Encounter with Razor Wire

Somewhere in England, some time ago . . .

Meeting had been peaceful that morning. Friends greeted one another quietly and settled smoothly into silence. After 15 minutes, children were shepherded gently into their adjoining room.

No one had risen to speak after a stern elder’s advice that “Blessed are the peacemakers” referred as much to everyday relationships as to world wars—even among Friends. The implied message was clear: especially among Friends.

Isaac’s halftime snores blended, as ever, with the comfortable snuffles of Richenda’s assistance dog, Lumina. The clerk announced so few notices that no embarrassed Friend crept out to the toilet. Zak had plenty of time to make virtuous coffee (weak). Gracie’s biscuits were life-threateningly delicious. Martha nearly forgave her for being not only beautiful, clever, and kind but also a good cook. Even the disturbing presence of Breeze was absent. Martha strolled home, basking in peace.

Martha had been attending her local meeting for several years. Reading introductory literature had convinced her that she lacked the essential Quaker qualification: serenity. However, when at last she bravely entered the meetinghouse, she felt that she had “come home.”

Although still far from serene, she was content to sit quietly through meeting for worship, and share kitchen duties afterward. She would have liked to “make a difference,” but recognized that her service was, essentially, menial. Sometimes she noticed friction between Quakers whose silence could express emotions that were far from serene. Martha kept clear. Home must be . . . homely. A place of peace. Unlike the “home” from which she had escaped.

Home was also, she reluctantly knew, a place to start from. A place of beginnings. A haven providing rest and renewal from which to set out, again. Martha was not keen to set out again.

That morning, Martha enjoyed the walk to her small terrace house on a quiet street. Although several tiny front gardens had been paved to accommodate cars, most were enlivened by tubs of bulbs and shrubs. Martha was proud of her blue-glazed ceramic pots of daffodils and two trim bay trees.

She had left her simple lunch ready, and silently gave thanks for pasta, salad, crisp rolls, fruit, and her weekly indulgence in non-virtuous coffee (strong). Then she dozed over a favorite novel, snug in her armchair and grateful for comfort and peace.

A light tapping disturbed her. The wind, she assured herself. But when the tapping escalated into frantic rapping on the window, she muttered, “Oh no,” and dragged herself to the door. Her unwanted visitor tottered into a firm embrace. “Come on in, Breeze,” she said. “I suppose you’d like lunch.” As Breeze began to protest, Martha added briskly: “Don’t try to talk yet. And don’t worry, I have your gluten-free bread and oat milk. As usual.”

Martha felt stricken with shame. How could she be so irritable at the loss of her precious afternoon? She turned to invite the other woman to sit in her own armchair. Too late. Breeze had already taken possession of both the chair and Martha’s homemade afghan blanket. Martha resignedly provided tissues to dry tears and running nose. “We need to start again,” she grinned. “A silence break, I think. Breathe deeply, calm down, and—when we both feel ready—tell me what’s happened.” She managed not to say, This time!

“They’ve got him.” No pause for silence. Martha sighed inwardly, unconsciously grimaced, and composed herself to listen. “Don’t ask me what he’s done.”

Martha added silently to herself, This time.

“Prison, Martha. What am I supposed to do?”

No longer a regular conversation between a worried mother and a helpful friend, the situation had suddenly become serious. “Oh Breeze! Where is he?”

“Prison. I said.” She sounded almost proud.

“Prison? But he’s only a boy. And he hasn’t been to court, has he? Not found guilty of anything or given a prison sentence? Wait a minute. He must be at Hindwood. The remand center. He’ll be there waiting to go to court.”

“Like I said. Prison,” Breeze insisted. “My little boy—behind bars.” She pulled the afghan over her head. Then emerged to add, “He never done a wrong thing. Not a criminal, not my angel.”

“Not exactly an angel,” said Martha. “Now, we need to know exactly what’s happening. When are you going to see him?” But when Breeze, predictably, collapsed under the blanket, Martha understood that she would soon be setting out from home. Like it or not.

The bus stopped a few yards from the prison. Martha joined the procession of friends and relations clustering at the gate. She was grateful to be with people who seemed familiar with both journey and destination. She had not been prepared for the wall topped with high-security razor wire or for the long wait to be admitted.

Breeze’s angel—usually known as Gabriel—was escorted to the meeting room with a group of other alleged criminals. Martha had felt nervous about confrontation with so-called “young offenders.” But she knew Gabriel well: a tall, thickset boy with a mild stammer and enchanting smile. He had found speech and school work difficult but was a skillful artist. Martha remembered his efforts to teach her to draw a bicycle. He had failed, defeated by her incompetence. She admired his patience and treasured his demonstration sketch.

