as a prayer rug by the Muslims, a
practice which he says he accepts. He explains his tolerance by the issue
of privacy: ‘It is also a question of privacy. It would be wrong for me to

interfere’ (Interview, policeman, 2010). Tolerance is, in this case, a rela-
tional technique of pacification in detention. As such, it may be consid-
ered as a layer of ‘soft power’, ‘made up of both staff-prisoner relationships’
and ‘that exert influence in relatively light, subtle and disembodied ways’
(Crewe 2011: 460).
If these practices are tolerated, it is because they go hand in hand with
a third use of the privacy issue by the police. The detainees are responsible
for cleaning and tidying their cell and guards check this every morning:
‘they are private spaces, I can’t ask the cleaning women to take care of
them’ (Interview, policeman, 2010). The social functions of housework,
however, go beyond the issue of privacy. ‘It’s their place; they have to look
after it themselves. It’s not a hotel here’ (Interview, policeman, 2010):
these words show how power is enacted through the obligation to treat
the cell space as a domestic space, a private space that is maintained and
appropriated. Here the process is similar to that analysed by Pugliese with
regard to the detention of foreign nationals in hotel rooms in Australia,
which, by making the hotel a place for the power of the state, obliterates
the distinction between the custodial and the vernacular (Pugliese 2009).
In Romania, the police injunctions to clean the cell space obfuscate vol-
untarily the line between custodial space and domestic space.
In the detention centres of Romania, the cell is an unavoidable space
of police work. The way police officers use it highlights the importance of
materiality in the exercise of power, beyond a sole function of holding.
The cell is the material support for the social assignment of detainees and
for their surveillance. But it is also a way to disguise power relationships.
Under the pretext of the respect of their privacy, the detainees are driven
to treat the cell like a domestic space. What the police do with the cell
partly determines how the detainees live there. What do they do with the
injunction to ‘domesticate’ a space of constraint? Does it hold potential
for detainees, or is it just an instrument of domination?
176 B. Michalon
omestication of the Cell Space

D
and Upholding of the Institution
Detained foreign nationals spend most of their time in the cell. The per-
sonalisation practices in this space are often analysed as means of adapta-
tion or even of resistance, the cell thus being considered as a ‘refuge’
(Milhaud 2017). However, despite the architectural homogeneity of the
cells and even if the guards keep repeating ‘They’re at home here’, the
relationships of detainees to this imposed spatial unit prove very hetero-
geneous. They are situated between low personal investment and a nego-
tiated order. They reflect the discretionary power of institutional actors.
The domestication of the cell can only operate within the margins toler-
ated by the police—and as another layer of ‘soft power’.
A Not-So-Much Appropriated Space
During the fieldwork, the cells observed from the door threshold4 are
hardly modified by their occupants. The guards confirm that few detain-
ees modify their cells. The foreign nationals themselves express only mild
criticism of the fitting out of cells, described as ‘not so bad as all that’.
Space is minimal and detainees are in close proximity, but material condi-
tions are not criticised much because ‘we know it’s not a hotel here’.
Similar to the situation in penitentiaries (Baer 2005; Narag and Jones,
this volume), only a minority of detainees has the will, the time and the
means for modifying and personalising cell space. In prison, the relation-
ships with the cell vary according to various parameters such as the age of
the prisoner, his/her social background, his/her previous experiences and
particularly his/her residential and prison experiences (Bony 2015). In
detention, three factors seem to explain that few detainees transform the
cell space.
First, the sudden nature of the arrest and the lack of explanation about
being placed in detention and in a particular cell are felt as particularly
violent:
The policemen didn’t ask me any questions or explain anything to me.

They just arrested me, brought me some sheets,5 and said “This is your
home” and shut the door. (Interview, former detainee, 2009)
They usually have few personal belongings seeing as arrests are made by
surprise: in the street, at their place of work or on the IGI premises, or
even during a border crossing. They are largely devoid of personal posses-
sions when they enter the detention centre, and even less so when they
enter their cell, where money and other goods are forbidden, according
to the technique of ‘stripping’ (Goffman 1961). However, counterbal-
ancing this way of imposing power depends in part on the possibility of
having access to other objects, which few detainees manage to do.
The second reason for the low investment of detainees in the cell is that
detention centres are transit places. In 2009 and 2010, foreign nationals
remained on average 18 and 20 days in detention,6 making these places
‘inevitable motels’, as Michel Foucault said (2001). Moreover, there is a
high turnover of detainees which does not occur smoothly and makes the
domestication of the cell difficult. The relation to cell space is constantly
redefined according to new arrivals and departures. In such a context of
short timescales, the detainees most likely to personalise their cells are
those who spend several weeks or months there, and this represents a
clear minority of the population.
Finally, the cells of the Romanian detention centres are characterised
by the very small number of activities that detainees have the right to
conduct there. The few daily activities take place outside the cell: meals
are taken in a canteen, leisure takes place in collective rooms or outside
(e.g. at the time of the fieldwork, cells were not equipped with televi-
sions), the visitors are met in visiting rooms. The cell is the space for its
maintenance, phone calls7 and sometimes cell-to-cell discussions.
Detention is also characterised by the low number of activities available
to detainees, which limits the interest of leaving the cell. Thus, while in
some prison cells there are ‘dos and don’ts’ organised according to the
multitude of activities that are practised in that special space (Bony
2015), cells in detention centres are barely modified and adapted because
of the emptiness of time spent there. The cell space determines boredom
(Knight 2016) as much as it reveals it. The cell remains for most detainees
178 B. Michalon
a space of constraint, lack, transit and boredom. The depersonalisation of

space intended by the institution (Baer 2005) works here fully.
Unequal and Negotiated Domestication of the Cell
Some foreign nationals, however, change the layout and decorate their
cell. They all stayed for a long time in the Romanian detention centres
and managed to be granted individual cells after negotiations with the
police (Michalon 2015). A long presence in the facility and good rela-
tions with the police are determining factors for the practical and sym-
bolic relationships with the cell. Vernacular objects play a major function
here. They are very few and standardised from one cell to another and are
the means of an investment that makes the cell habitable. The material
changes of the cell highlight two registers of power.
The bed is of central importance for the domestication of the cell. It is
the detainees’ only personal space, which they do not have to share.
Fellow detainees are not allowed to sit or lie down on anyone else’s bed.
Although informal, this rule appears to be broadly shared and the guards
say they ensure it is respected. The bed is the space-time continuum for
withdrawal and return to oneself: ‘It’s very hard when it’s time to go to
bed. You think about several things, including the day when you will
leave’ (Interview, former detainee, 2009). Faced with the process of de-
individualisation and objectification of foreign nationals by the detention
policy (Hall 2012), the bed is also the one space that helps them to find
a bit of privacy:
During the day we lay stretched out on the bed and wait … If you are
doing well inside your head, you like to have company. Otherwise you
don’t. That is why people remain silent most of the time. (Interview,
detainee, 2009)
If the detention is long term, the bed can be appropriated and become a
vector for self-affirmation. An old detainee, having spent five years in
prison and then two years in a detention centre, explained how he had
moved the beds in order to create a more private space in the cell he
occupied on his own. As in other prisons and detention centres, where

cohabitation with strangers is obligatory and marked by promiscuity and
lack of space, beds seem to be the most important items in appropriation
strategies for cell space (Bruslé and Morelle 2014; Dirsuweit 1999). Some
hang sheets or covers around the lower bunk beds to hide themselves
from sight. This search for privacy runs through custodial environments,
whatever their architecture resembles. For instance, prisoners in French
prisons built on a cell model, say they feel a complete lack of privacy and
use spatial strategies to find or create private spaces; the same is true for
prisoners in Russian prisons, who are locked up in communal detach-
ment blocks (Milhaud and Moran 2013).
Some detainees, although more rarely, decorate their cells as a way of
taking them over. A foreign national who spent two years in one of the
establishments described his living space and insisted on the fact that he
had put a map of Romania and a calendar on the wall, where he crossed
off a date every day at noon. He emphasised how dirty the cell was when
he arrived and the small arrangements he had been able to make. Not
only did he tell this with pride, but he explained that ‘You feel better that
way; you feel a bit like you’re at home, and you do what you want’
(Interview, former detainee, 2009). Another person, whose detention
lasted six months, also seemed proud to explain that his cell was ‘different
from other people’s’ (Interview, former detainee, 2010). He cleans it care-
fully every day and arranges various small objects around it that he had in
his luggage or had asked visitors to bring. Very pious, he lays out religious
books on a small table. A carpet taken from a common room adds a final
touch. Religious objects are exchanged between detainees and between
detainees and staff, as in prisons (Rostaing et al. 2014).
Small re-arrangements and decoration of cell space do not just improve
everyday life during detention, making ‘one’s own territory’ possible
(Sibley and Van Hoven 2009: 202). As in prisons (Baer 2005), any addi-
tional vernacular objects are mostly donated by outside visitors, who gen-
erally do not come empty-handed. Various items, clothes and cigarettes
are given to detainees to improve their everyday life, after being subjected
to checks and approval by the management. Asking relatives or acquain-
tances to bring objects forges a link with the outside, both on a social and
a material level. The setting of the cell thus reveals the social disparities
180 B. Michalon
between detainees: only those who have spent long enough in Romania,
or who have strong links with travelling companions, benefit from these
material circulations.8
The objects brought from outside generally remain in the facility when
their owner is released. The connections made inside are useful for re-
arranging cells. I often heard of a Koran circulating from one cell to
another. Two young Afghans sharing the same cell were able to organise
a prayer corner: ‘An Iraqi gave us his carpet, he spent two years here and
his friends brought him things from the outside’ (Interview, former
detainee, 2010), which he gave them upon release. The circulation of
objects between detainees shows that those who have the means to per-
sonalise their cell are those who have external relationships and/or can
negotiate with the staff. Most of the detainees are therefore excluded
from these exchanges, which benefit those who bear the brunt of the
detention policy and spend a long time in the detention centres.
On a second register, domestication practices are at the heart of negoti-
ated power relations, rather than at the core of resistance. The circulation
of objects and the changes in the furniture are limited to what is tolerated
by the police, who monitor the daily state of cells.
As previously noted, the upkeep of cells is not the duty of the guards
but that of their occupants. The detainees know that guards confer con-
siderable importance to the state of cells. Ensuring that this space is clean,
tidy or decorated is a means of being seen positively by the staff. A
detainee who had spent two years in one of the establishments, and there-
fore was entitled to an individual cell, said that it was so well-maintained
that he earned praise from the police and that the director of the estab-
lishment himself congratulated him. His cell was according to him the
one shown when visitors came. Having a clean, decorated cell helps cre-
ate a positive image with fellow detainees. Another foreign national, hav-
ing spent time in both establishments, explained how he was able to
obtain an individual cell, cleaning and arranging it according to his taste.
He insisted on the fact that he made it so much more pleasant than the
others that his fellow detainees came to visit him every day, taking care to
remove their shoes and admiring the tidiness and decoration.
Objects generally circulate among foreign nationals, but also pass via
the staff. The cells do not have television; however, in the context of
inactivity and boredom experienced in detention, the right to watch TV

means a great deal. It is sometimes possible to negotiate with guards to
move the television from the common room to a cell: ‘You know that
when a prisoner has a TV in his cell, he has won!’ (Interview, former
detainee, 2009). Not only is television used as a privilege to reward
detainees for their good behaviour and have them quiet in their cell, it is
for detainees a means to minimise the psychological and emotive effects
of confinement (Knight 2016). Likewise, the chairs are moved from the
common areas to cells, where seating is not always provided. Aware of the
lack of equipment in cells, police officers allowed this, while lamenting
that ‘Chairs can become weapons in case of a fight: the detainees throw
them at others or bang them against doors, which is why almost all the
chairs are broken’ (Interview, policeman, 2010). Some conditions must
however be respected by the occupants of the cells so that the tiny changes
in the cell and the circulation of objects are tolerated: ‘as long as it does
not endanger other detainees or the staff, or is not disruptive, and as long
as they respect the daily schedule and do not damage the cell’ (Interview,
policeman, 2009). Vernacular objects in cells, such as televisions, are sup-
posed to lighten the burden of the custodial environment (Tassin, 2014);
however, they express the coercive nature of detention by highlighting
the social inequalities and hierarchies that run through it. These few
examples lead to the conclusion that the police officers define the con-
tours of the relations of the detainees with their cell; they allow them
some room for manoeuvre as a means of pacification. Domestication of
the cell occurs under control and works for the smooth running and
maintenance of the institution.
Conclusion
Contrary to what civilian terms such as ‘room’ or ‘dormitory’ imply, the
elementary architectural unit of detention centres—the cell—is a place of
power over the confined foreign nationals. It is an important instrument
for the police officers who keep watch over the detainees on a daily basis,
because some of their prerogatives can only be exerted by the material
and symbolic intermediary of the cell. Since detention is characterised by
182 B. Michalon
a seminal ambivalence that seeks to distinguish it from imprisonment,

the cell is also the medium for the discourse that wants to present it as a
place of respect for the privacy of the detainees and thus provide the
proof that the wellbeing of the persons confined is supposedly taken into
greater consideration than in prison establishments. In fact, when it is
possible, domestication of the cell is important for those who carry it out.
It improves the living conditions inside the cell walls, as well as making it
possible to possess a personal space that is necessary in maintaining a
sense of self in the struggle against the depersonalisation imposed by the
institution. However, the cell concretises the rationality of control. The
majority of foreign nationals confined in these Romanian detention cen-
tres cannot personally engage in this space because the constraints weigh-
ing down on them fly in the face of any appropriation of the space. For
the small number of persons confined who nonetheless succeed in doing
so, domestication of the cell is only possible via negotiations with the
police officers and within the limits that they set. Domestication of the
cell therefore does not appear to be a process of emancipation, but rather
a method for distinguishing and creating a hierarchy of the people con-
fined. It proves to be a subtle but efficient way of maintaining order
within the cell’s walls. This reading of the cell invites us to analyse the role
of space in the changing power in carceral settings and its evolution
towards governmentality (Crewe 2011). There is, for instance, room for
thinking what the cell is and means when confined persons are granted a
greater right to mobility (Mincke 2017) and when the walls inside the
facilities seem to lose their power.
Acknowledgements I thank Jennifer and Victoria for their careful review and
stimulating advice on this chapter.
Notes
1. The Romanian General Inspectorate for Immigration is part of the
Romanian Ministry of Interior. Its staff is mainly composed of police offi-
cers, whose missions are exclusively dedicated to migration policy.
2. The second underwent considerable extension work in 2015 and now has
a capacity of 160 places.
3. In order to preserve the anonymity of the interviewees, the locations of
the interviews and the functions of the police officers are not specified.
4. The interviews in detention were conducted outside the cells, in visiting
or meeting rooms. I was able to approach the cell space during visits to the
centres or wandering in the corridors. I was allowed to enter unoccupied
cells. I was not formally forbidden to enter occupied cells, but the police
discourse on the private nature of this space was delivered to me from the
very first moments in the centres and none of the detainees invited me to
enter a cell. Therefore, I considered the cell threshold as the limit to my
physical movements in the centres.
5. Foreign nationals receive blankets, sheets and some toiletries when they
arrive in detention.
6. For a maximum length of detention of 6 months, extended to 24 months
under certain circumstances. Information transmitted by the Romanian
authorities.
7. Mobile phones were allowed at the time of the fieldwork, provided they
did not include a camera.
8. Domestic space is highly gendered and detention in Romania is mainly a
place for men. Though the data gathered didn’t allow me to work on the
issue of gender, there would be room for thinking about how the uses of
the cell in detention takes part in shaping/reshaping gender roles and how
the gender issue contributes to the micro-geography of this institution.
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9
A Family Cell: Visual Ethnography
in a Prison ‘Mothers’ Section’
Rossella Schillaci
Fig. 9.1 A 2-year-old child inside the prison ‘nursery’. (Source: Schillaci (2016))

188 R. Schillaci
Introduction
There are conflicting views about whether children should be permitted
to reside in prison. One of the first international studies on children in
prison states:
in the absence of other (or better) options, mothers deprived of liberty very
often prefer and choose to keep their babies and small children with them
while in custody … It is an accepted but frequently controversial practice
in many countries. The opinion whether this is in the best interests of the
child varies, resulting in different approaches and policies being under-
taken in different countries. (Alejos 2005: 2)
In June 2000, the European Parliamentary Assembly adopted a recom-

mendation in which it recognises the adverse effects of imprisonment of
mothers on babies. The recommendation goes on to state that ‘early
maternal separation causes long-term difficulties, including impairment
of attachments to others, emotional maladjustment and personality dis-
orders’, and that the development of young babies is hindered by restricted
access to varied stimuli in closed prison (Parliamentary Assembly of the
Council of Europe 2000: 1). However, many European prisons have
adopted a policy of compromise accepting that, while the prison environ-
ment is generally unsuitable for children, it may be in the child’s best
interests for very young children to remain with their mother rather than
be separated (Caddie and Crisp 1997). There is also consideration of the
need for a ‘distinct’ or ‘gender-specific’ approach to respond to the vul-
nerabilities of imprisoned women (Booth et al. 2018) and to the impact
R. Schillaci (*)
University of Lisbon, Lisbon, Portugal
The University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX, USA
University of Turin, Turin, Italy
Azul Film, Torino, Italy
9 A Family Cell: Visual Ethnography in a Prison ‘Mothers’ Section’ 189
of the emotional aspects of motherhood (regardless of whether they have

their children with them) (Pryce 2015).
As a result of these discourses, and in order to protect the bond between
mother and child, Italian law allows imprisoned mothers and their chil-
dren to reside together in designated low-security facilities (called ICAM1)
or in protected family units.2 However, the law does not guarantee finan-
cial coverage for the building of these facilities. As in other southern
European countries, in Italy there are still very few separate jails for moth-
ers and children. Some prisons have sections called the ‘nursery’ where
the cells are larger than the standard ones and can hold up to two mothers
and their children (Robertson 2012). According to an Italian law of
1975, these sections must be located on the ground floor and have access
to a garden or a green area where the children can play outdoors.3
However, due to lack of necessary funding, in Italy very few prisons have
such features. Currently, there are still only four of these facilities in four
different regions of the country (Scandurra 2017). Imprisoned mothers
who reside in regions without them are permitted to keep their children
in prison inside the old ‘nursery’ sections until they reach three years of
age (see Fig. 9.1).When the child reaches this age, it is separated from the
mother and either placed in the care of a family member (if they are able)
or a foster care family, or else relocated to a residential care home for
children (Scharff-Smith and Gampell 2011).
Accordingly, this particular situation of children in imprisonment
raises several questions. Most notably, we might consider: What are the
problems of raising children inside prison? What strategies do mothers
adopt in response to these? How do they use the spaces of the prison
(and in particular the cell) as part of these strategies? Consequently, this
chapter explores how mothers in Italy ‘do time’ with their children.
First, this chapter outlines the visual ethnographic approach that was
used to generate research data before outlining the contribution that
interrogates the relationship of mother and child with the prison cell.
Here, I provide details of the daily routine of life in the Mothers’ section
before exploring the cell as a space for play, for familial intimacy and as
a site of contestation for ‘home’-making before, finally, concluding with
a discussion around the extent to which mothering can take place within
the prison cell.
190 R. Schillaci
Research Motivations and Strategy

In 2012, I took part in a baby massage course held in a crèche near the
correctional facility in my city, Turin, in Italy with my son. This nursery
school was also ‘attended’ by children of incarcerated mothers. The moth-
ers were not authorised to go outside the prison, but their children could
attend the nearby crèche for a few hours a day, thanks to a private foun-
dation that paid two educators to accompany them to and from the
prison (see Fig. 9.2). There were seven children of incarcerated mothers
of different nationalities, and they could play happily with other children
in a colourful and bright environment. At the time, I was unaware that
infants can live with incarcerated mothers inside prison. Because I had
just become a mother and I had a baby infant with me, this situation
echoed with me for a long time. I often reflected on how those women
experienced their motherhood behind bars, isolated for 24 hours a day
with no other family members to help them. These feelings were also
compounded by the lack of academic research in this area at that time,
Fig. 9.2 Children with their educators going back into Turin prison from the ‘out-
side’ nursery. (Source: Schillaci (2016))
which inspired my decision to study the ‘Mothers’ section’ in Turin

prison. My objectives were to examine the experience of motherhood and
early childhood in conditions of imprisonment. The first general ques-
tions raised when I was planning the research were: How are the practi-
calities of motherhood modified inside the space of a prison? Which
strategies do the mothers adopt to build an intimate relationship in the
controlled prison environment? And, how do children perceive the modi-
fied space-time of the prison?
I adopted a two-phased visual ethnographic approach, which eventu-
ally resulted in the production of a feature length observational documen-
tary, which was released four years later with the title Ninna Nanna
Prigioniera (Imprisoned Lullaby)4 (Schillaci 2016). My approach comes
from the participant observation method used in ethnographic film work,
as conceptualised by David MacDougall (1998) and Jean Rouch (2003),
among others. In the first phase of research, I followed the principles of
visual anthropology (Hockings 2009) by working to build a relationship
with the inmates5 and to observe their everyday living conditions.
However, as written by Frois during her research in a female prison, it is
difficult for officers to accept the idea of ‘hanging around’ engaging in
informal conversations (Frois 2017: 3). In my case, I noticed how it was
also difficult for most prisoners to accept the idea of just being ‘observed’:
they wanted to speak and they often requested to be ‘interviewed’.
Accordingly, I listened carefully to all their accounts: about the difficulties
of raising children inside small cells with malfunctioning bathrooms and
broken windows, about the lack of possibilities to cook what their chil-
dren liked most and about how to distract them in the long afternoons or
weekends when they do not go to school or cannot play outside. It must
be noted that the time I could spend inside the jail was limited. Although
authorised by the Prison Director and the Manager of the ‘nursery sec-
tion’, the authorisation lacked written formal indication about times or
locations that would dictate my research activities. Therefore, I was treated
like an ordinary ‘visitor’ by the guards6 and obliged to follow the same
rules: I could stay inside the prison only for a few hours a day, and often
only in a common area in the corridor and not inside the cells.
However, it was unusual for mothers and children to remain in a com-
mon space such as the corridor. Their everyday life was primarily inside the
192 R. Schillaci
Fig. 9.3 Children saying hello through bars at 8:00 pm when they got locked.
(Source: Schillaci (2016))
cell, and if I wanted to observe their activities in prison—and not simply

interview them—research only in the corridors was insufficient. As a con-
sequence, six months later, I asked for a second authorisation to access cell
space and for longer periods of time. I asked also to start my visual research,
bringing with me all the equipment for the film-making such as the camera
and the microphones, as well as a camera operator to assist with this task.
Consequently, in this second phase, I was authorised to follow all the every-
day activities of the families from 8:00 am when the cell doors were opened
until 8:00 pm when inmates and their children were locked again inside
the cell for the night (see Fig. 9.3) for a further six months.
Following Jewkes’ approach of using autoethnography and emotion in
prison research (Jewkes 2012), I kept a diary in order to better under-
stand how the rules of a closed system such as a jail applied to both myself
and the people who lived and worked in this space. Indeed, one of the
guards once told me quite sincerely that from the moment I passed
through the entrance door I should consider myself ‘in custody’ like the
inmates, because they were in charge of my security. My position as a
researcher was quite complex. As Jewkes writes, ‘our personalities, histo-
ries, and emotions penetrate our research’ (Jewkes 2014: 387). I believe
being a mother helped me in the difficult process of establishing the rela-
tionships with inmates: in fact, as mothers, they felt understood and
never judged. In addition, being both a parent and an ethnographer
helped me in the observation and deciphering of the situations that I
encountered. At the time of the research, my son was the same age as
some of the children inside the prison. I could not avoid making com-
parisons between the attitude and the behaviour of the children ‘inside’
with his that was ‘outside’. My feelings were quite disturbing but, instead
of trying to remove or ignore them, I decided to write down and use my
reactions in the attempt to analyse them and discover why they were
negatively affectingly.
Accordingly, throughout this experience, I questioned my positionality
frequently (Bonifacio and Schillaci 2017). I was, after all, spending time
inside a prison but was decidedly happy to be there, as I thought it was the
only way to make a good observational film. After a while, though, coming
back home at night paradoxically became harder and harder, as I began to
find it difficult to reconcile the privilege of spending time in such different
worlds. Jennifer Sloan and Serena Wright (2015) write about the difficul-
ties of not only gaining access to prison but also of ‘getting out’ when the
time comes to leave the field behind. In some ways, we—that is, myself and
the camera operator—felt greatly embarrassed to leave in the evening after
one full and intense day spent with the mothers and the children. A deep
sense of guilt plagued us when the guards locked the cell of the people we
had been freely talking to only five minutes previously, and, when after
8:00 pm, we could merely converse between the bars. We needed a long
period of ‘decompression’, before being able to come back to our ‘normal’
lives and houses, to forget all of the small moments of humiliation and
violence we witnessed (moreover without being able to change it or saying
anything) and all the suffering we listened to, to re-adapt to different rules
of behaviour between human beings. As Sloan and Wright underline, ‘get-
ting out—and getting away mentally intact is an important process that is
rarely discussed in the research literature’ (Sloan and Wright 2015: 153).
For me, working on the structure of the film helped significantly in
responding to this challenge of ‘getting out’. It took me almost a year to
watch all the footage. Building a narrative that was sufficiently able to sum-
marise the results of the project and represent the point of view of mothers
and children took another two years. More than that, the long process of
editing helped me to examine my personal experience ‘inside’, especially
from the emotional perspective, and finally ‘get out’ of prison.
194 R. Schillaci
urin Prison and the Routine

T
of the ‘Mothers’ Section’
The Turin prison is like a small town, built at the edge of the city, with
several buildings inside. A white iron fence surrounds the prison area and
divides it from the rest of the city space. Inside the prison, there are sev-
eral buildings where inmates live, depending on what ‘classification’ they
are or the project to which they belong (male, female, project for drug-
addicted inmates and so on). Only one building is allocated to accom-
modate the female section. It has three floors and can accommodate 100
female inmates. On the second floor, two guards surveille all the cells on
the floor, which is divided into two corridors that are secured at the end
with a large, metal gate. The left corridor houses females from the general
population, and the right corridor is designated as the section for moth-
ers and children (see Fig. 9.4).
The location and the layout of the ‘Mothers’ section’ is significant
because it has substantial bearing upon the daily lives of mothers and
Fig. 9.4 The corridor of the nursery section with the gate at the end. (Source:
Schillaci (2016))
children. First of all, since it is on the second floor, children do not have
access to a garden or a courtyard as prescribed by the law7 because moth-
ers are not authorised to leave the section and children cannot go unes-
corted. Secondly, as required by law, guards should spend more time
inside the section in order to detect any problems that may affect the
inmates and potentially weaken the mother-child bond. However, as the
guards’ ‘station’ is some distance from the section, and there is a require-
ment for them to check both the Mothers’ section and the general female
population section, the guards often find it difficult to leave their central
position. Consequently, the children of incarcerated mothers are very
much immersed in an adult prison, with very little respite from it.
In the Mothers’ section itself, there are eight cells which open onto a
large corridor. The cells are approximately 7–8 m2 in size, with two single
beds and two baby cots (see Fig. 9.5). Each cell can therefore accommo-
date up to two mothers with their children. However, if the section is not
full, the mothers with more than one child are permitted to occupy one
cell individually with their family. These cells were substantially bigger
than the ‘standard’ cells occupied by the females in the general popula-
tion corridor on the opposite side of the floor. There, cells were approxi-
mately 4 m2 in size, accommodated two women, and there was just
Fig. 9.5 The interior of a family cell. (Source: Schillaci (2016))

