The Carceral Network in Ireland: History, Agency and Resistance [1st ed.] 9783030421830, 9783030421847

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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN PRISONS AND PENOLOGY

The Carceral Network in Ireland History, Agency and Resistance

Edited by Fiona McCann

Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology

Series Editors Ben Crewe Institute of Criminology University of Cambridge Cambridge, UK Yvonne Jewkes Social & Policy Sciences University of Bath Bath, UK Thomas Ugelvik Faculty of Law University of Oslo Oslo, Norway

This is a unique and innovative series, the first of its kind dedicated entirely to prison scholarship. At a historical point in which the prison population has reached an all-time high, the series seeks to analyse the form, nature and consequences of incarceration and related forms of punishment. Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology provides an important forum for burgeoning prison research across the world. Series Advisory Board Anna Eriksson (Monash University) Andrew M. Jefferson (DIGNITY - Danish Institute Against Torture) Shadd Maruna (Rutgers University) Jonathon Simon (Berkeley Law, University of California) Michael Welch (Rutgers University) More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14596

Fiona McCann Editor

The Carceral Network in Ireland History, Agency and Resistance

Editor Fiona McCann CECILLE University of Lille/Institut Universitaire de France Lille, France

Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology ISBN 978-3-030-42183-0    ISBN 978-3-030-42184-7 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2020 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustartion: © alamy FC9KN1 This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Acknowledgements

This book started out as a conference on forms of containment in Ireland held in the Crumlin Road Gaol in Belfast in October 2017. The dialogue which began there extended into the chapters of this volume, but I would like to acknowledge the groundwork carried out by all the speakers at that conference, including those who did not end up contributing a written piece. In particular, I thank the keynote speakers, Lucky Khambule (MASI) and Cahal McLaughlin (QUB). The conference was generously funded by the Institut Universitaire de France (IUF) and organized with the help of my research laboratory CECILLE (EA 4074) in the Université de Lille, France. I am particularly indebted to Bruno Legrand et Marie-­ France Pilarski to whom I offer my thanks. I am also extremely grateful to all the contributors to this volume for their excellent chapters, co-­ operation, and commitment. Editing this volume with such stellar scholarship has truly been a labor of love.

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Contents

 Introduction: A Decolonial Approach to Ireland’s Protean Carceral Network  1 Fiona McCann  The Dublin Intermediate Prison System 21 Emilie Berthillot  Shifting Carceral Formations: A Genealogy of Penal (Re) construction in the North of Ireland 47 Ruari-Santiago McBride  Rehabilitating the Prison: The Evolution of Strategies for Dealing with Northern Ireland’s Carceral Heritages 75 Chris Hamill  The Prisoners’ Rights Organisation and Penal Reform in the Republic of Ireland 91 Cormac Behan

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 Virtually Self-Contained Community’: Unorthodox ‘A Containment and Prisoner Autonomy in the Maze/Long Kesh Compounds113 Erin Hinson  Gusty Spence: Agent of Conflict, Creativity, and Change133 Connal Parr  Mairéad Farrell in the Armagh Gaol155 Katherine Side  Stories from the Cells: The Role of the Maze and Long Kesh Prison in Peace Time Northern Ireland179 Kate Keane  Acts of Survival and Resistance in Industrial and Reformatory Schools in Ireland in the Twentieth Century205 Sinead Pembroke  The Room Where Nothing Makes Sense: Historiophobic Space and the Aesthetics of Child Maltreatment227 Mathew Staunton and Deirdre Forde  Incarceration, Disavowal and Ireland’s Prison Industrial Complex259 Ronit Lentin Author Index279 Subject Index283

Notes on Contributors

Cormac  Behan  teaches at the School of Languages, Law and Social Sciences, Technological University Dublin. His research interests include penal history, prisoners’ rights movements, prisoners and citizenship, prisoner writings/convict narratives and prison education. Prior to taking up an academic position at the University of Sheffield in 2011, he taught politics and history in Irish prisons for 14  years. He is the author of Citizen Convicts: Prisoners, Politics and the Vote (Manchester University Press), which was published in paperback in 2017. He is one of the founders, and is the editor of the Journal of Prison Education and Re-entry. Emilie  Berthillot  is a lecturer in modern British civilization at Lille University, France. She holds a PhD from Jean-Jaurès University (Toulouse); her thesis was entitled ‘Intelligence and Counter-intelligence between London, Dublin and Edinburgh from 1845 to 1945’. One of her most recent publications, ‘Police Informers and Spies versus Irish Violent Agrarian Societies: a Non-violent Secret Alternative to Rebellion’ (Peter Lang), explains how police forces in Ireland infiltrated double agents among Irish rebellious movements to counteract them. But the study of police forces and rebels (who are often locked up behind bars for sedition) encouraged her to deepen her research on Irish prisons, as well as on prisons in the British Isles. In 2019, she published ‘Les prisons ix

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édimbourgeoises: témoins de la spécificité et de l’évolution du châtiment écossais à l’époque victorienne (1837–1901)’ in Crime, Punishment and the Scots (PUF Franche-Comté). Deirdre  Forde works for the Buildings Department at Oxford Archaeology and her job involves applying archaeological methodology to investigate and record a broad range of buildings throughout the south of England. She is a specialist in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century institutional architecture, modernism in public architecture, and has a working interest in the evolving role of twentieth-century buildings within our historic environment. Her recent publications focused on the development of prison architecture in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Chris Hamill  is an architect and PhD candidate at Queen’s University, Belfast. His research focuses on contested heritage in the aftermath of conflict and other human rights abuses, with a particular interest in the built heritage of the island of Ireland. The research which contributed to this chapter was carried out as part of a Masters in Architecture at the University of Cambridge 2016–2018 as a member of the Cambridge Design Research Studio (CDRS) considering potential re-use strategies for the prisons associated with the Northern Irish Troubles. Erin Hinson  is the vice president of Research Development at Abbey Research. She holds a PhD in Irish Studies from Queen’s University, Belfast. She has published in the edited collection Ethnographies of Movement, Sociality and Space: Place-Making in the New Northern Ireland and in the Global Discourse Journal Special Edition—Militancy and the Working Class. Her current research interests include prison systems and reforms, issues of demobilization and reintegration, and their intersections with art and craft work. Kate  Keane  is the project archivist for the Visual Voices of the Prisons Memory Archive: preservation, access and engagement project (2017–2020). This project is supported by the National Lottery Heritage Fund and is a collaboration between three key project partners—Queen’s University Belfast, the Public Record Office of Northern Ireland (PRONI), and the PMA Advisory Group. Her role focuses primarily on the processing, cata-

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loguing and transfer of the PMA Collection to PRONI, where it will be publicly accessible. With a BA (Hons.) in Irish Studies (Trinity College Dublin), and an MA in Cultural Heritage and Museum Studies (Ulster University), Kate has previously worked with collections in a number of specialist and academic archives and libraries. Her wider research interests include representations of culture and identity in Northern Ireland; the lived experiences, multiple narratives, and untold stories relating to the conflict in and about Northern Ireland; and the role of archives, museums and libraries in a society emerging from conflict. Ronit Lentin  is a retired Associate Professor of Sociology, Trinity College Dublin. She has published extensively on racism and immigration in Ireland, migrant activism, gender and genocide and Palestine and Israel. She is currently working on a book on Direct Provision with Vukašin Nedeljković. Ruari-Santiago  McBride holds a PhD in Sociology from Queen’s University, Belfast, which he received in 2015. He is an Irish Research Council and Marie Curie Fellow at the School of Education, University of Limerick. Fiona McCann  is Professor of Postcolonial Literature at Lille University, France and a junior fellow at the Institut Universitaire de France. She has published widely on South African, Zimbabwean, and Irish fiction, including a monograph, A Poetics of Dissensus: Confronting Violence in Contemporary Writing from the North of Ireland (Peter Lang, 2014). She has edited and co-edited several issues of Commonwealth Essays and Studies and Études irlandaises, and is currently president of the French Society for Postcolonial Studies (SEPC). Connal Parr  is Lecturer in History at Northumbria University. He previously held postdoctoral and teaching posts at the University of Oxford and Fordham University’s London Centre. His first book Inventing the Myth: Political Passions and the Ulster Protestant Imagination was published by Oxford University Press in 2017 and was shortlisted for the Ewart-Biggs Literary Prize and the Royal Historical Society’s Whitfield Prize.

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Sinead Pembroke  holds a PhD in Sociology from University College Dublin (UCD). Previously, Sinead worked in a number of different roles, including as a research fellow on the Magdalene Laundry oral history project, based in UCD. She is currently a research fellow in the School of Nursing and Midwifery, Trinity College Dublin (TCD). Katherine Side  is Professor, Department of Gender Studies, Memorial University, Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada. She is author of Patching Peace: Women’s Civil Society Organising in Northern Ireland (ISER, 2015) and co-editor of The Grenfell Medical Mission and American Support in Newfoundland and Labrador, 1890s–1940s (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2019). She is researching iconic photographic images associated with the conflict in Northern Ireland and volunteers’ photographs at the Grenfell Mission. Mathew  Staunton  is a historian, printmaker, publisher and teacher, working at the École nationale supérieure des arts décoratifs (ENSAD) in Paris and The Onslaught Press in Dundee. His research is primarily focused on visual culture and experimental history. His most recent publications explore the aesthetics of twentieth-century Irish nationalism, Gaelic typography and the historiography of child maltreatment.

List of Figures

The Dublin Intermediate Prison System Fig. 1 Prisoners’ records: George Firth, James Waylett and Henry Douglas (England). (Prison Commission and Home Office Prison Department, PCOM 3/3/209 (5 Dec. 1853), PCOM 3/5/486 (20 Feb 1854), PCOM 3/7/613 (14 March 1854), the National Archives, Kew) Fig. 2 Prisoner’s record: John Lynch (Ireland). (Mountjoy Gaol Registers, no.17; Male convict classification, Book, Nos.797–1905; Volume 16-7-10, 1857–1863, P.1/11/17, Dublin national archives) Fig. 3 Prisoner’s record: John Laurie (Scotland). (Prisoner’s record: John Watson Laurie 1889–1930, HH 15/1, Edinburgh national archives) Fig. 4 Semi-circular Pentonville Prison (Scotland), author’s sketch

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Mairéad Farrell in the Armagh Gaol Fig. 1 Mairéad Farrell in the Armagh Gaol, 1980. (Photograph Credit: Pacemaker Press International. Used with permission) Fig. 2 Exterior, Armagh Gaol, June 2017. (Photograph Credit: Chris Hamill. Used with permission)

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List of Figures

Stories from the Cells: The Role of the Maze and Long Kesh Prison in Peace Time Northern Ireland Fig. 1 Security infrastructure at the Maze and Long Kesh Prison. (© Prisons Memory Archive) Fig. 2 Demolition at the Maze and Long Kesh Prison site in 2007. (© Prisons Memory Archive) Fig. 3 Nissen huts in a former compound/cage. These spaces were officially called compounds, but were widely referred to as ‘cages’ by prisoners and internees. (© Prisons Memory Archive)

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Introduction: A Decolonial Approach to Ireland’s Protean Carceral Network Fiona McCann

It sometimes appears as though there is no end to the number of appalling, unspoken secrets hidden away in Irish institutions which detained or imprisoned so many people throughout the course of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and, indeed, well into the twenty-first. The chilling findings by Catherine Corless regarding the Bon Secours Mother and Baby Home in Tuam, County Galway, where an estimated 800 children died, and the subsequent discovery of a substantial number of foetal remains and the remains of young children in the septic tank on that site, are just the latest evidence of utter disregard for precarious lives in these establishments. The extensive abuse and indignity experienced by thousands of Irish women in Magdalene Laundries have also, until recently, been ignored to such an extent that James Smith has stated that there is ‘no official history for the Magdalen asylum in twentieth-century Ireland’ (Smith 2008, 138). It took until 2011 for the Irish government to agree to set up an inquiry into these institutions and their abusive practices, the

F. McCann (*) CECILLE, University of Lille/Institut Universitaire de France, Lille, France © The Author(s) 2020 F. McCann (ed.), The Carceral Network in Ireland, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7_1

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report of which was published in 2013. The screening of Louis Lentin’s Dear Daughter in February 1996 exposed for the first time to an Irish audience the horrors experienced by Christine Buckley and other children in one particular Industrial school, and the avalanche of testimonies which followed on from it led to the Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse. The latter’s report was published in 2009, and revealed the extent to which Irish children had been physically, sexually, and psychologically abused in Reformatory and Industrial schools from 1936 onwards. The document, commonly known as the Ryan Report, was received with a considerable degree of shock and outrage in Ireland and beyond, and yet, during the workings of the Commission, a similar recourse to excessive institutionalization, humiliation, abuse, and disregard for people living in Ireland was becoming patently evident in the development of the Direct Provision system, first put in place in 1999 under the aegis of the ironically named Department of Justice and Equality. Not much outrage was apparent then, and this is still the case today, notwithstanding the immeasurably valuable work being done by MASI (Movement of Asylum Seekers in Ireland) and artist and activist Vukašin Nedeljkovic (Asylum Archive). From the colonial through to the postcolonial and contemporary eras, a whole network of incarceration developed on the island of Ireland, as was the case in many European countries. This network, however, involved prisons, specific schools, institutions designed to contain certain women and their children, indeed to make money from them, and, since the beginning of the twenty-first century, asylum seekers. Eoin O’Sullivan and Ian O’Donnell have done important work on retracing the contours of what they term ‘coercive containment’ over the first half century after independence. As they point out, although there may not have been many actual prisons in Ireland, many citizens were present in various institutions and even though ‘some of the inmates may have been there “voluntarily,” and in other cases the legal basis for their detention was doubtful, all are captured by the label […] “coercive containment”’ (O’Sullivan and O’Donnell 2014, x–xi). O’Sullivan and O’Donnell make a strong case for considering prisons ‘as but one of a range of institutions that has been utilised to reform, quarantine, or reject those who did not conform to societal norms’ (O’Sullivan and O’Donnell 2014, 2).

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This form of social control ‘embraces involuntary patients in psychiatric hospitals, unmarried mothers seeking institutional refuge, children serving time in reformatory or industrial schools or Borstal, as well as prisoners’ (O’Sullivan and O’Donnell 2014, 2). O’Sullivan and O’Donnell focus in particular on revealing autobiographical accounts and the points of view of ‘those subjected to the disciplinary power of the state’ (O’Sullivan and O’Donnell 2014, 3). They have also quantified the number of Irish people detained in various institutions and charted the significant correlation between falling numbers of prisoners and the ‘many more people incarcerated against their will in psychiatric hospitals or a variety of institutions that served to conceal the “scandal” associated with unmarried motherhood’ (O’Sullivan and O’Donnell 2014, 6–7). As they move towards their conclusion, they also emphasize the fact that the decline in the numbers of ‘institutionalised adults and children […] is no coincidence’, contingent as it was on economic development, particularly changes in the rural economy (O’Sullivan and O’Donnell 2014, 275–6). Capitalism and carceral networks are inextricably combined in what Caelainn Hogan calls ‘the shame-industrial complex’ and all its ‘unfinished business’ (Hogan, 239). This collection of essays aims to build on the solid foundations provided by O’Sullivan and O’Donnell and to extend their reflections so as to sketch out an explanation as to why Ireland developed such a strong carceral apparatus, particularly after Independence. Seán McConville, who has worked extensively on penal history and Irish ‘political prisoners’, points out that if ‘the “political” part of that term is in itself contentious, […] even “prisoner” is not straightforward’ since it is a generic term and ‘embraces several different types of custody’ (McConville xx). The chapters which make up this volume do indeed question these ‘several different types of custody’, and while no author specifically claims that the inmates, pupils, or wards of the various institutions under the spotlight here are political prisoners (except in the case of the conflict in the North), there is perhaps a case to be made that all are in some way political. After all, for Jacques Rancière, politics is not, as is commonly assumed, ‘the set of procedures whereby the aggregation and consent of collectivities is achieved, the organization of powers, the distribution of places and roles, and the systems for legitimizing this distribution’

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(Rancière 2004, 28), but rather, more radically, ‘whatever breaks with the tangible configuration whereby parties and parts or lack of them are defined by a presupposition that, by definition, has no place in that configuration – that part of those who have no part’ (Rancière 2004, 29–30). Moreover, ‘[t]he essence of politics is dissensus. Dissensus is not a confrontation between interests or opinions. It is the demonstration (manifestation) of a gap in the sensible itself. Political demonstration makes visible that which had no reason to be seen’ (Rancière 2010, 38). These chapters work hard to ‘make visible that which had no reason to be seen’, and in this sense may be seen as political interventions on behalf of, sometimes in tandem with, subjects whose experiences in carceral institutions have been rendered invisible and inaudible. Although Rancière takes issue with Georgio Agamben’s analysis of the camp as ‘the “nomos” of modernity’ (Rancière 2010, 66) on the grounds that ‘any kind of claim to rights or any struggle enacting rights is thus trapped from the outset in the mere polarity of bare life and the state of exception’ and that ‘differences between totalitarianism and democracy grow faint and political practice turns out to be always already caught up in the biopolitical trap’ (Rancière 2010, 66), he does not dispute Michel Foucault’s analysis of ‘biopolitics’, one of the manifestations of which ‘[t]he carceral network, in its compact or disseminated forms, with its systems of insertion, distribution, surveillance, observation, has been the greatest support in modern society of the normalizing power’ (Foucault 1977, 304). Rancière’s main quibble with Foucault is that the latter is interested in power and biopower, which is different to politics: ‘Biopolitics is introduced by Foucault as a specific difference in the practice of power and the effects of power, how power operates the effects of individualization of bodies and the socialization of populations. But this question is not about politics’ (Rancière 2000, np.). The widespread and varied practices of detention or imprisonment of various parts of the Irish population were highly political, and part of a colonial matrix of power which began in colonial times and extended well into the postcolonial era, straddling the border which separated the Free State and then the Republic of Ireland from the complex colonial statelet of Northern Ireland. As Walter Mignolo puts it in the section of the book which he co-wrote with Catherine Walsh, ‘If by coloniality we

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mean the underlying logic common to all Western colonialisms and therefore the darker side of modernity, decoloniality means both the analytic of such underlying logic rather than the historic-socio-economic analysis of colonisation’ (Mignolo and Walsh 2018, 227). Adopting a decolonial approach to analysing carceral apparatus in Ireland is a way of overcoming the seeming difficulty in examining the architecture and protests in the prisons in the North (under British rule) alongside Industrial schools, prisons, and Direct Provision in the South, an independent republic. For Mignolo, ‘[d]ecoloniality aims at epistemic reconstitution’ (Mignolo and Walsh 2018, 167), and he stresses that coloniality usually does not end with independence: ‘while colonialism refer[s] to the military, political, and economic domination of other regions, coloniality illuminate[s] the cultural aspects and, of course, the epistemic and hermeneutical principles upon which Western religions, science, and philosophy were built’ (Mignolo and Walsh 2018, 166–7). ‘Changing the terms of the conversation’ is essential, according to Mignolo, and this ‘implies overcoming both disciplinary and interdisciplinary […] regulations and conflicts of interpretations’ (Mignolo and Walsh 2018, 149). This book, through the resolutely interdisciplinary approach adopted in its constituent chapters, hopes to ‘chang[e] the terms of the conversation’ about how the carceral apparatus has worked and proliferated in Ireland, in an attempt to analyse, contextualize, and explain its widespread nature. David Lloyd has compellingly argued that colonial modernity, present both before and after independence, accelerated the destruction of the ‘impenetrable and apparently chaotic use of material space’ in Ireland and the subjection of it ‘by English administrators and landlords’ to ‘capitalist rationalization and uniform, abstract measure’ (Lloyd 2011, 6). Part of this rationalization involved taming the apparent ‘emotional instability’ of the Irish (Lloyd 2011, 6) through the development of ‘governmental institutions of the state’ (Lloyd 2011, 9), a process in which ‘the welfare state gives way to the maximum security state and the expectation of care and well-being shrinks to the acceptance of an imposed protection’ (Lloyd 2011, 218). Yet contemporary manifestations of colonial modernity, all too present in our neo-liberal era, of which successive Irish governments continue to be the faithful custodians, have pushed the detention and control of bodies even further, adding asylum seekers to an

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already very long list of vulnerable groups targeted for containment and imprisonment. It can be no coincidence that Direct Provision initially developed into a lucrative industrial complex at exactly the same time as the Celtic Tiger economic boom was raging in full force. Just as with the Magdalene Laundries, the profit-driven apparatus of Direct Provision literally cashes in on both vulnerable citizens and the blind eye the general public casts on this system, hidden in plain sight for all to wilfully ignore. One of the most nefarious aspects of the carceral apparatus is the way in which those detained within it are rendered invisible and inaudible (those without a part, as Rancière might put it). However, although it is tempting to see evidence of how prisons and various centres of detainment and confinement manufacture Foucault’s ‘docile bodies’ (Foucault 1977, 135–169), many of the chapters in this volume emphasize instead the strong agency of many of those prisoners and detainees. Several authors focus not so much on the conditions of incarceration, but rather on the modes of resistance deployed so as to resist and subvert the system. The genesis of this collection of articles was a conference held in the Crumlin Road Gaol, Belfast, in October 2017, which united scholars and practitioners from Ireland, the UK, France, Spain, Germany, and Canada who are interested in the question of forms of containment which have been developed in Ireland from the nineteenth century onwards. As the various participants presented papers on issues as seemingly diverse as Industrial schools, Magdalene Laundries, struggles and resistance in prisons both North and South, Direct Provision, and the ways in which prison experiences have been represented in literature, cinema, and the arts, it became increasingly clear that an important and fertile conversation was taking place, which created a space for discussing forms of containment in the Irish context in a holistic and historicised manner. This project then attempts to provide a response to Catherine Cox’s call for the ‘relationship between the various [carceral] institutions […] to be explored in greater depth’ (Cox, quoted in O’Sullivan and O’Donnell 2014, 30). It also responds to Dominique Moran’s suggestion that ‘existing dialogues with criminology and prison sociology’ might benefit considerably from an even more wide-ranging interdisciplinary approach, developing ‘synergies between carceral geography and psychology, and architectural studies, in relation to prison design and the lived

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experience of carceral spaces’ (Moran 2015, 150). To these approaches, we must also add the invaluable economic, political, and discursive prisms. While the majority of the articles deal with prisons and gaols in Ireland, whether in the Republic or under British jurisdiction in the North (Mountjoy, Long Kesh, Armagh), a large minority engage with the legacy of Industrial schools and the systematic abuse therein, as well as the current apparatus of Direct Provision. Only one chapter (Parr) engages with literary (or dramatic) representations of the prison space, and yet a considerable body of drama, fiction, poetry, letters, and memoirs is available, produced by Irish writers and prisoners north and south of the border. It would therefore be remiss of me not to dwell on this literature at this point, as these texts are valuable contributions to both the canon of Irish literature and our understanding of the prison experience in Ireland. Stephen Hopkins has thoroughly investigated numerous political memoirs, including prison memoirs, from Northern Ireland which he reads as potential sources which ‘can help to illuminate hitherto shadowy aspects of the wider issue of a societal reckoning with the past’ (Hopkins 2013, 4). But plays such as Brendan Behan’s The Hostage ([1958] 1970), Paula Meehan’s Cell (2000), Martin Lynch’s Chronicles of Long Kesh (2012), and David Lloyd’s The Press (2018) stage fascinating carceral dramaturgies which, in the case of Behan’s complex and chaotic play, ‘mak[e] visible the violence inherent in nationalism as a normalising, homogenising fiction’ while also ‘expos[ing] this violence as the exact counterpart of imperialist violence whose forms it merely replicates’ (Poulain 2016, 154). If, unlike the other three plays, Behan’s does not, strictly speaking, take place in a prison,1 it nevertheless clearly functions as one and, in a manner not dissimilar to Lynch’s much more recent play, mixes humour and pathos, resistance and resignation, and individual and collective responses to incarceration. Chronicles of Long Kesh has an unusually long temporal frame as the play spans the years between 1971 and 2000 and thus is far removed from the Aristotelian unity of action, time, and space. This temporal breadth enables Lynch to  The title of the one-act play in Irish, An Giall, of which The Hostage is a loose rewriting suggests that the house of ill-repute where the English soldier, Leslie, becomes the eponymous hostage functions to all intents and purposes as a prison, albeit an unorthodox one. 1

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represent the troubled history of Long Kesh/H Blocks through the prism of a limited number of characters, including the prison warden Freddie who functions as a guide of sorts as he reflects on his own imprisonment in the Capitalist imperative (via pressure from his wife) to move up the social ladder and accept the working conditions of a prison guard, including violent behaviour, and the mixed feelings which accompany it. Although Lynch is careful to depict the prisoners’ ‘bare life’, notably through a very bare stage set, he does not just dwell on this and also ensures that their camaraderie, solidarity, and agency are all celebrated, in particular through the use of music and singing. David Lloyd’s and Paula Meehan’s plays are much bleaker, the former taking place in an indeterminate time and place and the latter in a women’s prison in Dublin. Meehan’s play was first performed at the City Arts Centre in Dublin in September 1999 when Ireland was undergoing penal reform (Irish Prison Service Report 1999 and 2000) and engaging with problems of endemic violence and substance abuse in Irish prisons. The play appears to be set during the 1997 general election, subsequent to which a major expansion of prison infrastructure took place (see Healy 2012, 44), and as the women look out, they have a partial view of an election poster and the slogan ‘A New Ireland’ (Meehan 2000, 20). The fact that they are unable to make out what the ‘Forward to’ on the poster refers to, due to obfuscation by a wall, indicates the bleak prospects available and emphasizes the emptiness of electoral rhetoric which will not help Lila overcome her heroin addiction and her sexual slavery to Delo, which is overtly staged. As Poulain has shown, Lloyd’s interaction with Yeats (The King’s Threshold) and Beckett (Endgame) enables him to extend his precursors’ ‘gesture[s] towards specific historical and political contexts’ (Poulain 2016, 223), notwithstanding their spatial and temporal indeterminateness. There is no doubt that Lloyd incorporates elements of violent abuse to which protesting prisoners in the H Blocks were subjected, just as the play’s exploration of poetry and art in a prison within a totalitarian regime demonstrates, in ‘Ancel and Guber’s embodied performance of abjection’, an ‘alternative language of the body which takes up the task of testifying to horror when verbal language and poetic forms fail’ (Poulain 2016, 238). Elsewhere, I have written about the importance of thinking about the aesthetic merit of writing by political prisoners outside of the evaluative

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grids so common in literature studies (see McCann 2015a, b, 2017). Each piece of work produced by a prisoner, political or otherwise, is both a political and an aesthetic act that academic evaluative judgements too often disqualify as qualitatively inferior literature. Yet when penned into a carceral environment, sometimes the very act of owning a pen, and using it to communicate facts or emotions or imaginative scenarios, allows prisoners to transcend their ‘bare life’ and provoke dissensus by positioning themselves as sensitive beings. Analyses of representations of prison life, by prisoners or other writers, do not form part of this current project, but it is clear that there is considerable scope for a separate study of this under-researched area in the literary humanities. * * * This collection of chapters pursues the discussion which began in the Crumlin Road Gaol, and disseminates it more widely, in an extended and greatly developed form. The volume broadens the scope of the original conference presentations and engages in a sustained analysis of historical and contemporary carceral or carceral-like institutions on the island of Ireland. As James M. Smith points out, ‘In its concrete form, Ireland’s architecture of containment encompassed an array of interdependent institutions […]. In its more abstract form this architecture comprised both the legislation that inscribed these issues and the numerous official and public discourses that resisted admitting to the existence and function of their affiliated institutions’ (Smith 2008, 2). These chapters consider and reappraise the ways in which Irish and non-Irish citizens have been subjected to surveillance, control, observation, and abuse in diverse carceral environments in the colonial past and postcolonial present, and seek to address the specificities of these mechanisms of control and resistance to them. The chapters in this book focus on various historical and contemporary forms of incarceration in Ireland, from prisons and Industrial schools to Direct Provision, and sketch out as a whole an uncomfortable picture of the techniques for policing bodies deployed on the island of Ireland for over a century, before and after independence. The approaches adopted

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are historical, archival, sociological, political, and architectural, and the chapters can be read individually as case studies, or holistically as a depiction of the social and political failings of twentieth- and twenty-first-­ century postcolonial Ireland. The gendered experience of prison is broached, as is the question of capitalist, neo-liberal responses to these public buildings once they become obsolete as carceral institutions. While a number of books have been published on individual types of incarceration or containment in Ireland, none as yet tackles this question as a systemic whole, nor as a space of defiance and dissensus, and this is what this book offers. This is a book which seeks to establish a link between the inhumane treatment in Ireland of children in Industrial schools, of prisoners (and this includes the British state where the northern prisons are concerned), and of asylum seekers today, and to pinpoint modes of resistance to these situations. Surprising as it may seem, there is no chapter devoted to Magdalene Laundries or Mother and Baby Homes. This is not a deliberate oversight, but rather to do with the vagaries of editing a volume of essays. However, it is clear that, as I have been suggesting, the marginalization and detention of countless women in these institutions is part of the same carceral network which fostered and nurtured the Industrial and Reformatory Schools system and Direct Provision, as well as more ‘conventional’ forms of incarceration in prisons north and south. Among many publications, Caelainn Hogan’s recent book, Republic of Shame (2019), gives visibility and audibility to previously silenced stories, and underscores modes of resistance developed at the time and long since the experience of detainment, abuse, and loss. But the absence of a chapter on this particular form of imprisonment also shows that the scope of the volume does not and cannot claim any exhaustivity. The extent of the carceral network on the island of Ireland is such that an exhaustive project is beyond the limits of this collection. It is hoped, however, that the selection of topics herein will nevertheless open up new avenues of exploration of this network, including new epistemological approaches. The volume opens with a chapter by Emilie Berthillot on the creation and evolution of the Dublin Intermediate Prison, which was developed over the course of the nineteenth century as part of various penal reforms carried out while Ireland was still, to all intents and purposes, a colony.

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Berthillot calls into question received colonial ideas about the Irish penal system being too lenient by showing that it was, along with the Scottish system, in actual fact more severe than the English one, even as it placed prisoner rehabilitation at the centre of its concerns. Focusing in particular on the Jebb and Crofton controversy, she reveals the colonialist attitudes at play, notably in criticisms of leniency in the Irish population towards criminals and in outright ethno-national stereotyping of the Irish as inherently lawless and impulsive. As David Lloyd points out, the ‘penal attempt to regulate Irish disorder and criminality on a national scale was unprecedented elsewhere in the United Kingdom, despite earlier experiments at Millbank and Pentonville, and was inseparable from the no less unprecedented national system of policing that came into being in Ireland after 1815’ (Lloyd 2011, 11). Berthillot’s discussion of the Dublin Intermediate Prison interrogates colonial attitudes to Irish incarcerated bodies, and it implicitly dovetails with Lloyd’s affirmation that ‘the very practice of confinement was always about the criminalization and reform of an Irish body understood to be almost primordially alien and recalcitrant to the “civilizing process”’ (Lloyd 2011, 11). Ruari-Santiago McBride’s chapter pursues these reflections from a radically different perspective, offering a panorama of both prison architecture and penal regimes, specifically in the North of Ireland. He notes the prevalence of Victorian carceral structures, the specificites of makeshift prisons established during the late twentieth-century conflict, and the attempts by local authorities to distance ‘post-Ceasefire’ prisons from the loaded history of the recent past. McBride’s article breaks new ground in its discussion of the REACH (Reaching out to Prisoners through Engagement, Assessment, Collaborative working, Holistic approach) initiative, developed in April 2007. His analysis foregrounds both the benefits and the important shortcomings of this attempt to rethink penal policy, notably when economic concerns prevail over prisoner and staff wellbeing. If the architecture of the Donard Centre and Quoile House, the case studies in recent innovation which McBride studies, is notable for its potentially therapeutic spatial configuration and thus creates a distinct rupture with the prisons of the past, ‘deexceptionaliz[ing] penality in the North of Ireland’ (McBride) as part of a conflict transformation process, then a prevailing hypermasculinity among prison staff,

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asymmetrical power dynamics, and the prioritization of security all severely limit the projects’ potential. McBride’s chapter is also significant in its foregrounding not just of prisoner resistance to the carceral regime, however ostensibly therapeutic, but also staff resistance to it. He reveals the power dynamic at play among prison officers whose hypermasculinity is, in their eyes, challenged by being posted to a perceived easier part of the prison, and how prison managers may misuse the availability of Donard and Quoile for vulnerable prisoners in order to move challenging prisoners there so as to isolate them. Resistance by both prisoners and staff then takes many forms in contemporary prisons in the North: resistance to professional change, resistance to managers, resistance to new spatial layouts and new resources, resistance to abusive practices, and resistance to the neo-liberal agendas which subtend the most recent shifts in penal policy. Chris Hamill also investigates prisons in the North of Ireland from an architectural perspective, in particular the rehabilitation of the carceral buildings associated with the conflict. His area of interest are the debates around the preservation of carceral architectures in the post-ceasefire era and the neo-liberal agendas which have so far found most favour. While Berthillot and McBride look at prisoner rehabilitation, Hamill’s chapter studies the fraught debates surrounding the potential rehabilitation of the prison buildings themselves, and engages with contemporary discussions of contested heritage and ‘dark tourism’. Focusing on three main responses to date, namely, erasure, ecumenism, and commercialization, he shows how the latter can and does contribute to reinforcing erasure of the physical and psychological damage experienced by Northerners, all for a tidy profit. The few pockets of resistance to such developments have been quashed and it is clear, as Hamill indicates, that we are far from attaining the kind of ‘pluriversality’ needed as part of an ‘epistemic reconstruction’ (Mignolo and Walsh 2018, 254) which would do justice to the past. With Cormac Behan’s chapter, we move back into the second half of the twentieth century with an analysis of the development of the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation and penal reform in the South of Ireland. While Emilie Berthillot’s chapter made a case for the relatively better penal practices in colonial Ireland as opposed to England, Behan’s analysis pays

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attention to the emergence of the PRO (Prisoners’ Rights Organisation) in response to the appalling conditions in prisons in the Republic, and the obvious reluctance on the part of the authorities to engage in any kind of penal reform. Behan’s chapter shows up how the colonial institution of incarceration became, in fact, even more draconian in the postcolonial era. His focus on the much under-researched ‘Ordinary Decent Criminal’, as opposed to those widely researched prisoners claiming political status, brings into relief the strategies deployed by prisoners to contest their sidelining in society and to demand rights which would render them visible and audible (the right to establish a union, to vote in elections, to join political parties), in other words, to claim a ‘part’ in a sensible order which relegated them to the margins. As Walter Mignolo points out, ‘[i]n a world governed by the colonial matrix of power, he who includes and she who is welcomed to be included stand in codified power relations. The locus of enunciation from which inclusion is established is always a locus holding the control of knowledge and the power of decision across gender and racial lines, across political orientations and economic regulations’ (Mignolo 2011, xv). Behan’s focus is on white male prisoners, so gender and race are clearly not issues here, but political orientations and economic regulations certainly are. The denial of fundamental rights to carceral populations in Ireland and the subsequent manifestation of agency of those deprived prisoners draw attention to those ‘codified power relations’ and the at best disinterested, at worst deliberately dismissive, attitude of the Irish state towards them. The two following chapters deal in different ways with the charismatic and, by all accounts, inspiring figure of Gusty Spence, the leader of UVF/ RHC (Ulster Volunteer Force/Red Hand Command). Like Ruari-­ Santiago McBride, Erin Hinson also focuses on different perceptions and understandings of what ‘rehabilitation’ in prison might mean, although in this case through an analysis of prisoner autonomy in the compounds of Long Kesh prison in the North during the Troubles. She shows that for Gusty Spence, rehabilitation involved the fostering of a group dynamic and the development of educational and artistic practices. Hinson investigates the specificity of Long Kesh and its particular architectural configuration and reveals the ways in which it became a site of resistance to regular, orthodox penal protocols. For all that Spence was a major loyalist

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figure and as such a fervent defender of unionism, unmoved by the settler-colonial status of the North of Ireland, his approach inside Long Kesh, Hinson demonstrates, was very much decolonial, and primed to undermine the sectarian state. This may seem paradoxical given the fact that, as Hinson points out, Spence ‘used his prior military experience to implement a strict routine to daily life’. However, as she shows, this was part of a wider project whereby loyalist prisoners were encouraged to enact their belonging to a paramilitary organization in order to differentiate themselves from ODCs (Ordinary Decent Criminals). In this way, the prisoners created a group dynamic which left them much less vulnerable to prison authorities. This resistance by loyalist prisoners is particularly striking, not just because it has received less critical attention than that of republican prisoners, but also because they stood against the coercive subordination required of prisoners and created, admittedly in less dramatic circumstances than republican prisoners both in Long Kesh and the H Blocks, ‘a means, temporary and resistant, of life in common, a way of living that even from the most extreme conditions could shape an alternative collective ethic’ (Lloyd 2011, 196). Connal Parr, for his part, takes Gusty Spence as a point of departure for a discussion of the positive repercussions of jail sentences served in Long Kesh, notably in terms of sowing the seeds of artistic and theatrical creativity among prisoners. This is a topic which has often been broached by scholars researching republican prisoners (see, for example, Lloyd, McCann, Whalen) but research into expressions of loyalist creativity has in the past been limited. While Hinson notes that Spence used his military past to instigate certain rules and regulations among loyalist prisoners, Parr observes that he also used it to blur the boundaries between prisoner and prison guard. More than anything, Parr shows that Spence encouraged critical thinking, inciting his fellow prisoners to question their ideologies and their loyalties to a state and/or political party which consistently treated them with contempt. The latter part of Parr’s chapter focuses on former prisoner-turned-­ playwright Bobby Niblock and the ways in which art and literature can transcend all manner of boundaries while making strong political statements about how working-class loyalists have been betrayed by unionist political representatives. Parr’s chapter unearths unsuspected forms of resistance within loyalism to dogmas and ideologies and credits Long

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Kesh prison and Gusty Spence with generating such contestation and interrogation of entrenched positions. Katherine Side, like Hinson and, to a lesser extent, Parr, focuses on one particular individual prisoner, Mairéad Farrell. Yet her approach is different, and complementary, in that she weaves together an analysis of an iconic photo of Farrell (reprinted in the article), the actual site of Armagh Gaol where Farrell was imprisoned, and the politics and aesthetics at stake as the photo and site become imbued with different meanings over time. Side investigates the manner in which this photograph also renders porous the apparently impermeable boundaries between inside the prison and outside it, and between the privacy of the cell and the public domain. More importantly, she examines the photograph’s communication of the conditions in which republican women prisoners were detained during the no-wash protest, a protest largely ignored until the publication of Nell McCafferty’s column in the Irish Times in August 1980, which was framed by the provocative sentences ‘There is menstrual blood on the walls of Armagh Prison in Northern Ireland’ and ‘The menstrual blood on the walls of Armagh prison smells to high heaven. Shall we turn our noses up?’ (McCafferty 1980, np.). Side interrogates the gendered dimension of Farrell’s and other women prisoners’ incarceration, and the ways in which this was exploited and repudiated in almost equal measure both by the republican movement and the British state. The final part of Side’s chapter turns to current debates on the aftermath of the conflict and the vexed question of what to do with former carceral buildings in the era of conflict transformation (debates with which McBride’s and Hamill’s articles also engage). As a whole, the chapter sheds new light not so much on Farrell herself, but on both the politics and aesthetics of this iconic photograph. Kate Keane then invites us to reflect on the post-ceasefire moment in the North from yet another perspective: that of the role of storytelling carried out from within the prison space but after the ostensible end of the Troubles. Noting the divisive issue of ‘ownership’ of the Maze and Long Kesh prisons in the aftermath of the long conflict, and in particular unionist opposition to even the vaguest suggestion of the site becoming too associated with republican heritage, she gives an account of the proposals submitted to and discussed by the Maze Consultation Panel,

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particularly the suggestion of the creation of a Centre for Conflict Transformation. Keane contextualizes these debates by placing them in resonance with previous European initiatives to safeguard the tangibility of history, such as the Berlin Wall or the Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial and Museum, yet takes care to note the complexity of the issue of who might be deemed a victim in the Northern Irish context. The central focus of Keane’s chapter is the role of the Prisons Memory Archive and the ways in which it provides a multilayered memory of the Maze and Long Kesh prisons (and Armagh Gaol) during the conflict. She analyses the successful attempt by the PMA oral history project to move away from a binary understanding of the prison experience towards a shared knowledge where the voices of prisoners, prison guards, and family members all cohabit and converge. The PMA project, Keane shows, offers a displaced solution to the heritage of contested carceral sites. Putting together an archive by having the various participants return to the prisons and be filmed as they recall their memories of the past, Cahal McLaughlin, the director of the project, has managed to safeguard the emotional impact of those sites and to foreground a multiplicity of points of view. Sinéad Pembroke also looks at the emotional aftermath of trauma, but this time from the perspective of men and women who were sent to Industrial and Reformatory schools in the South between the 1940s and 1970s. Having contextualized the origins of this particular school system, and the types of abuse carried out therein, Pembroke then looks at the forms of resistance displayed and remembered by her interviewees. Contrary to the manifestations of collective forms of resistance which Behan, Hinson or Parr focus on in their chapters, Pembroke emphasizes mostly individual acts of resistance, including the counter-intuitive yet effective strategy of resisting the abusive institutional setting through conformity or isolation. Pembroke’s chapter makes clear the colonial matrix of power at work in the creation of the Industrial and Reformatory system, imported from England to Ireland in the face of the extreme poverty and orphanhood engendered by the famine, and then reorganized by the Catholic Church so that the institutions were moved from under the aegis of one power structure to another. Yet even when the Catholic Church took over, it was still supported by a number of colonial

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laws, such as the 1908 Children’s Act which was only replaced in 1991 by the Child Care Act, and this is indicative of the continuity between colonial and postcolonial times in terms of fostering institutionalization and policing of bodies in Ireland. Pembroke’s interviewees speak of both individualized and collective forms of resistance, and of the advantages of accepting co-optation as a strategy for survival, particularly as children perhaps had less agency than adults. Mathew Staunton and Deirdre Forde’s chapter, while still focusing on child abuse within educational establishments, brings us into more epistemological territory as they analyse from the double perspective of, respectively, a historian and archeologist the ways in which the abuse that took place in a circumscribed space within a Dublin Christian Brothers school, the print room, can be narrativized even in the absence of ‘empirical’ evidence. Deliberately reinforcing the ambiguity of the title, ‘The room where nothing makes sense’, the authors analyse the specific room in question as a ‘historiophobic’ space, and present the difficulties with which the contemporary researcher is faced since there exists no documentary, or ‘print’, evidence of abuse carried out in the print room. This chapter then probes the necessary alternatives, or complementary approaches, to ‘empirical-analytical’ historical research, and makes a case for the absence of the archive as being just as central as documentary evidence to investigations of the past. In adopting this approach, Staunton and Forde are, as encouraged by Mignolo and Walsh, ‘changing the terms of the conversation’, as opposed to the content. They analyse an enclosed space where pupils were brought against their will and subjected to physical violence, and they do so from an architectural and historical standpoint, fusing the two approaches so as to better contest the all too easy dismissal of oral history projects, and enacting a form of epistemological resistance to dominant historiographic approaches which can, and do, render invisible the precarious lives of maltreated children in twentieth-­ century Irish schools. This collection of essays concludes with Ronit Lentin’s analysis of what she names, after Angela Davis, ‘Ireland’s prison industrial complex’. Although Lentin focuses specifically on Direct Provision as a profit-making enterprise which mutually benefits a state which urgently wants to invisibilize ‘Ireland’s repressed Other’ and a private sector which can

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make a considerable profit from doing so, she envisages Direct Provision as the latest in a long series of carceral dispositifs which have been developed on the island of Ireland. Yet as with other contributors to this volume, Lentin takes care to foreground modes of resistance to the racialization and containment of asylum seekers, from well before Direct Provision right through to the present day. This chapter, like many others, investigates the ongoingness of the colonial matrix of power in Ireland, north and south, and the concomitant recurrent marginalization of certain populations. There is no more fitting ending to this article and to the collection of essays as a whole than Lentin’s powerful indictment of ‘carceral Ireland’ in all its protean manifestations.

Bibliography Agamben, Georgio. 1998. Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Behan, Brendan. 1970. The Hostage. London: Methuen. Foucault, Michel. 1977. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Trans. Alan Sheridan. London: Penguin. Healy, Deirdre. 2012. The Dynamics of Desistance: Charting Pathways Through Change. Oxon/New York: Routledge. Hogan, Caelainn. 2019. Republic of Shame. Stories from Ireland’s Institutions for ‘Fallen Woman’. London: Penguin. Hopkins, Stephen. 2013. The Politics of Memoir and the Northern Ireland Conflict. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Irish Prison Service Report 1999 and 2000. 2000. https://www.drugsandalcohol. ie/5327/1/IPS_annual_report_1999_2000.pdf. Accessed 12 Nov 2019. Lloyd, David. 2011. Irish Culture and Colonial Modernity 1800–2000: The Transformation of the Oral Space. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2018. The Press/Le Placard. Trans. Élisabeth Angel-Perez and Alexandra Poulain. Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Mirail. Lynch, Martin. 2012. Chronicles of Long Kesh. London: Oberon. McCafferty, Nell. 1980. Armagh Is a Feminist Issue. The Irish Times, August 22. McCann, Fiona. 2015a. Embodying Resistance: The Poetry of Bobby Sands. Études irlandaises 40 (1): 325–337.

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———. 2015b. Commitment and Poetic Justice: Irish Republican Women’s Prison Writing. Commonwealth Essays and Studies 38 (1): 57–66. ———. 2017. Writing by and About Women Republican Prisoners: “Willful Subjects”. Irish University Review 47 (2): 502–514. McConville, Sean. 2014. Irish Political Prisoners, 1920–1962. Pilgrimage of Desolation. Oxon/New York: Routledge. Meehan, Paula. 2000. Cell. Dublin: New Island. Mignolo, Walter. 2011. The Darker Side of Western Modernity: Global Futures, Decolonial Options. Durham/London: Duke University Press. Mignolo, Walter, and Catherine Walsh. 2018. On Decoloniality: Concepts, Analytics, Praxis. Durham: Duke University Press. Moran, Dominique. 2015. Carceral Geography: Spaces and Practices of Incarceration. Oxon/New York: Routledge. O’Sullivan, Eoin, and Ian O’Donnell. 2014. Coercive Confinement in Post-­ Independence Ireland: Patients, Prisoners and Penitents. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Poulain, Alexandra. 2016. Irish Drama, Modernity and the Passion Play. London: Palgrave. Rancière, Jacques. 2000. ‘Biopolitique ou politique?’ Interview with Eric Alliez. Multitudes, Mars 1. http://www.multitudes.net/Biopolitique-ou-politique/. Accessed 30 June 2019. ———. 2004. Disagreement: Politics and Philosophy. Trans. Julie Rose. Minneapolis: Minnesota University Press. ———. 2010. Dissensus. On Politics and Aesthetics. Trans. Steven Corcoran (ed.). London/New York: Continuum. Smith, James. 2008. Ireland’s Magdalen Laundries and the Nation’s Architecture of Containment. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Whalen, Lachlan. 2007. Contemporary Irish Republican Prison Writing: Writing and Resistance. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.

The Dublin Intermediate Prison System Emilie Berthillot

Overlooking the intermediate prisons system set up by Dublin, as a most unique and lenient form of punishment in the British Isles, Michel Foucault denounced nineteenth-century prison punishment – characterized mainly by isolation and labour – which he considered inadequate to the rehabilitation and reinsertion of convicts into their society since, according to him, prisoners were taught neither useful working skills nor given access to education: The prison cannot fail to produce delinquents. It does so by the very type of existence that it imposes on its inmates: whether they are isolated in cells or whether they are given useless work, for which they will find no employment, […]; the prison should educate its inmates, but can a system of education addressed to man reasonably have as its object to act against the wishes of nature? (Foucault 1977, 266)

E. Berthillot (*) Université de Lille, CECILLE, Lille, France e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 F. McCann (ed.), The Carceral Network in Ireland, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7_2

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This harsh criticism of prison institutions concerns the nineteenth-­century British prison system divided into solitary confinement (‘he slept, worked and had his meals in his own cell’—Davitt 1885, 215–251) and hard labour (‘introduced in the Act of 1776 as a substitute for transportation’— Von Holtzendorff 1860, 72–86). Irish convicts had the same experience but their prison life was longer since, after compulsory labour in association, the Irish Convict System transferred them to an ‘open prison or intermediate prison’. If the first role of nineteenth-century prisons was to crush the perceived perverse will of the criminal by imposing restraints, intermediate prisons, reserved for men only, aimed at turning that perverse will into a new positive power of self-control and offering the convict a transition between imprisonment and freedom (Von Holtzendorff 1860, 90). However, in the first half of the century, this unique form of containment was harshly criticized for its leniency by the English Prison boards.1 The core of this article compares Dublin City’s intermediate prisons to London’s and Edinburgh’s convict systems in order to demonstrate that despite their apparent leniency in granting prisoners some kind of limited freedom, their rules were strict and discipline was rigorously enforced, but also to prove that finding the appropriate sentence is linked to the very society the prison system punishes. The study will first compare the three prison systems before detailing the inner working of Dublin intermediate prisons and the surveillance of prisoners on licence once released in the city. Finally, the Crofton/Jebb controversy will be developed with emphasis on the conflict over the paternity of the Irish system which was highly praised by newspapers and public opinions.

 he Main Differences Between the British T and Irish Systems Although the English Prison system stood as the model to follow, because of the two Acts of Union, the common bases of the English, the Irish and the Scottish systems differed from one another. According to Franz Von  Ireland and Scotland being British colonies subsumed into the Union, Dublin and Edinburgh prisons were supposed to operate the same way as London prisons. Yet, the two countries differentiated themselves from colonial rule, and thus the comparison is worth examining. 1

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Holtzendorff, the different steps of imprisonment, early release in case of good behaviour and close surveillance after the release are the key elements of the Irish Convict System and are what make it unique (Von Holtzendorff 1860, 26). Although the distribution of marks was common to the three systems, the source of rewards was different. In Ireland, three marks were gained for perfect behaviour, two for good behaviour and one for normal behaviour. The Irish and Scottish prisoners could get marks in three different fields: conduct, industry and diligence in school; thus, they could gain a maximum of nine marks per week (Carroll-Burke 2000, 213). In the English system, convicts could gain eight, seven or six marks a day according to their hard working attitude only; thus, getting a mark in Ireland and in Scotland was more thorough and difficult, since they rewarded good conduct and diligence in education and in industry. Thus while Victorian English society fought against idleness (May 2008, 3) only, the Scottish and Irish societies, in which Presbyterianism and Catholicism played a key role, paid greater attention to education and the respect of prison rules. Once the marks were given, the prisoners could get the corresponding gratuities (converted into a sum of money the convicts would be given on their release from prison—Davitt 1885, 215–227), a distribution which in the Irish system was stricter. The first difference was that in Ireland, convicts didn’t get any gratuities in the first stage of detention (a period spreading from 8 to 12  months), whereas in England, gratuities were given after the first six months. The second difference was the allowance given to each prisoner. English prisoners could earn between 8d and 1s 11d per week, while Irish amounts were far less significant, with convicts getting between 1d and 9d over the same period (Reports of the Commissioners 1896, 18–19) depending on their class: Some advantage is gained at each step upward, but the early stages are laborious. In the third class the prisoner is allowed a gratuity of a penny a week, in the second [class] of two pence, in the first [class] of three pence for the first six months and four pence for the next six months. […] It takes two years and four months of unexceptional good conduct to earn a gratuity of £1 and to reach the Advanced Class. In the Advanced Class, seven

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pence a week is allowed for the first six months, and nine pence a week for the rest of the time the prisoner remains in it. (Wheatley Balme et al. 1862)

Edward Gibson, who wrote Irish Convict Reform: The Intermediate Prisons, a Mistake, concluded that in England the gratuities were approximately two-thirds higher than in Ireland. The Wakefield Justices2 also stated that to earn a gratuity of £1, an Irish convict needed to be of exceptional good conduct for two years and four months, whereas an English convict could get £5 9d over the same period. The three systems deducted some gratuities from the convicts in cases of bad behaviour, but the English system never rewarded a convict who showed exemplary conduct in jail (Carroll-Burke 2000, 213). Therefore, the English system only punished its convicts and, in some ways, urged them to resist prison rules and thus their own rehabilitation. The Irish system, on the contrary, used gratuities as a reward to show convicts that their efforts didn’t go unnoticed and that they believed in the improvement of the convicts’ characters. The English Victorian system was known for its severity (Brown 2003, 83); its convicts were punished but never rewarded. This lack of personal consideration and belief in redemption sometimes led to prison rebellion after which the prison directors were forced to offer inmates privileges. Yet, Michelle Higgs even questions the supposed severity of the English system by putting forward the number of citizens willingly committing crimes to be sent to prison: If the Victorian English prison was so harsh and severe, why were there so many reports of petty criminals repeatedly re-offending to ensure they were convicted and sent to prison again? The sad truth must be that they were willing to exchange their liberty for better food, accommodation and acre than they had at home. A similar motive inspired countless workhouse inmates and vagrants to deliberately destroy property or refuse to work in

 The Wakefield Justices were prison committees visiting prisons in Ireland but also in the British Isles. An 1823 Act laid down the prison duties of justices, including their systematic inspection of every part of prisons. In an 1835 Act, the justices were subjected to Home Office regulations. 2

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order to get sent to prison. The prison diet was arguably more generous than that of the workhouse. (Higgs 2007, 7)

This quote also puts forward the difficult question of punishment in constant evolution throughout the nineteenth century, especially when in balance with hard labour in workhouses. The diet at the Lusk intermediate prison3 was noted by the Wakefield Justices, who visited the Irish system in 1861, as worse than that at Portland Prison, with the exception of potatoes. Moreover, contrary to England, no meat was given to the prisoners in the first four months of separate confinement (Carroll-Burke 2000, 211). In Scotland, the diet was also closely watched, and each allowance of food was supervised. In 1863, in an article in The Statistical and Social Inquiry Society of Ireland, Edward Gibson maintained that in Ireland, the diet was based on the principle of ‘the exact minimum which would suffer the criminal to pass through prison free from disease’ but also that this principle ‘has been occasionally forgotten in England, where extra food is constantly given on insufficient grounds, and many of the rewards for good conduct take the shape of meat, puddings and beer’ (Gibson, 335). The outbreak in Portland Prison4 was indeed brought down by offering prisoners increased gratuities and extra food like pudding and beer, which had never been the case in Ireland. In this case, diet was not used to punish convicts, but to quell rebellion and bribe them. When studying diet, the Irish system could once more be described as a stricter system since the amount of food was set up at its lowest.

