by Petrea King
***
There were ten gates to unlock and relock by the officer who escorted me on my journey to the isolation unit deep within the maximum-security gaol. On arrival, I would leave my belongings in a locker at reception and enter the unit empty-handed.
Once I’d settled in and got to know everyone, I sought permission to cook with the men, and I gave two reasons for my request. First, if we were cooking together we would be shoulder to shoulder rather than eye to eye; because the main people who eyeballed them were police officers and wardens, I knew it would be difficult for us to form a trusting bond unless we were shoulder to shoulder. While we cooked together we could discuss safe sex, death, dying, drug use, relationship issues, grief, self-respect, health and their precarious future. Second, it would help me to educate them about their need to take better care of their health—most of them lived on sugar, white bread, sweets, instant coffee and cigarettes.
Corrective Services was happy for me to go ahead with this plan, and they agreed to pay for all the food I needed. The only proviso was that we weren’t allowed to cook with anything that could be fermented into alcohol. From then on, I regularly took bags of food into the isolation unit.
I’d developed one of my favourite recipes, pumpkin pie, when my children were young and vegetarian. It combines steamed pumpkin with onions, cottage cheese, mixed herbs, honey, eggs and butter, and it’s baked in the oven without a pie crust. Of course, cutting up pumpkin with a flimsy plastic knife in gaol was enough to stimulate any human being into a murderous frenzy. Checking first that they weren’t being observed by the wardens, the prisoners slid a panel away in the back of the kitchen cupboard and retrieved a 20-centimetre knife that did the job in no time at all! Once the pumpkin was peeled, the knife was cleaned and returned to its secret location.
***
One prisoner was probably a psychopath—he had no regard for anyone. I always made sure I wasn’t alone in his company. He would happily masturbate while talking about his grandmother’s funeral; when I called him on his behaviour, he would just smirk and continue until I walked away. I eventually wrote a report stating that he should never be integrated into the mainstream gaol, but after I’d finished working at Long Bay he was taken out of the isolation unit for economic reasons. Not long afterwards, he infected a warden with a syringe of his own blood; sadly, the warden subsequently died. In time, so did the prisoner, after he’d been transferred to Goulburn gaol where I can only imagine the treatment he received from the wardens.
But I never felt threatened by him or any of the other prisoners. At worst, they might have held me hostage to achieve some political end, but I knew they wouldn’t hurt me. They appreciated the fact I came into the gaol to help them. When I shared my own story, they felt safe to share their fears and struggles. Preparing meals, talking and eating together allowed us to quickly form a deep bond of trust.
In addition to cooking and eating together, we held twice-weekly support and meditation groups. This helped them feel that they had access to the same services offered to HIV sufferers outside of prison. They particularly loved my guided visualisation practices, perhaps imagining that they were far away on a tropical island, with palm trees swaying and the warmth of the sand between their toes.
***
I had only been working at Long Bay for a couple of months when two of the prisoners set upon the other ten and beat them up. Now ten prisoners were allowed out of their cells into the recreational area while the two perpetrators remained locked up, or vice versa. This made it more difficult for me to defuse the situation, let alone resolve the issue of the massive expense of their isolated incarceration.
One of the most extraordinary miracles I have ever witnessed happened a few weeks after this fight.
The men were all adamant that they wanted their weekly support group, but I didn’t have time to conduct two groups. Finally, it was resolved. The two recalcitrant prisoners would be on one side of the bars, while the other ten would be on the other side with me. We were still able to form a circle.
One man asked whether I was conducting their group in precisely the same way as I facilitated the support group at the Albion Street Clinic. I responded, ‘Yes, it’s almost exactly the same as that group.’
‘What do you mean by almost?’ he asked.
I explained that we usually closed our eyes and did a focus to centre ourselves before we each had an opportunity to talk. Another man immediately snapped, ‘I’m not shutting my eyes ’round those bastards,’ even though the bars separated them.
But slowly, each prisoner closed his eyes.
I was just about to begin talking them through a brief practice of ‘coming to our senses’ when the first man asked again, ‘Is this exactly the same as you do it at Albion Street?’ There was silence for a moment, before I replied, ‘This is almost exactly the same as we do it there.’ And, of course, he immediately responded with, ‘Why almost?’
My heart was pounding. I said, ‘Well, at Albion Street we join hands to come together as a group before we start,’ as I reached out to the hands on either side of me.
It was one of those moments when I dared not breathe as the miracle unfolded. With eyes still closed, they reached out to one another, through the bars, to form an uninterrupted circle. Such precious moments are never forgotten.
During this group session, when it came time for the two unruly prisoners to talk, they softened. First one and then the other apologised for their behaviour and the disruption they had caused, and they asked if the other prisoners would allow them to once more mingle as one group. Such emotional vulnerability was rare and touching, and the other prisoners responded with grunts, nods and agreement.
***
There’s one story I’d like to share because it powerfully illustrates a great lesson to me. But it’s not an easy story to read, and if sexual abuse of children is particularly distressing to you then you might want to skip to the next chapter. Some of this story also appears in Sometimes Hearts Have to Break but it bears repeating.
