I chose to write this article because I understand it's a fear shared by anyone who is incarcerated. When the handcuffs are placed on our wrists and the doors close behind us, we are enclosed by walls and countless uncertainties emerge. The government distributes lengthy sentences, to the extent that judges seem to compete for records in giving out the most time. It's almost certain that the family's loss will be more profoundly felt by those who cannot properly grieve.
It's unfortunate, but true. They aren't required to serve the time, and it's not all easy. For instance, during the COVID pandemic, we were confined to our cells in small rooms, denied phone calls, recreation, and basic hygiene. Many of these things we learn to do without because serving time teaches us that. It often hardens our hearts. Then, when we re-enter society, people view us as if something is wrong with us. And they're right; there is something wrong. Serving time is mental torture.
Unable to make phone calls when I wanted, knowing the death toll was rising. Is someone I know among them? What about my mother, my father, my sisters, my brothers, my nephews, or my nieces? For parents, this is also a significant worry. We don't know, we don't receive messages, as we weren't allowed to use the computer then either.
Then they allowed us 5-minute phone calls. That's when I found out my elderly father wasn't well. What did he do? He hid the severity from me. Like many of our loved ones, they don't want to add to our burden. We love them dearly. No one else in my family told me how serious it was either. The mail was infrequent and delayed. Not because people weren't writing, but because we weren't receiving them. There was a huge backlog.
One day while lying on my bed, a staff member came to my cell and asked me to step out. It seemed a bit unusual because not many people were being removed. I didn't think much of it since she was holding a small stack of papers. She led me to the back, and her body language indicated something was off. My mind still didn't grasp what was about to happen. She told me that my father had just passed away. My heart sank, my body felt weak, and I wasn't sure if I was in control anymore. She stood at a distance, watching me, uncertain of what I might do. My eyes began to swell up, just as they did for the next couple of years.
She called my sister, who started discussing the funeral arrangements. Is that really their concern—the funeral arrangements? What about his vehicles, his cash, and his property? Wait, my mind isn't even processing this. I'm still fixated on the fact that you just told me my dad has passed away. My mind refuses to accept this as reality. Although I would be angry, I would be happier if this were a cruel joke, but unfortunately, it isn't.
After I finished, I exited through the back and noticed my brother and best friend, Hamzah, sitting at the table. We have a few minutes outside our cell. He looks at me, but I avoid eye contact. How do I stay composed? How do I manage myself? I'm on the verge of losing control! It's okay to cry, I tell myself, but my inner self resists because I'm in prison. So, I look at him and share what I just learned. I don't stop or pause my steps; instead, I head back to my cell rather than using my time out.
Once inside my cell, I close the door and let myself go, allowing the tears to flow. I begin to talk to God, expressing all praises and thanks for the things I understand and those I don't. You have given and taken away. Then, I move to the sink to wash my face when Hamzah enters the cell. He doesn't know what I'll do, but he knows I've struggled with suicidal thoughts and attempts. Out of love and concern, he came to check on me. A sign of compassion, yet the court labels him as unfit for society. Why? Because he's a non-violent drug offender. The courts sentenced him to 17 years as if he lacks compassion, but that's not true. Like many others, the sentences are too harsh, and the conditions are too severe, all because he has a history and refused to snitch.
Do you know what makes this situation even worse? After I found out my father was ill, I had to wait a week before I could call him. Then I had to hope that he would answer during the 5-minute phone call I was allowed. If he didn't, I had to wait another week to try again. Where is the compassion in that? What about the many others who weren't even informed that a family member had passed away? This is a fear we all face while incarcerated: losing the ones we love and care about most, and not being able to see them, spend time with them, or attend their services.
I share this story because mine isn't unique. Even the Coronavirus doesn't make the situation unique. The mental trauma this causes is more profound than words can express. I ask you to try, just try to imagine yourself in a similar situation. You can't drive to visit. You can't pick up a phone and call. You can't turn on a computer to see them. There's nothing you can do.
To this day, no chaplain or psychologist has spoken to me about my father's passing. Sadly, that's not unusual either. Is this humane? Is this just? Is this what you want from your government? Yes, we committed crimes, and yes, we deserve to be punished, but what happened to the sentence and conditions matching the crime? Have you ever wondered why the suicide rate is so high in prison? It's not because the conditions are pleasant, and I'll leave you to ponder that. Thank you for reading, thank you for listening.
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