 In the third, or ‘intermediate stage’, male convicts were transferred to the newly acquired [1856] agricultural prison at Lusk, north of Dublin, or, when later appropriated for the purpose, to Smithfield prison in Dublin. These institutions were ‘open prisons’. At Lusk, for instance, there were no walls or fences to contain the convicts. Treatment at these prisons was adjusted as much as possible to each individual (Carroll-Burke 2000, 104). Lusk Prison contained only exemplary character convicts. 4  The serious disturbance at Portland Convict Prison in 1858, in which over 300 men had refused to work, was largely a result of these defects in the legislation. According to the governor, the prisoners had themselves stated that ‘they considered themselves ill used in having no remission of sentence for good conduct such as the men under the Act of July 1857 had’ (Brown 2003, 48). 3

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Licence Name number 209

486

613

Conviction

George Larceny, Firth stealing money from the person

Judge

Date

Quarter 18 June Sesssion, 1852 Manchester, Lancashire

Age Job

Sentence

Licence granted

38

weaver

15 years 5 Dec 1853 transportation early release from Pentonville Prison.

James Convicted Central Waylett housebreaking Criminal alias and larceny court, William London Henry Stevens

3 Feb. 1846

23

shoemaker 15 years 20 Feb. transportation 1854 early release from Pentonville Prison.

Henry Robbery Douglas with violence

12 June 1848

22

sailor

Central Criminal Court, London

14 years 14 March transportation 1854 early release from Pentonville Prison

Fig. 1  Prisoners’ records: George Firth, James Waylett and Henry Douglas (England). (Prison Commission and Home Office Prison Department, PCOM 3/3/209 (5 Dec. 1853), PCOM 3/5/486 (20 Feb 1854), PCOM 3/7/613 (14 March 1854), the National Archives, Kew)

We can find in the Home Office Papers (HO 45/9682 A48197) that convicts were usually released earlier depending on their initial sentence. This earlier release may have been in operation to find a solution to transportation and to the high number of convicts the British government had to cope with. Transportation to Western Australia was still possible at that time since it was abolished only in 1868 (Shaw 1966, 21–37), but in 1853, the British government passed an act which substituted penal servitude for those who would be sentenced for less than 14  years, a law which may have been extended to these three cases whose sentences of 14–15 years were close (Fig. 1). What is striking in this figure5 is the quick release of George Firth and to some extent of Henry Douglas too since he was a violent criminal. The  Pentonville Prison Registers, PCOM 3/3/209 (05 Dec. 1853), PCOM 3/5/486 (20 Feb. 1854), PCOM 3/7/613 (14 March 1854); the National Archives, Kew. 5

  The Dublin Intermediate Prison System  Age

Register no.

Name

1379 John 20 Spike Lynch 11697

Crime

Sentences, date of conviction

Sheep 4 years PS stealing 21 January sessions 1862 Bandon Co. Cork

Particulars relative to former conviction

Information received relative to character in gaol and before conviction

Conduct, chara. And period passed in separate confinement.

Not known in Cork Co. Prison previous to this offence

Conduct in gaol good, nothing further known

9 months in separation Remainder in association Remainder good association RD Spread Governor Nov.10/62

27

Misconduct and punishment Date

Offence

Punishment

30 Insolence 48 hrs on May to the punishment 1862 officer of diet in his his Ward own cell p.228 31 Using 36 hrs on Dec. threats Bread and 1863 that he water and would forfeit one assault a month’s fellow marks. prisoner

Fig. 2  Prisoner’s record: John Lynch (Ireland). (Mountjoy Gaol Registers, no.17; Male convict classification, Book, Nos.797–1905; Volume 16-7-10, 1857–1863, P.1/11/17, Dublin national archives)

issue at stake here is the time needed for the prisoner to be reformed by the prison institution since after only six months in jail, George Firth may be inclined to repeat his offense once released. The following prison register extract (Fig. 2, Mountjoy Gaol Registers, no 17) shows John Spike’s prison life in Mountjoy Convict Prison,6 Dublin, is much more detailed. Not only is information about his crime, judgment and sentence recorded, but also more personal elements. He was first locked up in Mountjoy Convict Prison, then in Spike Island (1862–65) for work7 and finally in the Dublin intermediate prison of Smithfield from which he was released on 22 June 1865. This example places the emphasis on different facts: Irish convicts were much more supervised by prison wardens who made record of the slightest little thing  Pentonville Prison and Mountjoy Prison are perfect institutions for a comparison since they were both built according to the new Pentonville design and were meant to imprison serious offenders called convicts (Higgs 2007, 7). 7  When the Irish Convict System was legally established in 1854, it included the Dublin prisons of Mountjoy, Grangegorman, Newgate and Smithfield, Cork female depot, Spike Island, Philipstown outside Dublin and the Camden and Carlisle forts. […] The first or ‘penal stage’ was served by both men and women in strict separate confinement in Mountjoy. In the second, or ‘reformatory stage’, male prisoners were transferred to Spike Island where they worked at associated outdoor labour, to Philipstown if invalid, and to Smithfield if tradesmen (Carroll-Burke 2000, 103–104). 6

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E. Berthillot No. 9. P. Name: John Laurie Trade: Patternmaker Reg. No. 470/10

Age 25

Date of admission: 4 Sept 89

Rate of Diet IV V VIII

Date Commenced 30.11.89 20.5.10 27.4.10

Dates of Visits 4.12.89 11.9.90

Letters in Cells 12.5.10 out

Date of sentence: 9 Nov 89 Offence: Murder Sentence: death/ 30.11.89 comt to P.S. for Life Date of Liberation: --------Special orders Peterhead (Prison specs) 27.4.10: 1 oz butter daily for supper (24.5.10) and breakfast (25.6.10) Tea and 8 oz bread and egg for B.K.

Fig. 3  Prisoner’s record: John Laurie (Scotland). (Prisoner’s record: John Watson Laurie 1889–1930, HH 15/1, Edinburgh national archives)

in prison registers, the initial sentences of inmates were strictly abided by and, finally, the gratuities he earned over this four-year period were around £1 (£1 15 shillings 6 ½ d.) In Scotland, convicts had personal cards summing up their prison life. John Laurie’s card indicates everything wardens had to know about his crime and the special treatment the convict was entitled to (Prisoner’s Record) (Fig. 3). The other side of the card displays his gratuities: in January 1894, he earned 39s 2d, and in June, 42s 10d, which gives 3 shillings 8d in six months, but also the removal of 7½s in the first quarter of 1896 due to bad behaviour. The attention paid to the different types of diets and the physical health of the convict (not shown in this extract but present in the prisoner’s file) and the well-being or personal consideration (visits and letters) also exemplify the evolution of medicine which was considered as very important from the end of the nineteenth century, all the more so as Edinburgh science and medicine university was famous worldwide. In brief, the study of the different prison systems in the British Isles obviously highlights common factors based on the English criminal law

  The Dublin Intermediate Prison System 

29

whose implementations had to be respected by the two colonial prison boards. Yet, the Irish and the Scottish systems express their own ways of punishing their criminals corresponding to their societies. The main distinction was not severity or leniency, but rather the way the convicts were treated and seen. Carroll-Burke defines the evolution of the Irish system as a ‘shift from punishment to therapy’ (Carroll-Burke 2000, 232). In Ireland, the allowance of marks, gratuities and food may have been stricter and less important, but the convict could be rewarded and helped; this perfect alliance between hope in a better man and punishment was the key to the Irish Convict System’s success.

 he Intermediate Prison and Return T to Freedom Access to the intermediate prison was not granted to just any Irish convict. First, it depended on the initial sentence and the exemplary character and conduct of the prisoners rewarded by their class and marks (Wheatley Balme et al. 1862, 28): A four-years’ man must complete the 108 marks, or a minimum of twelve months, in the first class, and then six months more in the Advanced Class, before being admitted to the Intermediate Prisons. The following table shows how a three years’ and seven years’ sentence may be passed by a very well-conducted prisoner:

In Probation 3rd and 2nd classes First Class Advanced Class Intermediate Prison On Licence Years

Years

Months

Years

Months

0 0 0 0 0 0 3

8 8 10 0 4 6 0

0 0 1 1 1 1 7

8 8 0 8 3 9 0

The intermediate prisons were small since they contained a maximum of 100 convicts, a suitable size for wardens to have better control over rather obedient inmates. In these prisons, labour did not differ from hard labour

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in public-works prisons and the strict organization of the prisoners’ daily routine clearly confirms its importance. Prisoners usually had to get up at 5 a.m. and went to bed at 9 p.m. Their day was divided as follows: 9 hours and 15  minutes were devoted to working, 2  hours and 15  minutes to recreation and meals, 3 hours and 45 minutes to instruction and prayers and 45 minutes to dressing and cleaning their cells (Von Holtzendorff 1860, 13). Despite what the name ‘open prison’ may suggest, discipline was very important in the intermediate prisons and prisoners faced the same punishment as in their previous stages.8 Every transgression of the rules, every irregularity of conduct was punished by the convict’s return to the previous penal stages, the main difference being that discipline was not based on physical restraint but rather on a mental one. The difficulty of coping with gradual return to freedom and greater interior responsibility was exemplified by some convicts requesting to be pushed back to former stages of imprisonment. After hard labour, the second longest daily activity was education. In 1859, in the Dublin intermediate prison of Smithfield, James Organ (Carroll-Burke 2000, 123) developed a revolutionary method of teaching, aiming at encouraging and winning over the attention of the prisoners. Every evening, he taught prisoners lectures which targeted the moral values of the society the prisoners would live in and tried to make them think about their personal lives. Among the topics broached were ‘duty, frugality, temperance, self-denial, duty to God, conscientiousness, courtesy and politeness, slander, forbearance and forgiveness, truth and trust, anger, the government of our passions, contentment and religious repose of mind, baseness of calumny, and self-control’, as well as questions relative to capital and labour (Carroll-Burke 2000, 172–3). Social life duties served as topics targeting the interior ‘change of soul’ which had begun in separate confinement. Every conference was calculated to have the best effect on the convicts’ personalities, and each Saturday evening, a competitive examination amongst the inmates was organized to judge whether the taught subject was understood and to  See, for instance, “Major misconduct offenses and their punishment” Dublin: Mountjoy Gaol Registers, no.17; p. 1/11/17. 8

  The Dublin Intermediate Prison System 

31

measure the spirits and thoughts it had triggered in the convicts’ minds. By individualizing the conference to each prisoner, Organ wished to have a greater impact on their mind and soul and he distinguished ‘two types of convicts: “some to be reformed through shame, others through fear … [some] are reformed – perhaps I should say converted – through religious agency and moral teachings”’ (Carroll-Burke 2000, 176). In addition, prisoners felt concerned by references to their future lives, and as they were not numerous, everybody got the chance to talk and express their personal ideas and judgement from their own experience (Von Holtzendorff 1860, 120–130). They felt they were important enough to be given the right to express their opinion, and thus they usually gained confidence and a bit of self-esteem. Prisoners became actors in their imprisonment by preparing their rehabilitation, and by being treated as a human being who deserved attention and personal treatment, they were more disposed to accept their fate. Thanks to this method of teaching, Organ countered Michel Foucault’s question ‘– can a system of education addressed to man reasonably have as its object to act against the wishes of nature? –’ but not fully since this individual treatment needed the prisoner’s will and acceptance to cooperate rather than to resist this therapy: The Irish Convict System’s aim is to achieve a correction of the behavior through the free agency of the criminal, who voluntarily submits to the punishment which justice requires, and so gives up the power over his will which no prison bars can control, accepting willingly the restraint in which he is kept, as an atonement for his guilt, and feeling it a duty to submit to the punishment he has deserved. (Carroll-Burke 2000, 177)

The second problem was the time required for James Organ to get to know each of his convicts individually, but it can explain why this system only worked in Ireland, a smaller country with fewer convicts compared to the UK. Education was also part of the English convicts’ daily life, but in far smaller proportion since school instruction was required from 3 p.m. to 3.30  p.m. This instruction was mostly based on reading, writing and arithmetic. Each prisoner could borrow books and have them renewed

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every seven days. The problem was the insufficient number of schoolmasters (some prisons had none) who were in charge of many duties and thus spent a limited time teaching: ‘In 1896, the schoolmaster warder had time to give them only seven minutes instruction each per week for the twenty-five out of 370 who were eligible for instruction’ (Higgs 2007, 142). The importance given to education and religion brought once more Scotland closer to Ireland.9 The 1877 Prisons (Scotland) Act forced the directors of Scottish prisons to give each prisoner the right to meet a chaplain or minister according to his/her religion (Rules for Prisons in Scotland 1877, 23). In addition, exactly as James Organ, the lecturer of Dublin intermediate prisons did, the Scottish minister offered not only a religious service once a month, but he was also in charge of education from 1854 and of the surveillance of the convicts after their release (Rules for Prisons in Scotland 1877, 21). The minister organized lectures and tests every week to evaluate the prisoners’ evolution in reading, writing and arithmetic, and was helped by a teacher in Edinburgh Calton Jail from 1868 (Fife 2016, 30). The Irish and Scottish inner-workings of prisons echo each other. In addition, though there was no intermediate prison in Scotland, the country had developed a unique form of containment too. The particularity of Scottish prisons was designed by Robert Adam who adapted the Pentonville style to Scottish castles. This semi-­ circular Pentonville Prison (Fig. 4, author’s sketch) respected solitary confinement with individual cells, the separation of the different types of criminals (the insane, male and female prisoners, etc.) but also the central tower erected to keep a constant eye on the prisoner without him knowing if he was actually being watched (Fife 2016, 13). The return to liberty and police surveillance constituted one of the biggest differences. Contrary to the Irish Convict System, the British system allowed discharge on licence to a prisoner entering the first stages of his imprisonment and this created a dangerous situation because the  The 1707 Act of Union signed by Scotland with England gave Edinburgh control of both Scottish religion and education. Yet the 1801 Act of Union signed by Ireland forced Dublin to recognize the Anglican Church as the official Church of Ireland. The Church of England was also responsible for education in Ireland, although some Catholic dissenters set up secret Catholic schools nicknamed ‘hedge schools’. 9

  The Dublin Intermediate Prison System 

33

Fig. 4  Semi-circular Pentonville Prison (Scotland), author’s sketch

supposed deterrent effect the prison had to play on the convict had not yet acted upon him. For example, John Clarke, who had raped a 12-year-­old girl and whose initial sentence was 15 years of transportation, was released early from Pentonville Prison after 6 years (Licence number 614, 1848). Yet the conditional discharge offered after the intermediate prison was much safer, although imperfect, since the prisoner had gone through a series of stages and transformations giving way to a gradual transition to liberty. Intermediate prisons were most successful in preparing the convict to integrate society again, a step which was missing in the English system. At the creation of intermediate prisons, the directors of Irish prisons defended the establishment of this form of containment whose goal was to serve as: [f ]ilters between the prisons and the community…[and] the system pursued in them must be of such a character as to test the reformation of the prisoner, and throw him on himself; hard work and coarse fare must be the rule, and in the evenings carefully selected lecturers may inculcate lessons of practical utility…we believe that, by means of these establishments, we shall obtain a further insight into the prisoner’s character, through indi-

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vidualization, and thus be enabled to recommend the really deserving for tickets of licence. (Qtd in Carroll-Burke 2000, 21)

In addition, once released, the prisoner was still closely supervised and controlled.10 Contrary to the prisoners living outside the capital city who had to report to their constabulary station once a month, Dublin prisoners regularly met the lecturer of Dublin intermediate prisons, James Organ, who could be considered as the first probation officer in the British Isles. He personally arranged employment for the convicts, kept in-depth files on them, liaised with employers, advised on emigration procedures, compiled reports on their progress, kept them under general surveillance and maintained direct communication with the police (Carroll-Burke 2000, 127–128). In case of a prisoner’s misconduct, local constables would write a report which would then be sent to the headquarters in Dublin. Any infringement of the rules on the licence would ‘cause it to be assumed that he was leading an idle, irregular life, and therefore entail the revocation of his licence’ (Carroll-Burke 2000, 126). Once again, when comparing the terms linked to the revocation of licence, the Irish Convict System appeared far stricter with expressions like ‘liable to be revoked’ (Britain) opposing ‘most certainly be revoked’ and ‘must prove […] he is worthy’ (Ireland). In fact, if Irish prisoners did not prove the system wrong by being a hard worker, their licence was revoked (Carroll-Burke 2000, 122). A few years after the creation of intermediate prisons, the directors of Irish prisons were satisfied with their system since only 3% of prisoners had their licence revoked in Dublin City (Carroll-Burke 2000, 30). This deep reformation of the convicts was also praised by the Irish population and media and also by public opinion (Von Holtzendorff 1860, 168). While the system of releasing convicts on tickets of licence was not unique to Ireland, the way it was combined with police surveillance was  No convicts were released on licence in Ireland until police surveillance was introduced. A system of special forms for recording information on behalf of the police was adopted in Ireland. These forms not only provided an extensive description of the individual but also information on former convictions, previous residence, residence of friends and associates, birthmarks, occupation, place of birth and particulars of both past and present offences. This system, however, applied only to men living outside the city and county of Dublin (Carroll-Burke 2000, 126). 10

  The Dublin Intermediate Prison System 

35

(Carroll-Burke 2000, 204). The cooperation between prison institutions and police forces aimed at limiting reoffending, and thus the number of hardened criminals.

 he Jebb/Crofton Controversy T and the Evolution of the British System In 1858, the running and efficiency of the Irish Convict System were much debated and this escalated into a controversy called ‘the Jebb and Crofton controversy’ which rose so drastically that the Irish and the British systems were examined and compared by a Royal Commission in the 1860s. Joshua Jebb (Stockdale 1976, 164–170) was the surveyor-­general of English convict prisons and the architect of Mountjoy and Pentonville prisons. He criticized the very founding elements of the Irish Convict System, the individualized mark system, the intermediate prisons and the police surveillance. His opponent, Captain Walter Crofton,11 was the founder of the Irish Convict System. The controversy was based on two main questions: was the Irish Convict System unique and who was its creator? Jebb’s report maintained that both the intermediate prisons and police surveillance of the prisoners after their release could not be implemented in England. Yet he also stated that these discrepancies were not as clearly marked so as to call the two systems different (Von Holtzendorff 1860, 103). In Ireland, among other people, the Reverend John Clay12 clearly opposed these points of view and explained why the two systems were distinct: ‘the Irish system is aiming at the will of the convict and obtains results unobtainable in the English system where the will is left alone in the dormitory of the soul’ (Qtd in Carroll-Burke 2000, 205). Two main issues were at the core of the controversy: the efficiency of the Irish system challenging the English one and the deeply rooted  Sir Walter Frederick Crofton (1815–1897) was an Irish penologist and was chair of the Board of Directors of Convict Prisons for Ireland between 1854 and 1862. He is the founder of the Irish Convict System, created in 1854 and which imposed on convicts a third stage of imprisonment: the intermediate prison. 12  Reverend W. L. Clay was the author of Our Convict Systems (London, 1862) and the chaplain of Preston House of Correction. 11

36 

E. Berthillot

political and racial prejudices. In fact, not only was the English model for Ireland criticized, but the Irish system was so efficient that newspapers suggested it should be implemented in England (Carroll-Burke 2000, 206). This was a big issue since it meant that the two systems were considered separate and different, but they couldn’t be so as the English system was the one to serve as a model. A follow-on article in November expressed unqualified approval for the system, concluding that ‘the result of this experiment is so encouraging that we would strongly urge its immediate application, mutatis mutandis, to the English prison system’, and added that it would be ‘disgraceful to England not to seize eagerly on the hope his [Walter Crofton’s] holds out’. (Carroll-Burke 2000, 196)

The decreasing number of convicts proved the system’s efficiency since it fully came into operation in 1853–1854 (Von Holtzendorff 1860, 166): Dates Number of convicts

1850 1158

1851 1864

1852 1358

1853 1013

1854 692

1855 518

1856 389

In comparison, the number of English convicts only decreased in the second part of the nineteenth century, thanks to new regulations introduced by Edmund Du Cane,13 but also according to some historians, due to a reduction in crime: The daily average number of prisoners of both sexes held in convict prisons during the year ending 31 March 1880 was 10,299; by 1890 this had declined to 5359, and by 1895, the years of Du Cane’s retirement, to 3523. (Reports of Commissioners qtd in Brown 2003, 107)

These figures can also be explained by the development of a very efficient London Metropolitan Police playing a key role in the detections of crime,  Edmund Du Cane, the Chairman of the Directors of the Convict Prisons from 1869 to 1895, has been criticized for his role in constructing a severe system of penal servitude, and there is little doubt that Du Cane’s name will always be written large in the history of English prison administration (Brown 2003, 85). 13

  The Dublin Intermediate Prison System 

37

the arrests of criminals, but also in their better supervision of prisoners on licence at the very end of the century. The threat was genuine for London since its political authority was challenged by the very existence of the Irish Convict System, which was becoming famous all around the world. This is why in 1858, Colonel Jebb was sent to Ireland to inspect its system, but this visit worsened the situation since, on the one side, the Irish denounced Jebb’s overconfidence and lack of interest in the Irish Convict System and, on the other, the British blamed it for being too lenient. The declining Anglo-Irish relations aroused nationalist feelings and gave way to libelling. The role played by the Irish population in the reformation of Irish convicts was harshly criticized by the English prison boards and committees who maintained that the Irish population was used to protecting criminals (Carroll-Burke 2000, 200–201). The controversy even gave way to racial prejudices stating that the efficiency of the Irish system could be explained by the very nature of Irish criminals who were so ‘idiot’ (Anonymous 1863) that any system could work on them, while arguing that this system wouldn’t work on professional and ‘smart’ (Anonymous 1863) English criminals. Racial discrimination also developed describing the Celtic race as impulsive and lawless, and the Irishmen as people who were breaking the law because they hated it: ‘We doubt if the stimulus of hope and emulation [through badges and marks] would act so powerfully on the English convict, though we would expect that fewer of them would retrograde who had once given promise of amendment’ (The Economist 1857, qtd in Carroll-Burke 2000, 227). The racial insults were not based on facts or figures taken from the number of convicts, of reoffenders or of revoked licences, but only on jealousy, political claims and prejudices. However, in the second half of the century, the situation changed. Jebb’s overconfidence shown when visiting the Irish Convict System in 1858 could indeed be seen as the beginning of the questioning of the English system since Jebb’s opinion was shared neither by the public opinion nor by Parliamentarians any more: ‘In the face of such criticisms the prison authorities fell back upon the organisational capacity and coercive strengths of the prison. The shifts in penal philosophy and politics were reflective of a recognition of the failure to establish a legitimate

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penal system and a search for solutions to this failure’ (Brown 2003, 53). Moreover, according to Garland, Jebb’s criticism proved wrong since British penologists understood their prison system was not deterrent enough and started to look for a new solution to this failure (Quoted in Brown 2003, 32). The implementation of a more thorough police surveillance of their prisoners released on licence was then considered as one of the possible solutions as the following extracts from London police correspondence dating back to 1899 prove. The letter requesting evidence on John Seymour’s rehabilitation clearly shows that the English system copied the Irish one since the chief constable enquired information about the behaviour, the job and the regular meeting with his probation officer, three key elements in the Irish probation officer and the constabularies’ surveillance: ‘How has this man behaved since his release on licence? Has he been living honestly, in employment? Has he reported himself regularly to the Police?’ (Prisons and Prisoners, 87). This letter shows the English system was applying some methods the Irish system had been using for years, but the British government never admitted copying the efficiency and pioneering treatment of the Irish Convict System. All in all, despite the apparent leniency conveyed by open prisons, the comparison of the different prison registers and case studies of prisoners’ lives shows that the Irish Convict System was efficiently combining severity and individuality. Indeed, Crofton insisted on the necessity to ally therapy and punishment during a prison term by describing intermediate prisons as ‘a velvet paw of tenderness benevolence’, but at the same time, in case of resistance, prisoners would be punished and ‘feel the pain of a claw, sharp and steel’ (Carroll-Burke 2000, 235). On the contrary, the English prison system was based on Victorian values such as fighting against idleness by giving work back to prisoners since working enabled poor people to get out from the traps of poverty from which criminality arose. Victorians believed that, once out of prison, the convicts had to find a job by themselves to prove they deserved it. In addition, a large part of the Victorian population despised criminals and viewed them as an ‘inferior type of humanity who had lower or more primitive mental development’; this ‘them-and-us attitude’ had an impact on the potential to reform criminals (Brown 2003, 86). Understanding

  The Dublin Intermediate Prison System 

39

that ‘severe’ implies lacking sympathy and causing great pain, we can suspect that a severe prison system causing them psychological damage failed to help the convicts to reform and rehabilitate, but rather urged them to rebel or even to injure themselves as their final solution to call for attention: This examination of violent prison offences presents the argument that there was an increase in the intensity of penal servitude under the administration of Du Cane. This was heralded by the changes in the system implemented as a consequence of the Penal Servitude Act of 1864. During the [mid-1860s to the 1890s], it was the deterrent nature of penal servitude and the lack of in-built checks upon excess that produced among the most terrible acts of self-injury in the history of modern imprisonment in England. (Brown 2003, 107)

Thus, the alliance of severity and some kind of benevolence and freedom in the possible reformation—possibly synonymous with redemption—of each prisoner treated as an individual could have been the key to a more efficient system. A penal convict system can’t be considered as simple law enforcement imposed by a society on an individual who has broken its rules, but rather as a system resulting from different factors such as the types of criminals, religion, traditions and beliefs, and the evolution of the society from a historical and economic point of view. This implies that each convict system is unique and individual, and so is the way prisoners are treated since it is more efficient when the personality, character and habits of convicts are taken into consideration. After the Famine,14 Irish society  The Great Famine (1845–1851) stands out as a key period in the history and evolution of Ireland, but in prison life and prison diet as well. It pushed starving people to seek for shelter and food in prisons to escape from the famine ravaging the streets of Dublin (in 1850, as many as 9034 people were committed to Kilmainham Gaol). Prison diet was therefore not seen as a punishment, as a deterrent, but rather as the only way to stay alive for a few more days. Dublin was filled with orphans and children with no other choice but to steal food to survive. The page of Kilmainham Gaol from 1847 gives details about the type of crimes Irish criminals commited during the Famine: ‘a man imprisoned for having three geese he could not account for, two young men jailed for attacking a bread cart, another for having “bread and butter” in his possession which had been stolen’. The direct consequences were that prison diet is reduced to the minimum: seven ounces of meal and a pint of milk for breakfast, and a pound of bread and a pint of milk for dinner. However, in Kilmainham, prisoners also died from hunger: one person in 1845, three in 1846 and twenty-­ 14

40 

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aimed at accompanying its convicts as long as possible to help them better rehabilitate. The middle-classes felt responsible for what had happened in the country and wanted to get involved in the construction of their new society (Lyons 1985, 26). From the first half of the nineteenth century, the Irish public could visit the intermediate prison and make up their own opinions about these prisoners, and this urged them to set up societies and associations to support convicts after they were discharged, such as the ‘Prisoners’ Aid Societies’ for men, or ‘a Society for Promoting the Industrial Employment of Women’. In fact, the singularity of the whole system was based on the help proposed by the Irish society: lecturers in intermediate prisons helped convicts thanks to their work and teaching, police officers helped them to behave when released, and employers provided them jobs so that they could gain money and respect from the rest of the population. Thus we can state that the Irish Convict System was revolutionary at the time since it worked with a unique form of containment—the intermediate prison—and was based on the individual handling of the prisoners. According to David Garland, the Irish Convict System can be considered as a pioneer in the individualization of the sentence: ‘Individualized treatment was not implemented in a meaningful sense in England before the 20th century’ (Garland 2018, 30–32). Reverend Clay also maintained that the Irish system focused on the prisoner himself, contrary to the English system which was aiming at standardized sentences and equal punishments for all criminals (Carroll-Burke 2000, 206). In doing so, the English system focused on the investigation led by police forces to collect evidence about the crime, the criminal and his criminal records. This was possible thanks to the pioneering and flourishing London Metropolitan Police whose professionalization and efficiency no longer needed to be proved as shown by the creation of the Fingerprint Branch15 at New Scotland Yard as early as 1901. nine in 1847. At the end of the Great Famine, one million people had died and another million had emigrated. The decline in the national population was immediately followed by a decline in the prison population. That’s why the prison authorities wanted to seize the opportunity and swept away the old prison regime for reforms (Cooke 1995, 11–13). 15  Fingerprint technology was introduced to the police service by Henry Faulds (1843–1930). See Dell, S. (2008). The Victorian Policeman. Oxford: Shire Publications Ltd. pp. 37–38.

  The Dublin Intermediate Prison System 

41

In Scotland, the prison system adapted its cultural and historical heritage by building castle-style prisons, which could also be seen as a unique form of containment but which didn’t go as far in the individualization of sentences as the intermediate prisons. Yet, the Scottish legal system echoed the English system in the importance given to the collection of evidence from police forces to confirm a criminal’s guilt, prove his innocence or declare a ‘non proven’ verdict,16 a sentence which only existed and still exists in Scotland. But the thorough investigations didn’t reduce the religious and cultural influence of Presbyterianism on Scottish judges who condemned women, considered as dissenters,17 to stricter and longer sentences. Some letters sent to the editors of the Scotsman in 1857 and 1891 denounced an unfair difference in sentencing despite a so-called fairer and standardized system (Wilson 2011, 41). Although colonial rule committed to politics and justice played a key role in the evolution of prison systems in the British Isles since it imposed a ‘model prison’,18 the studies of the different systems prove that each of them was adapted to its culture, religion and society. Both Ireland and Scotland tried to differentiate themselves from the central government affirming their identity (a liberty written in the Acts of Union) through two unique forms of containment being a prison without bars and a new architectural type. Dublin intermediate prisons were a unique and hybrid form of punishment mixing the legacy of the British colonial rule with the Irish response to punishment. In fact, both the British and the Irish systems had weak points since when trying to reach perfect standardization, the personality and character of criminals were put aside, and on the other  See Constabulary Inspector: Report on Annual Inspection, Edinburgh City Police, 1887, Police Report Files 1887–1930, HH4/1, Edinburgh National Archives; Gray Wilson, J. (1960). Not Proven. Secker & Warbuck: London. 17  This may be explained by the influence of the misogynous reformer, John Knox, who fiercely opposed the reigns of Marie de Guise, Mary Tudor and Mary Stuart, whom he considered as synonymous with ‘subversion to moral order, equality and justice’ (See Turner 2017). Presbyterianism also depicted women as threats to the patriarchal order and often associated them with subversion and dissidence (See Raffe 2014, 61–78). 18  Name given to Pentonville Prison (London), a prison constructed in 1842 on Jeremy Bentham’s Panopticon: a prison with a central circular tower from which the wardens can watch all the individual cells built around it. 16

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hand, when focusing on the individualization of sentences, some differences in sentencing may still have existed, since personal stories were taken into consideration too much (Davitt 1885, 249). Garland opposes to the Victorian ideals the ideology brought about by the newly expanded science of criminology in the late nineteenth century which maintained ‘the basis of crime no longer lay in sin or in faulty reasoning, but in an aberration and abnormality of the individual’ (Quoted in Brown, 118). The criminal is thus seen as someone who needs to be medically treated and who can be helped in his reformation. The influence of positivist and neo-Darwinian discourses after 1895 which urged governments to treat criminals as individuals is also studied by David Garland: Positivist science originated in a belief that the measurement, classification and observation of facts were an effective means of proving identifiable laws of human behaviour. This resulted in a deterministic approach to human motivation which concluded that ‘since people were impelled to commit crime by constitutional and environmental forces beyond their control and, thus were not responsible for their actions, treatment, not punishment, was the most appropriate legal response’. (Quoted in Wilson 2011, 41)

Yet, for this standardized system to be efficient, ‘the doctrine of free-will must be abandoned’ (Griffiths 1894, 37) and individual sentencing was difficult for the British administration to resort to. In effect, no personal responsibility could be defined if free will no longer existed; therefore the state had no right to punish if the criminal hadn’t chosen his acts. Even today, we can say that this problem has not been solved and modern systems are trying to mix both standardization and individualization to rehabilitate criminals. Reoffending remains rather high at the beginning of the twenty-first century and no country has really found the right balance between the use of a systematic system of punishment for offenders and criminals, and the use of an individualized one which truly serves the best interests of both prisoners and societies. However, Irish intermediate prisons were the forerunners of modern punishment and still exist today. Shelton Abbey (Co. Wicklow) and Loughan House Open Centre (Co. Cavan), for example, operate with

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115 and 140 inmates requiring lower levels of security. Thus, these unique prisons, created from both the impact of colonial British rule and its Irish adaptation, were efficient and are maybe so thanks to the mixing of two systems which complement each other. Ania Loomba states that ‘post-­ colonial studies have shown that both the “metropolis” and the “colony” are deeply altered by the colonial process. Both of them are, accordingly, also restructured by decolonization’ (Loomba, 22). This is exemplified today with Her Majesty’s Prison Ford (West Sussex), an open prison whose goal is to resettle prisoners in their community. This prison has no bars on windows, the prisoners’ accommodations are never locked and the inmates can work and get academic qualifications at Manchester College. This sounds familiar.

Bibliography Annual Reports of the Directors of Prison in Ireland, the Fourth: 1857, p. 389. Anonymous. 1857. The English Convict System, Its Failures and Vices. Dublin University Magazine, March. ———. 1863. English and Irish Convict Systems. Dublin University Magazine, July. Bailey, V. 1997. English Prisons, Penal Culture, and the Abatement of Imprisonment 1895–1922. Journal of British Studies 36 (3): 285–324. Brown, A. 2003. English Society and the Prison – Time, Culture and Politics in the Development of the Modern Prison, 1850–1920. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press. Carroll-Burke, P. 2000. Colonial Discipline  – The Making of the Irish Convict System. Dublin: Four Courts Press Ltd. Constabulary Inspector: Report on Annual Inspection, Edinburgh City Police, 1887, Police Report Files 1887–1930, HH4/1, Edinburgh National Archives. Cooke, P. 1995. A History of Kilmainham Gaol 1796–1924. Dublin: Stationery Office, Government of Ireland. Davitt, M. 1885. Leaves from a Prison Diary: Or, Lectures to a ‘Solitary’ Audience. Vol. 1. London: Chapman and Hall Ltd. Dell, S. 2008. The Victorian Policeman. Oxford: Shire Publications Ltd. Fife, M. 2016. The Story of Calton Jail – Edinburgh’s Victorian Prison. Stroud: The History Press.

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Foucault, M. 1977. Discipline and Punish, the Birth of Prison. London: Penguin Books, Allen Lane. Garland, D. [1985] 2018. Punishment and Warfare – A History of Penal Strategies. New Orleans: Quid Pro Books. Gibson, E. 1863. Penal Servitude and Tickets of Leave. The Journal of the Statistical and Social Inquiry Society of Ireland 3: 332–343. Gray Wilson, J. 1960. Not Proven. London: Secker & Warbuck. Great Britain – General Board of Directors of Prisons in Scotland – Rules for prisons in Scotland. 1854. Printed in Edinburgh by Thomas Constable, Edinburgh National Archives. Great Britain – General Board of Directors of Prisons in Scotland – Rules for Prisons in Scotland, Settled and Approved by the Secretary of State Under Prison (Scotland) Act, 1877, Home Office, 19th February 1878, Henry Selwin Ibbertson, Edinburgh: Printed by Neill and Company for Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1878, Edinburgh National Library. Griffiths, A. 1894. Secrets of the Prison-House or Gaol Studies and Sketches. Vol. 1. London: Chapman and Hall. Higgs, M. 2007. Prison Life in Victorian England. Stroud: Tempus Publishing. Licence Number 614: John Clark. Convicted of [Not Known] at the Central Criminal Court, London, 3 July 1848, Prison Commission and Home Office Department, PCOM 3/7/614, the National Archives, Kew. Loomba, A. 2005. Colonialism/Postcolonialism, The New Critical Idiom. London: Routledge. Lyons, F.S.L. 1985. Ireland Since the Famine. London: Fontana Press. May, T. 2008. The Victorian Workhouse. Oxford: Shire Publications Ltd. Mountjoy Gaol Registers, No.17; Male Convict Classification, Book, Nos.797–1905; Volume 16-7-10, 1857–1863, P.1/11/17, Dublin National Archives. Prison Commission and Home Office Prison Department, PCOM 3/3/209 (5 Dec. 1853), PCOM 3/5/486 (20 Feb 1854), PCOM 3/7/613 (14 March 1854), the National Archives, Kew. Prisoner’s Record: John Watson Laurie 1889–1930, HH 15/1, Edinburgh National Archives. Prisons and Prisoners: Gratuities Paid to Convicts on Their Discharge 1887–1892, Home Office: Registered Papers 1879–1900, HO 45/9682 A48197, p. 82 and 87, the National Archives, Kew. Raffe, A. 2014. Female Authority and Lay Activism in Scottish Presbyterianism 1660–1740. In Religion and Women in Britain C. 1660–1760, ed. S. Alpetrei, 61–78. London/New York: Routledge.

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Reports of Commissioners of Prisons and Directors of Convict Prisons. 1896. (C.8200), XLIV.235, British Parliamentary Papers. Reports of the Commissioners Appointed to Inquire into the Operation of the Acts 16 and 17 Relating to Transportation and Penal Servitude. 1863.Volume 1 Reports and Appendix. 18–19. Rules for Prisons in Scotland, Settled and Approved by the Secretary of State Under Prison (Scotland) Act. 1877. Home Office, 19th February 1878, Henry Selwin Ibbertson, Edinburgh: Printed by Neill and Company for Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1878, Edinburgh National Library. Shaw, A.G.L. 1966. Convicts and the Colonies: A Study of Penal Transportation from Great Britain and Ireland to Australia and Other Parts of the British Empire. London: Faber and Faber. Stockdale, E. 1976. The Rise of Joshua Jebb, 1837–1850. The British Journal of Criminology 16 (2): 164–170. Von Holtzendorff, F. 1860. The Irish Convict System. Dublin: W. B. Kelly. Wheatley Balme, E.B., Akroyd, E., Waterhouse, S. and Foljambe, T. 1862. Observations on the Treatment of Convicts in Ireland: With Some Remarks on the Same in England by Four Visiting Justices of the West Riding Prison at Wakefield. London: Simpkin, Marshall and Co., Stationer’s-Hall Court. Wilson, L. 2011. Crime and Punishment in Victorian Edinburgh. Edinburgh: Honeyman and Wilson.

Web Resources Online Archives Wakefield Prison 1801–1991. West Yorkshire Archive Service, Wakefield, Reference GB 201 C000118. https://archiveshub.jisc.ac.uk/search/archives/ 69689709-cfcf-3daa-ba58-c08f4f4e10b9

Online Articles Turner, J. 2017. John Knox and His Women. http://www.patheos.com/blogs/anxiousbench/2017/01/john-knox-women/

Shifting Carceral Formations: A Genealogy of Penal (Re)construction in the North of Ireland Ruari-Santiago McBride

Introduction In 2012 Quoile House opened at Her Majesty’s Prison (HMP) Maghaberry, the largest and only high secure adult male prison in the north of Ireland. This £12 million accommodation block has space for 160 men across its four landings, each of which has its  own specific ‘micro-regime’, including: a landing for ‘at risk’ prisoners, a family-­ focused landing, a drug-free landing and one housing prisoners involved in education, training and employment programmes (CJINI 2015). Unlike Maghaberry’s original square houses, designed to have narrow corridors, low ceilings and poor lines of sight, Quoile’s corridors were planned to be purposively broad and to have integrated recreational and dining areas that were light and airy. Quoile’s ‘open’ design represents a disjuncture in the history of prison (re)construction in the north of Ireland since it reflects an attempt to therapeutise the prison estate and the operational practices  found within it. However, Quoile’s design does not simply R.-S. McBride (*) University of Limerick, Limerick, Ireland © The Author(s) 2020 F. McCann (ed.), The Carceral Network in Ireland, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7_3

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reflect the Northern Ireland Prison Service’s (NIPS) attempt to cultivate a ‘healthy’ prison regime, it is also symbolic of the broader political project of conflict transformation. In this chapter, I chart the history of prison building, refurbishment and decommissioning in the north of Ireland. I examine the political imperatives driving prison (re)construction, outline shifts in prison design and discuss the prison regimes that have emerged as a result. In so doing, I identify three distinct waves of prison (re)construction: the first during the Victorian era (1840s), the second during the conflict era (1970s–80s) and the third during the post-ceasefire era (1990s–2015). I show how shifting political priorities have resulted in the increasing atomisation of penal space and the stratification of the prison regime. I argue that in the post-ceasefire era, prison (re)construction became encoded with a therapeutic imperative  in order to generate a micro-­ regime capable of supporting ‘at risk’ prisoners and enabling  recovery from mental ill-health. I then analyse interviews with prison officers and mental health staff working in these novel sites of ‘therapeutic penality’ (McBride 2017a). Detailing the identity conflicts and troubling emotions prison officers and mental health staff experience, I contend that attempts to manufacture therapeutic micro-regimes in highly toxic prison establishments are inherently flawed. Furthermore I contend the therapeutic refurbishment of penal space to be dangerous since it  serves to legitimise the imprisonment  of people experiencing psychological distress and funnels finite public resources into penal expansion instead of community-based programmes and services.

 he Materiality of Prisons and Their Impact T on Human Subjectivity We can approach the analysis of prison architecture in multiple ways. One approach is to consider prisons as material artefacts, which require considerable economic resources and political sponsorship to build. Another is to consider prisons to be lived environments, inhabited by human agents who shape and are shaped by penal space. A third approach,

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the one favoured here, is to combine the first two approaches to understand how the political imperatives that are designed into prison architecture are complied with, negotiated and resisted by those who inhabit them. On the level of material artefact, prison architecture provides insight into the political and economic interests of those who build them as well as predominant criminological theories and practices. The refurbishment of penal space, consequently, can reveal shifts in political and economic priorities as well as the emergence of novel criminological assumptions and technologies. Consequently, penal institutions become layered with shifting agendas over time (Foucault 1984). The decommissioning of prisons, furthermore, exposes the finite lifespan of penal structures and thus the gradual obsolescence of forms of penality. Tracing such developments in order to write a genealogy of penal architecture therefore entails examining the intentions underpinning prison (re)construction and the theories designed into penal space. This analysis of penal architecture in the north of Ireland is thus particularly attuned to its context, which can be defined as ‘post-colonial’. Ann Laura Stoler has argued that institutions established by colonial powers persist in post-colonial settings as enduring physical legacies. She recognises imperial institutions to be ‘processes of becoming, not fixed things’ and suggests that while time degrades imperial institutions, it does not necessarily  eroded their influence over everyday experience (Stoler 2008, 193). Stoler thus stresses how ruined imperial institutions continue to saturate ‘the subsoil of people’s lives’  by reproducing unequal power relations and impacting moral experiences in the present (Stoler 2008, 192). Building on this, Alice Street (2012) shows through her ethnography of a hospital in Papua New Guinea how ruined imperial institutions are frequently subjected to reconstruction initiatives that aim to transform them into spaces of modernity and emblems of progress. She identifies how modernising refurbishment projects fracture homogenous imperial institutions into heterogeneous micro-climates: some spaces physically corrode and remain morally tainted by colonial associations, while others are rebuilt to represent nationalistic hopes for the future. Modernisation initiatives undertaken in post-colonial settings, Street shows, thus seek to improve or repurpose imperial institutions in ways that contributes to their naturalisation and normalisation.

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Extrapolating Stoler’s and Street’s insights, I contend that prisons in post-colonial contexts become fragmented and develop micro-regimes as they are subjected to modernising refurbishment projects. That is to say, as prisons are refurbished with modernising objectives, penal space becomes atomised. This disaggregation, in turn, makes it possible for distinct micro-regimes to emerge. Investigating post-colonial prison architecture therefore requires that we determine: (i) the political imperatives that drive prison building, (ii) the shifting political priorities and novel criminological theories designed into modernising refurbishment projects, and (iii) the extent to which the decommissioning of a prison exposes the finite lifespan of particular forms of penality. Studying the genealogy of post-colonial prison architecture thus requires us to probe the mutability of their materiality and explore how the becoming of individual prison institutions is tied to the social context in which they are situated. As lived environments, prisons exist to detain people convicted of a criminal offence and are thus designed to control movement and maintain order. Consequently, entering prison is a rite of passage that imprints on a person’s identity (Hancock and Jewkes 2011). People who enter prison following conviction for a criminal offence have their status as ‘free citizen’ removed and are re-identified as a ‘criminal’, often symbolised by a uniform and a number. Penal aesthetics—bars, locks, barbed wire—are essential to the process of stripping bare a person’s identity and encouraging them to identify with the disempowered identity of prisoner. The total nature of penal environments, which are not only bounded by walls and gates but by rules, regulations and protocols as well, also imprints upon the individual and collective identity of staff (Goffman 1961). Prison staff who have freedom of movement and disciplinary authority over prisoners are afforded an empowered identity by penal architecture. Prison architecture not only shapes identity, but provokes strong emotional responses too. This is not lost on prison builders who choose materials and aesthetics with intentionality in order to trigger specific emotions among prisoners and staff. Victorian prisons built in the nineteenth century were constructed within urban areas and designed to look like medieval castles in order to provoke fear among inner-city dwellers and deter them from breaking the law. Meanwhile, contemporary therapeutic

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prisons, such as HMP Grendon (opened in 1962), were designed to look and feel like modern mental health facilities in order to elicit trust, interest and serenity among prisoners in order to encourage them to engage with the therapy offered. Post-colonial prisons subject to modernising refurbishment projects may consequently become layered with contrasting aesthetics that have unpredictable emotional consequences for those who inhabit them (see Street 2012). Through the production of particular identities and provocation of emotional responses, penal architecture seeks to generate a regime capable of enabling particular modes of behaviour among prisoners and staff. Prison regimes may be designed as retributive and punitive with the specific intention of psychologically breaking imprisoned people for the purpose of engendering subservient compliance (see Feldman 1991). They may also be designed to be rehabilitative with the aim of psychologically supporting imprisoned people. The intentions kneaded into penal architecture may materialise in everyday practice or they may become hopelessly lost in the maelstrom of human agency that  leads people to consciously, or otherwise, undermine, elude and subvert prison regimes. Furthermore, prison regimes, and the resistance they encourage, do not exist in isolation, but are predicated and animated by the social world that exists beyond prison walls (see Hancock and Jewkes 2011). As such it is essential to investigate the extent to which the penal regime envisioned by prison architects emerges or is transformed through lived experience. Approaching prison architecture as a material artefact that is becoming and lived in requires us to explore how the interplay between political imperatives, penal aesthetics and human agency folds and unfolds over time.

