A Prison Lesson for Yom Kippur
Erev Yom Kippur, 10th
Tishri 5767 – 1st October 2006
As many of you know, during the past year, Jenny
Goldfried Amswych, a 4th year rabbinic student at the Leo Baeck
College, had her internship placement with me – that is, she pursued the
practical side of her training by leading some services and other sessions
here at our shul, and also by accompanying me as I went about
aspects of rabbinic work that it is not possible to learn about in the
classroom.
It was a very worthwhile and enjoyable experience for
both of us, and reminded me of when I undertook an apprenticeship with
Rabbi Henry Goldstein – now retired – of South West Essex Reform
Synagogue, when I was a third year rabbinic student – twenty years ago
now. Usually, rabbinic students in their third year go to Israel, but
because I had lived in Israel for eight months a few years earlier, and
had very little experience of Jewish communal life in England, it was
agreed that I could do a special year-long apprenticeship with Rabbi
Goldstein. At that time, rabbinic students in both their fourth and fifth
years would go into pulpits solo, so I needed a bit more practical
experience before I embarked on that challenge!
During the course of that year, in addition to leading
occasional services and study sessions, I accompanied Rabbi Goldstein as
he conducted weddings, burials, cremations, stone-settings, talks to
groups in the local community, a Seder in a psychiatric hospital,
and interviews with people wishing to become Jewish and soon-to-be married
couples.
Towards the end of the year, Rabbi Goldstein took me on
a visit to Chelmsford Prison. Until a huge fire there about eight years
earlier, Chelmsford had been a maximum security prison. It was then
reserved for young offenders – up to the age of twenty-one. Around the
time we visited, the prison had been undergoing change once again, and had
begun to admit older prisoners from the surrounding area, with a view to
becoming a local prison.
Rabbi Goldstein served as Chaplain to the Jewish
prisoners – always few in number – and at the time that we visited, a
minority of one. Interestingly, the employment of prison chaplains is a
statutory requirement, and ‘religious affiliation’ is included in the
basic information identifying each prisoner. At Chelmsford at that time
there were two part-time Church of England Chaplains, and one part-time
Roman Catholic Chaplain. Chaplains for other religious groupings –
chiefly Jews and Muslims – were drawn from among the Rabbis and Imams in
the area, who made regular visits, the frequency of which was determined
by need.
On the day of our visit to Chelmsford, Rabbi Goldstein
was not expecting to visit any Jewish prisoners. However, one had just
been admitted, and had asked to see a ‘Rabbi’, so Rabbi Goldstein
spent some time with him. The purpose of our visit was to give me the
opportunity to experience an area of rabbinic practise, which might
possibly form part of my future work as a rabbi.
I recall that the apprehension I felt as we approached
the prison was not so very different from the apprehension I had felt on
other occasions during my apprenticeship. As usual, Rabbi Goldstein did
his best to prepare me. But, as it turned out, I was not prepared for what
I experienced – and have never forgotten that day. Nothing dramatic
happened, but the experience affected me so profoundly that I wrote it all
down. This evening, this special evening of Kol Nidrey, as we
confess our failings and embark on our journeys towards atonement, and a
new beginning, I want to tell you the story of that day.
As we drove into the car-park, the prison didn’t
appear ‘threatening’ in the least; there was plenty of greenery, and
the not very high perimeter wall seemed a fairly unremarkable remnant of a
Victorian edifice. Once inside the first door, however, the feeling of the
place changed dramatically: A heavy metal door slid firmly closed behind
us, and another stood closed in front of us. We waited in that small blank
space for only a few moments, but it seemed much longer. We were being
scrutinised by an unseen camera, and ‘contained’ until our credentials
were checked. Then the metal door in front of us slid open and we found
ourselves in a shabby corridor, with a notice board on one wall and
another metal door at the end of it. After a few moments, a chaplain
greeted us cheerily, and led us through the next metal door and into the
courtyard. As he strode across the courtyard, a heavy bunch of keys swing
dully at his side. He was taking us, he said, to his office, where we
would have a little chat before taking a tour of the prison.
The chaplain took us into his office – quite ordinary
in every sense except for the bars on the windows – and he began to talk
to us about his work, about the prisoners, about ‘life’ in the prison.
