United States: Building bonds, one letter at a time

Irving and John are both incarcerated in Texas. Irving, 42 years old, has spent more than 16 years on death row, while John, 40, has been there for over 14 years.

Just saying those words sends a shiver down my spine. I refuse to look at the haunting images that flash before my eyes. I cry, tremble, and ask myself, “Francine, how would you react if you or a loved one suddenly ended up there?”

Everyone reacts in their own way. Irving sank into a depression, too ashamed to turn to God, feeling utterly unworthy. John, on the other hand, threw himself into God’s embrace, grateful for his love, compassion, and tenderness. He wishes he could offer comfort and help to everyone around him, urging them to keep living.

In September 2023, on his 40th birthday, Irving attempted suicide while alone in his cell. Fortunately, this year he appears to be in better spirits, supported by the group I’ve formed for him.

In his last letter to me, John mentioned that he had to respond to ten letters that arrived at the same time, so I’d have to wait a bit for his reply. He’s been seeing his family and is doing everything he can to have his trial reviewed. He would love to uplift the people he meets, but these encounters are so rare.

According to Irving and John’s descriptions, the prison conditions are almost inhuman: isolation, infrequent and very brief outings, and visits governed by a discouraging protocol. It’s impossible to use the phone unless you can provide aUnited States address, and sending money requires filling out an absurdly complicated form.

As for food, John was pleasantly surprised by the unusually good quality of the Easter Sunday lunch. He was even more astonished to be allowed to receive Holy Communion, something he hadn’t been able to do in 15 years. But whenever an escape attempt occurs, all prisoners are punished: no more outings, just a plain sandwich once a day, and their feet are bound when they go shower.

I feel very close to John and Irving, who calls me his Gran Ma. I also think I mean a lot to them, based on the affection they express in their letters, especially Irving.

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By Francine

Johnny H. is 60 years old. He spent 30 years on death row at Union Correctional Institution in Florida.

Our small ACAT group in Issoire started a letter exchange with this person, whose name and address were given to us by ACAT in 2013. We were eight elderly people, eager to “do good”, inspired by the desire to “set free those who are unjustly chained, (…) free them from constraints (…), give freedom to those who are oppressed…” (Isaiah 58:6).

We were, and still are, convinced that while a criminal may have committed wrongs that deserve punishment, they are also human beings capable of change and growth. It was through letters that we came to know “our” correspondent sentenced to death.

We thought we were offering kind words and encouragement to an unsavoury stranger, given his death sentence. However, our exchanges revealed someone sweet, intelligent, and full of courage. Johnny expressed himself eloquently, often through poems. His words made us reflect deeply, and at times, even challenged our biases… In the end, we’re the ones that changed!

As for him, he agreed to play fair with us. He expressed his suffering, solitude and immense love for us. He shared his growing faith in the God that held him by the hand, as well as his efforts to remain “human” in a place where people scream, curse, cry, are full of rage, and scared out of their wits.

He told us about a guard who shook his hand through the door’s serving hatch when he retired. That was the first non-violent physical contact he’d had for so many years. Contact prohibited by law, but a sign of respect and acknowledgment. Johnny was moved by this gesture, and we were moved by his story. Johnny changed, and so did the guard.
In May 2017, the Florida Supreme Court overturned his death sentence. Then, in July 2017, Johnny wrote to us: “Whatever the Court decides, I’ll remain in prison, but at least I won’t be on death row. I’ll be transferred to another prison where I can study Law online, get a degree, have a job, work in the library, and continue helping others.”

And that’s exactly what he did. He often writes of his joy and gratitude: “I am so happy that God has blessed me in this way so far, and who knows what else He has in store for me. But I make sure He knows that without all your prayers and intercession, nothing would have been possible. O my wonderful brothers and sisters from ACAT, you have brought love, peace and joy into my heart, and renewed my love and trust in God. Now, whether I’m on the street or in prison, I will serve God by doing good, and my spirit will be at peace every time I help others. You don’t know what you’ve done for me in this lonely world. I thank you, and I love you all.”

When asked how he spends his time, he replies: I don’t spend time, I invest it. I invest my time and energy communicating with my ACAT friends and family, writing poems and articles, doing anything creative that I can to keep my mind active and my thoughts positive.“

He maintains his health and body with daily exercise, preferring to fast if the food doesn’t seem wholesome or healthy.

He studied law online, passing his Year 1 exam with flying colours. He couldn’t continue due to lack of funds. But his level is high enough for him to have taken over the cases of other fellow incarcerated people, and to have had two or three of them released. After much discussion with the court, he was granted permission to plead his case.

I’m proud of him! We’re proud of him and proud to have played a part in shaping such a beautiful human being. I’m deeply touched! We’re touched by the way he expresses his affection for us and by the extraordinary impact of something as simple as writing a letter. I’m ashamed! We’re ashamed of doing so little, and ashamed of our failure to make our governments understand how ineffective their policies of repression and isolation truly are.