A Methodological Note In this chapter I have adopted a bricolage approach, premised on the analysis of a multitude of texts (Yardley 2008). The texts included range from academic research, government policy documents and the writings of political prisoners. The article also draws implicitly upon ethnographic

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research conducted by the author (2011–14), which involved participant-­ observation in HMP Maghaberry and semi-structured interviews with three prison officers and three mental health staff working there (see Browne and McBride 2015; McBride 2017b). Through this briolage approach, I offer a genealogical analysis of penal (re)construction in the north of Ireland and examine the dialogical relationship between this genealogy and the lived experiences of people working in prisons.

 rison Architecture and Penal Regimes P in the north of Ireland (1840s to 2010s) Modern prison building in the north of Ireland can be traced back to the 1840s when Crumlin Road Gaol was opened, herein referred to as the Crum (as it is colloquially known). An archetypal Victorian prison, the Crum’s domineering entrance was built with large blocks of ornately carved rock and situated directly on the Crumlin Road (a working-class area of northwest Belfast). Its design, like other Victorian prisons, sought to communicate the wealth and might of British law and order. Although the Crum’s exterior drew on a medieval imaginary, its interior drew on the prevailing theory of panopticism: Crumlin Road Gaol […] was a cold, forbidding building with all the hallmarks of a dungeon. […] [I]t had four wings […] and 640 cells. […] The Circle was the nerve centre of the prison. There were several locked gates between each wing and the Circle to ensure the highest level of security and prevent warders being taken hostage. The Circle led into the administration block which formed the front part of the whole complex. […] The entire prison was encircled by a 25-foot-high wall. […] The cells were 12 feet by 7 feet and 10 feet high. […] Each cell had a window measuring about 3 feet by 2 feet. (Donnelly 2010, 32–34)

The Crum’s architecture thus sought to provoke fear, maximise surveillance, minimise security risks and segregate prisoners through the introduction of individual cellular accommodation. These same innovations were designed into Armagh Women’s Gaol (originally built in the 1780s)

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when it was refurbished at the same time as the Crum was under construction. This wave of Victorian prison production incorporated psychological techniques of observation and spatial partitioning as disciplinary mechanisms with the aim of producing a severe regime that would encourage prisoners to reflect and seek penance. As such, the Crum’s and the Armagh Women’s Gaol’s design mirror Victorian Christian morality, which identified imprisoned people as sinners who ought to engage in silent self-regulation. In the 1920s, the island of Ireland was partitioned, and the six counties of the north came under the control of Unionist politicians, who were largely Protestant and loyal to Britain. Unionist hegemony exposed Catholics in the north to education, housing and employment injustices. Discontent festered until the late 1950s when a resurgent Republican movement, made up predominately of Catholics who desired a united Irish Republic, sought to disrupt the status quo through a campaign of violent resistance targeting symbols of British power (the media, the courts and army installations). In response to the campaign, known as ‘Operation Harvest’, the Unionist government north of the border, and the Fianna Fáil government south of it, implemented a policy of internment without trial. By 1957, a year after the campaign began, there were approximately 250 internees held in the Crum and 150 internees held in the Curragh internment camp located  in Kildare, south of the border. The mass arrest of volunteers and leaders successfully quelled Irish Republic Army (IRA) activities and ultimately led to the cessation  of Operation Harvest in 1961 (for a more in-depth history of Operation Harvest, see Donnelly 2010). In the early 1960s, a peaceful civil rights movement emerged which sought to challenge the inequality and discrimination experienced by the Catholics in the north of Ireland. However, violent repression of peaceful protests by state security forces and Loyalist paramilitaries in 1968 led to the outbreak of intense ethnopolitical violence. In response to escalating civil unrest, the Unionist government once again implemented internment without trial in 1971 (Rolston 2011; Wahidin et al. 2012). In the first wave of arrests made during ‘Operation Demetrius’, as the campaign of mass internment was called, over 300 people were interned. Operation Demetrius continued until December 1975, by which time 1981 people

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had been detained (1874 were Catholic/Republican, while 107 were Protestant/Loyalist) (see Melaugh n.d.). This rapid expansion of the prison population required a similarly rapid enlargement of prison estate’s operational capacity. Consequently, two new prisons were opened in 1971: Long Kesh Detention Centre (located on a disused rural RAF site) and HMP Magilligan (located on a secluded British Army firing range on a remote peninsula on the northeast coast). Long Kesh and Magilligan were swiftly transformed into prisoner-of-war (POW) complexes via the construction of ‘Nissen huts’: prefabricated tunnel-shaped structures with a cement floor, a wooden frame and covered in corrugated iron. These cheap, quickly erected yet solid structures enabled the internment of over 900 people in the first year of Operation Demetrius (Bew and Gillespie 1999). Internees and those sentenced for crimes relating to political violence were housed in Nissen huts along sectarian lines in large numbers (Adams 1998) and afforded Special Category Status, which, among other privileges, gave them freedom of association and the right to wear their own clothes. These privileges, in combination with the military architecture of the living quarters, enabled internees and convicted prisoners to live autonomously, establish military command structures and claim the identity of ‘political’ prisoners. The fermentation of a self-governing, militarised regime enabled imprisoned paramilitaries to recruit new members, deliver education and training, and develop strategies and tactics: When internment without trial was implemented in August 1971 […] the whole process was both a political and security disaster. It caused great resentment in the nationalist community and stimulated an upsurge in violence. Those actually picked up were radicalized by the experience and the internment camps themselves became ‘universities of terrorism’. (Arthur and Jeffery 1973, 73)

With ‘Operation Dimitris’ proving to be an unmitigated failure, the British government assumed Direct Rule over the north in 1972. In 1975, the British government abolished internment without trial and Special Category Status for people convicted of political violence as part of a criminalisation strategy. The following year, eight ‘H-Blocks’ were

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constructed at Long Kesh and three H-Blocks were built at Magilligan. Anyone convicted of a ‘scheduled terrorist offence’ was transferred from Magilligan to Long Kesh. With no ‘political’ prisoners, Magilligan began operating as a ‘normal’ prison. Long Kesh was rebranded HMP Maze and began to develop parallel regimes: within the Nissen huts remained Special Category Prisoners convicted before 1976, segregated along sectarian lines, while in the H-Blocks, people convicted of similar offences were held as ‘criminals’ and integrated with one another irrespective of political affiliation: Each H-Block was like a mini self-contained prison with its own series of airlocked security gates to negotiate. [… You walk] through the grilled doorway to the Block and into what they called the Circle. […] The Circle is the middle part of the complex that joins the four arms of the H. (Watson 2010, 95–8)

The H-Blocks scrapped the compound model of the Nissen huts and drew on the principles of panopticism and cellular design that had been used in the Crum. However, unlike the Crum, which was conceptualised as a unified whole, Long Kesh/Maze was atomised with each ‘H-Block’ operating as a ‘mini-prison’ within the larger penal complex, the intention of which was to enhance security and disrupt solidarity among Republican prisoners. This atomisation of Long Kesh/Maze  served to stratify the prison regime: I later discovered that we were lucky being taken into H5. Months later I was taken into H3, where a different culture of prisoner treatment had developed amongst the screws. In H3, beatings and physical abuse of prisoners were common. (Watson 2010, 98)

In response to the removal of Special Category Status  in 1976, Republican prisoners began refusing to wear the prison uniform and instead wrapped themselves in a blanket. This ‘blanket protest’ set off a chain of events that culminated in ten Republican prisoners dying on hunger strike in 1981. During the five-year period of escalating protests, conditions in the H-Blocks disintegrated rapidly and the architecture of

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Long Kesh/Maze became an instrument of administrative terror utilised to psychologically break Republican prisoners (see Feldman 1991). Bobby Sands (1998, 158), writing ‘In the depths of H Block Three’, described viscerally how prisoners were ‘Brought down by torture’s brunt’: They beat their batons on the pipes, And roared in wild-mouthed glee, ‘Twas times like this a man grew weak, And buckled at the knee, We knew their terror game all right, And they our trembling fright, He looked at me and I at him, In matching deathly white. (Sands 1998, 156)

Following the death of the hunger strikers, a gradual series of concessions were afforded to politically affiliated prisoners in the H-Blocks. By the end of the 1980s, politically affiliated prisoners accommodated on the H-Blocks were segregated once again along sectarian lines, enabling prisoners to re-establish autonomous military command structured (NI Affairs Committee 2004). In 1986, after 200  years in operation, HMP Armagh closed, and women prisoners were transferred to Mourne House at HMP Maghaberry. A second prison for men became operational at Maghaberry in 1987. HMP Maghaberry, like Long Kesh/Maze before it, was built on a disused RAF base. However, Maghaberry’s four accommodation blocks did not employ the same ‘H’ design; instead, they utilised a ‘square’ design. Each square house had 108 cells, divided into six units of 18. For security purposes the houses had narrow corridors and low ceilings, while each cell had internal sanitation and in-cell power-points (CJINI 2006). Like the ‘H-Blocks’, each square house was built as a self-contained mini-prison. As such, Maghaberry’s design continued to prioritise security and atomisation of penal space. By compartmentalising  each accommodation block, the prison authorities sought to maximise managerial control and inhibit prisoner autonomy. These security measures enabled integrated living conditions, in which prisoners of all political persuasions were

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required to live and work together (NI Affairs Committee 2004). The integrationist regime Maghaberry’s architecture sought to facilitate was thus a continuation of the British government’s strategy to demilitarise penal space and criminalise politically affiliated prisoners in an attempt to normalise penality in the north of Ireland (see Gormally 2001; Shirlow et al. 2005). During the 1990s, prison politics became central to ‘peace building’ efforts. Paramilitary ceasefires and the decommissioning of weapons, which were essential to the signing of the Good Friday Agreement (GFA) in 1998, were predicated on the future decarceration of politically affiliated prisoners and a partial amnesty for paramilitaries ‘on the run’. The implementation of the Northern Ireland (Sentence) Act 1998 led to the early release of politically affiliated prisoners and saw the prison population drop from 1625 to 910 between 1997 and 2001 (Wahidin et  al. 2012). The new political imperatives of ‘conflict transformation’ reverberated across the prison estate: in 1996, the Crum closed, after 150 years in operation, and four years later,  Long Kesh/Maze closed, after 24 years. HMP Maghaberry had to absorb both the Crum’s operational responsibility for committal, non-paramilitary remand and short-term sentenced prisoners as well as paramilitary prisoners not released as part of the GFA held at Long Kesh/Maze. This meant Maghaberry was the prison to which all adult males went to from court, whether they were convicted or not, and that it held people convicted of minor offences as well as those considered hardened ‘terrorists’ on an integrated basis (NI Affairs Committee 2004). To cope with these demands, two accommodation blocks were built in 1999 (called ‘Roe’ and ‘Bush’). They were designed not as a ‘squares’, but as ‘rectangles’, with two wings, made up of four landings with 48 cells each, leading from a central administrative area (CJINI 2006). Roe and Bush featured wide, bright landings and primarily had single-cell accommodation. Each house was equipped with recreational facilities, exercise machines, an interview room, laundries, cleaning stores, treatment rooms and showers. This new design was symbolic of the more humane mode of penality the NIPS was seeking to cultivate and was thus indicative of the failings of the original square design, which had been experienced as ‘cramped [… and] difficult to supervise, unsafe, and unsuitable for their purpose. Staff did not actively

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patrol the landings when prisoners were unlocked to improve feelings of safety’ (CJINI 2006, 24). The integrated regime Maghaberry hoped to produce failed to hold. In 2003, after a series of protests, inside and outside of the prison, paramilitary-­affiliated prisoners began to be held separate from each other and from non-paramilitary-affiliated prisoners. When the Criminal Justice Inspectorate Northern Ireland (CJINI, established as part of the GFA) conducted its first inspection of Maghaberry on 10–14 October 2005, inspectors found the prison to be complex, expensive and unsafe. The CJINI (2006) reported that despite Maghaberry costing double the average annual cost of the highest security prison in England and Wales, it had little return in terms of prisoner care and rehabilitation. In order to make Maghaberry a ‘healthier’ prison, the CJINI advocated establishing a safer custody strategy and anti-bullying, suicide and self-harm prevention and substance misuse procedures. Furthermore, prison officers were encouraged to develop positive relationships with prisoners, especially with those identified as ‘at risk’ of self-harm and suicide. In April 2007, the ‘Reaching out to Prisoners through Engagement, Assessment, Collaborative working, Holistic approach’ (REACH) landing was opened at Maghaberry in response to CJINI’s call to provide ‘safer custody’ for ‘at risk’ prisoners (PONI 2009). REACH was designed to support prisoners with ‘complex needs’, such as ‘personality disorder, poor coping skills, self-harming or otherwise disturbed behaviours’ (CJINI 2010, 37). To meet the needs of ‘at risk’ prisoners, the REACH landing developed a special regime, which was more sheltered and staffed by prison officers who received specialist mental health training. The ultimate aim of the REACH landing was to ‘help improve prisoners’ mental well-being and social functioning, reduce staff distress, [and] improve relationships’ (PONI 2009, 17). Yet the REACH landing was not been without its critics. The NIPS was strongly criticised by the Prisoner Ombudsman Northern Ireland (PONI) following the death of Colin Bell (aged 34) on 1 August 2008. Colin Bell, serving an eight-year sentence for manslaughter, began self-­ harming during his time in prison and had attempted suicide. As a result he was placed in a ‘Safer Custody/Observation Cell’, which was fitted with anti-ligature furniture, and placed under 24  hour CCTV

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observation. Nevertheless, Colin Bell hung himself. The PONI’s investigation revealed that Colin Bell attempted suicide three times over a 14-minute period before successfully doing so and noted that his body was not discovered for more than half an hour. In 2011, following further criticism that REACH was not working to its potential (CJINI 2010), that it required additional specialist mental health input (DHSSPS 2010), and that it was, at least partially, responsible for two more deaths in custody (PRT 2011), REACH was dissolved, and its responsibilities integrated into the newly established Donard Programme. The Donard Programme was developed by the NIPS in collaboration with the South Eastern Health Care Trust (SEHCT), which assumed responsibility for prison healthcare in 2012. A unique aspect of the Donard Programme was its three distinct spaces spread across Maghaberry: a landing, a day centre and a garden. The Donard Centre, located in Maghaberry’s main prison building, opened in 2011. Costing £3m to build, the Donard Centre was planned as a state of the art mental health day unit with capacity for 45 ‘at risk’ or otherwise ‘vulnerable’ prisoners (CJINI 2015). Designed to be open plan, the Centre consisted of a large recreational area (complete with a pool, snooker and table tennis table) that served as a hub to various facilities: a sensory chill-out room, a computer lab, a dining area, a kitchen and a classroom. Meanwhile, the Centre’s design drew on clinical aesthetics, with bars, gates and grills kept to a minimum. The Donard Landing, which opened in 2013 as part of £12m construction of Quoile House (discussed in the Introduction), was similarly conceived. Designed to provide accommodation for 22 ‘at risk’ prisoners, the Donard Landing was broad, open and lit by windows in the roof. The Donard Landing’s cells were designed to be bigger than those in either of the ‘square’ or ‘rectangular’ accommodation blocks and to have anti-ligature fittings to prevent self-inflicted death. Security on the landing was digital, so guards have no keys and prisoners do not hear the constant turning of locks. An additional element to the Donard Programme is the garden area, which sought to provide prisoners with a green space for relaxation as well as opportunities to develop skills in carpentry and chicken husbandry. Together, these interconnected spaces aimed to enable a ‘therapeutic

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regime’ capable of supporting ‘at risk’ and ‘vulnerable’ prisoners experiencing psychological distress. In the same year that Quoile House opened, so too did Shimna House (a small unit designed for prisoners in ‘trusted roles’ [CJINI 2015]). Together, they increased the operational capacity of Maghaberry by 204. This expansion was necessary to keep up with the growing average daily prison population, which swelled rapidly during the first two decades of the 2000s, to reach a peak of 1830 in 2014 (Allen and Watson 2017). Consequently, none of the original square house designed during the 1980s were decommissioned when Quoile House opened.

Identity Conflicts and Troubling Emotions Prison officers who worked on the Donard Programme described how its therapeutic regime required them to adopt a new professional identity/ role, which they were not skilled to deal with: Prison officer A: ‘You feel like a mental health nurse. I think that’s more what the job role should be when you work within the Donard Landing. […] It should be run by health care workers instead of prison officers. I should not be anywhere near here, in a sense, because I don’t have the training for it. […] You [as a prison officer] are not actually trained to speak about mental health, so you shouldn’t be really in my opinion.’ Prison mental health nurse A: ‘They [prison officers working on the Donard Programme] feel that it’s a very dangerous place to work. They’re frightened that something will go wrong, as in somebody will hurt themselves or maybe lose their life and they don’t want to be caught up in that. And that’s awful, that’s an awful place to be as a professional. And they do care, but they would say they’re not skilled enough to deal with the problems they are hitting and they can’t deal with it in the remit of their jobs.’

Mental health staff who worked on the Donard Programme in comparison faced the challenge of attempting to transfer their community-­ orientated practices and employ a therapeutic ethos within the restrictive and toxic prison environment:

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Prison mental health nurse B: ‘Well the idea is that the [job] title being community psychiatric nurse. When we use the term ‘community’ we are really talking about the broader community in civil society. The nature of the environment and the personality profile of the majority of the prisoners mean it is probably not the most suitable title.’ Prison mental health nurse A: ‘The environment is restrictive. It’s a prison so you are trying to work as a health professional, to work therapeutically with people in what has always been known as quite an oppressive environment.’ Prison mental health nurse C: ‘One of the difficulties is how do you provide person-centred care in a one-size-fits-all service, you know, like a prison?’ Prison officer B: ‘Prison isn’t like living in your own house. The prisoners are not in total control of what’s going on around them.’ Prison psychiatrist A: ‘There’s two different systems working with two very different ethoses. One where security is priority, one where health care and patient needs are priority. It is very difficult to marry the two. All [health] staff treat it as though they are in a community setting, but actually this isn’t the community. It’s a much more toxic environment. It’s a much more dangerous environment.’

Access Issues Access to the Donard Programme emerged as a key issue among both prison officers and mental health staff. Staff highlighted how the Donard Programme’s therapeutic regime was desirable and how prisoners would manipulate the system in order to gain access. Yet, they also described challenges in defining who was and who was not a ‘vulnerable’, ‘at-risk’ prisoner. Finally, they described how prison managers had discretional power and could determine access to the Donard Programme, even if it this was to the detriment of the therapeutic regime: Prison officer A: ‘There is certain prisoners who shouldn’t be here, but they are just here because they know the key words to say to get into it. […] You are not only bringing over the vulnerable prisoners you are bringing

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over the bullies, which shouldn’t happen. The likes of one prisoner who […] is just a troubled prisoner. He has taken a nurse hostage, that type of thing. Yet to find him a vulnerable prisoner is quite surreal because he has always been known for his trade in drugs, because he has been caught with them before, but they are easily hidden so we can’t find them so there is nothing we can do. So he is known as a vulnerable prisoner even though other prisoners have come out and said that they have been bullied into giving him their meds, but there’s nothing you can do.’ Prison mental health nurse B: ‘You will have some prison officers saying ‘well I can’t get my head around this because we have a mix here of lambs and lions.’ You have these, yes very manipulative people, serious, often substance misusers and yes I can recognise that yes he can be terribly vulnerable because he does these terrible acts of self-harm, but I’ve also got Joe and Joe he’s not the smartest guy in the box. You know he’s actually very vulnerable when he is in with this group. So I would say as an institution and even as health care we ourselves haven’t quite got our heads around how do we actually handle some of these people who yes, they have a severe personality disorder, but you know they are very sharp and very shrewd and very street wise people as well.’ Prison mental health nurse C: ‘The discharge of prisoners should be a decision that should be made within the professionals working on the Donard Programme. When it suits management they will allow that to happen, but when it doesn’t suit management, i.e. when someone goes into crisis and they are presenting as a real management problem their management structures seem to just bring prisoners onto the Donard Programme. And maybe it’s not always appropriate. But when staff feel that someone needs discharged from the Donard Programme then management step in and say ‘no.’ […] We hit huge barriers trying to draw up criteria for the Donard Day Centre and that’s very demoralizing and that’s very undermining.’

Staff Supervision Another issue that impacted all staff was the provision, or the lack, of supervision. This was considered to negatively impact the well-being of staff, lead to ‘burn-out’ and impede the delivery of a therapeutic regime:

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Prison officer A: ‘It can sometimes be really hard on the head. Sometimes you go home you are stressed, but it seems like you’ve done nothing all day. Or you’re really so tired. Mentally drained I think could be the word, just being with some of the guys some of the times. I definitely wasn’t prepared. […] I like working in the Centre with the guys because you can interact with them a bit more when you are playing pool with them or table tennis or when they are doing their quizzes and it seems to help them a lot more. […] But there’s some days that I am working on the landing for twelve hours and it’s quite mind melting.’ Prison officer C: ‘Everybody comes to talk to them [the prisoners], mental health, doctors, nurses, everybody, management within the jail, but staff [prison officers] are just ignored. It’s your job, [you] just continue on and don’t worry about it.’ Prison mental health nurse A: ‘There is a lot of dynamics that go one with this type of client group. There’s a lot of transference, counter-­ transference. […] There’s a lot of stress for professionals that work with a client group like this. If you are not aware of this as a professional very quickly you can burnout. They are not very happy were they are at and they haven’t been given the right support […] their management set these things up and then they’re not there for the mundane everyday difficulties that come with a system like this and it’s the mundane everyday difficulties that will actually make it or brake it.’

Discussion Modern prison (re)construction in the north of Ireland began with the building of Crumlin Road Gaol and the redevelopment of Armagh Gaol in 1846. At this time, Ireland was governed by the British parliament, a fact that had provoked Nationalist and Republican ‘home rule’ campaigns in the preceding centuries. Meanwhile, the largely Protestant and Unionist area of Belfast was undergoing rapid industrialisation and urbanisation. The building of the Crum and Armagh Gaol thus served the dual purpose of repressing political dissidents and managing the human detritus produced by burgeoning industrial capitalism. The gaols were not unique in this regard as they formed part of the broader Victorian

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carceral engineering project that resulted in the construction of 90 prisons across Britain and Ireland between 1842 and 1877 (Tomlinson 1978). This unparalleled expansion of the carceral network reflects the penal optimism of the Victorians and the steadfast assumption that ‘criminals’ were sinful miscreants who through severe penal regimes could obtain redemption. The significant investment the Victorians made in material penality was only possible due to wealth accumulated through the subjugation of people and the pillaging of natural resources around the world. As huge sums of colonial plunder were being funnelled into prison construction, Ireland was in the midst of an unprecedented famine (1845–1849) that reduced the population by a quarter due to mass starvation, disease and emigration. Thus, we can see how the necropolitics of British imperialism were kneaded into the north’s modern penal foundations, with the Crum and Armagh Gaol serving as imperial formations integral to the maintenance of British/Unionist hegemony on the island of Ireland and the capitalist economic order. The next wave of prison (re)construction identified took place during the 1970s and 1980s. This included the opening of Long Kesh Detention Centre (1971) and Magilligan (1972), their subsequent redevelopment in 1976, the building of HMP Maghaberry (1986) and the closure of HMP Armagh (1986, after 200 years in operation). This period of prison construction, refurbishment and decommissioning was motivated by a desire to suppress civil dissent and Republican insurgency. The building of Nissen Huts betrays the Unionist government’s belief that internment without trial would quickly and efficiently neutralise the Republican threat, as it had done so effectively to Operation Harvest (McBride 2018). However, when Operation Demetrius proved to be an unmitigated failure, the penality of the Nissen Huts was subverted. Politically identified prisoners used the communal dorm-like space of the Nissen Huts to generate and maintain an autonomous, self-governing militarised regime that legitimised political affiliation and fostered solidarity. Authorities responded by building the H-Blocks, which were designed to demilitarise penal space, cultivate a ‘normal’ prison and criminalise politically affiliated prisoners. The H-Blocks returned to the cellular design first employed in the Crum in order to spatially segregate and isolate prisoners. Unlike the Crum, which consisted of a single prison establishment with a fairly

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homogeneous regime, the H-Blocks bifurcated the regime at Long Kesh along militarised/criminalised lines. This polarisation of the prison regime came to be reflected in the institution’s colloquial nickname of ‘Long Kesh/Maze’. The highly securitised design of the H-Blocks further atomised the establishment, with each ‘H’ operating effectively as a mini-­ prison, generating a series of micro-regimes that fluctuated in severity—a planned intention that was repeated in the engineering of HMP Maghaberry. This reveals how during the second wave of modern prison (re)construction the colonial foundations of the north’s carceral network were overlaid with militarised and criminalised structures that bolstered the State’s punitive capacity while stratifying the penal landscape. Yet, the political undercurrents of this wave—the desire to detain political dissidents, delegitimise politically affiliation, and emotionally terrorise politically-­affiliated prisoners—were subverted through everyday acts of resistance that exploited the fault lines of the stratified regime. Protesting prisons  scatologically transformed cell walls into canvases of defiance that  helped to radicalise Nationalist politics and provoked a surge in Republican violence. Rather than quelling civil unrest, this draconian wave of prison (re)construction contributed to it, which, in turn, served to vindicate the carceral logic at the heart of British/Unionist politics. The third wave of penal (re)construction identified occurred between 1996 and 2012 and was shaped by the political imperatives of peace building and conflict transformation. The desire to divorce penality from its political associations and normalise the prison regime led to the closure of Crum (1996) and Long Kesh/Maze (2000), and the building of new accommodation blocks at HMP Maghaberry (1998 and 2012). This phase of decommissioning and building sought to usher in a new era of penality, one not predicated on isolation and fear, but on openness and understanding. While Maghaberry’s original square houses closed in on themselves, were shrouded in darkness and had poor lines of sight, Roe and Bush stretched their wings out in order to let in light and afford greater visibility. As such they reflect a turn towards ‘positive security’ and an attempt to reduce danger to prisoners and staff by improving conditions. The most radical post-ceasefire architectural innovation came with the opening of the Donard Centre (2011) and Quoile House (2012). The

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psychologically informed design of these penal structures sought to generate a therapeutic micro-regime capable of supporting ‘at risk’ and ‘vulnerable’ prisoners to cope with the iatrogenic consequences of the larger institution and, perhaps, begin psychotherapeutic recovery. This turn towards ‘therapeutic penality’ represents a significant disjuncture in the history of penal (re)construction in the north, yet mirrors the creation of dedicated personality disorder services in prisons across Great Britain post-2000 (see McBride 2017a). As such, the creation of the Donard Programme served the local political desire to de-exceptionalise penality in the north of Ireland by mimicking attempts to therapeutically refurbish the carceral network  in England and Wales. Yet, the narratives of staff responsible for establishing and maintaining a therapeutic regime suggest that therapeutic penality may be easier to conceptualise than it is to practice. Prison officers have been found to have a professional identity based around hypermasculinity (Jordan 2011; also see Clemmer 1940; Crawley and Crawley 2008). In the context of the north’s ethnopolitical conflict, the hypermasculine culture of prison officers became excessively violent and, in some cases, sadistic (see Wahidin et al. 2012). The prison officers who worked on the Donard Programme learned their jailcraft in this toxic milieu. Following (limited) re-training, they were expected to identify as empathetic pro-social role models and care for ‘challenging’ prisoners. This new role disrupted their sense of masculinity since their identity as patriarchal disciplinarians had to give way to a new, feminised identity as empathetic carer. The feminisation of the Donard Programme, and the staff who worked there, is reflected in the nickname given to the Donard Centre by prison officers not deployed there: the ‘Doughnut Centre’. This disparaging nickname reflects the stigmatisation of the Donard Centre’s therapeutic regime as ‘soft’, that is, too easy for the (weak) prisoners as well as the (lazy) staff stationed there. This stigma jarred with the reality of working on the Donard Programme, which officers found emotionally difficult due to acts of self-harm and the potential for suicide. The open architecture and the therapeutic regime the Donard Centre sought to cultivate thus alienated prison officers from their occupational identity and left them anxious and paranoid.

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Mental health staff who worked on the Donard Programme likewise experienced identity conflicts and troubling emotional responses. Following the closure of mental asylums, mental health services have been orientated towards community care. Consequently, the occupational identity of mental health staff has become centred on promoting the autonomy and agency of those they support. This is captured in the reframing of patients (who are passive) to clients (who are active). The capacity for choice, which underpins the consumerisation of public service recipients, however, is untenable in penal contexts due to the denial of freedom and the restrictions placed on the autonomy of prisoners. This is just one of many contradictions mental health practitioners experience when attempting to implement community mental health best practice while working in prisons. Others include institutional restrictions on movement, the operational prioritisation of security, a prevailing staff culture predicated on toxic masculinity and a warped professional/patient relationship (see Birmingham et  al. 2006; Lines 2006; Niveau 2007; Reed and Lyne 1997; Rutherford 2010; Wilson 2004). The environmental constraints and toxicity of the prison environment make it difficult, if not impossible, for mental health professionals to maintain their identity as ‘community’ practitioners. This mismatch between aspiration and reality provokes cynicism, hopelessness and can lead to acculturation, whereby mental health staff’s empathy and caring principles are eroded and replaced with retributive and punitive values. The identity disturbances and troubling emotions experienced by prison officers and mental health staff responsible for cultivating a therapeutic regime inevitably impact  their capacity to support ‘at risk’ and ‘vulnerable’ prisoners (see Bowers et  al. 2006). This capacity is further impeded by managerial discretion. Prison governors were found to have the power to give or remove access to the Donard Programme irrespective of the prisoner’s need or the perspectives of operational staff. Prisoners found to be ‘difficult’ to manage in other parts of the prison could be labelled as ‘at risk’ or ‘vulnerable’, and physically relocated to the Donard Programme. This is contrary to the stated best practice in relation to entrance/exit criteria to therapeutic prison environments (see Bowers et  al. 2006; Snowden and Kane 2003; Turley et  al. 2013). Managerial discretion thus corrupted the cohesion of Donard Programme’s

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therapeutic regime and generated security concerns for staff, which compound identity conflicts and emotional challenges. Furthermore, these disputes suggest staff considered access to the Donard Centre to be a privilege that should be reserved for prisoners who exhibit legitimate vulnerabilities. This highlights how sites of therapeutic penality can become enmeshed in the punitive logic of carcerality. Instead of promoting hope and recovery, they become sites of quarantine implicated in the system of reward/punishment used to control prisoner behaviour. Ultimately, this suggests that the capacity of therapeutic regimes to be therapeutic will be placed under significant duress by the prevailing security ethos of the wider institution. The improbability of cultivating a therapeutic regime in an environment in which staff are alienated from their occupational identity, entangled in troubling emotions and disempowered by managerial discretion experienced, was increased by failure to provide operational staff with clinical supervision. ‘Clinical supervision’ is considered a prerequisite for anyone who works with people who self-injure and/or are diagnosed with a ‘personality disorder’ due to the emotional challenges that come with this role (Bowers et al. 2006; Davison 2002). Individual and team supervision focused on resolving occupational stress, and providing emotional support, is widely advocated to enhance job satisfaction and maintaining professional therapeutic behaviour (Bland and Rossen 2005; Moore 2012). A lack of supervision can lead staff to hold on to troubling emotions, which, in turn, negatively impacts their future actions and reactions: they become annoyed, feel jealous, contradict colleagues, become disheartened and burn out. A lack of supervision can therefore contribute to splits among teams, which develop into major rifts that can erode therapeutic regimes (Fagin 2004). The lack of supervision meant the walls of the Donard Centre and Landing became imbued with unresolved disaffection. As a result, psychologically planned environments may be transformed into claustrophobic, mind-melting fear-factories that are incapable of delivering care or support to vulnerable prisoners.

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Conclusion In this chapter, I have shown how since the mid-nineteenth century three distinct waves of prison (re)construction have taken place in the north of Ireland. The first took place during the height of British Empire, drew on medieval aesthetics and attempted to create a homogeneous regime that was severe and unforgiving. The second took place in response to the unfurling ethnopolitical violence of the Conflict years and saw the utilisation of militarised and securitised designs that atomised the penal landscape and stratified the prison regime. The third was stimulated by the requirements of peace-building and conflict transformation at the turn of the twenty-first century, which further bifurcated the penal regime through the introduction of novel therapeutic imperatives. Each of these waves has created an enduring physical legacy that has imbued the prison landscape with contradictory carceral logics. This is particularly evident in HMP Maghaberry which has seen its hyper-securitised architecture clinically refurbished in an attempt to cleanse the toxic subsoils that have accumulated within the institution. The turn towards therapeutic penality (McBride 2017a), however, is riddled with ontological and epistemological contradictions. This was illustrated through the narratives of prison and mental health staff, which illustrated how the therapeutic regime envisioned by the architects of the Donard Centre/Landing became morally tainted by Maghaberry’s enduring imperial residue. In spite of the deep contradictions and challenges inherent within the turn towards therapeutic penality, the clinical refurbishment of penal space in order to generate therapeutic regimes capable of supporting vulnerable prisoners and improving the emotional and psychological health of prisoners is a seemingly noble and desirable aim. Yet, we must be critical of how the development of therapeutic micro-regimes serves to legitimise prison as a site of care for socially marginalised people experiencing psychological distress and, as a result, perpetuates the unfounded assumption that imprisonment can operate effectively as a space of psychotherapeutic recovery. Furthermore, therapeutic (re)construction initiatives fuels ongoing investment of finite public resources into the carceral network, diverting funds from housing, education, employment, health and

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welfare services in the community. The liberal and humanist narrative underpinning therapeutic penality therefore emboldens the punitive capacity of the state, while simultaneously obfuscating the material causes of ‘crime’, namely the social inequality and marginalisation generated by north’s history of colonialism, industrialisation, sectarianism and capitalism.

Afterword On 18 October 2019, the NIPS ‘revealed’ Davis House, a new £54m accommodation block with capacity for approximately 400 prisoners due to open in January 2020 (McCurry 2019). Davis House is the largest capital project undertaken by the NIPS since the wave of prison (re)construction undertaken during the Conflict years and will enable the NIPS to ‘mothball’ Maghaberry’s original four square houses (Kearney 2018). Although Davis House is designed with the same ‘X’ shape as the Crum it continues to advance the NIPS’s avowal of therapeutic penality. Commenting on the ‘game changing’ new accommodation block, Ronnie Armour, director general of the NIPS, noted ‘[t]he entire design and landing has a therapeutic feel to it’ (in McCurry 2019). He further added that ‘it will allow us to work much more closely in a much more therapeutic and better environment for the men who are sent here’ (in Kearney 2018).

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Rehabilitating the Prison: The Evolution of Strategies for Dealing with Northern Ireland’s Carceral Heritages Chris Hamill

Northern Ireland’s prisons frequently found themselves on the front lines of conflict during the thirty years of the Troubles. Now shorn of useful purpose and largely abandoned, these examples of carceral heritage pose a critical question on how Northern Ireland deals with the physical remnants of the recent past. The ‘legacy issues’ raised by aspects of the built environment are no less intractable or divisive than those of transitional justice and victimhood, and the very nature of architecture; both its symbolic potency and the sheer size of these places render these issues difficult to sweep aside. Indeed, in the two decades since the signing of the Good Friday Agreement (GFA) with its commitment to ‘rational consensus’-based politics (Graham and Whelan 2007, 493), numerous strategies have been proposed and attempted in the effort to find workable solutions for the future of these sites. Of these, the region’s decommissioned prisons provide some of the most striking examples of how these approaches have changed over time, in intention, scope and articulation.

C. Hamill (*) Queen’s University Belfast, Belfast, UK © The Author(s) 2020 F. McCann (ed.), The Carceral Network in Ireland, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7_4

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This chapter focuses on three such sites, namely Her Majesty’s Prison (HMP) Maze (aka Long Kesh), HMP Armagh and HMP Belfast, in order to plot the evolution of these strategies through time and, by exploring the relevant contexts, to consider why particular approaches were adopted and have changed with the flux of contemporary Northern Irish politics. Broadly speaking, it is suggested that three major ‘themes’ of redevelopment can be seen in Northern Ireland’s efforts for dealing with difficult heritage sites since 1998. An initial phase of demolition and destruction, typified by a drive to ‘move on’ from the memory of the conflict, was seen throughout the Province in the years immediately following the GFA. This resulted in the loss of many particularly problematic sites, especially those under the control of bodies whose remit exempted them from standard planning procedures. In subsequent years, attempts at writing a shared narrative of the Troubles, palatable to both Nationalists and Loyalists and upon which a unified and peaceful future could be constructed, made use of and incorporated several buildings and sites into their symbolism through ambitious masterplan proposals. After the notorious and costly failure that was the Maze/Long Kesh Masterplan (infamously shelved by then First Minister Peter Robinson in 2013 after 11 years of development), costly symbolic gestures instigated by central government rapidly fell out of favour against a backdrop of austerity in public spending. Instead, moves to privatise and commercialise Northern Ireland’s conflict heritages have recently gained traction, posing difficult questions over so-called dark tourism and the role of the market economy in dealing with delicate political and social memory-work. Importantly, none of the three case studies chosen aligns completely within one of the themes identified. Rather, they either straddle one or more strategic instruments or else possess aspects typical of several of the approaches identified as a result of multiple attempts at redevelopment over the past 20 years. Furthermore, it is not the intention here to suggest that these approaches are mutually exclusive; rather, the chosen structure is formulated to highlight the observable change in prominence these various strategies have exhibited in the time frame discussed.

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Contested Heritage First, however, it is necessary to explain why the divisive histories in which Northern Ireland’s prison buildings participated (and came to symbolise) should have become concretised in built form. It is clear that buildings and physical objects possess demonstrable ability to aid in recollection, but this is insufficient to explain why these places can attain such significance in the cultural ‘memoryscapes’ of entire communities— communities which may have had only a tangental connection to the place and the memories in question. To bridge this gap, it is necessary to engage the literature on heritage studies and to understand prisons in Northern Ireland as a significant piece of local heritage. With an understanding of heritage being a resource-based social construct, or ‘that part of the past we select in the present for contemporary purposes, be they economic, cultural, political or social’ (Graham et  al. 2000, 17), then buildings and territories can be seen in terms of resources; the raw physical stuff which must, in post-ceasefire1 societies, be negotiated or contested between opposing groups. In recent years, the previously prevalent view that heritage was invariably a benign or even a positive force in the building of national and community identities has been challenged by the suggestion that it must also include the darker aspects of the past. Writing the history of civil conflict into heritage narratives often proves exceptionally difficult as, with both sides still entrenched after the ceasefire is called, a neutral or ecumenical retelling of the past is unlikely to satisfy the vastly different experiences of the conflict held by both2 parties. In their 1996 book, Tunbridge and Ashworth coined the term ‘heritage dissonance’ to describe the seemingly inescapable fact that all heritage is constructed from narratives of the past which must necessarily  This chapter does not use the more common term ‘post-conflict’ because, as is evident in the text, conflicts do not need to be violent to be observable, and contemporary Northern Ireland is far from a ‘post-conflict’ society as various groups continue to wage ‘the conflict by other means’ (Graham and Whelan, 480). 2  The term ‘both’ here is perhaps unhelpful, given that it is a necessary oversimplification. The supposition that there are only two, monolithic narratives to the conflict; one Unionist and one Nationalist, is clearly untrue, and does not concede the complexity of the multiple dissonant narratives which exist in contemporary Northern Ireland. 1

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exclude the viewpoints of certain groups. This inevitably creates tension between the dominant view and those being overlooked. Northern Ireland’s prison history presents a rich seam of examples of dissonance. Kindynis and Garrett (2015) use Foucault’s essay ‘Of Other Spaces’ (1984) to refer to the prison as being a ‘heterotopia’, a place outside of the usual order of things, where a multitude of experiences can coexist and clash. These dissonant experiences are seen in the internal disputes between paramilitary prisoners from groups ostensibly on the same ‘side’ (INLA/PIRA; UVF/UDA etc.), former prison guards who feel that their contributions have been marginalised since the GFA and that they have been subject to demonisation in recent years and women prisoners (in the case of HMP Armagh) whose voices have been consistently overlooked in male-dominated histories of the Troubles (Dowler 1998; Aguiar 2015). However, Northern Ireland’s penal heritage is not only a source of heritage dissonance, it is also the origin of wide-ranging contestation in the present. Contested heritage is a subset of dissonant heritage wherein the parties to the disputed narrative are sufficiently prominent and organised to prevent one side’s viewpoint gaining dominance. The result is an implacable conflict over the very meaning of the histories and places involved as they become trapped between contradictory historic narratives whose existence is contingent on the invalidity of their opponents’ views. This ‘zero-sum’ attitude characterises many aspects of contemporary Northern Irish life, from housing, to education, to politics, and certainly includes shared heritage. The tripartite division of heritage narratives between the security services, and Loyalist and Republican former prisoners, forms the basis of contestation when looking at the future of Northern Ireland’s prisons, and can be seen in the differing attitudes of these groups to various redevelopment proposals during the past 20 years.

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Erasure In the period directly following the Good Friday Agreement, many of Northern Ireland’s carceral sites went through a period of partial demolitions. At the Maze/Long Kesh, for example, seven of the eight ‘H-Blocks’ were demolished. Flynn (2011) notes that these were not solely practical moves intended to enable future development on site, but also paid close attention to the heritage potential of the built fabric of the place, even in ruined form. To this end the waste management report from 2008 states: Due to the politically sensitive past use of the site it was necessary to control the end use of the materials and wastes generated from the demolition process. This has resulted in relatively small amounts of recovered material being sent off site to date, which received processing to destroy any recognisable characteristics of items that could be associated with the site. (In Flynn 2011, 392)

This justification certainly fits with the widespread fear among Unionists that the site would become ‘a shrine to hunger strikers’ (BBC 2007) and that any remnants of its destruction would be likewise venerated. That fear also leads to calls for the entire site to be obliterated; however, the listing of a portion of the Maze complex3 in 2005 precluded this outcome from being entirely successful. Nonetheless, McAtackney draws attention to the subsequent treatment of the portion of the site which was demolished and is currently used for the Royal Ulster Agricultural Society (RUAS)’ yearly agricultural show. When viewing historic aerial photography, it is clear that even following the initial demolitions, the distinctive footprints of the H-Blocks’ foundations were still clearly visible. In more recent years, these have been excised and concreted over, completely erasing this part of the complex, despite the proximity to the

 The parts of the site listed include a portion of the perimeter fence, a watchtower, the administration building, the multi-faith chapel, hangers from the former RAF Long Kesh, the hospital (where the ten hunger strikers died) and one of the H-Blocks (formerly used to hold Loyalist prisoners). The listing descriptions for the site can be viewed at the Department for Communities website (https://apps.communities-ni.gov.uk/Buildings/). 3

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listed and preserved (although inaccessible) western range of the former prison (McAtackney 2017). Likewise at HMP Armagh, the cell block within the prison demense built in the late 1970s to hold the Price sisters, Miriam and Dolours—the so-called Old Bailey Bombers—upon their return to Northern Ireland from HMP Durham was demolished in the early 2000s during stabilisation works and repairs to the Victorian prison. The statement provided by Armagh City Council in support of their Listed Building Consent application for the demolition reads as follows: It is considered that the 1970s cell block is not of architectural merit and should be demolished. All other extraneous structures would [will] be removed from the site. (ACD Council 1999, 5 Correction in original)

While the relative lack of aesthetic importance of Cell Block C at Armagh is not disputed here (it being a relatively unremarkable example of 1970s prefabricated concrete prison architecture), it is certainly interesting that the authors of the justification statement saw it as being more productive to refrain from mentioning either the building’s particular role during the Troubles, or its notorious inhabitants. It could also be argued that this demolition was an unnecessary expenditure of capital during what was, in effect, a package of works concerned only with the preservation of the listed buildings of the complex. Again, recent aerial photography shows that even the traces of the building’s foundations have been removed after demolition. To understand the drive towards total obliteration of a divisive architecture, the connection between memory and physical objects is key. McDowell (in Logan and Reeves (eds.) 2009, 224) cites Foote (2003, 7) in explaining that destroying objects and physical remnants is rooted in the hope that such iconoclasm will also eliminate the painful (or shameful) memories which have adhered to such places. Dawson (2007, 66) views this as a hallmark of trauma, an impulse to deny the existence of the inciting event. Northern Ireland itself is viewed as a ‘traumatised society’ wherein the terrible events of the past 50  years have created deep mental links with specific places—the so-called lieux de mémoire or places of memory (Graham and McDowell 2007, 360). ‘In every society

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emerging from a traumatic past there are efforts to…“move on” or “put the past behind us”’ (Barsalou and Baxter 2007, 4). Architecture stands in opposition to this aim—it is hugely visible and a largely permanent reminder of past pain. Reading the conflict in this way, the drive towards demolition has a clear, if somewhat perverse, logic. There are also symbolic considerations for why particular groups may have wished to see sites erased. During Operation Banner, its longest ever continuous deployment, the British Army erected a wide range of defensive structures all across Northern Ireland. The most well known of these are perhaps the watchtowers or ‘sangars’ which surveilled the porous border regions of South Armagh, over which the security services had, at times, limited control. While not necessarily an example of carceral architecture, the sangars were described at the time as giving the whole of South Armagh ‘the feel of an open air prison’ (Carr 2017, 47) to its Nationalist residents, and certainly their remit to observe the population beyond their ramparts is reminiscent of a hi-tech version of Bentham’s panopticon. The termination of operational deployment in Northern Ireland also signalled the end of the watchtowers’ usefulness, a course of action which has historically in Ireland entailed abandoning the structures in question and allowing them to be reclaimed by the environment (McCullough and Mulvin 1987, 11). However, the sangars were demolished and removed from their hilltop locations and considerable cost and effort expended. Such demolition may have been necessary to preserve the military secrets of the surveillance apparatus they contained, but Carr notes the important symbolic nature of such a gesture: Ruins on Ireland’s border are still active things, the loose ends of an unfinished history, still too meaningful to settle into the background. Knowing this, the army decided to erase the sangars completely; leaving them here might have fuelled resentments for another century. (Carr 2017, 51)

That destruction of contentious sites in peacetime is most prevalent directly after ceasefires are called suggests that this approach is something of an automatic response to traumatic events—one seized upon and enacted before full consideration is given to other options. The tragedy of this approach—aside from its questionable efficacy (place memory is

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capable of existing long after the physical structures on a given site are erased)—is that demolition forever denies the possibility of these sites being incorporated in more productive attempts at mediating the past.

Ecumenism Attempts at finding a shared narrative to the conflict in order to aid in community reconciliation became prevalent during the mid-2000s. This ‘ecumenical’ approach finds its foundation in the consensus-based politics enshrined within the Good Friday Agreement (Graham and Whelan, 492–3) and has drawn support from various quarters such as Edna Longley (253), who contends that Northern Ireland requires the incubation of ‘ways of new remembering’ which represent ‘a switch from…blame to conscience, from destructive remembrance to constructive amnesia’. Such an ideal, while understandable in its intention, is inevitably ‘top-­ down’ in its implementation and, according to Graham and Whelan, ‘deficient’ for dealing with the tribal, sectarian realities of memory in contemporary Northern Ireland (493). Nevertheless, this ideal was adopted in policy and made itself felt in the built environment through an emphasis on the so-called shared spaces—areas meant to be equally accessible to members of both Catholic and Protestant communities, where the formerly opposing sides to the conflict could meet and be reconciled. This was clearly in evidence within the proposed masterplan for the Maze/Long Kesh site, with its envisioned International Centre for Conflict Transformation (ICCT) and National Stadium to be used for rugby, football and gaelic games. The intention was to rehabilitate the site of some of the most infamous incidents of Troubles into a productive asset for a new Northern Ireland, one shorn of its antagonistic past. In this, the symbolism of the gesture was once again critical—perhaps even more so than the architectural merits of the plan or its eventual success as a piece of urban infrastructure. The project encountered severe difficulties (which would eventually lead to its demise) regarding how it dealt with the remainder of the former prison left on the site and its ultimate failure to establish a working

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compromise between stakeholder groups (Flynn 2011). The decision to build the ICCT remote from the listed section of the complex (Maze/ Long Kesh 2006) and to have it designed by renowned architect Daniel Leibeskind, famous for his Berlin Holocaust Museum, speaks of a desire to isolate the contemporary narrative from the divisive and incompatible retellings of the past the site evoked. Even the name—Centre for Conflict Transformation—evidences the necessity of avoiding calling the proposed building a museum, itself giving a perceived unacceptable degree of institutional respectability to former prisoners convicted of terrorism offences. As for the sports stadium, opposition was also raised, including by DUP MLA Gregory Campbell who voiced scepticism on its efficacy as a vehicle for reconciliation, noting, ‘I always found it a bit difficult to understand how an example of a shared future could be envisaged by different sports being played in the same stadium on different occasions’ (Northern Ireland Assembly 2009 in Flynn 2011, 393). Eventually, the then First Minister Peter Robinson indefinitely shelved the project in a letter to DUP colleagues. In its conclusion, he questioned the practicality of the very concept of shared space which was foundational to the Maze masterplan, at least insofar as it was then articulated: ‘If people will not share a street or road it is self-evident that more work is needed to ensure equality in the way the concept of shared space is taken forward.’ (Robinson quoted in Belfast Telegraph 2013)

The Maze project, and its eventual failure are well known, but it is not unique as an example of optimistic reuse proposals for Northern Ireland’s prisons. During the same period, exemplar proposals for Armagh Gaol to be transformed into local council offices was awarded planning permission, and in a similar vein, a proposal that the Public Records Office of Northern Ireland should be relocated to the cells of the Crumlin Road Gaol gained significant traction before ultimately being rejected in favour of PRONI’s current location in the city’s Titanic Quarter development. Ultimately, the ecumenist spirit of these proposals reached beyond the possibilities of the political situation in Northern Ireland at the time. Whilst laudable in intent, such schemes are open to accusations of being elitist, and in the words of Sara McDowell, ‘to some extent

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sanctimonious and display[ing] a certain lack of understanding’ (in Logan and Reeves (eds.) 2009, 225) in that they seek to deny that conflict is an entrenched part of contemporary Northern Irish life, and one which might not necessarily be detrimental if diligently managed and given productive forms of expression.

Commercialisation After the costly failure that was the Maze masterplan, the most recent (and current) trend in Northern Ireland’s attempts at dealing with its contested heritage sites has seen the commercial market given a greater role in proposals for their reuse. Crumlin Road Gaol has become a conference facility and tourist attraction owned by the Department for Infrastructure, and a plan to transform Armagh Gaol into a boutique hotel and spa was granted planning permission 2013. The use of difficult and contested sites for tourism purposes prompted Foley & Lenon to coin the term ‘dark tourism’ referring to sites which seem to posses a macabre appeal to the market due to their connection with murder, imprisonment, destruction and misery in the past. With Crumlin Road and Armagh Gaols both having been Victorian-era prisons, with all of the associated pain and shame over society’s past treatment of prisoners, and moreover having also been sites of execution, the commercialisation of these places would certainly qualify for consideration as ‘dark tourism’ attractions. This attribution applies even with their later association with the Troubles, the lasting bitterness over abuses committed on inmates and the deliberate targeting of prison workers by various paramilitary groups notwithstanding. Indeed, the focus of the tourist offering at Crumlin Road Gaol Visitor Attraction (and to a lesser extent in the proposals for Armagh Gaol4) does appear to be firmly on the Victorian history of the prison. ‘You are now  One of the often cited factors regarding the appointment of the current developer, the Trevor Osborne Group, to the Armagh Gaol project was that developer’s previous successful regeneration of Oxford Castle and Gaol into a shopping district and boutique hotel. This scheme is of course also subject to analysis through the lens of dark tourism, but Oxford Gaol certainly lacks the recency and rawness that the history of Northern Ireland’s prisons continues to propagate. 4

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walking in the final footsteps of 16 men’ (unnamed tour guide during author’s site visit to Crumlin Road Goal visitor attraction 27.10.2017), the guide intones towards the end of the tour, after a extensive explanation of the typical last hours of the condemned. Subsequently the tour group is led through to the restored execution chamber, replete with gallows and a plexiglass-covered trapdoor to hear in detail the mechanics of execution by hanging employed in Crumlin Road Gaol up until 1961. Kindynis and Garrett (2015, 11) and others have admitted unease as to the curation of the Crumlin Road Tour, and questions have been raised over its appropriateness, especially its relative lack of focus on the Troubles. Certainly, the tour experience does address the prison’s recent history, but its primary function as a remand centre during the period appears to have allowed the historic interpretation to sidestep problematic historic events unavoidable at a similar facility established in, for example, the Maze/Long Kesh. This historic focus may allow a more palatable and marketable tourist ‘experience’, and one which is undeniably popular; however, by glossing over the aspects of the prison’s history which still lie within living memory, and in many cases continue to divide Northern Irish society, the commercialisation of Crumlin Road Gaol may reasonably be criticised for its unfulfilled potential in acting as a vehicle for discussion and reconciliation in the present. Nevertheless, some defend the broad appeal of the visitor experience as playing a vital role in expanding the reach in Northern Ireland’s penal history among tourists and helping to engender better community relations. Fearghal Cochrane describes another guide at the gaol as saying, ‘A lot of people would look on the Troubles tourism as being a very dark thing to do. But it is a vital part of our history. It is something that affected so many thousands of people’s lives throughout the years that I really think it would be more of a crime to brush it under the carpet’ (in Cochrane 2015, 65). Clearly, there are differences in opinion over the appropriateness of dark tourism in sites such as Northern Ireland’s prisons, and it seems likely that these will gain prominence in the future as other projects such as the Armagh Gaol hotel scheme come to fruition. Moves towards the commercialisation of contested sites can also be justified as being a means of addressing the economic damage done

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during the Troubles. The region’s finances suffered greatly during the conflict, to say nothing of the decades of lost growth which occurred in many sectors, but particularly in tourism (Anson 1999, 58). However, if visitor sites such as Crumlin Road Gaol—or indeed the proposed ICCT which was to ‘have facilitated international exchange, education, research, teaching and learning’ (Robinson in Belfast Telegraph 2013)—are defended as being primarily an economic strategy rather than a reconciliatory one, then criticism generally of Northern Ireland’s market-driven approach to heritage becomes relevant. Rita Harkin, in the essay, ‘Anything Goes’ (in Mancini and Bresnahan (eds.) 2015), notes that Northern Irish policy towards historic sites and buildings exhibits a worryingly slapdash approach indicative of a culture which ‘priorities short-term profit over long-term sustainable regeneration’ (2015, 147) in order to grant the Province a veneer of respectability and stability to potential investors. Recent changes in the funding available for historic buildings have seen departmental grants from the Department for Communities fall from £4.4m in 2014–15 to only £500,000 (HED 2017) total for all of Northern Ireland under the current Historic Environment Fund (The Detail 2016). Although it must be conceded that this retreat from properly funding Northern Ireland’s historic environment may merely be coincident with the increased use of dark tourism as a means of dealing with the region’s Troubles-era prisons, it can certainly be hypothesised that such a curtailing of available finances has left the commercial market one of the few places left where sufficient monies required to save these buildings from dereliction can be found. Of course, this comes at a price, and the subsequent curation of these visitor attractions warrants particular scrutiny to ensure that the fears of detractors such as McDowell (2008, 419) do not come to pass: One reading of tourism is that…it constitutes the simplification and, arguably, the vulgarisation of remembering the Troubles and all those who lost their lives. On sale are people’s sufferings and injustices, the places in which lives were taken. This skewed representation of narratives on offer to tourists presents a challenge to peacetime Northern Ireland, where the realities of a sectarian conflict have become even more difficult to define.