196 R. Schillaci
enough space for a bunk bed and a small table. By contrast to the Mothers’
section, the doors in the standard female section were always closed.
Women were not permitted to leave their own cell outside of the times
allocated for receiving meals, showering and ‘taking air’. All communica-
tions, including delivery of mail, were conducted within the cell space.
Once their children reach three years old and are no longer permitted
to reside inside the prison, women are subsequently housed in the stan-
dard section. Those that had experience of these cells, such as Joy, reported
that in comparison to the much smaller, more sparsely equipped standard
cells, the mothers’ cells were considered to be the ‘five-star rooms’ of the
prison. However, in my experience, the connotation of luxury is far
removed from the reality of these spaces. Despite the perception that this
mothers’ unit is considered more comfortable than others, there are sig-
nificant signs of neglect and punitive architecture that signify this space
as a prison. The women in the section find several strategies to carry on
their everyday life in prison, first and foremost as mothers, in order to
raise their children inside as best they can. In my opinion, they develop a
form of psychological resilience, using different abilities to cope with the
difficult situations they find inside prison and to protect their children
from the negative effects of them (Robertson et al. 2015). As I will show,
this approach is used to deal with the minutiae of everyday mother-
hood—that is, the small, ordinary everyday practices of washing, feeding
and sending their children to sleep—that can become extremely difficult
in a confined environment.
All domestic activities including eating, bathing and sleeping take
place in the small space of the cell. The materialities of the prison cell
were often prohibitive to family life. Aside from the beds, it is also fur-
nished with some cupboards, a (often black and white) television and a
small table. The prison bed linen, as women explained to me, was usually
badly laundered. Mothers often did not want to let their children sleep in
this bedding and asked relatives to bring linen from home (preferably
brightly coloured, and alongside other comforts such as wool blankets
and soft toys). All the windows in the cells and on the corridor have iron
bars across them, but, during my research, every single window pane was
broken. Usually mothers make basic repairs using handkerchiefs. An
officer once told me that the prison lacks the money to get them repaired.
As a consequence, the section is in a state of neglect: the lavatories are
dirty, often broken and without running hot water; and the furnishings
are made of rusty iron, as are the doors and the bars.8
The inmates’ daily life is very repetitive: the days are all similar, punc-
tuated by schedules imposed by the prison administration. As my research
revealed, these schedules are not adequate for life with children. The day
begins at 8:00 am, when an officer comes to open the heavy iron doors of
each cell. The awakening can vary depending on who opens the cell. In
some cases, a few words can be exchanged such as a simple ‘hello’ or,
perhaps, an affectionate word addressed to the children. Other guards do
not say anything at all. As soon as the door is open, the children—still in
their pyjamas—seize the opportunity to rush out into corridor to meet
each other. Often mothers find it difficult to bring them back inside the
cell to wash and dress them. After the opening, the morning—as one
mother said—‘passes quickly’, because mothers have many duties to
address. First, they must wash and dress their children by 9:00 am, when
two educators come to pick up the children and take them to the nursery
outside the prison for the morning two or three times a week. The small
bathroom is accessed via a metal door, which reveals a toilet bowl, a rusty,
old bath tub and a sink (both with a single tap but without a plug, which
makes it difficult to wash). Sink or bath plugs, in fact, are not permitted.
Upon enquiry, I learned that this was apparently a result of one prisoner
attempting suicide inside her bath tub. Although no prison officers could
confirm this to me, the whole Mothers’ section had no bath plugs. This
action is one of the numerous unwritten rules, with no precise source,
which officers follow in the prison that prisoners have to respect. In the
case of the restriction on plugs, some mothers managed to obtain plastic
basins from staff to bathe their children. For women with two children,
bathing is additionally difficult: they are in charge of both of them and
cannot ask anyone to help. Often, they go in the small bathroom with
both children, because they cannot leave one of them alone in the cell:
‘it’s too dangerous for them’, as one mother told me. Here, it is the rela-
tively poor infrastructure of the cell that again has a bearing upon
daily life.
198 R. Schillaci
Once the children have gone to the nursery outside, the mothers can
have a quiet coffee, smoke a cigarette, talk with the other mothers and try
to put the cell in some order until the children return at lunchtime. At
11:30 am, lunch is served from a cart by a female prisoner employed as a
cook, but it is only for the adults. The children must only eat the food
outlined in the menu prescribed by the prison paediatrician. This food is
prepared by this same cook, and only after she has finished serving the
entire women’s section of the prison. This usually takes another hour, an
hour spent trying to placate hungry children who want to eat from the
adults’ plates. As a consequence, mothers often refuse to take their meals
to prevent them having to eat in front of their hungry children. Moreover,
the space designed for meals causes several difficulties. In Turin prison,
dining areas are not provided and prisoners have to eat at the small table
inside their cells. The provision in the Mothers’ section is no different.
The cell furniture is awkward and not ‘child-friendly’—for example, there
are no ‘high chairs’ which make feeding easier—and so mothers have to
encourage their children to adapt to eating whilst standing on the chair
(see Fig. 9.6).
Fig. 9.6 Child eating standing on the chair as she cannot reach the table. (Source:
Schillaci (2016))
For the mothers I spoke to, mealtimes constituted one of the biggest
problems of their daily lives and justified one of their most important
demands: that is, to have access to the kitchen to be able to prepare the
children’s meals. Aside from responding to some of the aforementioned
challenges, such provision would offer inmates the opportunity to eat in
accordance with their different cultural traditions.9 So far, this request has
not been granted, mainly because of the opposition from the officers who
think that a kitchen with knives and a heat source will be a source of
danger for both mothers and children. Sometimes, with permission,
some mothers prepare simple meals for their children themselves by using
a small camping stove, one pan and few ingredients (see Fig. 9.7). Recipes
such as fried bread are often firm favourites with the children. When
cooking is permitted, the mothers typically convene and cook for the
unit’s children together. Here, they self-organise to ensure the safety of
themselves and the children. These moments are precious for the moth-
ers; they are the opportunity to approach a semblance of normal life, as
they told me. However, these moments are exceptional because a routine
of cooking cannot be assured: the gas bought at the prison store is
Fig. 9.7 The table with the camping stove. (Source: Schillaci (2016))
200 R. Schillaci
expensive, the installation is precarious, and mothers are not permitted

access to the fridge.
At 3:00 pm the officers announce—shouting from their position—the
hour (although it is realistically often less than an hour time) outside where
mothers and children can go in a small courtyard assigned for them. This
courtyard is, however, not designed for children since there are no toys or
play equipment. This leaves the children to simply run, back and forth, inside
the four, grey, concrete walls. During winter, the climate of Turin often
renders the hour outside impossible. In this case, all inmates—including
their children—will not have the opportunity to go outside until the next
day (weather permitting). Nearby there is a bigger yard where all the other
women who do not have children inside spend their allotted hour outside.
Mothers often told me that they would prefer to join the other women in
that yard as it would be ‘one hour of freedom’ from the obligations of parent-
hood. Often, mothers have relatives in the general women’s section, and this
yard time would be a good opportunity to talk to someone—to speak about
their problems, confide or exchange information—other than the same few
mothers in their section, and not to be forced to have such conversations in
front of the children. Unfortunately, for security reasons, children cannot
mix, or even interact, with other inmates. On one rare occasion which I
observed, where all the women prisoners gathered together to attend a special
concert, some of the women did try to speak to and cuddle the children they
knew. In this instance, rather than risk an outburst from the children, the
officers turned a blind eye.
After this hour in the courtyard, a long and difficult period before
bedtime begins. Here, there are many hours to fill with little entertain-
ment. Most mothers wander the corridor, whilst the children amuse
themselves by walking up and down on all fours or circling the corridor
on a small tricycle, for example. The children often run in and out of the
cells where they are then subject to many small reprimands: ‘don’t jump
on the mattress because the bed is metal’; ‘don’t throw anything through
the bars’; and ‘be careful not to bump against the doors’ especially against
the one where the long corridor ends and which gives way to the territory
of the officers. At 6:30 pm dinner arrives but this is, again, just for
mothers. When the children’s meal arrives an hour later, they often are
tired and anxious. Shortly after, at around 8:00 pm, the officers come to
lock all the families inside their cell overnight. Sometimes children cry
because they want to keep playing together in the corridor. Mothers
quickly put them into bed in their cramped cells. When night falls and
the mothers try to prepare the children for rest, the prison around them
does exactly the opposite. Cries redouble where men and women try to
communicate by shouting from one building to another. All this theatre
ignites the curiosity of the children who try to see what is happening
through the bars of the windows. Mothers try to calm their children
down by creating an intimate space under the sheets, offering cuddles,
soothing words, or sometimes a sweet lullaby.
It is clear that the practicalities of both motherhood and childhood are
significantly altered when women undertake parenthood whilst incarcer-
ated. In the following sections, I explore the particularities of how the cell
space exists as a space of play, as a space of familial intimacy, but also as a
‘cursed’ world that both mothers and children should never return to.
The Cell as a Space of Play

In Turin prison, ‘play’ is poorly accommodated.10 In the unit, there is a
so-called playground area, created from a designated space in the corridor
near to the gate, where there are some toys donated by volunteers.11
However, the space is not well designed for play, and, annoyed by the
noise, prison officers often scold the mothers, or even the volunteers, who
are obliged to come back into the cells and try to distract the children
with other toys. Aside from this small provision, the Mothers’ section
lacks any mode of entertainment and the environment is distinctly, as
previously noted, not child-friendly and the materiality of the cell has
significant impact. At a basic level, there are no carpets, rugs or mats in
the section, and mothers often told me that the floor is too dirty and cold
for children to play on. In response, mothers usually try to keep their
children on the bed. Often this, in itself, presents other problems. More
202 R. Schillaci
Fig. 9.8 One of the tricycles used by children in the prison. (Source:
Schillaci (2016))
than once I saw children rolling or jumping on the beds, at serious risk of
injuring themselves on the metal bed frame. As noted, especially in the
long afternoons, children play in the corridor with their small bicycles or
tricycles (see Fig. 9.8) in order to, as one mother told me, give them at
least a way to ‘vent their energy’.
In this endeavour, children unavoidably crash against the doors of the
open cells and often hurt themselves. For many of the mothers in this
prison, iron was a key metaphor because it characterises prison life: iron
beds, irons doors and gates and iron bars—all of which the children are
contained by and can hurt themselves on (see Fig. 9.9). As a consequence,
the mothers had to act in a way that they called ‘keeping the child’, which
involves holding tightly on to children, containing them in their arms to
prevent them from going outside the cell. Whilst in the corridor, mothers
also have to keep their children within reach so that they do not try to
run off as soon as the section gate is opened. I quickly realised that their
major effort and strategy to the prison life was therefore this action of
‘curbing’ the child as a response to the constraints of the environment. I
could understand these efforts only when I started the visual research and
I was allowed to spend 10–12 hours with the mothers and their children.
Fig. 9.9 A child in the corridor near all the iron windows open. (Source:
Schillaci (2016))
Only then was I able to share the feeling of an ‘eternal’ day, with the
never-ending difficulties of inventing new ways to allow the child play
but also retain control of them.
In spite of all this, the children do not appear perturbed by their envi-
ronment. Children’s resilience has been conceptualised as a ‘positive
adaptation’ to adverse situations (Hopf 2010). I was amazed to discover
how they could accept so much time inside a building in comparison to
my experience of other children of their age. Surprisingly, children adapt
to this new ‘home’, finding a way to play everywhere and with every-
thing. They devise new games from almost nothing. One of their favou-
rite games was to take all the pencils, pens and every other small object
they could find and throw them down through the small holes between
204 R. Schillaci
Fig. 9.10 Children playing at the window. (Source: Schillaci (2016))
the window bars (see Fig. 9.10). They screamed with joy and satisfaction
at the sight of an object landing outside the prison. When we came to
make the documentary, our equipment bag was a treasure chest for them;
we often had to recover batteries that had fallen through the window.
Knowing this, and understanding how a culture of deprivation demands
that these children adapt and respond in creative ways, I took to hiding a
box of coloured pencils in the bag for them to use in their favourite game
instead.
The Cell as a Space of Intimacy

Beyond playtime, there are other aspects of family life that must be con-
ducted within the prison environment: namely, development of personal
relationships, family bonds and the enactment of private moments
between parent and child. Communications and relations are consider-
ably modified in this environment, and here I discuss how sound and the
noise of the prison has significant bearing. The soundscape—the sonic
environment as defined by Schafer (1993; see also Herrity, this
Fig. 9.11 A mother speaking with a prisoner officer through the gate that closes
her section. (Source: Schillaci (2016))
volume)—is a key aspect of prison life and has a big impact upon those
who spend time there. Such is also the case in the Mothers’ section in
Turin, where the impact also extends to the children.
Turin prison is noisy, which in some locations is directly attributed to
the design of the space. For example, as I have already described, a metal
gate separates the Mothers’ section from the landing space where the staff
are located. Since staff have to observe two different corridors from this
location, they rarely leave their station. This means that, in general, all
conversations take place through the gate, at a distance between this bar-
rier and the staff desk (see Fig. 9.11).
206 R. Schillaci
Such interactions are at a significant volume. Often, inmates speak loudly

from their cells and officers reply back, shouting from their desk. The voice
of someone calling: ‘assistente’ (officer) is a constant element in the prison
sound experience. Inmates have to call several times before obtaining an
answer from the officers, who usually cannot hear them if they have been
forced to enter other corridors or relocate to other floors to deal with a par-
ticular request. The jangling of keys and the slamming of heavy, iron doors
that are constantly opened and closed all add to the sonic experience along-
side the guard’s telephone ringing, TV audio, chatters and, more often,
screams and cries of inmates, children and guards. This creates an uneasy
feeling of being forced to be part of other people’s private moments and not
having your own space, especially in the spring and summer when the win-
dows are all open.
Accordingly then, various strategies are required to undertake the quo-
tidian, yet necessary aspects of motherhood and familial life. For exam-
ple, every inmate knows that if she feels the need to cry, all the other
women and officers of the unit will hear her. There are several strategies
that allow ‘visual’ privacy in the cell: inmates often used sheets as curtains
to provide more cover around the area near the bed, especially at night.
However, this feeling of the complete sonic pervasion creates a different
lack of privacy that is harder to overcome. The sound is all-encompassing:
it infiltrates all the open windows and doors; it arrives suddenly, without
time to prepare for it. The frustration of hearing people crying or shout-
ing desperately, without knowing where exactly it comes from or what
can be done to help, impacts everyone deeply but has the most impact on
children, who were very sensitive to the cries of others. Several times
when we were filming children playing in the corridor, we heard unex-
pectedly loud shouting, or even fighting, through the bars. Immediately,
the children stopped what they were doing and repeated the sound that
they heard: their toys were banged hard against the bars, and they start
shouting back. Sometimes, the mothers try to transform this into play,
but the children remain overexcited for a long time. Often, in contrast, if
the children do hear people crying from the corridor, they stay silent,
listening and trying to understand who is making the noise because they
know some of the other inmates in the other sections. The pained screams
spread and infect everyone’s mood, which leads mothers to enact their
maternal feelings to protect their children, soothe them and alleviate

their concerns. Sometimes mothers take the children inside the cell,
where they close their windows, hug the children and let them lie down
on the bed in an attempt to relax them and create an affective refuge
inside ‘their’ cell.
In recognising this ambiguous situation where the pains of imprison-
ment and the practicalities of motherhood both exist and conflict, the
next section critiques life in the cell, as a ‘cursed’ environment, as moth-
ers perceive it.
The Cell as a ‘Cursed’ Place

Contrary to the long-term prisoners who may accept prison as a space of
the ‘home’ (see also Marti, this volume), mothers know that the sentence
they will serve inside the Mothers’ section will be short. Most hope their
status as mothers will lead to them being offered either a reduced term of
sentence or an alternative method of custody, such as house arrest. If this
is not forthcoming, when a child reaches three years old, they must be
housed outside of prison, and the mother will move to the section that
accommodates the general population of women.
Consequently, the mothers always reiterate that prison is a temporary
location. For mothers, there is no acceptance of prison as ‘home’ both for
themselves, but in particular for their children. To give an example, I
once brought one mother some photographs of her children that were
taken whilst they were in the nursery outside. She loved them but did not
put them on the wall of her cell. I asked her why. She answered that she
did not want her children to think that the cell was their home. For her,
the time spent inside must not be indelible on her children’s minds;
instead, they must understand that they are merely waiting to go to their
‘real’ world, their ‘real’ home.
Goffman claims that, among inmates in total institutions, there is a
strong feeling that time spent there is ‘time wasted’ or ‘time taken from
one’s life’ (Goffman 1961). This is true in the case of mothers who do not
accept prison as ‘home’, but their attitude towards their children’s experi-
ence is more complex. The time spent inside, as mothers explained to me,
208 R. Schillaci
must not only never create associations of ‘home’ but also has to be
deleted from their mind, ‘as if it was just play’ and not real life. Here, we
find life in prison as an ambiguous existence between ‘two worlds’
(Agamben and Rueff 2007: 87). Although the educators told the mothers
that children do not remember their first three years of life, one mother
once told me that she was worried about exactly the opposite because her
daughter had, to use her own words, ‘witnessed too many tears’.
Such careful considerations about the potential negative attachments
to prison cells continue throughout the process of leaving the prison.
More than once, I assisted at the release of a prisoner at the end of her
sentence. The situation was chaotic. The liberante12 is often shocked, sur-
prised and confused, particularly since little notice is offered—sometimes
just one or two hours—about the imminent release. As soon as the other
women get to know the good news, the confusion increases. The inmates
in the same section rush to the woman who is about to leave, to offer
hugs and kisses for her children and at the same time question the ratio-
nale for her release in the hope that the same fortune or ‘miracle’ might
befall them in the future. All of them cry both for the joy of this woman
and for the renewed hope in their life. The inmates in the other sections
start to shout and to make noise with metal objects against the bars. Their
screams and shouts echo around the building, and the result is ambigu-
ously both a celebration and, at the same time, a protest. They all shout
‘libertà’—freedom—as if the conquest of one could become the tri-
umph of all.
In this atmosphere the cellmates help the liberante to sort all of her
possessions. This is where we witness most the tensions of crossing the
threshold between ‘two worlds’, since this transition is often inhibited by
the ‘residue’ of the previous life (Agamben and Rueff 2007: 87). Here,
she must collect all her things from her ‘life of outside’—from home—
and find bags, usually big black plastic garbage bags, to pack them in. At
the same time, she must ensure she leaves behind all the objects that
come from the prison or have been donated by people connected to the
prison. Once I tried to help a woman when I saw a pair of children’s shoes
had been left on the bed by putting them in the plastic bag alongside
other possessions that were packed. For that, I was severely rebuked. The
women explained to me that all personal property brought into prison
from the outside has to leave with the owner; otherwise, a piece of them
will stay in prison and she—or her children—could be ‘cursed’ and come
back in prison. On the contrary, all the objects received in jail—like the
pair of shoes—cannot be brought home because they are ‘cursed’ by the
prison. This is as if the objects or ‘remnants’ from the prison cell were
contaminated—or ‘sacrilegious’ in Agamben and Rueff (2007) words—
and cannot stay in the other world, that is, the free world outside
the prison.
Conclusions
As outlined in this chapter, the prison cell—in its form within the
Mothers’ section—is not designed for children. Mothers must overcome
several obstacles in raising their children in such a small place within the
prison environment where they are obliged to follow its rules—some of
them in evident contrast to children’s needs. Therefore, mothers find par-
ticular strategies to cope with the minutiae of the everyday life, such as
bathing, cooking, giving meals and putting a child to bed. Often moth-
ers, but mostly children, develop a form of psychological resilience using
different abilities to cope with the limited space of the cell where they
have to live most of the days and night, sometimes for two or three years
consecutively. Excluded from the rest of the community and from their
families, mothers try to help each other and transform the realities of life
in prison into ‘playtime’. However, despite these efforts to instill comfort
into their children’s lives and change their perception of some harsh rou-
tines, the actions of the mothers are far from transforming the cell into a
‘home’. Although they try to adapt to it, they do so with the clear inten-
tion of deleting every memory of life in the prison and the cell from their
children’s mind, hoping that no remnants of a world that, for them, is
‘cursed’ will survive.
Although, as I have noted, the cells in the Mothers’ section have fea-
tures such as size, furnishings and sanitation that are more suitable than
the standard adult cells, life spent inside it with children is ultimately
challenging. In illuminating these challenges and the subsequent resis-
tances to them, this chapter presents reflections about the relationship
210 R. Schillaci
between the prison cell and the experience of motherhood and child-
hood as a complex set of negotiations around materiality, legality and
place-making. By exploring this example, we can raise further questions
about the function of the prison cell in general and its role—for every
prisoner—as an important space for building relationships and main-
taining privacy, intimacy and dignity within a wider environment of
restriction.
Notes
1. ICAM, Istituto di Custodia Attenuata per Madri (Institute of Custody
for Mothers).
2. Law n. 62 of 21 April 2011. The law provides that mothers with children
up to six years of age may serve their sentences in custody on remand, at
their place of residence, in an ICAM (a ‘reduced custodial institution for
mothers’) or case famiglie protette (protected house for families) where
the precautionary requirements of exceptional importance allow these
alternative measures to prison.
3. Law n. 354 of 26 July 1975. For the care and assistance of children, the
penitentiary administration must organise special kindergartens accord-
ing to the procedures indicated in art. 19 of the Implementing
Regulations—D.P.R. 30 June 2000.
4. The film Ninna Nanna Prigioniera had its premiere at the Biografia Film
Festival in Bologna in June 2016, where it won the Life Tales Award. It
has then presented in several other festivals, like the Cinema Verite Iran
International Documentary Film Festival and the NAFA (Nordic
Anthropological Film Association) Film Festival. A shorter version of the
film, entitled Les enfants en prison, has been broadcast by ARTE televi-
sion in 2016, and it won the Etoile de la Scam, recognition given to the
best documentary films broadcast in France.
5. In the Italian language, the terms ‘inmate’ and ‘prisoner’ are synonymous
and are usually interchangeable without any negative connotation.
6. In the Italian language, the terms ‘guard’ and ‘officer’ are also synony-
mous and are usually interchangeable without any negative connotation.
7. See note 3.
8. There is a new project underway to develop new ‘mothers’ prisons’ in
Italy where the designs include aspects such as only providing wooden
furniture and ‘soft bars’ made with metal mesh to avoid any injury to
children.
9. The women housed in this prison represent several different nationalities
and ethnicities. Often the cultural traditions associated with these extend
to the conventions around and practicalities of dietary choice, cooking
and eating. However, the prison environment does not always manage to
accommodate such traditions.
10. See Stuit (this volume) for a different conceptualisation of ‘play’ in the
prison cell.
11. Volunteers from NGOs come one afternoon a week for a few hours to
play with the children. This makes it possible for mothers to receive
visitors and meet with educators.
12. In Italian, this means the liberated person, which describes an inmate
that will soon be released. Often this news is unexpected.
References
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Zone Books.
Alejos, M. (2005). Report on Babies and Small Children in Prisons. Geneva:
Quaker United Nations Office.
Bonifacio, V., & Schillaci, R. (2017). Between Inside and Outside: Projects of
Visual Research Inside Italian Prisons. Visual Anthropology, 30(3), 235–248.
Booth, N., Masson, I., & Baldwin, L. (2018). Promises, Promises: Can the
Female Offender Strategy Deliver? Probation Journal, 65(4), 429–438.
Caddie, D., & Crisp, D. (1997). Imprisoned Women and Mothers. Home Office
Research Study 162. London: HMSO.
Frois, C. (2017). Female Imprisonment: An Ethnography of Everyday Life in
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Patients and Other Inmates. London: Penguin.
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de Gruyter.
Hopf, S. M. (2010). Risk and Resilience in Children Coping with Parental
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resilience-in-children-coping-with-parental-divorce/
212 R. Schillaci
Jewkes, Y. (2012). Autoethnography and Emotion as Intellectual Resources:

Doing Prison Research Differently. Qualitative Inquiry, 18(1), 63–75.
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assembly.coe.int/nw/xml/XRef/Xref-XML2HTML-EN.asp?fileid=16821.
Pryce, V. (2015). Mothering Justice: Working with Mothers in Criminal and Social
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Training in the Workplace from 2003 to 2014: A Systematic Review. Journal
of Occupational and Organizational Psychology, 88(3), 533–562.
Robertson, O. (2012). Children of Incarcerated Parents. Geneva: Quaker United
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di Detenzione. Retrieved September 16, 2019, from http://www.antigone.it/
tredicesimo-rapporto-sulle-condizioni-di-detenzione/01-numeri-del-carcere/.
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Scharff-Smith, P., & Gampell, L. (Eds.). (2011). Children of Imprisoned Parents.
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Children of Imprisoned Parents, University of Ulster and Bambini Senza
Sbarre NGO.
Schillaci, R. (2016). Ninna Nanna Prigioniera (Imprisoned Lullaby), Italy–
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Ethnography (pp. 143–163). London: Palgrave Macmillan.
Part III
The Cell Membrane
This forms the outer boundary of the cell and keeps the cell contents intact,
preventing them from mixing with the medium outside the cell or with the
contents of neighbouring cells. …One of its principle functions is to exer-
cise control over which substances enter and leave the cell. The wrong type
or quantity of a substance entering the cell could upset its delicately bal-
anced chemistry. (Mackean and Jones 1975: 7)
10
Serving Time with a Sea View:
The Prison Cell and Healthy Blue Space
Jennifer Turner, Dominique Moran,
and Yvonne Jewkes
Introduction
At 9 a.m. on 13 August 2016, 800 competitors in the 24th annual
Alcatraz Sharkfest Swim were dropped just off the rocks of the island
housing Alcatraz Federal Prison in San Francisco Bay and challenged to
swim 1.5 miles back to the city shore (Terry 2016). This and other chal-
lenges taking place since the closure of the prison derive playfulness from
the altogether more serious history of its geographical location on an
J. Turner (*)
Department of Geography and Planning, University of Liverpool,
Liverpool, UK
D. Moran
School of Geography, Earth and Environmental Sciences (GEES), University
of Birmingham, Birmingham, UK
Y. Jewkes
Department of Social & Policy Sciences, University of Bath, Bath, UK

216 J. Turner et al.
island surrounded by deep, cold waters with strong undercurrents. Its

nickname, the Rock, is apt, since topographically the island is a drowned
mountain, with only a thin strip of dirt that supports little flora and
fauna (Jarvis 2004). Some of the USA’s most notorious prison were incar-
cerated here from 1934 to 1963 under the premise that Alcatraz’s watery
surroundings would make the prison impossible to escape from, although
there were in fact 14 documented escape attempts involving 34 prisoners:
23 were recaptured, 6 were shot and killed, but 5 remained unaccounted
for. The authorities insisted they must have drowned (Jarvis 2004). In
addition, prison folklore held that the waters surrounding Alcatraz were
shark-infested. Tales were told of a shark named ‘Bruce’, said to have been
raised with only one fin by the Bureau of Prisons in order that it would
swim continually around the island waiting for its prey (Babyak 2001).
The significance of the surrounding water for the prisoners themselves
is not something that features prominently in the performance of the site
as a destination for penal tourism.1 Curators have paid attention to the
value of the sea in aiding air circulation around the crowded cell block
and commented on the chill brought by inclement weather. However,
the view—which may be taken from most windows in the building—fea-
tures less in the narrative of the prison’s history. The impacts that a sea
view might have had on prisoners are difficult to garner from the prison’s
archives, but it seems likely that the cold and dangerous waters surround-
ing Alcatraz could only have exacerbated the pains of imprisonment
experienced by its inmates. But can a waterscape have positive effects in a
carceral setting? Combining perspectives from sociology, therapeutic and
carceral geographies, and criminological studies of the prison, our aim in
this chapter is to explore prisoners’ rational and visceral responses to a sea
view and to discuss the value in interrogating ‘healthy blue space’ (Foley
and Kistemann 2015) under contingent circumstances where individuals
cannot choose to accept or reject interaction with their environs and
where the very nature of enforced residence can have negative effects on
mental health (Jordan 2011).
The notion of ‘healthy prisons’ is now well established in policy; for
example, Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Prisons (2014) employs ‘healthy
10 Serving Time with a Sea View: The Prison Cell and Healthy… 217
prison tests’ as standards against which all prisons in England and Wales
are independently inspected. However, the Inspectorate’s focus remains
on what is ‘just’ and ‘decent’, rather than what is ‘healthy’ in a medical or
therapeutic sense. Our aim, in short, is to explore the value of Foley and
Kistemann’s conceptualisation of ‘healthy blue space’ and to respond to
their call to ‘extend the scope spatially, methodologically and in inter-
disciplinary ways as part of a broader hydro-social set of therapeutic geog-
raphies’ (2015: 157). Using empirical data gathered from prisoners and
prison staff at a prison located on a seashore in the UK, and drawing on
notions of therapeutic landscapes, the chapter theorises the prison cell
with a sea view as a potentially nurturing rather than punitive environ-
ment, one that might heal rather than inflict further harm. After sum-
marising the expansion of inter-disciplinary therapeutic landscape studies
from ‘green’ to ‘blue’ spaces, we note that the prison disrupts conven-
tional understandings of therapeutic landscapes, as water sometimes
engenders negative associations in the carceral environment—associa-
tions of punishment and control, rather than the beneficial experiences
commonly emphasised—and contend that much existing literature
focuses on the health-enabling or therapeutic capacity of blue space via
bodily immersion. Although previous research highlights the value of a
sea view, for instance, it is the view in conjunction with an ability to physi-
cally engage with the water that is usually argued to have health benefits.
Using interview and focus group data generated from staff and prisoners
in a recently built coastal prison in the UK, we will suggest a more com-
plex relationship with blue space; that is, the highly limited, yet powerful
visual and sensory interaction that prisoners unable to ‘jump in’ to the
watery landscapes around them (Foley 2015: 219) may nonetheless
have—a relationship that complicates individual attachments to the
space of their prison cell and traditional understandings of the cell as a
‘constant’, ‘static’ space. We conclude by suggesting possibilities for
development of theorisations of therapeutic blue space and discussing the
benefits that may be generated by a reconsideration of prison location
and exterior view outlook.
Healthy Blue Space and the Carceral Landscape