It all seemed fairly unreal despite the metal bars and the succession of
metal doors… I asked questions, and I waited.
After about thirty minutes, the chaplain, who turned
out to be C of E, and also the vicar of the local church – decided that
we were ready to embark on our tour. First stop was the chapel – a very
pleasant wood-clad room. Apparently, it was usually packed on Sundays.
Even ‘nominal’ Christians were very regular attendees – as the
chaplain explained, it made a break from sitting cooped up in a cell; as a
result of staffing cuts, most of the prisoners at Chelmsford at that time,
spent over twenty hours each day in their cells.
After the chapel, we had a look in on the ‘Board Room’,
where the Governor, Deputy Governors, Senior Prison Officer, Probation
Officers and Chaplains meet for consultations – before bumping into the
Governor and Senior Prison Officer en route to the cell blocks. ‘We don’t
get many of your lot in here’, the Governor quipped; ‘too clever to
get caught, I expect.’ I shouldn’t have been shocked by his remark.
Stereotyping, endemic in society at large, provides the bedrock of a ‘closed’
system like a prison, in which everyone is classified and labelled. I
remember shuddering as I thought about closed systems on a grander scale…
But there was no time to get side-tracked. A few more
doors opened and closed before we found ourselves on the control platform
at the heart of the prison. The cell blocks fanned out around us – four
in all: the ‘Education’ block, far right; then the block for the older
prisoners; next the one for young offenders; finally, far left, the block
for three further groups of inmates: those undergoing ‘punishment’ for
internal prison offences; those classified as highly dangerous –
category ‘A’ prisoners; and those prisoners – usually sex offenders
– in need of protection from other prisoners. By the end of the morning,
I had been inside all those blocks, indeed, being inside two cells, and
had a feeling of what it means to be ‘inside’, surrounded by walls and
doors, doors which always seem to be shutting behind you, or only opening
in front of you to pull you further in: Even on the ‘return’ journey
through the prison, I somehow didn’t really believe we were ‘getting
out’…
As we stood on the control platform surveying the cell
blocks, I thought of the prisoners inside them, but more of the people who
choose to work inside; unlocking and unlocking doors; overseeing the
inmates. Apparently, a large proportion of those who enter the prison
service are ex-armed services, especially ex-Navy – which isn’t really
surprising: Hierarchy; discipline; order; and in the case of a ship,
particularly, confined space. It makes sense. These people ‘fit’. But
what about the prisoners: Misfits? Social outcasts? Disrupters of law and
order – are they made to fit? Is that what incarceration achieves? Are
they simply ‘contained’ for a while, or are they transformed by the
experience? What effect does being ‘inside’ have on the average
prisoner?
These were some of the thoughts going round my head
before we started our tour of the cell blocks. I was thinking about ‘them’
– the inmates - and ‘them’ - the warders – all of ‘them’ very
other, different form me, the student rabbi… And seeing them didn’t
make things much better: The guards, inscrutable in their uniforms; the
prisoners, especially the young ones, with their tattoos, and T-shirts,
and jeans; so little individuality. And when we walked into a group of
young men, having a few minutes break form work in the prison kitchen, I
sensed an alien presence, which reminded me of young men in groups
anywhere, only much more subdued.
It was only when the chaplain showed us one of the
cells – empty because its occupants were working in the kitchen – that
I got a sense of something else: Of two human beings, with their past
lives, and their present concerns. The cell was tiny – about nine foot
long by six foot wide – packed with bunk beds, a shelf-type wall table,
personal belongings; and all of it perfectly neat and shining with
cleanliness. The walls were covered with photos – of friends, family,
girlfriends, and cars. Two small side-tables were covered with toiletries,
all carefully arranged, and on a piece of string hung about ten half-used
bars of soap – to make the cell smell nice. The two young men who shared
that cell were lucky – they had work to do, so they didn’t have to
stay in it all day. Instead, they’d made it into a ‘home’ to come
back to; a place of their own, which they controlled; an opportunity for
self-pride. I felt like an intruder in a way that I hadn’t felt outside
the cell, in the rest of the prison: That cell was personal, and
standing in it for a few moments saved me from the ‘system’, with is
methods and defences. Perhaps, a world of different experiences separated
me from the two men who shared that room, but they were no longer ‘inmates’,
‘prisoners’, they were people like me…
People like me – but how like me? The
notice outside the cell-door indicated that its inhabitants were ‘inside’
for five and six years respectively. Young offenders don’t get prison
sentences that long unless they’ve committed fairly serious crimes. I
remember thinking – could I commit a serious crime? A century ago,
criminals were thought to be people with a particular genetic make-up;
they inherited their ‘criminal nature’. Nowadays, environment is seen
as the principal factor determining criminal behaviour – both the
environment inside the home and outside it: bad housing; poor schools,
unemployment; pornography and violence in the media. And yet, not all the
victims of a ‘bad’ environment end up committing crimes… It would be
convenient to be able to fall back on the genetic argument, but there is
no evidence for it. So, what we are left with is ‘criminals’ as people
like ourselves, who share the same genetic code, and the same environment,
as people who are not criminals. So what accounts for the difference
between us? Is there a difference between us?