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Conclusions The intention of this chapter has been to draw attention to the broad themes of erasure, ecumenism and commercialisation which have predominated in Northern Ireland’s attempts at dealing with its penal heritage since 1998, which the author posits have occurred in a broadly sequential manner. As with all things, however, dividing lines and categorisation of events are never neat or unequivocal. It is certainly not the intention here to suggest that these changes took place in a pre-planned or mutually exclusive manner; indeed, as has been illustrated, many of these themes overlap in time and can be found within the same sites. Similarly, it could, for instance, be argued that the apparent rise of commercial involvement in these processes in the past decade is more akin to a return to the prevalence of erasure in the years prior to the MLK masterplan than it is to a new strategy, at least insofar as it attempts to insulate central decision-making authorities from dealing with the built environment’s own particular ‘legacy issues’. It remains to be seen how effective or otherwise dark tourism practices will be in Northern Ireland in terms of igniting a much-needed conversation about the region’s shared and contested heritage assets, although worrying signs can already be detected. Perhaps this should suggest that it is again time for new tactics for dealing with these problematic sites, ones which respect the deeply held and raw emotions these places are still capable of evoking, without becoming beholden to them and risking the continued dereliction of some of Northern Irelands most unique heritage sites through political deadlock. Some optimistic signs in this regard come from the United States, where the foundation of the International Coalition of Sites of Conscience, a group dedicated to using historic sites to ‘foster public dialogue on pressing contemporary issues’ (Sevcenko 2010, 20), may offer a framework for effectively dealing with Northern Ireland’s contested penal sites. Likewise, on the Continent, theorists such as Nora Sternfeld (2011) promote an updated curation of difficult sites as ‘contact zones’ where ‘different histories, references and power relations can come into view, but without having to assume or construct cultural differentness at the same time’

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(Sternfeld 2011, 2), allowing for the coexistence of, and exchange between, seemingly incompatible narratives. Perhaps then, Northern Ireland’s abandoned prisons may yet become sites of mutual understanding and dialogue, where the beliefs and grievances of former adversaries can come into view, writ large on the very stones of the prisons themselves.

Bibliography Aguiar, Laura. 2015. Back to Those Walls: The Women’s Memory of the Maze and Long Kesh Prison in Northern Ireland. Memory Studies 8 (2): 227–241. Anson, Caroline. 1999. Planning for Peace: The Role of Tourism in the Aftermath of Violence. Journal of Travel Research 38 (1): 57–61. Armagh City and District Council with Hall Black Douglas and Alistair Coey Architects. 1999. Armagh Gaol: A New Future  – A Planning Statement. Retrieved from the Archives: Armagh County Museum, Armagh. Barsalou, Judy, and Victoria Baxter. 2007. The Urge to Remember: The Role of Memorials in Social Reconstruction and Transitional Justice. Washington, DC: United States Institute for Peace. BBC. 2007. Maze ‘Will Not Be Terror Shrine’. BBC, July 25. Campbell, Cormac. 2016. £500,000 Fund for Northern Ireland’s Historic Buildings. The Detail, September 15. http://www.thedetail.tv/articles/500000-fund-for-northern-ireland-s-historic-buildings Carr, Garrett. 2017. The Rule of the Land: Walking Ireland’s Border. London: Faber & Faber. Cochrane, Feargal. 2015. The Paradox of Conflict Tourism: The Commodfication of War or Conflict Transformation in Practice? The Brown Journal of World Affairs 22 (1): 51–69. Dawson, Graham. 2007. Making Peace with the Past: Memory, Trauma and the Irish Troubles. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Dowler, Lorraine. 1998. ‘And They Think I’m Just a Nice Old Lady’ Women and War in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Gender, Place & Culture 5 (2): 159–176. Flynn, M. Kate. 2011. Decision-Making and Contested Heritage in Northern Ireland: The Former Maze Prison/Long Kesh. Irish Political Studies 26 (3): 383–401. Foley, Malcolm, and John J.  Lennon. 1996. Editorial: Heart of Darkness. International Journal of Heritage Studies 2 (1): 195–197.

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Foote, Kenneth. 2003. Shadowed Ground: America’s Landscapes of Violence and Tragedy. Texas: University of Texas Press. Foucault, Michel. 1984. Of Other Spaces. Architecture/Mouvement/Continuité, Oct. Trans. Jay Miskowiec. Graham, Brian, and Sara McDowell. 2007. Meaning in the Maze: The Heritage of Long Kesh. Cultural Geographies 14 (3): 343–368. Graham, Brian, and Yvonne Whelan. 2007. The Legacies of the Dead: Commemorating the Troubles in Northern Ireland. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 25: 476–495. Graham, Brian, Gregory Ashworth, and John Tunbridge. 2000. A Geography of Heritage. London: Arnold. Harkin, Rita. 2015. Anything Goes. In Architecture and Armed Conflict, ed. JoAnne M. Mancini and Keith Bresnahan, 145–163. Oxon: Routledge. Kindynis, Theo, and Bradley L. Garrett. 2015. Entering the Maze: Space, Time and Exclusion in an Abandoned Northern Ireland Prison. Crime, Media, Culture 11 (1): 5–20. Longley, Edna. 2001. Northern Ireland: Commemoration, Elegy, Forgetting. In History and Memory in Modern Ireland, ed. Ian McBride, 223–253. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. McAtackney, Laura. 2014. An Archaeology of the Troubles: The Dark Heritage of Long Kesh/Maze Prison. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 2017. The Heritage of Long Kesh/Maze Prison. In Transforming Maze/ Long Kesh Conference, Belfast, March 15. Unpublished. McCullough, Niall, and Valerie Mulvin. 1987. A Lost Tradition: The Nature of Architecture in Ireland. 2nd ed. Dublin: Gandon Editions. McDowell, Sara. 2008. Selling Conflict Heritage Through Tourism in Peacetime Northern Ireland: Transforming Conflict or Exacerbating Difference? International Journal of Heritage Studies 14 (5): 405–421. ———. 2009. Negotiating Places of Pain in Post-conflict Northern Ireland: Debating the Future of the Maze Prison/Long Kesh. In Places of Pain and Shame: Dealing with ‘Difficult Heritage’, ed. W.  Logan and K.  Reeves, 215–230. Oxon: Routledge. Northern Ireland, Department for Communities, Historic Environment Division. 2017. Historic Environment Fund: FRAMEWORK OF SUPPORT, Ed. 2. Accessed from: https://www.communities-ni.gov.uk/publications/ historic-environment-fund-overview Robinson, Peter. 2013. Maze Peace Centre: Peter Robinson’s Letter to DUP Members. Belfast Telegraph, August 15.

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Sevcenko, Liz. 2010. Sites of Conscience: New Approaches to Conflicted Memory. Museum International 62 (1–2): 20–25. Sternfeld, Nora. 2011. Memorial Sites as Contact Zones: Cultures of Memory in a Shared/Divided Present. Trans. Aileen Derieg. European Institute for Progressive Cultural Politics. Tunbridge, John, and Gregory Ashworth. 1996. Dissonant Heritage: The Management of the Past as a Resource in Conflict. Chichester: Wiley.

The Prisoners’ Rights Organisation and Penal Reform in the Republic of Ireland Cormac Behan

The 1970s and 1980s were troubled times in Irish prisons. Conditions were poor, prison rules were outdated, penal reform was not a political or social priority and a sharp increase in the number of prisoners seeking political status created heightened tensions which often led to disturbances. Prisoners protested with a range of demands: some wanted segregation, their own wings and political status; others sought improvements in conditions and penal reform. Allied to these protest movements inside, a number of prisoner support groups grew up outside. This chapter examines one of these, the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation (PRO), which emerged in the early 1970s. The PRO was unique as it spoke for ‘ordinary’ or ‘social’ prisoners’.1  In this chapter, a distinction is made between ‘ordinary’ and ‘political’ prisoners as they are self-­ described. The term politically aligned is used for those who refer to themselves as ‘Political Prisoners’ or ‘Prisoners of War’. See Behan (2018, footnote 4) for further discussion. 1

C. Behan (*) Technological University Dublin, Dublin, Ireland e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 F. McCann (ed.), The Carceral Network in Ireland, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7_5

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In Ireland, both north and south, protests by politically aligned prisoners and their supporters have attracted significant academic and popular attention (see Behan 2011; Beresford 1987; Campbell et  al. 1994; Kenny 2017; McConville 2003, 2013 and McEvoy 2001). While some scholars have made reference to the emergence of the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation (Kilcommins et al. 2004, 71 and Rogan 2011, 144), little historical research exists about the PRO, and there has been an absence of scrutiny generally of protests by ordinary prisoners and organisations seeking to represent them. While this section of the prison population has been somewhat neglected, they are nonetheless important in analysing penal reform, because in contrast to those who considered themselves as political prisoners—generally more concerned about their status and political and social struggles outside—the PRO argued for penal reform for all prisoners. This chapter begins by surveying the penal environment in which the PRO emerged in the early 1970s. Protests erupted in Irish prisons over a variety of issues which are then examined. While there was a proliferation of prisoners’ rights movements internationally (Behan 2018, 502–503), the momentum for reform of the penal system was primarily local. The PRO spoke for ordinary prisoners and its programme and activities, and the responses from various governments are examined in the next section. The final section scrutinises progress in the penal system in the Republic of Ireland, with particular reference to the contribution of the PRO to the debates on penal reform.

The Penal Environment Prisoners’ rights movements in the Republic of Ireland were part of the movements for political and social change internationally, but they were primarily bound up with the domestic social, political and penal environment of the early years of the 1970s. The decade had begun with great hopes of progress and modernisation in penal policy, and ‘as the belief in rehabilitation waned elsewhere, it began to be formally embraced in a modest way by the Irish Department of Justice’ (Kilcommins et al. 2004, 53). The Prisons Act 1970 set out, for the first time, that one of the

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primary aims of imprisonment was rehabilitation, which was ‘a momentous change in Irish prison policy’ (Rogan 2011, 132). In the early decades of the state, there was relatively little interest in penal reform or innovation in penal policy, partly due to the low numbers imprisoned. Between 1926 and 1971, there were fewer than 1000 prisoners each year. In 1951, the daily average number of prisoners was 488, with an average imprisonment rate of 16.5 per 100,000. By 1971 this rose to 926 prisoners, with an imprisonment rate of 31.1 per 100,000 (O’Sullivan and O’Donnell 2012, 5–6). This compared to England and Wales at 81 per 100,000, Denmark at 70 per 100,000, Sweden at 61 per 100,000 and the USA at 200 per 100,000 (Waller and Chan 1974, 58). We can determine  little about life inside Ireland’s penal institutions during this period from official sources. The Department of Justice released limited data, and reports that appeared were routinely outdated (Rogan 2012, 23). The Department was very wary, at times openly hostile to any outside interest in its penal institutions (O’Donnell 2008, 124–5). Even the usually timid visiting committee reports, which were regularly delayed in publication and restricted in access, told us little about life inside Ireland’s penal institutions. Despite sporadic attempts by the Department of Justice to launch public relations initiatives with media tours of prisons (Brady 2014, 64), one journalist who had visited a prison noted that ‘the prison system is dominated by a paranoia about security, dictated by the Department of Justice’ (Brennan 1981, np). The situation was so acute that the Chair of the PRO, Joe Costello, after being thwarted  in gaining access to Visiting Committee Reports, took legal action against the Department of Justice to get the reports published in a timely manner (interview with Author, April 2017). One unofficial source of information came from a Prison Study Group. Established in 1973 by concerned members of civic society with a grant from University College Dublin, their investigation found a ‘very closed system’ as ‘the Department and the Minister for Justice imposed severe limitations’ on their research. They were therefore ‘forced to piece together a picture of the prison process from accounts by people who have experienced it in different capacities’ (Prison Study Group 1973, 4 [hereafter PSG]). Despite the limitations, the Prison Study Group examined most penal institutions and found the problem of overcrowding exacerbated

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by the conditions in which prisoners had to live. The majority of prisoners had to ‘slop out’. Prisoners had to spend over 15 hours in their cell, and there were limited productive out-of-cell activities. While traditional prison industries were available, these were ‘menial’ and did ‘not assist the prisoner’s chances of employment on release’ (PSG 1973, 89). The educational facilities were minimal, usually only literacy being offered with the exception of St. Patrick’s Institution (for juveniles) which offered a range of subjects (PSG 1973, 89–90). Accounts of the grim condition in Ireland’s penal establishments appeared throughout the 1970s and 1980s. A female prisoner described life in the only dedicated women’s prison in the Republic of Ireland (Jail Journal, vol. 1, no. 12)2: The conditions of women prisoners in Free State jails are degrading and inhuman, as are those of their male counterparts. Prison rules and regulations, of which there are many, are made not for any pretence of security but to make life as difficult and uncomfortable as possible for the prisoner involved and to ensure that all human contact is lost with friends and relations outside. Prisoners may wear their own clothes though they are not encouraged to do so. To do this, however, the rule is that one must have three of each item of clothing, apart from knickers of which six is required. The prison clothes in general are neither comfortable, warm or attractive, and they serve very much to de-personalise the individual – reducing one, as the authorities wish, to a mere number.

 The Jail Journal was published by the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation. Despite its title, it was printed outside the prison, with articles by prisoners and ex-prisoners. In early editions of the Jail Journal, no dates are given for each issue, nor any page number or author/s of articles. While the latter may be understandable if it was written by a prisoner, especially if it was secretly passed out of the prison, it makes identifying authors nearly impossible. In subsequent references to this source, the edition and any other information that distinguishes authors will be given. It is possible to discern an approximate date of publication because of reference to contemporaneous events in articles. Later editions of the Jail Journal contain dates and page numbers. and these have been included. As to the regularity of publication, Joe Costello acknowledges that although the PRO wanted to publish it on a regular basis, it only came out sporadically. Costello edited it and wrote many of the articles using PRO sources from inside the prison (interview with Author, April 2018). 2

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Although the women’s wing can hold thirty prisoners it has only one toilet. Beside this toilet there is a small sink which has no hot water, no towel and no soap. There are no showers and only two baths. Normally baths can only be taken on a Saturday afternoon.

When newspaper journalists were eventually allowed into the prisons in the early 1980s, there was no hiding the grim conditions. Brennan (1981) reported that when individuals are sent to Mountjoy Prison, they ‘are robbed of their dignity, they enjoy no privacy and they are subjected to a petty authoritarian regime which hasn’t changed essentially for over a century’. She continued: About half of our adult male prison population resides in Mountjoy Prison – a miserable, steel-grey institution that was built in the middle of the nineteenth century […] Former Mountjoy prisoners refer to the existence of a ‘bomb squad’ – a party of fellow prisoners whose duty it is to collect the parcels of faeces dropped from the windows of the cells each night by the inmates who couldn’t last until 8 o’clock the following morning. Mountjoy Prison is in the initial phase of a 10 year modernization programme, but this does not include the construction of toilets in the cells […] But for the most part, in spite of a lot of well-intentioned tinkering with the prison system, it remains degrading and oppressive and, most of all, extremely unlikely to affect any change in its prisoners, whom it is piously expected to rehabilitate into responsible, socially aware citizens.

Prison discipline was regulated under the 1947 Prison Rules. For breaking the rules, punishment could be harsh. A governor could impose ‘close confinement’ for up to three days, dietary reduction up to 14 days, ‘separate confinement at labour for a period not exceeding 28 days’ and suspension of privileges for up to three months (rule 69). The Minister for Justice had more widespread powers to punish. These included ‘reduced diet for ill-conducted and idle prisoners for a period not exceeding 42 days, with intervals as laid down in the Rules for prison dietaries’ (rule 71). For a breach of prison discipline involving mutiny, incitement to mutiny, a violent attack on prison staff ‘or any other act of serious misconduct or insubordination requiring to be suppressed by extraordinary

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means’, a prisoner could be punished by ‘separate confinement’ for up to nine months (rule 71 (e)ii). Under the 1947 Prisons Rules, there was an extensive list of activities for which a prisoner could be punished. Along with the expected disobeying an order from officers being a breach of prison discipline, a prisoner broke prison rules if they were: idle, careless, or negligent at work, or refuses to work […] absent without leave from divine service, or prayers, or school instruction […] behaves irreverently at divine service or prayers […] indecent in language, act or gesture […] converses or holds intercourse with another prisoner without authority […] sings, whistles, or makes any unnecessary noise, or gives any unnecessary trouble […] leaves his cell or other appointed location, or his place of work, without permission […] commits any nuisance […] In any other way offends against good order and discipline. (Rule 68)

With such a wide range of transgressions, these Rules were regularly overlooked by prison governors and officers. Nevertheless, they remained in operation, if not effect, until 2007, indicating not just a lack of concern in developing a modern penal policy and governance structure in Irish prisons, but a distinct absence of urgency in penal reform. Even with these conditions, the government rejected criticism of the penal system. During a heated debate in the Dáil in 1970, Desmond O’Malley, the Minister for Justice, not only saw no reason to improve conditions in Portlaoise Prison, but in his response, he indicated his attitude towards prisoners. ‘Many of those committed to prison’, according to Desmond O’Malley, ‘come from home or environmental conditions which are themselves conducive to criminal behaviour. Many are of low intelligence and a high proportion are educationally backward. They are often emotionally disturbed and socially inadequate’ (Dáil Debates, 26 May 1970, vol. 27, col. 100). Later when asked about conditions in Portlaoise Prison, he refused to accept that there was ‘public disquiet on this matter’, and he believed that ‘the conditions in the prisons can be better than those that some of the prisoners have come from outside’ (Dáil Debates, 5 December 1972, vol. 264, col. 964).

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Despite these assertions, improvements in prison conditions and penal reform were long overdue, and his successor as Minister for Justice, Patrick Cooney, recognised this (Brady 2014, 69). Soon after he became minister in 1973, he announced the establishment of a ‘corrective unit’, the construction of new women’s prison, the appointment of a new Director of Work and a Director of Education and the employment of at least ten extra welfare officers (Irish Press, 27 October 1973). While recognising the need for change, Patrick Cooney rejected criticism of Irish prisons. ‘Not only did they compare favourably with the best in Europe, but they were in accord with and in many respects, exceeded the standards set down in the Council of Europe’, according to the Minister for Justice (cited in Irish Independent, 27 October 1973). Despite this positive picture painted by both ministers, all was not well in Ireland’s penal institutions. Along with these conditions of confinement, the re-emergence of physical force movements demanding an end to British rule in Northern Ireland led to a sharp increase in the number of IRA members who were imprisoned in the Republic of Ireland. It was almost inevitable that IRA prisoners would engage in disturbances to assert their right to be treated as political prisoners.

Prison Protests These were tense times in Irish prisons. While politically aligned prisoners were protesting, so too were ordinary prisoners. Amid discontent at their conditions of confinement, the standard of the food and the lack of recreational facilities, protests by ordinary prisoners in Portlaoise Prison in late 1972 and early 1973 led to the creation of the Portlaoise Prisoners’ Union (PPU). Its demands, smuggled out and signed by 112 prisoners (Irish Times, 15 May 1973), included one-third remission (under the 1947 Prison Rules, male prisoners received one quarter remission and female prisoners one-third), a new parole board with an elected union member, improved visiting conditions and educational facilities for all prisoners with special emphasis for those with literacy difficulties. The PPU wanted a skilled trades programme to be introduced, and their wages of 10p a day to be increased to £10 a week. They demanded an end

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to censorship of mail, books and newspapers, the immediate abolition of dietary punishment and recognition by the Minister for Justice and trade unions. Finally, the Portlaoise Prisoners Union, indicating their attitude towards the visiting committee which still had the power to punish, demanded that the ‘present biased, sadistic and hypocritical Visiting Committee […] be instantly dissolved and replaced by a Committee of sociologists, social workers, law students and trade union representatives, plus an elected PPU member to ensure fair play’ (Jail Journal vol. 1, no.1). The Portlaoise Prisoners Union spread to other prisons, eventually naming itself simply the Prisoners Union. There were sporadic bouts of activity throughout the 1970s and 1980s, with harsh responses from successive governments and various prison administrations. (For further analysis of the Prisoners Union, see Behan 2018.)

The PRO Emerges Essentially, there are two types of prisoners’ rights movement: first, those that develop organically from within prison, and second, those that support these  organisations from outside, campaigning for penal reform. Prisoner activism, to one degree or another, depending on the type of activity, usually relies on outside support to organise and coordinate activities with other prison/ers, speak publicly and/or litigate on their behalf. In the statement announcing their establishment, the Portlaoise Prisoners Union recognised that ‘Confined as it is within the formidable barriers of prison walls there is little such a Union can do except organise the prisoners into a unified body’ (Jail Journal vol. 1, no. 1). The Union needed an allied organisation outside. Therefore, on release from Portlaoise Prison several former prisoners and other interested individuals decided to continue to campign for improved prison conditions. An ad hoc Committee for Prison Reform convened a public meeting in July 1973. This was to generate support ‘to preserve, protect and extend the rights of prisoners, and seek the implementation of the 11 demands of the Portlaoise Prisoners Union’ (Kearns, cited in Irish Press, 7 July 1973). This meeting established the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation (PRO) specifically for what they termed ‘social’ or ‘ordinary’ prisoners because, they

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argued, ‘no group outside spoke out on their behalf ’ (Jail Journal vol. 1, no. 1). Besides, those convicted for politically related activities were aligned with political parties—Official and Provisional Sinn Féin who had established their own organisations outside prison: the Relatives Action Committee for Provisional IRA prisoners and Saoirse for Official IRA prisoners (Magill 1977). In the first edition of its official organ, the Jail Journal, the PRO set out its stall. It argued that prisons should be ‘rehabilitative rather than punitive with particular stress on education, vocational training and recreation’, and they called for schools to be established in all prisons with a wide range of subjects available and special classes for those with literacy difficulties. They wanted vocational training with trade union rates of pay (Jail Journal vol. 1 no. 1). The PRO demanded that prisoners should have the right to establish and join a Prisoners Union, and for the Union to be allowed to affiliate to the Irish Congress of Trade Unions. They wanted the right to vote in local and general elections and to join political parties; improved visiting conditions and more regular visits; the right to enter into marriage; the right to be legally represented and to call witnesses in internal disciplinary proceedings and for a member of the Prisoners Union to be present. They also wanted all criminal records to be destroyed five years after an individual leaves prison. Finally the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation wanted the prison system to be administered by a statutory board appointed by the Minister for Justice with ‘members to be drawn from a cross-section of the community with knowledge of and an interest in the welfare of the prisoners’, with ‘an ex-prisoner, a serving prisoner and a trade union representative among its members’ (Jail Journal vol. 1, no. 1). Reflecting their desire to be a voice for prisoners, it was agreed that the 14-person executive would be comprised of at least fifty per cent of former prisoners (Joe Costello, interview with Author, April 1917). The activities of the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation can be categorised into broadly three types: campaigning and activism, practical initiatives and research into the penal system in the hope that the reality of life behind bars would stimulate the public to demand an improvement in prison conditions. The PRO held press conferences, organised meetings and marches and campaigned for changes in legislation (Joe Costello: interview with Author, April 2017). In the hope of garnering widespread

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support for its cause, one of the first meetings was addressed by Matt Merrigan, general secretary of the Amalgamated Transport and General Workers Union, and Ted Ward of the recently established prisoners union in England, the Preservation for the Rights of Prisoners (PROP) (Irish Times, 28 August 1973). The PRO regularly organised pickets outside the Department of Justice and individual prisons. A number of members ended up before the courts for picketing the homes of senior Department of Justice officials, including the individual in charge of penal policy (Irish Press, 10 May 1975). During the 1977 general election, the PRO launched a campaign poster: ‘Our Jails – Cooney’s Shame’, to highlight the Minister for Justice’s lack of action on penal reform (Irish Election Literature 2010). Whether it made any impact is a matter of conjecture, but Patrick Cooney lost his seat in the 1977 general election. Members of the PRO became involved in issues such as demonstrating against the new Criminal Justice Act 1984; they opposed the establishment of a children’s prison in Loughan House and campaigned to abolish the death penalty (Joe Costello, interview with Author, April 2017). The PRO organised a number of practical initiatives for arrestees, prisoners and their families. Widening its remit beyond a critique of the prison system, it offered advice and practical support to victims of garda brutality. This was a period when ‘individual gardaí took the law into their own hands […] under the cloak of fighting subversion, and politicians played their part in turning a blind eye’ (Ferriter 2014, 327). The activities of the notorious ‘heavy gang’ were publicised in a series of articles in The Irish Times which caused a political storm (Buckley et  al. 1977a, b). Notwithstanding the assertion that the brutality was by individual gardaí and affirmations by the newspaper that ‘the accusations of ill-treatment centre on a small minority of the force’ (Irish Times editorial, 14 February 1977), garda brutality had a much greater impact on working-class communities from where the majority of prisoners originated, especially young men. In certain areas in Dublin, ‘teenagers and youth workers insisted that police beatings of wayward kids was “common”’ (Ferriter 2014, 351–352). The PRO argued that ‘people are being beaten and battered by the gardai all over the country’. It encouraged them to come forward as ‘the more cases that are taken, the more public

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attention will be focussed on police brutality. An end has to be put to the idea that when people are arrested, they are fair game for a hiding’ (Jail Journal no. 3, 1983, 6). The PRO gave practical advice about how to record injuries and get medical evidence. On the back page of each edition of the Jail Journal, it advised readers: ‘If you are ill-treated by the police on arrest or while in custody, make a formal complaint to the Office-in-Charge […] Refuse to be bullied or harassed by the police into pleading guilty or making a statement. When asked for a statement, say “Nothing to Say” and keep repeating it during any questioning’. By 1977, it had established a Prisoners Medical Service, and the Jail Journal informed its readers: ‘If you are ill-treated or have knowledge of anybody being ill-treated in police custody and the local doctor is not available for independent examination then avail of our 24 hour medical service’ (Jail Journal, vol. 2, no. 6). While criticising the lack of government support for families of prisoners, the Cork branch of the PRO began a bus service to bring visitors to various prisons around the country (Jail Journal, vol. 2, no. 6). By the early 1980s, the PRO had established classes for prisoners with literacy difficulties in its Dublin Office (Jail Journal no. 7, October 1983, 4). The PRO recognised that the lack of information and official accounts about life inside prison was giving the public a skewed understanding of the institution. Along with the publication of the Jail Journal, which it claimed had a circulation of up to 3000 copies (Jail Journal vol. 1, no. 12), the PRO published research papers. These included Why are Civilian Prisoners in the Curragh Military Prison? (1972) and Loughan House: a survey of fifty 12–16 year old male offenders from the Sean McDermott Street – Summerhill area of Dublin’s inner city (1978). A number of emerging legal scholars published Prisoners’ Rights: A Study of Irish Prison Law (1981). The PRO was constantly calling for the establishment of an official enquiry into the penal system. There had been no such enquiry since the establishment of the state. When the government refused to undertake this, the PRO decided to establish an enquiry itself, in the late 1970s, under the co-chairmanship of former Minster for External Affairs and Nobel and Lenin Peace Prize winner Sean MacBride, and renowned

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international criminologist, Louk Hulsman. The PRO invited a broad political spectrum to participate in the Commission (interview with Joe Costello, April 2017). Members included Michael D. Higgins, Chairman of the Labour Party, and Mary McAleese, Professor of Criminal Law, both future presidents of the Republic of Ireland. With high-profile and distinguished members, there was potential that their final report might carry some weight. In a wide-ranging report, it quoted a 1946 Labour Party account of the conditions in Portlaoise Prison and agreed with the conclusion that the prison system was then, and continued to be, ‘demoralised and outmoded’ (MacBride 1982, 29). It called for the application of the United Nations Standard Minimum Rules (UNSMR) (1955) in the Prison Rules. The Commission endorsed prisoners’ right to form associations and unions ‘in accordance with Article 40, paragraph 6.1 of the Irish Constitution’. It suggested that: ‘Provision should be made in the Prison Rules for the exercise of their franchise by all prisoners in  local and national elections and referenda’ (MacBride 1982, 93). Prisoners should have legal advice available in the preparation of cases and in the revocation of remission, with the final sanction decided by an independent judicial officer. ‘The accused’, the Commission argued, ‘has the right to be heard, to present evidence, and to cross-examine adverse witnesses, counsel being provided if of benefit to him or her’ (MacBride 1982, 93–94). The Report contended that prisoners’ correspondence should comply with the UNSMR and the European Convention on Human Rights to allow prisoners to complain confidentially to the central prison administration, judicial or other authorities.

The Government Responds Successive governments refused to engage with the PRO.  Despite the credentials of the chair of this Inquiry, the involvement in its deliberations of the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation led the Minister for Justice, Gerard Collins, to refuse to engage with it, because he did not wish ‘to be put in a position of appearing to give some form of official approval for an exercise prompted by the organisation’ (cited in MacBride 1982, 108).

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‘The establishment’, according to Joe Costello, former chair and probably the highest profile of member of the PRO throughout its history, ‘was very much opposed to the Prisoners Rights Organisation. We were seen as troublemakers, raising issues that obviously authorities would prefer weren’t raised. We were highlighting some of the injustices that were taking place in the prison’ (interview with Author, April 2017). The Jail Journal was banned from entering prisons (Jail Journal vol. 1, no. 2). Articles about life inside prison were smuggled out to bypass the censor’s office, and copies were secretly passed back into the prisons. At times, the government tried to prevent members of the PRO from visiting prisoners because they believed they would foment unrest. Allegations that members of the PRO were harassed by gardaí appeared regularly in the Jail Journal (see, e.g., the article by Joe Costello, cited in Jail Journal vol. 2, no. 6). In order to further undermine the legitimacy of the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation, governments were keen to associate the PRO with Official Sinn Féin and Official IRA prisoners. The Prisoners’ Rights Organisation rejected this from the outset. In an article in an early edition of the Jail Journal (vol. 1, no. 2), it stated: ‘The Minister has hinted that we are a front for Sinn Féin. This is not so. The Prisoners’ Rights Organisation is non-political. We welcome members from any part[y] or none, if they are ready to work for prisoners’ rights’. Its ally inside, the Prisoners Union, similarly had to reject accusations that it was front for the Official IRA prisoners. One of those involved pointed out that of the 87 prisoners who initially joined the Prisoners Union in Portlaoise, two were members of the British and Irish Communist Organisation and two were members of Official Sinn Féin (John Kearns, Acting Chair, Committee for Prison Reform, cited in Irish Press, 24 May 1973). The increase in the numbers imprisoned for politically motivated activities in the 1970s complicated matters for organisations campaigning for ordinary prisoners. Along with the conflict between prisoners and prison staff, some of the politically aligned groups were openly hostile to each other, adding to the tension in the prisons. Historically, politically aligned prisoners have sought separation from others in the penal system (McConville 2003, 2013). However, reflecting the split militarily and ideologically outside, differences emerged in attitudes towards ordinary

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prisoners. Provisional IRA prisoners were very keen to distinguish themselves from ordinary prisoners and at times engaged in what they described as ‘militant action’ to pursue their demands, including the ‘removal of non-Republican prisoners […] from the Provisional section’ of Portlaoise Prison (Ruairi O’Bradaigh, cited in Irish Times, 8 January 1975). By contrast, the Official IRA, nominally on ceasefire since 1972, sought to distance itself from the tactics of the Provisional IRA and their campaign for political status (Hanley and Millar 2010). Declaring their left-wing credentials, Official IRA prisoners refused to demand separation from other prisoners, arguing that ‘ordinary prisoners are unconscious political prisoners’ (cited in Hanley and Millar 2010, 211). The PRO was eager not only to reject the allegation that they were a front for Official Sinn Féin but also to distinguish themselves from the dominant group of politically aligned prisoners. During a disturbance by Provisional IRA prisoners in Mountjoy in 1973, Máirín de Burca, one of the leaders of the PRO, pointed out that the organisation was not involved. ‘We seek not the recognition of special status for an elitist group but the immediate implementation, for all prisoners, of a Charter of Prisoners’ Rights’. She urged ‘all prisoners to join with us in our basic demands on behalf of all prisoners’ (cited in Irish Independent, 4 October 1973). With increasing numbers of Provisional IRA prisoners causing disturbances in prisons, governments and prison administrations came to an accomodation with them. Despite public assurances that they would not grant them special category status, they were treated differently than ordinary prisoners (Behan 2018). Initially, the PRO had ‘refrained from commenting on prisoners incarcerated for political crimes, [as] it was concerned with the conditions of all prisoners’ (Irish Times, 29 October 1975), but later it threatened legal action to have the ‘privileges’ accorded to those convicted of politically related activities extended to all prisoners (Irish Times, 12 July 1982). Both Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael were very keen to avoid engagement with the PRO. During the negotiations for the formation of a government in 1982, rival candidates for the office of Taoiseach were canvassing the support of Independent TD, Tony Gregory, who represented a working-­class area of Dublin. The issue of a disproportionate number of inner-city residents being imprisoned was raised. Gregory proposed that

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the government should arrange a meeting with the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation. Gareth FitzGerald refused, as he felt that this was too politically sensitive. While his rival Charles Haughey believed that potentially there could be industrial action by prison officers if he was seen to negotiate or even meet with representative of ‘ordinary’ prisoners, he would agree to a meeting on the issue to be chaired by Sean McBride (Kerrigan 1982). There was still political anxiety about being seen  to meet or negotiate with a prisoner representative organisation officially, for fear of upsetting prison officers and the wider public. However, meeting a former minister with a long record of contribution to Irish public life might be an acceptable way of overcoming this obstacle in such a politically sensitive situation. The closure of the Curragh military detention camp was included as part of the so-called Gregory Deal (Gilligan 2011). Despite repeated calls for its closure, even by its own visiting committee, ordinary prisoners around the Prisoners Union remained in the Curragh military detention camp, which was staffed by soldiers untrained for the task until its closure in 1983 (PRO n.d.). A year after the PRO published their recommendations from their inquiry into the penal system (MacBride 1982), the Council for Social Welfare, a committee of the Irish Catholic Bishops, issued a critical report, The Prison System (1983). These were followed in 1984 with an inquiry under the chairmanship of TK Whitaker, the first government appointed inquiry in the penal system in the history of the state. The Report of the Committee of Inquiry into the Penal System (Whitaker Report) (1985) echoed many of the criticisms from the PRO, and several of its recommendations were similar to the suggestions from the PRO.  Joe Costello made a submission on behalf of the PRO. He was happy with the findings of the Whitaker Report. It was ‘a benchmark for moving forward’. He continued: ‘We felt we achieved what we sought to achieve. We put prison reform on the map’. It was now time to get the policies implemented (Joe Costello: interview with Author, April 2017). Although it was never fully dissolved, the PRO felt it had achieved its mandate and faded away. By the late 1980s, a number of senior members moved on to other positions in Irish public life. Some stood for and were elected to political office; others were appointed to the judiciary, and still others got involved in other social movements.

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Translating Recommendations into Reality Despite various  reports highlighting the acute deficiencies in the Irish penal system, the hope that penal reform would closley follow was not realised. Although the Whitaker Report became a benchmark by which to review progress and conditions in the Irish penal system, translating the recommendations into reality was a far more difficult task. The Irish government’s penal policies remained ‘remote and resistant to influence from pressure groups, campaigners, the churches’ (Tomlinson 1995, 208). The prison system was unreformed, the conditions of confinement stayed the same or, in some cases, deteriorated, and prisoners’ rights were unchanged. As to the penal reform advocated by the PRO, despite the Whitaker Report recommendations, it was not accomplished for decades, and by the first decade of the twenty-first century, the report’s recommendations remained as ‘persuasive today as when they were first made’ (O’Donnell 2008, 126). It was not until the 1990s and early 2000s that conditions within prisons improved, with parts of the prison estate being modernised and the building of new prisons. The end of ‘slopping out’ in Mountjoy—Ireland’s largest prison—did not occur until 2014, with plans to eliminate it in all prisons by 2021 (IPS 2017, 6). Other improvements included the establishment of schools in every prison by the end of the 1980s (Warner 2002). Irish prisoners were allowed to vote in the 2007 general election, with the introduction of legislation to enfranchise all prisoners (Behan 2014, Chapter 3). New prison rules were introduced in 2007, and although the 1947 Rules were routinely ignored, the protracted process in updating them indicated a lack of urgency around penal reform. Under the 2007 Prison Rules, both male and female prisoners were entitled to 25 per cent remission, although they could theoretically benefit from an increase from one-quarter to one-third ‘by engaging in authorised structured activity and the Minister is satisfied that, as a result, the prisoner is less likely to reoffend and will be better able to reintegrate into the community’. This power has been used sparingly. By the beginning of 2009, one person had been granted increased remission, despite hundreds applying for it (Foxe 2009).

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Prison oversight and accountability mechanisms were still hopelessly inadequate at the end of the 1980s. They are still not up to international best practice (IPRT 2017, 59–63). While reports by the Committee for the Prevention of Torture, which visited Ireland for the first time in 1993, have made Irish prisons more transparent, it was not until 2002 that the Office of the Inspector of Prisons was created. It was put on a statutory footing with the Prisons Act 2007. Although legislation has been promised (Behan and Kirkham 2016; IPRT 2017, 61), at the time of writing, Irish prisoners still do not have a fully independent complaints mechanism and have no access to the Ombudsman despite a recommendation by the Whitaker Committee (1985, 16) over 30 years ago. The Portlaoise Prisoners Union argued that the visiting committees were ‘not impartial, are pro the governing body, are blind to the true conditions in the prisons and in fact do not seem to want to know of the deplorable state of the prisons’ (Jail Journal, vol. 1 no. 1). Even when independent reports were indicating that Irish prisons were below acceptable human rights standards, some visiting committees were issuing positive, even glowing, reports. While visiting committees are no longer allowed to mete out punishment, and dietary punishment has been abolished, they are still routinely criticised as being ineffective by both prisoners and penal reformers (see Behan 2014, 164–172; IPRT 2009). As regards the demands from the PRO that all criminal records be destroyed five years after an individual leaves prison, the Criminal Justice (Spent Convictions and Certain Disclosures) Act 2016 was more limited in scope. Specific convictions in the District and Circuit Court can become spent, on certain conditions, after seven years. The PRO called for the appointment of a Prisons Board to administer the prisons, with broad community representation from those ‘with knowledge of and an interest in the welfare of the prisoners, including trade union and prisoner representatives’ (Jail Journal Vol. 1, No. 1). By 2017 the Irish Prison Service was operating as an ‘executive agency within the Department of Justice and Equality’ (IPS 2016, 10). None of the members of the executive agency were appointed as representatives of prisoners.

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Penal Policy and Prison Reform A number of studies about penal policy in the Republic of Ireland have detailed the slow and sometimes idiosyncratic tempo of change (O’Donnell 2008; Rogan 2011, 2012; Kilcommins et al. 2004), with the pace of penal reform being described as ‘grindingly slow’ (O’Donnell 2011, 489). This has been for a variety of reasons. In the early decades of the new state, even though many parliamentarians had spent time in Irish and British penal institutions, they showed little interest in improving conditions, modernising the prison estate or reforming the penal system (Behan 2011). In rejecting the criminalisation of their cause, and particularly to distance their activities from the deeds of other prisoners, the released politicians sought to distinguish their imprisonment from that of ‘ordinary’ prisoners. Along with this, the limited finances of the new state and the low numbers imprisoned meant that penal reform was not a political or social priority, even a generation after the state came into existence. Compared to other countries, there was a ‘stunted understanding’ of prison issues in the Republic of Ireland, and this represented ‘an impediment to sound policy making’ (O’Donnell 2008, 122). During the 1970s and 1980s, Irish society knew little about life inside. The Department of Justice remained hostile to outside observers trying to find out what was going on inside Ireland’s penal institutions. Prisons themselves were not just closed institutions, but penal reformers argued that the Department of Justice enveloped them with a layer of secrecy. Mirroring the glacial pace of social change in Ireland, when penal reform was discussed, this rarely led to more than muted debate among those already involved in prison reform or human and civil rights organisations. Indeed, it was not until 1994 that an NGO specifically to campaign on the issue, the Irish Penal Reform Trust, was established, with the appointment of a full-time executive director in 1997. Another complicating factor impeding innovation in penal policy was the outbreak of the conflict in Northern Ireland, which had a negative impact on the political priorities of governments, especially in the area of criminal justice and penal policy (Brady 2014; Ferriter 2014; Mulcahy

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2002; Conway 2014). As the state responded to protests by politically aligned prisoners in the Republic’s prisons, it also ‘deflected a large amount of attention, resources and energies from “ordinary” prison matters’ (Rogan 2009, 8). Mirroring penal change in other jurisdictions, prisoners and their representatives have rarely been consulted about penal reform. Despite appalling prison conditions, prison administrators and politicians resisted the demands of the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation, rejecting their claim to represent prisoners, and scorned the idea that ordinary or social prisoners had any contribution to make to the debates on penal reform. While conditions in Irish prisons have improved, no politician is likely to ever admit this was as a result of pressure from prisoners or their organisations. Despite government assertions about  the subversive and radical nature of the PRO a it was primarily concerned with penal reform and wider changes within the criminal justice system. Rogan (2011, 145) concludes that one of the ‘main effects of the efforts at agitation on behalf of prisoners during these years served to prompt suspicion, fear and hostility rather than co-operation, understanding and sympathy among policy-­ makers’. Instead of embracing the views of key stakeholders within the penal system—ordinary prisoners and their allies—successive governments undermined their legitimacy, dismissed their right to organise and resisted any attempt at representation.

Conclusion At first glance, it seems the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation had limited immediate impact on the penal system; nevertheless, they brought to the public’s attention the conditions that existed in Irish prisons. They gave a voice to prisoners and ex-prisoners. Through the Jail Journal and other publications, the Prisoners’ Rights Organisation collected and disseminated information in their attempts to encourage public demands  for penal reform. That reform was necessary because of the penal environment that spawned PRO in the early 1970s. Despite the conditions of confinement, governments resisted any attempt by ordinary prisoners, or those who spoke for them, to be given a voice in the debates on penal

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reform. Ireland’s closed institutions would open slowly and somewhat erratically, to the influences of social change, progressive conditions, international standards and European jurisprudence. Penal reform was slow to arrive in the Republic of Ireland, and although the PRO made a contribution to that progress, it remains an ongoing project.

Bibliography Behan, C. 2011. “The Benefit of Personal Experience and Personal Study”: Prisoners and the Politics of Enfranchisement. The Prison Journal 91 (1): 7–31. ———. 2014. Citizen Convicts: Prisoners, Politics and the Vote. Manchester: Manchester University Press. ———. 2018. “We Are All Convicted Criminal’s”: Prisoners, Protest and Penal Politics in the Republic of Ireland. Journal of Social History 52 (2): 501–526. Behan, C., and R.  Kirkham. 2016. Monitoring, Inspection and Complaints Adjudication in Prison: The Limits of Prison Accountability Frameworks. The Howard Journal of Crime and Justice 55 (4): 432–454. Beresford, D. 1987. Ten Men Dead: The Story of the 1981 Hunger Strike. London: Grafton Books. Brady, C. 2014. The Guarding of Ireland: The Garda Siochana and the Irish State 1960–2014. Dublin: Gill and Macmillan. Brennan, P. 1981. Inside Mountjoy. Magill Magazine, January 31. Available at: http://politico.ie/archive/inside-mountjoy. Accessed 16 Jan 2018. Buckley, D., R.  Holohan, and J.  Joyce. 1977a. Gardai Using North-Style Brutality in Interrogation Techniques. Irish Times, February 14. Buckley, D., R. Holohan, and J Joyce. 1977b. “Heavy Gang” Used New Act to Intensify Pressure on Suspects. Irish Times, February 15. Byrne, R., G. Hogan, and P. McDermott. 1981. Prisoners’ Rights: A Study of Irish Prison Law. Dublin: Co-op Books. Campbell, B., L. McKeown, and F. O’Hagan. 1994. Nor Meekly Serve My Time: The H-Block Struggle 1976–1981. Dublin: Beyond the Pale Publications. Conway, V. 2014. Policing Twentieth Century Ireland: A History of An Garda Síochána. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Council for Social Welfare. 1983. The Prison System. Blackrock: Council for Social Welfare. Ferriter, D. 2014. Ambiguous Republic: Ireland in the 1970s. London: Profile Books.

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Fitzgerald, M. 1977. Prisoners in Revolt. London: Penguin. Foxe, K. 2009. Hundreds of Prisoners Apply for New Remission Scheme: Just One Is Approved. The Sunday Tribune, January 25. Gilligan, R. 2011. Tony Gregory. Dublin: The O’Brien Press. Hanley, B., and S. Millar. 2010. The Lost Revolution: The Story of the Official IRA and the Workers’ Party. Dublin: Penguin Ireland. Irish Penal Reform Trust (IPRT). 2009. Complaints, Monitoring and Inspection in Prisons: IPRT Position Paper 7. Dublin: IPRT. ———. 2017. Progress in the Irish Penal System. Dublin: IPRT. Irish Prison Service. 2015. Annual Report 2014. Longford: Irish Prison Service. ———. 2016. Annual Report 2015. Longford: Irish Prison Service. ———. 2017. Annual Report 2016. Longford: Irish prison Service. Irish Times. 1977. The Law [Editorial]. Irish Times, February 14. Kenny, P. 2017. Dance in Chains: Political Imprisonment in the Modern World. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kerrigan, G. 1982. How Haughey Came to Terms with the Gregory Team. Magill Magazine, March 1. Kilcommins, S., I.  O’Donnell, E.  O’Sullivan, and B.  Vaughan. 2004. Crime, Punishment and the Search for Order in Ireland. Dublin: Institute of Public Administration. MacBride, S. 1982. Crime and Punishment. Dublin: Ward River Press. Magill. 1977. Political and Pressure Groups. Magill Magazine, October 2. Available at: http://politico.ie/archive/political-and-pressure-groups. Accessed 4 Nov 2017. McConville, S. 2003. Irish Political Prisoners, 1848–1922: Theatres of War. London/New York: Routledge. ———. 2013. Irish Political Prisoners 1920–1962: Pilgrimage of Desolation. London/New York: Routledge. McEvoy, K. 2001. Paramilitary Imprisonment in Northern Ireland: Resistance, Management and Release. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mulcahy, A. 2002. The Impact of the Northern “Troubles” on Criminal Justice in the Irish Republic. In Criminal Justice in Ireland, ed. Paul O’Mahony. Dublin: Round Hall. O’Donnell, I. 2008. Stagnation and Change in Irish Penal Policy. Howard Journal of Criminal Justice 47 (2): 121–132. ———. 2011. Criminology, Bureaucracy, and Unfinished Business. In What Is Criminology? ed. M. Bosworth and C. Hoyle. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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O’Sullivan, E., and I.  O’Donnell. 2012. Coercive Confinement in Ireland: Patients, Prisoners and Penitents. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Prison Study Group. 1973. An Examination of the Irish Penal System. Dublin: Prison Study Group. Prisoners’ Rights Organisation. 1978. Loughan House: A Survey of Fifty 12–16 Year Old Male Offenders from the Sean McDermott Street – Summerhill Area of Dublin’s Inner City. PRO. ———. n.d. Why Are Civilian Prisoners in the Curragh Military Prison? PRO. Rogan, M. 2009. Prison Policy in Ireland: A Historical Overview. Prison Service Journal 186: 3–12. ———. 2011. Prison Policy in Ireland: Politics, Penal-Welfarism and Political Imprisonment. Oxford: Routledge. ———. 2012. Rehabilitation, Research and Reform: Prison Policy in Ireland. Irish Probation Journal 6: 6–32. Ryan, M. 2003. Penal Policy and Political Culture in England and Wales. Winchester: Waterside Press. Tomlinson, M. 1995. Imprisoned Ireland. In Western European Penal Systems, ed. V. Ruggiero, M. Ryan, and J. Sim. London: Sage. Waller, I., and J.  Chan. 1974. Prison Use: Canadian and International Comparison. Criminal Law Quarterly 17 (1): 47–71. Warner, K. 2002. Widening and Deepening the Education We Offer Those in Prison: Reflections from Irish and European Experience. Journal of Correctional Education 53 (1): 32–37. Whitaker, T.K. 1985. Report of the Committee of Inquiry into the Penal System. Dublin: The Stationery Office.

‘A Virtually Self-Contained Community’: Unorthodox Containment and Prisoner Autonomy in the Maze/Long Kesh Compounds Erin Hinson

Within the penological history of Ireland, few prisons differ from the conventional form of cellular confinement. Unconventional forms of containment, such as internment, were used sporadically and temporarily throughout the twentieth century, usually during periods of civic unrest or violence. The compound system of containment, utilized by the British government at both the Maze/Long Kesh and Magilligan1 sites during  Maze, Long Kesh, and Magilligan are provincial places names. Long Kesh was the name of the RAF base and internment centre. In 1972, the British government changed the site’s name to HMP (Her Majesty’s Prison) Maze. At the time, the Long Kesh centre had garnered unwanted political associations with a prisoner of war camp, and it was therefore deemed necessary to change the name to ‘remove’ the politicized association. Although the formal name remained HMP Maze until the prison’s closure in 2000, most former prisoners, from both the compound and H-block systems refer to the prison as Long Kesh. Taking these mixed nomenclatures into consideration, this chapter will use the combined terms. 1

E. Hinson (*) Abbey Research, Pittsburgh, PA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 F. McCann (ed.), The Carceral Network in Ireland, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7_6

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the conflict, represents the most consistent and permanent use of unconventional imprisonment maintained on the island of Ireland.2 However, since Northern Irish prison scholarship almost exclusively focuses on cellular confinement, represented by the cellular formatted Maze H-block prison, minimal research exists relating to the Maze/Long Kesh compounds. Within this focus, scholarship largely analyses the period of protest in the H-blocks, covering the ‘dirty’ and hunger strikes protests from 1976 to 1981 (O’Hearn 2006; Coogan 2002; McKeown 2001). Due to this limited scope, the compound system, which both preceded and operated simultaneously alongside the H-blocks, represents an unorthodox and under-researched method of penal containment unique to the island. In recognizing this substantial gap in current literature, this chapter seeks to illustrate the main components of the compound system and will detail both the structure and operation of the compounds. This distinct structure and operational procedure limited normative levels of prison authority and prisoner control, facilitating the development of an unorthodox level of prisoner autonomy, more usually associated with First and Second World War prisoner-of-war camps. This unorthodox structure and autonomy resulted in the control of compound operations by the paramilitary organizations. With almost absolute control of their prison environment, paramilitary leadership implemented a regime that encouraged prisoners to focus on their paramilitary routine, physical fitness, and educational opportunities. Drawn from field research conducted in Northern Ireland from 2014 to 2016, this chapter will present narratives of former Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) and Red Hand Commando (RHC) compound prisoners to  The Maze/Long Kesh compounds opened as an internment centre in September 1971, following the introduction of internment in August. Sentenced prisoners were transferred from the conventionally formatted Crumlin Road prison to the Maze/Long Kesh compounds following the concession of special category status in June 1972. The compound prison system remained open until 1988, when the remaining prisoners were transferred to a designated H-block in the Maze cellular prison. The Magilligan compounds opened in 1973 to accommodate the increased prisoner population at the height of the conflict. Magilligan prison closed in 1975 and the remaining prisoners were transferred to the Maze/Long Kesh compounds. Within Northern Ireland prison scholarship, no scholars have yet to analyse or document the history, operation, or prisoner narratives of the Magillian compounds, representing a significant gap in academic scholarship on conflict-era prisons. 2

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discuss how further opportunities for group and individual autonomy were facilitated by paramilitary leadership. The regime developed by the leadership of the UVF/RHC3 illustrates the dialectic relationship between the physical structure of the compound system and its unorthodox operations. These narratives will demonstrate how the group and individual identities were fostered and altered through the combination of the prison structure and paramilitary regime. The distinct nature of the compound environment and paramilitary regime created narratives of imprisonment unique to the island of Ireland. Further study of these structures and regimes reveals a more complex and nuanced understanding of not only the history of imprisonment during the conflict but also the impact of unorthodox methods of containment.

