There I was, nearly passed out from a contact high. I was surrounded by 215 notoriously violent gang members in a Guatemalan prison. The smoke from their thick joints billowed up and filled the room creating a haze that blocked my vision and made me dizzy. Ten years ago, I never would have imagined that I would be in a Guatemalan Prison, high from marijuana, and nervously speaking to a tattoo covered gang member named Snake (not his real name), with no guard in sight. How had I gotten myself in this situation?
Driving up the winding, dusty road to the prison, we passed armored tanks and police officers carrying automatic weapons. The military guarding the prison were ready and waiting to fire when the call was given. At the entrance to the prison, I left my camera, jewelry, phone, and passport; my only forms of freedom. The Guard stamped my arm and warned me not to wash the stamp off because it was the only identification that would get me out of the prison. I was taken away from my escorts and into a room where a woman yelled at me in Spanish as she ran her hands up my thighs and under my breasts in search of contraband. Had it been anyone else, I would have felt like I was being sexually assaulted. Considering the fact that I saw numerous “illegal” items once I was in the prison and the fact that this prison guard was extremely thorough in her search, I can only imagine where people have to stick things to get them past the guards.
As I walked down the hill to the cell block, I imagined open courtyards surrounded by guards who would watch me carefully. I think I was even naïve enough to believe that the courtyard would have trees and birds and sunshine. However, when we got to our building, we were led through a dark narrow hallway through a locked gate. Once through the gate,
the guard locked us in and left the building. Inside, 215 men closed in on us with shouts and laughter. I'm not sure what they were laughing about, but I was the only woman. They were smoking hand rolled joints and were covered from the tops of their heads to their toes in tattoos as they closed in on us. The room was drowning in smoke stacks and small windows near the ceiling were covered in banners, keeping fresh air out. The graffti covering the walls depicted happy and sad clown faces, naked women in sexual positions, and gang symbols. There were no birds or sunshine. There was a sign of hope; however, that I will tell you about in a minute.
A shirtless man with a fresh bullet wound was seated beside me talking to a doctor who was giving him medicine. Snake explained that the man was shot by police last week when the inmates broke out in a riot against the guards when one of them was not allowed to smoke his joint during a Bible study.
“We are fine unless the police give us a problem. When they don’t let us do what we want, that is a declaration of war. If they declare war on us, we have to fight. When I got here three years ago, we were locked in our cells and weren’t even allowed to have a mattress. Then, more of us came and we demanded more freedom. Now, as long as they leave us alone, we leave them alone.” This was Snake’s explanation of all the marijuana, cell phones, and other things we saw in the prison (the things the women no doubt bring as gifts on their visits...along with their very personal gifts of affection).
My escorts in the prison were two men: Ricardo, who is a chaplain in the prison, and Dr. Corbitt, President and Co-founder of BuildaBridge, who has been there before. I trust both men and trust that they would not allow anything bad to happen to me, so I wasn’t initially fearful to walk into the prison. While I stood in the middle of the room, my thoughts changed. I suddenly became acutely aware that regardless of my comfort with these two men, the inmates could at any time take me and rape or murder me if they wanted to. I have been a staff member at a psyche hospital during a riot against staff and there is a calm that is sensed by everyone in the room right before the violence begins. This is the only other time in my life that I have had this feeling. The difference in the prison is that it would take the guards several minutes to help us...if they could...and a lot can happen in a few seconds.
Somehow, even with these thoughts running through my mind, I felt some kind of peace in that space. I looked in the eyes of these men and thought about them as children...some of them were 15. When we are born, our eyes are the only part of our body that never change. They are the same size the day we are born and the day we die. The eyes I looked into that day were the same eyes that Snake’s mother looked into 37 years ago when he was born. Now, he is a member of a gang known for decapitating their enemies, heavy drug activity, killing people when they cross into the gang’s territory, and raping women.
Why did I put myself in harms way to go into this prison?
I believe no one is completely evil. I believe there is innate goodness in each of us. But above all, I feel called to bring a message of hope and healing to the most vulnerable people in the toughest parts of our world through the power of the arts: the mission of BuildaBridge.
Last year, BuildaBridge Artist on Call member, Leah Samuelson, worked with these prisoners to paint a mural of the Prodigal Son. Despite the fact that graffti covers the walls of the prison, this mural has been left unaltered. This is a sign of hope. As a result of the chaplain’s work
and our art!making over the past three years, this is one of the prisons with the least violence. Later this year, BuildaBridge International is sending a muralist to work with these prisoners to paint a mural of the Lord’s Supper on the wall, at the prisoner’s request.
I have seen the power of the arts to bring about transformation in the toughest places in the world. I also know that even going into the prison and acknowledging that I care enough to spend time with Snake and others like him, is important to them and critical to their reformation.