These were the thoughts I carried with me as I
continued the tour of Chelmsford Prison; thoughts that were challenged and
jerked out of comfortable ‘theory’ into reality when I walked into ‘A’
block. Rabbi Goldstein was having a private meeting with the Jewish
prisoner. The chaplain led me casually into a part of the prison that was
very different from the rest of it: The other blocks had newly
white-washed walls; here it was shabbier, and the wire-netting across each
landing indicated that inmates were less settled in this place…
The ground-floor was the punishment area, where
prisoners spend time in solitary confinement – in bare cells, containing
only an iron bed-frame; the mattress is put in at night. The chaplain
opened an empty cell for me to see: It was very dark, with only a tiny
window. People live in this place, I thought: An observation, confirmed by
the meals list on the notice board in a side office, which indicated that
almost half the occupants of ‘A’ block chose to eat vegetarian. I was
curious about this incongruous detail, so the chaplain introduced me to
one of the prisoners, who helped with the food: A swastika carved crudely
into his forehead, he explained to me perkily that a lot of inmates chose
to eat vegetarian because ‘the rest of it is rubbish’ – although he
didn’t use that word. A simple explanation – not many of those
available in that place…
The chaplain guided me to the first-floor landing –
to the cells for category ‘A’ prisoners. ‘Would you like to meet the
two lads doing the stamp project?’ he asked. I said ‘yes’, without
really understanding. How could I make sense of it? ‘Stamp projects’
are for ‘well-brought-up’ industrious twelve year olds… He unlocked
a cell door, and took me into a cell, identical to the one I had seen
below, only the window was slightly larger, and there was a shelf-type
table and two chairs. Apart from a transistor radio and two young men,
there was nothing personal in the room. The iron bunks were bare.
The two young men looked up from their work as we
walked in, and I realised that I recognised them – from their mug-shots
in the young offenders block. All inmates categorised by the Home Office
as highly dangerous, must be identifiable at all times – just in case of
trouble. The chaplain introduced me, I said ‘hello’, and asked the
young men about what they were doing, why they were doing it, how they
felt about being ‘inside’, how much they thought about their ‘sentence’.
They answered politely, but not stiffly; very subdued. They said they
tended to live from day to day, but that they liked the job of sorting out
the stamps because it gave them something to do and meant that they had
each other for company. As we talked, I realised that I really did ‘recognise’
one of them: I had seen his face plastered all over the front pages of the
tabloids. And had watched the TV news reports; they had gone on for
several days. The ‘face’ in the newspapers was of a brutal rapist and
murderer. Here was another face, but the same face; the same person. I
felt cold; uncomprehending.
As we left, I wished them luck, and told them to ‘take
care’ of themselves. The notice outside the cell door informed me that
they were ‘Inside’ for ten and twelve years respectively… Pondering
this, I asked the chaplain about rehabilitation programmes,
psycho-therapy. I needed to know that apart from containing these young
men, the years of imprisonment would be used for exploration and change.