Twentieth-Century Prisons in Northern Ireland The partition of Ireland into the Northern Irish State and Irish Free State in 1922 ensured that penal policies in Northern Ireland followed the regulations set by the British government as opposed to any policies implemented by the fledgling Irish state. However, the devolution of political powers meant that the Northern Irish government did not have to accept all penal provisions adopted by the British parliament. This resulting consequence of devolution, combined with periods of civil unrest and intercommunal violence throughout the first half of the century that kept concerns of national security at the forefront of penal provisions, left Northern Irish prisons significantly underdeveloped in comparison to counterparts in Great Britain (Hillyard 1978, 119). When sustained intercommunal conflict re-emerged during the civil rights movement in the late 1960s, the Northern Irish government  The UVF reformed in 1965, responding to the perceived threat of republicanism and the liberal policies of Prime Minister Terrence O’Neill (Reed 2015, 39; Novosel 2013, 16). Some debate exists on the date of formation for the RHC, but more recent accounts trace their development to 1970 (Smith 2014). In 1972, the leadership of the UVF and the RHC signed a joint agreement stating the combination of their operations. Within this statement, a special provision was made for UVF and RHC prisoners, stating all prisoners in those groups would fall under UVF leadership (UVF/ RHC Agreement 1972). There were senior RHC members in leadership positions in the compounds, but all UVF/RHC prisoners fell under Spence’s overall command. 3

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operated a prison service which was decidedly unprepared and unable to deal with the dramatic rise in prisoner population (Hillyard 1978, 119). This lack of preparation combined with an underdeveloped penal system directly led to the reliance on an unconventional form of containment at the Maze/Long Kesh compounds. By 1968, the largest and most used prison in Northern Ireland was the Victorian-era Crumlin Road Gaol. With increasing violence, arrests, and convictions towards the end of the decade, the Crumlin Road quickly developed issues with overcrowding and deteriorating physical structures. In response to the mounting violence on the streets, the Northern Irish government began to consider alternative security responses to the violence. During the previous outbreaks of intercommunal violence (1920–22, 1938–45, and 1956–62), the Northern Irish government instituted internment as a response to the usually republican-led violence (McGuffin 1973). Faced with the return of violent campaigns, both republican and loyalist, the government decided to re-implement internment without trial. Utilizing military support from British regiments stationed in Northern Ireland, Operation Demetrius began on August 8, 1971. Internment represented a distinct recognition of the political nature of the conflict (McEvoy 2001), and in preparation for the increase in the prison population, the government constructed an internment centre on a disused Second World War-era Royal Air Force (RAF) base located south of Belfast (Challis 1999). While those interned under suspicion of political violence were taken to the internment centre at Long Kesh, those arrested under suspicion of political violence were taken to the already overcrowded Crumlin Road Gaol. The two prisons differed in their physical structure and modes of operation. The Crumlin Road, designed in the mid-nineteenth century along with the Benthamian concepts of power and control (Challis 1999), represented a conventional cellular prison, whereas the Long Kesh internment centre, constructed from makeshift Nissan huts and the remaining structures of the RAF base, effectively functioned as a prisoner-­ of-­war camp. Operated originally with the aid of the British Army, the internment centre grouped paramilitary internees based on political affiliation and allowed for a group and individual autonomy antithetical of conventional cellular models.

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When both loyalist and republican paramilitary groups held in the Crumlin Road became aware of the distinction in classification between internees and sentenced prisoners, they began to organize in protest against the different treatments (Crawford 1979). Due to the escalating violence and unstable security situation, the British government implemented Direct Rule in Northern Ireland in March 1972. Loyalist and republican groups contained in the Crumlin Road Gaol had already begun protests for official recognition of political status and equal treatment to the internees. With the combination of deteriorating structural conditions, drastic overcrowding, and the combined paramilitary protests, the British government awarded special category status to all politically motivated prisoners in June 1972 (Garland 2001; Taylor 2000; Green 1998).4 The awarding of special category status, de facto political status, had direct ramifications for the further development of the compound system of containment at the Long Kesh internment centre.

 aze/Long Kesh Compounds Structure M and Operations As mentioned above, the physical structure of the internment centre compounds impacted the operational procedures of the Northern Ireland Prison Service (NIPS) and consequently the operational procedures of the paramilitary organizations housed at the site. Utilizing the makeshift accommodation already present on the site, the remaining Nissan huts from the Long Kesh RAF base, the British Army placed the huts alongside the runways. Each individual compound comprised four huts and held upwards of 80 prisoners at maximum capacity. Individual compounds were separated by a 12-foot wire fence, and the four huts were enclosed in approximately a 70 by 30-foot yard (Purbrick 2004). The internal structure of the huts consisted of an open floor plan and  Special category status consisted of six concessions: one half-hour visit per week, unlimited incoming and outgoing mail, one food parcel per week, and most significantly for the political identifications of the prisoners, the right to wear personal clothing at all times, the right to free association with other prisoners, and no requirement to perform work for the prison authorities (Crawford 1982). 4

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prisoners were given army-style cots to line the walls. Eventually, prisoners created semi-primate living quarters by improvising cubicles out of hardboard materials. This had the effect of giving prisoners privacy, anywhere from one to three prisoners lived in each cubicle, and the remaining space created a central corridor for communal use (Green 1998; Crawford 1982). Because of this physical structure, prisoners or internees gained both individual and group autonomy. The physical structure of each compound allowed for their interaction with the other prisoners held in their compound, but limited their interaction with other prisoners to visiting areas or the prison hospital. Within this physical structure, the segregation of compound internees and prisoners intensified the prisoner-of-war camp style of operation. The first sentenced prisoners, following the introduction of special category status, arrived at the compounds in December 1972 (Green 1998). Due to the initially high number of internees, by the start of 1972, there were five compounds and approximately 400 internees at the internment centre. Following the introduction of sentenced prisoners, the compound population and size reached its highest point in 1974 with 22 compounds and close to 2000 inmates (Ryder 2000). Similarly to the internees, the prison officers grouped and segregated sentenced prisoners based on their political affiliation, separating republican and loyalist factions into different compounds, and even different areas of the prison site. In recognizing the political affiliation and motivation of paramilitary prisoners, the British government and NIPS reinforced the unorthodox structure and operational style of the compound system of containment. Yet, paramilitary leaders within the compounds further reinforced this political identification through their use of the physical structure and the creation of paramilitary operational procedures within each grouping. This structure significantly altered the normative patterns of power relations within the prison because it took most power from the prison officers and gave it to the paramilitary leadership. Crawford argued the most distinctive change in an incarcerated person’s processes of self-­ identification occurs with what he described as ‘the translation from normal to discredited’ (1979, 16; see also Goffman 2006, 174). The unconventional structure of the compound system disrupted this translation process because the prison had a physical and operational structure

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that allowed paramilitary leadership to encourage and facilitate individual and group autonomy (Garland 2001; McEvoy 2001). When compared to forms of cellular imprisonment, like the Crumlin Road Gaol, where the prison authorities controlled the innate power relations, the compound system remained more psychologically beneficial for the prisoners because it allowed for paramilitary leadership to establish a different meaning of imprisonment for both individual prisoners and paramilitary groupings (Crawford 1979, 13). Foucault articulated this translation process by contending that the interactions which take place between the prison authorities and the prisoners affect the psychological transformation of each individual prisoner (Foucault 1977, 125). Since paramilitary leadership held relatively absolute control over the operation of the compounds, these transformative processes did not occur on levels similar to the normative power relations of a conventional prison. The combination of the unconventional method of containment and the politicized nature of the groups held within made the compound system an unmatched penal site on the island of Ireland. Without question, the prisoners’ prescription to a politically motivated identification also limited their transformation process from paramilitary member to prisoner or inmate. Most former UVF/RHC compound prisoners, as well as academic scholars, credit Gusty Spence, the UVF/RHC compound commander with fostering these politicized and militaristic identities (Novosel 2013; Sinnerton 2002; Garland 2001). In speaking about his own political identification, Spence contended that he ‘never looked upon myself as being anything other than a political prisoner’ (Garland 2001, 85). Each former prisoner interviewed during field research attested to the necessity of the political prisoner identity construct. Compound routines, regimes, and structures developed by paramilitary leaders reinforced their individual and group identifications and will be addressed in the subsequent section. Having established the unorthodox nature of the compound system and its impact on innate power structures of confinement, a brief exploration of the operational history of the compounds is warranted. Questions remain regarding the long-term thought processes of the

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British government regarding the feasibility of special category status.5 Few scholars have written about or uncovered documented statements regarding the governmental philosophy behind special category status. Since the focus of Northern Irish prison scholarship remains on the H-block prison system and the protests that took place therein, scholars have neglected to further investigate evidence of the government’s intentionality or implementation strategies for the compound system. McEvoy argued that the compounds signified a ‘rather crude military-­ led response to political violence,’ which is supported both in the use of makeshift military accommodation and the British Army’s assisting role in operating the prison (McEvoy 2001, 204). Intercommunal violence reached its peak from 1971 to 1975 (McKittrick and McVea 2000), and it is likely that government responses to increasing violence included many temporary measures designed to immediately impact violence in the province. Several academic publications confirm this chapter’s assertion that the creation of special category status and the compound system of confinement represented a direct challenge to the traditional power structures of the NIPS (McEvoy 2001; Crawford 1979; Hillyard 1978). By 1974, 71% of all male prisoners were held in either the Maze/Long Kesh or Magilligan compounds, and it was at this time that the British government began to investigate the inherent limitations and prolonged implications of the special category status compounds (Hillyard 1978, 132). In 1974, the British government commissioned Lord Gardiner to form a committee with the purpose of analysing and reporting on the state of the compound prison. The Gardiner report, delivered to Her Majesty’s government in 1975, concluded that the compounds were a ‘virtually self-contained community’ where traditional forms of ‘rehabilitation work is impossible’ (Gardiner 1975). Faced with the damaging political ramifications of this report, the British government announced the end of special category status, effective March 1, 1976. Though the compound system operated until 1988, the decision to end special category status for all new and incoming prisoners significantly impacted the  William Whitelaw, the British Prime Minister that conceded special category status did admit in later years that he had made a mistake in instituting the policy (McKittrick and McVea, 137). 5

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compound’s prison population, as well as the history of paramilitary confinement in Northern Ireland. Prisoners convicted prior to March 1976 kept their ‘political’ status, but new prisoners convicted after the 1st of March were assigned criminal status and sent to the newly opened H-block styled cellular prison. Crawford contended that the government’s distinction between political and criminal paramilitary prisoners ‘created a double anomaly: after an arbitrarily chosen date, terrorism became criminality’ (1979, 91).6 The combination of the compound prison system and ‘political’ prisoner status, what scholars have deemed ‘reactive containment’ due to the British government’s perceived reactivity in conceding political status, denotes notable differences in the philosophy and practice of prison operation in Northern Ireland (McEvoy 2001). Though few scholars have specifically studied the period of compound containment, Crawford (1979) argued early into its operation that the prisoners who retained special category status, and their treatment by prison authorities, were exceptional within British penal history. Within this treatment, it is necessary to further consider how the structure of the ‘virtually self-­contained community’ at the Maze/Long Kesh compounds worked in conjunction with paramilitary regimes such as the one implemented and enforced by Gusty Spence. Spence’s regime was inextricably linked to the processes of group and self-identification that continuously evolved for prisoners under his command. The remaining sections of this chapter will outline Spence’s philosophy of imprisonment and prisoner narratives regarding the maintenance of their group and individual autonomy through these distinct prison structures and modes of operation.  Without question, the creation of this ‘double anomaly’ motivated republican and loyalist prisoners to commence prison protests immediately following the introduction of criminalization. Newly classified prisoners began refusing prison issue clothing by the autumn of 1976 and began a period of protest, violence, and unrest on the Maze/Long Kesh site that continued for a further five years (McKittrick and McVea 2000, 138). Though most histories of the Maze/Long Kesh prison cease to reference special category prisoners or the compound system following March 1976, this chapter argues the relative closeness of the compounds to the H-blocks would have further motivated protesting prisoners. Members of the same organizations, who had committed similar violent acts before March 1976 retained political status and rights and were housed several 100 yards away throughout the duration of the protest period. In arguing for the virulence and significance of the protest period, this geographical, political, and emotional consideration is often overlooked, if referenced at all. 6

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The UVF/RHC Prison Regime By the introduction of special category status in June 1972, Gusty Spence had already spent six years in the Crumlin Road Gaol. Arrested and convicted of murder in 1966, a year after the reformation of the Ulster Volunteer Force, Spence accepted a leadership position early into his sentence. One of the most well-known loyalist political figures of the conflict, Spence’s life, including his 18 years in prison, is detailed extensively in Roy Garland’s biography. Often referred to as the ‘father of modern loyalism’ there is not a narrative of the UVF/RHC compound prison experience that does not detail the scale and significance of Spence’s leadership. Spence was one of the first loyalist prisoners transferred following the implementation of special category status, as he had been a leading loyalist in the Crumlin Road protests for political status. Spence’s philosophy of imprisonment and his treatment of men under his command had a considerable influence on the structure, operation, and social world of the UVF/RHC prison environment (Novosel 2013; Reed 2011; Sinnerton 2002; Garland 2001). Reflecting the structure of the original UVF, formed in 1912 to combat the perceived threat of Home Rule, the second incarnation adopted a hierarchical and autocratic command structure. Enforcing a regimented command structure and routine proved difficult for the UVF when operating out of the traditionally formatted Crumlin Road Gaol. Though groups did manage to perform some aspects of the paramilitary routine such as parading, the increased prisoner autonomy and paramilitary control of the prison environment at the Maze/Long Kesh compounds afforded them the ability to run their organizations within those parameters (Garland 2001). Having served with the Royal Ulster Rifles (RUR) in Cyprus, and functioning as the commanding officer for the UVF/ RHC in the compounds, Spence used his prior military experience to implement a strict routine to daily life (Sinnerton 2002). Many former prisoners argued that the regime created through Spence’s command, where he implemented military-style parading and drilling, cleaning and maintenance duties, and provided opportunities for physical fitness and educational classes, facilitated group cohesion and purpose as well as

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encouraging individual growth and reflection (Sinnerton 2002; Green 1998; Snodden 1996). By gaining power and control over the physical spaces of imprisonment through the restructuring of the compounds and the autonomy of special category status, Spence set out to alter the perception of their spaces of confinement. He argued that by making changes to the physical environment and implementing the militaristic routine, the compounds were ‘no longer a Nissan hut or a prison … it became a loyalist barracks’ (Garland 2001, 308). These physical alterations helped encourage the psychological interpretation of the prison as a political space for political prisoners, as opposed to a criminal space for ordinary criminals.7 Spence used his prior military experience to create a ‘loyalist barracks,’ creating systems of order and control in place of the normative systems found in a conventional prison. Symbolically renaming the compounds, classifying them as military barracks, further solidified and reinforced the politicized and militarized identities of those under Spence’s command.8 Many former prisoners articulated that this prison routine was part of Spence’s intentional psychological approach to long-term imprisonment. He claimed that performing these activities helped divert the mind from the reality of imprisonment—deprivation, isolation, and loss of freedom (Goffman 2006; Sykes 2006; Garland 2001, 204). He also recognized the importance of practicality regarding his psychological philosophy, stating ‘Not only did I have to take a practical approach; I also had to take a psychological approach with the policies I was implementing’ (Garland 2001, 204). Acknowledging the necessity of this twin-track approach to prisoner management, Spence implemented policies which worked on a practical level while delivering a psychological benefit to the UVF/RHC prisoners. This combined approach was integral to the largely successful regime. Within any organized set of policies and activities, dissension is  Former compound prisoners confirmed that they referred to prisoners convicted of non-political offenses as ‘ordinary, decent criminals,’ or ‘ODCs.’ This linguistic distinction is important for understanding the significance of political prisoner identification during the conflict. The origin of the term is unknown. 8  Due to his fascination with British and Irish military history and the connection between the first UVF and the First World War, all UVF/RHC compound huts were named after battles from the First World War (Garland). This renaming added to the militarized perception of the physical space of imprisonment. 7

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to be expected. Not every prisoner invested in the regime, but those that did speak highly of its impact on their overall prison experience. In speaking about the intentionality of the regime and Spence’s goal, former compound prisoner David Ervine claimed: Such a regime was Spence’s statement to the prison authorities, and especially to UVF volunteers, that since a war was being fought, their capture and imprisonment rendered them prisoners of that war, and they must expect to be treated as such. They were not to be considered, or consider themselves, as criminals. There was to be no disintegration of morale or discipline, and since Spence was the UVF camp commanding officer, discipline would emanate from him. (Sinnerton 2002, 41)

Though not all prisoners bought in to the benefit of that discipline, it was clear that Spence provided a structure and routine that was in dual parts about facilitating survival and providing discipline and guidance to the men under his command. Different aspects of the regime benefited different prisoners, and as such, the remaining section of this chapter will address prisoner narratives relating to the development of increased autonomy and self-identification through physical fitness, education, and handicraft production.

Prison Routines in a Self-Contained Community Perhaps the most dominant theme of prisoner narratives uncovered through this research was both the difficulty and the need for prisoners to manage the passage of time. For those that engaged in Spence’s regime and routine, participating in the myriad of activities both required and optional allowed them to structure and manage the time of their sentence.9,10 These activities became part of a strict routine to social life  Several research participants were given indeterminate sentences, and referred to themselves as SOSPs because they were serving at the Secretary of State’s pleasure. For these prisoners who did not know when they would be released, time management and occupation were incredibly important to their psychological maintenance. 10  Several research participants were given indeterminate sentences, and referred to themselves as SOSPs because they were serving at the Secretary of State’s pleasure. For these prisoners who did 9

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that was implemented by Spence at the outset of the special category compounds (Green 1998).11 While talking to former compound prisoners during fieldwork, they recalled their participation in these activities which ranged from daily maintenance of their living quarters, usually through assigned duties, conducting and taking educational courses, military-­style drilling and parading, competitive sports, and handicraft production. Most research participants spoke about their own personal engagement in the routine, and how it helped structure their everyday lives. John Craig, a former UVF compound prisoner, stated that ‘everybody had a role to play with regards to the cleaning and upkeep of the cages themselves’ and recalled how during designated free periods prisoners could perform more personal activities such as taking courses, exercising, reading, or making handicrafts.12 Each hut and compound had a daily rota of assigned tasks as well as an hourly schedule to provide structure and routine to each day (Green 1998). These daily tasks, part of the quotidian within the compound environment, can be considered a form of ritual practice. In her writing on Magdalene homes, De Cunzo wrote about the ‘daily rituals that structured life’ and allowed for the recontextualization of the space within the new definitions set by Spence’s routine (2006, cited in Casella 2007, 74). By recontextualizing the physical spaces of the compounds, both through changing the physical appearance and by implementing an embodied routine, Spence helped further facilitate the construction and enforcement of political prisoner identifications. These embodied ritual performances, where prisoners enacted daily their participation in a paramilitary organization, distinguished the compound prison system from traditionally formatted prisons. The ability to perform these identifications in the shared social spaces of the compounds continuously undermined the limited normative power relations. not know when they would be released, time management and occupation were incredibly important to their psychological maintenance. 11  Spence was released from the compounds in 1985 but resigned his position as compound commander by the late 1970s. Most former prisoners recalled how the strictness of the routine did not last throughout their sentence, particularly after several changes in leadership and Spence’s release. 12  Both republican and loyalist prisoners referred to the compounds as ‘cages’ as a part of their politicized language regarding their treatment as ‘prisoners of war’ and their emotional relationship to their spaces of confinement.

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Within this ‘virtually self-contained community’ compound prisoners actively engaged in performing the aspects of their political identity which created a higher sense of autonomy and group cohesion. Sinnerton’s analysis found that Spence ‘provided a framework which prevented young men from becoming individualised, the means by which prison authorities maintain their power over prisoners’ (Sinnerton 2002, 42). In traditionally formatted prisons, if prison authorities can first keep prisoners isolated from each other, they can gradually begin enforcing the transformational process from individualized person to de-individualized prisoner (Goffman 2006). Spence’s regime subverted this process by emphasizing the importance of group activities and a sense of belonging which became an essential element in the formation of their prison identifications. Billy Hutchinson, a former compound commander, recognized the intentionality behind Spence’s structured regime. He argued that: Gusty prepared a situation in Long Kesh where people didn’t have idle hands. You used your time constructively. He wanted you to exercise your brain and your body. ‘You don’t think about it. You get out there and train and also do something mentally.’ Not everyone did all those things. Maybe some did one thing, maybe some didn’t do any of it at all, but some of us took part in it all. The opportunity was there. (Sinnerton 2002, 44)

Hutchinson has long been a vocal advocate for the benefits of Spence’s regime, but his sentiments were supported by most research participants and they joined in some aspect of the activities offered through the structured regime. These activities became an integral part of the prisoners’ adaptation to the unorthodox form of containment at the compounds, as well as their performance of their politicized group and individual identities. How the prisoners understood themselves as political prisoners was supported by their participation in the militarized routine, maintenance of their physical and intellectual health, and production of handicrafts. As Ervine stated above, these activities created a regime that emphasized the necessity of discipline and self-control. Though each prisoner chose activities on an individual level, most participants spoke about the communal environment created through the systems of discipline and

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control. James Wilson, a former UVF prisoner, spoke about the positive effect of the disciplined routine and the necessity of having discipline and order, particularly with groups of men confined to shared living and social quarters. For most former prisoners, the three most popular activities were physical fitness, education, and handicraft production. Further into his recollection, James asserted that ‘physical exercise always works, you know. It focuses your mind.’ Several participants spoke about the benefits of ‘training’ or physical exercise. For many, it became an important part of their daily regimes, either running around the perimeter of the compound fences, or lifting weights, or playing on organized sports teams. Within these collective activities, there was also time and space for individual pursuits. Richard Warren, a former UVF prisoner, remembered that there would have been prisoners ‘doing their own handicrafts, you’d have had people studying, you’d have had people training, and quite a lot of people would have been listening to their own music and reading.’ The benefits of special category status, from the physical and operational structure, created a void of prison activity that was filled both with Spence’s militarized structure and the opportunity for personal reflection and development. Each prisoner was free to prioritize their own goals, a level of individual autonomy which was created and encouraged by Spence and his routine. Dave Smith admitted that he worked on handicraft production ‘virtually’ every day of his sentence and that he divided his time up between studying, training, and ‘making my artwork.’ All of these activities served to divert the minds of prisoners from the reality of prolonged confinement. For several participants, the educational opportunities provided by Spence became their most important prison activity. Early into his time at Maze/Long Kesh, Spence attempted to bring formalized education, in the form of Open University courses, to the UVF/RHC compounds (Green 1998). Until the formalized educational structures were approved, and as early as 1973, Spence conducted informal lectures on politics and history within the spaces dedicated for handicraft making and studying. For John Craig, the educational courses in the compounds allowed him to continue an educational path that was cut short when he left school at 15 to join the Young Citizens Volunteers (YCV), the youth wing of the

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UVF. John eventually obtained his O levels as well as an undergraduate degree from the Open University. When John spoke about the educational structure in the compounds, he recalled that ‘there was a designated study space in our cages, in the UVF cages, there was a study hut.’ As previously mentioned, each compound contained four Nissan huts, three of which were used solely for accommodation, with the final hut acting as a designated social space for prisoners. Within the ‘study hut,’ as it was commonly referred to, prisoners had the space to work on handicrafts, listen to music, study, and exercise. Designating spaces for particular activities added to the structure and routine of the prisoners’ daily lives. Furthermore, these designated spaces also reinforced both the individual and group political identities for UVF/RHC prisoners that adhered to the prison regime. Richard Warren, a former UVF prisoner, played soccer, gained a degree in mathematics and computing, and made handicrafts throughout his sentence. Through analysing Richard’s recollection of the practical difficulties completing his computing degree, it is easier to understand the discipline necessary to pursue academic advancement within this distinct environment. Richard remembered that though they initially had access to a computer for their coding, the prison authorities eventually removed that access and he stated, ‘whenever you were doing your programming you would be writing up something, coding, doing some coding, and having to mail that off for somebody else to key it into a computer, compile it, and send it back to you to test it.’ For Richard, the constant process of sending errors back and forth between the testers was ‘extremely difficult and frustrating.’ This glimpse into the everyday routine of the educational courses, allows for a more considered understanding of prisoners’ multifaceted mechanisms for survival. Richard’s commitment to educational programming is further evidence of the compound prisoners generally autonomy but also their willingness to participate in any activity that would help occupy their minds and pass the time of their imprisonment. Though Spence believed in the importance of creating a communal environment through a structured and militaristic routine, individual variations within these processes and performances are also an integral part of understanding the distinctness of the compound environment. Andrew Jones, a former RHC prisoner,

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argued that recognizing the individuality of prisoner’s experiences is important and ‘that’s worth noting, that people did them for different reasons … and again it was about getting an hour in, you know.’ Faced with prolonged and in some cases indeterminate sentences, compound prisoners filled their days with a range of structured and unstructured activities that maintained both group and individual identity constructs on political and social levels. This chapter has shown how the unorthodox operational and physical structure of the compound prison created a void of prisoner activity by removing the normative power relations enforced by authorities in traditionally formatted prisons. Andrew’s final statement concludes that perhaps the most important part of any activity was that it helped pass the time. Whether speaking about making handicrafts, participating in physical fitness or education, most participants conceptualized the significance of these activities in the way they helped them develop discipline and focus, on their provision of a diversion, and on their ability to help pass the time.

Conclusion Though many in Northern Ireland, including most former prisoners and combatants, refer to the conflict as a ‘war,’ politicized representations have ensured its classification as an intercommunal conflict, or more colloquially, ‘the Troubles.’ Because of this classification, explicit recognition of the political nature of the conflict by government offices and authorities was limited to certain historical periods. During one of these initial periods, the government created a method of containment and operational structure which would prove unique on the island of Ireland. Despite this unique status, few scholars, if any, have addressed the history of the compound prison system and paramilitary experiences therein. Since specialized attention has been paid to republican prison experiences, relating to the prison protest period from 1976 to 1981, loyalist narratives of imprisonment represent a gap within Northern Ireland prison scholarship. Through discussing and analysing the physical structure and operational parameters of the compound prison system, this chapter has

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illustrated the distinct form of imprisonment that accompanied special category status. Utilizing historical records and prisoner narratives, this chapter outlined the creation and implementation of a specialized prison routine crafted by UVF/RHC commander Gusty Spence. Influenced by Spence’s militarized approach to prisoner management, the special category prisoners took advantage of numerous opportunities for collective and individual expressions of political identities. Operating as a ‘virtually self-contained community,’ the prison allowed for high levels of group and personal autonomy. Prisoners participated in military-style parading, educational courses, physical fitness programmes, and handicraft production. Each of these activities benefited the prisoners on a psychological and physical level. By providing activities which required focus and dedication, Spence created opportunities for prisoners to practice self-­ discipline and control, while facilitating their own performances of politicized and personal identifications. All the former prisoners referenced in this chapter credit Spence’s systemic approach to order and routine with providing a relatively positive and encouraging prison environment. Though the British government eventually determined that real ‘rehabilitation’ was impossible within the compound’s distinct structure and operation, most former prisoners cite the unique circumstances of their confinement as providing them opportunities for personal growth and reflection. In studying the history of different forms of imprisonment, it is possible to adapt approaches to contemporary methods of confinement, particularly when considering the treatment of prisoners, and the availability of resources that could help with skill development and transformational processes. Though most contemporary prisons now offer educational opportunities and methods of personal growth, it was certainly unorthodox within the context of penal history in Northern Ireland.

Bibliography Casella, E.C. 2007. The Archaeology of Institutional Confinement. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Challis, J. 1999. The Northern Ireland Prison Service, 1920–1990: A History. Belfast: Northern Ireland Prison Service.

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Coogan, T.P. 2002. On the Blanket: The Inside Story of the IRA Prisoners’ “Dirty” Protest. New York: Palgrave. Crawford, C. 1979. Long Kesh: An Alternative Perspective. Msc Thesis. Cranfield Institute of Technology. ———. 1982. The Compound System: An Alternative Penal Strategy. The Howard Journal of Penology and Crime Prevention 21 (1): 155–158. De Cunzo, L.A. 2006. Exploring the Institution: Reform, Confinement, Social Change. In Historical Archaeology, ed. M. Hall and S.W. Silliman, 167–189. Oxford: Blackwell. Foucault, M. 1977. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Trans. A. Sheridan. London: Penguin Books. Gardiner, Lord. 1975. Report of a Committee to Consider, in the Context of Civil Liberties and Human Rights, Measures to Deal with Terrorism in Northern Ireland. Belfast: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office. Garland, R. 2001. Gusty Spence. Belfast: Blackstaff Press. Goffman, E. 2006. Asylums: Essays on the Social Situation of Mental Patients and Other Inmates. In Prison Readings: A Critical Introduction to Prisons and Imprisonment, ed. Y.  Jewkes and H.  Johnston, 174–180. Portland: Willan Publishing. Green, M. 1998. The Prison Experience  – A Loyalist Perspective, Research Document No. 1. Belfast: EPIC. Hillyard, P. 1978. Police and Penal Services. In Violence and the Social Services in Northern Ireland, ed. J.  Darby and A.  Williamson, 117–139. London: Heinemann Educational Books, Ltd. McEvoy, K. 2001. Paramilitary Imprisonment in Northern Ireland: Resistance, Management and Release. Oxford: Oxford University Press. McGuffin, J. 1973. Internment. Tralee, County Kerry: Anvil Books, Ltd. McKeown, L. 2001. Out of Time: Irish Republican Prisoners, Long Kesh, 1972–2000. Belfast: Beyond the Pale. McKittrick, D., and D.  McVea. 2000. Making Sense of the Troubles. Belfast: Blackstaff Press. Novosel, T. 2013. Northern Ireland’s Lost Opportunity: The Frustrated Promise of Political Loyalism. London: Pluto Press. O’Hearn, D. 2006. Bobby Sands: Nothing But An Unfinished Song. London: Pluto Press. Purbrick, L. 2004. The Architecture of Containment. In The Maze, ed. D. Wylie, 91–110. London: Granta Books. Reed, R. 2011. Blood, Thunder and Rosettes: The Multiple Personalities of Paramilitary Loyalism Between 1971 and 1988. Irish Political Studies 26 (1): 45–71.

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———. 2015. Paramilitary Loyalism: Identity and Change. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Ryder, C. 2000. Inside the Maze: The Untold Story of the Northern Ireland Prison Service. London: Methuen. Sinnerton, H. 2002. David Ervine: Uncharted Waters. London: Brandon Press. Smith, W. 2014. Inside Man: Loyalists of Long Kesh  – The Untold Story. Newtownards: Colourpoint Press. Snodden, M. 1996. Culture Behind the Wire. Journal of Prisoners on Prison, Special Issue, Loyalist Prisoners of War 7 (2): 25–29. Sykes, G.M. 2006. The Society of Captives: A Study of a Maximum Security Prison. In Prison Readings: A Critical Introduction to Prisons and Imprisonment, ed. Y. Jewkes and H. Johnston, 164–173. Portland: Willan Publishing. Taylor, P. 2000. Loyalists. London: Bloomsbury. UVF/RHC Agreement. 1972. Quoted in Balaclava Street Blog Post Entitled, The Ulster Volunteer Force/Red Hand Commando Agreement, 1 February 2014. Available at: https://balaclavastreet.wordpress.com/?s=UVF+RHC+agreem ent+1972. Accessed 08/04/2015.

Gusty Spence: Agent of Conflict, Creativity, and Change Connal Parr

During the Troubles, the consensus is that Irish Republicans embraced the prison experience to educate themselves and obtain university degrees, while Ulster Loyalists lifted weights and got tattoos (Powell 2008, 265). The acclaimed novelist Maurice Leitch, who has written intelligently about his Ulster Protestant background through works such as Silver’s City (1981), concurred that ‘[t]he IRA used the prison as their university, whereas all my lot did was body-building and look at porn[ography]. That tells you a lot’ (Leitch 2015). This article continues in the vein of recent academic work which has challenged this classic stereotype of the prison experience, focusing on the occasionally mythologized figure of Augustus ‘Gusty’ Spence (1933–2011)—a key leader who moved Ulster Loyalists towards an unprecedented focus on education and self-­ questioning. In response to weaker work which has neglected this element of Loyalist prisoner experience (Reed 2015, 73–6), this article shows Spence’s influence on two Loyalists who have since emerged C. Parr (*) Northumbria University, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 F. McCann (ed.), The Carceral Network in Ireland, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7_7

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artistically in the fields of painting and the theatre: George Morrow and Bobby Niblock. As some are now aware, the cliché of erudite and artistic republicans pitted against steroid-pumping Loyalist thugs is contradicted by the atmosphere Spence created with the ‘Long Kesh University’, which functioned from the mid-1970s until his release in December 1984. It bore the fruit of politically engaged and pragmatic Loyalists during the 1990s peace process (Campbell 2008, 111–115), moulding individuals such as Billy Hutchinson and the late David Ervine, who outlined Spence’s Socratic opening salvo: ‘The first question Gusty asked me was “why are you here?” and I said “possession of explosives”, to which he said, “no, I’m asking you why are you here?”’ This initially dejected Ervine, ‘But it made me think about the police, army and judge who put me there because they were defending their country – which was exactly what I thought I’d been doing’ (The Guardian – G2 December 1994, 3). This was critical for Loyalists, who perhaps for the first time began a process of self-­questioning and education, which sometimes extended as far as learning the Irish language (Taylor 2000, 59).

George Morrow and Spence’s Environment One ex-UVF inmate who passed under Spence’s guidance was the artist George ‘Geordie’ Morrow, who painted a well-known—if flawed—portrait of Spence during his brief spell in prison. It was during the sitting for this painting that Spence explained his story to Morrow, though the latter was already aware of Spence’s philosophy and effect on Loyalist prisoners: Because he controlled things there was a younger element that always wanted to usurp, undermine, disrespect him. And I wouldn’t have been the most respectful of people towards him. But you realize you’re wrong when you talk to him. Like most things, you realize you’re not seeing the full picture. From the time that I met him in Long Kesh, Spence would ask everybody how we got there, then say: ‘Don’t blame the cops. Don’t blame Catholics, don’t blame RUC, don’t blame British Army. You put yourself

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here and when you get out you’ve to decide if you want to go through the same thing again or if you want to move on and make something of your life. Don’t come back in with a bad attitude, hating people, hating everything – when you know you put yourself here’. (Morrow 2014)

There was throughout the Troubles considerable violence and bigotry within Loyalism, as there was within Republicanism. But while a one-­ sided contest between politics and militarism played out in Loyalist paramilitary groups from the early-1970s onwards, it is crucial to remember that the former stood some chance of winning out in the prisons. The thinking emanated behind bars: ‘If Gusty had’ve been outside with the political thought, he might have been rejected’, another former UVF prisoner recalled: ‘But whilst he was in there and had gathered round him similar-minded people, it was easier’ (Rodgers 2012). Spence commanded as many as 300 UVF prisoners in the ‘Special Category’ compounds, at the same time as being aware that his physical incarceration meant that ‘his influence in any direction will stay limited’. His directives could, and were, ignored by the outside organisation. ‘So much to do and say if I were free’, he was quoted as saying (quoted in Uprichard 1976, 7). His comments in January 1978 reflect his altered political thinking and self-questioning: ‘The things I was saying I was saying to the birds and bees – no one within the UVF at that point in time was listening. I was talking about some of the more atrocious types of murders that were happening. It was bloody awful – it gave me an awful lot of soul-searching, Was I contributing in some way by my presence in the UVF in Long Kesh?’ (quoted in Pollak 1985, 5). Nevertheless, contacts with the Official IRA/Workers’ Party were opened up in the compounds of Long Kesh and continued on, with both organizations united by their surroundings, contempt for the Provisional IRA, and an old vein of working-class socialism (Reed 2015, 75–6; Sinnerton 2002, 63–7). The Workers’ Party’s Seamus Lynch remembered returning to Long Kesh after his own internment for a discussion convened by the Northern Ireland Office, which was where he first met a sharply suited Spence, who he initially mistook for a prison governor. This is important because in wearing a shiny pinstriped suit, Spence was performatively interfering with the power relations in the prison. Because

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he aimed to appear official, he blurred the lines between prisoner and authority. In Lynch’s words, ‘Gusty started engaging with the right people in political debate, reading and discussing; that led to the Ervines of this world – because he was an icon and had the capacity to take those boys under his wing and start to develop them politically’, a situation reinforced by outside incentive from Left wing Northern Ireland Labour Party figures, who began acting as a go-between for Loyalist figures at the same time as drafting the constitution of the soon-to-be-founded Progressive Unionist Party (hereafter PUP) (Lynch 2012; Novosel 2013, 90–96). By the mid-1970s it was reported that ‘Time, and voracious reading’ had shifted Spence’s views, leading him to determine that ‘political development is vital for the Protestant working class: that the battle for Ulster is also about “jobs and houses and schools and benefits”’ (Uprichard 1976, 6). Prison also concentrated Spence’s mind on common issues faced by all prisoners, including parole and marriage counselling facilities, along with a more general movement towards political restraint and development. A period of ill health in 1977–1978, when he had a heart attack and his gall bladder removed, accompanied his ideological changes. As a young man Spence had worked in the mills, the building trade, and the shipyards, before joining the British Army in 1957, becoming a member of the regimental police in the Royal Ulster Rifles. Spence later expressed thanks that he had been able to join an Irish regiment, as it had enabled him to ‘understand’ the Irish dimension of the northern predicament (speaking in A Tap on the Shoulder 1996). He served in the midst of a tumultuous phase in Cyprus, and then Germany, before leaving the army to return to the shipyard as a stager in 1961 (Garland 2001, 31–35). However, in prison he drew on his military training to steward his own disciplinarian regime in Long Kesh, designed to keep inmates physically and mentally agile. One ex-internee described being ‘exhausted polishing boots and scrubbing floors and drilling. But I realise now it was the only thing that got us through and kept our self-respect’ (quoted in Uprichard 1976, 6). In addition to this environment, handicraft workshops, leatherworking classes, and mural paintings honouring Shankill artist William Connor stimulated creative spirit. Loyalists received visiting lectures from academics (including Frank Wright and Miriam Daly) and poets like

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Michael Longley, who wrote warmly outlining his apologies for missing a few visits and suggesting some future sessions at the end of 1973 (Hutchinson 2011, 1–2; Longley 1973).1 UVF prisoners had quite catholic reading tastes, requesting in a call for books carried in their Combat magazine (Vol. 4 No. 22 [1979], np.) titles by Yeats, Lady Gregory, George Russell (Æ), George Bernard Shaw, St. John Ervine, Mary Shelley, and William Wordsworth. This once again muddies the conventional reading of Loyalist prisoners as young men whose sole cultural interests in jail were flute bands and drugs. Significantly, Spence presided over a drive for prisoners to be officially educated, with Loyalist prisoners taking ‘O’ Levels (modern-day GCSEs), A Levels and Bachelors’ degrees. One such man was Billy Hutchinson, the current leader of the PUP, who took a degree in Town Planning while in Long Kesh, who has pointed out that in overall terms, 32 Loyalists took Open University (OU) degrees – at a time when the Provisional IRA rejected the concept as a British plot that would ‘convert them’ (Hutchinson 2012; Smith 2014, 112).  This is a slight exaggeration: Republicans were included with Loyalists amongst the first cohort of prisoners  to begin taking  OU degrees in Long Kesh in 1974 and 1975. However, tellingly, two UVF men, William ‘Plum’ Smith and Ronnie McCullough, are highlighted and named specifically along with one Provisional IRA and one Official IRA volunteer in a recent study of the OU’s activities at the Maze at this time, reflecting the UVF’s particular embracement of education (O’Sullivan & Kent 2020, 37–42). Despite this reassessment of Spence, the die had always been cast on an iconic militant status which he never shook off. He was understandably never forgiven by relatives of those the UVF killed in their campaign, including the family of Peter Ward, an eighteen-year-old Catholic shot dead in June 1966, and Matilda Gould, an elderly Protestant lady who died following the attempted petrol-bombing of a Catholic bar (Irish News June 2016, 10). Spence always denied Ward’s murder but was convicted and, pre-empting the prison protest of the following decade, undertook his first hunger strike in 1966 against the ‘Victorian’ conditions of Northern Irish prisons. It was the ensuing experience of being  Longley’s letter is written in green felt-tip pen on the Arts Council of Northern Ireland’s official paper. 1

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ignored by ‘those political leaders that were in a position to actually get conditions changed’ (Mitchell 2012)—as one ex-UVF prisoner put it— that led to Spence’s long-running contempt for ‘Super Prods’ and Unionist hardliners, surfacing especially through his later involvement with the PUP. At that party’s annual conference in February 1995, he excoriated: ‘What have these wretches ever done for Ulster? What will they ever do for Ulster except shout at the dark from their trenches or dream up another crazy stunt. They talk a good fight but as my Da used to say “talk is cheap but it takes money to buy drink”. The tribal ritualistic incantations and shibboleths of the past are dead’ (Spence 1995). This raises the outside contribution, which is so essential to Spence’s legacy. It was what Loyalist prisoners did when they were released, what they did with his training, which mattered. His voice was now fixed in the back of their heads: ‘Lose this martyr/victim sense. If you don’t like it, do something about it when you get out’ (Morrow 2014). George Morrow was one who fell under his supervision, painting from his time behind prison walls and becoming an artist on his release. At an exhibition held at ‘the Crum’ in April 2013, Morrow confirmed that Spence ‘imposed a structure on everyone’ (Irish Times April 2013, 6),2 facilitating the ambience and his art. Unable to create around prison violence, Morrow identified that Spence was very good at holding people, and there was trouble between us and the UDA on one or the other compounds. There was (sic) always factional feuds going on, [as] with the IRA. Blood feuds, feuds between ourselves and UDA, and Spence was the only one who was able to come down and quell everything and deal with everyone. Everybody had that respect for him. The Provies [Provisional IRA] were very, very respectful towards him, and the screws  – they called him ‘Sir’. (Morrow 2014; see also Uprichard 1976, 6)

In comparison to the atmosphere Spence sought, the UDA’s leader in the Crumlin Road Gaol, James Pratt (Jimmy) Craig, maintained that he  Morrow made this comment in the Spring of 2013 at a special exhibition of several Loyalist artists, also including Billy McConnell and Bobby Mathieson, who had painted in the Crumlin Road and Long Kesh prisons. 2

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preferred to keep discipline with a ‘big fucking hammer’, promising any possible troublemakers that if they stepped out of line, ‘I’ll break their fucking fingers’ (Bruce 1992, 245). The contrast between Spence’s desire to limit violence and Craig’s promise to inflict it pinpoints a general discrepancy between the UVF and UDA, explaining perhaps why the artistic elements emerged from the former and not the latter in the prisons.

Cultures Beyond Eventually released in December 1984, Spence immediately began working in community schemes in the Shankill area, and he joined the recently founded Progressive Unionist Party. He gave interviews with local publications discussing a potential ‘European context’ to Northern Ireland’s political settlement, along with his support for a Bill of Rights, ‘accomodation’ with Irish culture, and his lack of time for Unionist leaders. Rather extraordinarily in light of his previous profile, he commented that he ‘would welcome the economic aspect of cross-border cooperation in many cases’ (Pollak 1985, 4–6). Spence’s original lengthy prison sentence, despite the way his renunciation of militarism was known outside the prisons, was because he had absconded (or was ‘kidnapped’, as the UVF phrased it) on release to attend his daughter’s wedding (The Observer November 1972, 1; see also Reed 2015, 69). It was at this time that the UVF was re-organized to become the ruthless outfit that operated during the 1970s and beyond. But with Spence moving away from such convictions, he can be seen to have ultimately transcended Loyalism to emerge representative of an older Belfast working-class profile, articulating the kind of bread-and-butter socialism of the Northern Ireland Labour Party (Garland 2001, 243–6).3 Spence’s presence at a British Labour Party conference in Blackpool shortly after the historic Loyalist ceasefire of October 1994 reflected his view that ‘We have a culture beyond flute bands and lambeg drums’ (The Guardian October  1994, 3)—a quote which also makes sense in light of his support for the arts in Long Kesh. Spence became, in particular, a champion of the Shankill Road, declaring at a  Spence’s brother Eddie had been a member of the Communist Party.

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conference at Queen’s University in 1991 that ‘If any good has come from the troubles, it certainly has been the rise of community groups within the Protestant areas. The people are doing the double in the Shankill. They realize now that they are underprivileged, they realize now how much they have been conned’ (quoted in Cullen 1992, 32–3). Even prior to his imprisonment Spence had professed ‘clear socialist sympathies’ (Uprichard 1976, 6), bound up in the post-Second World War culture of the Shankill area where he was reared, which characterized the politics of his family and especially his brothers (Sanders 2009, 95). However, even this predilection for the Shankill was to diminish as the years passed. Spence could do little to prevent spikes in Loyalist violence (Irish Times 1988, 11; The Guardian 1999, 1), and a devastating 2000 feud—when his home was badly damaged—‘near killed him’, according to his daughter (Liz Rea, quoted in Rolston 2011, 84).4 Spence was always aware that he had been a pawn in a wider game and carried this grievance in him until his death in September 2011. In 1965, a Unionist Party politician approached him in his home in the Shankill  to take charge of a reactivated UVF (Edwards 2017, 21–2). This figure, who went on to become politically prominent, informed Spence that the IRA planned to take over the north and murder ministers in Terence O’Neill’s government, and so Spence realized that the real reason for the revival of the UVF, and thus his life in jail, was as part of a Unionist power struggle between Unionist hardliners—who worked to destabilize Prime Minister Terence O’Neill in the mid-1960s—and O’Neill’s supporters themselves: Maybe that was the inspiration for me joining the UVF in the first place – to fight against the sell-out. Sell-out? You must be joking. How much internal squirming I have done thinking how politically naïve I was…Frightening people is nothing new in Unionist circles, because even then, immediately previous to elections, there was always a plot to assassinate a cabinet minister. In 1966 there was a plot to take over the City Hall and make another GPO, like 1916, out of it. What crap! But people actually believed it and here’s one silly fool who really did believe that. (Quoted in Pollak 1985, 6)  This prompted his permanent residence in Groomsport, County Down, known locally as ‘Shankill-on-Sea’ (Belfast News Letter 2011, 9). 4

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Spence’s time in prison did enable him to connect later on with working-­ class men of his supposed ‘opposite’ community, including Paddy Devlin, who was interned from 1942 to 1945 for IRA activities in the Crumlin Road Gaol, and who, along with the academic Trevor West, played a role in getting Northern Ireland Secretary of State Douglas Hurd to sign Spence’s release papers (Garland 2012, 2). Similarly, the activist and historian Bob Purdie remembered doing a panel discussion on socialism at Queen’s University with speakers from the Workers’ Party, the Committee for Labour Representation, and Spence himself. As someone who had been close to the Official IRA and involved in efforts to get Labour politics going in Northern Ireland, Purdie might have been expected to have bonded with the Labour and Workers’ Party men. Instead he recalled having ‘most in common’ with Spence. Like so many, Purdie had known the ‘sinister’ image of the UVF leader in dark glasses and cap, taken during his jail break in 1972. He was still suspicious until they met, being won over by Spence’s humour and ‘impression of wisdom and good-natured tolerance as he puffed his pipe’. What convinced Purdie was Spence’s recollection of a specific moment in captivity: On a grim and foggy night he had slipped out of the noisy and confined Nissen hut in Long Kesh. He wandered aimlessly over to the wire that separated the Loyalist compound from the Republican compound and saw another figure looming out of the fog. He recognised an IRA prisoner whom he knew because they had been on a joint committee, negotiating with the prison authorities. A voice said, ‘that you Gusty?’, he replied, ‘Aye, that you Paddy?’ Paddy, as miserable and depressed as Gusty, asked ‘what the fuck are we doing here?’. Gusty responded, ‘Aye, right enough, what the fuck are we doing here?’. Then he realised that he was there because in 1966 he had listened to politicians who had encouraged him to take illegal action, which they would not undertake themselves, in response to stories about a mythical Republican rising. (Purdie 2014)

The subsequent reputation of Spence among Republican volunteers is just as revealing. The Provisional IRA informer Eamon Collins, who was later brutally murdered (most likely by his former comrades), met Spence in 1991 at the Shankill Road Resource Centre. He recalled how seeing

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‘this grandfather of sectarian murder’ had initially filled him ‘with a killing rage, all the old anger coming back’. Yet after a frank discussion, Spence struck him as ‘an articulate and intelligent speaker’, and Collins was secure enough to concede that he had been consumed by ‘the same rage’. He realized, ultimately, that Spence ‘had moved’ (Collins 1997, 368–9). Spence still has not been fully credited for the scale of self-challenging that he presided over in the prisons. This was arguably the very first time that Loyalists turned to each other and actually thought about what their fight meant. The late William ‘Plum’ Smith described the nature of this educational process in Long Kesh: We started to teach ourselves and Gusty held classes in Irish history and politics, trying to get us to think about how we ended up in that place, what we could do to understand the conflict and how we could change it. The classes were well attended and interesting. Most of the men went to state schools where Irish history was not taught and the prisoners found it very interesting and challenging as Gusty revealed aspects of our history that did not match with the usual stereotypical Loyalist thinking. The political classes were even more interesting and with the captive audience we had we were able to express our thoughts freely, challenging old myths and traditional no nos. It was a breath of fresh air and many progressive ideas and analyses were aired in that wrinkly tin hut. (Smith 2014, 110)

Generally, it is the critical moment when Loyalists turn to look at themselves and start asking the hard questions: imprisoned by the system and status quo they claimed to be defending. This was not about rethinking strategy or justifying a new part of the campaign, but a critique of themselves, with many eventually coming to terms with ‘the futility of the countless deaths’ (Hutchinson 2011, 6). It was during his own imprisonment, as George Morrow painted his portrait of Spence, that Spence recalled the Judge who sentenced him. The Lord Chief Justice John MacDermott ‘told him that in his experience it took nine years to totally institutionalize a man and break him in life, and it was his duty to put him away; that he would never be a threat. He [Spence] said he took that as being his motivation not to become

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institutionalized’ (Morrow 2014; see also Garland 2001, 71–73). Prisoners in other divided societies have often written about the debilitating extent of this kind of ‘institutionalisation’ (Goldberg 2010, 156–61), and it appears to have been a central motor for Spence’s character moving beyond violence. Morrow got the impression that Spence ‘was saying that he chose that he was going to better himself and wasn’t going to let jail break him, through a system where you just do everything that you’re told. You’re not asked an opinion, you don’t speak, you don’t say anything. You’re nothing – just a number’ (Morrow 2014). Spence’s defiance of that intended process, and the crop of young men who reached him in the prisons, was a personal response to the planned oppressiveness of prison. Morrow himself continues to paint professionally and had one of his paintings of life in the Maze prison displayed in the lauded Art of the Troubles exhibition at the Ulster Museum in 2014 (O’Connor 2014). His main influences are Turner, Velasquez, and the Irish painter Jack B. Yeats.

