As a prison officer, I'm afraid of what Covid
restrictions are doing to inmates
Anonymous
Ido
love my job. It’s always been challenging and stressful, but coronavirus has
made it five times worse. The restrictions on prisoners’ movement have
been very difficult. The regime for prisoners has been stripped back: since
March, each has had only 10 minutes to shower and 30 minutes to exercise every
day.
At first, when the whole
country was in lockdown, most prisoners seemed willing to accept this regime,
as they could see what was happening in the world outside through their TVs.
But as lockdown restrictions have lifted, the regime in prison has remained
largely unchanged. We’ve had men locked up for more than 23
hours a day in hot, poorly ventilated cells.
Covid rules in
prisons blocking rehabilitation, say UK campaigners
Living in such restrictive conditions has
contributed to higher rates of self-harm and suicides among prisoners. It’s
hard for us officers to see this: we’re not heartless. During the worst bits of
the lockdown, we were saying, “It’s not fair” and “It doesn’t feel right”. I
didn’t like seeing the prisoners suffer. Inhumanity doesn’t go anywhere near
it: my pets get treated better than these men. The stresses of being locked up
for so long are showing. Since prisoners were allowed 30 minutes to mingle, we’ve
experienced a massive jump in staff assaults and prisoner-on-prisoner violence.
Prisons aren’t spacious. They’re cramped
places with overcrowded cells. During the pandemic, neither prisoners nor
officers have been allowed to wear masks. This makes sense for security
reasons, but if any officer was to come to work with an asymptomatic case of
coronavirus, they could risk spreading it to hundreds of people.
During the initial months
of the pandemic I was placed on the suspected Covid wing. I had to move a prisoner who had
symptoms and I was given just a bin liner and ski goggles that had been sitting
in a bucket of disinfectant. It’s got better since then: we have visors, and an
increased number of cleaners. Still, the conditions are increasingly taking a
toll on the prisoners.
One prisoner I know was previously working in
the restaurant. He’s used to getting up early – his way of coping with being
here – but the restaurant has been closed during the pandemic, and only a few
weeks into lockdown I could already see the black in his eyes: he was really,
really bored. It’s the guys who work that you can see the most difference in.
The overtime scheme, which allowed for a near
doubling of staff on duty from March at my prison, stopped in June and we went
back to the old staff numbers – six officers to a wing of 180 prisoners.
Running around all day locking people up has been hard, and compliance is
tested on a daily basis. It’s emotionally draining, and we find ourselves in a
state of limbo: everyone knows we need more staff to run a heavily restricted
regime. But you’re just expected to get on with tough times, as that’s your job
already.
While the government has
taken some steps to appease prisoners, such as giving them £5 free phone credit
and an extra meal a day – mainly crisps and snacks – this has done little to
make up for the ban on visits between March and the end of August.
Nothing can replace the hugs and kisses they would get from family members and
friends.
Covid stopped
family visits for children in youth prisons in England and Wales
Even now, with some visits resuming, there are
more than 1,000 men in our prison and only a handful can get a socially
distanced one-hour family visit on four days of the week. It will take months
for everyone to see their families. We have video calls too, which have helped
a bit, but we often don’t have the staff to facilitate them, as an officer has
to be in the room, and many have been cancelled.
We are all afraid of what this second wave
will mean for prisons and prisoners. We fear that prisoners won’t be able to
cope with another six months of spending 23 hours behind their cell doors.
They’ve put up with this for six months already, but they’re getting tired of
it now. They are distressed.
·
The writer is a prison officer with three years’ experience. As
told to Mattha Busby