He told me that there was very little rehabilitation work at Chelmsford,
but that one of the young men – not the one I recognised – was taking
steps to rehabilitate himself: He had asked some weeks earlier for
religious books to read – both men had been ‘inside’ for about nine
months when I visited – and was steadily reading his way through the
chaplain’s office library…
Why am I telling you all this? As I moved slowly out of
the prison – through all those doors – and into the everyday world
again, I knew I had taken something with me, and had also left something
behind – left behind the neat categories and labels that protect me and
all the non-prisoners in the prison system. What I had taken with me was
more nebulous, and hard to assimilate. In fact I’m not sure – even to
this day – what it is that I held inside me from that experience when I
walked outside again – except that it is still there, and forces me to
remember all the people in the prisons, and it makes me think about
what people are capable of – not just ‘other’ people; not just ‘criminals’,
but each one of us. And more than this, it helps me to understand,
really understand, ‘in my bones’, not just with my head, what our
Jewish tradition teaches us about our personal responsibility for
our actions, and our capacity, not only to do wrong, but to make repentance:
Al Cheit shechatanu l’fanecha – For the sin that we have committed
before you…
Ashamnu, Bagadnu, Gazalnu – We have offended, we
have betrayed, we have robbed…
Why do we make our confession in the plural form? Why
does our confession include confessing to wrongs that the majority of the
individuals who make up the ‘we’ have not committed? And ‘who’ are
‘we’? The last question is perhaps the most crucial. Franz Rosenzweig,
the about-to-be-baptised-as-a-Christian, alienated Jew, who ‘returned’
to Judaism after attending synagogue on Yom Kippur, addressed this
question directly, when he wrote that (The Star of Redemption,
Notre Dame Press, Indiana, 1985, p. 325):
…. ‘we’, in whose community the individual
recognises his sin, can be nothing less than the congregation of humanity
itself. Just as the year, on these days represents eternity, so Israel
represents humanity…
In other words, on Yom Kippur, ‘we’ confess
‘our’ sins not as a special ‘we’ – Israel, Jews – but rather
as a universal ‘we’, recognising that all of us are equal in our
capacity for sin. And so, ‘we’ confess wrongs that as individuals we
may not have committed, because we could have committed them… According
to Jewish tradition, the world is not divided into ‘good’ people, and
‘evil’ people. Each one of us has the capacity to do good, and a
capacity to do evil; each one of us possess a yetzer tov, a ‘good’
inclination, and a yetzer ra, an ‘evil inclination’. So each
one of us is responsible for what we do; can choose to follow the ‘good’
or the ‘evil’ inclination within us. But more than this, having chosen
one way, we can choose another; we can return; turn ourselves away from
‘evil’ and move towards ‘good’.
Al Cheit shechatanu l’fanecha – For the sin that we have committed
before you… Whether or not we can identify some of our own wrong-goings
in the litany of collective confession, we have committed wrongs –
before God, and against our fellow human beings; both close at hand, and
far away. We have committed wrongs, and when we admit this, if only to
ourselves, we begin the work of ‘return’ and renewal. So, perhaps, as
we gather here today, confessing our wrongs, making an effort to return,
we might feel some kinship with those prisoners, who are also trying to
turn themselves around – like that young man searching his deeds inside
Chelmsford prison all those years ago; groping his way towards his better
self. It is easier to label them ‘evil’; ‘criminals’; as people
who are not ‘like us’. But, essentially, every ‘criminal’ is like
us, and one day, when they have completed their sentences, they will
return to live amongst us. It’s a risk. But we are all the risk that God
takes. Today, we confess our wrongs, return, seek forgiveness and
atonement. Next year, on this day, we will do so again. And who knows what
wrongs we will need to confess next year…
Ashamnu, Bagadnu, Gazalnu – We have offended, we
have betrayed, we have robbed…
According to Chasidic tradition, a question was
asked of a tzadik, of a spiritual leader:
‘Why on the Day of Atonement is the confession of
sins given in alphabetical order?’
He replied: ‘If it were otherwise, we should not know
when to stop beating our breast. For there is no end to sin, and no end to
the awareness of sin, but there is an end to the alphabet.’
And this day, too, will end. Indeed, the day, like the
confession of our wrongs ends, so that new life may begin again once more.
What will we make of our beginning? May the experience of this day inspire
each one of us to renew our lives. And let us say: Amen.
© Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah
Brighton and Hove Progressive Synagogue – Adat
Shalom Verei’ut
Erev Yom Kippur, 10th
Tishri 5767 – 1st October 2006