During the hour of their meeting, Martha bought soft drinks and packets of biscuits from the volunteer-staffed counter. Boys and young men sat at little square tables in the pretend cafe. Mothers and sisters, girlfriends, a few grandmothers, and several babies had to sit opposite their personal prisoners. Martha felt like an intruder, having no close relationship to Gabriel. But he clearly valued her presence. “You’re my first visitor,” he said. “Some of them don’t get anyone.”

“The boys, you mean? No visitors at all?”

“No. Their people are ashamed of them, being in here. Not like my Mum. She’s just afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Afraid of everything. Everyone.” And then: “Afraid of me.”

There was nothing to say. She gently touched Gabriel’s hand across the table. At once, a watching officer strode over and reminded Martha that she must not touch the prisoner. With searing pain, she realized: The prisoner? He means Gabriel.

In deep distress, Martha sought help from Friends. Zak and Gracie lived near the bus station. Martha had never visited them before, but Gracie showed no surprise, welcomed her, and served perfect coffee. “Martha, my dear,” she said, “I see you need sweet nourishment—friendship and cake, no? Forget your virtuous waistline. Here is comfort.” Gracie steered Martha to the opulent settee and held her as she overflowed in tears. Zak looked in, nodded, and sat quietly nearby.

“They’re so young,” Martha gasped. “I thought they’d be tough young thugs. Big. Hostile. Horrible. But they’re just boys. Thin. Pale. Weary. Only 14 years old, some of them. Children. Others—handsome, young men. Already worn. Offenders. In prison. Behind razor wire. Can you believe that? Razor wire. And some of them, no one visits. No mother, no friend. One of them has to be protected because his mates ran away, left him to be caught, and now he’s terrified they’ll think he grassed them up. Not a single person visits him. In prison. He’s 15.”

They sat in silence while Martha wept and Gracie held her hand. Into the silence, Zak said, “When I’m moved to pray, I write a letter.”

The governor sent a car to the bus station. Martha’s letter had asked if it would be possible to arrange visitors for boys and young men who had no contacts. She had prepared to penetrate the razor wire and do battle. The governor responded with a courteous invitation to discuss her idea. The radiant raiment of a warrior saint was exchanged for the modest garments of an unremarkable reformer.

Her concern matched his own. All the governor had needed was someone to take an initiative, develop a scheme, find—and organize—volunteers. It might after all, Martha thought, have been easier to storm the citadel. However, the gates had been opened by a few words written to the right person at the right time. Peace work.

The Hindwood Prison Visiting scheme was the first for young people in the country. Once Martha had been officially registered as a prison visitor, she explained the scheme to the meeting. Friends offered support in every way possible. Isaac regretted that he was too old to visit but offered to organize, purchase, and dispatch magazines. One lonely boy, Tyson, was interested in karate; Isaac sent him Karate Kids Weekly. Phil loved rabbits; every week, Isaac found and sent postcards with pictures of them. He would have paid out of his pension, but Friends agreed that meeting funds should meet all expenses, so that everyone could feel involved.

Richenda confessed that she would have loved to be a visitor, but, she said sadly, “Who would want to be visited by me? Even if Lumina and I were permitted to enter the prison.”

Martha reassured her, “Anyone would love to spend time with you and Lumina. May I check with the governor—about Lumina?” There was, of course, no problem. Richenda and Lumina became regular visitors, beloved by young men and boys, relations, and staff.

Zak and Gracie invited Martha to coffee and cake one morning. Zak was even more shy than usual, until his sister persuaded him to speak. “Martha, I would like to be part of this. I am, as you know, always busy. But I am my own master, and I can find time. But—”

“Zak,” ordered Gracie, “come to the point.”

“But I may not be acceptable. I am . . .”

“He’s gay.”

“Yes,” agreed Zak, “I am gay. In our country, before we came here . . .” He faltered, upset.

Gracie came to his rescue: “He was illegal. They would have locked him up. Go on.”

Zak clasped his hands together: “So perhaps they will not let me into this prison.” He laughed, ruefully.

Gracie put her arm round him. “He has a good friend, and they are going to set up home together when they can find an apartment. At last! I love my brother, but it is time he grew up. Me too. I have my own good friend to live with. You understand?”

Martha laughed. “I suggest you ask the governor for advice, Zak. I have no doubt that he’ll appreciate your honesty. You’d be a wonderful visitor.”

On the first Sunday after the Hindwood Prison Visitor scheme was inaugurated, Martha sat in meeting. Once, she had reluctantly set out from home to visit Gabriel. Now she was at home in a new way: changed. People she had known at a distance for years had become close Friends: Isaac, Richenda and Lumina, and Gracie and Zak. A few minutes late, Breeze bustled in with Gabriel, sat beside her, and whispered triumphantly, “Probation!”

They had all been changed. So had the young Hindwood prisoners. And so would many young people held there and in other prisons.

That morning, the elder had no advice to share. But for the first time, Martha felt herself quaking. She rose and said: “I was in prison and you visited me.”