Etcetera and Bobby Niblock The second part of this chapter concerns another graduate of the ‘Long Kesh University.’ Bobby Niblock was sentenced for murder in 1975 and spent over 17 years in prison (McKittrick et al. 2008, 515),5 where he fell under Spence’s complicated tutelage. Niblock began writing and was released in the early-1990s. Now married and a father of four, he has continued writing poetry and drama, with his debut play Reason to Believe performed in August 2009, followed by his larger, more ambitious Tartan, which ran in Belfast in May 2014 (Parr 2016). A production of Etcetera Theatre Company—which the present author is a board member of— it  depicted the rise of the ‘Tartan gangs’ and their move into Loyalist paramilitary groups, and was praised for its energy, dialogue, and honesty (Hill 2009). A collection of Niblock’s poems …And of the 7th Day—A Laganville Childhood was published in the Autumn of 2017 with  The name of the man Niblock killed was John Thompson. Lost Lives reports that the man was affiliated to the UDA, which Niblock says was not the case. 5

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illustrations by George Morrow, and was launched at an exhibition of Morrow’s work held at the Cultúrlann Centre (Parr 2017).6 The exhibition’s setting in a Falls Road establishment was telling, representing a space which could not be more different to the Loyalist backgrounds of these two men, yet was a place where both ex-prisoners could have their work displayed without rancour. Etcetera, short for Ex-Prisoners Theatre Company (Etc), was founded by Niblock and artistic director William Mitchell, who served time together in the 1970s. It was designed to counter what some Loyalists perceived as unfortunate stereotypes of them in plays such as Martin Lynch’s Chronicles of Long Kesh (2009), and above all because of the pressure Niblock faced when his first play was staged in 2009. Difficulties began when the brother of the man he had killed heard of the initiative and approached the venue (the Spectrum Centre on the Shankill Road) with a view to preventing the play being staged. When this failed, he physically attempted to stop some audience members attending the performance (Belfast Newsletter August 2009, 9), leading to extra security being engaged to enable the production to proceed. In response, Niblock and Mitchell formed a board—featuring individuals from the worlds of politics (PUP leader Billy Hutchinson), the theatre (Marie Jones), trade unionism (the Reverend Chris Hudson), and academia (the present author)—and proceeded to their next venture. After securing a substantial amount of funding through the Northern Ireland Assembly’s Department of Culture, Arts, and Leisure—and a small grant from the Arts Council of Northern Ireland—Etcetera’s first production Tartan was staged in Belfast in 2014 and went on to close the Cathedral Quarter Arts festival at the MAC theatre in the city centre. The play was seen by an estimated 1600 people, beginning its run at the Skainos Centre in east Belfast on 1 May before moving on to Cultúrlann (west Belfast), then to the Spectrum Centre, prior to finishing in the MAC. The ethos of taking the play into working-class community venues for two nights apiece prior to the more illustrious final destination was designed ‘to bring the theatre  The poems included explored Niblock’s childhood and adolescence in Laganville-Ravenhill/ Woodstock Road. They feature the sights, sounds, and smells of his schooldays, the breaks from— and during—school, as well as working-class life remembered ‘through young eyes’ (correspondence from Bobby Niblock, 31 July 2017). 6

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to them’ (William Mitchell, quoted in Inquiry into Inclusion in the Arts 2014, 7). Playing Tartan in Cultúrlann was a decision taken by the Loyalists involved to prevent the project being ghettoized towards a solely Protestant audience, also recalling the intention of the all-female Charabanc theatre ensemble to appeal to a broad, working-class base (DiCenzo 1993, 180). The reaching of a different, non-theatre-going audience was something Etcetera sought to emulate. Tartan has a simple premise: a gang of teenage boys (no more than 17 years old), spearheaded by the enigmatic T. C., and the effect of the outbreak of the Troubles on their adolescent development in Protestant parts of Belfast.7 They sing along to pop songs from the radio (the musical set-­ pieces of the show), boast of their running battles with other gangs, and then graduate into the early Loyalist paramilitary organizations. The latter, salient detail accords with Roy Foster’s work illuminating a revolutionary generation of 1916, with fractures taking place ‘along lines of age as well as ideology’ (Foster 2014, 7, 15). In the context of Northern Ireland, views and mentalities are passed down generationally, from father to son like old clothes, helping to keep the conflict burning. It is not hard to see the resonances with Gusty Spence’s story of being misled, and so in Tartan, older men are exploiting the young, leading them—in an age-old Loyalist formulation—to the graveyards and jails. The ‘Tartan gangs’ were violent and sectarian in their intimidation of Catholics from Protestant areas (Elliot and Flackes 1999, 463), and the play is frank in its portrayal of this. The ‘Tartans’ threw stones and petrol bombs, alerting the seniors within the Protestant areas, who appear at the end of the first half of Tartan to offer the boys a proposition. Leading Loyalist godfather (in his late forties) Dicky holds a stone aloft, claiming: ‘Yez throw one of these at the Taigs – they’ll lift it and claude [throw] it back – stones aren’t the answer’. He then produces a gun: ‘if ya fire one of these – those bastards won’t be able to throw it back’ (Niblock, Tartan, 35). Guns are thereafter substituted for stones. The real conflict in Tartan  Etcetera’s approach was to mix five professional actors (i.e. Equity card holders) with recruits from open auditions, combining the professional status of the company with its facilitative impact on the community. The play was directed by Paddy McCooey—originally from the Catholic New Lodge area of Belfast—who had helmed highly regarded productions through the Ballybeen Community Theatre group. 7

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is therefore not between Loyalists and Irish Republicans, but between generations. It suggests the generational break in the form of music. The ‘Tartan gangs’ were defined by their distinctive fashion: tartan scarves, denim jeans, and jackets, Doc Marten boots, and the music they listened to, which was early-1970s rock; bands such as The Who, T-Rex, and the Bay City Rollers. The play’s young characters are suitably ‘raw, immature, still at school, yet to shave’ (Gibney 2014; Hardy 2014), though the change of music does not curtail the more innate prejudices (Niblock, Tartan, 25). The point, however, is that the boys are refusing the old Orange tunes, listening to different songs from their fathers, and there is potential in the separation. Tartan’s youthful shock, generational sniping, and blasts of rock and pop music broke with the old traditions. In the finale of the play, Dicky, who has shifted the young men from the Tartan gangs into the UVF, is revealed as a Special Branch informer, passing information on to the authorities and leading T. C. to his death by sending him out with a faulty incendiary device (a ‘dodgy bomb’) (Niblock, Tartan, 71).8 The final line from the rest of the gang as they figure it out and descend on Dicky en masse to enact their vengeance is: ‘Who’s the wee boys nigh Dicky?’ The generational aggression vitally conveys the way Niblock and many other Loyalist males felt they were misled, and, crucially, this is not a period problem lost in the remote past of the early-Troubles. It remains a prevalent condition on the streets of Northern Ireland, where through a forced recruitment policy (i.e. coercing men of all ages to become involved in the organization’s contraband activities through intimidation and blackmail) the UVF has in recent years been recruiting more heavily than it has at any time since the Troubles. It remains heavily involved in crime and racketeering (see Belfast Telegraph February 2015, 4–5), and any inclination the organization has to disperse is thought to be offset by ‘individuals and groups who don’t want to go away – who get kudos, significance and benefit from the continued existence of the UVF’ (Kyle 2010).

 This generational aspect was made explicit in the original production by having Belfast actor Jimmy Doran ‘doubling’, that is, playing the parts of both Dicky and RUC detective Magowan. 8

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Spence and Loyalist Drama The Etcetera project is more unique than has so far been credited. Though there have been one-off productions—such as the work of Tom Magill in the Shankill area in the mid-1990s (McDonnell 2008, 154–7)—Etcetera is the first company to provide a sustained Loyalist engagement with the theatre, with Niblock continuing to work through the past, his past, and the relationship of his younger self with the man he is now, on stage. It highlights the way the arts and literature often succeed in crossing boundaries most politicians in Northern Ireland’s political system refuse to negotiate, with movement forthcoming and people confronting and working through the divisions of the past in cultural, literary ways. In terms of Niblock’s relationship with Gusty Spence, it is important to emphasize that it was complex and often strained, and there is much to be said for the sense that Niblock’s dramatic voice ultimately derives from an internalized Spence figure who is challenging him. The Long Kesh experience, combined with the process of writing, led to a new realization: ‘It wasn’t a light-bulb moment but gradually you morphed this idea that “oh hold on, that’s wrong”.’ By the end, Niblock claims that many of those inside the Maze ‘certainly had doubts about what they’d done and […] knew that whatever they’d done, it hadn’t worked’ (Irish Times December 2015, 2). In a certain sense, Spence becomes a kind of dramaturge—the role of a person who helps playwrights develop their work—for Niblock, a relationship he addresses in one of his new plays, the unpublished The Man That Swallowed A Dictionary, about former Loyalist leader David Ervine, who Niblock shared the compounds of Long Kesh with (see Parr 2018, 202–22). The title refers to the apparently pejorative nickname Ervine received from some Unionist politicians and journalists (The Times August  2002, 2). Spence appears as follows: A man is sitting in a chair—smoking a pipe. Davy is walking by. Gusty. Where are you going Davy? Have you a couple of minutes? Sit down on the end of the bed there. Are you not supposed to be out in the study hut with the rest of the boys? Davy. I’m only back from a visit Sir. I’ll go out this afternoon.

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Gusty. What way is the studying going for you? Will you get it finished before you get out? Davy. No. I’ll get a couple of credits but sure I’ve only a lot of months left. Gusty. You’d be wise to keep it going. One thing about this place—it gives young ones a hell of an opportunity to educate themselves—if only half of them realised it. It’s vital that men don’t be left to their own devices. Otherwise they would end up doing as they pleased and—God forbid— become institutionalised. Collectively education is very important but you can’t force people to take part. Equally as important is the individual bettering himself. And there’s no better time than now to do it. (Niblock 2015, 20–21)9

In the same extract, Niblock dramatizes how Spence’s use of ‘psychology’ (Hutchinson 2012) worked, with an education that was informal as well as formal. Davy. It’s well documented about the impact that Long Kesh had on many individuals. Of how they developed new skills. Or maybe honed those that were latent. Of how there was a radical new thinking coming out of [compound] twenty one and eighteen before it. Or the influence that many of those men would have in later years when they gained a freedom that some thought would never come. It is equally well documented about the growth of the Spence University. And much of it is absolutely correct. But it wasn’t all about brainstorming or sitting in classes for hours on end discussing and debating until we got too tired. Much of it was done in a more subtle or casual way.

Niblock knew Ervine personally, and liked him, enabling the ease and familiarity of his imagining of Ervine’s voice. The extract captures Niblock’s own later realization of what was happening in Long Kesh. It shows an awareness of the ‘Spence University’ graduates who would negotiate the peace process, but is also, once more, his retrospective comprehension of what Spence was doing with himself and other Loyalist internees; with methods and changes taking place in ‘subtle’ and ‘casual’  Extracts from the play were performed in the Skainos Centre at the beginning of March 2015 in an event organized by Queen’s University Belfast’s Institute for Collaborative Research in the Humanities (ICRH). 9

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ways. He is stepping back and considering his younger self, as well as grappling with his ambivalent relationship with Spence as an authority figure. Finally, Spence’s voice in the extract appears aware of its own fallibility and limitations at reaching all Loyalists. He resigned as commander of UVF prisoners in January 1978, though he would still talk with and advise those who wanted to listen to what he had to say. The Etcetera project is not without complications and potential pitfalls. There is always the understandable possibility that victims of Niblock’s past paramilitary group will object to his works being performed, and there is also a tension between the cultural work and the public/political profile of the group’s personnel. On 2 August 2016, a staged reading of scenes from The Man That Swallowed a Dictionary was organized by the West Belfast Festival/Féile an Phobhail at The Duncairn centre in north Belfast. This was accompanied by a lecture by William Mitchell, who is Etcetera’s artistic director and is also Director of the ACT initiative—a conflict transformation organization for former Loyalist combatants. This confused some attendees, who thought they were going to see a play about David Ervine and found the event taken up mostly with a lengthy presentation calling for Loyalist ex-prisoners to be better integrated into civic society. There is also, thus far, a lack of women and female narratives in Etcetera’s work. Only in The Man That Swallowed a Dictionary is there a substantial female character, David Ervine’s wife Jeanette, and even this role is underdeveloped and requires considerable rewriting. However, there are encouraging signs that Loyalists have been inspired to engage more generally with artistic storytelling initiatives and are beginning to understand their importance (Irvine 2014).

Conclusion Republican prisoners have been described by political arts practitioners as the ‘most creative, confident part of the community in a way’ (Pam Brighton quoted in McDonnell 2008, 179), and this is mirrored in Loyalism too. It is of course balanced by the social problems which bedevil Loyalist ex-combatants (Shirlow 2012, 186–98), along with the

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ongoing criminality and gangsterism associated with certain groups, but the work which Loyalists like Morrow and Niblock do can be testament to their wider journeys: from ex-combatants to artists. It should be stated that the group which offers the most resistance—and at best total negligence—to their cultural activities are affluent, or middle-class, Unionist politicians. Despite the Democratic Unionist Party’s blanket claims to represent Protestant working-class communities, it has shown absolutely no sign of engaging with this original work which aims to rehabilitate Ulster Loyalists—precisely, perhaps, because they refuse to permit people who were involved in the conflict from moving beyond their past (Parr 2016, 95–6, 103–4). Prior to being confronted at the opening of his first play by the brother of his victim, Niblock stated publicly: ‘I don’t want to be known as an ex-prisoner or an ex-anything. I want to be known for what I am doing now’ (Belfast Newsletter July  2009). As David Ervine once said, ‘There are people who have done very well by keeping this society apart, some people who have prospered wonderfully and some people still do’ (Talking 2001, 118–9). This syndrome is, as ever, about political leadership. It is symptomatic of Gusty Spence’s influence on Loyalism that the historic Combined Loyalist Command’s famous Ceasefire announcement of ‘abject and true remorse’, made in October 1994 and offered to all the victims of the Troubles, was Spence’s idea and formulation (Irish Times October 1994, 10; Spencer 2008, 118–9). His story at the end is instructive. Having orated the UVF’s 2007 statement renouncing violence, Spence was not invited to the June 2009 decommissioning announcement, those he mentored confirming that he had by this time fallen ‘out of favour’ (Belfast Telegraph June  2009, 8; Mitchell 2012). In the year before his passing, he called for the organization to put itself out of existence and requested that there be no UVF trappings at his funeral (Belfast News Letter November  2010, 1; Belfast Telegraph September  2011, 4). One attendee of the service, who was encouraged by Spence to engage in community work, noted that the UVF still found a way to pay their respects to Spence when his funeral cortege moved up the Shankill Road (Interview Hewitt 2014). He had not been completely omitted from Loyalist memory and will always be a model for those he mentored in Long Kesh.

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Having inspired some young Protestant males into jail, he helped inspire them out of it. Spence is not a comfortable figure. Echoes of his identification with the original violent campaign in which he was instrumental continue to resound in present times (Irish News November 2019, 3), though he was able to look back on his own myth and condemn it: ‘any society which would have me for a hero must be a sick society’ (quoted in Pollak 1985, 6). As a consequence, he represents the antithetical provocateur and spur for doubt that was necessary to Ulster Loyalists; a combination that can only have given rise to a creative spirit. Through individual and specific challenge, he galvanized a number of incarcerated Loyalists in the most debilitating of surroundings and can justifiably be seen to have made a troubled and fearful cohort think about ways to improve their lives and the society around them. Ulster Loyalism has no current equivalent.

Bibliography ‘A Tap on the Shoulder’ Documentary. 1996. RTE Radio 1, First Broadcast 1 May. Belfast News Letter, 21 July 2009. Belfast News Letter, 12 August 2009. Belfast News Letter, 11 November 2010. Belfast News Letter, 27 September 2011. Belfast Telegraph, 27 June 2009. Belfast Telegraph, 26 September 2011. Belfast Telegraph, 4 February 2015. Bruce, Steve. 1992. The Red Hand: Protestant Paramilitaries in Northern Ireland. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Campbell, Beatrix. 2008. Agreement! The State, Conflict and Change in Northern Ireland. London: Lawrence & Wishart. Collins, Eamon (with Mick McGovern). 1997. Killing Rage. London: Granta Books. Combat, Vol. 4, No. 22, 1979. Cullen, Bernard, ed. 1992. Discriminations Old and New: Aspects of Northern Ireland Today. Belfast: Institute of Irish Studies. DiCenzo, Maria. 1993. Charabanc Theatre Company: Placing Women Center-­ Stage in Northern Ireland. Theatre Journal 45 (2): 175–184.

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Edwards, Aaron. 2017. UVF: Behind the Mask. Newbridge: Merrion Press. Elliot, S., and W.D.  Flackes. 1999. Northern Ireland: A Political Directory, 1968–1999. Belfast: Blackstaff Press. Foster, R.F. 2014. Vivid Faces: The Revolutionary Generation in Ireland 1890–1923. London: Allen Lane. Garland, Roy. 2001. Gusty Spence. Belfast: Blackstaff Press. ———. 2012. Unassuming Academic Sowed Seeds for Peace. Irish News, p. 2, November 9. Gibney, Jim. 2014. New Play as Raw as the Tartan Gangs It Depicts. Irish News, p. 19, May 13. Goldberg, Denis. 2010. The Mission: A Life for Freedom in South Africa. Johannesburg: STE Publishers. Hardy, Jane. 2014. Belfast’s Tartan Gangs the Focus of New Play. Culture NI, April 28. http://www.culturenorthernireland.org/features/performing-arts/ belfasts-tartan-gangs-focus-new-play. Retrieved September 2019. Hill, Ian. 2009. A Reason to Believe. British Theatre Guide, August. http://www.britishtheatreguide.info/reviews/reasonbelieve-rev. Retrieved September 2019. Hutchinson, Billy. 2011. Transcendental Art – A Troubles Archive Essay. Belfast: Arts Council of Northern Ireland. Inquiry into Inclusion in the Arts of Working-Class Communities – Etcetera Theatre Company Submission, 3 July 2014. Northern Ireland Assembly: Hansard, 2014. Interview with Billy Hutchinson. Belfast, 12 November 2012. Interview with Bobby Niblock. Belfast, 12 April 2018. Interview with George ‘Geordie’ Morrow. Bangor, 18 June 2014. Interview with Jackie Hewitt. Belfast, 19 August 2014. Interview with John Kyle (Progressive Unionist Party Councillor). Belfast, 11 November 2010. Interview with Maurice Leitch. London, 31 July 2015. Interview with Robert Rodgers, Belfast, 15 August 2012. Interview with Seamus Lynch. Belfast, 19 January 2012. Interview with William Mitchell. Belfast, 26 July 2012. Irish News, 29 June 2016. Irish News, 21 November 2019. Irish Times, 17 May 1988. Irish Times, 15 October 1994. Irish Times, 1 April 2013.

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Irish Times, 18 December 2015. Irvine, Winston. 2014. Gauntlet Thrown Down to Custodians of Arts in Northern Ireland, August 17. http://eamonnmallie.com/2017/08/gauntletthrown-custodians-arts-northern-ireland-winston-irvine/. Retrieved September 2019. Longley, Michael. 1973. Letter to James Magee, December 5. Privately-­ Held Archive. McDonnell, Bill. 2008. Theatres of the Troubles: Theatre, Resistance and Liberation in Ireland. Exeter: University of Exeter. McKittrick, David Seamus Kelters, Brian Feeney, Chris Thornton, and David McVea. [1999] 2008. Lost Lives: The Stories of the Men, Women and Children Who Died as a Result of the Northern Ireland Troubles. Edinburgh: Mainstream. Niblock, Bobby. 2014. Tartan. Unpublished. Privately Held Archive. ———. 2015. The Man That Swallowed a Dictionary. Unpublished Manuscript. Privately Held Archive. Novosel, Tony. 2013. Northern Ireland’s Lost Opportunity: The Frustrated Promise of Political Loyalism. London: Pluto Press. O’Connor, Fionnuala. 2014. Troubles Art Exhibition Remakes City Museum. Irish News, p. 16, April 22. O’Sullivan, Philip, and Kent, Gabi. 2020. Pioneers and Politics: Open University journeys in Long Kesh during the years of the conflict 1972–1975. In Degrees of Freedom: Prison Education at the Open University. Earle, Rod and Mehigan, James (eds). Bristol: Policy Press: 33–46. Parr, Connal. 2016. Etcetera Theatre Company: An Exercise in Ulster Loyalist Storytelling. New Hibernia Review 20 (4): 91–112. ———. 2017. Loyalist Ex-prisoners Display Their Creative Work on the Falls Road. Belfast News Letter, p. 21, August 2. ———. 2018. Ending the Siege? David Ervine and the Struggle for Progressive Loyalism. Irish Political Studies 33 (2): 202–220. Pollak, Andy. 1985. Towards Magnanimous Unionism: An Interview with Gusty Spence. Fortnight 225: 4–6. Powell, Jonathan. 2008. Great Hatred, Little Room: Making Peace in Northern Ireland. London: Bodley Head. Purdie, Bob. 2014. ‘I Remember’ Memoir Post, February 4. https://www.facebook.com/bob.purdie.3/posts/576546489102454. Retrieved September 2019. Reed, Richard. 2015. Paramilitary Loyalism: Identity and Change. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

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Rolston, Bill. 2011. Children of the Revolution. Derry: Guildhall Press. Sanders, Andrew. 2009. Problems of Class, Religion and Ethnicity: A Study of the Relationship Between Irish Republicans and the Protestant Working Class During the Ulster ‘Troubles’ 1969–1994. Irish Political Studies 24 (1): 89–105. Shirlow, Peter. 2012. The End of Ulster Loyalism? Manchester: Manchester University Press. Sinnerton, Henry. 2002. David Ervine: Uncharted Waters. Dingle: Brandon. Smith, William ‘Plum’. 2014. Inside Man: Loyalists of Long Kesh – The Untold Story. Newtownards: Colourpoint Books. Spence, Gusty. 1995. Speech to Progressive Unionist Party Conference, February 11. Linen Hall Library Political Collection. Spencer, Graham. 2008. The State of Loyalism in Northern Ireland. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Talking to One’s Opponents. 2001. Armagh: Centre for the Social Study of Religion. Taylor, Peter. 2000. Loyalists. London: Bloomsbury. The Guardian, 6 October 1994. The Guardian – G2, 8 December 1994. The Guardian, 18 March 1999. The Observer, 5 November 1972. The Times, 12 August 2002. Uprichard, Anne. 1976. Gusty Spence: The Man and the Myth. Fortnight 127: 6–7.

Mairéad Farrell in the Armagh Gaol Katherine Side

This photograph of Provisional Irish Republican Army (PIRA) prisoner, Mairéad Farrell is recognised widely.1 It is used to retell history and to uphold historical silences; both of these tasks require what literary scholar Marianne Hirsch identifies as considerable ongoing ‘imaginative investment, projection, and creation’ (Hirsch 2001, 5) (Fig. 1). By the time this photograph was taken in 1980, and it is not clear by whom it was taken, Mairéad Farrell’s name was already widely known across Northern Ireland, and her face was widely recognisable.2 Among republicans, Farrell was well-known for her involvement in the Provisional

 There is no consistent use of accents in Mairéad Farrell’s name; I use a form that illustrates the name’s root in Irish. 2  This image is one of the few representations of Mairéad Farrell as a prisoner (O’Donnell 2017, 57). Her voice was, for a time, less apparent than her image. Under broadcasting bans on radio and television, republican voice were banned from broadcasts on public airwaves (Murphy 2013). 1

K. Side (*) Memorial University of Newfoundland, St. John’s, NL, Canada e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 F. McCann (ed.), The Carceral Network in Ireland, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7_8

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Fig. 1  Mairéad Farrell in the Armagh Gaol, 1980. (Photograph Credit: Pacemaker Press International. Used with permission)

IRA’s armed struggle for a united Ireland; however, her involvement in these same activities was repudiated by unionists, and by the British state.3 In this analysis, I use communication scholar Sarah Kember’s theory of the ‘shadow of the object’, which is about photography specifically, to explore tensions around the loss of material objects and including photographs and their veneration and reproduction as both fetishised and transformed objects (Kember 1996, 157). In this analysis, I define the object as the relationship between the photograph and the building’s physical and contextual setting; the shadow of the object is the political climate through which the relationship between the object and its setting are read and understood. Kember outlines the paradox that results from  Mairéad Farrell has been regarded as an ‘unlikely’ PIRA volunteer. Despite claims she made otherwise in a 1981 documentary, she did not claim strong republican familial ties (Nic Dhiarmada 2015). Her lack of a strong republican lineage is consistent with Dieter Reinish’s distinction between women who joined Cumann na mBan [Irishwomens’ Council] prior to 1970, and women who joined the Provisional IRA after 1970. He suggests that women who joined the former had strong republican ties, whereas women who joined the latter were motivated by republican ideology (2016, 149). 3

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the photograph’s ‘fading, but always mythical realism’ (Kember 1996, 146). The photograph is accepted as not being ‘real’, in that it is not an unaltered representation of ‘truth’. For example, photographic images can be staged, their subjects can be posed, and their contexts can be selected intentionally. Yet, at the same time, those who collect and reproduce photographs are often concerned with photographic loss. They may be concerned about the loss of its meanings and memories which can be imbued with a mythical status, and paradoxically also concerned about loss that occurs in reproduction, as an ‘image-idea’ of the real (Kember 1996, 145, 146). I use this photographic image as an example to demonstrate how this mythical status extends past the photograph as material object, to also encompass its physical and symbolic setting, in this instance, the Armagh Goal. The image and its location are interconnected in such a way that the meaning of one animates and evokes the other. Despite the obvious and significant differences in their respective materialities—one being a fragile piece of paper and the other being a robust, stone edifice—both of these objects and their connections continue to instigate and occupy space in the present-day ‘territorialisation of memory’ in contemporary, conflict-afflicted Northern Ireland (McBride 2017a, 13).

Seeing Mairéad Farrell Farrell’s status and performance as a prisoner in this photograph are indisputable. Farrell stands beside a prison cot; she poses for the camera at the far end of the cell. Her presence forces viewers’ gaze down the cell’s tight walls. Similar to Alice Maher’s art work, Cell (1991), installed in a prison cell in the East Wing of the Kilmainham Gaol, this perspective invites a scopic view of the normally private space of the gaol cell and its prisoner (Jarman 2008).4 Normally, both prisoner and cell are hidden from sight, behind a locked door. At the height of the building’s occupation, between 1971 and 1986, each cell in the Armagh Gaol (officially  Alice Maher’s artwork, Cell, was installed in 1991 and was recommissioned by the Irish Museum of Modern Art in 2012. 4

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Her Majesty’s Prison (HMP) Armagh), housed two prisoners in a confined physical space (Gibson 2011, 1053; McLaughlin 2017). In one scholarly account, the cell’s dimensions are specified as nine feet by six feet (Bloom et al. 2012, 70), and in another account, eight feet by ten feet (Wahidin 2016, 109).5 Standing in front of the cell’s heavy, barred door, Farrell gazes directly into the camera lens. Farrell’s background in republican activism was not derived generationally. The daughter of a middle-class, hardware-shopkeeper father and a mother who worked in the home, Farrell and her five brothers were raised on the Stewartstown Road, West Belfast. She attended Rathmore Grammar School, a Catholic school in Finaghy, Belfast. Like many women of her generation, she was employed in a clerical position upon leaving school at age 18, in her case, at an insurance broker’s office. She reportedly left her employment for active service as a paramilitary member of the PIRA.  In April 1976, Farrell was convicted on charges of bombing, weapons possession, and membership in a proscribed organisation, for which she was sentenced to 14 years in prison.6 She served her sentence, over a ten and a half year period in A Wing, Armagh Gaol. Released from the Armagh Gaol in 1986, Farrell returned to active service in the PIRA.  In 1988, she was shot and killed by British Special Forces, allegedly while attempting to plant a bomb against British forces stationed in Gibraltar.7 Neither her prison sentence, nor her paramilitary involvement made Farrell’s involvement in the context of Northern Ireland’s conflict unique; but, the violent circumstances of her death at the hands of the British security forces have been, and continue to be, magnified symbolically as a form of martyrdom for the cause of Irish independence from British rule.8  Alternatively, architect Chris Hamill references cell size as twelve feet by seven feet and nine feet in height (2017, 57). 6  In Northern Ireland, membership in a proscribed organisation was a scheduled offence (Gormally et al. 1993). 7  Also killed were PIRA members, Seán Savage and Daniel McCann (Lyons 2003). 8  These circumstances also surround the events at the funerals of those killed at Gibraltar. At their funeral in the Milltown cemetery on 16 March, 1988, UDA (Ulster Defence Association) member, Michael Stone opened fire and killed three people and wounded 68; in retaliation, republicans killed two off-duty British soldiers (Lyons 2003). 5

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Farrell’s status as public martyr is contrasted with the private view offered by this photographic image. Photographic images were facilitated by the practice of smuggling cameras and film in and out of British prisons in Northern Ireland. Clandestine prison images were used as a visual means to defy prison (and British) authority. Photographic images were often reprinted in community-specific newspapers to demonstrate prisoner resilience and to build community resistance against the practices of internment and imprisonment. Photographs may also have been passed onto family members as a personal mode of communication, and it is likely that familial safekeeping practices assured the survival of the images and the memories to which they were connected.9 Visual media scholar Belinda Loftus argues that clandestine images existed in opposition to [British] state-generated and circulated images that justified the practices of internment and detention as necessary means to maintain security (1980). State-generated images appeared in technologically altered forms, including as cropped images, and with misleading captions and/or out of context, and they were often read by republican communities as a form of state propaganda (Loftus 1980). Republican communities were receptive to images such as this one of Mairéad Farrell because it contradicted dominant state narratives about prison conditions which denied prisoners were kept in poor conditions and/or were mistreated. With reference to this particular image, post-colonial literary scholar Laura Lyons notes, much effort was made [by prison authorities] to prevent information about those inside the prison, as well as photographs of them from getting out […] This photograph […] acts as contraband evidence of the conditions  Photographs have long had fraught associations with Northern Ireland’s conflict. PIRA member Brendan Hughes’s family is reported to have destroyed photographs to limit the possibility of his identification by sight; images of others, such as Gerry Adams, were rare (Radden Keefe 2015). However, images of prisoners were often circulated among community members as a direct challenge to state security measures (Conway 2010; Loftus 1980, 72). Historian Rachel Oppenheimer suggests photographs of prisoners were smuggled out of The Maze/Long Kesh (2014, 16). For this to have occurred, cameras would also have had to have been smuggled in and film smuggled out for processing. Most scholarly discussion is related to the smuggling of ‘comms’ (communication); there is relatively little discussion about cameras or photographs. Photographs that entered the prison with permission and retained by prisoners had to receive approval from the prison censor (Murphy 2013, 161). Beyond the space of prisons, photographs of anti-state republican activities were taken and circulated more widely, including P. Michael Sullivan’s Patriot Graves: Resistance in Ireland (1972), and Oistin MacBrides’s, Family, Friends, and Neighbours (2001).

9

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both within the Armagh prison and those [conditions] under which information about the prison is disseminated. (Lyons 1996, 129)

In the image, the prisoner and gaol’s material conditions are exposed. The prisoner and the cell appear dishevelled and dirty. Both display evidence of the no-wash protest undertaken by republican prisoners in the Armagh Gaol in February, 1980. Denied permission to leave their cells, including to wash or use the toilets, prisoners smeared the cell walls with excreta and menstrual blood, and refused to regularly change their clothing.10 Cells were also darkened intentionally by prison officials, who boarded up the cells’ single arched window to prevent the removal of excreta. Due to the building’s age, light switches for individual cells were located outside of locked cell doors and were inaccessible to prisoners (Murphy 2013, 159). In this image, the cell’s only light was likely that of the momentary camera flash. The act of taking photographs was politicised and photographs were repurposed as fetishised objects. Mia Bloom, Paul Gill and John Horgan suggest Farrell, who was ‘well aware of the political purposes’ of photographs, ‘posed for dozens of photos, and did scores of media interviews while in jail’ (2012, 70).11 This particular photograph of Farrell in her gaol cell has long endured past the moment when it was captured and continues to be reproduced. It reproduces not only the image, but also how the prisoner sees herself. Farrell appears in the image as she wishes to be seen: as a prisoner of war. As Kember suggests, the subject uses the image to portray how she ‘understand[s] the world and intervene[s] in it’ (1996, 146). Photographs of republican prisoners, including this one, became spectacles of ‘international consumption’ as the international press was increasingly drawn into coverage of Northern Ireland’s armed conflict (Hanna 2016). Rolston records four painted wall murals in Belfast that  Unlike male republican prisoners at The Maze/Long Kesh Prison, republican women at Armagh Gaol were permitted to wear their own clothing. Some restrictions applied; the black skirts, ties, and berets that were associated with paramilitary dress for republican women at Easter parades and republican funerals were banned and prisoners’ cells were raided to confiscate these items of clothing (Loughran 1986, 60). 11  Much of the publicity surrounding Farrell’s paramilitary involvement was related to her death (Miller 1991). 10

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picture Mairéad Farrell, as well as a wall mural that no longer exists in Harlem, New  York.12 This particular image is also reproduced on the cover of Margaretta D’Arcy’s book, Tell Them Everything (1981), about women in the Armagh Gaol, and was used by Farrell’s filmic biographer, Bríona Nic Dhiarmada, as evidence of the gaol’s ‘most horrendous conditions’ (1988, 2015).13 A cropped version of this image, showing only Farrell’s face, was also reprinted on the front page of The Times in an account of her death (7 March, 1988). This image of her incarceration serves varied functions, from its narrative account of martyrdom on the walls of West Belfast, to its intentional depiction of criminality in the British press. The British and international media popularised Mairéad Farrell’s image into what sociologist Robert White calls ‘probably the most identifiable woman “terrorist” in the Western world’ (2017, 247). The image’s punctum, in all of these visual contexts, that element that makes the image memorable or, which constitutes another of Kember’s paradoxes, is Farrell’s sex set against the gaol’s poor physical condition.

 endered Carcerality: Mairéad Farrell G as Prisoner The physical condition of the Armagh Gaol makes for a particularly provocative spectacle when set against the backdrop of incarcerated women’s bodies. As the first woman sentenced to HMP Armagh after the withdrawal of political status for republican prisoners, Farrell’s image is located, visually, temporally, and spatially, in the context of republican prisoner protests.14 Posing as an involuntary prisoner of war within the  Murals of Farrell in Belfast include: Hugo Street photographed in 2001 (Rolston 2003), Brompton Park photographed in 2006 (Rolston 2013), Gardenmore Road photographed in 2008; and, Divis Street photographed in 2010 (Rolston 2013). Farrell also appears in further wall murals alongside images of Seán Savage and Dan McCann, also killed in Gibraltar. 13  Margaretta D’Arcy and Liz Lagrua spent three months imprisoned in Armagh Gaol, rather than paying a fine they incurred while protesting the gaol’s conditions (McCafferty 1981). 14  Special Category Status was established through negotiation with the British government. Initially, it was granted to men and women interred for acts of civil disobedience and/or violence. Under Special Category Status reserved for internees, prisoners were permitted to wear their own clothes instead of prison uniforms, to refuse prison work, and to associate freely with one another. 12

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gaol provided Farrell (and others) the ability to wear their own clothing, instead of wearing a prison issued uniform. It permitted Farrell’s depiction as the appointed, republican women’s OC [Officer Commanding], supported by evidence of republican political protest on the cell’s surrounding walls. Farrell’s sex was often noted as significant in the press coverage of her incarceration. It was initially ignored by the male republican leadership, which assigned dominant positions in its armed struggle to men. Among the republican leadership, more attention was paid initially to women’s historical struggles for Irish independence than it was to women’s contemporary actions at Armagh, including three women prisoners’ participation in a 1980 hunger strike (Loughran 1986, 67; Power 2015).15 Belfast-based feminist activist and scholar Christine Loughran argues that republican women’s needs were subsumed under ‘the pervasive conflict for national rights’ (1986, 59). However, sex differences were made apparent by specific practices of incarceration, such as strip searches, which subjected women to disciplinary regimes of sexualised violence, and which were sanctioned by the gaol’s all-male governance as part of the prison’s administrative practices (Loughran 1986, 64; Gormally et al. 1993, 120; Aretxaga 2001; Corcoran 2004, 125).16 Women prisoners’ visibility, which was enhanced through textual accounts and visual images of their incarceration, led to their gradually enhanced recognition in the republican movement. However, this visibility depended heavily on the hypervisibility of their sex and on exaggerated gender scripts and stereotypes (Blaney 2008, 395, 396). The plight of women prisoners at Armagh was also highlighted by the actions of Belfast- and Derry-based organisation, Women Against In January 1975, the Gardiner Committee recommended this status be changed from prisoners of war to ‘ordinary prisoners’. Sociologist Aogán Mulcahy contends these changes were designed ‘to offset the legitimacy that was accorded to paramilitaries by those outside of the prison’ (1995, 453). 15  The three women who went on hunger strike at Armagh Gaol in 1980 were Mary Doyle, Mairéad Nugent and Mairéad Farrell. Prior to the Armagh hunger strike, British intelligence predicted the hunger strikers would include Mairéad Farrell, Mary Doyle and Christine Beattie (CAIN 1980). 16  Consistent with Sinn Féin’s approach, Farrell also prioritised the national struggle over women’s struggles, ‘I am oppressed as a woman, but I’m oppressed because I’m Irish. Everyone in this country is oppressed and we can’t successfully end our oppression as women until we first end the oppression of our country’ (Farrell in Power 2015).

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Imperialism (WAI). The group protested the condition of women’s imprisonment and their treatment and conditions inside the Armagh Gaol. They rallied together in protest outside of the Armagh Gaol; those protests held on International Women’s Day attracted international media attention.17 Supporters also used other means to publicise their campaign including images and stories in WAI’s publication, Saorbhean: Free Women, and Northern Ireland’s feminist publication, Wicca (Connolly and O’Toole 2005, 160–162).18 Historian Evan Smith records that a tour of England was undertaken by Margaret Nugent, Armagh republican prisoner and hunger striker Mairéad Nugent’s mother, during which Margaret Nugent noted the poor conditions of the building and treatment that left her daughter ‘without anything to do but stare at the [dirty] walls around her’. (Socialist Worker 1980) When Women Against Imperialism disbanded in 1981, its members continued to lobby about women’s prison conditions through their involvement with the other campaigns, including the National Smash-H Blocks, which became the National Smash H-Blocks/Armagh Committee, the Relatives Action Committee, and in republican politics, specifically Sinn Féin’s Women’s Coordinating Committee, (later, Sinn Féin’s Women’s Department) (Loughran 1986, 69; Ross 2011; Power 2015). Campaigns that were intended to address women’s treatment in the Armagh Gaol often upheld social expectations about appropriate femininity. For example, repeated tropes about Farrell’s recruitment to the PIRA through her male romantic associations (allegedly with Bobby Storey and later, Seamus Finucane), highlight her gendered susceptibility while also denying her personal agency (White 2017, 251).19 In some instances, former republican prisoners connected the conditions of their  Feminist groups in Northern Ireland, the Republic of Ireland, and Great Britain were divided over whether or not republican women’s incarceration at Armagh should be considered a feminist issue. According to Christine Loughran (1986), Women Against Imperialism formed in April 1978 and was disbanded in early 1981; they published Saorbhean: Free Women from 1979 until 1981 (Conlon 2016, 124). 18   Later, republican prisoners published their own quarterly magazine, An Glór Gafa/The Captive Voice. 19  In 1981, while she was a political prisoner, Mairéad Farrell ran as an independent political candidate (one of 12) in the riding of Cork, North Central, Republic of Ireland. Unelected, she received 2751 of a total 45,452 votes cast (Took and Donnelly 2016). 17

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imprisonment in Armagh Gaol with expectations of femininity. The Armagh prisoners’ ‘gaunt faces, sunken eyes’, are described by former republican prisoner, Síle Darragh as the ‘faces of young women who should have been enjoying their teens and early 20s at discos, buying clothes and make-up, building homes’; instead, Darragh comments, ‘they were in death cells […] staring blankly into the lens of a camera’ (Darragh, in Murphy 2013, 285). Intentionally gendered depictions were employed to denigrate Farrell’s political cause and her direct, violent involvement in it. Farrell was characterised using gendered representations of evil, including as an ‘Angel of Death’ and a ‘Queen of Terror’ (White 2017, 247). In contrast, Farrell was memorialised by republicans as a martyr and as the female impersonation of Ireland. Gendered even after her violent death in 1988, Farrell’s image and memory were softened by Reverend (later, Monsignor) Raymond Murray, the former Armagh Gaol chaplain, who eulogised Farrell as a ‘smiling, earnest colleen’ (New York Times 1988).20

Seeing the Armagh Gaol Praised for its modernity at the time of its construction, the Armagh Gaol housed felons, debtors, and women. Armagh Gaol was always associated with women prisoners, although for short periods of time it also served as a remand centre for male prisoners, housed in separate wings.21 As the only prison in Northern Ireland designated specifically for republican  Raymond Murray was appointed curate at Armagh, 1967–1986 (Murray 1998). A video of Monsignor Raymond Murray’s recollections in the Armagh Gaol is part of Cahal McLaughlin’s Prison Memory Archives, see: https://vimeo.com/22413800. Farrell is remembered popularly, through her own written words, in ‘The Ballad of Mairéad Farrell’, by the Irish-American band, Seanchaí and the Unity Squad. In it, Farrell counters gendered constructions: ‘a woman’s place is not at home/the fight for freedom it still goes on/I took up my gun until freedom’s day/I pledged to fight for the IRA’. 21  Initially, male internees were at the Crumlin Road Jail; however, because of overcrowding some men were also housed at The Maze/Long Kesh in Lisburn and the Armagh Gaol, which also served as a remand centre for men (Conlon 2016, 54). Over 2000 men, with republicans in the majority, were interned at The Maze/Long Kesh between 1971 and 1975. Internees were released by December 1975 when the practice of internment was replaced by the no-jury Diplock Court system (Mulcahy 1995, 452, 453; McLaughlin 2017, 4). 20

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and loyalist women prisoners, the gaol acquired a reputation as an overtly gendered carceral space (Flynn 2011, 384).22 This reputation was also enhanced by the visibility of select women, including republicans Dolours Price, Marian Price, and later, Mairéad Farrell, and by still and moving images of women in the gaol. Convicted of bombings in London in 1973 and membership in a proscribed organisation, republicans and sisters Dolours and Marian Price were sentenced to life in HMP Brixton, in England. Medical historian Ian Miller argues that the situation of the Price sisters garnered public attention because of their young age, (19 and 23, respectively), the fact they were imprisoned in the hospital wing of an all-male prison, and were involuntarily force-fed for the majority of time during which they embarked on a lengthy hunger strike (203 days); all of this was set against the backdrop of Northern Ireland’s conflict and the international media’s interest in the conflict (Miller 2016). Their transfer in 1975 from HMP Brixton to HMP Armagh was the result of negotiations and the transfer bolstered associations of the Armagh Gaol with women prisoners. This association was also bolstered by a smuggled 1970s photograph (taken by an unknown photographer) of Dolours and Marian Price imprisoned at the Armagh Goal.23 However, because the sisters were imprisoned in a specially constructed, 1970s-era cell, separate from but within the Gaol’s perimeter walls, the image does not animate the prison conditions in similar ways to the image of Farrell. Filmmaker Cahal McLaughlin’s documentary film, Armagh Voices: Voices from the Gaol (2015b) and interactive digital archive, Prison Memory  Armagh Gaol chaplain Raymond Murray notes that during the 1970s, the number of women imprisoned was under a dozen (1998, 7). Criminologist, Arzini Wahidin suggests that during internment, 33 women republican prisoners were held in Armagh Gaol (2016, 32). Loughran suggests that the gaol, at its peak capacity in 1975, held 120 women prisoners; half of these were internees and half were sentenced prisoners (1986, 60). Media scholar Mary Corcoran sets this number higher: she suggests the female prison population reached its peak a year earlier, in 1974, and held a significantly higher number of women, 162 prisoners (2004, 115). 23  The image is available at: http://www.belfastexposed.org/iotw/Prisons_Armagh_Republican_ Prisoners_1970s Marian Price was released from prison in 1980. She was re-sentenced to and served a term in HMP Maghaberry, from 2011 until 2013, for her role in the death of two British soldiers in Northern Ireland. She was paroled in 2013. Dolours Price was released from prison in 1981; she died in 2013. 22

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Archive, also strengthen perceptions of the Armagh Gaol as a gendered space. McLaughlin recorded over 175 interviews (in total, over 300 hours of archival footage) with people associated with the gaol (2015a; 2017, 3, 12).24 Film footage is included as part of the Prison Memory Archive and records 34 women and men, in what Jonathan Skinner calls the ‘habituating spatio-temporal practice’ of walking through the physical space of the gaol to record memories of incarceration and prisoner–state interactions (2015, 33). In the related film, Armagh Stories: Voices from the Gaol, the majority of the gaol’s authority figures are men; the majority of the former prisoners are women (2015b).25 Connections among gender, incarceration, and the physical space of the gaol are highlighted, projected, and reinforced through these visual images (Kember 1996). The Armagh Gaol is also the site of the first woman killed while serving as a prison officer in Northern Ireland’s gaols. A paramilitary attack by the Irish National Liberation Army (INLA) outside the gaol in April 1979 resulted in injury to four prison officers and in the death of prison guard, Agnes Jean Wallace.26 Protests about women’s imprisonment in Armagh Gaol, and connections between women and this physical and symbolic space depicted the gendered dimensions of carcerality and captured public attention because of the poor physical condition of the building, which was alleged to be ill-suited to its purpose.27

 This film archive is to be housed at the Public Records Office on Northern Ireland, Belfast, Northern Ireland (McLaughlin 2017). 25  This is not the first time women who were prisoners returned to the Armagh Gaol. Former republican prisoner Roseleen Walsh wrote about a visit by at least 29 women to the Armagh Gaol in 1998. See: http://prisonsmemoryarchive.com/armagh-stories/. There are two exceptions to McLaughlin’s depiction of memories by female prisoners; these are recollections by former (female) prison guard, Daphne Scroggie, and former (male) prisoner, and civil rights activist, Niall Vallely. 26  An account of Wallace’s death is available at the Prison Service Trust, http://www.pst-ni.co.uk/ memorials.htm and her image is included in Malcolm Sutton’s Index of Deaths (CAIN). 27  This is in contrast to HMP The Maze. Robert White argues, ‘the British saw The Maze as a “state-­ of-­the-art” facility that complemented one of the most progressive approaches to crime in Europe’ (White 2017, 144). The numbers of protesters in each were also significant. At the time of the 1980 hunger strikes, The Maze/Long Kesh housed over 300 republican men, while just 25 republican women were held in the Armagh Gaol (White 2017, 170). 24

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 he Armagh Gaol’s ‘Architecture T of Confinement’ Farrell’s incarceration was shaped by the gaol’s intentional structures of architectural confinement (Smyth 2017).28 Photographs, Sarah Kember argues, are the result of ‘social and cultural practice embedded in history and human agency’—and, so, too, is the building’s construction (Kember 1996, 148). Designed by architects Thomas Cooley and William Murray, the Armagh Gaol was constructed under the authority of the 1779 Penitentiary Act (UK) on the site of former army barracks in Armagh, County Armagh.29 Its design and construction coincided with ideological shifts in ideas about the assertion of institutional powers over criminalised bodies, and in particular, the imposition of prison architecture and regimes on the creation of docile prisoners’ bodies (Gibson 2011, 1041). Built in a ‘radial style’ that derived from Jeremy Bentham’s idea of the ‘panopticon penitentiary’, the Armagh Gaol’s centrally positioned, administrative offices made surveillance and self-subjectification primary mechanisms of prisoner control (Semple 1993; Conlon 2016, 53).30 In the case of Armagh, visual spectacle is also derived from the building’s location. Situated at the end of the central mall in Armagh, it required sentenced prisoners to physically traverse the distance between the courthouse, built in 1809, at one end of the mall, and the prison to which they were sentenced at the other end of the mall (Ulster Architectual Heritage Society 2008).31  This term is attributed to James Smith and his examination of the treatment of women in the Magdalen laundries, by the church and Irish state, with the culpability of communities and families (2007, 183). 29  Thomas Cooley (1780–1784) was also responsible for the design of Newgate prison in Dublin (now destroyed) and nine district lunatic asylums (Dictionary of Irish Architects). Architect William Murray’s (1789–1849) father’s family originated from Armagh. 30  Use of the Armagh Gaol overlapped with two other prominent gaols, Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin, which operated from 1796 until 1924, and the Crumlin Road Gaol in Belfast, which operated from 1885 until 1996. 31  This spectacle was less obvious when moving suspects from the Gough Barracks in Armagh, whose construction predates the Armagh Gaol. Built in 1773, the Gough Barracks was the headquarters of the Ulster Defence Regiment (UDR) and operated as a secret interrogation centre during the conflict (Conlon 2016, 59). The Gough Barracks site was closed in 1976. 28

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Historian Mary Gibson’s analysis of prisons suggests that as colonial enterprises, gaols in this era were directed towards discipline, not reform (2011, 1057). Originally constructed for the purpose of discipline, adaptations were made to the gaol at Armagh, but they included only limited accommodation to bring the building and facilities up to modern standards (Ulster Architectural Heritage Society 2008).32 Conflict in Northern Ireland heightened associations between prisons and state security. There appear to have been relatively few accommodations to the building’s architectural condition and to ideas about prisons as rehabilitative spaces (Moore 2011, 111). Prisoners were vocal about the building’s limitations, including the small size of cells and the limited access to light and fresh air, the inadequacy of toilet facilities relative to the prisoner population, and physical impediments that limited the segregation of republican and unionist prisoners. Along with the structure’s generally poor condition, these factors made the building ill-suited to long-term habitation, and in 1986 the gaol was closed permanently. With the removal of prisoners to HMP Maghaberry in 1986, Armagh Prison sat empty and has continued to fall into a further state of disrepair.33 Filming in the building two decades later, McLaughlin recognised the building as ‘a character itself ’ and noted its poor condition: ‘some areas had roof collapses or missing floors’ (2017, 3, 5). McLaughlin’s participants, all of whom had previous associations with the building also commented on its dilapidated state and the removal of select physical structures, such as the specially built cell that was once inhabited by Dolours and Marian Price (McLaughlin 2017, 7). The building’s continued vacancy has resulted in a situation of serious exterior and interior ‘structural instability’ and, architect Chris Hamill accesses its current state as ‘soon to become unsalvageable’ (Hamill 2017) (Fig. 2). The posterity of the photograph of Farrell and its reproduction continues to animate the building’s now-vacant shell, and together, the photograph and the building continue to fuel contestations about how  Unlike the Armagh Gaol, Maghaberry Prison was constructed intentionally to police the conflict. For example, its hallways were intentionally built to the width of two prison shields (McBride 2017b). 33  For a short time, public tours of the gaol were arranged through members of the Armagh City Council and permits were granted for special activities and film sets (McLaughlin 2017, 4). However, the building is now deemed structurally unsound and is inaccessible. 32

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Fig. 2  Exterior, Armagh Gaol, June 2017. (Photograph Credit: Chris Hamill. Used with permission)

Northern Ireland’s past should be remembered.34 Contested political narratives about the building’s significance are situated in the context of the inclusion of other conflict-related artefacts, such as the Crumlin Road Gaol, Belfast, in Northern Ireland’s emergent industry related to ‘dark tourism’ (Lennon and Foley 2000). As these debates ensue, the gaol’s contents continue to be reclaimed and reassembled for the purposes of contemplative reflection and political-informed recollections. For instance, Northern Irish artist Rita Duffy’s installation Veil (2002) repurposes six cell doors from the Armagh Gaol. Her installation permits viewers’ reflection and gaze through the view holes of the cell doors onto an arrangement that envelops 80 glass tear drops, and beneath them, a bed of salt. Irish Studies scholar Wesley Hutchinson argues the veil is used symbolically in this installation (2005, 197, 198). Similar to the photograph of Mairéad Farrell, the imagery of the veil can be used as a cover up, in this case, state responses to criminalised prisoners. At the same time, 34

 On photographic iconicity in Northern Ireland’s conflict, see Side (2018).

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the image’s meaning can be drawn back, like a veil, to expose what is not normally seen, including the normally private, physical conditions of imprisonment. At the Eileen Hickey Republican History Museum in West Belfast, a cot and a cell door from the Armagh Gaol are exhibited to enliven recollections of the photograph and its context through material objects and to reinforce their status as revered objects in republican history (Irish Times 2016). The exhibition of these material objects is a reminder, Roland Barthes argues, that the image is never read separately from that which it represents (Barthes in Kember 1996, 154).

Conclusion The political climate surrounding the photograph of Mairéad Farrell and discussions about the gaol in which she was imprisoned continue to cast a long shadow over their contemporary uses and meanings. Efforts to retain the building for its historical and architectural importance have been reinforced by its listing as a Grade B+ Listed Heritage building and inclusion on the Built Heritage at Risk Registry, Northern Ireland. However, its intended renovation continues to be shaped by the divided political climate and it concomitant economic fragility.35 Plans by the UK-based Trevor Osbourne Property Group to transform the former gaol into a boutique hotel, residential apartments, retail shops, an open air performance space, and a heritage centre are stalled (Belfast Telegraph 2016).36 Obstacles to the building’s proposed £23 million conversion indicate that heritage is about more than limestone bricks and mortar. It is also about the traces of memories that inhabit and haunt buildings and the ability of those memories and hauntings to constitute ‘intangible  The Executive, Northern Ireland Assembly was dissolved on 16 January, 2017.  The building was purchased by the Trevor Osbourne Property Group, from the former Armagh and District Council for an undisclosed sum in 1997 (Armagh I 2018). Armagh City Council and the Prince’s Regeneration Trust signed an agreement for the building’s renovation and conversion in 2009. With planning permission set to expire in July, 2018, a Trevor Osbourne Property Group spokesperson indicated that preparatory work under the existing planning consent was intended (Armagh I 2018). 35 36

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heritage’ that is ‘no less powerful than [its] material forms’ (Graham and McDowell 2007, 344).37 Northern Ireland’s contested political context continues as a lens through which the relationship between the photograph and its physical setting are read. The image, through its reproduction and familiarity, and the gaol building through its material presence, remain visible artifacts of conflict. For some, the image is venerated as representative of republican activism; and conversely, for others, it is denounced as a symbol of terrorism. Similarly, the gaol building symbolises resistance to some, and punishment to others. Farrell and her situation in the physical location of the gaol, continue to be fetishised in republicanism. In 2008, Sinn Féin endeavoured to honour Mairéad Farrell’s memory and its ‘importance in Republican hagiography’ through her inclusion in an International Women’s Day event held in the Stormont Parliament’s Long Gallery (McDowell 2008, 345). However, Sinn Féin’s proposal was quashed by opposition from members of the Democratic Unionist Party (DUP) and by the Assembly’s Commission, which imposed a cross-community veto on future events held in the space (An Phoblacht 2008).38 One of the limitations of challenging the image’s present-day resonance is the power that republicanism continues to claim over narratives of political imprisonment, and its ability to enforce the significance of these narratives with accounts of loyalists, state compliance and collusion (Graham and McDowell 2007, 350). Challenging the present-day resonance of the gaol is also difficult. Gaols, as conflict scholar Neil Jarman notes, are ‘troubling remnants’ (2001, 281). The category of ‘hotels-once-formerly-gaols’ (including at least one redevelopment by the Trevor Osbourne Property Group) have not entirely escaped their previous reputation and architectural status as carceral institutions. Chris Hamill points out the contradiction between the need for spaces that facilitate ‘productive exchange and debate’ in the aftermath of conflict, and the building’s bounded, hierarchically organised, internal structures (Hamill 2017). Future plans for the gaol’s  This had also been the case for other politically contested sites, including the HMP The Maze/ Long Kesh, HMP Crumlin Road, and the Girdwood Barracks (Graham and McDowell 2007; de Young 2017). 38  The event was reportedly held instead in Sinn Féin’s conference rooms at Stormont (An Phoblacht 2008). 37

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development may also be stalled by perceptions about competition with other, less controversial tourist sites in and around Armagh City, including the neo-gothic heritage architecture of Armagh’s St. Patrick’s (Church of Ireland) Cathedral (Graham and McDowell 2007). The photograph and the gaol in which it was taken remain powerful objects in contemporary struggles over conflict-related, built sites and their present-day meanings (Graham and McDowell 2007, 350). The image and its meaning threaten to fade over time, just as the building has fallen into a state of disrepair and decay; yet, the possibilities of their loss, along with losses of their associated meanings and memories, also work to ensure their continued survival. Because shadows can distort and be distorted, the shadow cast by these objects may provide some possibilities for change from a conflict-infused lens. Photographically, shadows can be extended, or shorted, depending on the availability of light, and its quality and distances. They can be blurred to obscure the fine details, or they can be enhanced to accent them. Kember argues that the moment when ‘the shadow of the object falls on the subject’, can be one in which the ‘unknown thought becomes known’ (Kember 1996, 157). In this instance, the image, the building, and their past can be brought ‘into thought’ in ways that, while maybe not entirely transformative, might at least be seen as less territorialised. Acknowledgements  This paper was presented at the Colloque, Irish Prisons: Perspectives on the History and Representation of Irish Forms of Containment, Crumlin Road Gaol, Belfast, in October 2017. I am grateful to participants for their thoughtful engagement and to Chris Hamill for permission to include his photograph of the Armagh Gaol and his willingness to share his knowledge of the building and its architectural history.