Bruce was the least popular prisoner among the group as he was known as a rock spider—the name they gave to a child molester. He always seemed shy to me though also a gentleman. He read voraciously on a wide range of topics and usually kept to himself. He would participate in the support and meditation groups but make little contribution. His individual sessions with me often broached deep and personal matters sometimes stimulated by the other prisoners’ discussions within the support groups. Bruce was always well-mannered, often making me a cup of tea when I arrived or fetching a chair for me.
Bruce had a healthy T cell count (these cells are the part of the immune system attacked by HIV). Most of the other prisoners had health issues associated with a very low T cell count, but Bruce seemed in excellent physical health.
Bruce occasionally mentioned his paedophilia as he described being ‘taken over by this illness’, which caused him to follow and, if he could, molest young boys.
One day, Bruce suddenly collapsed on the ground and was subsequently diagnosed with a tumour wrapped around his spinal cord, which caused instant and complete paralysis. Six weeks later he was dead.
Five weeks after Bruce’s collapse, I visited the prisoners in the gaol as per usual. As I approached the isolation unit I could hear the pandemonium unfolding inside and saw broken glass on the footpath. When I entered the warden’s office I was greeted enthusiastically by the officers on duty as the prisoners had, since their release from their cells that morning, been on a destructive rampage. There was a fire alight in Bruce’s cell and the wardens refused to enter the space while the prisoners were so angry. They assured me, should I choose to enter the space where the prisoners were on rampage, that I would be safe so long as I stayed within their view. This wasn’t of great comfort to me!
One thing that really frightened the wardens was the spilt blood of these prisoners. They refused to clean up blood and, given one of the men had punched his fist throu
gh a window embedded with wire and was bleeding profusely, there was no way they would enter the room the prisoners were in the process of destroying.
The men were throwing furniture and had broken the pool cues to inflict damage on the fridge and other immovable furniture. The pool table had been upended and broken furniture was strewn around the recreation room.
I paced up and down with the prisoners as they shouted abuse or curses at Bruce who lay dying, under guard, in the nearby Prince Henry Hospital. They wished him a slow and painful, paralysing death. The news of his death on a near horizon had precipitated this angry outburst.
The prisoners also talked about the boys Bruce had molested, most of whom were aged between ten and thirteen years of age. My son Simon was ten at the time and though I’m sure that most of the stories the prisoners repeated to me were born of their imagination rather than fact, I found it difficult to keep my own anger and disgust in check.
Gradually, as we paced together and I listened to their awful stories about Bruce, the prisoners began to settle down. It was a challenge to diffuse the situation, as one man’s anger would reduce just as another’s reached boiling point. I ‘parked’ my feelings of anger and disgust for later appraisal. In those challenging hours of settling the prisoners down to the point where each one returned to his cell and was locked in, adding my upset to theirs would hardly be helpful.
The prisoner who was still bleeding profusely left a trail of blood spatters everywhere he went. As he finally settled down I was able to attend to his wounds, wrapping a towel around his hand until the gaol doctor could be summoned to better attend to him. I then removed all traces of blood from the floors, wall and other surfaces he’d manage to affect while on his rampage.
I went from the gaol to the hospital to visit Bruce, but I found it very difficult to be anywhere near him. My judgement of him at that time precluded me from being with him and I only stayed for a few minutes. I was amazed at the depth of the feelings of loathing I felt. So much for compassion and being of service!
On the drive home from Prince Henry Hospital I felt exhausted and confused and wondered why. (Now, as I write this, I think it’s extraordinary that I wondered at my exhaustion!)
I retreated to my office to meditate and reflect on the events of the day. The inmates, I realised, had only been expressing their fears. They, after all, had far fewer T cells than Bruce. But they couldn’t just say, ‘I feel afraid because what has happened to Bruce could happen to me.’ They lacked an awareness of their feelings as well as an ability to articulate them. They also wanted to seem macho and powerful—a willingness to be vulnerable is definitely not a high priority for any incarcerated man.
The men had rationalised what had happened to Bruce—a sudden, painful, paralysing death—in terms of his crimes as a way of reassuring themselves that their crimes didn’t warrant such a punishment. My second realisation was even more enlightening.
When I had visited Bruce, he had been sitting slumped and pale, in a large armchair. He was very ill and frail. I had been sitting with a paedophile. Having come straight from the gaol to the hospital, I had brought my judgements, prejudices, anger and assumptions with me. I couldn’t see past them to the frail and sick man I was visiting. Instead, I’d seen something that didn’t actually exist in our moments together, except within my own mind; in my interactions with Bruce, I kept him trapped as a child molester because that was whom I chose to see and relate to.
I was grateful to have the opportunity of visiting Bruce one more time a week later. Before I entered his hospital room, I paused for a moment to bring myself into the present. When judgement has the potential to cloud my mind I would often imagine I was contained within the body of Jesus, Buddha, St Francis or some other being who sees the world with less judgement than me. I took some long, slow, deep breaths and, after greeting the guard at his door, entered the quiet of Bruce’s room.