The concept of therapeutic landscapes was introduced by Gesler (1992)
and has subsequently been explored within studies of environment,
health and care (Airey 2003; Gesler 1996, 1998, Kearns and Barnett
1999; Kearns and Gesler 1998; Palka 1999; Williams 1999, 2002).
Velarde et al. described the main health benefits of exposure to landscapes
as being ‘reduced stress, improved attention capacity, facilitating recovery
from illness, ameliorating physical well-being in elderly people, and
behavioural changes that improve mood and general well-being’ (2007:
210). The recognition of landscape as a ‘key element of individual and
social wellbeing’ (Foley and Kistemann 2015: 159) has led to policy-level
changes concerned with the protection, management and planning of
these environments. But while traditional landscape studies have focussed
on ‘green’ space, recent studies have explored the impact of ‘blue’ vistas
(Anderson and Peters 2014; Strang 2004). For example, Luttik’s (2000)
Netherlands-based study found that houses with views of water cost
between 8 and 12 per cent more than those without, while Lange and
Schaeffer (2001) reported guests’ willingness to pay 10 per cent more for
‘lake view’ rooms, rather than rooms with forest views in hotels in
Switzerland. However, the desire for these rooms may be more than just
personal preference. In 2015, Foley and Kistemann coined the term
‘healthy blue space’2 after collating a wealth of documentation about the
value of blue spaces including both coastal areas (Depledge and Bird
2009; Wheeler et al. 2012; White et al. 2010) and inland waters known
as ‘urban blue’ (Völker and Kistemann 2011) for health and wellbeing.
In addition to evidence concerning the benefits of views of water,
bodily immersion in water has long been considered therapeutic, as wit-
nessed in the development of Victorian spas in seaside towns; lidos, which
had become a national institution in the UK by the 1930s; and in the
contemporary vogue for outdoor- and open-water swimming (Corbin
1994; Deakin 2000; Parr 2011; Shields 2013). In 2009, Natural England
reported that, in the UK, there were nearly 250 million visits to the coast
and 180 million to other aquatic environments including rivers, canals
and lakes. Aside from the therapeutic benefits of exercise and
hydro-immersion, these watery locations ‘have wide cultural and emo-

tional resonance’ through the health-enabling advantages that derive
from the blue components of the water and sky (Foley 2015: 218).3
Although blue space literatures conventionally refer to access to and
views of bodies of water—which of course frequently appear in shades of
grey or green rather than actually being blue—the sky is another ‘blue’
space: access to sight of which is considered therapeutic in a number of
ways. Sky views usually coexist with natural light (and dark), which help
regulate circadian rhythms and thereby promote wellbeing. ‘Sky View
Factor’ (Oke 1981), a measure defining the fraction of sky visible from a
given position on the ground, is used in landscape assessment, and views
of the sky, the horizon, slow-moving clouds, sunsets and so on are fre-
quently considered part of therapeutic landscapes (e.g. Lengen 2015). At
the horizon where land or water and sky meet, there is a sense of depth
which is recognised as ‘a primary feature of landscape’ (Casey 2001: 690).
This enables a sense of reality in space—occlusion of distant objects by
closer objects, perspective, shading, motion parallax (Sacks 2010), and an
essential sense of reality (Lengen 2015), a sense of belonging and a sense
of being (Sacks 2010)—or ‘Dasein’ (Heidegger [1927] 1962). These
intangible yet existential effects of viewing landscapes are reflected in
recent studies of therapeutic landscapes, which point out that place is
experienced differently by different individuals and therefore may deliver
different therapeutic outcomes (Conradson 2005). In other words, and
in line with geographical understandings of relational space, environ-
ments cannot be fully appraised objectively, but instead must be under-
stood relationally.
So what is the relevance of this discussion to the prison and in particu-
lar the prison cell? Prison spaces are also relational. They have ‘measur-
able’ qualities, but their punitive and/or therapeutic effect is determined
at least in part by their subjective experience or, in other words, how
specific individuals experience them: in relation to their own personal
characteristics, past experiences and the perceptions of punishment and
the role of the institution in enforcing it. Although issues of mental and
physical health have been addressed in carceral settings, when specifically
juxtaposing carceral spaces and therapeutic landscapes, there are signifi-
cant issues of extrapolation (Turner and Moran 2019). As Turner and
Moran explain, a barrier is raised ‘in terms of the perceived legitimacy of

a ‘healing’ custodial function’ (2019: 62). Notably, other institutions,
such as hospitals, holistic therapy centres or drug rehabilitation units,
have an explicit ‘healing’ function that encompasses wellbeing, in addi-
tion to relief from physical symptoms, illness or trauma. Stress reduction
and increased levels of comfort for individuals dealing with emotionally
and/or physically demanding experiences are part of their functionality
and legitimacy (Cooper-Marcus and Barnes 1995). A therapeutic land-
scape is, then, one with an ‘enduring reputation for achieving physical,
mental and spiritual healing’ (Gesler 1993: 171). The parallels with
prison space may not be immediately obvious. In the above-mentioned
examples, there is no overt intent to ‘punish’ inhabitants, usually viewed
as needing and deserving assistance.4 Conversely, there is little perceived
public sympathy for prisoners. With a vigilant(e) media critiquing ‘unde-
served’ ‘perks’ for prisoners, combined with tight budgets and hyper-
attention to security, the penal landscape is rarely ‘therapeutic’ either in
intent or in actual lived experience.
Although emergent research recognises the benefits of therapeutic
‘green spaces’ in custodial settings (Jewkes and Moran 2015; Wright
2017; Turner and Moran 2019), it is yet to consider ‘blue spaces’ in a
similar manner—perhaps because the relationship between water and
carceral space is problematic. The location of a prison near to water is, as
far as we can deduce, rarely if ever intended to deliver therapeutic effects.
Rather, its proximity necessitates, or is the after-effect of the need for, as
an example, prisoner labour when, in the nineteenth century, prisoners
built harbours such as at Peterhead in northern Scotland; or water is used
as a barrier to escape, as in the island prisons at Alcatraz, at Bastøy in
Norway’s famous ‘eco-prison’ located approximately four kilometres from
the Norwegian mainland, and at Suomenlinna, a ferry ride from the
Finnish capital Helsinki. Proximity can also be the result of sheer coinci-
dence or expediency (if the state already owns land in a coastal or water-
front area, thus avoiding the need to purchase an alternative plot
elsewhere). Additionally, even where water appears to be part of a pro-
gressive regime aimed at improving prospects of rehabilitation, it can
have unintended consequences. For example, Bastøy might seem like an
idyll where prisoners can fish from the banks, swim in the water and earn
a certificate in maritime proficiency by operating the daily ferry. But the

island’s water boundness reinforces many of the negative cultural associa-
tions of prison islands, and the bittersweet juxtaposition of (relative)
‘freedom’ and restriction of liberty brings its own insidious ‘pains’
(Hancock and Jewkes 2011) to the extent that some prisoners simply
cannot cope and request a transfer to harsher but more conventional
prison conditions on the mainland (Shammas 2014).
Beyond this, as Turner and Moran (2019) explain, the presence of
water in the carceral setting is part of an infrastructure of ‘careful control’.
In particular, ‘water may be considered to be an element requiring restric-
tion because it poses some kind of risk, that is, a risk of an individual
flooding their immediate environment or the risk of an individual caus-
ing bodily harm to themselves or others’ (Turner and Moran 2019: 209).
This mechanism of control has broadly negative connotations, including
the control of behaviour and spatial activities as in the case of water can-
nons for crowd control or water torture as an interrogation technique
(Arntzen and Werner 1999; Rejali 2009). Similarly, water is also ‘con-
trolled for the management of prisoner health, such as for cleansing and
anti-contagion mechanisms’ (Turner and Moran 2019: 209). There are
numerous historical examples of the forced bathing of prisoners as part of
the reception process (One-Who-Has-Endured-It 1877). Indeed, relics
of this infrastructure—for example, communal baths and ‘assembly-line’
showers—have become a key part of the narrative at penal tourist sites
such as Alcatraz. The significance of water and ablutions has featured
heavily in the rhetoric for creating humane prison environments, particu-
larly in relation to the focus of the development of the infrastructure of
the prison cell. In-cell sanitation poses the risk of an individual flooding
their cell or causing bodily harm to themselves or others, a risk averted by
providing showers rather than baths, and restricting the flow of taps and
showerheads. Guidelines drawn up by the International Committee of
the Red Cross (ICRC) in 2012 and the United Nations Office for Project
Services (UNOPS) in 2016 are intended to ensure adequate standards are
met. From suggestions about the volume of water required per prisoner
per day to the litre-per-minute flow and number of taps that should be
provided, water has become a quantifiable resource for the maintenance
of health and wellbeing. The ICRC also recognises variances in
geographical locations and cultural contexts. Although still employed

elsewhere (including in Ireland), England and Wales abolished the prac-
tice of ‘slopping out’ (where, lacking in-cell sanitation, prisoners had to
urinate and defecate in pots emptied in the morning) in 1996. As recently
as 2012, ten British prisons were still believed to be using the practice
but, following several legal cases brought by prisoners, in-cell sanitation
is the norm for new-build prisons in the UK and, although ‘en-suite’ cells
have received media criticism, such provision is now recognised as essen-
tial. Nevertheless, whatever positive prison function may be ascribed to
water, it is framed in the language of necessity and minimum standards,
or decency, rather than in relation to the notions of leisure and therapy
that infuse academic literatures on healthy blue space.
Such therapeutic literature frequently focuses on the necessity of bodily
immersion for therapeutic effect, arguing that benefits of seascape gener-
ally accrue to individuals viewing a blue space they can also access physi-
cally. The sight of blue space bolsters bodily experiences of the seashore
and memories of aquatic activities (Peters and Brown 2017; Steinberg and
Peters 2015). Indeed, Wylie’s (2005) exploration of the self and landscape
on a coastal path critically interrogated the significance of walking by the
sea and movement in relation to the sea and the shore. Yet, visual interac-
tion with landscape alone does reduce stress for prisoners, even if they are
unable to physically access it. In 1981, Moore found that prisoners who
were only able to view the prison courtyard from their cells were 24 per
cent more likely to make sick-call visits than prisoners who had a view of
surrounding farmland. More recently, Moran (2019) has shown that both
access to green spaces and views of large images of nature produce thera-
peutic effects amongst prisoners. Taking a lead from Moore (1981) and
Moran (2019), we interrogate the significance of a sea view from a prison
cell in the context of therapeutic landscape, health and wellbeing.
Data Generation
Fieldwork was carried out at the case study prison in the summer of 2015
as part of a major ESRC-funded project investigating how penal aims
and philosophies (what prison is ‘for’) are expressed in prison architecture
and design and the effectiveness of prison architecture and design for
conveying and delivering that penal purpose. The UK institution we dis-
cuss here houses adult male offenders and both adult and young offender
females. Multi-method data collection comprised ethnographic observa-
tions, an anonymous prisoner survey (n = 85, 22.6 per cent overall
response rate, with 42.5 per cent for females although they represented
only 10.6 per cent of the total surveyed population) and focus groups and
interviews with staff and prisoners. Data were analysed using SPSS and
NVivo. Observations were carried out in individual prison cells, wings,
special care units, health centre, visiting suite, education spaces and
workshops. Twenty-nine focus groups (2–6 prisoners) were conducted
(in prison wing spaces but not in cells), and 42 prisoners and 36 staff
participated in one-to-one interviews. For procedural reasons, prisoner
interviews took place in interview rooms, that is, away from cells them-
selves. Although interview questions were not specifically directed
towards a ‘sea view’—as many cells did not have such a view—blue space
proved particularly relevant to discussions surrounding views in general,
as well as the notion of colour in the prison landscape.
‘Escape’ on the Horizon
Is blue space meaningful in the prison environment? A prison cell with a
sea view came as something of a surprise to our prisoner respondents.
Although 75 per cent had been in custody before (an average of eight
previous sentences), the fact that the prison was newly built meant that
around half of our interviewees had never been incarcerated there before,
so its proximity to the sea was unexpected, and was frequently used as a
point of comparison to other prisons. Tony’s exuberant language clearly
expresses his surprise:
See when you were upstairs [on the upper levels of the accommodation
building] you can just see the water and all the boats and that … Seeing
like folk on speedboats like racing and that. Holy shit! It’s alright, like.
Prisoners were keen to draw such comparisons. In this example from a

focus group with male prisoners, participants’ language emphatically
demonstrated how unusual they found the view of marine life:
Interviewer: Does the view out of the window make a difference?

Harry: Oh big difference, please believe it. I’ve been in a while and
I’m used to seeing just concrete walls round us or a fence
round us.
Damien: People like you, you lifers [referring to another member of
the group], you could do with a better view couldn’t you, to
be honest?
Harry: Oh definitely…
Damien: Like people like us who are doing fours, fives [years], it’s not
really a big difference …
Harry: I’ve been in nine [years] just now. And as you don’t get out
this is the first I’ve ever seen a view like this. …But this is
fucking crazy!
Terry: See the town, the harbour, the boats …
Harry: …it’s great. I’ve seen the dolphins, I’ve seen the whales
out at sea.
Terry: It does make a difference doesn’t it? It makes it a bit better
[you know].
Harry: Oh a big difference.
Sean: There’s not many jails you can see that, you’ve seen dolphins,
whales from your cell window.
Harry: It’s brilliant man, know what I mean. I stand looking out
watching dolphins.
Sean: It was last week we were watching the dolphins. Last week
we were watching the dolphins!
Although this was not discussed explicitly at the focus group, it could
be that in contrast to the apocryphal tale of Bruce the Alcatraz shark cir-
cling in search of escapees, the sight of these wild cetaceans out in the
ocean on their migratory routes, as well as being a source of amazement
and entertainment, was also a poignant sight for their captive viewers.
The experience of this view must be considered in relation to respon-

dents’ exposure to it or, in other words, the proportion of their time that
was spent in cells and on adjacent landings where such views were avail-
able. At the case study prison, regime varied slightly between wings and
for prisoners undertaking different forms of work and so on, but, in gen-
eral, prisoners would be away from their cells and landings for about five
hours each day. During the remaining 19 hours, they would be either
confined to their own cell (i.e. overnight) or to the space comprising their
landing and the unlocked cells—that is, able to look at the view from
their own cell window, from the landing windows, and potentially from
the windows of other prisoners’ cells. This means that, if their own cell
had a view of the sea, they would be able to look at this view for the
majority of the day—including at night when illuminated by the moon,
harbour lights, shipping vessels and oil rigs.
Given this extensive exposure, it is heartening that as well as recount-
ing particularly notable occasions (as in the focus group above), most
participants indicated positive associations with the sea view, using words
descriptive of a therapeutic effect, including feelings of comfort, ease,
relaxation, stress reduction, restfulness and peace, as well as fascination,
exhilaration, distraction and excitement. Beyond this, it may be argued
that the experience of the sea view from the more private, individual
space of a prisoner’s cell increased the likelihood of them being able to
convert experience of that sea view to these positive emotional and affec-
tive responses. Indeed, many prisoners commented on the way the view
enabled the passing of time or ‘escape’ from the monotony of prison life.
As Mikey explains:
A view’s a good thing. It makes your time go by. I notice myself just sitting
watching stuff outside and an hour or two’s gone by. Whereas if you’re just
looking at your wall downstairs, even just looking out at the main walls, it
does your nut in, that.
Additionally, as Jimmy intimates, the therapeutic effects are derived dis-

tinctly from the distraction of and association with the sea:
[I]f I came in at the start of my sentence and having that view it would help
me not think of depression and despair and things like that because you’re
seeing outside. Especially on a stormy night with the sea and things
like that.
Prisoners explained that being able to see the sea enhanced their ability to
sleep (or that if they were able to move to a cell with a window that over-
looked such a view it would provide that benefit). Others reflected on the
feelings of relaxation and peace derived from the ability to visually inter-
act with the weather or sunsets, augmented by the elemental characteris-
tics of the water (such as the smells and sounds of the sea). As Scott
explained:
I love looking at the sea. I never used to like the sea, it wasn’t until I went
out there and you see some of the sunsets it is just gorgeous like and even
with the thunder and lightning, I liked that as well, but everyone has dif-
ferent… I think when you start getting older you’re not young and dumb
anymore. I love the sea it’s so peaceful like, it’s the best thing you can do
with the sea, like the fishing boats sailing along the side of us.
These engagements with the landscape hint at the importance of

awareness of the passage of time. A wealth of scholarship makes clear the
disorientation caused by timelessness in prison and the sense of repetition
and being ‘left behind’ that it causes (e.g. Moran 2012; Kotova 2018).
One benefit of nature views is their propensity, in seasonal climates, to
enable those who view them to maintain contact with the seasons and
thereby the passage of time. In commenting on the apparent progression
of the sun and the corresponding patterns of fishing boat trips, Scott
gives us another example of the ways in which blue views enable temporal
awareness. A firm criterion of a therapeutic environment is the ability to
allow the individual to ‘escape’ from the circumstances that are causing
them harm, allowing them to metaphorically cross the boundary between
the prison and ‘freedom’ (Turner 2016). In the prison environment, legit-
imate escape—that is, which allows an individual to feel removed from
the mental or bodily ‘pains of imprisonment’ (Sykes 1958) without
compromising their physical security within carceral space—may be

facilitated by a sea view. As prisoners Damien and Stephen recounted:
Damien: I can spend ages looking out the window and drifting
away…it’s made my time a lot better. Especially for long
term prisoners, people that have got a large majority of their
life stuck in here, little things like that that don’t cost any-
thing do make a difference. It helps the time become a bit
more bearable, to be honest.
Interviewer: What’s good about looking at the [sea and harbour area]?
How does it make you feel to do that?
Stephen: Sort of tranquil. You can gather your thoughts and just think
about what you’re going to do when you get outside again.
It’s good to see some civilisation.
Staff members also talked of prisoners and officers ‘just daydreaming’

while standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows in each living unit, which
were likened in one case to ‘infinity swimming pools’, such was the way
the sea view appeared at the end of the corridor (interview, prison offi-
cer). However, a sea view is not enjoyed in every area of the prison. Scott
explained that unless you are located in the upper storeys of the house
block, your cell window looks out only onto the exterior perimeter or
internal spaces such as the exercise yard or sports pitch:
Interviewer: What view have you got on the ground floor?

Scott: The fence, you can’t really see much because it’s closed off,
but I’ve been upstairs and it’s a beautiful view if you’re […]
on the left hand side because you’ve got the harbour, you’ve
got the ships coming in. A lot of people will sit there and just
watch the ships coming in and going out. I’m not really too
interested in seeing ships moving back and forth or watching
people picking up their crab boxes. You see the orange box
placed wherever. But I can see where they get the inter-
est from.
Although prisoners’ enjoyment of the seascape is arguably a personal

preference, this view was coveted by the majority of our prisoner partici-
pants. Accordingly, cells without such a view harness fewer positive asso-
ciations—the outside space is an agent of change upon the inside space
of the cell. Reflecting on the limited vistas offered by ground floor rooms,
Ali offered suggestions to improve these views, to ensure prisoners were
given an equal outlook:
You can’t see past the wall. To me, you could have… say if you’re in the
Blackpool Tower, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in the Blackpool Tower,
you can walk along one part of the section. There’s like the four corners,
and then one piece of pure glass …And I’m thinking why can’t you have a
big section of that wall that’s glass in that sense? But then again, if that’s like
the sea, that could be the seaside. Or maybe not the sea, you could maybe
look through there to that part, and maybe see a boat. It’d be like a picture.
[I’d be] coming alive, looking at it.
There is undoubtedly recognition that this kind of interaction with the

sea is different to those experiences discussed in the healthy blue space
literature. Prisoners are not able to enjoy physical immersion, and there-
fore opportunities to enjoy other embodied, elemental entanglements are
extremely valuable. A prison officer working in the residential unit
explained:
[C]ertain cells are quite popular … you’d get the ones in the top flat
requesting the ones that were facing the sea because they’d have the breeze
coming in from the sea, plus the view out … So a view is quite important
to a lot of cons [convicts—prisoners].
More than simply contributing to the maintenance of health and well-

being, many participants believed the views from their cell windows
could have a rehabilitative effect. Being able to see the outside world was
something that Benjamin felt was crucial to reduce the ‘shock’ of release
from prison after a lengthy sentence:
A person that’s getting close to their release, maybe they’ve been in for a
long time, it’s going to be quite daunting for somebody just to walk straight
into the garden, things have changed outside that you can’t see past the
walls. So stuff like that you can see outside, see the countryside and that, at
least you can see changes. Somebody could be in prison for 10, 20 years,
there’s a lot of massive changes.
Jimmy described the enjoyment that he felt when he was able to visit
another prisoner’s cell, which had a sea view. Reflecting on his own expe-
riences as a long-term prisoner coming to the end of his sentence, he
explained that a cell with a similar view would likely be more beneficial
to a person entering the prison, at the beginning of a long sentence:
If I knew I was going to be here for over a year I’d have took the opportu-
nity for one of the cells that had a sea view because I’ve sat in one of my
pal’s cells and you see the boats and that coming in. And I haven’t seen the
sea since 1994, so when I seen the sea and seen boats coming in. Well, one
guy said “look at the smirk on his face”. You know? It was just… my eyes
were just taking it in. It was nice … I can move just now if I wish it. But
the same again, I’m going to be here for hopefully just a year, so I’d rather
somebody else gets that cell if they’re doing a big, big sentence because it
would be better for them.
We explore the ways in which prisoner culture and the relative ‘values’
placed on cells with different views by different prisoners elsewhere
(Jewkes et al. 2019). Here, we consider the cell space in conjunction with
the sea view, performing itself as a liminal carceral space (Moran 2013) of
transformation and mobility, which is inherently contra the traditional
view of the prison cell as the most static, replicated or ‘constant’ space
within the prison. However, while the benefits of a sea view for health
and wellbeing were clearly expressed by many participants, such opinions
were not universal. In the following section, we explore how, for some
prisoners, the sea view could be viewed as negative, even detrimental.
A View Too Far?

The relational nature of cell space means that its experience is akin to a
transaction between its observable qualities (such as the presence or oth-
erwise of a sea view) and the subjectivity of the occupant (such as whether
or not they personally find a view of the sea relaxing). In our study, some
responses indicated that the waterscape was far from therapeutic and
some prisoners emphasised that the sea view—no matter how temporar-
ily interesting or momentarily beneficial—may eventually form part of
the monotony of a prison sentence (as is often the case with other aquatic
landscapes that become unnoticed after a period of time [Steinberg and
Peters 2015]). For example, Duane juxtaposes the seemingly always
mobile landscape of a working port to his own stasis. Here, he makes a
critical link between the present blue space and his memories of life
working on oil rigs prior to prison:
I can see the compensators for the gates at the harbour …But now and
again looking out our window does your head in. Because I can see our
compensators and the cranes so that reminds me of the oil rigs. So then it
puts my head back to where I’ve come from and where I am now.
In this respect, blue space may reinforce the loss of liberty and autonomy.
Despite its positive connotations for individuals outside of prison, the
coastline is a barrier and obstacle to physical escape. A seemingly endless
horizon reinforces the closed space of the prison cell from which it is
viewed. Much like the ‘shark-infested’ waters around Alcatraz Island, the
seascape becomes imbued with messages of stasis and helplessness, creat-
ing a juxtaposition between past life and current life in the prison cell.
The ability of blue space to act as a memorial landscape, as it does for
Duane, is similarly frustrating for other prisoners. When talking about
the proximity of the sea, Melody was initially positive, but was adamant
that it would have detrimental effects over the longer term. From her cell,
she was only able to see the perimeter wall, internal fences and a small
portion of the garden area designated for use by female prisoners. She
recalled an occasion where she visited another prisoner’s cell:
I went upstairs last week to speak to a friend of mine, [name], who got out
yesterday, and what a view you had from her room. You can actually see the
whole harbour and see some of the town. It was pretty, it was nice, but I
wouldn’t like to look at that all the time, I think it would drive me nuts.
Because you can see daily life going on out there. I prefer the regime, I
think. … It’s nice to look at, but I would just want to be out there all the
time. It would drive me crazy.
Melody went on to recall her feelings when a local festival was held in the
adjacent town. As well as events on land, power boats and acrobatic
planes circled the harbour. Although she did not have a direct view, the
sounds of the water sports carried into the prison. She explained:
Last week they had some boat ride or something, some fayre, and it was
like next to the window. And that was at eight o’clock, and as soon as I
opened the window and looked out, all my heart was melting away, I just
felt like my heart was racing, I had to pull the blind down. It was just too
much. I had to lie there. It was like I shot [sic] it down, just pulled down
the curtain.
For Melody, the cell’s permeability rendered its ordinary purpose as a

private, sanctuary space impossible. These sentiments take us back to San
Francisco and the well-known (perhaps apocryphal) story that the least
popular cell in Alcatraz was the one at the end of the facility from which
holiday-makers could be seen and heard enjoying themselves on the
beach across the bay and where, on New Year’s Eve, prisoners reported
hearing the tinkling of champagne glasses and laughter carried across the
water by sea breezes (Jarvis 2004). The sound of others’ enjoyment was
simply too painful to bear and only exacerbated inmates’ sense of enforced
isolation. In addition to the activities associated with blue space, prison-
ers and staff also commented on several other negative ‘effects’ of living
and working within close proximity to the sea. These ranged from inclem-
ent weather to the presence of pestilent seabirds and the unpleasant smells
of seaweed and sewage effluent in (particularly urban) coastal areas. These
sentiments are contra to the literature that describes the sea as a space of
freedom, openness, vitality and lack of restriction (Anderson and Peters
2014; Hastrup and Hastrup 2015). Here, we may draw on work that
focuses on the capacity of water/sea to evoke fear, sickness and other less
positive notions (Anderson and Peters 2014). In this vein, the physical
porosities of the prison architecture create a blurred boundary between
sea and cell space.
These types of unwelcome interaction are significant in that they lead
us to appreciate that the blue space relationship for incarcerated individu-
als is at best ambiguous. It is apparent that what at first glance appears to
be merely a visual interaction with blue space is in fact manifest in wider

embodied interactions. Additionally, it is the lack of agency in relation to
blue space that affords opportunities to reconsider how ‘healthy blue
space’ might be interrogated under contingent circumstances. Our
research found that, although visual interaction with seascapes can have
therapeutic effects and engender feelings of freedom, it may also reinforce
insidious aspects of carceral control and loss.
Managing Viewpoints
The absence of a pleasant outlook from certain cells seemed to send a
clear message about the treatment that prisoners could expect and about
penal philosophy more broadly. As Kyle pondered:
I think it helps … what you can see outside the window. …Because some
jails you go to all you can see is a wall and that’s not helping at all. It
reminds you you’re in a cage within another cage.
So, in relation to this, as part of an architectural design strategy that may

serve to send a rehabilitative message to incarcerated individuals, the fol-
lowing question may be asked: could a seascape aid rehabilitation? Both
staff members and prisoners agreed that top floor cells with a sea view
could be used to incentivise prisoners. In a performance of disciplinary
power, good behaviour could be rewarded with allocation of these cells,
which were described as having the best atmosphere, outlook and ‘ambi-
ance’ (interview, security staff member). In relation to the seascape at our
case study prison, one support staff member suggested that it was simply
‘bizarre’ that the whole prison wasn’t facing the water as he ‘[couldn’t] see
any negative aspect of prisoners … looking at the sea’ (interview, non-
custodial staff member). However, the relatively limited number of cells
with coastal views was clearly intrinsic to the, arguably tension-filled,
behavioural compliance model operated in this prison, where prisoners
could be incentivised to exhibit good behaviour through offers to move
to cells with a sea view, or be down-graded to units without such a view
if they failed to comply. In this final excerpt, a prison officer highlights

this element of ‘choice’:
As yourself, you go on holiday, if you get a choice, say you go away to Spain
or wherever, and they say to you in the hotel “what would you like to
face?” …You’d pick the sea, of course you would. Every time. So I think
prisoners are like that.
It is this assumption—that a purposeful location of carceral space within

healthy landscapes, in particular, blue space, may be beneficial to those
working and living there—that we take forward in our concluding
comments.
Conclusion
Prior discussion of sea views tends to highlight the benefits for individu-
als located close to blue spaces they can also access physically, with visual
experience complementing therapeutic immersion. In this particular
prison environment, although prisoners have limited interaction with the
blue landscape from their cells, it nevertheless enables ‘escapes’ and free-
doms for some, whilst this has a counter-therapeutic effect for others that
often results in a complicated relationship with the space of the prison
cell—the space in which prisoners spend the majority of their time. As
such, we may question whether Foley and Kistemann’s (2015) notion of
healthy blue space can be wholeheartedly adopted. In concluding this
chapter, we call for the expansion of inquiry into therapeutic landscapes
to the notion of the healthy blue space under contingent circumstances, for
example, in conditions of incarceration where individuals cannot choose
whether to accept or reject interaction with these cell landscapes and/or
where access to such landscapes may be part and parcel of a system of
behavioural control. With this in mind, we would welcome the expan-
sion of healthy or therapeutic landscapes into other arenas of study that
may exhibit conditions of lack of agency and enforced geographical loca-
tion, for example, hospitals, care homes, hospices or social housing, and
in particular where waterscapes do not necessarily meet the conventional
definitions of therapeutic, such as industrial coastlines or landscapes with

particular dangers, such as coastal erosion or water pollution.
Additionally, while recognising that a sea view from a prison cell is not
necessarily a priority for a successful prison, we are confident that prox-
imity to and views of blue spaces may be managed in order to maximise
their potential positive impacts on health and wellbeing. In a recently
designed prison in Denmark, architects developed a staggered, ‘saw-
tooth’ design to ensure that each cell window has a view of the surround-
ing countryside and does not overlook any of the prison buildings, thus
forcing an exterior view away from the prison itself towards the ‘outside’
world. In a similar way, blue landscapes may be incorporated into the
design of a prison, such as the lake that forms a central feature of The
State Prison of East Jutland at Enner Mark, Denmark, which opened in
2006. In taking a lead from such examples, we believe that intentional
use of blue space in a custodial setting could serve to reinforce the values
of the justice system inasmuch as it facilitates health and wellbeing among
prisoners, which form a core component of the wider aims of rehabilita-
tion and reduction of recidivism among offenders.
Notes
1. See Strange and Kempa (2003) for a critical analysis of tourist experiences
on Alcatraz Island.
2. For Foley and Kistemann, ‘blue’ is used in reference to ‘its established
associations with oceans, seas, lakes, rivers and other bodies of water’ rec-
ognising also ‘the myriad shades and forms (grey, brown, dark, oily,
muddy, clear) that are recognisable dimensions of water bodies at different
scales’ (2015: 158).
3. For a comprehensive review of therapeutic blue space, see Foley and
Kistemann (2015), where examples range from interactions with European
rivers to Canadian lakes.
4. Here we consider that although, in some cases, such spaces may be expe-
rienced negatively, their healing intention usually prevails.
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11
Hearing Behind the Door: The Cell
as a Portal to Prison Life
Kate Herrity
I came one time with a friend who had to do a workshop … and somebody
pushed their flap down, and my friend, he got really scared, and it was only
then that he realised. He said: “Oh my, there’s people in there!” I didn’t
understand. I mean, I knew, but I didn’t expect him to say that. But then
when I thought about it, and him having no idea what prison is and the
idea and concept of being locked in a cell. To him that was like “Wow. Oh,
there’s actual people in there?!” And I chuckled, so yeah, I think the envi-
ronment is not just one thing is it? It’s many things. (Tone,1 prison officer)
Tone’s reflection on the particularity of prison spaces illustrates the cen-

trality of the cell to ‘what prison is’. Frequently, and to their detriment,
accounts of prison life focus on shared spaces of association—the wings,
landings and connecting walkways—forgetting that ‘there’s people in
there’, beyond the peripheries of vision. Tone’s account of his friend’s
surprise provides a useful means of sensitising and sharpening our focus
on those out-of-sight spaces. Foregrounding accounts of these
lesser-considered prison spaces provides a portal to often over-looked
K. Herrity (*)
De Montfort University, Leicester, UK

240 K. Herrity
aspects and textures of prison life. Shifting attention to these hidden

spaces, beyond our vision, prompts consideration of how they are experi-
enced sensorially; to how they smell, feel and sound. Don Ihde (2007)
argues the auditory imagination straddles imagined and perceived realms
of experience and is rich with possibilities for exploring our understand-
ing of time and space. The auditory imagination refers to those aspects of
thought and experience which are interwoven with sound, a facet of
understanding uniquely placed to bridge our private, inner worlds and
external social spaces (Eliot 1933; Toop 2010). This presents additional
value in the context of prison, where the specificities of how time and
space are experienced are particularly acute (Moran 2012).While prison
is a powerful totem of the state’s power to punish, characterised by stark
power relations, its spaces nevertheless echo the array of life conducted
within its walls. As Crewe et al. (2014) illustrate, the prison is not a
monolithic space but, rather, one characterised by contrasting emotional
topographies within which all manner of identity performance must be
managed.
This chapter draws on a research project on the significance of sound
in prison using aural ethnography, conducted over seven months in a
local2 prison: HMP Midtown, UK. I briefly introduce the project and
methodology before going on to focus on sound as a means of fore-
grounding the cell as a lens for understanding prison life. The prison
population in England and Wales spends up to 22 hours a day behind the
door (HMCIP 2018) which necessitates communication behind, between
and through walls. I consider the implications of this for how we under-
stand the shape of prison life, arguing that the cell features the use of
sound as a system of signification, is a place of sanctuary and a site of
‘sousveillance’. Listening more closely, I argue, adds depth and texture to
our understanding of prison life, as well as the space it inhabits, as ‘not
just one thing… but many things’ (Tone, prisoner officer).
The Project
The material and inspiration for this chapter originated in doctoral
research (Herrity 2019) to explore the significance of sound in prison
spaces. I spent over seven months exploring the soundscape3 by listening
11 Hearing Behind the Door: The Cell as a Portal to Prison Life 241
to and observing the role of sound in the social life of the prison, comple-
menting this with ethnographically informed interviews. While 29 mem-
bers of the prison community (10 members staff with assorted grades and
roles and 19 prisoners) were interviewed, I spoke to most people moving
through the prison spaces during my time there. All accounts were taken
from interviews or conversations recorded in my field notes collected in
the course of the project.
HMP Midtown, where I conducted my research, is an unusually small
prison, comprising one main wing. While the ‘churn’ or turnover of pris-
oner population was typically high for a prison of its type, there was a
certain consistency in the community while people remained there,
allowing me to develop a more intimate acquaintance with its sound-
scape. I carried keys and was generously granted an unusual degree of
latitude in my movements, including spending a night listening to the
shifting soundscape. However, I remained restricted by an awareness of
the precariousness of my position as an outsider and the need to prioritise
security concerns. While I had remarkably free rein, I felt unable to accept
frequent invitations to enjoy coffee and a gossip in people’s cells: first
because all within the prison fall under the relentless scrutiny of security
and, second, because remaining in clear sight lessened the strain on
resources my presence represented. The men often wanted to show me
artwork and photographs of loved ones but were generally obliged to
bring these treasured items out to me. Pride taken in personalising and
maintaining these cramped spaces was a frequent topic of conversation,
as were the ways in which the cell, unsurprisingly, featured in navigating
prison life. Regrettably I was largely unable to see—or hear—the cell for
myself, though the No. 14 and I conducted our interview within a locked
cell as a means of eliciting reflection on the sonic environment. Privileging
sound went some way to compensating for these physical constraints,
harnessing the auditory imagination to increase the capacity to invite
imaginings of those I spoke with (McNeill 2018: 156).
My research concerns a broad examination of the significance of social
aspects of auditory experience for how we understand the prison. In this
chapter I am particularly interested in examining the ways the prison
soundscape brings the concealed social life conducted within the cell to
the forefront of prison life, rather than relegating it to those unseen and
242 K. Herrity
unknowable spaces beyond the limits of our vision. I now turn to one
aspect of the prison soundscape—banging—as a means of demonstrating
the significance of sound for understanding the cell.
BANGBANGBANG
In prison, where ‘sound rules’ (Kelly 2017: 3), the function of sound as a
system of signification—a system of both representation and communi-
cation of meaning (Chion 2010)—is particularly potent. The lexicon of
banging—a constant feature of the prison soundscape—is both an
explicit and easily accessible demonstration of this point. As is well-
documented, prison offers limited access to goods and services; in addi-
tion, mobility and consequently vision are restricted for much of the
prison day (HMCIP 2018; Sykes 1958). In the prison environment
banging—most often on the inside of a locked cell door—was a means of
compensating for lack of visibility behind it (in both directions). Imposing
a presence on the soundscape presented a challenge to the constraints of
being ‘behind the door’. Quantity of banging as well as tone, frequency,
context and quality denoted the wider emotional climate: ‘a bad day, I
s’pose the sounds that relate to a bad day is banging, constant banging,
unified banging is terrible, that is, it’s not a good sound’ (Tone, prison
officer). For others, banging denoted a wider set of meanings depending
on the context in which they were interpreted:
You could hear banging now and it wouldn’t necessarily bother you, but in
those situations when you’re walking on the landing to drop something off,
it’s a different type of banging. It can be quite intimidating…. It’s just the
type of bang, isn’t it, and you know, the atmosphere when there’s been lots
to go in to that full lockdown. (Joanne, drug support worker)
Banging represented an act of insistent communication in opposition to

the constraints of the physical environment and in that sense constituted
an act of resistance with a variety of discernible messages: a system of mean-
ing (Chion 2010). Here, I use two examples as a means of illustrating
both how sound is used within prison to compensate for the restrictions
of imprisonment and how the cell operates as a site of self-expression.

