But for miles of wire fencing underneath coils of jagged, spikey barbed wire, the grounds are barren, the wind biting cold, the day sunless. Rows of sterile, high-windowed buildings sit strategically inside the wire. The black tarred pathways you must walk on stand out against the dull concrete edging and newly mowed grass. There’s no getting away from that wind; there’s nowhere else to go. You walk up the path, stand at the gated fence, push the button, wait to be peered at through the camera, sized up and considered whether you are to be let in or whether information should be demanded from you. If the time is exact and you look normal enough, the gate slides open. If you don’t look normal, questions come through the speaker: What’s your name? Why are you here? Where do you come from?
If the gate opens, you walk into a long, wired cage. The gate locks behind you. You know you are being watched; you can’t see by whom. You must walk to the next gate at the end of the cage. Wait there in that hard wind. In their own time, the officers in their warm office, the ones you can’t see, open that gate and you advance again along a path to the locked, thick, cold, glass door. The door that won’t be opened until the gate behind you has been locked.
They’ll let you in then. Into the warm and light, coldly sterile signing-in room. Hello, you say to the woman in uniform standing behind a counter that places her higher than you. Without answering, she slides a pen and paper across. Fill this out and bring it back to me, she barks. In real life, you would call her out for her attitude. You’d counsel her to take a day off, find a job she likes, give us all a break. But on this day, in this place, you take the paper and pen and fill out the form, being careful to make all the boxes hold the exact information it seeks.
The cold has made you need the toilet. You follow the arrows and wave at the camera in the waiting area; you want to give it the fingers. You scour the toilet room for cameras, none are obvious but you pull down your pants the least they have to go and do what you do with the least skin showing. Salute to the camera on the way out.
You wait until another uniformed woman beckons you through an X-ray machine. If it beeps, you must stand like a star with your arms outstretched and your legs spread. You must have a wand go over and around your body. You must take off your shoes and socks and let your hair out if it is held in place. You are observed by other uniformed women, cameras and a room full of visitors. You must take off your belt. You must watch your small grandchildren go through the same procedure. You are not permitted to be beside them to reassure and help them. They must qualify for this test completely alone.
The abrasive and icy unsmiling women guards in their cold, dark uniforms with their keys dangling at their belt bleed through every sense. You feel their power, their loathing, their distrust, their hostility for you, the mother of an inmate, the grandmother of an inmate’s children. The cold, dark severity of that day is a turning point. You think you are powerless. But it becomes an opening to champion for humane attitudes in prison.
You contact those in the highest of places. You receive a copy of Hōkai Rangi 2019-2024, a strategy in the making, delivered across the country for Aotearoa to learn how to be inclusive, to deliver positive outcomes for inmates and whānau; a commitment to do better. You meet those responsible for front-of-house prison conditions. Have you made a difference? You’ve not been invited back to check it out but you’re open to the invitation.
Diane Gordon-Burns is a writer and researcher living and working in the Southern Alps.