Living conditions in modern prisons, where everything is remote-controlled, are ultimately no better for the morale and rehabilitation of incarcerated people than the worst medieval jails. Salvation always comes from a friend, not a remote control.

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By Françoise and Marguerite

Milton Lewis is 71 years old. He spent 35 years on death row in San Quentin, California.

A few months ago, Milton was transferred to a new prison in Represa, California, which is less harsh than the one in San Quentin. He can now send and receive emails, receive visitors and attend religious services more often, which is very important to him. He’s also undertaking training in Bible study and catechism.

I belong to a local group that writes to Milton occasionally, especially during the holidays. We’ve been exchanging letters and postcards for about 15 years, typically once a month.

When he was at San Quentin, I could barely send him anything, and I rarely included a photo, just a plain sheet of paper with my letters. He would send me small gifts that I cherish: little pearl necklaces or bracelets, cards he painted or decorated himself, scented papers, and even a painting he entrusted to an old friend who occasionally visited him. I displayed that painting in my home.

Every year, we fund Milton’s painting and drawing workshop (around 150 euros), because in United States prisons, everything has to be paid for. Yet, he’s never asked for money.

Milton and I were born in the same year, just eight days apart. We regularly wish each other a happy birthday. I send him updates about my family, my community and ACAT.

Milton is Evangelical and I’m Orthodox. We’re both very attached to our churches. He copies Bible passages and meditations for me, and I share our feasts and prayers with him.

Little by little, I came to see Milton as a person full of humanity and intelligence. He’s passed a law exam and is studying the Bible. He shares his perspectives on life, never complains, and encourages me to stay true to my faith. In many ways, he’s become a kind of pastor to me. He meditates deeply and sings beautiful hymns. Recently, he called me and sang a prayer over the phone.

How lucky I am to know Milton. I check the mail every day and it’s always so nice to hear from him.

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By Brigitte

Tom and I wrote to each other for three years. He was incarcerated in Florida and on death row for 43 years. He died in October 2023 of colon cancer, untreated, at age 73. 
We never discussed his death sentence or the possibility of execution. He simply told me one day, “I’ve given my lawyers a pile of paperwork (sic)”. I assumed he still had an ongoing trial, and it was clear he didn’t want to talk about it. To avoid bringing up painful memories, I just said, “Confide in your lawyers, they’re there to help you.” That was all. However, he was deeply affected when one of his friends was executed. He referred to the prison administration as the “Gestapo”, his nickname for the prison administration. He wrote to me: “Jimmy was executed and he may have been innocent.” 

His concerns as an incarcerated person were more focused on the living conditions: the heaters didn’t work, and the food provided by a private company was often contaminated. He frequently talked about the planned change in the company handling the food and the hope that it might improve things. Their canteen, also privately run, was just as bad, offering cheap brands of chocolate and coffee—his two main purchases. He cursed the entirely privatised system, which was profiting at their expense.

Another major issue was the possibility for prisoners to obtain more time in the day room, a common area where they could engage in daytime activities like meals or certain recreational activities. Their struggle paid off: with the help of their lawyers, they won their case against the prison administration. As a result, the administration was required to install day rooms on each floor, allowing them three hours of use per day, four days a week. For Tom, this was a true victory, a moment of real joy and success.

Apart from his living conditions, and the difficulties he faced with Jpay and Securus¹2 in staying in touch and receiving money, we often talked about current events and what was happening in the world. Thanks to his tablet and television, he stayed well-informed. A former Marine Commando in Vietnam, he expressed frustration over the United States defeat in Afghanistan. The war in Ukraine deeply concerned him. He wasn’t fond of Republicans. With his usual humour, he told me: “You French gave us the Statue of Liberty, we’d like to give you Donald Trump.” 

He was interested in sports and followed the Tour de France. He was educated in prison. For example, he recognised the Lascaux cave depicted on a postcard I had sent him. This kind of curiosity helped him escape, even if just for a moment, from his confinement. Perhaps it gave him an outlet, a reason to live, and a way to avoid sinking into despair. The fact that we could talk about it together was undoubtedly beneficial for him.

Despite his situation, he remained hopeful about the future and life itself. When he first noticed the symptoms of his illness, he eagerly awaited the tests that would determine the diagnosis.

Unfortunately, the tests were postponed month after month. Eight long months passed before the diagnosis was confirmed. Tom considered chemotherapy, but it never happened. He wasn’t treated,likely because it was too late. When he realised his fate, he didn’t complain. He accepted it with grace, thanking us for everything and saying goodbye. 

His letters always ended with, “Take care of each other, across the ocean, I’m sending you my kite.”   

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By Elise