However, this is far from a comprehensive key. Not only do specific mean-
ings vary according to context of regime and individual circumstance, but
the array of banging extends considerably beyond the two examples referred
to here. Nevertheless these were amongst those heard during fieldwork at
HMP Midtown and provide a useful means of illustrating the social signifi-
cance of sound in the cell.
Rapid, Rhythmic (BangBangBangBang)

Rapid, rhythmic banging denotes frustration and irritation. The banging
may indicate the regime is running a little behind, that the person within
has urgent business to attend to and/or wants out. Frequently this bang-
ing erupts in short bursts. It may be echoed by a number of cell occu-
pants depending on what else is occurring. It can go on for prolonged
periods of time, particularly if items are used to do the banging rather
than fists or feet.
As sound can impact cognitive function and concentration, as well as
being a nuisance causing distress and adversely affecting health, this effect
could be keenly felt (e.g. Klatte et al. 2013; Munzel et al. 2014). This was
underscored by Claire, a senior psychologist who had not long been at
Midtown and had moved from a far larger and better equipped prison:
I mean there’s so much about the place that is just really impractical for
doing my job, so things like I had an IQ assessment to do with a guy a few
weeks ago. So firstly I need him to be able to concentrate, secondly I need
somewhere relatively quiet because if I’m asking him to repeat back strings
of numbers that I’ve just read to him and there’s people bashing on the
door shouting, that’s not fair on him and that’s going to bias the assess-
ment. (Claire, senior psychologist)
The adverse impact banging could have on the nerves was precisely why
it was such an effective means of making the presence of the cell occupant
felt and heard. Prolonged banging was difficult for those it was imposed
upon. Staff, as well as prisoners, were generally stuck on the wing for the
244 K. Herrity
duration of their shift and attempting to attend to the needs of nearly

two hundred men to the backdrop of a harsh, repetitive soundtrack
frayed the nerves and made it difficult to concentrate.
Rapid, Moving (Bangbangbangbangbang

bangbangbangbanG)
Unlike the rapid, rhythmic banging, rapid banging that moves location is
always celebratory, like a sonic Mexican wave, and normally heard during
sporting events. I stayed behind one evening to listen to the men as they
enjoyed a radio broadcast of a Midtown football match on home turf. I
was able to monitor the progress of the game by standing on the wing, as
the men’s response—to goals, near misses, unpopular referee decisions
and the other team scoring—effectively relayed the game. I was advised
by a number of staff as well as one or two prisoners that I ought to make
sure I was there for such an event: ‘when the football’s on, or the tennis,
the atmosphere’s brilliant… you hear the cheers, you hear the chants and
I can remember feeling really buzzing after that. And like the guys. It was
so powerful’ (Joanne, drug support worker). The emotional climate of
the prison sounded markedly different. This was an evening match and,
despite it being an important Midtown game, the volume declined as the
evening wore on. There was, seemingly, a collective code about noise lev-
els and disturbance after certain hours (the match concluded after ten).
While celebratory banging was less common, it served as a means of
illustrating the ways in which sound could be used from within the cell
to positively impact on the community soundscape as well as to convey
frustration with prison life. Banging conveyed a complex range of
information and emotion, acting as a means of amplifying discontent
and shaping the ‘feel’ of social spaces beyond the cell. It could also func-
tion as a means of redressing unequal power relations by imposing an
effect on others through noise, despite the limitations of mobility
imposed by being locked up. Listening carefully to banging, its pur-
poses and meanings amplifies not only the significance of the prison
soundscape but also of the cell to prison life. Banging was a consistent
feature of auditory information at HMP Midtown, echoing human

ingenuity and the compulsion to communicate. Attending to the
importance of banging, which largely occurs behind the cell door,
focuses attention on the cell as a site of communication and resistance.
Jennifer Turner (2016) explores the multifarious ways in which rela-
tions and culture permeate the porous perimeters of the prison. Banging
is one of a number of means of amplifying the extent to which this applies
within prison spaces as well as between those and outside. Prisoners could
impact on the mood or feel of the wing from within their cell in a variety
of ways; in the case of banging, this impact was partially dependent on
recognition of a shared system of meanings. Examining this aspect of the
prison soundscape reveals an additional facet of navigations of power
inside; material constraints of space and goods are circumvented by
deploying innovative strategies with sound. Considering these facets of
everyday prison life adds nuance to our understanding of the cell, elevat-
ing these hidden spaces beyond symbols of imprisonment, and the spaces
within which incarceration is most keenly felt. Listening to sound from
the cell encourages engagement with the significance of spaces beyond
what can be seen. In so doing, attending to sound in cell spaces extends
our understanding of imprisonment further than is possible by privileg-
ing the visual.
While banging illustrates the ways in which sound could be used in
cell to transcend spatial limitations, the prison soundscape also intruded
upon the ‘sanctuary’ that the cell could offer. Sound could present as an
inescapable reminder of the wider meaning of imprisonment within the
cell space, the clangs, bangs and shouts permeating the walls, vibrating
through the body. The materiality of sound could be felt upon the body,
reinforcing the pains of imprisonment within the cell. Conversely, while
private space was hard to come by, uses of sound within the cell also pro-
vided a means for re-inhabiting the self in ways which provided sanctu-
ary. Prisoners reported using sound as a means of carving out space for
expressing and exploring their sense of self in opposition to the intrusive
effects of the prison environment. Sound here was used as a protective
membrane, preserving identity and a means of exercising sonic agency
(Labelle 2019).
246 K. Herrity
Sound, Cell and Sanctuary

Sound could be experienced as reinforcing the pains of imprisonment
upon the incarcerated body: ‘See, those doors bang. They don’t mean it
but it goes through you, you feel it in your body’ (Clive, prisoner).
Attempts to carve out space to reassert the private self could be threat-
ened by the pervasiveness of prison sounds not only reaching the ears but
literally imposing the prison environment on and in the body of the pris-
oner. Clangs, bangs and rumblings in the bowels of the prison could
reinforce the sense of imprisonment by reverberating through the incar-
cerated body. While the mind might find respite and escape from the
sights of prison, the intrusiveness of sound could act as an inescapable
reminder of the prison surroundings.
Not all sound has profound physical impact, but the absence of ‘earlids’
ensures the reach of auditory information extends far beyond the limits of
vision (Carpenter and Mcluhan 1960). The particular meaning of prison
sounds lent them additional force, intruding upon personal space and
transgressing boundaries both physical and mental: ‘Behind your door,
you turn your telly up but you can always hear the keys’ (Si, prisoner). At
Midtown a number of men reported experiencing the jangling of the keys
as an imposition of symbolic power (Bourdieu 1977). The sound of the
keys reinforced awareness of prisoner’s subaltern status by reminding them
of their incarceration. Despite these negative aspects of auditory experi-
ence, sound was also harnessed by a number of men as a means of carving
out space, peace and solitude. As with a number of prison staff, ‘peace’ was
a complicated and loaded term, often a euphemism for ‘quiet’. Conversely,
quiet often referred to an absence of trouble (Liebling et al. 2010), a calm
and regular day, ironically often the noisiest of all.
Officer Rose explained the satisfaction of a prison day well-managed:
‘happiness is door-shaped: that’s a reference to, once we’ve got everybody
in a cell, and everybody behind the door then we get that, that peace’. As
he also pointed out, it was far from unusual for prisoners to request bang
up, particularly if a day felt ‘bubbly’ (volatile), or they were feeling low or
troubled: ‘I’ve had prisoners come to me and say: “Oh Mr Rose, there’s
something wrong I don’t like that, can you bang me up?”’ The strains of
boredom and the perils of ‘bang up’ were omnipresent, but time in cell
also offered a means of carving out private space in ways which featured
in a variety of coping and adaptation strategies which used sound as a
means of reinforcing a sense of self. Sound was used by some as a means
of creating an insulating cocoon, an additional layer between their person
and the prison walls, within which they sought respite from the impact
of incarceration.
Sound and the relative amount of control over it behind the door pre-
sented the opportunity to transcend the physical constraints of the envi-
ronment offering partial respite from the prison soundscape. Prisoners
utilised the auditory imagination to carve out personal space for them-
selves within the cell, to detach themselves from the prison environment,
using sound to reinforce their separateness. Similar to those Ben Crewe
identifies as ‘retreatists’ amongst his adaptive typology, in that these ‘pad
rats’ were neither subdued nor seduced by prison rules (Crewe 2009:
191). The physical withdrawal of these individuals was echoed in their
quietness and lack of contribution to the aural environment. In contrast
to both Crewe’s typology and much of the local population of Midtown,
these men sometimes lacked long-entrenched narratives of drug depen-
dency. Rather than retreating, these behaviours of avoidance of wider
prison society in preference of their pads (cells) were about distancing
from prison society5 and the intrusive soundscape which reinforced the
sense of imprisonment within it. Urfan spoke passionately about his dif-
ference from those around him: ‘Yes, change myself to stay in cell and not
speak to anyone. Stay in cell, that’s it … I don’t want involved. Stay inside
and do with the reading’. Urfan was keen to emphasise his good character
which he marked with his separateness. His expressions of resistance to
involvement with wider prison life were framed in this context of quiet
separateness. In contrast, Lamar did have a history of drug use. For him
withdrawing from prison society was a statement of his desire to move on
and be done with this aspect of prison life: ‘I’d hardly talk to anyone. I’d
come out my cell for my hour, get my shower, go on the phone, and
before it’s even time to bang up I’m banging up myself cos I just don’t
want to be around it’. The cell, therefore, featured in identity perfor-
mance: a means of declaring personhood in contrast to others. Unlike the
use of the cell to express a desirable pro-social identity, Urfan and Lamar
248 K. Herrity
expressed their good character by drawing on their cells as sites of with-

drawal from prison society and the soundscape which lends it shape and
meaning. These formed one in an extensive range of adaptive behaviours
in which the cell featured in strategies of survival as well as resistance in
everyday life (Jewkes 2013).
The relative privacy cells offered were also used to reconstitute the self.
Prisoners used these as places to recalibrate, to express their emotions by
using sound and its absence to prompt memories of other times and
spaces. Lugs explained drug use: ‘takes the bars away for the night’. Drugs
here provide a means of dulling the senses to the prison environment.
Time could move differently in these private spaces, less constrained by
intrusive aural markers of the daily regime: ‘It goes fast behind that door
though Kate. Very fast’ (Lugs, prisoner). Tonk, conversely, used his cell
differently to carve out space to shore up his emotional wellbeing. He was
highly verbal and boisterous, but for him this time served an important
function:
Release… that’s what I do, like I need music in my cell. I need music like,
I love to just sing and let it out… you know what I mean? If I aint got
music I’ll either bang my door or shout out my window or shout to other
lads like. (Tonk, prisoner)
Sound could be used to carve out separate space. For Tonk the cell was a
sonic sanctuary, the absence of which was likely to reduce anyone else’s
ability to find any. Tonk’s feeling of safety derived from the freedom to
express himself without fear of censure, a freedom he found within the
confines of his cell and the comforts of his own noise. Other than his
habitual gym use, his ability to express himself behind his cell door was a
necessary means of letting off steam and recalibrating mental balance.
For Boyd, time in his cell allowed for auditory imaginings of other times
and places:
Yeah, if I’m listening to CDS, like there’s certain songs, when I was with
my partner and the kids all doing funny things, and that song comes on
again, it reminds you of good times, when we were all doing silly things,
like that, that’s a good thing I suppose. (Boyd, prisoner)
In the cell, sound was used to summon memories of loved ones and to
explore emotions in relative privacy (Herrity 2018). Boyd explicitly refers
to the way in which sound, in this case music, was used within his cell to
revisit warm memories, the times and places these were made and the
feelings associated with them. There was a sociality to sonic memory
which eased the passing of time, in contrast to the correspondents who
featured in Ian O’Donnell’s account of solitude in prison (O’Donnell
2016). Prisoners used their cells to emotionally recalibrate, or to sub-
merge themselves in memories of happier times, summoning temporary
respite from the privations of prison.
Difficulty dealing with time ‘behind the door’ was a profound marker
for poor coping with prison more generally, unsurprisingly since this
accounted for most of the time. In some ways, coping with and adapting
to the doing of time was a solitary process. However, living at such close
proximity entangled one another’s wellbeing. One man’s poor coping
could endanger that of the next; expressions of distress and agitation
within such confined spaces could prove intrusive. Seamus’ account of
the difficulty some experienced behind the door demonstrates the ines-
capable sociality of prison life:
banging, crying, screaming keeps us awake—they can’t do their bang up

you see. They should leave the doors open and they’d be okay, it’s all those
hours locked up by themselves, they can’t take it, does their head in then
none of us sleep. Keeps us awake all night. Big problem. (Seamus, prisoner)
Changing relationships with the cell also functioned as an indicator

that something was wrong. Sabotage of this space could be an expression
of profound distress. At the far end of a spectrum of behaviours are ‘flat-
packing’ (destruction of the cell and its furniture), deliberately blocking
sinks or setting cell fires where the inhabitant effectively risks self-
immolation. Shifting testimony about time in cell was a less dramatic
means of illustrating psychological deterioration. Natty, a prisoner on an
indeterminate sentence for public protection with a tariff of 18 months
but now nearing the 10-year mark of time inside, told me on a particularly
bleak day: ‘I don’t listen to music anymore. I don’t watch TV. Just silence
and I hear everything going on around me’. Natty seemed particularly
250 K. Herrity
prone to mood swings, but on this occasion, his passivity within his space
indicated a particularly bad spell. He had, albeit briefly—he was quite
hopeful about the latest parole hearing which was keeping him at
Midtown on hold—lost the will to assert himself. In talking about his
lack of retreat from the sonic assaults of the prison, he appeared to be
indicating the soundscape threatened to engulf him in the endless tides
of banging, clanging and shouting which dominated the daily symphony
of prison life.
Time in cell offered the opportunity to emotionally recalibrate away
from the hustle and bustle of the wing. This time could also function as
a space for invoking auditory imaginings of other times and places, mem-
ories fundamental to the self-narrative. A declining ability to harness
these opportunities could serve as an indicator of deteriorating wellbeing.
While the cell soundscape featured in individual endeavours to express
identity or shore up a sense of self in opposition to the prison environ-
ment, sound in the cell was also a key site for navigating wider social
relations.
‘I Can Tell You Exactly What’s Happening

Around the Prison’: The Cell as a Site
of Sousveillance
Tom Rice (2013) explores the role of sound in practices of monitoring
and surveillance in the hospital setting. As he points out, auscultation—
listening to internal sounds of the body—is a feature of medical work.
This is expanded externally, he argues, in daily rituals which reify patient
identities through the meanings attached to the hospital soundscape, cre-
ating what Barry Truax terms an ‘acoustic community’ (Rice 2013; Truax
2001). Rice focuses on practices of listening and wider epistemological
claims remain implicit. Nevertheless his work can be extended to form a
proposal for social ‘auscultation’: a means of discerning the rhythms of
daily institutional life by listening (Rice 2010). This is a useful starting
point for exploring the significance of sound in the prison institution,
but while sound features in practices of surveillance in prison, sound is
also integral to practices of ‘sousveillance’ in which the cell was crucial.

Jan Fernback (2012) defines sousveillance as inverse surveillance: acts
that resist monitoring practices of power; watching the watched, or in
this case, listening to the listeners. The cell was a central site for navigat-
ing the tensions inherent in dynamics of power and resistance. Behind
the door offered a uniquely privileged listening point for gathering
knowledge and a means of circumnavigating surveillance to navigate the
prison environment. While the pains of imprisonment were written on
the carceral body in the materiality of sound, the intimate familiarity
with the sounds of daily life this afforded was a source of knowledge
which could be utilised to ameliorate the loss of liberty.
While sound played a fundamental role in monitoring order for staff,
it had a more explicit role in gauging what was going on for those con-
fined behind the door. An unsettled, ‘bubbly’, social climate echoed in
the soundscape, a harbinger of incidents to come. The ability to identify
and anticipate events was a major preoccupation of the prison commu-
nity. Officer Rose made this point:
Some mornings they’ll come out and it’ll be so subdued, and you just
know. Something’s gonna go, you just know. Don’t know what it is, it’ll
probably be somebody’s gonna come out and batter somebody else, some-
thing like that, but you can sense it’s gonna happen but you just don’t
know what it is. (Rose, prison officer)
Officer Rose’s account of discerning trouble through the soundscape

identifies practices of auscultation as fundamental to the maintenance of
order and safety. His account also conveyed a sense of premonitory wari-
ness as central to staff experience. Officer Rose later describes this as pred-
icated on experience, as becoming instinctive… after a while. Officer
Tone’s remark that ‘they know a hell of a lot, they’re in tune with wher-
ever you are’ amplifies the use of sound as a means of overcoming
restricted vision—staff rarely move around the prison without the accom-
panying percussion of rubber soles on metal, the rustling of uniform and
rhythmic jangling of keys. His observation also underscores this distinc-
tion between the staff experience of premonitory wariness and that of
prisoner’s ‘consumptive wariness’ (Crewe et al. 2014). Ben Crewe et al.
252 K. Herrity
use this term to describe the perpetual feeling of leery discomfort imposed
by the prison environment. The intrusiveness of the prison soundscape
provides an explanatory mechanism for how this feeling is maintained so
consistently behind the door. Conversely participants’ reflections on
sound and prison life resonate with the contradictions and limits of pan-
optical power (Foucault 1977). Without acknowledgement of the poten-
tial afforded by their sonic skill set, staff were limited by the peripheries
of vision and doomed to gauge stability by assessing the whole, rather
than drawing on the methods used by the prisoner community. The few
were surveilled by the many (Mathieson 1997). Stretch echoed this point:
I can stand next to staff and have a conversation with you blatantly at this
level, and he will not know what I’m on about … the screws? Useless! … I
can tell you what they’re talking about and I’m on the fours and they’re on
the threes, you know why? Cos they can’t talk to each other like we can,
without looking. (Stretch, prisoner)
In recognising a nexus between sound, knowledge and power, prisoners’

adaptive behaviours gave them the upper hand: ‘I can tell you exactly
what’s happening round the prison. It’s crazy’ (Stretch, prisoner). Stretch’s
account also echoes Sykes’ (1958) assessment of the contingent, partial
and fluid nature of power negotiations. The cell is a crucial site on which
these negotiations are conducted, sound the conduit through which they
are contested.
This distinction in experience can be identified as stemming from dif-
ferent ways of knowing. It is worth pointing out too that many of the
men I spoke with had extensive experience not only of prison but HMP
Midtown specifically. Lugs and Stretch, for example, had clocked up
decades of time at Midtown between them, as well as being local men in
a local prison largely for local people. Prisoners necessarily spent more
time inside, in addition to utilising intelligence gained from that most
particular of vantage points, or acoustic ‘sweet spots’: the cell. Tonk
explains: ‘this is my… I live here! You [officers] work here, but at the
minute I live here more than them’. His intimate knowledge of his sur-
roundings was born of an association with the rhythms of daily life unin-
terrupted by the intrusions of normal existence. Whether or not this
determined more was at stake in failing to keep abreast of events, it cer-

tainly contributed to an unbroken familiarity with the ebb and flow of
prison life. This intimate acquaintance with the everyday rhythms of
daily activity provided a uniquely privileged vantage point from which to
keep abreast of developments.
Prisoners drew heavily from the particular knowledge derived from
what they heard behind the cell door: ‘You hear it more in the cell cos you
hear like the walls echoing. Outside everyone’s talking you can’t really
hear it’ (Mooch, prisoner). Stretch corroborated Mooch’s account of
sound as a tool for sousveillance when he recounted identifying trouble
the night before: ‘I was like: the block’s getting smashed up … I was only
leaning on the wall … but I knew from the vibrations, cos there’s differ-
ent vibrations from music to damage’. Sound, in providing a source of
knowledge, was inextricably intertwined with power relations: ‘I hear a
lot. I know what goes on in here man’ (Mooch). Listening out for trouble
was a basis for diagnosing its direction, a necessary tool for both monitor-
ing the monitors (where trouble is, staff will frequently follow) and in the
ecology of survival (Toch 1992). Sound was a powerful source of knowl-
edge, and ability to interpret the soundscape was intimately bound with
assertions of status: ‘I can tell you exactly what’s happening around the
prison … because this is my domain, this is my manor’ (Stretch, prisoner).
Recognising the role of the cell as a site of knowledge also adds nuance
to understandings of the way in which power operates in prison spaces.
The soundscape offers a sonic semaphore with which to navigate prison
spaces. Various prisoners reported drawing on sound to keep them abreast
of what was happening when confined behind the door, whether listen-
ing—and feeling—or more conventionally communicating whether
through windows or, as Lugs suggested was a bygone tactic, emptying the
loos to talk through the pipes.
Officer Tone rather cynically illustrated the role of sousveillance in
avoiding staff attention when he joked: ‘mischief greatly heightens the
senses’. While the uses of sensory information had far greater scope than
this, the men reported the cell as the site of a range of behaviours that
might otherwise result in punishment. As Davey explained: ‘If I am
gonna fight I’ll go somewhere where it won’t be seen’. This again raised
the issue of the degree to which the cells featured in the hidden life of
254 K. Herrity
prison, a side of prison society which the staff either struggled to catch up
on or remained oblivious or indifferent to: ‘A lot of fights happen in pads.
And staff don’t even know about it’ (Tonk, prisoner). Lugs made clear the
extent to which these behaviours were adopted as a means of navigating
surveillance: ‘There’s cameras so if we do owt we have to go in the toilet
or a cell to say “Yo, ra ra ra”’. A whole range of life at HMP Midtown was
conducted in cells and out of view both of staff and much of the prisoner
population though, in the case of the latter, much could be heard or dis-
cerned through the walls or via gossip—a permanent feature of daily
routine. Avoiding being seen in these instances also meant retreating to
spaces beyond the hearing of those outside the network of cells. Here,
sound operates in a number of ways both circumventing and subverting
surveillance. Considering the significance of the prison soundscape, then,
reveals additional facets of prison life and the way in which hidden
spaces—specifically the cell—are utilised in everyday life beyond our line
of sight.
Accounting for life out of view adds texture to understandings of daily
life inside, but in this particular context also offers instruction on the role
of violence in prison. Aside from the suggestion that much violence may
be unseen, unchallenged and unrecorded, it also adds nuance to consid-
erations of its function when visible. The No. 1 governor illuminated a
central rule of prison life for the whole community: ‘People don’t want to
be mugged off’. Davey examined the particular functions of violence and
the role of the cell as a site for negotiating status:
If someone comes up to you and calls you a dickhead for example, if there
was no one there you could just go “shut up, get away from me”. But
because those people are there you think he’s just done that now these lot’ll
think they can do it to me, so I’ll have to do something about it. I think
that’s how it works in here, what you’ll find is they think they’re something,
in front of all their mates, but if you say to them if you’re such a big man
you come to my pad, on your own… the people who have got something
about them, they will come to your pad. (Davey, prisoner)
His experience prompts contemplation of just how much of prison life,

particularly violence, is conducted out of view. This adds to the ways in
which violence can be understood, as well as prison life more generally. If

much of violence and score-settling is conducted out of view, what chal-
lenge does this pose to the way we understand prison life? Considering
the role of sound in cell life not only adds nuance to understanding of the
functions of violence in prison life but also the ways in which listening
and identifying aural cues is an important tool in the armoury of strate-
gies of safety and security. Trouble—a ‘bubbly’ day—has a sound, and
those well versed in the semaphore of the prison soundscape recognise it.
Recognising the role of cell sound in practices of sousveillance adds
complexity to understandings of the contingent nature of power in prison
spaces. This places sound, and the cell, at the centre of navigations of
power and resistance on which order and safety depend. The ability to
decipher the soundscape as a means of mapping activity around the space
overcame physical limitations of vision and movement. Prisoners used
auscultation of their inner world as a means of demonstrating status and
negotiating survival, anticipating violence and eluding authority’s gaze.
Sound illuminated the ways in which the disempowerment of incarcera-
tion paradoxically designated the incarcerated body as site of knowledge
and power. Considering the significance of the cell in this way illumi-
nated the textures of violence in prison, strongly indicating its social pur-
pose as a means of enforcing social codes as well as navigating the prison
social world. Stretch illustrated this point more succinctly than I: ‘If you
can’t hear, you have to feel’.
Concluding Thoughts
Using sound as a means of casting light over spaces beyond the peripher-
ies of vision offers a means of understanding the ways in which prisoners
assert identity in resisting the constraints of imprisonment. Asking about
less targeted features of the prison lent greater scope for relaying sonic
expressions of identity within the cell. As a result, the ways in which
sound within the cell featured in strategies of coping became clearer. In
addition to more performative aspects of self, the cell was also central to
strategies of self-preservation. The cell could provide physical retreat and
emotional respite, an opportunity both to recalibrate and to invoke
256 K. Herrity
experience of other times and spaces by harnessing the auditory imagina-

tion. Exploring out-of-sight spaces through enquiring about sound
emphasised the potential of sound as a way of producing knowledge
about how prison spaces are experienced.
The prison community also used sound as a source of knowledge in
processes of surveillance and sousveillance. Sound sites the cell at the
nexus of tensions between power and knowledge in prison. The cell could
be utilised in navigating prison life, in demonstrations of status and prac-
tices of survival. Using sound to illuminate the cell acted as a portal to the
hidden textures of prison life and strategies of coping. Hearing behind
the door prompts us to question what we miss when we fail to take
account of what lies beyond the limits of our vision and what implica-
tions that has for how we understand our processes of meaning making.
Focussing on sound reveals the rich diversity of prison life beyond our
line of sight, and the humanity of those forced to exist within it.
Notes
1. All names are pseudonyms to protect the identity of those I spoke with
and are often derived from information exchanged between the partici-
pant and I. This extends to the prison which I refer to as HMP Midtown.
2. Local prisons house those awaiting trial, immediately after conviction, or
if subject to a relatively short sentence (less than four years) when prepar-
ing for release. In practice men—and these are always men’s prisons,
women’s prisons form a separate category within the estate and form a
small fraction (approx. 5 per cent of the population)—with a staggering
array of sentences and circumstances pass through or become stuck while
waiting for parole or appeal hearings.
3. ‘Soundscape’ refers to aural components of the environment, or land-
scape. The definition provided by the British Standards Institute includes
dimensions of experience (expectation, memory, emotion) which do not
reflect sound as it is heard, but rather as it is interpreted within particular
spatial contexts (BSI 2014).
4. ‘No. 1’ refers to the prison governor—head of the prison—overseeing
security and day-to-day running.
5. The advent of ‘NPS’, deepening prison crises and expanding prison popu-
lation have combined to impose significant changes on the prisoner soci-
ety in the last decade. ‘NPS’ refers to new psychoactive substances. These
are chemical compounds designed to mimic the effects of other drugs
(synthetic cannabinoids with trade names such as ‘spice’ and ‘mamba’ are
particularly common though compounds change and evolve quite rapidly
as well as being highly variable).
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12
Prison Cell Spaces, Bodies and Touch
Elisabeth Fransson and Francesca Giofrè
Introduction
The prison cell is both a concrete place experienced by physical bodies
and an imagined room that we meet in fiction, films and, also more
recently, via penal tourism (Turner 2013). The prison cell symbolises
penalty (Foucault 1977) and is, in classic penological literature, consid-
ered to be the most intimate and private space within the prison where
the prisoner rests, sleeps, eats and is alone with their thoughts (Gramsci
1947). Through Jean-Luc Nancy’s (2008) concept of touching, this chap-
ter disrupts traditional understandings of the prison cell as an isolated
unit within the prison by exploring various prison cells, their boundaries
and extensions. The analysis is facilitated by material generated through
a comparative study in two female prisons in Italy and Norway and
E. Fransson (*)
University College of Norwegian Correctional Service, Oslo, Norway
F. Giofrè
Department of Architecture and Design, Sapienza University of Rome, Italy