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The Times (UK). 1988. IRA Terrorist Shot Dead in Gibraltar, March 7. Took, Christopher, and Seán Donnelly. 2016. Elections Ireland: 22 Dáil, Cork North Central. https://electionsireland.org/result. cfm?election=1981&cons=57. Accessed 11 Mar 2018. Ulster Architectural Heritage Society. 2008. Built Heritage at Risk: Northern Ireland. Belfast: Ulster Architectural Heritage Society. https://www.igs.ie/ conservation/register/entry/ulster-architectural-heritage-society. Accessed 22 Oct 2017. Wahidin, Arzini. 2016. Ex-combatants, Gender and Peace in Northern Ireland: Women, Political Protest and the Prison Experience. New York: Springer. Walsh, Roseleen. 1998. Armagh Revisited. The Captive Voice/An Glór Gafa, pp. 2–3, August 27. White, Robert. 2017. Out of the Ashes: An Oral History of the Provisional Irish Republican Movement. Newbridge: Merrion Press.

Stories from the Cells: The Role of the Maze and Long Kesh Prison in Peace Time Northern Ireland Kate Keane

In April 2013, planning permission was granted for the building of a peace and reconciliation centre, designed by Daniel Libeskind, at the site of the former Maze and Long Kesh prison (Newsletter 2013a). The site, measuring approximately 360 acres, had been largely abandoned since July 2000, when the last of its prisoners were released under terms included in the Good Friday Agreement (Graham and McDowell 2007, 343). ‘It is truly meaningful to build a hope-filled common ground, to tell individual stories and to do so at Maze Long Kesh’, said Libeskind at the time (Dezeen 2013). The peace centre itself was set to be funded by an £18 million grant from the European Union’s PEACE III programme, the third in a series of grants towards peacebuilding work in Northern Ireland. Just six months later, the £18 million was withdrawn (BBC 2013). The reasons

K. Keane (*) Prisons Memory Archive, Queen’s University Belfast, Belfast, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 F. McCann (ed.), The Carceral Network in Ireland, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7_9

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for this are complex, and unfortunately typical of a Northern Ireland which is still trying to find its way out of the political conflict which has dominated its recent past. A few years earlier, in 2007, a small filmmaking team visited what was left of the Maze and Long Kesh Prison. Demolition had already begun in earnest, with plans, at that stage, for the redevelopment of the site to include a large multi-functional sports stadium. One H-Block had been kept in full working order up until 2003, in case the ceasefires did not hold (McLaughlin 2006a, 81). The filmmaking team invited people who had previously spent time there to revisit the site, and have their memories recorded, using the site and the buildings as a stimulus for memory. Stories were collected from a wide range of perspectives, including ex-­ prisoners from both republican and loyalist groups, prison staff, teachers, artists, family members, chaplains, lawyers, and doctors. These became part of what is now the Prisons Memory Archive, ‘a collection of 175 filmed walk-and-talk recordings with those who had a connection with Armagh Gaol and the Maze and Long Kesh Prison during the conflict in and about Northern Ireland’ (Prisons Memory Archive). The archive also includes photographs and site footage of the Maze and Long Kesh Prison, and Armagh Gaol. Today, the 360 acre site sits largely vacant. The Administration Building, Prison Hospital, H-Block 6 and a multi-denominational chapel were granted listed status in 2005, but are falling further and further into disrepair (Northern Ireland Buildings Database). One Compound, Cage 19, once occupied by Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) commander Gusty Spence, also remains, while the rest of the buildings have been demolished (Purbrick 2011, 268). Since 2013, a portion of the cleared land has hosted the annual Balmoral Show agricultural fair, and more recently has seen the development of the Eikon Exhibition Centre, while another section has become the primary operating base of Air Ambulance NI (Air Ambulance NI). Despite this, the site’s future remains as contested as its past, and much has been written about the myriad of reasons behind the failure of plans to redevelop this site in any meaningful way. Consequently, the aim of this chapter is not to provide a complete history of the site and its controversy.

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Instead, it will explore how the Maze and Long Kesh Prison site, and oral history projects such as the Prisons Memory Archive (PMA), can help to demonstrate the multi-layered meanings of contentious history in Northern Ireland, and act as a focal point or stimulus for greater understanding of a difficult past.

Ownership Described as ‘the most notorious site of state detainment’ during the conflict, the Maze and Long Kesh Prison is viewed by many as a physical embodiment of ‘the Troubles’, a conflict which has dominated Northern Ireland, in varying degrees, from 1968 to the present day (Neill 2017, 241). Fr. Oliver Crilly, a participant in the PMA who spent time at the site during the 1981 hunger strikes, noted that ‘It was as if the whole Northern Ireland conflict had focused itself on this particular piece of ground and on these particular buildings’ (Crilly). In a similar fashion to the Derry/Londonderry debate, disputes still remain about the name of the prison, with republicans often referring to it as ‘Long Kesh’, maintaining the link to prison’s history as an internment camp, ‘as do former loyalist prisoners, whereas, officially, it is called the Maze’, or HMP Maze (Graham and McDowell 2007, 343). These continuing disagreements about the naming of the space allude to a more widespread lack of consensus about the site, the people who inhabited it, and what happened there (Fig. 1). As McLaughlin writes, the Maze and Long Kesh Prison ‘holds different meanings for the different communities (catholic and protestant, nationalist and unionist, republican and loyalist, Irish and British) that were affected by the conflict’ (McLaughlin 2006a, 81). Originally an RAF base, the site was used as the Long Kesh Internment Camp after the introduction of internment without trial for suspected republicans in 1971. This was followed by the building of HMP Maze Cellular (the H-Blocks) in 1976 after numerous escapes and incidents of violence in the compounds or ‘cages’ of the internment camp (McLaughlin 2006b, 123). Correspondence from within the Ministry

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Fig. 1  Security infrastructure at the Maze and Long Kesh Prison. (© Prisons Memory Archive)

for Home Affairs in 1973 had advised against the building of a permanent prison on the site associated with internment: ‘I think it can be said that a certain stigma now attaches itself to the area’; however, it appears this advice was not followed (Platt 1973). The building of the Maze Cellular also marked the abolition of Special Category Status for those arrested for conflict-related activities after 1st March 1976 (McLaughlin 2006a, 82–83). While already important due to its links with internment, the site’s significance in the republican narrative was then intensified by the 1981 hunger strikes, during which ten republican prisoners died in the Prison Hospital. This is often regarded as being a turning point in the conflict, and led to a dramatic increase in support for Sinn Féin (Graham and McDowell 2007, 348). Through these events, new meaning was projected on to the site, the Prison Hospital in particular, and the repercussions of this will be discussed in greater detail later. Bernadette O’Hagan, another participant of the PMA, explains that she used to drive past the Maze and Long Kesh Prison and think ‘Godspeed the day when that place is razed to the ground. But when the hunger strike happened […] I changed my mind on that, and whatever is going to happen here, so long

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as they keep the hospital wing and some part of it for our history’ (O’Hagan and Maginn). Another PMA participant, Peter Taylor, a journalist who filmed at the site while the prison was in operation, remarks on this idea of the Prison Hospital, and the cell in which Bobby Sands died, as becoming a shrine-like place (Taylor). Links from the metal bed in that cell have, over the years, been taken by visitors, demonstrating the importance some people have put on that bed and that space. Although admitting that this is unlikely to be the actual bed that Sands died in, McAtackney explains how ‘these bedsprings are no longer simply constituent parts of a piece of institutional furniture. They have heightened significance for those who remove them, having transitioned in meaning from functional to cultural if not spiritual, and are simultaneously a piece of heritage to some whilst remaining the source of deep discomfort to others (especially the custodians)’ (McAtackney 2016). Regardless of the authenticity of this bed, it has become a tangible symbol for the republican struggle. Situating republican narratives in fixed locations can serve the purpose of adding weight and validity to their version of the past. As Smith explains, close identification between a community and its surrounding landscape is achieved by ‘attaching specific memories of “our ancestors and forebears”, particularly if they are saintly or heroic, to particular stretches of territory, thereby binding their descendants to a distinct landscape endowed with ethno-historical significance’ (Smith 1999, 151). Eddie McGarrigle, a former INLA prisoner and PMA participant, spent time in the Prison Hospital nine years after the deaths of the hunger strikers, and describes how even at that stage he regarded it as being ‘full of history’, recounting how he was ‘acutely aware of the hunger strikers dying here’ (McGarrigle). However, Bobby Sands was not the only person to inhabit Cell 8 in the Prison Hospital, and republicans are not the only ones who have memories of this building or this site—‘significant numbers’ of Loyalist prisoners also spent time there (McAtackney 2014, 5). Additionally, as Graham and McDowell explain, approximately ‘15,000 prison officers and staff worked there, meaning that [including estimates of 25,000 prisoners] the prison touched on the lives of some 40,000 families in total and approximately one in eight of the population of Northern Ireland’ (Graham and McDowell 2007, 348). The perceived

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ownership by one dominant narrative is therefore an inaccurate representation of the site; however, this is by no means unique to the Maze and Long Kesh Prison. Territoriality, and the claiming of spaces for memory, is a key part of the Northern Ireland conflict, with commemoration of the past in the physical landscape (in the form of plaques, murals, memorial gardens) often regarded as ‘a war but by other means’ (McDowell and Braniff 2014, 38–59). Graham and McDowell describe a Northern Ireland where ‘partisan heritage, memory and practices of commemoration play a prominent role in political contestation at the expense of narratives of recognition, reflection, acceptance and reconciliation’ (Graham and McDowell 2007, 349). On this, Shea comments, ‘heritage is often understood as a barrier, nurturing polarities instead of facilitating convergences’ (Shea 2010, 290).

Argument for Demolition Purbrick highlights public debate which developed almost immediately after the release of the final prisoners in 2000. ‘Two possibilities were presented as simple confrontational opposites: preserve or demolish’ (Purbrick 2006, 76). Legal ownership of the site was transferred to the Office of the First Minister and Deputy First Minister (OFMDFM) in 2003, and a ‘Maze Consultation Panel, which included representatives of the four principle political parties […] to advise on the regeneration of the site’ was established (Graham and McDowell 2007, 344). Chaired by David Campbell of the UUP, the panel also comprised of Vice Chair Michael McKernan (SDLP), Roy Bailie (UUP), Gerry Cosgrove (SDLP), Máirtín Ó Muilleoir (SF), and Edwin Poots (DUP) (Northern Ireland Assembly Questions 2013). In Campbell’s opinion, ‘the Maze Consultation Panel was ground-breaking in that, for the first time, representatives of the four main political parties met and worked together along with departmental officials and the Chief Executive of Lisburn City Council’ (Newsletter 2013b). Separately, proposals were released by Coiste na n-Iarchimí, a representative group for former Provisional IRA prisoners, in 2003, which promoted the development of a museum at the site (Coiste na n-Iarchimí

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2003). This was contested by unionists who feared the site would become a ‘republican shrine’ (Irish Times 2003). Based on recommendations from the Consultation Panel, official proposals were published in May 2006 for multi-use of the land, including a multi-sport stadium with a hotel and conference facilities, commercial space, an equestrian centre, leisure and entertainment facilities, housing, parkland, and civic space (Maze/ Long Kesh Masterplan 2006, 7–9). The idea of a museum had been replaced by an International Centre for Conflict Transformation, although it was unclear how exactly this would incorporate the existing listed structures on the site. This Maze/Long Kesh Masterplan and Implementation strategy declared: ‘The development of the International Centre for Conflict Transformation including the listed prison buildings offers a practical opportunity to those seeking assistance in establishing a conflict resolution process in their own country by drawing on the experience and history of the peace process’ (Maze/Long Kesh Masterplan 2006, 4). It continued, ‘The listed prison buildings provide the potential to build on the historical significance of the site and to create a unique environment’ (Maze/Long Kesh Masterplan 2006, 5). Demolition at the site began, and it was during this window of optimism that the PMA recordings were filmed. However, due to a lack of wider political consensus, these plans for the site stalled, and were eventually scrapped in 2009 by Gregory Campbell, then DUP Minister for Sport (The Guardian 2008). Controversy continued among unionists over the listed status of the remaining prison buildings, with Keith Harbinson from the Traditional Unionist Voice (TUV) remarking: ‘That the Maze should be granted the same protection as Northern Ireland’s architectural treasures is outrageous’ (Newsletter 2010). Despite this, fresh plans were launched in 2013 by the then First Minister, the DUP’s Peter Robinson and the Deputy First Minister, Sinn Féin’s Martin McGuinness. This included the earlier mentioned Daniel Libeskind designed Peace Centre. These plans were, however, to be short-lived. Under mounting tensions from within his own party, who in turn were reacting to tensions within wider unionism, Peter Robinson pulled his support for the Daniel Libeskind design in August 2013 (Belfast Telegraph 2013). The crux of this, Neill argues, ‘is unionist fear that the Maze/Long Kesh will become a republican shrine legitimising, commemorating, and mythologizing

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the “armed struggle” of the IRA in general and the blood sacrifice of the hunger strikers who died in the hospital wing’ (Neill 2017, 247) (Fig. 2). Indisputably, the Maze and Long Kesh Prison site holds even more baggage than other sites associated with the conflict. It housed men convicted of murder, torture, and other acts of extreme violence. Preserving this site over others linked to the conflict could understandably be seen as disrespectful to the generally accepted number of 3700 people who lost their lives in the conflict, many at the hands of men who spent time in this prison (McKittrick et  al. 2004). A spokesperson for one victims’ group declared that ‘we refuse to accept the glorification of terrorists. If the prison will not be used for the purpose it was intended for then we would rather see it bulldozed’ (FAIR, quoted in Graham and McDowell 2007, 352). Acknowledging ‘the Troubles’ in a tangible way has remained elusive in any official sense in Northern Ireland. Since the mid-1990s, various plans for a comprehensive and centrally located memorial for those killed during ‘the Troubles’ have reached similar stumbling blocks to the ones faced by the Maze and Long Kesh site. Discussions reached their height following the paramilitary ceasefires of 1994 and the subsequent Good

Fig. 2  Demolition at the Maze and Long Kesh Prison site in 2007. (© Prisons Memory Archive)

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Friday Agreement of 1998. Proposals were varied, ranging from the replacement of the Statue of Lord Carson at Stormont by a new sculpture representing peace, ‘which politicians, civil servants and media working in post-war Northern Ireland would daily have to pass and heed’, to ‘suggestions that such a memorial could be constructed from one of the now redundant peaceline walls in Belfast, or by retaining some of the sentry towers overlooking border crossings and boulders which had closed minor roads’ (Leonard 1997). In 1995, designs by students at Queen’s University Belfast situated a memorial beside the River Lagan, and involved ‘twenty five unevenly sized walls, similar to border checkpoints. Each wall was sized in proportion to the number of people killed in each year of the Troubles’ (Leonard 1997). Senator Gordon Wilson, speaking at the Forum for Peace and Reconciliation in Dublin in 1995, highlighted that ‘those bereaved by the Troubles did not require a monument to be reminded of their loss but that the outside world did need this reminder’ (Leonard 1997). Presenting at Healing Through Remembering’s Round Table Event on Commemoration in 2008, John Nangle advised that ‘we should look towards shared commemorative forms that might allow citizens to critically consider how to change the conditions that contributed to the conflict in and about Northern Ireland. Commemoration should provide an educational function. Commemoration – for instance holocaust commemorations – not only urges us to remember the dead, but leaves such an effect that the story of its victims must be told to prevent future repetition’ (Healing Through Remembering 2008, 12).

 uitability of the Site as a Centre S for Conflict Transformation As McAtackney writes, ‘in post-conflict contexts, prisons are some of the most difficult security infrastructure for the state and the public to deal with’ (McAtackney 2014, 4). With this in mind, can prisons such as that at Maze and Long Kesh ever offer an opportunity to help society heal, or

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are these sites, with their myriad of negative, hostile, often violent, and oppressive associations, only good for demolition? Germany offers examples of how societies can relate to physical reminders of traumatic pasts. When the Berlin Wall fell, there was a ‘general post-1989 consensus that the Wall should be demolished as swiftly and completely as possible’ (Knischewski and Spittler 2007, 174). Ironically, the last remaining parts of the wall are now protected structures, and a section has even been re-etched in to the landscape as part of the Berlin Wall Memorial at Bernauer Strasse: ‘where the original relicts of the border fortifications have been lost, Corten steel [is] used to indicate where the elements once were, making them more visible’ (Berlin Wall Memorial website). The website for the Berlin Wall Memorial explains how ‘over time it became evident that with almost the entire border fortifications torn down, very few meaningful places were left to convey the history. For this reason in 2006 a Masterplan to Preserve the Memory of the Berlin Wall was passed by the Berlin Senate, calling for the reinforcement and linking of the various Wall sites in Berlin’ (Berlin Wall Memorial website). The website fails to mention that in 1990, when the site was earmarked for preservation, ‘there was strong opposition from local residents who wanted this physical remainder of the GDR [German Democratic Republic] regime to disappear’ (Knischewski and Spittler 2007, 172). This, however, is understandable, as the Wall, and the brutal regime associated with it, had fallen only a matter of months earlier. Some Nazi concentration camps, themselves prisons of sorts, although with industrial-scale violent pasts, have been preserved, and serve as a reminder of another traumatic era of Germany and Europe’s history. The Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial and Museum has a key focus on education, and its aims in the preservation of the site are clear: ‘the ruins of the gas chambers and crematoria constitute some of the most important material evidence of the crime of the Holocaust […] Thanks to this necessary work the remains of the extermination machinery will still be a warning for the future generation’ (Auschwitz-Birkenau website). A detailed conservation plan includes ‘sites of the former camps of Auschwitz I and Auschwitz II-Birkenau (along with the remained buildings, the ruins of the gas chambers and crematoria, the remains of the barracks and other facilities, sewage systems and drainage ditches, roads, fences,

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railway infrastructure), as well as thousands of post-camp items, and documents on exposition or stored in the warehouse.’ (Auschwitz-Birkenau website) The importance of the tangibility of history is again demonstrated by a long campaign to preserve the remains of a concentration camp in Austria—‘Former prisoners of KL Gusen had to fight to preserve the memory of the camp, its victims, the unimaginable suffering and the crimes of German and Austrian Nazis’ (Auschwitz-Birkenau website). Some significant difficulties arise when comparing international contexts with Northern Ireland. The atrocities associated with the Nazi regime are widely accepted as a horrendous injustice; however, such consensus has not been reached on the conflict in Northern Ireland, or over those who are viewed as victims and those who are viewed as perpetrators. Political prisoners in Northern Ireland are not regarded as victims by many. In his 2008 report as the Northern Ireland Victims Commissioner, Sir Kenneth Bloomfield found that ‘many people feel strongly that any person engaged in unlawful activity that is killed or injured in pursuit of it is a victim only of his own criminality and deserves no recognition for it’, although it is important to note that Bloomfield did not necessarily hold that view himself (Bloomfield 2008). Nonetheless, this attitude was later echoed by the rejection of the Eames-Bradley Report in 2010, ‘following widespread controversy concerning one recommendation that all victims of the conflict (including the family members of paramilitaries who were killed) should receive a £12,000 recognition payment’ (McEvoy and Bryson 2016, 71). However, these both sit at odds with the opinion of Mina Wardle, who in her role as Director of the Shankill Stress and Trauma Group, explained that ‘some of their ex-prisoner members were first “victims” of republican violence, then became “perpetrators” when they joined paramilitary groups, and then they returned to the status of “victims” when imprisoned’ (Wardle quoted in McLaughlin 2010, 13). Republicans often describe their reasons for becoming involved in violence in a similar vein: ‘having witnessed attacks, assaults, having their home searched, and being brutalized by the State and the security forces caused them to join armed organizations’ (Ferguson et al. 2010). Ideas of victimhood in a Northern Ireland context are complex, as McKittrick et al. articulate: ‘those who died in the troubles included civilians, members of loyalist and republican groups, political figures, soldiers, joyriders,

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alleged drug dealers, judges and magistrates, those killed in the course of armed robberies, prison officers, convicted killers, businessmen, alleged informers, Ulster Defence Regiment (UDR) members, those who died on hunger strike, men, women, children, pensioners and unborn babies’ (McKittrick et al. 2004, 15). Brian Maguire, a PMA participant and artist who visited the Maze and Long Kesh Prison while it was in operation, describes his surprise at returning to the site in 2007 to find it almost derelict, and immediately compares it to the derelict concentration camps in Germany and Poland: ‘It’s like a monument to the inhumanity that is a prison’ (Maguire). Could the remains of the Maze and Long Kesh Prison, like the concentrations camps of mainland Europe, act as a reminder of the difficult past, and a motivation to prevent history from repeating itself? Graham and McDowell are perhaps overly dismissive of this potential, and focus too much on Sinn Féin’s own comparisons between Auschwitz and the Maze and Long Kesh Prison, which are based around republican narratives of suffering and victimhood at the hands of the British State (Graham and McDowell 2007, 358). Such parallels are understandably regarded by Graham and McDowell as ‘extraordinarily distasteful and exaggeratedly overstated’ (Graham and McDowell 2007, 358). An alternative and more appropriate angle would be to highlight the pain and torment that people can inflict on each other. Concerns of the site becoming a ‘shrine to republicanism’ are valid. However, by highlighting different perspectives of the same history, it could prevent the site from becoming a shrine to one identity or political or ideological narrative. McAtackney argues that ‘as a space of confinement of significant numbers of both loyalist and republican prisoners it is fundamentally a shared site’ (McAtackney 2014, 5). She also promotes the idea of using oral testimonies in archaeological studies at contemporary sites: ‘they do not simply add to the narratives that the material remnants provide but they can support, contradict, counterbalance, interact with and ultimately enrich each other’ (McAtackney 2014, 5–6). Oral history is widely acknowledged as having a valuable role to play in societies emerging from conflict, and has been included in numerous formal proposals for dealing with the past in Northern Ireland. Bryson records how ‘as early as 1998, the report into victims and survivors commissioned by the then Secretary

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of State Mo Mowlam highlighted “the value of telling the story”’ (McEvoy and Bryson 2016, 83). The Eames-Bradley Report also recognised ‘its potential “cathartic nature” in enabling people to share their stories with others (especially their former enemies)’ (McEvoy and Bryson 2016, 83). The inclusion of an Oral History Archive in a three-pronged approach set out in the Stormont House Agreement in 2014 cements oral history’s role in the future of Northern Ireland’s past, should this Bill be implemented. Furthermore, locating oral history work in place and space helps to provide a stimulus and a structure to memory. Protection of physical remains can additionally discount or discredit well-established myths that may be unhelpful in a society emerging from violence. McAtackney points to documented loyalist murals at the Maze and Long Kesh Prison, although now destroyed, as evidence of loyalist prisoners’ engagement and interaction with that site (McAtackney 2014, 165–66). The site and the stories therefore rely on each other for a greater understanding of what happened at the Maze and Long Kesh Prison, allowing multiple layers of meaning to emerge. The Prisons Memory Archive has already been successful in presenting numerous perspectives, narratives, and experiences of the same spaces, and giving a greater understanding of how these, now empty, spaces were used. Participants’ stories are presented side-by-side on the current website, intentionally avoiding segregation of memories into expected categories of republican and loyalist, or prisoner and prison officer. As McLaughlin writes: The aim is to encourage users to navigate their own way around the material […] so that the users have enough to satisfy their curiosity, but not too much that they bring assumptions too quickly to bear […] To encourage users not to rush to judgment with their inevitable, and understandable, prior holding of moral or political viewpoints. We hope that users get to know a little of the person before deducting what position they might have held in the prison […] in order that all stories are heard and not just those which the user feels most comfortable with. We hope that this encourages a listening to the ‘other’ version of the past, an essential element in our society’s attempts to come to terms with the legacy of a violent past. (McLaughlin 2014)

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As mentioned earlier, the Prison Hospital, so often associated with the republican hunger strikers of 1981, holds memories from other (often themselves contradictory)  perspectives. John Hetherington, a former Prison Officer at the Maze and Long Kesh Prison, and a PMA participant, is one such voice that challenges agreed or existing versions of the history of that location. Speaking of his experience of working in the Prison Hospital during the 1981 hunger strikes, Hetherington gives an emotional account of that time in history, and that physical space, from his perspective. In his recording, he states, ‘I cannot see a photograph of some of the lads who were here, or I cannot even think of their relatives, their mothers, sisters, brothers, whom I spoke to. And I know the sheer agony that they were going through, and you would need to have a heart of stone not to feel some sympathy for what was happening. We treated them with the utmost humanity and respect, and they reciprocated, because they thanked the staff here for their many acts of kindness’ (Hetherington). This account sits in contrast to Brendan Hurson’s recollection of the night his brother, Martin Hurson, died on hunger strike. As a PMA participant, he describes the prison staff as being unhelpful and unsympathetic, even failing to organise a phone call home to tell his family of the death of Martin (Hurson). The family later heard the announcement on the radio. But Hurson’s account also challenges the heroic tales of the hunger strikes promoted by some republican discourses. It is absent of any triumphalism, and full of resigned acceptance, but sadness, at his brother’s fate. While, as Graham and McDowell argue, the ‘debate on the future of the Maze has been driven by Sinn Féin’ and a republican agenda, it could also be argued that unionists must shoulder some of the responsibility for the continuation of the idea of the site as a republican shrine (Graham and McDowell 2007, 344). McLaughlin notes this in relation to the collection of stories for the PMA—‘by not contributing, those few groups who see only a “republican story” contribute to fulfilling their own prophecy’ (McLaughlin 2010). One of the key challenges to the adoption of multi-layered narratives of the Prison stems from the stigmatisation of imprisonment within loyalist communities. ‘Unlike republicanism, loyalism lacks any culture or history of political prisoners, of going outside the law’ (Graham and McDowell 2007, 350). Loyalism and loyalist

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prisoners could not easily integrate their imprisonment in to their collective narratives, as ‘they saw themselves as fighting on the same side, and even fighting alongside, the soldier, policemen and civil authorities against Republicanism’ (McAtackney 2005, 3). This attitude also created challenges for loyalist prisoners after their release, as Shirlow notes: ‘the community is with you in republican areas: the community is against you in loyalist areas’ (Shirlow et al. 2005, 92). Instead of promoting the voices and experience of those from unionist backgrounds who also had a relationship with the Prison, unionist and loyalist groups have fixated on this singular identity of the site as a republican space. Interestingly, the IRSP (Irish Republican Socialist Party), the political wing of the INLA (Irish National Liberation Army) have also been critical of the dominance of the Provisional IRA/Sinn Féin versions of events, publicly asking ‘whether mainstream republicans were attempting to rewrite the history of the jail to exclude the INLA’ (Irish News 2003, quoted in Graham and McDowell 2007, 351). Two of the ten hunger strikers who died were INLA prisoners, but this has been largely written out of the established narrative, something which still remains contentious for groups within the broad spectrum of republicanism.

The Problem of Memory in Northern Ireland Anne Cadwallader, former  BBC journalist and PMA participant, remarked on the Maze and Long Kesh Prison, ‘let’s hope its future is better than its past […] it’s got to be’ (Cadwallader). As discussed above, a significant issue in the development of the Maze and Long Kesh site as a centre for conflict transformation has been the dominance of Sinn Féin and Coiste in promoting the site as heritage. This, it could be argued, is the result of a vacuum, as Viggiani explains: ‘the absence of an official state-sponsored narrative of the Troubles has created a public vacuum in the memorialization and interpretation of the Troubles, available to be claimed by other non-state agencies of articulation […] it is the four main paramilitary groups – and, in some cases, their respective political parties – who have stepped in to fill this void in the production of “official” memory’ (Viggiani 2014, 19). This statement

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highlights how memories and narratives of the troubled past exist separately in Northern Ireland, isolated and non-inclusive. A complete absence of any physical reminders of ‘the Troubles’, and its narratives, from Belfast city centre has undoubtedly provided a neutral space in which to do business, but sits in contrast to the working-class areas which surround it. These areas are scattered with plaques, murals, memorial gardens, and monuments which commemorate violent events from only one perspective or viewpoint. People will still remember, but an absence of any official leadership on this remembering has prevented and will continue to prevent any meeting of these memories. McDowell has done significant work in the area of contested heritage in a post-conflict context, linking issues present in Northern Ireland to similar examples internationally. She has found that ‘physically obliterating sites of painful memories from the landscapes of the present can, for many, be psychologically liberating. Yet attempts to forget or deny the past may also prove futile’ (McDowell 2009, 205). Shea writes that ‘while citizens express the desire to move forward, it has become clear that for many, creating a peaceful future demands looking back’ (Shea 2010, 289). Therefore, it can be concluded that the key to moving forward is not to demolish the past. The scars will remain, only to be manipulated by the politics of the day. As Graham and McDowell conclude, commemoration of the Maze and Long Kesh Prison will happen ‘even if the buildings and other elements of tangible heritage are destroyed’ (Graham and McDowell 2007, 362). Purbrick agrees, stating that ‘Long Kesh/Maze is not patiently waiting for an agreed interpretation’ (Purbrick 2006, 79). McAtackney further argues that the fact that the prison has remained inaccessible to the general public has in itself contributed to its mythologisation: it ‘continues to have a simultaneous existence as a highly visible, yet deeply secretive place that has ensured it has remained within public and political consciousness’ (McAtackney 2014, 184).

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The Role of the Prisons Memory Archive What is needed, Shea argues, is a new way of remembering. ‘By forging a new tradition in memory work that transcends the long history of dual narratives and begins to make space for broader, more complicated engagements with the past, citizens are building their capacity to acknowledge, understand and respect difference’ (Shea 2010, 291). As previously mentioned, oral histories are able to demonstrate complexities that other more official records may not, and provide space for individuals to ‘depart from established communal narratives’ (Bryson 2007, 45). Complexities within the characters of some of the participants in the Prisons Memory Archive provide a starting point for this move away from these dual narratives, and also serve to re-humanise those who might have previously been thought of as the enemy to some. Former Prison Officer John Hetherington expresses an emotional connection to the families of the hungers strikers that one might not expect, and sadness at the killing of Sinn Féin’s vice president Máire Drumm (Hetherington). On the policy of internment, Hetherington remarks ‘we didn’t like it at all, because we were Prison Officers, not internment officers’ (Hetherington). As McLaughlin explains, ‘this empathy, indeed sympathy, with people whom the government regarded as a threat to security is a challenge to the government’s paradigm of terrorism versus democracy’ (McLaughlin 2016, 76). Two other PMA participants, Harry Donaghy and Seán O’Hare describe co-operation between Official IRA prisoners and loyalist prisoners in the compounds/cages, and also provide an alternative to traditional ideas of relations between prisoners and prison officers: ‘you couldn’t help over the years but get to know some of the guys [prison officers] in a totally humanistic way’ (Donaghy and O’Hare). Oliver Crilly describes the complexities of moving between the roles of a Catholic priest, at the Prison on ‘official business’, and that of a cousin of Tom McElwee who was on hunger strike (Crilly). While only a snap shot of the stories within the PMA Collection, these participants’ experiences are multi-layered, often with contradictions, and challenge established or perceived ideas of others—‘part of the aim of the Prisons Memory Archive is to problematize such limiting binaries’ (McLaughlin 2016, 76). To move forward, it

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Fig. 3  Nissen huts in a former compound/cage. These spaces were officially called compounds, but were widely referred to as ‘cages’ by prisoners and internees. (© Prisons Memory Archive)

could be argued, Northern Ireland must learn to accept contradictions. Transitional societies must, as Dawson notes, manage the ‘complex interplay between remembering, forgetting and moving on’ (Dawson 2007, 17) (Fig. 3). Former prisoners, often regarded as the perpetrators of the decades of violence, are now acknowledged as having an invaluable role to play in securing the peace, and ensuring there is not a return to the widespread violence that saw them imprisoned in places such as the Maze and Long Kesh Prison (Joyce and Lynch 2017, 1074). Again, oral history, recognised as having the potential of ‘“giving voice” to marginalised, victimised, and “subaltern” witnesses and of broadening the canvas for dealing with the past’, is a useful tool in incorporating these narratives with others (McEvoy and Bryson 2016, 83). The inclusion of their experiences undoubtedly raises issues for those who have suffered at the hands of republican and loyalist terror groups, but must be included to move forward. As Joyce and Lynch explain, prisoners ‘during and after incarceration’, ‘were involved in the design and implementation of the peace process; their buy-in to the process was seen as essential to the success of

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the entire undertaking’ (Joyce and Lynch 2017, 1073). Many prisoners from loyalist and republican groups now work in partnership with each other, sharing common ground from opposite sides of political divides. They have been successful in ‘mobilizing class identities’, where ‘there is more you have in common than separates you, we are working class people from Belfast. There (sic) kids are struggling with the same issues, employment, getting a job, trying to get ahead in life’ (Joyce and Lynch 2017, 1082). The Prisons Memory Archive highlights the shared experiences of these men within the Prison, from looking forward to visits, to concerns about what their lives would be like after their release, and further demonstrates similarities of experience from the perspective of family members on the outside. Difficult sites, such as the Maze and Long Kesh Prison, offer an opportunity to challenge ideas of perceived ownership of space, of experiences, and ownership of the past. Writing in 2007, Graham and McDowell were critical of the 2005 Consultation Report, but admitted that ‘the Maze does possess a certain potential for reconciliation if not yet atonement’ (Graham and McDowell 2007, 362). The Maze and Long Kesh Prison was a place of horror, but also the birthplace of the peace process. The deeply contested Prison Hospital itself was described by Kenneth Simpson, a chaplain and PMA participant, as neutral territory or ‘common ground’, where ‘both loyalist and republican could live quite amicably together’ (Simpson). This is in contrast to the H-Blocks, which he describes as being ‘a pressure pot’ (Simpson). Another participant, former loyalist prisoner Howard Giffen, echoes this, remarking ‘I couldn’t complain about the hospital […] It wasn’t a bad experience … the cells blocks a different story’ (Giffen). Could the hospital again be a neutral space? While the past trauma of this building is undeniable, Fr. Oliver Crilly remarks that the hospital ‘looks so tiny now. It was exaggerated at the time because of the momentous things that were going on, and the pain of what was going on’ (Crilly). He continues, ‘now it seems so empty and small and harmless’ (Crilly). John Hetherington, although having mixed feelings about the preservation of the Prison Hospital, and thinking that the Nissen huts in ruins act as a ‘fitting tribute to the Peace Process, that this place is like this. That it’s closed, it’s falling apart’, also declares that ‘I really feel without

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this place, […] the Peace Process may never have been born […] this really was the womb’ (Hetherington). Peter Taylor reiterates this, reacting to a sign at the site which listed OFMDFM as having responsibility for the site at that time (it is now under the Northern Ireland Executive). On power-sharing at Stormont, Taylor comments, ‘a lot of it began here, in the Maze. That’s why this place is so important’ (Taylor).

The Future In 2005, OFMDFM declared in their final report from the Maze Consultation Panel that ‘It would be entirely fitting for the Maze/Long Kesh site, which was for so long a symbol of conflict, to become a symbol of the ongoing transformation from conflict to peace’ (Maze Consultation Panel, quoted in Graham and McDowell 2007, 353). Instead, it seems, the site has become a symbol of the ongoing issues and challenges facing a Northern Ireland emerging from conflict. The Maze and Long Kesh Prison will remain in social memory and folklore regardless of what happens at the site. If demolished, it would be a missed opportunity for presentation of pluralist narratives of this contested past. The Prisons Memory Archive would not have been possible without the existence of these spaces, as the spaces stimulated the memories. This demonstrates the importance of tangible history in a society emerging from conflict. Space enriches the memories, while memories enrich the space, and together they help to give a fuller, contradictory, but realistic history of not only the Maze and Long Kesh Prison, but of society in Northern Ireland. Much has been written about the use of collective memory and, more importantly, the interpretation of collective memory to build and maintain identities, social cohesion, and communities (Anderson 2006). A re-remembering of Northern Ireland’s past, through sites such as the Maze Long Kesh Prison being presented as multi-layered, might provide an opportunity to create a more cohesive Northern Ireland. Reinterpreting the years of violence as a shared, although different, experience, and the acknowledgement, not avoidance of these events, could help to avoid future repetition of the social and political factors that led to these atrocities. Fundamental in this process is the humanisation of ‘the other’, as

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‘recognition of our own and others’ hurt and walking in the others’ shoes have helped us re-humanise those we see as the enemy […] helping to hear the disparate narratives and the complex story of our conflict’ (M. Hetherington & O’Neill quoted in Shea 2010, 298). Crooke writes, ‘fundamentally, the issue for Northern Ireland is not so much how to forget the past but how to put its memory to better use’ (Crooke 2005, 141). The form of remembering encouraged by Shea involves an end to zero-sum ideas of the past, as Laura McAtackney comments in her PMA recording, ‘there’s no one interpretation of site […] everybody has a different experience, even within […] the republicans or the UVF […] they all had slightly different experiences of the same place, even when they were housed in the same block at the same time, they don’t remember the same thing’ (McAtackney PMA). Shea, in reference to two individuals’ opposing views of a bomb that went off on their street in the 1970s, writes ‘the reality is that both stories were true, objectively and subjectively. Both families’ experiences of the bomb were incontrovertibly authentic’ (Shea 2010, 301). Projects such as the Prisons Memory Archive can assist in highlighting a plurality of ownership, of spaces like the Maze and Long Kesh Prison, and of the past in general. As McLaughlin writes of the PMA, ‘such a range of stories involved moving beyond any single narrative that might serve political purposes in the contested arena of contemporary politics, and acknowledges the need to hear the other as the society emerges out of conflict’ (McLaughlin 2016, 70). For the future, one can hope that more pluralist histories of Northern Ireland are accepted. As John Hetherington muses, ‘If out of idle curiosity someday, somebody wants to, hasn’t anything better to do, and they go and look at the [Prisons Memory] Archive, maybe historians, maybe they’ll listen to somebody like me maybe, and see that it wasn’t all as black and white as they thought it was’ (Hetherington). If so, the work of the Prisons Memory Archive will be done. Note to readers: the above referenced recordings are only a small sample of the Prisons Memory Archive, and were chosen for inclusion in this article due to being freely available on the PMA website at the time of writing. With the support of funding from the National Lottery Heritage Fund, it is hoped that the majority of the PMA Collection will be made publicly accessible at the Public Record Office of Northern Ireland (PRONI) in 2020. The current PMA website will also be replaced.

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———. 2013a. Maze Peace Centre Approved, April 18. https://www.newsletter.co.uk/news/maze-peace-centre-approved-1-5015703. Accessed 4 Jan 2018. ———. 2013b. Comment: Maze Peace Centre I Once Backed Has Become the Antithesis of Peace, June 21. https://www.newsletter.co.uk/news/commentmaze-peace-centre-i-once-backed-has-become-the-antithesis-ofpeace-1-5211027. Accessed 27 Jan 2018. Northern Ireland Assembly Questions, 6 March 2013. http://aims.niassembly. gov.uk/questions/printquestionsummary.aspx?docid=155745. Accessed 25 Jan 2018. Northern Ireland Buildings Database. https://apps.communities-ni.gov.uk/ Buildings/buildMain.aspx?Accept. Accessed 11 Jan 2018. O’Hagan, B., and S. Maginn. PMA Recording. Platt, C.J. 1973. NIO/12/8/56 CJ Platt to Mr Buchanan, 22nd March (PRONI). Prisons Memory Archive Website. http://prisonsmemoryarchive.com/aboutus/. Accessed 13 Dec 2017. Purbrick, L. 2006. Long Kesh/Maze, Northern Ireland: Public Debate as Historical Interpretation. In Re-mapping the Field: New Approaches in Conflict Archaeology, 72–80. Berlin: Westkreuz-Verlag. ———. 2011. The Last Murals of Long Kesh: Fragments of Political Imprisonment at the Maze Prison, Northern Ireland. In Archaeologies of Internment, ed. A. Meyers and G. Moshenska, 263–284. New York: Springer. Shea, M. 2010. Whatever You Say, Say Something: Remembering for the Future in Northern Ireland. International Journal of Heritage Studies 16 (4–5): 289–304. Shirlow, P., B.  Graham, F. Ó hAdhmaill, K.  McEvoy, and D.  Purvis. 2005. Politically Motivated Former Prisoner Groups: Community Activism and Conflict Transformation. Northern Ireland Community Relations Council. https:// cora.ucc.ie/bitstream/handle/10468/948/PS_PoliticallyPV2005. pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y. Accessed 11 Jan 2018. Simpson, K. PMA Recording. Smith, A.D. 1999. Myths and Memories of the Nation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Taylor, P. PMA Recording. The Architects’ Journal. 2014. Second Andersonstown Barracks Contest to Launch Next Month, September 30. https://www.architectsjournal.co.uk/

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home/second-andersonstown-barracks-contest-to-launch-next-month/ 8670347.article. Accessed 4 Jan 2018. The Guardian. 2008. Minister to Bar National Sports Stadium at Maze, May 2. https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2008/may/02/northernireland.northernirelandfootballteam. Accessed 11 Jan 2018. Viggiani, E. 2014. Talking Stones: The Politics of Memorialization in Post Conflict Northern Ireland. New York: Berghahn Books.

Acts of Survival and Resistance in Industrial and Reformatory Schools in Ireland in the Twentieth Century Sinead Pembroke

Industrial and Reformatory Schools were the Irish State’s response for the provision of child welfare for most of the twentieth century (Pembroke 2013). These were run by Catholic religious orders and were the sites of a brutal, regimented regime, where a combination of physical, sexual and psychological abuse took place. They formed part of a wider system of institutions run by the Catholic religious orders that included Mother and Baby homes, Children’s homes, special needs schools and Magdalene Laundries (for women). The regime and abuses that occurred inside Industrial and Reformatory Schools all over the country became public knowledge in 1999 when the then Taoiseach apologised on behalf of the State, and set up the Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse (CICA), where 1090 interviews with survivors of these institutions took place. The Commission’s report was subsequently released in 2009. The apology took place following a documentary series produced for RTÉ (the Irish State broadcaster), by the late Mary Raftery called ‘States of Fear’, which

S. Pembroke (*) Trinity College Dublin, Dublin, Ireland e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 F. McCann (ed.), The Carceral Network in Ireland, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7_10

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investigated the wide-scale claims that these institutions were sites of physical, sexual and psychological abuse of children. Even though the CICA report has played an important role in informing the public pertaining to the abuses that occurred in Industrial and Reformatory Schools, it has focused solely on highlighting the horrors of such instances and in the process neglected to offer any further analysis relating to these institutions. This chapter will make a contribution towards an analysis of the Industrial and Reformatory School system, offering an insight into how and why survivors of these institutions responded to the regime the way they did. This chapter explores how the survivors of these institutions responded to such a harsh and brutal totalitarian regime; whether they focused on survival or whether acts of resistance and dissent occurred. This is based on 25 semi-structured interviews with male and female survivors that were conducted in 2009. Giving a voice to survivors of Industrial and Reformatory Schools was important and is the reason behind the method of research chosen for this study, as their voices had been silenced for so long. Nineteen men and six women were interviewed, and their incarceration occurred over a number of decades that spun from the 1940s until the early 1970s. Their backgrounds varied: 13 originated from financially challenging backgrounds, 12 had been born outside of marriage and one was an orphan. The men and women interviewed for this study have been given pseudonyms. This chapter begins by contextualising the origins of the Industrial and Reformatory School system before they reached Ireland, followed by how these institutions developed in Ireland and the role of the Catholic Church. Next, this chapter describes the Industrial and Reformatory School regime, followed by a brief understanding of the research that has been done on resistance, which informs the discussion of this chapter. Next, the findings from the interviews that relate to resistance and survival in Industrial and Reformatory Schools in Ireland are described, followed by a discussion of these findings.

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 he Origins of Industrial T and Reformatory Schools The Irish Industrial and Reformatory School system originated from Britain in the 1850s, out of a growing concern over the behaviour of young people. However, this was not confined to Britain, as Reformatory Schools were also commonly visible throughout Europe during the nineteenth century, such as Mettray in France (1840), agricultural colonies in Switzerland, and the ‘family principle’ in Germany (1893). Britain’s concern over young people and crime can be traced to a series of Factory Acts, which prohibited employment and made education compulsory for children up to ten years old. Furthermore, young people between the ages of 10 and 14 could only work half days. The Factory Acts were enacted over the years, starting in 1833, 1844, 1847 and lastly in 1850. These were subsequently consolidated into the Factory Act 1878. This resulted in mass unemployment for children. Consequently, a climate of fear developed amongst the public over the prevalence of young pickpockets and thieves (Muncie 1984; Degler 1980). Furthermore, ‘activity that had been formerly ignored, (such as gambling and the playing of games in the street) increasingly came to be perceived as indicative of a new social problem’ (Muncie 1984, 41). Degler noted that ‘because children were being seen for the first time as special, the family’s reason for being, its justification as it were, was increasingly related to the proper rearing of children’ (Degler 1980, 66). This led to a campaign by numerous social philanthropists for institutions to be set up to deal with children that were at risk of committing a crime. A movement of upwardly mobile social philanthropists in Britain believed in the concept of childhood innocence, viewing the child as having a different mind-set to that of an adult. They advocated for the separation of children from adult gaols. Mary Carpenter, who was one of the most prominent British social philanthropists, advocated and campaigned for Industrial and Reformatory Schools to be built; Industrial Schools were for children who had not yet committed a crime but who were considered to be an at-risk group, and Reformatory Schools were for

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children who had already committed a crime. Carpenter (1851) identified equality, love, a moral education and a regimented routine as central components in the running of these institutions. The regimented routine set aside time for schooling, housework, learning trades, religious worship, meal times and some recreational time. Following this campaign, Lord Palmerston’s Act (1854) endorsed the development of publicly funded Reformatories and the Industrial Schools Act followed in 1857. Both of these acts were subsequently merged into the 1866 Reformatory Act. The Home Secretary was responsible for the certification of Industrial and Reformatory Schools, the appointment of managers for these institutions and a yearly inspection. The treasury funded the institutions; however, parents were also legally obliged to contribute to the maintenance of their child, which was set at five shillings per week. However, this depended on whether they were financially able to do so. The Prevention of Crimes Act (1871) covered the terms for sending a child to a Reformatory or Industrial School. A child under the age of 14 could be sentenced to an Industrial School for one of the following: found begging or receiving alms, homelessness, lacking proper guardianship, found destitute, being orphaned, having a parent serving a prison sentence and if the child was in the company of thieves or prostitutes. Eventually the Industrial and Reformatory system was exported to Ireland because it was still under colonial rule from Britain. Ireland’s social and economic conditions were abysmal; the Famine (1845–1849) not only left Ireland facing extreme poverty and large amounts of emigration but also left a growing number of orphaned and destitute children. The British response up until this point included establishing Foundling Schools in 1730 and work houses in 1838. Both were unsuccessful responses to extreme poverty in Ireland. Within these institutions, children lived in harsh conditions, separated from their families and cohabiting with other adults. According to Barnes: The total number of children under the age of fifteen in Irish workhouses was 76,724, which represented 6.5 per cent of the total population of that age in Ireland. Of these children, 50,129 were aged between nine and

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­ fteen and 16,306 of this age group were orphans, while a further 17,730 fi had lost one parent. (Barnes 1989, 12)

The situation got progressively worse during the famine years; many parents deserted their children because they were unable to support them financially and as a result, in 1853 another 10,656 children lived within the workhouse system (Barnes 1989, 12). Consequently, legislation was enacted to establish Reformatory Schools in Ireland in 1858 and Industrial Schools followed in 1868. Like in Britain, these institutions relied on voluntary agencies to establish them, which were financially aided by the British government. However, numerous differences emerged between the Irish and the British systems; first, these institutions became denominational in Ireland, where the legislation specifying that a child was sentenced to the same institution as their religious faith was much more stringently enforced. Second, Irish legislation also allowed for more children to be sentenced to one of these institutions. For example, a child under the age of ten with no prior convictions could be sentenced to a Reformatory School.