He was sitting in a big chair propped up with pillows. I pulled up another chair and took on his much slower breathing pattern in order to slow myself down and be in Bruce’s time zone rather than the busier one of the outside world. It was obvious he was very close to dying but finally he lifted his head, and he asked whether he could tell me something he had never disclosed to anyone. Of course I agreed. Bruce talked for almost two hours about his childhood, the years when this ‘sickness’ would overcome him, what he had done to children and how he felt about his imminent death.
He began by recounting his miserable childhood where he was brutally abused, molested and regularly raped by his alcoholic father. His father often brought home his drinking mates from the pub. They too abused and raped Bruce and he suffered regular beatings in order to ensure his silence about what was happening to him at home. He tried to escape by hiding in the garden shed or the outhouse but his father would always find him, and it was easier to be found than to endure the beatings he would receive when he tried to run away. The Department of Community Services had often returned him to his father’s care and he was too terrified to tell them the truth of what was happening at home. Bruce had run away for good when he was eleven and lived on the streets, avoiding the police. As angry as I had felt a week earlier at the thought of his violations against children, I now felt compassion for that poor child who knew no better than to escape the violence and abuse.
Bruce stopped several times to rest or to say, ‘I’ve never told anyone this before. Is it alright for me to keep talking?’ Each time I assured him I was interested to hear more.
Bruce shared the heart-rending story of his life up to his being in prison, his sudden deterioration and now, his dying. To my complete shock, he then looked directly into my eyes and said, ‘But, Petrea, I’ve become a Christian and I’ve asked forgiveness for what I did to young boys, and I have accepted it.’
I sat in stunned silence. I heard myself think, How dare you accept forgiveness for what you have done to children. I found it extraordinary to realise I wanted Bruce to suffer for all eternity and never find peace.
I refrained from saying out loud the cruel words of my judgement and brought myself back to listening. The anger and recriminations I so easily could have dumped upon Bruce were no more or less than those I held against myself. Anger is so often just the bodyguard of sadness, fear, anguish or grief.
While I felt disgusted by Bruce’s crimes against innocent children, I believed his appalling choice to follow and molest boys was born of his own awful suffering. His courage in telling me his story made me aware of the remnants of my own self-loathing, which had reverberated throughout my life, and gave me an opportunity to witness and release myself from such judgement. It is second nature for us to judge others but these judgements only separate us from one another. If we release the judgement, we find a deeper sense of connection with the other person and our compassion is a natural response. It is possible to love the being while abhorring the actions of that person.
It must have taken great courage to utter the words, ‘I have asked for forgiveness, and I have accepted it,’ given Bruce had received nothing but condemnation and hatred from people. Like us all, he yearned for unconditional love and acceptance and I imagine he had never experienced it until he shared his painful story.
When I said my goodbyes to Bruce, I hugged him gently and thanked him for sharing his story with me. It was a privilege to bear witness to his outpouring and I was deeply grateful for, and humbled in the presence of, his courage. He died peacefully a few minutes after we parted. I like to think that by sharing his story and having it witnessed without judgement, he found his peace and healing. Perhaps now he could leave behind any desire to have power over someone else, for his own gratification. I hope so.
Bruce’s story was hard to hear and tested the bounds of my compassion. He died in the right place, in gaol and under guard. His actions are beyond forgiving but it is possible to find forgiveness and compassion for the wounded being while not tolerating his despicable behaviour. As a child m
olester, he needed to be kept away from young people; gaol was exactly the right place for him. Forgiving the person does not imply any acceptance of his actions. Compassion allowed me to see the wounded child who grew into the man capable of inflicting on others the pain he experienced himself. This insight doesn’t excuse Bruce’s behaviour; but through extending a compassionate listening in which he found healing is perhaps to create the possibility of a better future for all of us.
An atmosphere of acceptance and unconditional love allows both myself and the person to whom I’m listening to feel comforted and connected. Whenever I let go of judgement a space is created for the unexpected to arise or a different perspective to be understood. The essence of forgiveness requires us to leave judgement aside. Then we see the person or situation afresh, without preconceptions, assumptions or expectations.
CHAPTER 28
On the move again
In 1988, I was asked by three separate publishers to write a guidebook for people living with life-threatening illnesses. I felt quite daunted, given I’d left school having produced only rudimentary pieces. I rang a journalist friend who’d written some articles about me, and she kindly offered to guide me in my literary pursuit.
I enjoyed the writing process. After years of working closely with thousands of seriously ill people, I found it relatively easy to document the practical aspects of living well when dealing with serious illness and how best to create an environment for healing and peace. My life was providing me with so many new and interesting challenges and, while mindful of how precarious life can be, I felt very much alive and engaged. Other books followed; each time, the writing process became easier.
Books weren’t my only creative outlet. After advice from Ross, I had been producing something else that I hoped would be of use to many people.