262 E. Fransson and F. Giofrè
highlights three spaces crucially related to the cell: inside cell spaces, cor-
ridor spaces and threshold spaces.
Elizabeth Grosz’s (1994) concept of bodies in-place and bodies out-of-
place helps to highlight the cultural meanings connected to embodied
practices in various prison cell spaces and how such prison cell spaces
touch and are touched by female bodies. The intention with this chapter
is to develop an analytical optic regarding the relationship between prison
cell spaces, bodies and touch. Touch, within this analytical gaze, is not
just a concept we use to analyse the material conducted, but is crucial for
us as researchers as we touch and are touched by the research field through
our mode of study and the classifications and concepts we use. In this
way, the chapter explores prison cells by putting ontological and episte-
mological questions at the core of the analysis. The first section of the
chapter introduces the analytical framework related to sensuous architec-
ture and the philosophy of touch. In the second section, we introduce the
context and our methodological strategy; and, in the third, we present
the analysis of three spaces intrinsic to the prison cell: inside cell spaces,
corridor spaces and threshold spaces and their relationship with touch.
ensuous Architecture, the Philosophy

S
of Touch and Prison Boundaries
The Finnish architect Juhani Pallasmaa (2005) argues that modern con-
sciousness and sensory reality is dominated by the sense of vision. The
power of the eye over the other sensory realms has turned architecture
into an art form of instant visual image, leaving out the concept of touch
as a multi-sensory experience that is a significant experience of architec-
ture. However, qualities of matter, space and scale are also measured by
the ear, nose, skin, tongue, skeleton and muscle (Pallasmaa 2005: 41). All
the senses, including vision, are extensions of the sense of touch. The
senses are specialisations of the skin, and all sensory experiences are
related to tactility, as the anthropologist Montagu argues:
[The skin] is the oldest and the most sensitive of our organs, our first
medium of communication, and our most efficient protector [...]. Even the
transparent cornea of the eye is overlain by a layer of modified skin [...].
12 Prison Cell Spaces, Bodies and Touch 263
Touch is the parent of our eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. It is the sense which
became differentiated into the others, a fact that seems to be recognized in
the age-old evaluation of touch as ‘the mother of the senses’. (Montagu
1986: 3, in Pallasmaa 2005: ii)
Sensuous architecture is closely linked to touch, which in this chapter,

will be understood as both physical, emotional and philosophical. Touch
can relate to physical, visceral contact: the sensory experience of touching
through the skin. Touch is also emotional: we can be touched with or
without physical contact, when a feeling arises in us through direct
or indirect contact with an object or a person (Derrida 2005). Touch is,
then, also philosophical—it is a way of making sense of engagements and
relations between things. Moreover, touching is both visible and invisible
and requires the movement of bodies, where it is impossible to be in
exactly the same place, at the same time. As Nancy explains:
Two bodies can’t occupy the same place simultaneously. Therefore you and
I are not simultaneously in the place where I write, where you read, where
I speak, where you listen. No contact without displacement. The fax goes
fast; but speed is spacing. There is now way that we, you and I, will touch
each other, or touch onto entries into bodies. A discourse is obligated to
indicate its source, its point of emission, its condition of possibility, and its
point of departure. But I can’t speak from where you listen, and you can’t
hear from where I speak—nor can we, either of us, hear where the discourse
is speaking from (and is spoken from). (Nancy 2008: 57)
Sensuous architecture and the philosophy of touch opens up for studying

the complex relationships between bodies and prison cell spaces. Bodies
within prison cells move: they get in and out of beds, walk out of the
prison cell, come back inside, look in one direction and then another, eat
and think. In all of these activities, bodies with different energies, tempo,
rhythms and tones touch and are touched (Derrida 2005; Nancy 2008;
Fransson 2018; Rossholt 2012). Some bodies lie in bed and do not want
to go out of the cell; others cannot wait for the cell door to be opened in
the morning. Others engage with their surroundings and the people in
them in less physical ways.
International prison rules, national penal codes and local correctional
rules and discourses define when the cell door is open and when it is
closed. Old penal discourses mix with new thoughts embodied by prison
officers that enter the prison cell. The prison cell context and the numbers
of bodies within the prison cell have impact on movements, as well as staff
moving in and out of the prison cell. A prison officer coming in to talk, a
comment or a certain gaze from another prisoner, a memory or a physical
touch can change how a body reacts from one moment to another
(Grønvold and Fransson 2019). Anxiety, fear, calmness, hunger and pas-
sion are produced in the body by movements within and outside the cell.
Boundaries between the inside and the outside of prisons and other
institutions were a key issue in classic sociology (Foucault 1977; Goffman
1961) and have, in later years, been renewed to problematise the “insides”
and “outsides” of prisons. In The Prison Boundary, Turner (2016) gives an
overview of the prison boundary literature and points out that boundar-
ies can be both a hard line and a symbolic construction that often deals
with everyday border work (Turner 2016: 54). In this chapter, we are
inspired by elements in this literature regarding “inside”, “outside” and
“everyday border work” as we disrupt traditional understandings of the
concept of the prison cell by incorporating the corridor and the threshold
as extensions of the prison cell. Through the analytical optic of sensuous
architecture and the philosophy of touch in combination with prison
ethnography and architectural design, we analyse bodies-space relation-
ships comparing an Italian and Norwegian prison.
Context and Methodological Strategy

Prison research in Norway and Italy has traditionally been situated in two
different penological traditions: Norway in the Nordic and Anglo-Saxon
tradition and Italy in the continental tradition together with countries
like France and Germany (Fransson, Giofrè & Johnsen 2018). A com-
parative study of the prison cell in these two countries is interesting
because of their differences regarding penal ideologies, prison architec-
ture, correctional care and discourses (Giofrè, Porro & Fransson 2018).
The intention with this chapter is to develop an analytical optic regarding
the relationship between prison cell spaces, body and touch. Since simi-
larities and differences are constructed and developed through our posi-
tions, gaze and conceptual understandings as researchers (Fransson et al.
2018; Giofrè et al. 2018; Krogstad 2000), we need to reflect upon what
and how we hear, see, smell and touch. What, for instance, does noise
versus silence do to us as researchers? Within the analytical optic of
Nancy’s concept touching (Nancy 2008), we offer an original approach to
what a prison cell can become and the various dimensions of prison cell
spaces. By thinking philosophically and in a non-representational man-
ner, we follow Deleuze and Guattari (1994) who argue that concepts
should be developed by focusing on events that encourage the thought to
do thinking. In this research it is not the number of interviews or obser-
vations that is most important. The purpose is neither to provide com-
parisons nor paint a representative picture, since the world does not ask
to be observed in certain ways but is constructed by the researcher (Lather
1991; Fransson and Johnsen 2015; Rossholt 2012, Åkerstrøm Andersen
2003). In accordance with this epistemological approach, the empirical
material is varied but centred on prison cells and prison cell spaces in two
of the largest women’s prison in Italy and Norway.
Rebibbia in Rome, Italy, and Bredtveit in Oslo, Norway, are the largest
prisons for women in these two countries. Rebibbia was built in the early
1970s, inside a men’s district jail built in the 1950s, and designed to
accommodate 267 prisoners, but it is often overcrowded. The prison
accommodates women in high, medium and low security sections.
Bredtveit was originally a farm, taken over by the state in 1929. It has,
since 1949, been a prison for women. The prison accommodates 64
women in high and low security sections.
Both in Italy and Norway the methodological approach consists of
prison ethnography and architectural design. In Italy, following a period
of negotiation of access, we conducted three field visits and held inter-
views with 14 imprisoned women and five prison staff members in the
prison from September 2018 until March 2019. The prisoners were
mostly chosen by the prison staff. They were either interviewed individu-
ally or in pairs, and some of the interviews were conducted in the pres-
ence of staff. In some cases, prisoners were asked to produce sketches or
drawings to explain their interactions with the space of the cell and its
surroundings. We also observed the prison cells and the spaces connected
with them and analysed key policy documents such as the prison rules.
In Norway, we first visited the prison in the early spring of 2018 and
spent time observing spaces throughout the prison, including the
residential corridors and some of the cells. After our initial site visit, in
which we were accompanied by the prison inspector, it transpired that a
programme of conventional interviews would be impossible given the
various other research commitments ongoing in the prison at that time.
Instead, we were offered the opportunity to participate in an event in the
prison: the celebration of World Health Day (9 December 2018), which
was meticulously planned by both staff and prisoners, in terms of its pro-
gramme and security arrangements. The day featured a showcase of dif-
ferent activities: poetry readings, singing, discussion around a gardening
project, a presentation of the prison radio station, a knitting club and a
discussion between prisoners and an inspector about the conditions in
the prison. The World Health Day was attended by several external speak-
ers and participants. Here, we were able to converse informally with the
women whilst enjoying the activities and sharing food. After this day, we
returned to the prison the following week to conduct a focus group with
four women. We also subsequently returned for further discussions with
the prison administration. In Norway as in Italy, we analysed key policy
documents such as the prison rules. As part of the data, our own gaze and
reflections as researchers in these two different prison spaces also became
crucial to the process of analysing the research material.
Cells, Corridors, Thresholds

Analysing and comparing the data collected, we found that prison cells
must be contextualised and related to various architectonical and cultural
settings and movements. Through further analysis, we discerned that
prison cells have borders, extensions and “in-betweens”. Importantly,
then, we attend here to the critical relationship between cells and corri-
dors, which also highlights a third significant space: the threshold. The
typical prison cell in the Italian prison is a room of 14 m2 shared by two,
three or four female prisoners. In the Norwegian prison women are
housed in individual cells, which range from 7 m2 to 20 m2. Accordingly,
to be housed alone in the prison cell or to share it with other prisoners
reveals important differences in the relationships regarding the body and
prison cell spaces in Italy and Norway. Inside the cell, through move-
ments, women create bodily relationships and boundaries to others.
Being one or several bodies within the same cell means that cells are
touching and touched differently by female bodies. Boundaries, distance
and proximity have to be dealt with in different ways, and personal spaces
are defined differently in cells shared by women.
In both prisons, the cells are organised along corridors, but the archi-
tectural frame of the corridor reveals differences impacting on the con-
cept of what a cell is, its boundaries and extensions. In the Norwegian
prison, the cells are organised along a linear corridor. In opening the cell
door, the women pass directly out into a corridor, which is usually a silent
space. On the other side of the corridor, there is either a wall with win-
dows (Fig. 12.1a) or other cell doors (Fig. 12.1b). The corridor leads to
the kitchen or the sitting room, where women can meet other prisoners
and staff. Conversely, in the Italian prison, the cells are organised along a
corridor that surrounds an “open” courtyard, around viewing balconies.
Opening the cell door, the imprisoned body can see and be a part of the
bigger prison community, sounds, movements, different languages and
conflicts. The prison cell “is the modus operandi of the disciplinary pow-
ers, but … to make a cell, you need corridors” (Trüby et al. 2014: 941).
The corridor is the space that suggests and contains mobility (Armstrong
2015) and has a different meaning according to its role of connection
with the cell and other prison spaces. The movement of the body inside
the cell changes based on how the outside corridor is articulated. Moving
the body from the cell through the linear corridor—as in the Norwegian
case (Fig. 12.1a and b)—constructs the corridor as a pathway to get to
other rooms like the kitchen, the sitting room or to the education centre
or activity rooms within the prison. In the Italian case (Fig. 12.1c), the
corridor has an added meaning: it is not only a pathway, but a place
where things happen.
Moreover, during our period of onsite observation, we identified
another key space that has an impact on the cell by being both a part of
it and a link to the corridor: the threshold. Moving from inside the cell
into the corridor, the body has to pass the threshold. We relate the thresh-
old to the concept of boundary “as a broad term that refers to any type of
division” (Turner 2016: 30); however, the threshold also allows the tran-
sition from one zone to another. Therefore, threshold is a part of the
boundary of the prison cell that sometimes can be perceived as a barrier
and in other times perceived as an element that opens up spaces (Boettger
Fig. 12.1 Cell and corridor: the distribution (Source: F Giofrè)
2014: 10). Accordingly, we define the prison cell threshold as an invisible

line dividing the prison cell from the corridor, inside the cell from outside
the cell, the body as it is inside the cell from the way the body moves and
relates to bodies outside the cell.
All these connected prison cell spaces touch and are touched by female
bodies differently in Italy and Norway. In the following section, we begin
our analysis inside various cells. We then go out in the corridors and,
finally, pause on the threshold between the cell and the corridor.
Inside Cell Spaces
My cell is the most beautiful one. I have the orange curtains, before they were
yellow. I also made the plastic storage trolley covers. In the bathroom, I made
some bags to keep things all in the same colour, even toilet paper holders and
carpets, bedspreads. My cell is beautiful, wonderful, protective, there are no
suffering walls. I am obsessed with cleaning. (Valeria,1 Italian prison)
There is something universal and very essential about the way in which
Valeria speaks of how she has worked with her cell. By making plastic stor-
age trolley covers and bags to keep things in, she has made the cell her
“home”. However, in touching these prison artefacts, she is also touched
physically and materially by them, and their resonance is clearly felt. In
her appreciation of her “beautiful”, “wonderful” and “protective cell”, it is
clear that aesthetics plays a central role and gives her dignity. Through the
items that she is permitted to contain within her prison cell, she has used
her senses, her hands and thoughts: touching, arranging and rearranging,
choosing the colour orange. It is a will, a pulse, an energy and a passion
here that speaks of existential matters. In her choice of textiles, making
covers and bags and through decorating and cleaning, she has worked to
create a space for herself without being touched by “suffering walls”.
Lucia, another prisoner, says it like this:
We are two in the cell. I furnished my room in light blue, all in lace includ-
ing the curtains. I have photos of my grandchildren. The cell has a toilet. I
write and read about two hours every day. (Lucia, Italian prison)
Even if Lucia shares the prison cell with another woman, she only talks
about how she has furnished her room. Her colour is light blue. Similar
to Valeria, aesthetics plays a central role for Lucia. By touching the cell—
making it as she wants it, creating a suitable atmosphere and organising
her days with different activities—she has found a way of touching and
being touched by her cell.
Finding a suitable way to exist within, or to touch, the prison cell is cru-
cial to daily life. Nancy, a newcomer in the Italian prison, says: “When they
close the door, I feel as a butterfly in a box. I spend the time writing, draw-
ing, and going around the cell”. Antonella, another woman in the Italian
prison, says: “In the cell I feel relaxed now, but sometimes I still feel anxiety
and stress, like as I am going to die”. A third woman, Isabella, says: “I am so
tired after working that I sleep immediately”. This situation becomes more
complex when we take the duration of prison sentences into account. There
is a big difference between having to spend some weeks or months in a cell
and having to spend 26 years like Fabiana, a prisoner serving a long sentence
in Italian prison. Subsequently, women often identify their cell according to
the prison section they are accommodated in as a result of their sentence
duration. “My cell is in camerotti”, some of them say. Camerotti are the cells
for women with short sentences or for women still awaiting trial or final
sentencing. They will touch and be touched by their prison cells only for a
limited time. Others say: “My cell is in cellulare”, which are cells for sen-
tenced women “with long sentences” or “indefinite sentences”. With few
possibilities for release from prison, their cells become the closest they get to
a “home” and the prison society becomes their society. Subsequently, the
very naming of the cell in different ways positions the body, touches it and
tells something about what kind of body you are and what kind of future
you have in the prison indicated through the time you will spend in it.
We asked Fabiana to sketch her cell (see Fig. 12.2), which was located
in the “cellulare” section, and to say something about her feelings and
Fig. 12.2 Sketch of the cell by Fabiana, prisoner in Rebibbia, Italy

how she positions herself inside her cell. For her, the inner cell space is
important. The door and the window seem to be the core elements in the
cell: the entry and the exit. It is possible to read the “sense of place”, “in
and out” through these two elements. The adjectives written near the
door and the window suggest a positive relationship with the space: “the
cell is comfortable, reassuring and warm, but through the window, I can
see outside, people walking with their dogs, and the view is beautiful”.
An interpretation could be that everyday life is inside and leads out the
door to the prison community, while the “outside” the “other life”, which
isn’t for her, is outside the prison. Fabiana, despite sharing her cell with
another prisoner, has only drawn one bed and she also seems to be alone
while she is writing. The curtains in the window are important, because
as she says they give the cell “a sense of home”.
Fabiana has touched the cell through the way she has decorated and
organised it. The cell contains her life and becomes a place for reading,
watching TV, exercising, making coffee, drinking, eating, washing and
for sharing dreams and fears. The cell is also touching her: making her
feel comfortable, reassured and warm. But, there are interruptions. Every
morning an event occurs, where one cell is inspected by the police staff to
verify that there is no contraband such as drugs or unauthorised personal
items inside. Here, the staff touch personal belongings and also some-
times the women’s bodies. This means that, after the inspection, the cell
must be reorganised so that the body can once again feel in-place.
Touching practices can also be analysed through Grosz’s (1994) con-
cepts of bodies in-place and bodies out-of-place. The concepts help us to see
that we are always situated in place and how bodies are constituted by
and constitute discourses (Grosz 1994; Rossholt 2012), here, of cultural
values and correctional regimes. A body in-place in the Italian prison is a
body that cares for the cell and for herself: keeping herself clean, com-
municating and relating to the formal and informal rules. Through the
quotes we see how the limited place are divided and organised in ways
that makes it possible to create private zones inside the prison cells, which
is particularly important given cells usually house more than one pris-
oner. In the case of these multiple-occupancy cells, odours, language and
food all exist in close proximity, meaning that closeness and distance have
to be carefully regulated inside the cell space. Flexibility seems to be
important and organising the cell giving meaning to small details. A body
out-of-place is, on the other hand, is a body that smells bad, does not
communicate in the “right” way and who does not relate to the rules. A
body out-of-place might create conflicts, threaten the atmosphere, the
rhythm, the tone and disturb the private zones within the prison cells.
The Italian prison staff explained to us that conflicts within the cell are
usually due to cleanliness, both related to personal hygiene and to the
importance of keeping it tidy. Other types of conflict can be related to the
different daily rhythms among women that share the same cell, because
those prisoners who are employed have to wake up early in the morning
and might disturb sleeping bodies. In addition, thefts inside the cell occur
and create conflicts. In this way, it is clear to see how the prison cell touches
women. Fear, anxiety, sweat and aggression can be smelled and felt; both
the physicalities of bodies and their emotional states literally ‘sit in the walls’.
In the Norwegian prison, women usually have single cells and the cells
are considered private zones. In some units, the women also have their
own key so that they can lock the door when they are outside during the
day. In accordance with the Norwegian penal code, women who have
been sentenced are obliged to have some kind of purposeful activity dur-
ing the day such as work or education, amongst others. If a woman does
not come out of her cell in the morning, a prison officer will go in and try
to motivate her to come out. If this is unsuccessful, and the woman does
not wish to take part in her designated activity, she has to stay in her
room that day. Unlike in the Italian prison, where women can go out in
the corridor, this means being alone in the prison cell.
Beyond the usual expectation for multiple-cell occupancy, conversely,
in Italy, being alone is considered problematic in certain cases. One inter-
esting comparison to Norway is that, in the Italian prison, women who
might be suicidal are always placed together with other women. They are
never alone. In this way we also see how the prisoners use other “women’s
touch” as protection and shelter. This touch can relate to the skin in the
way that the women come very close to each other’s bodies through
movements and smell, but it can also refer to a more invisible movement,
a shared feeling of connection of knowing that there are other bodies
around reacting if someone feels the urge to hurt themselves.
The women taking part in the focus group in the Norwegian prison were
curious about why we were interested in speaking about the prison cell in
such detail. “There isn’t so much to say”, said Anna. On one occasion,
Victoria set the agenda and reversed the questioning by asking Elisabeth,
one of the researchers, “How would you react to being in a prison cell?”
The exchange occurred as follows:
Elisabeth: At first, I maybe would feel claustrophobic, and then maybe

I would begin to dream …
Anna: You cannot dream. Dreaming is just sad. It is better to follow
the routines and be distracted. Time goes faster in this way.
Irene: I am also a dreamer, but within the prison it is difficult.
(Focus group, Norwegian prison)
The issue around dreams opened an intense discussion about the prison
cell, how it touches the body and how women with their bodies touch the
prison cell. As Anna explained, the space of the cell often gives way to
dreaming, but this is seldom a positive experience:
In my cell I pull the curtains, lie down on the bed and keep myself occu-
pied with television or music. I don’t want to dream, look out or being
reminded by the life outside. It makes it worse. It just makes me sad and
more aware that I am here and outside life goes on. It is important that the
times go fast. That is a paradox. Because, in one way you don’t want it to
go fast because you get older. But being in here you want it to go fast. And
it goes faster if you distract yourselves. (Anna, Norwegian prison)
It has been recognised that in many difficult circumstances—such as

those young women dealing with social class and sexual issues—dreams
point and direct to a “way out” (Walkerdine 1993; Fransson 1996).
However, for Anna, dreaming touches her body in a negative way. It is
almost as if she avoids dreaming to keep her body in-place. Conversely,
one of the other women, Rosa, finds it hard to be alone: “I hate to be
alone”, she says. In contrast to the others she defines herself as a dreamer.
She stands in the window looking out and thinking. She says that this
might be because she is an illegal immigrant and that she will perhaps be
sent out of Norway.
The cell is also a space where time is passed and it often lingers. Anna
wants the time to pass quickly, but this also means that she becomes
older, and it reminds her of time passing her by. The time passing is
prison time, and not of value for her as a woman in the world. Being in
prison and inside the prison cell, her freedom is taken away from her. She
knows that the time she spends inside the cell she cannot get back.
As also James finds in another study of a female prison, women actively
make time pass by watching television and keeping themselves busy to
“keep themselves together” so that they will not “lose themselves” (James
2018: 161–162). The women in our material constantly move around
their cell: moving on and off the bed, changing position, thinking, look-
ing out of the window, looking around, watching the television and lis-
tening to music. They need to find ways of moving their bodies—that is,
the outside and inside of the body in visible or invisible ways—to cope
with the situation of being locked up inside the cell. Here, the distraction
is important. It seems that without it, the women are afraid of losing
control and in danger of becoming a body out-of-place. However, beyond
this movement inside the cell, movement outside of the cell is crucial for
it to exist as a space where an individual does not “lose themselves”. A
correctional discourse related to the importance of purposeful activity
can be read out of the comments from our Norwegian participants:
It is nice to go back to the cell and know that you have done something
useful, used your body and you can go to sleep with a good consciousness.
(Victoria, Norwegian prison)
The women explained that the best situation to be in is where you

return to your cell, feeling tired and ready to sleep. This means that you
have been doing something useful and can be pleased with yourself and
you are less tempted to think too much about guilt and sadness. For tired
women returning to the cell after a long day, the cell can also be a good
place to come back to after work or school and, in this way, a mode of
keeping the body in-place.
Although these examples of life inside the cell each have standalone
significance, what a prison cell can be and how it touches and is touched
by the body also has to be understood in relationship to the space outside
the cell. In this case, we draw attention to corridor spaces.
Corridor Spaces
One of the surprising things we found from our research was the differ-
ence in respect of the corridor spaces in the Italian and the Norwegian
prison. This can be illustrated from notes in our field diaries:
Walking through airy corridors, our bodies nearly bomb into other bodies.
We hear strong noises, a mix between voices and metallic sounds. There are
no particular smells, but our eyes appreciate the natural light. We don’t feel
secure. All the cell doors, situated around the corridor, are open and inside
we see a lot of bodies. We are allowed into a prison cell. Stepping over the
threshold three women immediately surrounds us. It is like the cell is
crowded with bodies and objects. The private space inside the cell is well-
organized around each bed. (Field diary, Italian prison)
Lucia, one of the Italian prisoners says:
Every day when I come back from my work crossing the corridor, I like to
see all the women chatting along it. I use to tell them: “Are you waiting for
the bus? Look today there is the strike!” (Lucia, Italian prison)
Moving through the corridor on her way back from work Lucia passes a
lot of bodies with different forms and shapes, languages, dialects and
sounds. Indeed, as we were escorted around the prison, the women barely
moved so we could squeeze past. The corridor space in the Italian prison
gives connotations of the Italian piazza. The word piazza comes from the
Greek word “via larga” which means a big road. People usually associate
a piazza as a place on the street where people go outside their house to
spend time and meet people: to talk, gossip, debate and interact with oth-
ers. The prison corridor has some of the same function. Here the women
can keep up with what goes on within the prison. The corridor offers
extra space and represents “society”. Women seem to touch and be
touched by each other differently outside in the corridor than inside the
cell. While the cell space needs to be well organised and clean, the corri-
dor space is more unregulated and the women can interact with bodies
other than those of their cellmates. When asked about the significance of
the courtyard space and the impact of its potential absence, Mara, from
the Italian prison, explained that this space was extremely important. She
argued that she would not like to live in a place where the corridor pro-
vided only a restricted view and, without it, she would sincerely miss
fresh air and seeing people.
In contrast to the Italian prison corridors, the Norwegian corridors
have another atmosphere, with other rhythms and sounds. While the
Italian corridor space was full of people, the corridor space in Norway
seemed to us as silent and empty:
Walking through the narrow corridor we don’t meet any bodies. It is silence
and no particular smells. Our eyes meet a bit dark, but cosy corridor with
some pictures on the painted walls. We feel secure. There are cells along the
corridors, the doors are closed. Anne is waiting for us to show us her cell.
We step over the threshold and into her cell. It is nice, clean and well-
organised. We see books and pictures of her parents. The view from the
window is pleasant. (Field diary, Norwegian prison)
The corridors in the Norwegian prison seemed much narrower, darker

and, according to both the women and the staff, “nothing happens there”.
It is not usual for women to gather in the corridors. When we asked what
was outside the women’s prison cells, the women in the focus group in
Norway first didn’t understand the question. There wasn’t anything there!
As Irene said, with puzzlement, “the corridor leads to the kitchen”. The
silence in the Norwegian prison corridors was a huge contrast to the high
noise levels in the Italian prison corridors. The silence can be read as a
cultural expression of important values such as peace and quiet in the
Norwegian culture (Gullestad 2002), but also have to do with how pris-
ons control their prisoners. In Norway, for instance, prison rules prohibit
high security prisoners from walking around the prison unescorted.
While a body in-place in the Italian case is hanging outside in the corri-
dor and shouting to other women in another floor, this would, in
Norwegian prisons, definitively be a body out-of-place. This illustrates
how bodies in prison corridors move related to prison architecture and
correctional discourses regarding what is considered a body in-place and a
body out-of-place.
Given the varying purpose of the corridors in our case studies, our
research also revealed the significance of the space between the corridor
and the prison cell. Both in the Italian and the Norwegian case, the
“threshold” comes forward as an important space to further understand
the prison cell. It is to this that we now turn.
Threshold Spaces
A threshold is traditionally understood as the strip of wood or stone

forming the bottom of a doorway, which must be crossed in entering a
house or room. Although the cell threshold might not have a physical
manifestation—there is no stone strip between the prison and the corri-
dor when the cell door is open—its symbolic presence is acutely felt. In
the case of the prison, the threshold is a boundary with meaning both in
Italy and Norway. Although bodies have to step over the threshold to
reach the corridor in both prisons, the movements related to the thresh-
old space are different in Italy and Norway.
During the day all the cell doors in the Italian prison are opened, as per
the internal rules. Going around the Italian prison, we noticed that many
women were positioned on the threshold or immediately outside their
cells. As Laura explained, this positioning was deliberate:
I like to spend time on the threshold, because I can see and hear what is
happening outside, and at the same time I can stay close to my cell to con-
trol it. (Laura, Italian prison)
In the Italian context, a body that moves beyond the threshold is ready to
represent itself to the “prison society” with the risk and the possibilities it
gives. Here, prisoners may feel the risk of interacting with unknown
women, but this brings with it the opportunity to discover what kind of
place the prison is and for getting to know other prisoners. A body that
remains on the threshold is not ready or does not want to be too involved
in what happens in the corridor. By standing the threshold, the woman
can step back, at any time, into the prison cell space and into her “pri-
vate zone”.
A body on the threshold moves between the “inner world” of the

prison cell and the “prison community” consisting of the corridors. In
that respect, women seem to be fiercely territorial about ensuring that
nothing might enter the cell and compromise its condition. There, on the
threshold acting as an obstacle or barrier between the corridor outside
and the cell inside, women can control their cells, their personal belong-
ings and their privacy. In this way the threshold becomes the space
between the private zone and “outside life”. However, despite using it to
maintain the security of their cell, the women also use the threshold space
as a mechanism for access to and communication through prison spaces.
The inside cell is opened to the outside prison community and the
outside is brought inside the cell. Here on the threshold women can talk
both to a cell mate lying on the bed inside and to women on another
floor outside. They can both participate and withdraw from the commu-
nity, so, on the threshold, bodies are inside the cell and outside at the
same time without being too involved either in the cell or the corridor.
The threshold spaces illustrate that prison boundaries are of various kinds
and of importance for everyday border work. Following Turner, the
threshold cell spaces are one boundary among many other prison bound-
aries, connected to cultural symbols, performance, embodied practices
and materiality (Turner 2016: 53). The threshold evokes an invisible and
permeable line that allows an osmotic and constant movement, touching
the cell inside and opening up the prison cell (Boettger 2014).
The threshold space has a different meaning in the Norwegian context.
Here you either arrive, and step over, or you remain inside the cell. Bodies
do not usually pause on the threshold and spend time there. In Norway
there is a saying “to get over the doorstep”, which symbolises the effort it
may be to cross over the threshold and go out. It seems that, in Norway,
the threshold is culturally, and in terms of embodied practice, a more
distinct border that can be perceived as a real barrier (Boettger 2014)
limiting bodies to remain within the prison cell.
To take part in obligatory activities, such as education and work, or to
have breakfast or a coffee in the common kitchen, the bodies have to
reach and step over the threshold and go along the corridor. For some
bodies this can be a challenge. Prison officers, in particular, said that it
was important to observe whether imprisoned bodies “cross the
threshold”. Staff explained that they prefer women to come out of their
cells because spending too much time in them is “not healthy”.
Arriving and stepping over the threshold tells us, in the Norwegian
context, something about bodies in-place or bodies out-of-place. In Norway,
as in Italy, crossing the threshold and moving into the cell means moving
into a private zone. To go into another woman’s cell, you usually need to
be invited. Women in the focus group said that they rarely invited people
into the cell, into their private space. Consequently, a body crossing over
the threshold and into the cell without permission therefore could be a
body out-of-place. Anne explained: “I hate it when someone comes in and
stands in the doorway”. She says she feels suffocated. Irene says: “It is the
same if another woman wants to drag me into her cell to tell me some-
thing. I feel that I am trapped”.
The threshold in the Norwegian prison therefore seems to be a clear
boundary between the inside cell space and the prison community out-
side, a clear marker between “the public” and “the private space” that
helps to keep the right closeness and distance between the bodies.
Conclusion
In this chapter we have focused upon prison cells and the areas immedi-
ately around them through a comparative study of two prisons in Italy
and Norway. The goal has been to develop new knowledge about how
female prisoner’s bodies touch and are touched by these prison cell spaces.
The research findings demonstrate that bodies move differently in, touch
and are touched by prison cell spaces in various ways under influence
from prison architecture, prison design, prison discourses, culture and
prison rules.
The chapter therefore reveals a complex relationship between the
prison cell and its more peripheral spaces such as corridor spaces and the
threshold space. The cell is not necessarily the smallest and most intimate
space within the prison. It is both open and locked, connected and dis-
connected; it has boundaries, extensions and in-betweens. By incorporat-
ing the corridors and the threshold spaces into the concept of prison cell,
we expand its meaning and open up the limited and singular
understanding of what a prison cell is and can be. Through highlighting

various prison cell spaces and exploring the connotations of “inside cell
spaces”, “corridor spaces” and “threshold spaces”, we have reinterpreted
the concept of a prison cell. Through Nancy’s concept of touching and
Grosz’s concepts of bodies in-place and bodies out-of-place, the chapter
disrupts conventional understandings of the prison cell and casts light on
the relationship between prison cell spaces, bodies and touch in a
Norwegian and Italian prison. Accordingly, this chapter contributes in
advancing the academic literature regarding sensuous prison architecture
and the philosophy of touch. By putting ontological and epistemological
questions at the forefront, the chapter is also a contribution to the exist-
ing research literature regarding prison boundaries within sociology,
criminology and carceral geography. This work broadens our conceptual
understanding of the prison cell and points to the importance of how it
works in conjunction with spaces at its periphery. Findings suggest that
the way prison cell spaces are used has a bearing upon the socialisation of
prisoners, their emotional and physical health and their attitude towards
their time in prison. In this respect, the comparative analyses of prison
cell spaces in Italy and Norway may assist with proposing new questions
related to prison cell spaces and how their design is potentially related to
correctional progress and reentry into society. More than this, the experi-
ence of these spaces is often individualised and varies by geographical
context. This chapter therefore highlights the importance of studying
prison architecture beyond its technicalities, using an embodied and
interdisciplinary approach. For these reasons we argue the importance of
studying how bodies move, touch and are touched within various prison
spaces and the importance of the user-oriented design, bringing prisoners
into the planning process of renovation, extension and building of
prisons.
Acknowledgements The authors would like to thank Doris Bakken, Deputy

