South Africa: resonating stories

Lubalolo. I was arrested in 2012, sentenced to 15 years in prison in 2014 and released in 2021. I went through three different facilities during my sentence: Brandvlei, Drakenstein and Pollsmoor. At Brandvlei, I was close to my family who lived within walking distance of the prison. That was important to me. I was also lucky because the warden’s husband was one of my old teachers, so she sometimes brought me things. She and other people who knew me in the community helped me a lot. People from elsewhere don’t always get the same treatment. I was supposed to stay there, but the prison governor decided to transfer me to Drakenstein because I was young and there were no schooling opportunities at Brandvlei. It was really difficult for me because it felt like I was being taken away from my family. At Drakenstein, I would only see them once or twice a year. It was hard seeing other prisoners being visited. I would try to call on weekends, but there wasn’t always enough time. Each prisoner is entitled to a 10-minute phone call, but the total time allocated on a given day can be as little as an hour for more than 100 prisoners. So only 5 to 10 prisoners actually get to make a call. Sometimes the payphone would be broken, or a prisoner wouldn’t let go of the phone.

Thanda. And the time it takes to reach someone might be eight minutes or so, for example if they’re busy or not expecting the call. By the time they pick up, you only have two minutes left to talk. There are provisions to ensure that prisoners are placed close to their families, but there is no accountability or oversight to enforce them. People try to appeal transfer decisions, but it’s not very effective. Others might try to bribe officials, but those of us who don’t have the money have no other choice. And that’s another major problem: the treatment between those who have money to bribe officials and those who don’t. I remember one prisoner who was able to visit his father many times while he was on his deathbed. He was classified as maximum security but had bribed the officials. I was classified as medium security and was even eligible for minimum security, but I had no money. So when my grandmother died, the woman who brought me up, I couldn’t go to the funeral. I didn’t have the money to pay the legal fees to challenge the department either. The officials told me there was no chance of me going. So I felt great injustice.

Mthetheleli. When I arrived at Drakenstein in 2005, gangsterism and racial issues were rife. In particular, coloured people were stigmatised and associated with gang violence in the Western Cape. In the maximum juvenile unit, officials would only come to give food and open the door for exercise, but there were no sports. They only opened one room at a time to avoid fights between prisoners. We stayed in the cell the rest of the time. They would use derogatory terms to refer to the prisoners, like ‘pantaint’, an old Afrikaans word used to address slaves. Maximum prisoners didn’t have access to education or activities in general. Some programmes were delivered in Afrikaans, so only those who could understand could participate. There were work opportunities in farming or carpentry, for example. But the pay was about 18 cents an hour as of 2016, maybe 20 today. Some prisoners would be compelled to work and threatened with loss of privileges when they refused. This happens a lot in rural prisons. Some conditions slowly began to improve over time, but not all.

Lubalolo. When I was transferred to Drakenstein in 2015, I recognised that things were different from in other prisons, where violence and gangsterism were rampant. All prisoners were required to attend church. Educational and other activities were more easily accessible. I met Mthetheleli in an entrepreneurship course. My perspective started to change, and I began to see Drakenstein as a place where I could learn and grow. I was constantly taking part in different courses and activities. I developed plumbing skills and got a certificate. I also learned how to sow and improved my public speaking skills. It felt like prisoners were looked at differently by the staff, in a positive way.

Lincoln. I was released from Pollsmoor in 2015. Conditions were far worse in terms of overcrowding and hygiene in that prison. Everyone in the facility had lice. The guards neglected the prisoners and didn’t provide them with basic amenities. There was no proper education or guidance. It was impossible to get a medical appointment. I started getting rashes on four different parts of my body. I asked several times for medical attention, but never got it. I ended up going to court with a lawyer…

Mthetheleli. Drakenstein was much cleaner than Pollsmoor. When I was in the pre-trial unit at Pollsmoor in 2003, it was so overcrowded that officials were requesting amnesty for some prisoners to free up space. An outbreak of tuberculosis was ignored and turned into multidrug-resistant tuberculosis (MDR-TB) and then extensively drug-resistant tuberculosis (XDR-TB). Medical appointments could take weeks. Skin rashes were also common, and I still struggle with skin problems from that time. White prisoners were treated better. They were more likely to be allocated individual cells, while coloured and black prisoners were placed in communal cells. And when they raised issues, they were more likely to be addressed.

Lubalolo. The thing that struck me most about Pollsmoor was the quality of the food. It was so bad and people were hungry. There wasn’t enough. Prisoners would run to the kitchen at mealtimes, something I never saw at Drakenstein. At Brandvlei, the quantity was also low, but at least the quality and taste were good. The smell of urine in the communal cells was also very pungent at Pollsmoor. I felt like I was breathing it in, and it was hard to eat at the same time. Cleaning was a source of tension too. Some prisoners didn’t make an effort which bothered other prisoners and sometimes led to fights.

Lungeswa. I was in the women awaiting trial unit at Pollsmoor. Almost all the women were black. During the winter, the unit would get overcrowded because a lot of homeless people would start committing crimes to get shelter and food. Attitude had a big impact on how you were treated by the other women and officials. Women who had been sentenced in the past would tell me that Pollsmoor was a lot dirtier than other prisons because people were awaiting trial. They don’t think they’ll be there for long, so they don’t make the effort to keep the place clean.

Lubalolo. I was transferred to Pollsmoor just before my release in 2021. The end of my sentence kept getting delayed because I had to take part in Victim Offender Dialogue (VOD) first. This was during COVID and VOD requires meeting people from the outside. So because of sanitary restrictions, the meetings couldn’t take place and I was left stuck in prison.

Mthetheleli. My parole was delayed because of administrative problems. I would go see the parole board and some documents would always be missing. It wasn’t my fault, I’d provided everything I needed to on my end, so there wasn’t anything more I could do about it. That happened twice. And it happens to a lot of other prisoners too.

Thanda. After exhausting internal complaints procedures, the only thing left is the Judicial Inspectorate for Correctional Services (JICS). But it never worked for me. JICS is funded by the prison administration, so they depend on them. When you complain, they report it to the prison governor and you become even more of a target. You lodge another complaint the following week, but nothing happens. You feel like you’re complaining to a correctional official. Sometimes we hope that the complaint will reach the Area Commissioner, who oversees all the prisons in the area. We’re more optimistic because they’re more detached from the situation on the ground and it’s not their doing that’s being called into question.

Mthetheleli. JICS has Independent Visitors to Correctional Centres (ICCVs) that we can file complaints with. But the ICCVs wouldn’t dare going over the prison governor to the Area Commissioner because they’re also afraid of repercussions. They’re afraid of losing their jobs. Instead, they go through the case officer who then goes to the prison governor. Prisoners end up going on hunger strikes to have their voices heard, and that’s when the complaint starts to be taken seriously. But that’s really only until the prisoner starts eating again. After that, officials forget and move on. I’d like to see JICS integrate former prisoners into the ICCV system because there are so many dynamics that are difficult to identify and understand from an outside perspective.

Lubalolo. We’ve seen JICS members come and go, but little changes. I remember a group of us complaining about not being able to get shoes from home. The ones they provided wouldn’t fit or simply weren’t delivered to begin with. But I remember an ICCV who was committed to helping us. She relayed the problem through various channels and managed to resolve it. So I think it depends on the level of commitment of each ICCV. General legal assistance on other issues was also difficult to obtain. We didn’t feel that the legal practitioners actually wanted to help us.

Thanda. Overall, there are many written provisions guaranteeing all sorts of different rights, but there is no effective oversight to ensure that they are actually implemented.