Governor at Bredtveit prison, for reading through and checking the details
about Bredtveit in this chapter.
Note
1. Pseudonyms have been used throughout.
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13
PrisonCloud: The Beating Heart
of the Digital Prison Cell
Jana Robberechts and Kristel Beyens
Introduction: The Multifunctional Cell

The use of information and communication technologies (hereafter,
ICTs) is deeply embedded in modern social life. Investment in ICTs has
evolved to such an extent that the environment in which citizens interact
with public authorities and administration is one which is heavily depen-
dent on them (Scharff-Smith 2012: 467). The positive attitude towards
the benefits of ICTs is less apparent in the context of the prison setting,
where its rarity is notable (Johnson and Hail-Jares 2016: 284). Although
the principle of normalisation—that life inside prison should as far as
possible resemble the positive aspects of life outside prison—is promoted
from an international perspective, the issue of technology usage is a sensi-
tive one (Council of Europe 2006). This is largely related to the fact that
prisons are managed from a control and security position which estab-
lishes limits to normalisation (Vollan 2016; Maes et al. 2019). By
J. Robberechts (*) • K. Beyens

Department of Criminology, Vrije Universiteit Brussel, Brussel, Belgium

284 J. Robberechts and K. Beyens
denying prisoners’ access to new technologies, however, a new level of

disconnection had emerged, ‘demarking a distinctive pain of modern
imprisonment’ (Johnson 2005: 257) and leaving prisoners as ‘cavemen in
an era of speed-of-light technology’ (Jewkes and Johnston 2009: 135).
The more recent introduction of ICT to the prison context has attempted
to bridge the digital gap.
The principle of normalisation that gradually penetrated the Belgian
prison system since the 1970s led to ICTs such as televisions and phones
becoming fully embedded in the context of prison life (Maes 2009: 340).
However, in 2014, the Belgian Prison Service went one step further by
introducing a new digital platform called PrisonCloud—a digital tool that
established an in-cell platform—to give prisoners greater responsibility
(Belgian Prison Service 2011). A partnership between the Federal govern-
ment and a private partner (e-BO Enterprises) was introduced to manage
this platform (Belgian Prison Service 2011, 2014). The government rec-
ommended that the culture of paperwork, so dominant in the Belgian
prison system, ought to be overhauled (Belgian Prison Service 2011).
Internal prison communications with prisoners were hitherto conducted
through pre-printed forms that were handwritten. For example, canteen
items and other requests were ordered using proformas, and judicial files
were photocopied upon a prisoners’ request for consultation. PrisonCloud,
as an in-cell digital platform, aimed to digitise the culture of literacy and
become not only more cost-efficient but also one that could give prison-
ers greater independence over the constructive use of their time (Belgian
Prison Service 2011). Furthermore, in-cell access could have tangible
educative advantages. It is asserted that PrisonCloud could remedy levels
of digital illiteracy perceived to undermine reintegration strategies and
also guarantee the continuity of education programmes disrupted by
strike actions or absence.1
PrisonCloud had obvious prisoner-related objectives, but it also pre-
cipitated changes to the work of prison staff. The government argued that
increased in-cell activities created a more secure environment for prison
staff but also resulted in their work being less labour-intensive (Belgian
Prison Service 2014). This needs to be considered in the context of
PrisonCloud being co-developed by a private security company—who
may be concerned with their staffing expenditure—specifically for the
13 PrisonCloud: The Beating Heart of the Digital Prison Cell 285
custodial industry. In hindsight, however, the potentialities of PrisonCloud

appear to have been more ambitious than the reality: there is a significant
lack of fit between what is provided and the applications that have been
actually used in practice. Nonetheless, there is still a tangible difference
between the standard equipment of a prison cell in digital and non-digital
prisons.2 In a digital cell:
The following items are part of the standard equipment of the living area,
in particular: a table, a chair, a bed, a washbasin and a toilet. In the prison
[…], the cells are also equipped with a shower, refrigerator, pin board, plasma
screen, headset, thin client, keyboard, basic dishes, cutlery, toilet brush,
bucket, window extractor and two waste bins with hinged lid. (Federal
Public Service of Justice 2014: 6, our emphasis)
In a digital prison, each incoming prisoner receives a personalised USB

stick with a password, which for security and privacy reasons can only be
accessed by their own in-cell PrisonCloud device. Prison cells occupied by
more than one prisoner are consequently equipped with the appropriate
number of devices to individually access the platform. Although prison-
ers have access to a secured cloud via the platform, PrisonCloud does not
currently give prisoners access to the Internet (with the exception of the
local library catalogue through the library application).
At its most basic level, the use of PrisonCloud is limited to facilitating
prison life and acting as an information provider; prisoners can find
information on relevant legislation, the internal prison rules, the prison
services, the catalogue of the local library, phone rates, and the daily
menu. Furthermore, with just a few mouse clicks, prison staff can easily
post announcements on changes to the regime or new activities. The plat-
form thus provides a fast distribution of information relative to non-
digital prisons. Alongside these informatic functions, the platform can be
used for recreational purposes as it gives prisoners access to television,
films, meditation audio, and games. The digital platform also includes an
alarm clock, calendar, and canteen applications that aim to empower
prisoners to take responsibility for their daily lives. For example, prison-
ers can directly order canteen products instead of having to hand over
their handwritten requests to the prison officers. Furthermore, PrisonCloud
gives prisoners access to courses and paid work. Since 2017, a small selec-
tion of prisoners have been allowed to work as call centre agents from
within their cell. These in-cell facilities are promoted as an advantage,
especially in the event of strikes of the prison staff or shortages of staff
hampering movements of prisoners. Indeed, PrisonCloud can (partly)
resolve the problem of prison staff refusing to organise prisoner’s move-
ments, because they are not always required to undertake this work.
The biggest change however is that PrisonCloud facilitates communica-
tion not only with internal prison services but also with the outside
world. Through PrisonCloud, prisoners are able to make phone calls to
the outside world3 from within their cells and directly write messages to
the internal prison services with no intervention or control by intermedi-
aries. Communication from prisoners in non-digital prisons takes a pro-
tracted route and involves several prison officers—all of whom are able to
read them—to correctly deliver the messages to the relevant services.
When implementing PrisonCloud, this direct way of communication was
raised and discussed by policy makers as a matter of privacy (Knight and
Van De Steene 2017). For example, prisoners can now make an appoint-
ment with the medical service directly, and with the advantage that com-
munications do not get lost, or mislaid, which regularly happens in
non-digital prisons and thus causes daily discussions between prisoners
and officers.
PrisonCloud thus covers the range of services that are available in non-
digital prisons albeit accessed directly from a digital cell. In this sense the
large range of applications available is not immediately innovative, but
the relocation of how to access these facilities to the prison cell is. One
example is the simple change around telephone usage; previously limited
to a small number of handsets located on communal landings, phone
calls are now accessible with more privacy in the individual cell through
PrisonCloud. Alongside the traditional functions of the prison cell as a
room to sleep and eat in, the introduction of digital infrastructure has
transformed it into a multifunctional workplace, classroom, and recre-
ation room. In this context, this chapter illustrates how ICT in general,
and PrisonCloud in particular, has the potential to broaden the functions
of the prison cell4 and how the idea of multifunctionality is situated in
the ongoing discussions about how digitalisation might affect the prison
experiences of both prisoners and prison staff.
Although the focus here falls primarily on the digital infrastructure of
the prison cell, we believe other features of the cell also contribute to
understandings of multifunctionality and its consequences. Moreover,
the specific configuration and use of digital platforms in each prison is
decided by the local prison administration and thus differs between digi-
tal prisons in Belgium. Amongst other things, it means that decisions of
local prison administrations can have a direct impact upon the lived
experiences of users by deciding what information is displayed on
PrisonCloud and which services prisoners can access. Furthermore, the
Belgian penitentiary landscape adds a distinctive flavour to discussions
surrounding digitalisation and multifunctionality. Certain particularities
of the Belgian context are important to bear in mind when considering
experiences with PrisonCloud, as many of these have also been influenced
by prior experiences in non-digital prisons. Belgium currently has 35
prisons, 17 of which are located in the Flemish-speaking part of Belgium
(Flanders) and 16 in the Southern, French-speaking part of Belgium
(Wallonia). The remaining two prisons are located in Brussels (Belgian
Prison Service 2018: 8). Many Belgian prisons were built in the nine-
teenth century and have suffered from overcrowding since the late 1980s.
While the overall overcrowding rate was still 24.1 per cent in 2014, in
2017 it decreased to 11.8 per cent. However, in some prisons, and par-
ticularly in the remand prisons, the overcrowding rate still varies between
20 and 40 per cent. In 2017 the average Belgian prison population totals
10,471 prisoners for an average capacity of 9231 places (Belgian Prison
Service 2018: 8).
As a direct response to overcrowding, three new prisons were built
between 2013 and 2014 and provided an opportunity for the Belgian
Prison Service to take a first step in the digitalisation of prisons. It was
arguably questionable to invest in an ambitious digital platform, an ini-
tiative that sat uncomfortably with the poor living conditions in most
existing prisons to date. Nevertheless, the new prisons were equipped
with the digital platform, and currently most, but not all, prisoners are
detained in single-occupancy cells. This is seldom the case in many of the
older non-digital prisons, where a single cell is shared between two or

more prisoners.
This chapter is based on the findings of an ethnographic study in one
digital Belgian prison that has implemented PrisonCloud since 2014.
After describing the research design, the data section will focus on the
impact of the prison cell as a ‘self-providing’ place on the detention expe-
riences of prisoners, staff-prisoner interactions, and the shifting prisoner’s
position of dependency.
The Study: A Digital Research Context

The empirical findings discussed here were derived from a wider project5
that studied the impact of PrisonCloud on the experiences of prisoners,
prison staff, and the prisoner-staff relationships in one digital prison. The
institution was a closed prison (with a capacity of 300) for long-term
male prisoners serving sentences from five years to life imprisonment and
was comprised of four wings—two with an open-door regime and two
with a closed regime. Between June 2017 and August 2018, a total of 63
interviews were conducted with participants who were selected by a non-
probability purposive sample of 36 prisoners, 12 prison officers (with
different rankings), and 15 other members of various prison services
including prison governors (3), accounting services (1), religious services
(3), local prison administration (1), ICT services (2), medical services
(1), psychosocial services (2), and social and welfare services (2). Prior to
the interviews, observations in the prison were conducted by the first
author over six months between January and June of 2017 to develop a
clearer contextual picture of this uniquely digitalised prison.
Information and communication technologies were central to the
research and were also used to inform and contact potential respondents
who worked with PrisonCloud. Prison staff were contacted by e-mail, and
those who responded to our call for participation (with a few exceptions
for practical reasons) were interviewed; prisoners received a general mes-
sage through PrisonCloud. The invitation to participate included the con-
ditions attached to taking part in the research, and informed consent was
orally discussed and elicited prior to the interview commencing. The
local prison administration agreed for the ICT service to create a new
account for Robberechts, who conducted the empirical research. This
way, prisoners were able to directly message her without mediation or
official monitoring, to confirm their willingness to participate. In just a
few days, over 50 of the 300 prisoners replied positively to the invitation,
of which 36 were interviewed. The messages automatically included the
cell number of the prisoner, showing whether or not the prisoner was
sharing a cell, and if the prisoner was detained on an open or closed wing.
Following the findings of the initial observations and considering the
extant literature, the type of prison regime and the form of cell occu-
pancy proved to be important to the prison experience (Molleman and
van Ginneken 2014). So, the interviewees were evenly distributed
between those on open and closed wings and those sharing or occupying
single cells.
The ICT service was asked to post a new message on PrisonCloud to
confirm, as agreed with the local prison administration, that the required
number of prisoners had applied. At an elementary level then, the use of
PrisonCloud had expedited the dispatch of information to potential inter-
viewees, facilitated the finding of respondents, and gathered essential
information on some of the relevant variables for the research. However,
as prisoners gave consent to their participation directly from their prison
cell, full anonymity of their involvement was not initially guaranteed.
Eventually 36 prisoners participated—some initial respondents were lost
to a combination of prison transfers and conditional release—and whose
identities were not communicated to the local prison administration. A
list of the prisoners wishing to participate was however given to the prison
governors, as their permission was required for the research to continue.
Furthermore, the prison officers needed to open the cell door and thus
knew where the interviewed prisoner was at the time of the interview,
because of the routine counting of prisoners on the one hand and the fact
that interviews took place in separate rooms across the prison on the
other. Thus, it was difficult to ensure privacy within the prison setting, as
everyone sees who moves where and knows what the movements mean.
Furthermore, it is possible that we did not reach prisoners who were not
using the digital platform, the so-called refusniks (Selwyn et al. 2005:
18). However, in discussions with prison staff, we learned that this was
likely a small proportion of prisoners and so no further elaboration on

the experiences of this group is necessary here.
The Digital Infrastructure of Isolation

Although the outside world increasingly enters the prison (Farrington
1990; Baer and Ravneberg 2008; Moran 2013), isolation in prison set-
tings is still commonplace. Physical isolation in prisons is twofold. First,
although the walls become more permeable, the prison is still largely
closed for the outside world. On top of that, the cell door provides
another boundary for the prisoner towards the other people living and
working in prison. The physical isolation affects the social isolation as the
possibility to interact with other human beings becomes more limited. In
most Belgian prisons, it is quite common for prisoners to spend most of
their time behind the cell doors. Whilst open and closed prisons exist, the
capacity of the former is very small (about three per cent) compared to
the latter. Closed regimes are the general rule in the context of Belgian
penitentiaries, with the exception of a few prisons with wings where an
open regime allows prisoners to walk freely on the landings during the
day. These regimes affect both the level of physical and social isolation of
prisoners. As alluded to above, the prison under consideration here was a
closed prison with both open and closed wings.
We have suggested that the provision of in-cell ICT facilitates a con-
nection between the prison world and the outside world. However, the
introduction of PrisonCloud had additional consequences. First, in-cell
technology can counter isolation due to the easy and permanent access to
virtual communication. Prisoners can stay informed about life outside
prison through media such as the television, radio, and the phone, where
the sound and images can ‘create some kind of presence in the prisoner’s
cell’ and ‘suppress feelings of isolation’ (Vandebosch 2000: 537). In-cell
television is now fully embedded in contrast to in-cell telephone (Knight
2005; Maes 2009). In non-digital prisons, telephones are limited and are
commonly shared limiting the opportunity to make long calls.6 The
PrisonCloud phone function was therefore welcomed by the prisoners, as
it offered the privacy and the freedom to call when it was most suitable.
In spite of the physical isolation then, the in-cell phone and television
provided a potential 24/7 social connection with the outside world. As
one interviewee explained, having immediate access to a phone can even
compensate for the feelings of isolation than watching television
can evoke:
Sometimes you think of, or you see something nice on television that
reminds you of conviviality and then indeed you feel alone. Then I pick up
the phone and it is alright again. (Interview prisoner 14)
Both prisoners and prison staff pointed to the use of the phone as a
medium to counter not only feelings of isolation but also feelings of bore-
dom (Knight 2012). By way of killing time, and its 24/7 availability, the
use of the phone increased for many prisoners despite the associated costs
of expensive phone rates. This was also mentioned by a prison officer:
It is good that you can always make a phone call, but soon there is no
money left. And this is very strongly present here. Here, there is no money
left all the time. They are always complaining about having no money to
make a phone call. Why? Because out of boredom, they will say. They start
calling their family and friends out of boredom. (Interview supervising
officer 5)
Prisoners found the permanent in-cell access difficult as their (limited)

budget prevented them from making a phone call. Through the in-cell
access of the digital platform, prisoners are constantly reminded of the
possibility for instant connectivity, which could cause additional frustra-
tion. In-cell television and phone certainly countered social isolation, but
only within the constraints imposed by the prisoner’s budget.
By introducing technologies into the prison setting, the idea of prisons
as ‘communication poor environments’ weakens (Knight 2015: 3).
However, we found that the introduction of technologies in prisons had
unforeseen and somewhat contradictory effects. Moreover, our findings
suggest that the gradual introduction of in-cell access to virtual commu-
nication with the outside world has not necessarily led to more, or better
quality, social interactions within the prison setting. Previous prison
research has shown that the introduction of television has served as a tool
for ‘boredom management’, an ‘electronic babysitter’, or an in-cell ‘care
deliverer’ that made prisoners invisible to each other as they remained
inside their cells watching television (Jewkes and Johnston 2009; Jewkes
and Reisdorf 2016: 3; Knight 2012). Johnson, for example, states that
‘the appeal of TV is that it entertains and distracts […], while demanding
little from the viewer’ (2005: 265). In this sense, prisoners are passing
time than doing time in any active way (Jewkes 2002: 10–11). The intro-
duction of technologies then played a role in shaping prisoners’ prefer-
ences so that a greater proportion of their time was occupied by passive
activities in their cells (Vandebosch 2000). However, this was not neces-
sarily a voluntary choice. For vulnerable groups, such as sexual offenders,
PrisonCloud allowed them to increasingly spend time in their cells and
withdraw from the public life of the prison as a means to avoid conflicts
with other prisoners and thus protect their safety. Again, the digital plat-
form, whilst offering many applications that encountered some forms of
isolation for some prisoners, became a new feature of segregation that
although voluntary was intrinsically structured around PrisonCloud
because it decreased the necessity to leave their cell.
Some people don’t even dare to go to the library anymore—mainly the

sexual offenders—and have their books brought to their prison cell. There
are a number of people that I know have not put a foot outside their cell
for maybe three or four years. And the comfort of PrisonCloud and the in-
cell shower makes them [prisoners] indeed feel comfortable, but makes
them also… There is definitely detention harm there. It makes total isola-
tion possible. (Interview chaplain 1)
Although not being the only factor that plays a role in facilitating the
voluntary isolation, the above quote illustrates that most prisoners and
prison officers criticised its effect of increasing the time that was spent
inside the prison cell. And although PrisonCloud is welcomed by the
prisoners for the in-cell access to facilities, the following quote shows how
PrisonCloud also impedes prisoner’s movements:
This prison is made to stay in your cell. You know? Everything is in your
cell: a shower, a phone. Everything is in your cell. In the old days you could
go outside to take a shower, you could go outside to make a phone call. But
now, you’re always in your cell. That is fucked-up. (Interview prisoner 2,
closed regime)
By reducing the daily, albeit small interactions, prison officers lost the
everyday contact and affinity they once had with the prisoners, which
increased their capacity to check on the prisoners’ moods. This was par-
ticularly the case on the closed wings. Consequently, they no longer know
what to expect when they open a cell door, which increases their feelings
of unease and safety. Jewkes and Reisdorf (2016) referred to the situation
of when prisoners had received bad news from outside, that left ‘the
recipient alone and in a heightened stage of anger or anxiety, with no
officers able to observe and intervene’ (Jewkes and Reisdorf 2016: 12).
This contrasts with the situation where phone calls are made on the land-
ings and where prison officers can easily overhear prisoners’ conversa-
tions, monitor their emotional state, and thus anticipate their reactions:
I find the in-cell phone a disadvantage. Let me give you an example. In N

(non-digital prison) I saw a prisoner who heard that his brother died
through the phone and he just collapsed on the landing. I was nearby, and
I immediately took him into my office. You have more feeling, more con-
tact. You can talk with them. You can share their happy moments and bad
moments in which you can react and tell them it will be okay. I think this
is the greatest disadvantage of PrisonCloud.[…] If you hear that a father,
even though he is a prisoner, is telling his kids “You did that well, buddy”.
And then he goes back to his prison cell and you walk together and then
you will ask: “Has he been good?” And then you see the prisoner cheer up
because he will say, oh she is interested in my life. “Yes! He had gotten an
A on his school report and normally it is quite difficult for him.” The pris-
oner will appreciate it that you show interest for his life outside prison, that
you do not only see him as a number. (Interview supervising officer 5)
This officer’s quote thus explains that the location of the phone on the
landings also offers an additional opportunity for meaningful prison offi-
cer–-prisoner interactions, enhancing the dynamic security in prison.
However, it is also true that in non-digital prisons, phone conversations

are not systematically overheard by staff. Phone calls are neither routinely
recorded due to data protection legislation, and the system only records
the called numbers and the duration of the calls. So in-cell phone conver-
sations increase a prisoner’s privacy.
Shifting Prisoners’ Position of Dependence

Staff-prisoner relations are often said to be at the heart of prison life
(Crewe et al. 2015; Liebling et al. 2012). After all, prison officers are the
first point of contact within the prison setting. But as the cell has become
ever more a ‘self-providing’ place, prisoners rely less on the prison officers
to organise their life in prison. So, PrisonCloud even becomes the centre
of the prison cell:
Due to PrisonCloud, the prison officers hardly ever have to do anything.

They never have to collect or distribute the report messages, or when you
ask if they can phone the psychosocial service, they will say, “no, send a
message through PrisonCloud”. So, everything has to … I think it is like
the beating heart of our cell. Because whenever you need something, you
have to do it through PrisonCloud. (Interview prisoner 5, closed regime,
emphasis added)
The key role of the prison officer was historically related to a certain level
of prisoner dependency. However, PrisonCloud initiated a partial shift in
the dynamics of that dependence, away from officers and toward the digi-
tal platform: new forms of dependence were beginning to become estab-
lished through the technology. This shift reduced the opportunities for
meaningful social interactions through the mundane routines of prison
life. This was found to be more detrimental on the closed wings, where
prisoners were locked behind their cell doors for long periods with few
opportunities to leave their cells (e.g. visitation, participation activities).
In these circumstances, tendencies toward isolation were more marked.
Although the digital platform had provided instant connectivity with
both the internal prison services and the outside world, it simultaneously
fostered the idea that the landings were spaces of disconnectedness. In the
wings with the open regime, the cell doors were opened for longer peri-
ods. We observed that fewer electronic report messages were sent from
here than in the closed wings. Observations on the open wings revealed
that, during opening hours, prisoners had short conversations with other
prisoners or staff and that many issues were resolved during these interac-
tions. During the interviews it was also confirmed that more report mes-
sages were sent from the wings with the closed regime. We would argue
that the findings strongly suggest that prisoners on the closed wings had
become more dependent on virtual forms of communication.
With the introduction of PrisonCloud, the Belgian Prison Service has
pursued a policy that decreases the movements of prisoners inside prison.
This has been confirmed by the Minister of Justice during an interven-
tion in the Chamber of Representatives in 2016:
In addition, access to an in-cell phone and other services (education, order-

ing canteen, etc.) can reduce the number of internal movements within the
establishment, which has an impact both on the required staff and on the
peace and quiet within the establishment (less stress related to access facili-
ties). (The Chamber of Representatives 2016: 143)
It was asserted by the Belgian Prison Service that reducing the workload
of prison officers would give more opportunity, among other things, for
developing and maintaining social interaction with prisoners. Prison
research shows that ‘besides quality time, “quantity time” is important in
relationships’ (Beijersbergen et al. 2013: 6). The relocation of daily activi-
ties to the prison cell did indeed lead to a decreased workload for the
prison officers. However, our observations revealed little evidence that
this prompted more, or better quality, social interactions between prison-
ers and prison staff (Robberechts forthcoming). It has been described
above how the relocation of activities to the cell through PrisonCloud
diminished the opportunities for face-to-face prisoner-staff interactions
and conversations. We cited how in non-digital prisons messaging
demanded a higher level of social interaction. Although very long-
winded, this form of organising the prison created space for a lot of
micro, yet positive, social interactions.
Through the digitisation of the internal communication system, prison

officers and supervising officers are eliminated from the line of commu-
nication, which impacts on the daily operation of the wing. The advan-
tages however were evident to one supervising officer familiar with the
communication process in a non-digital prison:
“I did not get my canteen order, why didn’t I get my canteen order?” [the
prisoner says]. And then there will be a report message from the accounting
service, saying that there is only 25 cent left on their bank account. And
you are always somewhere in between. Because you will open the doors,
telling them they only have 25 cents. “It is not true chief, I received 20
euros!” And then you have to start ringing around and you are in fact the
mediator between the two parties. You do not know anything about it. You
do not know whether the story of the prisoner is true, or whether the
accounting service [administrators] just made a mistake. You put a lot of
energy in these situations and get zero energy in return. You will be the
losing party. And I knew, this is not going to happen to me in here.
(Interview supervising officer 7)
Besides this, we also found that, whilst direct digital communication

with the internal prison services eliminated negative staff-prisoner inter-
actions, PrisonCloud entailed a systemic problem of a different kind: an
overload of messages from prisoners. This led the local prison administra-
tion to limit the number of messages that could be sent to each service on
a daily or weekly basis. Moreover, the in-cell access to several facilities
impacts the work of the prison officer. Although prisoners were still
dependent on prison officers to open the cell doors, accompany them to
other parts of the prison, and for various informal requests, the percep-
tion of prison officers was that their discretionary powers were decreas-
ing. The in-cell accessibility to services then had an impact on the
self-governance of the prisoner, and also the nature of their dependency
on prison officers had shifted.
Jewkes and Reisdorf (2016: 541) have pointed out that (selective)
access to ICTs could serve as an incentive to good behaviour. However,
this was not the case in Belgium when discussing the use of PrisonCloud,
as each incoming prisoner was permitted the same access to all available
services from the beginning—there was no incentive in place that

‘rewarded’ prisoners with PrisonCloud time or facilities. Technologies that
promote the self-reliance of prisoners, according to Jewkes and Reisdorf,
could divest the guards of their authority, as they find themselves defenes-
trated by the simultaneous movement of powers upwards to the prison
administration and downwards to the ‘newly self-empowered prisoner’
(Jewkes and Reisdorf 2016: 7).
The Limitations of Self-Empowerment

Mass media is an important source of empowerment for prisoners. In its
various forms, it grants them the possibility to make choices that sustain
and develop their identities (Jewkes 2002; Knight 2005: 89). By provid-
ing facilities within the prison cell through the digital platform, the
prison administration has claimed that it will enhance the reintegration,
self-reliance, and self-empowerment of prisoners (Snacken and Beyens
2017: 119). And indeed, at first glance, PrisonCloud provided prisoners
with considerably enhanced autonomy at different levels. For example,
they were able to make appointments with the medical service directly,
order products via the canteen function, continue to work, or follow
courses during prison strikes. However, whilst it increased the responsi-
bilisation of prisoners (Crewe 2011), the autonomy provided by the digi-
tal platform was not infinite. Also Bosworth notes that although prisoners
indeed have the right to order some goods and services, ‘they have little
means of ensuring their delivery’ (2007: 73), and their access to certain
information or facilities remains restricted. Similarly, and as already men-
tioned, communication with the internal prison services through
PrisonCloud has been limited. The normalisation process envisaged with
the introduction of PrisonCloud has thus been subordinated to organisa-
tional constraints. The following quote also illustrates how the use of the
in-cell PrisonCloud phone is still hampered by other factors which main-
tain the prisoner’s dependency:
The guards there [non-digital prison] also have much more contact with
the prisoner because you have to call on the guards first and foremost. And
here you are much more in the cell and you have to do everything yourself.
But you can’t always do that. For example, you may make phone calls 24
hours a day. But you do not have a phonebook and 12077 is a blocked
number. That means that you always have to ask someone for a phone
number. But if you want to do that in N [non-digital prison], it is much
easier. There is the phone book next to the phone and if you are allowed to
make a phone call, you can at least look up a phone number. (Interview
prisoner 27, closed regime)
While prisoners can contact the internal prison services themselves,

they are still dependent on the reaction of the users on the other side of
the line. Crewe (2011: 519) points to this new pain of imprisonment in
that ‘now the prisoner is given greater autonomy—in a limited and local-
ised way—but is enlisted in the process of self-government and held
responsible for an increasing range of decisions’. In this case, to assume
responsibility is to use PrisonCloud to act. The digital platform is the only
way to access certain services to realise their own prison regime (e.g. in
order to receive visits from the outside world, prisoners have to send a
formal request through PrisonCloud).
However, there is a certain danger in leaving the initiative with the
prisoner; some will simply do nothing. As one Chaplain suggested:
They will never write a report message. So, if you do not take the initiative
to see the man… They never say ‘long time no see’. But they will say: ‘you
are the only one I talk to’. PrisonCloud strengthens the possibility of total
isolation. (Interview chaplain 1)
Conclusion: The Emergence of the ‘Total Cell’?

In his classic study, Goffman (1961: 71) argued that prisons are total
institutions since all matters of different spheres of life are exercised in
one place. These total institutions implied that a certain barrier separated
prisoners from the outside world. In the nineteenth century, the Belgian
penitentiary policy was one of individual segregation that forbade any
contact between prisoners (Snacken and Beyens 2017). Sykes (1958: 65)
argued that ‘the loss of liberty is a double one—first, by confinement to

the institution and second, by confinement within the institution’, point-
ing at the importance of the fabric of the prison cell. Indeed, as he
explains:
if men in prison were locked forever in their cells, shut off from all inter-
course with each other, and deprived of normal life, the dimensions of the
cell would be the alpha and omega of life in prison. (Sykes 1958: 5)
The prison remains a closed place to wider society, but today the walls
between and within the prison and the outside world have become more
permeable. In addition, activities are now organised to humanise the
detention conditions of the prisoner, and digital media makes it possible
for those on the inside to maintain connected with the outside world.
Nevertheless, we found that the increase in the multifunctionality of the
prison cell, where all aspects of life can be exercised from the inside, had
changed the situational geography of the prison cell. Multifunctionality
had involved a relocation of certain facilities to the prison cell, and the
different applications of PrisonCloud gave a new virtual dimension to the
prison cell. The possibility of a total cell within the total prison institution
thus became a reality for some prisoners or in those parts of the prison
with a closed door regime. Particularly vulnerable prisoners, for whom
PrisonCloud was a tool to function from within their cell, disappeared
into this new prison context. Also, in general, we found that the effect of
physical or social isolation became, on the one hand, weakened by the
increasing possibility to interact with the outside world (e.g. in-cell
phone) and, on the other hand, strengthened by the decreasing necessity
to leave the prison cell for or to directly communicate with the prison
staff on the landings. The increasing access to digital communication,
both internally and externally, thus has had (in)direct consequences for
the (feelings of ) isolation of the prisoners, voluntarily or involuntarily.
So, paradoxically, the possibility of greater virtual communication has the
potential to create physical and social isolation in this prison context.
Furthermore, our findings show that PrisonCloud entailed a shift in the
position prisoners took, within the limitations of the broader prison con-
text, towards independence and self-government. The use of technology
then created some elements of self-governance for prisoners; however,

they remained heavily dependent on the reactions to any request or ques-
tion that they used it to address. Also, in this respect, the digital platform
created a paradoxical relationship: the claim that it increased the auton-
omy of the prisoners was found to be related to the dependency that
PrisonCloud established between the prisoner and the platform.
PrisonCloud offered the prisoners the freedom to communicate virtually
both with the outside world and with the prison services, but only at the
expense of face-to-face communication with the prison staff, whose tasks
were partly taken over by the platform and who felt threatened in their
professional roles.
To end, we argue that it was the relocation of the activities to the prison
cell due to the use of technology, rather than technology per se, that has
made the greatest impact on prison life. The new form of interaction and
isolation is mainly due to how technology is used and that it is not the
technology in itself that has generated these effects. This is in line with
our findings that the normalisation process is indeed being pursued
through the platform, but in practice is limited by local policy. Our anal-
ysis thus confirms that technology is not neutral, but only acquires mean-
ing through its use by human actors and within an organisational context
(Orlikowski and Robey 1991).
Notes
1. In Belgium, prison officers are allowed to strike and it is not uncommon.
As the Belgian government has repeatedly been criticised by the European
Committee for the Prevention of Torture (CPT) for the detrimental con-
sequences of striking upon prisoners, mandatory guaranteed minimum
service of prison officers during strikes has been introduced by law
in 2019.
2. In this chapter, we will use the term ‘digital prison’ for prisons where
PrisonCloud is installed and ‘non-digital prisons’ for prisons where
PrisonCloud is not installed.
3. The standard phone system is based on a blacklist, allowing prisoners to
call anyone but the numbers on this list. This can however be adjusted to
the use of a white list, allowing prisoners only to phone the numbers that
have given consent.
4. The chapter does not specifically elaborate on the access to media in prison
but rather focuses on the digital infrastructure in general.
5. The research ‘Digitalisation in prison’ (Nr. G024316N) is funded by the
Research Foundation Flanders (FWO) and promoters Prof. Kristel Beyens
(Vrije Universiteit Brussel (VUB)) and Dr. Eric Maes (National Institute
for Criminalistics and Criminology (NICC)). Researcher: Jana
Robberechts (VUB).
6. Since 2019 in-cell telephones have been gradually implemented in non-
digital prisons.
7. 1207 is a free service directory providing phone numbers and addresses.
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English Prisons. Human Geography, 90(2), 205–216.
Beijersbergen, K. A., Dirkzwager, A. J. E., Molleman, T., van der Laan, P. H., &
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2018, from https://justitie.belgium.be/sites/default/files/downloads/nl_
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14
Carceral Projections: The Lure of the Cell
and the Heterotopia of Play
in Prison Escape
Hanneke Stuit
Introduction: Reading the Cell

Approaching the city centre of Breda, the Netherlands, from the east, its
skyline is dominated by the dome of the prison. The prison was built in
1886 and designed by J.F. Metzelaar, who closely followed Jeremy
Bentham’s famous design of the domed panopticon (Van Traa 1987). In
2001, the prison was declared a monument by the Dutch government
and in 2016 it was repurposed, like many other prisons in the Netherlands.
Many former prisons offer office space, have housed refugees or sport cof-
fee bars, restaurants and hotels. In some, musical recitals, art exhibitions
and tours of the premises are also organised. An emerging trend is to
utilise them for explicitly lucrative entertainment purposes, particularly
escape room games.1 The panoptic prison in Breda houses Prison Escape,
a game in which participants are locked up with sometimes as many as
200 other players. In three hours, players try to escape by way of
H. Stuit (*)
University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam, The Netherlands

306 H. Stuit
role-playing and following narrative strands acted out by almost 80

actors. These actors portray guards (including those handling sniffer
dogs), a hostile warden, a psychologist, other prisoners, administrative
staff and janitors. Like escape room games, Prison Escape leans on the
basic tenets of popular conceptions of the cell: the base of the game is a
small, locked room with escape as the most desirable outcome. It differs,
however, in that escape is not achieved by solving puzzles, using small
key-like objects and cracking codes, but instead relies on the heterotopic
interplay of space and the imagination.
From the outside, the prison in Breda emanates the ambiguous atmo-
sphere of a churchlike fortress. Inside, gazing up at the visually and aurally
overwhelming dome inspires awe and triggers the imagination. Indeed,
as Wilson has remarked: ‘The physical prison tells stories. Or rather, it
implies them’ (2008: 333). According to Roux, too, ‘one of the character-
istics of a prison is that it demands a narrative: to write about the experi-
ence of prison is, in a sense, to explain how one ended up there’ (2014:
255). However, prison narratives, especially those prevalent in popular
culture, do not only describe what happens before confinement. Just as
often, they focus on how, when or whether one will get out of prison
(Jarvis 2004: 170; Bennett 2018). The meaning of Prison Escape, I argue,
relies on the entanglement of such imaginaries of escape and the trigger-
ing effects of the building itself.
In this chapter, I analyse how Prison Escape’s playful engagement with the
building offers new perspectives on how shared carceral imaginaries influ-
ence player experiences. Following Fludernik (2005), I interpret the carceral
imaginary as a discursively circulated repository of images, tropes, themes,
narratives and genres that relies on and elicits specific affective and embod-
ied responses that may have ideological orientations. Of course, the peniten-
tiary is imagined and experienced in radically different ways by various
individuals and communities alike. The cell as an everyday and embodied
space, for instance, is likely to feature more prominently in the experience of
less privileged communities (Alexander 2010; Fassin 2017), while the play-
ful carceral atmosphere of a repurposed prison may be the closest more
privileged people will ever get to a cell. In the face of this differentiation in
‘closeness’ to the penitentiary, it is all the more important to analyse how
cultural expressions like Prison Escape are constructed and what insights they
allow into the ideological and affective charge of conceptions of the prison.
14 Carceral Projections: The Lure of the Cell and the Heterotopia… 307
Through an analysis of the interplay between the panoptic dome and

the cell in the imaginaries the game references and produces, I argue that
the game relies on what I call the lure of the prison cell. This lure consists
of popular narratives of prison escape, combined with metaphorical con-
structions of transcending the cell, both of which are familiar from an
exoticised and exoticising carceral imaginary. In the game, the prison
comes to function as a screen on which specific imaginations and expecta-
tions of it are projected. Yet, this spectacular use of the metaphor of the
cell and the trope of escape is countered by the experience of the game
enacted in the enclosure of the cell itself. It is thus also an interface that
connects the scripting force of the space and the carceral imaginaries of the
individual player in a space of play. This space of play, following De Cauter
and Dehaene, is profoundly heterotopic and thus ‘entails an always falter-
ing, incomplete process, without synthesis, a dialectics at a standstill, an
unstable interruption or suspension’ (2008: 94). To be sure, the game risks
exoticising the cell as a creative and connected space, rather than as just
having a ‘containing power’ for those incarcerated (Levine 2015: 8). Yet,
through the heterotopia of play, it also creates an open-ended embodied
experience that mediates prison space with the carceral imaginary and dis-
rupts passive ‘penal spectatorship’ (Wilson et al. 2017: 5).
In order to get at the detailed texture of the game experience, I analyse
my own participation in and contact with the game by considering myself
an educated ‘reader’ of its forms; I played the game with the intention of
studying it. My analysis is a close reading, which is a method central to
Cultural Analysis (Bal 2002). In this method, the cultural object or phe-
nomenon under consideration is seen as a ‘text’ that can be approached
through detailed attention to the mesh of structures, forms, intertextual
relations and metaphorical layers that determine a specific object’s or
phenomenon’s meaning (Bal 1999, 2002; Barthes 1957; Culler 2007;
Geertz 1973: 10). Close reading is based on the premise that cultural
expressions are always situated, delivered and received in a form (McLuhan
and Fiore 1967; see also Morton 2011). This form, like language, is mul-
tifaceted and sometimes even resistant to understanding (Culler 2010),
requiring close and detailed analysis before its affective, theoretical and
political effects can be grasped. Cultural theoretical insights are used as a
crowbar to prise open the complex ways in which cultural objects do
more than just mimetically reflect the culture in which they have been
308 H. Stuit
formed. The analysis also seeks to unearth objects’ performative and reit-
erative functions (Butler 1996) in generating new meanings that may
circulate beyond their direct contexts in politically or theoretically rele-
vant ways (Bal 1999: 10; Peeren 2007: 3). By studying Prison Escape in
this way, I show how conceptions of the prison travel through bodies and
through the imaginaries and spaces these bodies frequent.
arceral Imaginaries and the Lure

C
of the Prison Cell
Prison Escape is an elaborate and complex real-life game consisting of
roughly ten stages. All of these stages, from first contact on the company’s
web page to the final escape on site, are heavily scripted (see Table 14.1).
Table 14.1 Overview of game stages in Prison Escape

Immersion 1. Pre-game Player finds website, buys tickets,
priming and story is sent over mail, signing of
logistics waiver
2. Arrival and entry Instructions by game organisation
into the complex
3. Entry into the First encounter with actors (guards)
prison building
4. Check-in Locker room, overalls, mugshot, name
tags, fingerprints
5. Orientation Orientation by guards, arrival in
dome, instructions by warden
Material 6. The cells Exploration of cell, collecting objects
exploration and for kick-starting player narratives
storylines
7. Recreation Players are in the dome and courtyard
figuring out how to escape
8. Escape (or not) Players run away from the prison
Postgame (cooling 9. Celebration Everybody is in the dome again,
down) drinks and merchandise are offered,
group photo is taken
10. Postgame Questionnaires and so on are emailed
marketing to players, mugshots and group
photos are posted on Facebook
Interestingly enough, the script does not reference Breda prison’s most
infamous function of detaining Nazi collaborators after WWII nor the
successful escape of some of these men to Germany in the 1950s. There
is no mention of the fact that they were never extradited back to the
Netherlands, causing heated political debate for almost 20 years (Olink
2004). Significantly, the game interpellates its mostly Dutch-speaking
players by relying on the trope of prison escape and the way prisons
appeal to the imagination, rather than on this particular site’s history.2
Examples of this are the character of the bad warden (who had me
searched for contraband without provocation), the sympathetic or per-
haps corrupt guard (who returned that contraband to me as soon as the
warden turned his back) and the possibility of joining a prison gang
(Jarvis 2004: 168). The focus on gangs, particularly—which are much
less prevalent in Dutch prisons than in some other countries—seems to
suggest scripts familiar from US prison narratives. Most crucial, however,
is the reliance on the canonical narrative climax ending in the escape itself
(Jarvis 2004: 170).
The specificity of the site qua architecture, however, does feature heav-
ily in the game and plays a crucial role in how the notion of escape is
figured for the player. This is highlighted by the game’s home page (see
Fig. 14.1), showing an almost full-screen image of a prisoner trying to
escape from their cell, accompanied by the following line: ‘Can you
escape from the domed prison in Breda?’3
At face value, this text can be read as an exciting challenge aimed at
drawing visitors in as future players of the game. On closer inspection,
however, the phrasing is puzzlingly specific. Apparently, it matters that
the game takes place, not in any prison, but in the ‘domed prison in
Breda’. Indeed, the interior of the monumental building’s dome takes up
most of the space on the home page. The railing flanking the cells starts
on the left hand side, a natural starting position for ‘reading’ the image
that guides the gaze of the viewer along the gallery into the larger space
of the prison. Yet, more than half of the left side of the image is blurry,
directing attention to the right. There, the prisoner, clearly engaged in
escaping from their cell, is rendered in full focus. The cell door, too, is
sharp, giving it prominence in the image as a whole. Whether the pris-
oner is looking at the gallery or the guards is not clear, as they are seen
310 H. Stuit
Fig. 14.1 Image of a prisoner escaping from their cell used on Prison Escape’s
home page (Source: Sander Erdmann/Prison Escape)
from behind. In any case, the guards’ haziness turns them into an integral
part of the ‘architectural apparatus’ that needs to be subverted in order to
achieve escape (Foucault 1975: 201).
It is precisely the focus on the prisoner’s ability to look that determines
this image’s content because it reverses how panoptic surveillance induces
‘in the inmate a state of conscious and permanent visibility that assures
the automatic functioning of power’ (Foucault 1975: 201). The prisoner
in the panoptic prison knows that they are always potentially seen, but
does not know exactly when they are being watched. As Božovič points
out in his introduction to Bentham’s panoptic writings, the panopticon
thus relies on the fiction that the guard is always there as an ‘invisible
omnipresence’ in the panoptic function of the dome in general (Bentham
1995: 9). Bender describes this as ‘an imaginative projection in the sub-
ject’s consciousness of the jailer’s eye watching, as if eternally’ (1987:
23–24). By having an escaping prisoner look at the dome and apparently
loitering guards, the image on the Prison Escape home page stages an
individual defying a blurry panoptic power by looking directly at the

apparatus that should be invisible. Considering Foucault’s claim that the
panopticon is ‘a diagram of a mechanism of power reduced to its ideal
form’, the escape from this cell becomes an attractive display of resistance
to how power functions on individual bodies in panoptic settings
(Foucault 1975: 205, emphasis mine).4 The placement of the camera
behind the figure further invites viewers to identify with this defiant posi-
tion, looking with them, over their shoulder, rather than at them.
The small silver ring in the figure’s left ear works as a further individu-
alisation: a shimmer of choice in an environment otherwise represented
as bleak and static. This situation is communicated through the blandly
coloured overalls and the grey filter reminiscent of the American Prison
Break television series, which sports a similar use of both. Because of this
intertextual relation, the image becomes further infused, not just with
bleakness but more specifically with that series’ foregrounding of the pro-
tagonist’s bold ingenuity in purposefully getting arrested in order to
escape and break his brother out of prison. The image thus taps into a
more general turn in prison narratives in popular culture towards ‘the
heroism of characters’ (Aitken and Dixon quoted in Turner 2013: 224)
expressed through a focus on ‘the dangerous, violent, atomised experi-
ence of imprisonment … against which a “prison innocent” can endure
and then overcome the indignities of a brutal prison regime’ (Kearon
2012: 6).
Prison Escape is thus ultimately not about doing memory or educa-
tional work for the situatedness of the site, like a prison museum would
(Wilson et al. 2017: 5), although it does offer an opportunity to see a
prison from the inside—‘a space usually deemed wholly inaccessible to
the “law-abiding” public’ (Turner 2016: 98). Even before the visitor has
set foot anywhere near this prison, the monumental aesthetic of the
building is put on display as the setting of a heroic attempt to escape. The
game ultimately stages an imagined prison within the material and archi-
tectural confines of the disused penitentiary, and the building itself
becomes a screen on which the trope of prison escape is projected. In
other words, the game invites players to live through imprisonment in
the panoptic prison and escape from it in a metaphorical sense.
312 H. Stuit
This fantasy of escape is part of an historically persistent metaphorical

construction of the cell as a site of transcendence. Like escape tropes,
these metaphors are stored in what Fludernik has called the carceral
imaginary: ‘a collection of culturally relevant images and associations that
define our society’s idées reçues about imprisonment’ (2005: 16–17).
Having studied prison metaphors in English literature from the
Renaissance to the twentieth century, Fludernik shows that the images in
this repository rely on a number of popular metaphors including the con-
nection of prisons to hell, marriage, a tomb, the workings of society at
large, a ship, a university or academy and a sanctuary or refuge (Fludernik
2005: 10). The lure of the prison cell is indeed a dominant feature of the
carceral imaginary and themes of liminality play an important role.
Particularly cell walls and windows are made permeable ‘either through
the mental/spiritual projection of the prisoner into the realm of the tran-
scendental (God, peace, love), or through the consolatory ingress of spiri-
tual help, visions of God, of angels providing food, etc.’ (Fludernik 1999:
51). In his study of American literature and film, Jarvis foregrounds
instances of the cell as a monastic and snug space that can be longed for
by some prisoners (Jarvis 2004: 153, 154 and 163). In addition, the
iconic chipping away at the cell wall in order to tunnel out of prison
(Jarvis 2004: 204) further imbues the cell with utopian, resourceful and
heroic narratives of hope and futurity. In this sense, prison cell imagery
features more than just the containment of bodies. It also foregrounds
liminal themes of escape and transcendence that ‘disrupt the prison cell’s
containing power’ (Levine 2015: 8).
Other prison metaphors also rely strongly on the cell, using images like
prison bars, in order to transfer a ‘sense’ of being incarcerated to contexts
that have very little to do with the penitentiary (e.g. Alber 2011: 222).
Props associated with the prison cell (and dungeon), like blank walls,
closed doors, scant sanitation facilities, austere beds and small windows,
also frequently occur. Jarvis also points out that:
Bodies will be glimpsed in tiers of cells, through bars, crowded by bunks,

basins and toilets. In a formal mirroring of its subject’s predicament, the
camera in most prison films is fixed and largely restricted to tight, interior
shots. (Jarvis 2004: 170)
Here, it becomes clear that imagery of the prison is the result of a negotia-
tion between an external gaze looking at the cells, while the forms used
usually mirror looking at the prison from within, as if from, a cell. In the
image from the Prison Escape website, the centrality of negotiating the
limits of the cell is clearly visible through the foregrounding of the pris-
oner and cell door against the backdrop of the blurry threat of guards and
dome. Besides a prisoner hiding in a cleaning cart elsewhere on the web-
site, it foregoes generic images of prisoners crawling through sewage
pipes, climbing fences or running away from the prison with the shackles
still around their wrists.5 The website thus suggests that the rebellious
image of escaping the cell is expected to connect to the carceral imaginar-
ies of future players so strongly, that it alone will suffice to pique their
interest.
According to Fludernik, this focus on the cell as liminal in carceral
metaphoricity tends to be produced and circulated by groups whose
social standing means they are unlikely to end up in a prison cell them-
selves (2005: 21). This disjunction causes Fludernik to conclude that:
The carceral imaginary remains a fantasy world, an exotic heterotopia that

displaces our real-world emotions into the safe and apolitical realm of fic-
tion. Its historical veracity is minimal and so is its immediate impact on
our actions. At the same time, carceral metaphors help to engage our emo-
tions and, much like the sublime, seem to cleanse us from a set of psycho-
logical ambivalences. (Fludernik 2005: 24)
Here, Fludernik alludes to the cathartic properties of the carceral imagi-

nary. She finds this process deeply suspicious because it contains ‘a spec-
tacle of suffering which we vicariously enjoy as heart-rending and then,
purged from our emotions, set aside to go back to business as usual’
(Fludernik 2005: 24). Following Lakoff and Johnson’s take on metapho-
ricity, her suspicion makes sense. Apart from yoking disparate materials
and meanings, metaphoric constructions make visible certain aspects of a
concept while simultaneously hiding others (Lakoff and Johnson 1980:
12). Thus, the positive and exciting imagery of the cell as a site of sanctu-
ary or spectacular escape for a privileged elite simultaneously obscures the
conditions of those who actually dwell there. Considering Lakoff and
314 H. Stuit
Johnson’s claim that metaphors structure thought, carceral imaginaries

thus may indeed have ‘no purchase with the real, but nevertheless deter-
mine our political, moral and social actions because they become reified
in our thinking’ (Fludernik 2005: 21).
In this sense, Prison Escape problematically reifies the prison as an
‘exotic heterotopia’ structured by the ambivalent fascinations and inter-
ests of a largely white, middle-class experience. It merges the traditional
association with the cell as an ‘idyllic situation of refuge, peace and cre-
ativity’ with the titillating display of escape from prison (Fludernik 2005:
15). Tickets are expensive and, in its leanings towards the spectacular, it
exoticises and glorifies criminals.6 It commodifies prison life through
selective representation (Wright 2000) and may uncritically tap into
punitive or voyeuristic desires on the part of the visitor.7 However, fault-
ing the game for these reasons does not reveal how imaginaries projected
on the prison are structured or what kind of effects they produce. As
Turner points out in the context of televised prison settings, staging the
prison as a spectacle may actually be preferable over not making the peni-
tentiary visible at all; even if the spectacle obscures actual experiences of
incarceration, it may also include ironic or destabilising aspects that make
the mechanics of ‘particular distribution[s] of exposure and denial, reveal
and [hiding]’ visible (Turner 2013: 224).
As I will discuss in the next section, working through imaginings of
the cell is important in assessing how the spectacle of the carceral imagi-
nary, and the aspects it foregrounds and forgets, can be negotiated. By
further developing Fludernik’s suggestion that the carceral imaginary is
an ‘exotic heterotopia’, I will investigate the effects and critical potential
of the otherworldliness of the cell in the game. Through the involvement
of the cell in the game script, the building becomes tactile to the player as
its panoptic power enforces itself on the carceral imaginaries brought to
it. Because the cell offers an intersection of multiple heterotopia (that of
the carceral imaginary, the prison itself and the space of play), I argue that
it offers an experience of surveillance as it is inscribed on the body that is
capable of disrupting fantasies of escape and undermines the spectacular
mechanisms of the game’s carceral imaginary.
The Cell and Heterotopic Experiences of Play

As Turner points out in The Prison Boundary, a visit to a repurposed
prison can be seen as a double heterotopia, ‘wherein we trace the subver-
sion of an already subverted space’ (2016: 103). This is certainly the case
in Prison Escape: visitors are confronted with the architecture of a former
heterotopia of deviation in the Foucauldian sense (1967: 18) while also
being triggered to reflect on the re-imaginings of the space. Indeed, het-
erotopias, as described by Foucault, exist ‘in relation with all other sites,
but in such a way as to suspend, neutralise or invert the set of relations
designated, mirrored, or reflected by them’ (1967: 17). The point, then,
is not necessarily to use the concept to designate a type of space
(Wesselman 2013: 22), but to read spaces for their reflective and rela-
tional effects. Heterotopias make visible how space and discourse work
together and how ‘spatial configurations (be they material/physical or
social)… establish a certain order’ in society at large (2013: 22). In Prison
Escape, several spatial configurations interact and create an intensified
heterotopic experience that further complicates ‘the subversion of a sub-
verted space’ of ‘normal’ prison tourism. It does so most clearly in the
cell, which is central to the game experience because the narratives and
plots that carry the game towards possible escape only kick into action
once the player has entered it. Without the actions carried out there,
immersion is reduced and the game experience would be considerably
impaired.
The cell blends several heterotopias together, ordering the space in a
way that actively subverts player fantasies of transcendence and escape.
First, there is the appearance of the cell itself, which mixes architectural
features of different historical periods and enforces multiple temporal
realities of the prison as a heterotopia of deviation on the player. Second,
the cell functions as a playground, offering objects that induce game
immersion and play, which, according to De Cauter and Dehaene, is
fundamental to understanding the unsettling effects of heterotopia as an
‘unstable interruption or suspension’ (2008: 94). Finally, the cell forms
an interface for the expectations of the role-playing individual, partly
determined, as I have shown in the previous section, by the exotic
316 H. Stuit
heterotopia of the carceral imaginary. In the cell, all these threads work
together. As I will analyse below, ‘touching’ the cell and the scripting
power of the panopticon in play creates a safe, cathartic engagement with
the prison that might uncritically ‘reconstitute the myth of the place’
(Turner 2016: 118). However, it also provides ‘opportunities for spiritual
and political reflection’ (Turner 2016: 116) on alternative conceptions of
the workings of the cell through the embodied experience of multiple
heterotopias.
Before I enter the cell, the game is already well under way (see
Table 14.1). From first entering the prison, I have been forced into a pas-
sive role and my fantasies of escape are consistently curtailed. I am handed
orange overalls and my mugshot is taken. I am fingerprinted and lectured
by the warden during a prolonged line up in the courtyard of the dome.
I am made to perform physical exercises like push-ups and interpellated
as a troublesome prisoner. Unless instructed otherwise, the player is to
keep their hands along their sides at all times and look straight ahead. The
sound of shouting guards in the panopticon’s dome is overwhelming; it
causes an uncomfortable pressure on my eardrums that makes me cringe.
Beyond tactical resistance within the boundaries of this heterotopia of
deviation (Foucault 1967: 18), there is little room for strategic action or
secondary adjustments (De Certeau 1984; Goffman 1961).8 The first
opportunity I get to move and look around without being shouted at is
when I am brought to my cell. There I can finally use my hands and
touch things.
The cell is very white. It has a light-grey tiled floor that looks worn.
Immediately to my right is a built-in cupboard. To my left there is a sani-
tary unit behind a partition; the sink is visible, the toilet is not. Like the
floor, these things look worn from years of daily wear and tear. There is
no bed in the cell, although it must have stood against the wall on the
right, since the wall on the left has a desk-like structure fixed to it. Directly
above the desk are some shelves, and fixed to the bottom of the shelves are
a desk light, an intercom and some sockets. The built-in furniture and
sanitation unit have a distinct 1970s institutional feel to them. The only
things that really ‘say’ I am in a nineteenth-century building are the barrel
vault and the paned window directly opposite the door. It has a curve on
the top that mirrors the shape of the ceiling. Below the window is a
radiator; above it, an empty curtain rail. Despite having seen prison cells
in other settings before, I am confused by the historical mix of architec-
ture. It occurs to me that the building must have been repeatedly adjusted
to incorporate modern improvements like central heating systems and
electricity while also having to maintain its historical value as a listed
building when it was still in use. This makes me think about the genera-
tions of prisoners that must have been housed here in varying conditions.
There is no visible trace of them though. There are no apparent markings
on the wall or furniture, which gives the cell a particularly sanitised,
unsettling atmosphere.9
When I arrive, there is already someone in there. I did not expect this
and it is something of an unpleasant surprise. Perhaps I have a carceral
imaginative preconception of cells as solitary.10 The other person is wear-
ing orange overalls, like me. We shake hands and look at each other’s
nametags. I wrote a fake name on mine; I don’t know about hers. We chat
a little about where we are from, why we came and what we expect. Time
is ticking, however. There might be objects in the cell, the other player
could already have found some and might be putting me at a disadvan-
tage by hiding them from me. I start looking around and tell her what I
find in order to make her tell me what she has in her pockets. The objects
could be valuable contraband later on and I want to get my hands on as
many as I can. I also want to see how she will respond, testing her in case
I need to rely on her later in the game. We find a poker chip, some pills,
something that looks like cannabis but smells like oregano, a map of the
prison, a letter to a prisoner who supposedly was in this cell before us and
a flyer advertising group therapy. Later, when the cells are opened for
recreation, I become aware that the objects are in fact narrative clues or
triggers; handing over the ‘right’ object to the ‘right’ person will kick-
start ‘my’ narrative within the game.
A double process is going on. On the one hand, the cell functions as a
material interface for the carceral imaginaries I bring to the game: like my
assumption of cells being solitary and contraband being useful in prison.
On the other hand, these thoughts and strategies come to mind because
of the objects and the other person present. Rather than triggering an
unencumbered playfulness, the other player awakens a competitive and
strategic streak in me, immersing me more fully in the game. In this
318 H. Stuit
sense, the way the cell functions in the game turns it into a play space.11
Play is ambiguous. It is central to culture, but also partly exists outside of
society’s rules. It suspends reality in a way that is strongly reminiscent of
fiction’s suspension of disbelief, but is at the same time very serious
(Huizinga 1950: 8–11).12 In their discussion of Foucault’s notion of het-
erotopia, De Cauter and Dehaene point out that the space of play ‘is
fragile and unstable and can at any time be dispelled’ (2008: 96). As such,
the space of play in the cell is a kind of ‘magic circle’: a ‘liminal space’
that, ‘in its formal separation from the rest of the world, presents a world
of instability and possibility’ (De Cauter and Dehaene 2008: 96). This
possibility, which De Cauter and Dehaene consider a basic tenet of
Foucault’s notion of heterotopia in general, opens up ‘a profoundly
ambiguous terrain marking both the moment of man’s imprisonment
within the norms of culture and the threshold of liberation, or, more
likely, temporary transgression’ (2008: 96). In Prison Escape, however, the
ambiguity of play as both unsettling and laced with possibility has more
sinister inflections. Being serious about my play alienates me from my
surroundings, suggesting that the prison setting influences care-free
inflections of play.
This type of ‘serious’ play is most significantly represented in the
entanglement of the cell with the panoptic power of the dome. The cells
are not locked: no doubt due to fire regulations. Every now and then the
metal panel in the door of the cell is lifted and a guard looks in. The con-
tinuous slamming of the panels echoes through the dome; I cannot tell
where the guards are. I am reprimanded twice: once when I want to look
through the keyhole and cannot be surveilled because I am too close to
the door to be seen, once when I push open the door in a gesture remi-
niscent of the prisoner in the website image analysed above and two
guards immediately come running. The guards call me a troublemaker
and I am threatened with ‘solitary’ if I transgress a third time. Even with-
out locks, the architecture of the building makes it impossible for me to
go anywhere without being noticed. There are guards on all the tiers.
There is even a guard in the middle of the floor, overseeing the whole
panopticon.13
I oscillate between wondering whether a third reprimand leading to
solitary will increase my chances of escape and thinking about the cell’s
eighteenth-century design, its nineteenth-century stones and its

twentieth-century additions in the form of toilet stall and wall plugs. I
have no idea how much time passes. Indeed, as Hardt points out, ‘time is
the measure of power’ (1997: 65). Once again, I wonder what it must
have been like for the people who dwelt here. Although I am not locked
up in the literal sense of the word, the wait really drives home that, despite
my fantasies of escape, panoptic surveillance keeps me firmly in place and
that the threshold of the cell is ‘the locus of a power contest’ (Fludernik
2005: 15). I get frustrated because I will just have to wait for the next
phase of my imprisonment, hoping it might offer further clues to win the
game. I am fully immersed and working on my escape, but I also wonder
throughout (as I sit through therapy sessions that feel like an eternity or
explore the prison yard, right up until the moment when I finally bolt for
the prison gates in the pouring rain almost two hours later) what is hap-
pening to me. Why am I so engrossed? Why do I resent being seen? Why
do I feel trapped? Which parts of my responses are scripted by the game,
which come from the building, which originate in what I have seen and
read about prisons, and, finally, which are my ‘own’ responses? There is
no way of knowing.
Miguel Sicart, in Play Matters, describes this process as a bleed, when
‘the transmission of experiences and knowledge from the activity of play
[transfer] to our worldview’ (2014: 67; see also Waern 2010). Within the
boundaries of the game, it is perfectly possible to hover between the dif-
ferent ‘layers’ of the situation in the cell, to move in and out of the sus-
pension of disbelief needed to complete the story of the game. The cell in
Prison Escape becomes both a containing space and an interface for the
projection of fantasies about incarceration. Play relies on this state of
limbo: you play without losing grip on reality. In this game, play can be
productive precisely because it creates a heterotopic space in which the
player negotiates the materiality and delimitation of the playground with
what they know of the carceral imaginary:
A playful technology can allow a material-based critique of a context by

highlighting its own existence through play. What we can do unwillingly
or what we take for granted can be revealed playfully, and so a space for
conversation is created. (Sicart 2014: 65)
320 H. Stuit
Prison Escape’s experience, because the panoptic building and the prison
setting in general complicate a care-free liminality of play, allows players
to come close to prison. It allows them to perceive their own heterotopic
blend of material impressions and discursive constructions. In Prison
Escape, the Sicartian bleed involves taking on board the effects of the play
setting such as the history and architecture of the building, the interper-
sonal relations created by this setting and the embodied disruption of the
carceral imaginary. The cell foregrounds the realisation that the fantasy of
escape launched by the lure of the prison cell literally bounces off its
walls. This imaginary ultimately comes up short against the architecture
of the panoptic prison and the unsettling experience it triggers. The expe-
rience of incarceration, in this case, may not be about enclosure per se but
rather about knowing what it feels like to be interpellated as someone
who needs to be surveilled and kept in place.
Conclusion
By analysing the various heterotopic qualities of the cell in Prison Escape,
I propose that spatial experiences of the prison always partly travel
through the imagination, especially if one holds a privileged social posi-
tion and is unlikely to come into contact with it in other ways. These
experiences need to be emphatically read as personal declensions of a
larger carceral imaginary. As such, the prison cannot be known without
understanding the assumptions implied in this imaginary. The website
image of the prisoner exiting their cell engages the historical and meta-
phorical construction of the cell in the carceral imaginary by inviting a
voyeuristic view that foregrounds the cell as a liminal and exciting space.
It does so not by focusing on properties of the cell itself, however, but by
depicting the fantasy of escape from the cell and the subsequent subver-
sion of panoptic surveillance as an attractive escape fantasy.
Yet, in the otherworldly experience of the cell in play, these fantasies
are also disrupted by the prison’s material and architectural qualities.
Despite a limited mobility in the cell, players are decidedly stuck until
the larger script moves on. In bouncing off the cell walls, stereotypical
imaginations of the prison make way for an experience of the cell as a
miniature of intensified surveillance as it is scripted on the body. More

precisely, in the interaction between the cell and the inevitable ordering
power of the prison dome, players undergo the panoptic gaze of the het-
erotopia of deviation and, due to the bleed from play to preconceptions,
are made gratingly aware of what it feels like to be surveilled. Even if these
experiences are undergone from a privileged position of volition and thus
may invite voyeuristic qualities of cathartic release for the player, the fact
that they take place through a serious playfulness also allows for a touch-
ing of the prison in Turner’s terms. Even without real incarceration, the
embodied experience of the cell in Prison Escape is a harbinger of what it
feels like to inhabit deviation in a space that is only partly visible to soci-
ety at large.
Acknowledgements Thanks to the members of The Peripheries Project research

group at the Amsterdam School for Cultural Analysis (ASCA) who read and
discussed earlier drafts of this text with me. Thanks also to the editors of this
volume who have been immensely helpful and constructive in their feedback.
Special thanks to Alex Niemeijer-Brown, Daan Wesselman and Rik Stapelbroek
for helping me understand the game.
Notes
1. Other examples of escape room-like games in repurposed prisons exist in
Utrecht (Wolvenburg), Amsterdam (Bijlmerbajes) and Arnhem
(Koepelgevangenis).
2. For a discussion on globalised scripts of imprisonment, specifically in the
mugshot genre, see Stuit (2020).
3. ‘Kun jij ontsnappen uit de koepelgevangenis in Breda?’ See prisonescape.
nl, accessed 29 November 2018.
4. Browne has argued that the panoptic model needs to be put ‘under era-
sure’ (2015: 41). It is still relevant in understanding contemporary
conditions of surveillance, but does not have universal valence. The
notion of the panopticon historically coincided with other forms of
incarceration, like the slave ship and the plantation, that also influence
contemporary experiences and imaginations of capture and escape.
322 H. Stuit
5. Relevant examples here are The Shawshank Redemption (1994), Escape

from Alcatraz (1979) and O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000).
6. For further elaboration on cultural representation’s paradoxical fascina-
tion with criminals, see Duncan (1996) and Hobsbawm (1981).
7. For a more elaborate reading of punitive desires and the representation
of prisons, see Kearon (2012), King and Maruna (2006) and Cheliotis
(2010). For an angle on voyeurism, see Ross (2015).
8. Options I tried out were faking to do push-ups, not shouting ‘Sir, yes,
Sir’ or rolling up the sleeves of the overalls because the guards only men-
tioned that the collar should be in order. The first two went unnoticed,
the third raised annoyance in the guards.
9. In her analysis of prison graffiti in Australian prisons, Wilson mentions
that the walls of cells open to tourists are often repainted (2008: 334).
Graffiti is only preserved in places closed to the public. In the prisons I
visited in the Netherlands, notably Bijlmerbajes and the panoptic prison
in Haarlem, the opposite is true. In the first, graffiti was eminently visi-
ble in the holding cells, and in the latter, the graffiti in solitary confine-
ment was elaborately discussed by the former prison guard giving the
guided tour.
10. This may be a Dutch imaginary, considering that cells have only recently
become shared in the Netherlands (Thie 2013).
11. A play space is less formal than a game space. Sometimes the play space
and the game space intersect. A game is always a space for play with its
own logic, materiality and rules (Begy 2017: 722), but a play space is not
always a game. A playground as a play space is more susceptible to what
Sicart calls ‘free play’, which is determined by the space and context, but
not by any rules (2014: 51).
12. Consider Sutton-Smith’s remark that ‘the playful nip may not be a bite,
but it is indeed what a bite means’ (1997: 1).
13. This confirms Foucault’s suggestion that the panopticon not only scripts
the behaviour of the person being watched but also of the person doing
the watching (1975: 202).
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The Cell: Afterword
Ben Crewe
Some of the moments in my research career that have lodged themselves

most firmly in my mind have involved cells, and the interactions in and
around them. Several years ago, during a short research visit, I sat on a
prisoner’s bed while he told me about the state of his life and his mental
torment. His mother, the only family member with whom he was in
contact, was dying, and he was contemplating life without her. In a bare
and joyless cell, in a segregation unit for his own protection, in a ragged
local prison—all of which he commented upon, and which contributed
to his sense of desolation—his situation felt about as bleak as was imagin-
able. More recently, researching in very secure units within high-security
prisons, one interviewee told me, without direct hostility, that had there
not been a second protective door between us when officers had opened
his cell for me to speak to him, his sense of threat meant that he would
have attacked me immediately. He went on to describe the terms of his
B. Crewe
Institute of Criminology, University of Cambridge, Cambridge, UK

328 The Cell: Afterword
existence: he was confined to his cell for around 23 hours each day, and
due to the abuse he received from other prisoners, had chosen not to use
the prison’s exercise yard for several months. He left his cell only to shower
and collect his meals, which he took back to his cell to eat. Yet within his
cell, he found little comfort: he had severe mental health problems, and
said that he could not remember the last time he had felt relaxed: ‘every-
thing is a struggle’. He could not spend time reading, because the text ‘all
merges into one’, and he made ‘a point of not watching the news’: ‘I feel
like I’ve been left to rot, really’. In such circumstances, the cell is the penal
space par excellence, a distillation of its core qualities and effects.
Cells are also a frontline site of various symbolic and material tussles
between prisoners and staff. In England and Wales, the imposition of
rules about how cells should be arranged (e.g. whether prisoners are
allowed to put up makeshift curtains, or put certain posters on certain
walls) represent much more than their ostensible objectives of health,
safety and security. The fact that keeping a ‘clean and tidy cell’ is often
used in wing reports as a signifier of positive conduct and compliance is
in itself instructive. Meanwhile, the flashpoints that result from cell
searches are emblematic of the psychological boundaries that prisoners
construct to mark out private and customisable territory, and the
moments when it becomes clear that such space is never truly theirs.
Even if only temporarily, then, cells are ‘homes’: places where individ-
uals get on with their everyday lives. In his research in Oslo prison, in
Norway, Ugelvik describes spending long periods of time in prisoners’
cells, while they cooked improvised meals, played chess, watched televi-
sion, showed him their artwork, rehearsed stories that reinforced aspects
of identity and morality and talked about ‘football, politics, literature,
stuff on TV’ (Ugelvik, personal communication, 2014). Cells can also be
places of warmth, humour and relational generosity. In various semi-
ethnographic research projects, I have often seen prisoners in cells playing
chess or cards in companionable silence, or laughing raucously as they
watch television together or chat about their lives. In interviews, I have
been told about the forms of compassion that are expressed beyond the
public gaze: emotional support, material kindness and the micro-
intimacies of making someone else a cup of tea or trying to grant them
The Cell: Afterword 329
some privacy in light of ‘bad news’. In a medium-security prison for men,

one interviewee described to me his attempt to minimise the distress of
his vulnerable, illiterate cellmate, by strategically editing the content of a
letter he was reading out to him, from his girlfriend, in which she was
terminating their relationship. Despite a prevailing idea that prisons are
places that are emotionally suppressive, clearly there are zones of
exception.
As in this example, much of the time, my understanding of the role of
cells in prisoners’ lives—their emotional consistency, the social and per-
sonal dynamics within them—has been based only on prisoners’ descrip-
tions rather than direct observation or experience. In England and Wales,
researchers are generally not allowed to spend time in prisoners’ cells or
can enter them only for brief periods when invited to do so: to be fur-
tively shown prisoners’ photographs or get a sense of their living condi-
tions. The irony, then, is that cells sit at the heart of the prisoner experience,
and yet they have very been the focus of serious scholarship relatively
infrequently. This skews the field. Within prison research, the neglect of
the cell relative to ‘the wing’ or ‘unit’ means that we have a clearer sense
of the public and social dimensions of imprisonment than the private
and existential. As Herrity argues, in her chapter in this volume,
‘Foregrounding accounts of these lesser-considered prison spaces pro-
vides a portal to often over-looked aspects and textures of prison life’.
To do so seems particularly important given both the amount of time
that most prisoners spend in their cell, and the fact that the crux of
imprisonment is that they cannot open the door. When prisoners berate
researchers for being ‘part-timers’—‘if you really want to know what it’s
like, you should commit a crime and find out for yourself ’—at some level
they are emphasising the importance of a form of comprehension that
starts with the cellular experience: sleeping in a locked chamber, often
with a stranger, in whose company one has to eat, defecate and inhabit a
space of intense emotional humidity. Goffman’s (1961) characterisation
of the total institution as a place in which daily activity is carried out in
the immediate company of others, with almost no separation of the nor-
mally distinct domains of work, leisure and sleep, applies with all the
more intensity when prisoners are required to co-habit.
330 The Cell: Afterword
In this respect, the increasing input of people with lived experience

into academic and non-academic accounts of imprisonment is important
and exceptionally insightful. In a recent podcast about prison cells, part
of a series called The Secret Life of Prisons, a panel of former prisoners
talked about the mundane stress of cellular existence: being locked up
overnight with a pad-mate who snores, or with toothache (‘you are not
getting out, you are not getting painkillers’), and the need to cope with
the endless present that results from being restricted within a very limited
space. Most strikingly, their recollections bring into light the cell’s axiom-
atic role as the communicator of the prisoner’s status and situation. One
unnamed contributor described the process of confronting her new living
conditions:
When they first took onto the wing and put me in that cell, I was morti-
fied. It was just absolutely disgusting, it was filthy. Oh, the smell. There was
a toilet in the corner that was just minging. […] I felt physically ill. I sort
of stood there hugging myself in the middle of the cell. I didn’t even want
to touch anything. And I thought ‘right, well I’m gonna have to get over
this, because this is my new home for the foreseeable’. (Maguire and
Harriott 2019: n.p.)
Others emphasised elemental themes of constraint and captivity.

Former prisoner, David Breakspear, explained that ‘When you’ve got that
door closed, and you can’t see a handle on your side of the door, you’ve
lost control, you’re not in control anymore. Someone else is in control of
everything about you’ (Maguire and Harriott 2019: n.p.). Two further
contributors likewise recalled their feelings of powerlessness and
confinement:
I remember the sound of the cell door closing, a big clump of metal behind
you. You have to wait for someone to open that door for you. It is a strange
thing, looking at a door, a big clump of metal, and knowing that you can’t
open that. (Unnamed former prisoner, from Maguire and Harriott
2019: n.p.)
The one thing that struck me more than anything, having been a free per-
son, if you like, was going into this space, which was now confined to 9 by
The Cell: Afterword 331
6, and that closed in on me, as a 20-year-old, immediately. There was noth-

ing worse, you know. Seeing this green knitted blanket and the black foam
mattress and the plastics and the bars was one thing, but the space that my
life had been confined to now, behind this closed metal door, was probably
the most harrowing. (Raphael Rowe, former prisoner, from Maguire and
Harriott 2019: n.p.)
In many respects, the cell is the essence of imprisonment. This book goes
a long way towards ensuring that it is seen as such.
References
and Other Inmates. Garden City, NY: Anchor Books.
Maguire, P., & Harriott, P. (2019). Episode Two: The Cell. The Secret Life of
Prisons. Retrieved November 27, 2019, from https://prison.radio/
the-secret-life-of-prisons/.
Index1
A C
Agency, 10, 46, 49, 60, 89, 114, CCTV, see Closed-circuit television
145, 147, 148, 154, 157, 158, Cells
168, 232, 233, 245 assignment, 170–172, 232
Alcatraz prison, USA, 215, 216, 220 Belgium, 284, 287, 300n1
Architecture of the cell, 23, 28, 29, in biology, 14
173, 195, 266–268, as a ‘cursed’ place, 207–209
315, 316 as ‘escape,’ 225, 226, 233, 307,
309, 313, 320
as ‘home,’ 11, 121–140, 151,
B 156, 158, 207–209, 269–271
Bastøy prison, Norway, 220 imaginaries, 307–314, 317, 320
The birth of the prison, 24 Italy, 11, 12, 189, 261, 265, 266,
Boredom, 79, 104, 107, 113, 147, 270, 279, 280
177, 178, 181, 247, The Netherlands, 13, 305
291, 292 Norway, 12, 46, 261, 265, 266,
Bredtveit prison, Norway, 265 276, 279, 280
Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

334 Index
Cells (cont.) Deterrence, 2, 31–34, 38, 47

Philippines, 9, 71–91 Domestication, 10, 11, 144, 145,
as ‘palimpsest,’ 143–159 154, 165–182
Romania, 10, 167, 168, 170, 174,
175, 177
as ‘sanctuary,’ 12, 153, 231, 240, E
245–250, 312, 313 Eastern State penitentiary, USA, 60
Scotland, 97, 102, 108 Emotion, 33, 95–98, 100, 104–106,
as a space of play, 201–204, 108, 109, 114, 129, 139, 152,
315, 318 153, 158, 192, 206, 225, 231,
Switzerland, 10, 121, 123 244, 248, 249, 256n3,
UK, 6, 217, 240 263, 313
USA, 46, 144 Escape games, 305, 321n1
Children, 188, 200, 203, 209 Etymology of the cell, 2
Cleanliness, 138, 155, 175, 179,
180, 201, 272
See also Hygiene F
Closed-circuit television (CCTV), Food, 72, 77, 83, 84, 132, 156,
97, 102–105, 110, 112, 113 198, 199
Contraband, 4, 55, 73, 84, 125, 132, Furniture/furnishings, 10, 39, 45, 52,
154, 271, 309, 317 54, 56, 63, 65, 66, 122, 123,
Coping mechanisms, 73–75, 77, 125, 126, 129, 131, 169, 180,
85–87, 91, 134, 150, 156, 196, 197, 209, 211n8, 285, 316
196, 209, 247, 249 See also Architecture of the cell
Cost of facilities and services, 51,
60, 67n5
G
Gladstone Committee, 31, 38, 40
D Guidelines for prison cell
Daily routine, 11, 50, 189, 196, 197, conditions, 123
200, 225, 252, 254, 271
Decency, 217, 222
Dependence on staff, 107, 284–286, H
293, 294, 296, 297 Halden Prison, Norway, 46, 48, 51,
Detention centres, 10, 165–171, 52, 56, 57, 65
177, 180, 181 Healthy blue space, 215–234
Index 335
Heterotopia, 306, 307, 314, 315 Methodological approaches, 191,

Holford Committee, 26 192, 265, 288, 307
Hygiene, 110, 156, 221, 271, 272 Millbank Penitentiary, UK, 26
See also Cleanliness Mobility, 7, 150, 156, 173, 177,
182, 200, 202, 222, 229, 230,
242, 244, 263, 267, 274–277,
I 286, 292, 295, 320
Inhabitation, 122, 126, 127, 139 Multi-occupancy cells, 72, 74, 75,
Intimacy, 132, 189, 201, 204–207 85, 166, 170, 271
Isolation, 2, 8, 13, 24, 26–41, 108, 167,
173, 231, 290–294, 298, 299
N
Neighbourhoods, 144, 145,
J 148–150, 152, 161n8
JVA Lenzburg and JVA Pöschwies, Noise, 29, 111, 149, 201, 204, 206,
Switzerland, 123 208, 244, 248, 265, 275, 276
Normalisation, 123, 132, 166, 283,
284, 297, 300
K Norwegian Correctional Service
Kubol system, 71–91 (NCS), 46, 49, 50, 58, 63
L O
Labour, 30–32, 67n5, 161n7, 220 Oregon State Penitentiary, USA, 144
See also Work Overcrowding, 9, 71, 73, 76, 91,
Long-term imprisonment, 122, 227, 265, 287
270, 288
Lure of the prison cell, 307, 312
P
Pains of imprisonment, 75, 140,
M 153, 207, 216, 221, 226, 245,
Mayores system, 9, 77–81 246, 251, 298
Memory, 133, 154, 209, 222, 230, Panopticon, 25, 152, 169, 173,
248, 249, 256n3, 264, 311 305, 310, 311, 316,
Mental health, 30, 90, 99, 102, 111, 318, 321n4
146, 148, 152, 216, 220, 280 Parenting in prison, 204, 209
See also Physical health Penal ideology, 9, 45–66, 264
336 Index
Pennsylvania Department of R
Corrections (DOC), USA, 49, Rancho system, 83–85, 88–90
51, 54, 64, 66 Rebibbia prison, Italy, 265, 270
Pentonville penitentiary, UK, Rehabilitation, 9, 38, 46–48, 60,
29, 30, 35 62–64, 66, 74, 75, 78, 79, 85,
Personal belongings, 77, 125, 129, 220, 228, 232, 234
130, 155, 177, 179, 180, 208, Relationships with people and space,
271, 278 209, 233, 247, 254, 267,
Personal space, 82, 126, 138, 152, 271, 275
178, 179, 182, 246, 247, 267 See also ‘Neighbourhoods’
Peterhead prison, UK, 220 Resistance, 6, 8, 13, 14, 34, 96–99,
Physical health, 24, 219, 221, 228, 101, 109–114, 130, 137, 140,
234, 280 146, 161n10, 176, 180, 209,
See also Mental health 242, 245, 247–249, 251, 255,
Police cells, 5, 9, 16, 96–98, 102, 311, 316
108, 110, 111, 113, 114 Role of religion, 27
Power, 7, 8, 10, 14, 30, 38, 40, 60,
61, 80, 86, 90, 96, 97, 105,
107, 109, 110, 113, 114, S
115n1, 126, 144, 147, 149, Sanitation, 149, 197, 209, 221,
151, 158, 159, 168, 174, 178, 222, 316
182, 232, 240, 244–246, Security, 5, 6, 16, 47–50, 52, 54, 58,
251–253, 255, 256, 262, 267, 61, 62, 64, 66, 73, 75, 83, 86,
297, 307, 310–312, 314, 316, 92n5, 122, 149, 150, 152,
318, 319, 321 160n4, 192, 200, 220, 227,
Prison 241, 255, 256n4, 266, 276,
boundary, 5, 208, 245, 262–264, 278, 283, 285, 293
278, 280, 290, 299 See also Surveillance, 5
reform, 24, 76 Self-governance, 75, 86, 87, 91,
tourism, 216, 315 296, 300
PrisonCloud, 283–300 Self-harm, 96, 99, 103, 105, 114,
Privacy, 10, 58, 59, 62–64, 82, 97, 197, 272
104, 121, 138, 139, 146, 149, See also Mental health
150, 152–158, 173–175, 178, Senses, 3, 12, 52, 55, 64, 77, 108,
179, 182, 206, 210, 247–249, 129, 133, 156, 219, 239, 246,
271, 277–279, 285, 286, 289, 248, 253, 262, 263, 265,
290, 294 269, 272
Privatisation, 83, 88, 284 See also Sound
Index 337
The separate system, 23, 26–31 Therapeutic landscape, 11, 217–220,

The silent system, 27, 28 222, 233
Sound, 12, 30, 38, 129, 133, 140n5, Time, 5, 16, 24, 27–29, 40, 46, 48,
156, 204, 206, 226, 231, 51, 80, 97, 103–105,
240–256, 256n3, 267, 275, 108–111, 114, 122, 127, 134,
276, 290, 316 136, 139, 140n6, 145,
See also Noise 150–154, 158, 172, 173, 176,
Standardisation of cell architecture, 177, 180, 207, 226, 227, 240,
6, 123, 148, 158, 167, 248, 249, 270, 273, 274, 278,
176, 178 291, 292, 319
State Correctional Institution (SCI) Touch, 12, 261–280, 316
phoenix, 46, 49–51, 53, 58 Turin prison, Italy, 190, 191,
The State Prison of East Jutland at 194–201, 205
Enner Mark, Denmark, 234
Suomenlinna Prison, Finland, 220
Surveillance, 13, 25, 51, 58, 61, 146, V
152, 170, 172–175, 194, Violence, 64, 73, 90, 91, 99, 109,
250–252, 254, 256, 310, 314, 157, 160n6, 173, 193, 254, 255
319–321, 321n4
W
T Wellbeing, 85, 114, 182, 218–221,
Technology, 5, 12, 13, 51, 102, 283, 228, 229, 234, 248–250
284, 288, 290–292, 294, 297, See also Mental health
299, 300 Work, 27, 36, 79, 80, 151, 161n7,
Therapeutic green space, 220 272, 286

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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN

PRISONS AND PENOLOGY

The Prison Cell

Series Advisory Board:

More information about this series at

The Prison Cell

Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2020

Cover illustration: © alamy FFCWCC

The origins of this book hark back to 2016 in Odense, Denmark. I am

1 Dissecting the Cell: Embodied and Everyday Spaces of

Part I The Nucleus 21

2 ‘The Solitude of the Cell’: Cellular Confinement in the

3 Prison Cells as a Grounded Embodiment of Penal

4 The Kubol Effect: Shared Governance and Cell Dynamics

5 ‘I Feel Trapped’: The Role of the Cell in the Embodied

6 A ‘Home’ or ‘a Place to Be, But Not to Live’: Arranging

7 Prison as Palimpsest: The Dialectics of the Cell and

8 Power in ‘No-Cell’ Detention: Spatial Restriction and

9 A Family Cell: Visual Ethnography in a Prison ‘Mothers’

Part III The Cell Membrane 213

10 Serving Time with a Sea View: The Prison Cell and

11 Hearing Behind the Door: The Cell as a Portal to

12 Prison Cell Spaces, Bodies and Touch261

13 PrisonCloud: The Beating Heart of the Digital Prison Cell283

14 Carceral Projections: The Lure of the Cell and the

The Cell: Afterword327

Synøve N. Andersen works as a researcher at the Unit for Social and

Another Chance at Education is a group of authors that includes twelve

Kristel Beyens is Full Professor of Criminology and Penology and direc-

Steven L. Chanenson is Professor of Law at Villanova University

Elisabeth Fransson is a sociologist and an Associate Professor at the

Francesca Giofrè holds a PhD and is an architect and associate profes-

Jordan M. Hyatt is an Assistant Professor in the Department of

­ rogramming, comparative penology and the development of evidence-

Yvonne Jewkes is Professor of Criminology at the University of Bath

Helen Johnston is Professor of Criminology at the University of Hull.

Clarke Jones is a criminologist and senior research fellow based at the

Victoria Knight is a Senior Research Fellow at De Montfort University.

Irene Marti studied social anthropology and sociology at the Universities

Bénédicte Michalon is a Senior Research Fellow at the French National

Dominique Moran is Professor in Carceral Geography at the University

Raymund E. Narag, PhD , is Assistant Professor of Criminology and

Jana Robberechts is a PhD researcher at the Research Group Crime &

Rossella Schillaci is a PhD student in Digital Media at NOVA

Hanneke Stuit is Assistant Professor in Literary and Cultural Analysis at

Jennifer Turner is a Senior Lecturer in Human Geography at the

Andrew Wooff is Lecturer in Criminology at Edinburgh Napier

Fig. 1.1 A simple animal cell. (Source: Produced by author) 3

Table 4.1 Inmate leadership titles and roles in the Philippines 78

© The Author(s) 2020 1

examining any plant or animal structure microscopically, we will see that

Fig. 1.1 A simple animal cell. (Source: Produced by author)

biological ‘traits’ provides much purchase for interrogating the processes

make it worthy of discussion. The cell warrants further attention because

Building upon recent work on carceral atmospheres (Turner and Peters

framework, as a metaphor, for understanding the centrality of the cell’s

In this section we introduce chapters that speak to the underpinning

Part II: Cytoplasm

this imposed spatial unit are characterised by their heterogeneity.

Part III: The Cell Membrane

This ethnographic study of a Belgian prison equipped with the digital

cell. Most of the advances in cell biology—including the most exciting

et al.’s (2012) work on prisoner transportation also reveals significant dif-

1 Dissecting the Cell: Embodied and Everyday Spaces of

Part I The Nucleus 21

2 ‘The Solitude of the Cell’: Cellular Confinement in the

3 Prison Cells as a Grounded Embodiment of Penal

4 The Kubol Effect: Shared Governance and Cell Dynamics

5 ‘I Feel Trapped’: The Role of the Cell in the Embodied

6 A ‘Home’ or ‘a Place to Be, But Not to Live’: Arranging

7 Prison as Palimpsest: The Dialectics of the Cell and

8 Power in ‘No-Cell’ Detention: Spatial Restriction and

9 A Family Cell: Visual Ethnography in a Prison ‘Mothers’

Part III The Cell Membrane 213

10 Serving Time with a Sea View: The Prison Cell and

11 Hearing Behind the Door: The Cell as a Portal to

12 Prison Cell Spaces, Bodies and Touch261

13 PrisonCloud: The Beating Heart of the Digital Prison Cell283

14 Carceral Projections: The Lure of the Cell and the

The Cell: Afterword327

rogramming, comparative penology and the development of evidence-

Fig. 1.1 A simple animal cell. (Source: Produced by author) 3

Table 4.1 Inmate leadership titles and roles in the Philippines 78

Part II: Cytoplasm

Part III: The Cell Membrane

Prison ‘Reform’ in the Late Eighteenth Century

eparation and Silence: Isolation

he Cell: Isolation and Loneliness

Cell Architecture and Penal Ideology

Jurisdictional Backgrounds and Context

A Comparative Examination of Prison Cells

nderstanding Commonalities and Differences

Philippines are extremely overcrowded, under-staffed, and under-

A Note on Data Collection

Vibrancy Amidst Scarcity