Industrial and Reformatory Schools and the Catholic Church in Ireland During the same period, the Catholic Church in Ireland went through a ‘re-organisation’ whereby Irish Catholics who had very little contact with the Church became devout. The tenant farming class, who gave their money as well as their children to help rebuild the Church into a highly centralised, disciplined and powerful institution (Larkin 1972, 625–52), was central to this. Dr Cullen, as Archbishop of Armagh during this period, was a predominant figure in the re-organisation of the Catholic Church, and he encouraged the growth of religious congregations to run welfare institutions in Ireland. From 1849 to 1878 he exerted most of his influence and was determined that ‘Catholic children should be provided for only by Catholic charities, where possible under the control of nuns’ (Robins 1980, 292). Numerous female congregations were established

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during this period and became prominent in running welfare institutions around the country. The Dublin Catholic Reformatory Committee was established and this was Dr Cullen’s response to the Industrial and Reformatory School Bills and his overall plans for the Catholic Church. His tenure saw it gain a more prominent role in Irish affairs in general and more specifically in the running of the Industrial and Reformatory School system. While Reformatory Schools arrived first, Industrial Schools gained more popularity with the Catholic Church. As cited in the Ryan Report, ‘in the seven years after 1858, ten Reformatories (five for females) were certified. By the end of the century, only seven of the ten original Reformatories survived, some of the former Reformatories having been re-certified as Industrial Schools’ (CICA Report 2009, 208). In contrast, in 1875, 50 Industrial Schools were built and by 1898 this figure increased to 71. The period following Catholic emancipation in 1829 emerged as a turning point for the Irish Catholic Church and their influence over the provision of welfare services in the nineteenth century. This resulted in the Church heading a complex network of institutions that ensured the masses of devout Irish Catholics could attend mass in impressive churches, receive a Catholic education and be looked after in Catholic welfare institutions such as hospitals, orphanages, asylums, Industrial and Reformatory Schools. The ability to remain flexible was important; one Religious Congregation could run a multitude of welfare and educational institutions. For example, the Sisters of Charity were involved in ‘providing primary school education for children, home visitations, asylums for prostitutes and drunken women, several hospitals, an asylum for the blind and a hospice’ (Magray 1998, 78). Thus, the Religious Orders seized the opportunities that existed in the provision of welfare for Irish citizens. Fahey argued that ‘the task of the congregations, first worked out among the urban poor, was to encourage popular religious support through the display of a practical, caring face of Catholicism to a hitherto neglected and often abused mass audience’ (Fahey 1987, 12). This occurred against a backdrop of colonial rule, largely identified as predominantly Protestant. As a result, many of the welfare institutions that were set up were divided on the grounds of religion, which gave the Catholic Church an opportunity to reorganise and

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popularise themselves with the Irish Catholic population. Therefore, during the nineteenth century, the Catholic Church seized its opportunity to establish itself as influential in Irish affairs, and the ‘domination of the social welfare services essentially amounted to the exertion of universal control over the lives of Irish women and children in particular’ (Raftery and O’Sullivan 1999, 90). The Catholic Church’s dominance in education and welfare provision to the Irish people continued long after Ireland achieved its independence from Britain in 1922. Following Irish independence in 1922, the Catholic Church maintained its control over the provision of welfare and education in Ireland. Inglis argued that ‘other than the State, there has been no institution in Irish society that has had the same level of organisation and depth of resources as the Catholic Church’ (Inglis 1998, 39). The central mechanism for the maintenance of the Church’s authority lay in its ‘ownership and control of buildings and land, especially schools, hospitals and charitable institutions’ (Inglis 1998, 42). Subsequently, it was because ‘Irish people spend a considerable proportion of their lives in buildings owned and run by the Catholic Church’ that they were able to maintain their position of power in Irish society (Inglis 1998, 40). Industrial and Reformatory Schools played an important role in maintaining the Catholic Church’s authority in Irish affairs, and the longevity of these institutions compared to Britain (where they had originated from) is evidence of this. The Industrial School system was abolished in Britain in 1933 and replaced with Approved Schools. Approved Schools were managed by voluntary bodies under the supervision of the Home Office and were run along the same lines as a boarding school. While the Approved School was still a form of institutionalisation, it was the beginning of reforms to child welfare policies in Britain. By the 1960s, British child welfare policy had become influenced by the work of John Bowlby (1951) and Erving Goffman (1961). Goffman wrote extensively against ‘total institutions’ and Bowlby ‘pressed for the recognition of the importance of loving “maternal” care and of relationships for children’s growth and development’ (Rollinson in CICA report 2009, 39). Therefore, Britain followed a more child-centred approach that was enshrined in the Children Act 1948. Consequently, Britain moved away from residential care and instead opted for foster care, and where possible to keep children

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within the family setting. By the mid-1950s, there was a 30 per cent increase in the numbers who were placed in foster care (from 25,000 to 32,000). This figure exceeded those who were in residential care (Rollinson in CICA report 2009, 9), which became the least preferred option from 1948 onwards. The complete antithesis occurred in Ireland; for most of the twentieth century the numbers of children incarcerated in Industrial and Reformatory Schools increased rather than decreased. A number of changes to the law allowed this to happen. First, in 1936 certification limits were removed so that more children could be incarcerated in these institutions. Second, the capitation grant per child was increased substantially over the years, from 5 shillings in 1936 to 30 shillings in 1951. If we take the funding Artane Industrial School for boys received in today’s money, this was worth one million euro per year for incarcerating roughly 800 boys at its height in the 1940s and 1950s (Raftery and O’Sullivan 1999). Third, Ireland held onto the capitation fee system for funding these institutions, whereas Britain replaced their Approved Schools with an annual budget to be paid by both the central government and the local authority. The capitation fee system was an incentive to hold onto children within the system. Furthermore, even though Industrial and Reformatory Schools began to close after the Kennedy report (1970) recommended their closure, it was another 20 years before the Child Care Act (1991) came into law, which promoted a child-centred approach to welfare for children through the Health Boards (Health Service Executive). Up until this point, child welfare was still governed by the Children’s Act 1908, which had been amended on two occasions (1929, 1941). However, these amendments only related to broadening the scope for incarcerating more children. The lack of legislative reform confirms the absence of change to the child welfare system, which is in stark contrast with Britain, where there was a flurry of child welfare reform. In the same period (1930s–1991), Britain experienced five reforms to the Children’s Act of 1908: the Children and Young Person’s Act (1932), the Children Act (1948), the Social Work (Scotland) Act (1968), the Local Authority Services Act (1970) and the Children Act (1989). The legislative reform was mainly child-centred and promoted the idea that children were best looked after within a family setting.

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The Industrial School Regime in Ireland The CICA Report revealed that, ‘over the period 1936 to 1970, 170,000 children and young persons (involving about 1.2% of the age cohort) entered the gates of the fifty or so Industrial Schools’ (CICA Report 2009, 41). Most children were sentenced through the Criminal Courts, which stood at 80 per cent. The Children Act of 1908 (Section 58(1)), was central in sending children to Industrial Schools. This included detaining children found begging, found destitute or having a parent serving a prison sentence. In 1929 (later reinstated in 1941), the Children Act was amended to include that a child could be incarcerated if the parents could not afford to support them, if both parents consented and ‘the Court is satisfied that owing to mental incapacity or desertion on the part of the child’s parents or his surviving parents, or in the case of an illegitimate child, his mother, the consent of such parents or parent may be dispensed with’ (Children Act 1941: 10(1)(e)). The CICA Report provides the reader with a detailed description of the harsh, violent regime that Industrial and Reformatory School survivors lived in. As survivors recalled during their interviews, they lived in degrading conditions, where they were always hungry and they were always cold. This led to a common ailment suffered by many, which was chilblains. The coldness in these institutions was felt more severely by the lack of adequate clothing for the weather, such as short trousers or even at times no underwear. The water for the showers or the bath was so cold that the water in the pipes was frozen and water trickled out as a result. Not only was heated water considered a luxury, but also heating and the only fireplace that would be lit were for the religious orders in charge. Furthermore, the general disregard to repair buildings worsened the neglect they suffered, such as broken windows that only made the buildings colder, wet and damp. The general consensus was that there was not enough food and they were left practically starving at times. The survivors recounted how many times they were reduced to foraging for food in order to feed themselves. This was in spite of the fact that these institutions were self-sufficient in that they had orchards, farm animals and farm land to grow crops. The

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children were not benefitting from the produce that was grown using their labour, which was in stark contrast with the religious orders, who the survivors described as having the best of everything. Physical and violent force was used on a regular basis. It was gratuitous violence perpetrated by the male and female religious orders, whereby the rules regulating corporal punishment did not apply. This involved beatings in the classroom but also in many other settings throughout the institution, such as the dormitory, the refectory and the recreational area. Most strikingly, in many cases, they didn’t know why they were being beaten. Instruments used to punish were designed with their own improvisations such as the strap that was fitted with coins (usually a half a crown) and other implements such as a hurley stick, a leather strap and rosary beads. All implements were improvised to ensure they inflicted the maximum amount of pain, such as ensuring the bamboo cane was long enough to bend over the shoulder before beating a child or using the sharp stick from a broken globe. Another example, which was highlighted by Rory, was to carry out punishments during shower time, because a strike from a cane or a strap would inflict more pain on wet skin. Another aspect of physical brutality also involved a number of Brothers participating in a group beating. All of these bear similar testimony to the CICA Report’s conclusions that punishment was ‘excessive’ and ‘arbitrary.’ Consequently, this led to a violent, austere and tough regime where the children lived in fear, not knowing when the next beating was coming. Sexual abuse by the Religious Orders was rife in many Industrial Schools, as noted in the CICA Report (2009) and by many of those interviewed. Naked beatings were also interpreted as sexual abuse by survivors because of the pleasure and enjoyment the Sister or Brother showed while carrying it out. This is an important point to make because this broad definition of sexual abuse often does not make it into the discourse. Initially some survivors said they misinterpreted advances of a sexual nature made by the Brother and as a consequence, did not realise they were being sexually abused. Others on the other hand initially assumed it was a sign of care and affection. This is because the children were not accustomed to affection and the response from Brothers and Sisters was normally cold, harsh and brutal.

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Finally, psychological abuse was commonly spoken about by survivors, and this usually involved public humiliations, such as shaving the head of those who attempted to run away from the institution, standing for hours outside an office waiting to receive a beating and public punishments inflicted on those who wet the bed. Another practice also involved informing the children that they would be receiving a further beating in the evening, on top of the one they had just received, allowing for fear and anxiety to worsen throughout the day. Another form of psychological abuse was being insulted by the Brothers or Sisters in charge on a regular basis. For example, Kieron was called ‘the son of a whore’ and ‘devil’s spawn’. This served to enforce the low status being imposed on these children by the Brothers and Sisters in charge. The degrading, physical, sexual and psychological abuse had two things in common; first, in combination, these created a climate of fear for the children incarcerated in these institutions. Alex revealed that ‘the regime in Artane was one pervaded by a general climate of fear. I was emotionally traumatised by the violence and sexual abuse to which I was subjected, and by the constant threat of the same’. Kieron, who was incarcerated in Artane Industrial School, described it as: a place where everyone felt angry, fearful trepidation, worry, stress and a need to be invisible […] you learnt fear was the main thing in Artane. It was how they processed you; fear is where everything I dread came to its conclusion.

They never felt safe, not even when they were asleep. Jack recalled that ‘every time you went to bed you were afraid you’d be called up and beaten for your shoes being worn out or your coat being damaged or whatever the case may be.’ The theme of fear ran through all accounts given by Industrial School survivors. Second, all were brutal, austere and targeted the body. Andrew drew an interesting parallel with concentration camps, explaining that ‘you see you were afraid a lot of the time, like people in concentration camps […] someone is going to be in a rage and knock my head off.’ Not only did they target the body, but they also served a purpose, which was to enforce a low status upon the children incarcerated in these institutions. Therefore,

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the Industrial School regime was brutal and austere. Pembroke (2018) analysed this in more detail and concluded that: productive and subtle methods of discipline and control (surveillance, regimentation and keeping their bodies in constant use through hard labour), as identified by Foucault (1977) […] were used in conjunction with more brutal and austere methods (degradation, physical, sexual and psychological abuse) that targeted the body, were unpredictable and created a regime based on fear. (Pembroke 2018, 14)

What remains to be seen is how children incarcerated in these institutions responded to these brutal methods of discipline and control, and how they survived the regime.

Power and Resistance The relationship between power and resistance is important, in order to understand how and why the children in Industrial and Reformatory Schools reacted to the regime imposed on them. There has been a strong tradition in this area of study and as Crewe observed, ‘[…] this dialectic has occupied prison sociologists since the discipline’s foundation’ (Crewe 2007, 257). Foucault’s work Discipline and Punish (1977) has made a major contribution to our understanding of the relationship between institutionalisation and power in society. His work established a relationship between power and knowledge whereby: We should admit rather that power produces knowledge […] That power and knowledge directly imply one another; that there is no power relation without the correlative constitution of a field of knowledge, nor any knowledge that does not presuppose and constitute at the same time power relations. (Foucault 1977, 27)

Consequently, institutions are symptomatic of the shift in societal power structures whereby discipline and control became central to the

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functioning of Western societies. For Foucault, institutions like Mettray (a reformatory school for children in France that opened in 1840): Simulated the family, the school, the workshop, the army and of course, the prison…Embodied in it was, what Foucault terms a carceral continuum: the diverse range of institutions given over to the surveillance, the training and the normalisation of individuals. (Cousins and Hussain 1984, 198)

Foucault also identified resistance as an important component that exists alongside power relations; for, ‘where there is power, there is resistance and yet, or rather consequently, this resistance is never in a position of exteriority in relation to power’ (Foucault 1976, 95). Subsequently, neither power nor resistance can exist without the other. Foucault later developed this to describe resistance as no longer merely ‘reversal’ and reactive to power but as ‘strategic’ in the individual’s quest for autonomy. Other theorists writing in this area concentrate on explaining the nature of resistance in penal institutions. Carrabine (2004) and Welch (2009) identified fatalism as an important concept in understanding the nature of inmate resistance. Welch explained that ‘in one direction, fatalism suggests that convicts tend to accept inevitably their fate as prisoners and grudgingly – ritualistically – go along with the institutional demands rather than forcefully upending the penal regime’ (Welch 2009, 13–14). However, fatalism also produces a sense of ‘desperation’ amongst the inmates, which Carrabine explained, ‘provokes the will to commit new infractions to provide a dramatic reassurance that he can still make things happen’ (Carrabine 2004, 139). Accordingly, this prompts the inmate population to attempt various forms of resistance against the regime imposed on them. Literature written on penal institutions has highlighted the use of tactical methods of resistance by inmates in response to the regime imposed on them. Research on men’s prisons has revealed that rioting and protesting are strategies for establishing some inmate autonomy within the prison setting (Sykes 1958; Mathieson 1965; Sparks et  al. 1996).

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For Sykes (1958) it was the inmates’ anti-institutional code of solidarity that developed their collective power and their ability to resist. Welch (2009), who researched the regime inside Guantanamo Bay, explained that ‘such penal technologies, coupled with harsh interrogation (and torture), repressive conditions of confinement, and few prospects for release, produce resistances that undermine the expressed mission of DCGB’ (Welch 2009, 4). Forms of resistance included collective rebellion, hunger strikes, and mass suicides (Welch 2009). However, these are not the only form of resistance against power in a totalitarian setting. As Crewe observed, ‘under conditions of domination, dissent and resistance are likely to be heavily concealed within public discourse or limited to backstage areas’ (Crewe 2007, 257). This is demonstrated in Scott’s Weapons of the weak (1990), where he highlighted that there are many forms of resistance. He disagrees with the claim that ‘real resistance, it is argued, is (a) organised, systemic and cooperative, (b) principled or selfless, (c) has revolutionary consequences, and/or (d) embodies ideas or intentions that negate the basis of domination itself.’ Instead he asserted that ‘token incidental or epiphenomenal activities by contrast are (a) unorganised, unsystematic and individual, (b) opportunistic and self-indulgent, (c) have no revolutionary consequences, and/or (d) imply in their intention or meaning, an accommodation with the system of domination’ (Scott 1990, 292). Consequently, acts of resistance are not always collective and can also involve conforming to the institutional setting. As Gordon argues: The binary division between resistance and non-resistance is an unreal one. The existence of those who seem not to rebel is a warren of minute, individual, autonomous tactics and strategies which counter and inflect the visible facts of overall domination. (Gordon in Scott 1985, VII)

The following will explore how survivors of Industrial and Reformatory Schools responded to the harsh austere regime that was imposed on them.

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 esistance and Survival Techniques R in Industrial and Reformatory Schools Survivors described many acts of resistance either committed by themselves or others. The most common of these was attempting to run away from the institution. June ran away on four occasions from Goldenbridge Industrial School with another girl. She described that after each occasion, the police were sent to find them. On one occasion, they had decided to run away because June’s friend had received such a severe beating; she was beaten ‘black and blue’ and had part of her hair ripped out of her head, which never grew back. They ran away to her friend’s fathers’ home, and he hid them. However, after four days he explained that he had to take them back or else he would be arrested. When her father returned them to the Industrial School, he threatened the deputy nun, letting her know that ‘if I find out that you’ve put a hand on my daughter or that girl again, I’ll forget you’re a nun.’ However, when he left, they were punished and the nuns cut all their hair off. Her friend’s father was not allowed to visit her for 18 months until her hair grew back again. Although there were many accounts of children running away, the majority of survivors interviewed chose not to run away. There were two reasons behind this: fear and having nowhere to run away to. David explained that he did not rebel because ‘I didn’t know what outside was either so I had no option. It wasn’t like some kids could say I will run away to my aunty, or I’ll run away to Galway or Dublin or go to Liverpool, I knew nowhere else…’ Jack also reiterated similar reasons for not running away: ‘we thought about running away but where would we run to?’ Neil explained that ‘a lot of boys did abscond but they were boys who did have families […] but I had nowhere to run to.’ For many survivors interviewed, they revealed that they were afraid to rebel against the authorities in the institutions. This had a lot to do with the severe punishment they would have to face if they were caught. For example, Timothy revealed, ‘well you couldn’t rebel or you’d get another beating.’ Gerry also made a similar comment, articulating that ‘you had to do what they told you to do. It was either that or get beaten’. The punishment administered to those who ran away took place in public, in

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front of the other children. Often collective punishments were also administered, in order to turn the other children against them. Kieron disclosed: If you ran away from Artane, you were brought back, and you had all your hair cut short. You were tied to the lamppost and the other children were told to verbally abuse you because you lost them their picture (film show).

As Eoin further observed: I remember the Dublin lads running away and when they were caught they were brought back and flogged in front of us all in the yard. I always knew that if I ever ran, I would end up getting the same. I remember being very scared when I watched these beatings.

Public and collective punishments acted as deterrents preventing others from committing the same acts of resistance. In addition, the fact that these punishments are still recalled quite vividly by survivors today shows how much fear public and collective punishments instilled in them as children. The violent and austere regime also had the children living in fear, and this affected acts of resistance. Mark revealed that ‘I had terrible fears and anxieties. Sometimes I use to think seriously of running away. I had the anxiety a lot of the time. But I think I was so terrified of the Christian Brothers I wouldn’t do it.’ There was also the fear instilled in them of being sent to a ‘more severe School.’ Mark revealed, ‘that frightened us because you didn’t want to be sent to somewhere worse than where you were.’ Paul also reiterated similar sentiments: No one rebelled; if you did you were packed up to Letterfrack. I don’t know if you heard about Letterfrack  – notorious Industrial School in Connemara and nobody wanted to go there because we heard a lot of rumours about that place; it was the worse place you could imagine to be.

However, this did not mean that acts of resistance did not occur; it is just that they were not the traditional forms of resistance we normally hear

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about, such as protests or running away from the institution. They were also more individualised rather than collective forms of resistance. Paul gave an account of one particular moment: I remember I was about fifteen years of age and I knew I didn’t have a lot of time left and I just gave out to him (Christian Brother)! I put my fist up and said, “Hey do you want some of this?” I was amazed that he pulled back!

Another act of individualised resistance was accounted by Rory, where: He (a Brother) stopped beating me […] because I point blank refused to take my trousers off. I just said no, and it was in the hall in the cinema […] And he sent for half a dozen blokes to force me, and of course they could not catch me[…] He gave up in the end […] And he never touched me after that.

June revealed after a severe beating she received, where she lost her teeth, she decided to rebel and explained that ‘I wouldn’t let any of the others hit me after that […] After that I wouldn’t hold out my hand […] I rebelled that’s the only word for it.’ The children focused on survival inside the institution. Therefore, acts of resistance were also hidden. One such hidden act of resistance was staying out of their custodian’s radar. This meant not taking part in collective actions or mass protests, or running away from the institution. Mark revealed that ‘I didn’t get myself into situations where I’d get a special beating […] I was learning as I was growing up how to cope with the situation.’ Sarah explained that if you did not make ‘waves’, you went unnoticed. She went onto say that ‘they didn’t like you to talk up or answer back. You had to be silent and say nothing, and if you don’t agree with something just keep quiet; they didn’t like your opinion.’ Alex also disclosed that ‘I wouldn’t say boo to a goose; I did what I was told and tried to avoid attracting any attention to myself.’ However, there were also children who took it a step further and ingratiated themselves with the Brothers or Sisters in charge. Some offered their services to track down other children who had attempted to run away. Rory did this and he explained that:

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I probably went along with the system because I progressed […] I was one of the guys who got out of bed in the middle of the night if somebody ran away, there would be three or four of us – we would go with a crowd looking for them for the rest of the night or however long it took. So I suppose you could say I was a trustee in that respect […] you always got treated well when you got back. That poor guy who ran away got flogged to death. We’d get nice big sandwiches in the monastery when we got back.

Mark ingratiated himself with the Brothers through religion. He revealed that ‘you had to be religious to survive.’ This led him to join the choir because it gave him some privileges. These privileges included singing in a church that was outside of the institution, thus a way of getting out of the Industrial School. Jack also ingratiated himself with the Brothers as a survival technique: I was in a unique position that I gained the trust of some of the Brothers and if any of the Brothers wanted medicine, they would send me outside the school to the chemist. I was quite surprised that one day, (I was still about fifteen and a half ) and one of the Brothers came to me and said ‘I want you to go into Cooloch village and I want you to go to a certain house and there you will find a boy who ran away. Will you bring him back?’ So there was an element that I could be trusted.

For children who ingratiated themselves with the Brothers or Sisters, their strategy for survival was to be trusted by their custodians, rather than viewed as trouble makers. The hope was that it would give them some privileges, even though these were usually something as small as a plate of sandwiches. We must remember that they lived in degrading and austere conditions. Small things like leaving the Industrial School to sing in a choir or a plate of sandwiches were a big deal for them. Evidently, there was no sense of a collective identity amongst the survivors interviewed. It is not to say that they did not make friends inside the Industrial School; however, these were not close relationships. Much of this has to do with the Brothers and Sisters who discouraged and frowned upon friendships between the children. Neil summarised this: ‘[…] the peculiar thing about them even though we call them friends, we know we are just friends through an accident of being in the School at the

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same time. But they were the closest thing we had to friends.’ Consequently, this also impacted the types of responses to the Industrial and Reformatory School regime from the children. Distrust prevailed amongst children incarcerated in Industrial and Reformatory Schools. Kathy explained that: Growing up in institutions, when someone wants to save themselves getting beaten and you were their friend and they thought that if they told on you that they would get out of the beating, they would tell on you. So you learn after a while […] there is not a friend who sooner or later won’t do the dirty on you.

As Kieron explained, ultimately ‘you survived by being a loner. You survived by not telling people things. You kept your thoughts to yourself that’s how I survived.’ Consequently, this made the children more individualistic and explains why their responses to the Industrial School regime were more individualistic and hidden rather than involving more collective up-risings, and the lack of codes of solidarity that developed between them (Sykes 1958).

Discussion Industrial and Reformatory Schools were austere and brutal places; this we do know from the thousands of adult survivors who gave their testimony to the CICA Inquiry (2009), and the various auto-biographies and studies that have been done on the subject. But, how did the children respond to this regime? This chapter set out to explore how survivors responded to the regime, whether there had been any acts of resistance, and if so what were they? Their response to the regime is an important contribution to understanding power and resistance in the Industrial and Reformatory School setting. Industrial and Reformatory Schools were cold and harsh, where children were abused physically, sexually and psychologically on a daily basis. As this chapter disclosed, the Industrial and Reformatory School regime created a climate of fear for children incarcerated in these institutions.

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This regime had a major impact on the way that the children responded to the Brothers and Sisters in charge of the institutions, and the regime that was imposed on them. As already noted, there has been a strong tradition of studying resistance in penal institutions. Foucault’s argument that asserted ‘where there is power, there is resistance’ (Foucault 1976, 95) is supported in this chapter, because acts of resistance to the regime inside the Industrial and Reformatory were observable. However, while Foucault has understood resistance as a form of power, compliance can also be seen as a form of resistance that acted to empower the inmate population. Evidently, the concept of fatalism (Carrabine 2004; Welch 2009) played a significant role in how the children responded to the Industrial and Reformatory regime. On the one hand, survivors spoke about accepting the regime because they felt powerless, fearful and that there was nothing they could do to stop it. However, on the other hand, it was also evident that fatalism produced a sense of ‘desperation’ amongst many of the children incarcerated in these institutions, which is why there were also many accounts of survivors running away, resisting a beating and challenging the Brothers or Sisters in charge. Consequently, the totalitarian and brutal nature of the regime inside limited acts of collective resistance. The public and collective punishments described vividly in this chapter by the survivors were a method used to limit collective resistance. Rather, resistance was often hidden and individualistic. This supports Crewe’s argument, that ‘under conditions of domination, dissent and resistance are likely to be heavily concealed within public discourse or limited to backstage areas’ (Crewe 2007, 257). Survivors recounted how there was a lack of trust amongst the children incarcerated in these institutions, which encouraged the individualistic nature of their responses to the regime. There were no accounts of collective responses to defend one another from abuse. Consequently, an anti-­ institutional code of solidarity, as Sykes (1958) wrote about in relation to the adult penal institutional setting was not evident. Responses to the totalitarian and brutal regime also involved compliance and ingratiating themselves with the Brothers and Sisters in charge. The rationale behind this was that it was a survival technique and they used this in order to resist a regime they felt that wanted to break them.

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They were not looking to change the system, nor to revolt; they were simply surviving. Consequently, this chapter asserts Scott’s (1990) argument that resistance takes many forms, and the end goal is not always a revolution, or the ending of a regime, but can be about a more individualistic goal, such as survival. As a consequence, resistance in Industrial and Reformatory School was more akin to Scott’s (1990) assertions that ‘token incidental or epiphenomenal activities by contrast are (a) unorganised, unsystematic and individual, (b) opportunistic and self-indulgent, (c) have no revolutionary consequences, and/or (d) imply in their intention or meaning, an accommodation with the system of domination’ (Scott 1990, 292). The overt and brutal forms of discipline and control described in this chapter acted to confirm the inmate’s low position both inside and in the outside world. In this way, the religious orders might have hoped the children would remain marginalised and controlled through ‘shock and awe.’ For the short term, this may have been achieved. However, in the long term, this proved to be counterproductive and survivors ultimately resisted the Catholic normative order when they were released into the outside world (Pembroke 2017).

Bibliography Barnes, J. 1989. Irish Industrial Schools, 1868–1908: Origins and Development. Dublin: Irish Academic Press. Bowlby, J. (1951) Maternal Care and Mental Health, World Health Organisation. Carpenter, M. 1851. Reformatory Schools: For the Children of the Perishing and Dangerous Classes and for Juvenile Offenders. London: C. Gilpin. Carrabine, E. 2004. Power, Discourse and Resistance: A Genealogy of the Strangeways Prison Riot. Dartmouth: Ashgate. Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse (CICA). 2009. Report from the Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse. Dublin: Stationary Office. Cousins, M., and A. Hussain. 1984. Michel Foucault. London: Macmillan. Crewe, B. 2007. The Prisoner Society: Power, Adaptation and Social Life in an English Prison. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Degler, C. 1980. At Odds: Women and the Family in America from the Revolution to the Present. New York: Oxford University Press.

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Fahey, T. 1987. Nuns in the Catholic Church in Ireland in the 19th Century. In Girls Don’t Do Honours, ed. M. Cullen. Dublin: Women’s Education Bureau. Foucault, M. 1976. The History of Sexuality: The Will to Knowledge. Victoria: Penguin Books. ———. 1977. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Victoria: Penguin Books. ———. 1980. Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972–1977. Brighton: Harvester Wheatsheaf. Goffman, E. 1961. Asylums: Essays on the Social Situation of Mental Patients and Other Inmates. New York: Doubleday. Inglis, T. 1998. Moral Monopoly: The Rise and Fall of the Catholic Church in Modern Ireland. 2nd ed. Dublin: University College Dublin Press. Larkin, E. 1972. The Devotional Revolution in Ireland, 1850–75. The American Historical Review 77 (3): 625–652. Magray, M. 1998. The Transforming Power of the Nuns. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mathieson, T. 1965. The Defences of the Weak: A Sociological Study of a Norwegian Correctional Institution. London: Tavistock Publications. Muncie, J. 1984. The Trouble with Kids Today. London: Hutchinson. Pembroke, S. 2013. The role of Industrial Schools and the Family in Twentieth Century Ireland. Irish Journal of Sociology 21 (2): 52–67. ———. 2017. Exploring the Post-Release Experience of Former Irish Industrial School “Inmates”. Irish Studies Review 25 (4): 454–471. ———. 2018. Foucault and Industrial Schools in Ireland: Subtly Disciplining or Dominating Through Brutality? Sociology: 1–16. https://doi.org/ 10.1177/0038038518763490. Raftery, M., and E.  O’Sullivan. 1999. Suffer the Little Children. Dublin: New Island. Robin, J. 1980. The Lost Children. Dublin: UCD. Scott, J. 1990. Weapons of the Weak. New York: Yale University Press. Sparks, R., et al. 1996. Prisons and the Problem of Order. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Sykes, G. 1958. The Society of Captives: A Study of a Maximum Security Prison. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Welch, M. 2009. Guantanamo Bay as a Foucauldian Phenomenon: An Analysis of Penal Discourse, Technologies and Resistance. The Prison Journal 89 (3): 1–15.

The Room Where Nothing Makes Sense: Historiophobic Space and the Aesthetics of Child Maltreatment Mathew Staunton and Deirdre Forde

The widespread maltreatment of children across time and space is a given. That this is so has been unequivocally established by scientific studies, investigative journalism, commissions and inquiries, court and social service case files, medical reports, academic monographs, psychohistories, personal journals and letters, fiction and cinema—in short, by an extremely broad corpus of texts and testimony spanning the entirety of the arts, sciences and humanities. There is no need to footnote our initial statement. This is not the subject of our chapter. What we are more concerned with here are the shifting frontiers between what is considered maltreatment and what is perceived as acceptable behaviour, and with who controls them. At what point, for example, does ‘reasonable chastisement’ become common assault or even torture? One answer to this question involves temporal frontiers. It was undoubtedly far less risky for adults to maltreat children and easier to disguise M. Staunton (*) École nationale supérieure des arts décoratifs (ENSAD), Paris, France D. Forde Archaeology Oxford, Oxford, UK © The Author(s) 2020 F. McCann (ed.), The Carceral Network in Ireland, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7_11

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maltreatment as discipline in the past. The line between chastisement and assault was so blurred and the rights of children so weak in practice that their personal dignity was rarely respected and they enjoyed little protection from arbitrary violence and degrading treatment in their daily lives. The full weight of tradition, power and the common law was always on the side of adult aggressors, be they parents, teachers or agents of the state, and the types of evidence needed to convince judges, jurors and the readers of historical texts were easy to suppress or not produce in the first place. Looking back historically at undocumented maltreatment in the past from our position in present-day academia is, as a result, considered by many an impossibility.1 There are also spatial frontiers to consider. A man punching a child in the street will generally be seen as committing assault and (if there are adult witnesses) may well have to answer for his actions in a court of law. The same man punching the same child inside a school may be able to aestheticize his behaviour and negotiate the law in such a way as to reduce and potentially eliminate any negative consequences. This is also true of police stations, prisons, remand centres, migrant detention centres, asylums and other loci in which security, military and disciplinary issues are prioritized. Inside the legally ambiguous territory of the school building, there are further frontiers. The increasing valorization of children’s rights has pushed maltreatment out of corridors and classrooms into windowless and roof-lit spaces where superiors, colleagues and other children cannot bear witness. To begin to historicize child maltreatment in Irish schools we must explore the contours of these frontiers. In this chapter we will consider the extent to which space can be used to interfere with the production of history and aestheticize maltreatment out of the frame. Narrowing our focus to the four dimensions of a single room will allow us to explore and analyse in detail the epistemological and historiographical implications of this question.  Smith (2007) states that his book is ‘not the history of the Magdalene Laundries in 20th century Ireland.’ Such a history cannot exist, he says, until the religious congregations open up their archives to researchers and allow them to find ‘definitive answers to important questions.’ Because of the lack of access to the types of source materials that Irish historians have been trained to use, ‘the Magdalene Laundry exists in the public mind chiefly at the level of story (cultural representation and survivor testimony) rather than history (archival records and documentation)’ (2007, xvi). 1

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Structure Our first steps in this exploration centre on a small, ancillary room currently being used for photocopying in a Dublin Christian Brothers school. We do not name or situate the school more precisely than this as these details add nothing to our study. Formerly, this nondescript space was used by the Vice Principal of the school for discreetly assaulting and coercing pupils. We set the stage with a brief archaeological assessment of this space. This is by no means a neutral, fact-gathering enterprise. We arrived (metaphorically) on the scene armed with notions of undocumented maltreatment and subsequently looked for evidence in the material characteristics of the room itself and in testimony. From there, the buildings archaeologist interpreted and attributed meaning to the material elements of the room and its surroundings based on her training and experience, her knowledge of the relevant environmental context and the history of Irish architecture, and current theoretical considerations. She also factored in data about how the print room was used in the past collected from oral history sources. As we will see below, she brought a compelling narrative with her into her investigation and did not assess the room from a tabula rasa position. This assessment is followed by a close reading of two short extracts from interviews with a former teacher and former pupil, each giving an account of what they know about how the print room was used in the 1980s and 1990s. Again, we have opted to maintain anonymity and give no further information about these interviewees.2 This is oral history in the form of ‘recovery history’—what Abrams (2010) calls  The identity of the school and our two oral history sources are not relevant to this particular study. Versions of the print room exist all over the country and the specifics of this case would potentially hinder rather than assist our work here. Our interviewees prefer anonymity and we have agreed to respect that. The fear of litigation has compelled many researchers to use the journalistic terminology of crime reporting (‘alleged,’ ‘allegation’) when discussing maltreatment in named institutions. We refuse to embrace these discursive gymnastics. The maltreatment of children is not a series of crimes. It is an international cultural phenomenon so pervasive that David Bakan has speculated that ‘it may be a regression to a characteristic which comes very close to being “natural” to the human condition’ (Bakan 1971, 56). Anonymity allows us to focus on this reading and avoid having to deal with distracting defences of individuals or institutions. 2

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the practice of interviewing people to provide evidence about past events which could not be retrieved from conventional historical sources, usually written ones, or to uncover the hidden histories of individuals or groups which had gone unremarked upon in mainstream accounts. (Abrams 2010, 5)

As such, it depends on the memories of the people concerned and enjoys little or no support from documentary archives, which has led some empirical-analytical historians to disqualify the results as history.3 We engage wholeheartedly with this claim and discuss the merits of such oral history in the context of the data we present. In the last section of this chapter we problematize the relationship between the use of the print room and the difficulties faced by the present-­ day historian of maltreatment. This includes examining the retrocausal impact of the existence of historians and other investigators on the behaviour of those who maltreated children in the past, considering the relationship between narrative and evidence and applying visual culture theory to the aestheticization of maltreatment by means of the strategic use of space.

 Brief Archaeological Assessment of the Print A Room of a Dublin School (2019) When examining accounts of past events, it is important to take into consideration the context of what we are discussing; the physical surroundings and how they are relevant. How does the environment relate to what we are trying to record or verify, and how can its investigation support a clearer narrative? Archaeology is the investigation and recording of human material culture and an archaeological methodology can be applied to buildings to consider aspects such as design intention (ideal versus reality), spatial character and evidence of changing functions as well as their age, construction history and fabric. A consideration of why and how something happened where it did can influence our interpretations.  Extreme examples include (Megill 2007) and (MacMillan 2009). See our conclusion.

3

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Buildings are the manifestation of how we wish to design our environment to suit a particular purpose. Institutional buildings such as schools, hospitals and prisons, in particular, are designed and built to be tools for types of power structures. Control and order can be read in their architectural arrangement to varying degrees, but how this forms itself varies broadly between different types of institutional buildings and their charge. Institutional architecture also evolved significantly in the twentieth century as societal and government attitudes to welfare and the experience of those who inhabited the buildings changed. The room on which we focus in this study is a small and rather inconspicuous part of its overall context, which is a 1950s school building. School buildings are characterized by large open spaces where a number of students could be educated and supervised, where surveillance was facilitated by the size and openness of the classrooms. Low-status smaller spaces admissible to everyone, such as toilets and cloakrooms, were included for communal or functional purposes. High-status spaces, such as the headmaster’s office, were formed for administrative purposes. These were more private areas, not freely admissible to the body of students, and represented the structuring of power into the architecture. They are often in a central location where different areas of the school can be reached easily, and the doors and walls of which are conspicuous as a barrier between the student body and the power structure controlling it. This school is typical of mid-century Irish institutional architecture. In the twentieth century, particularly after the establishment of the Free State, Irish architecture followed the international trend towards Modernism, and institutional architecture took a gentle departure from its more austere, neo-Gothic or classically ordered nineteenth-century predecessors. Modernism utilized new building materials such as structural steel and concrete, along with different arrangements of space. Many schools adopted this new style with the introduction of Modernist characteristics such as broader proportions, horizontal massing, larger windows and flat roofs. Despite the changes in architectural style and arrangement, the functioning of Irish schools changed little, and, in form, largely fulfilled the same purposes; the undertaking of education in a cost-effective way in a building that was itself a tool in the necessary segregation and surveillance of large groups of children.

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The school building is a two-storey, red-brick structure comprising a central range orientated roughly east to west, with broad wings at each end. A further wing extends from the north elevation of the central range. The roof over the central range is shallow and hipped with broad overhanging eaves, a more traditional roof style which is probably intended to be sympathetic to the adjacent nineteenth-century school building. The north wing has a flat roof, which is a common feature of school buildings dating to the mid-twentieth century. There are ordered rows of large sash windows across all elevations with occasional Modernist detailing like windows with canopies and central spandrels on the east and west elevation. The central bay on the south elevation of the central range—its most public elevation—features a shallow gable, behind which is the central staircase. Under the gable are tripartite sash windows in the ground and first floor, those in the first floor being pointed to reflect the gable. This arrangement, while modern in design, indicates the religious nature of the building by subtly reflecting church-like windows. On the interior, the classrooms were arranged in the wings at either end of the central range, and to either end of the central range itself. The Vice Principal’s office and the secretary’s office were located in the centre of the central range between a number of classrooms and the staff room. The headmaster’s office was located centrally in the building on the first floor of the wing that extends from the central range. This wing otherwise comprised toilet blocks on each floor at the north end and a cloakroom under the headmaster’s office. The print room, which is the subject of this chapter, is situated on the north-east side of the school, built into the northern corner where the north-east range wing meets the central range between the Vice Principal’s office and three classrooms. It is a later build, not original to the main school building and exists as one of two bays, the other being an entrance porch to the central range. From the exterior, the structure that makes up the print room and the adjoining porch is a small, single-storey extension with a flat roof. A pilaster divides the front elevation of the porch, featuring double doors, from the elevation of the print room, featuring a picture window with a casement opening. Over the doors and windows are a mosaic design, characteristic of Modernist detailing in Irish schools in the twentieth century.

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The room is entered through a doorway from the ground floor corridor of the central range of the school and is approximately 3m by 3m. There is a window in the wall opposing the door which illuminates the space but the glass is frosted, obscuring the view to the exterior. The door has a narrow rectangular window that allows the interior of the room to be viewed from the corridor. Both the window and door appear to be modern and are likely to be later replacements (as evidenced by the unpainted/ bare cement around the jambs and lintel of the window). The print room is not a space resulting from the architectural arrangement around it, such as rooms and storage spaces that exist under the stairs or those that exist between primary spaces. The room is a small, rather unassuming, space but was purpose built as a later extension (along with the adjoining porch) and therefore is an addition to the original design. The room itself is formed in such a way that its purpose is vague and can, therefore, be interpreted as a multi-purpose space. Its immediate surroundings, the school building, are much more defined in purpose. Since its construction, it has been used as a room to take breaks in, a meeting room for the Christian Brothers, a room for confessions, for oral exams, for meeting parents, and now for the school photocopier, but none of these are specifically suggested as a use in its design. Its situation as a part of the complex suggests its convenience to the centrally placed administrative areas of the ground floor, areas with an authoritative presence. It is likely that the use of this room would have been controlled by this area.

(In)Defensibility and the Architecture of Thought Thanks to two oral history interviews (see below), we know that the archaeologist’s reading of the room’s status in the power structure of the school is accurate. Despite its lowly appearance, this was a special-status room (as opposed to a high-status room considered to be a necessary and universally accepted element of the architectural design) and not a space that pupils could access without invitation. It was generally used for

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purposes necessitating privacy and was at the disposal of the entire teaching staff and the school chaplain for sensitive meetings, exams and confessions. But as it was positioned between the Vice Principal’s office and three of the four classrooms on the ground floor, it remained very much under his control. Irrespective of the original design intention behind the construction of the room, by the 1980s, it had become the physical embodiment of his power to inflict pain and terrify pupils. The archaeologist is also correct in her deduction that the door is a recent replacement. Up until the end of the 1990s it did not have a glass-­ viewing panel and, combined with the frosted window facing the door, this guaranteed both sound and visual insulation. This situation changed after 1997 when section 24 of the Non-fatal Offences Against the Person Act obliterated the common law right of teachers to physically punish pupils. In other words, ‘the rule of law under which teachers [were] immune from criminal liability [was thereby] abolished.’ The insertion of viewing panels (which generally meant replacing the entire door) into all habitable rooms in Irish schools became mandatory in this new legal context not because there was a new-found desire to protect children but because an irrational fear arose in the teaching community that teachers were now at risk both of pupil-on-teacher violence and false accusations of assault.4 Considered in the light of architectural theorists Piotrowski (2011) and Newman (1972), the windowpane becomes the linchpin of the room as an instrument of power. Piotrowski (2011, xi–xviii), in particular, argues that architecture can shape thought rather than simply being shaped by it, occupying an important part of the spectrum of cultural products that make the reality of a particular time thinkable. Applying this to the print room allows us to consider its role in constructing a thinkable reality and making certain interpretations of what went on inside it impossible. The notion of design as intent in the case of this particular room is clearly irrelevant. This space was not meant to be used for maltreating  The Irish National Teachers Organisation, for example, has a section on its website called ‘Avoiding Allegations of Child Abuse’ that states that ‘there has been much concern about false and malicious allegations of child abuse against teachers.’ (www.into.ie/ni/help-advice/wellbeing-health-safety/ teacher-health-safety/avoiding-allegations-of-child-abuse. Retrieved 21 September 2019). 4

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children in secret. It remains open to interpretations as a symbolic environment and its initially intended programme is never stagnant. As we have suggested above, the dominant interpretation of this space combines notions of uninterrupted privacy (including sound insulation) and intimacy. Arguably, this is the polar opposite of Foucault’s (1977) re-­ inscription of Bentham’s panopticon as a device for transforming individuals into visible objects of information controlled by omnipresent but invisible power. It is, rather, what we term an ‘outhenopticon,’ a device for blocking surveillance, hiding individuals from benevolent oversight, jamming information and making maltreatment unthinkable. Informationally speaking, it is a black hole. This outhenopticon made the abusive behaviour of the Vice Principal unprovable, unsayable and ultimately unthinkable. The unthinkable cannot be framed as a book of evidence or be historicized. Someone with power has effectively used architecture to control the way people describe reality, eliminating ways of thinking and proving maltreatment by ensuring the non-involvement of third party eye-witnesses or ear-witnesses. The introduction of the window pulled the linchpin and collapsed the device back into a harmless, ancillary room, no longer even useful for private meetings or confessions. Architects and police forces have been aware of the impact of spatial design on crime since Newman (1972) published his well-documented collection of case studies demonstrating that ‘[c]ertain kinds of space and spatial layout favour the clandestine activities of criminals’ (1972, 12). Defensible space, for Newman, is space into which people project feelings of responsibility and feel compelled to act if they perceive something wrong happening there. Indefensible space is cut off from such feelings and people feel that whatever is going on there is none of their business (1972, 4). Applying these concepts to the print room highlights the fact that, from 1997, the interior of the room became naturally surveilable from the corridor and the area of felt responsibility for colleagues of the Vice Principal was extended inside the room. The sound and visual insulation afforded by the solid door had made his behaviour unutterable and undocumentable. Now, his territorial prerogative and misuse of space could be overridden by the potential for third party testimony represented by the viewing panel.

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This simple but expensive (if we consider that it was undertaken on a national scale) adjustment to the architecture of schools begs an important question, however: why did no-one think of it sooner? The fact that rapes and muggings often occur in spaces that do not facilitate surveillance is not surprising today. That this was news to architects at the beginning of the 1970s should be astounding but it was simply not an issue that was covered in their training. Newman changed this: [A]rchitecture is not just a matter of style, image and comfort. Architecture can create encounter and prevent it […] An architect, armed with some understanding of the structure of criminal encounter, can simply avoid providing the space which supports it. (Newman 1972, 12)

His awareness that architecture has the potential to reduce crime and make spaces safer for users now informs architectural pedagogy worldwide. The school in our study was built before 1972 as was the ancillary room. The 25-year gap between the publication of Defensible Space (Newman 1972) and the introduction of the glass pane into the door reveals a disconnect between an evolving architectural preoccupation with safeguarding people and the practical concerns of stakeholders in education like the Department of Education, school governors, principals and teachers. The financial cost of improving the defensibility of risky spaces in schools across the country was clearly a barrier to implementing change. The political task of weighing risks is, after all, part of the job description of civil servants and school governors. While rooms such as this continued to successfully prevent knowledge leaking out into the world, there was no pressing need to act. It was only when several years of relentless reporting on clerical paedophilia and child abuse cases like the Smythe and Fortune affairs, and of the Church’s failure to protect children from its employees made it impossible for the government to continue to turn a blind eye to maltreatment that things began to change. An event horizon of sorts was crossed. This media coverage led, in turn, to litigation and requests for files on various institutions that put even more pressure on the Government. There was a general awareness (and an indifference to this awareness on the part of the authorities) that rules and laws were insufficient to protect schoolchildren. The existence of

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indefensible spaces like the print room allowed teachers to easily bypass them. The rapid introduction of viewing panels in all doors shows that this was not news to the Department of Education. If child protection (rather than maintaining the status quo, as we will see below) was truly a priority, all spaces would have been defensible from the 1970s on.

Inside the Print Room: ‘Give Him a Good Punch’ Now that we have set the scene, we will present two oral sources which shed light on what went on in the print room for several decades. Both sources indicate that this space was used by the Vice Principal to coerce, assault and generally maltreat pupils in contravention of the internal rules of the Department of Education. The first consists of testimony from a former teacher and colleague of the Vice Principal and the second of testimony from a former pupil. Each statement is short but corroborates the other and, despite a lack of supporting documentary evidence, together they lay the foundations for a convincing history. The first statement was recorded during an interview with a retired teacher who worked with the Vice Principal for a decade and was given the following advice by him during his recruitment in 1988: If you ever have trouble with a blackguard and you’re getting nowhere with him, all you have to do is bring him into that little room there under the stairs and give him a good punch. That will solve your problem. It will be your word against his, so you will be fine. (Interview TIP1958 (retired teacher))

The same interview reveals that the younger teacher disregarded this advice and never used the room for anything other than pedagogical or pastoral activities during his 30-year career in the school. It was clear to him, however, that the Vice Principal frequently used this room for discreetly assaulting and threatening pupils. The Minister for Education had banned the use of corporal punishment by circular letter in 1982 so by 1988 teachers who wanted to strike pupils without risking their careers

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increasingly had to do so in secret. Staunton and Sebbane (2015) have argued that (as the behaviour of the Vice Principal would tend to suggest) this rule change did little in practice to protect children from teachers determined to use violence: [The ban] was not legally binding in any way but the department now had a good case for suspending or firing teachers who were caught physically punishing children. Unfortunately, teachers had become accustomed to ignoring Department rules and the ban had little impact on the ground. Objects designed specifically for punishment like straps and canes disappeared immediately from the classroom and one North Dublin school ritualistically burned all of its straps in the basement furnace. Those who hadn’t been hitting pupils, and there were many, continued not to do so. Those who had, simply switched to using classroom objects like metre sticks, T-squares, wooden dusters and window poles. In the unlikely event that an inspector entered a classroom unannounced, the teacher would be found with a perfectly explainable implement in his or her hands. School principals were no longer responsible for punishment, so teachers did what they wanted behind closed doors. (Staunton and Sebbane 2015, 157)

It is also clear from the Vice Principal’s advice that punching ‘blackguards’ was by no means a spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment departure from an otherwise non-violent approach on his part. On the contrary, it was calculated and cold-blooded and using the little room had long been an important part of his standard teaching and managerial practice. Before 1982 there was little risk involved in punching pupils and negative repercussions could generally be avoided by steering clear of pupils with powerful parents (solicitors or members of the Garda Síochána, for example), crafting a narrative of provocation, disguising assault as chastisement or negotiating with parents who had little or no power (‘if you’re not happy, he can transfer to a different school’). The Department of Education rarely policed breaches (Staunton and Sebbane 2015, 158–9) of its corporal punishment rules and the Dublin Metropolitan Police and Garda Síochána were extremely reluctant throughout the twentieth century to follow up on complaints of common assault that went beyond reasonable and moderate chastisement as they were not taken seriously, were difficult to prove and had little chance of success in court. The result

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is a near-total absence of criminal case law involving assaults by teachers on pupils in the jurisdictions of the Irish Free State and the Republic of Ireland. After 1982 the risks increased, at least in theory, but teachers were careful to reduce the geographical scope of their now illicit behaviour to spaces such as the print room. Architecture, then, increasingly replaced discursive strategies (negotiating and claiming provocation) and pseudo-legal arguments (in loco parentis5) in the aestheticization of maltreatment out of the public sphere. Our second source, this time a former pupil of the same school, paints a similar picture of the Vice Principal’s use of the room but also highlights the fact that he did not restrict his attention to ‘blackguards’: I was in the school in the second half of the 1980s. During his rounds to check who was absent every day the Vice Principal would regularly take pupils out of classrooms on the ground floor for real or invented misdemeanours, things that had happened in the past, the day before or not at all, and no matter what the teacher said or what was going on in the class at that moment he would take them into the little room and give them a few slaps. One day he was handing out books of raffle tickets to sell outside the school and, despite making it clear that there was no obligation to take them, he took me out of the class (I remember it was a maths class) when I said I didn’t want one and brought me into the little room and pinned me against the wall with his arm. There was a real threat of violence (he was a violent man), he had his face about an inch from mine and I was going to be stuck in that room until I changed my mind so I eventually agreed to take the tickets. I hated going door to door selling the things and my mother hated me doing it too so she generally bought the whole book herself. This time was no different. As far I’m concerned the whole thing amounted to assault and extortion. (Interview DUB1973 (former pupil))

The systematic nature of the Vice Principal’s behaviour (which lurks suggestively behind the hypothetical and conditional language in the first  The Latin term in loco parentis (in the place of a parent) refers to the legal responsibility of a person or organization to take on some of the functions and responsibilities of a parent. Originally derived from English common law, it allows institutions such as schools to act in the best interests of the students as they see fit, although not normally allowing what would be considered violations of the students’ civil liberties. 5

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statement) emerges as a fully-fledged modus operandi in the former pupil’s account. He does not hesitate to interrupt classes and arbitrarily remove pupils. As Vice Principal, he controls the timetable of every teacher in the school and has the power to make their professional lives difficult if they challenge him. He comes and goes at will, especially in the ground floor areas around the print room, asserting his authority over colleagues and pupils alike. This is the educational equivalent of ‘beating the bounds,’ the ancient British custom of anchoring the memory of the potentially forgettable borders of a parish by beating children at key points along its length. The Vice Principal’s purpose in the former pupil’s account is to anchor his authority over the individual pupil who attempts to assert his own free will, over his classmates and over their teacher, condition desired reactions into pupils and ensure that all goes according to his own personal plan. Following Foucault (1977, 1979) and Hirst (2005), we see this as exemplary violence carried out inside a transformational architectural device, a locus of power-knowledge where disciplinary power is used and abused to construct obedient subjects and teach lessons that will never be forgotten. Declining what was never really intended to be understood as a genuine choice provokes a trip to the room and a transformational experience for the pupil. This is not the disruptive blackguardism of the first statement: it is at worst a small act of defiance that does not merit such an extreme response. We can now introduce some documentary evidence sourced in the National Library of Ireland to strengthen the referentiality and historicity of our account. Intimidating schoolchildren into selling raffle tickets was nothing new in the 1980s. In 1955 the School-Children’s Protection Organization included ‘not selling raffle tickets’ in a list of 14 ‘alleged misdemeanours’ for which thousands of children ‘were being made to endure the most extreme sufferings’ (SCPO 1955, 4). Lacking an accessible archive to support their own claims they opted for a curatorial strategy and invited children and parents to document and submit their own written testimony. The resulting compilation includes a letter from a pupil who was caned by her teacher for ‘not selling raffle tickets for the Holy Childhood’ (1955, 10). In the 1950s this was as much against Department of Education rules as it was in the 1980s. Corporal

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punishment was at all times authorized by the Department only in cases of grave transgression. Exactly what this meant in practice was deliberately never clarified but it would have included theft, violence and disrupting normal classroom activities. Declining to fundraise for the school certainly never qualified as a grave transgression. Punching blackguards and what looks very much like extorting money from children with menaces may have gone unpunished by the Department of Education in the past but it does not follow that it was considered acceptable by pupils or parents at any time. On top of a wide spectrum of physical maltreatment, the SCPO documented the common practice of extorting free fuel or money to maintain or heat school buildings from pupils. They published testimony from parents detailing what happened to their children when they did not supply the money or turf demanded. From the moment the SCPO developed this carefully documented snapshot of an efficient mechanism lubricated by a culture of cruelty up to the re-emergence of suppressed children’s rights in 1997, teachers took advantage of the enormous power they enjoyed over the lives of children and their parents to maintain a fear-based system of autocratic control under the noses of Department of Education inspectors. Staunton and Sebbane summarize the terrifying findings of the SCPO as follows: Children were beaten for anything and nothing with fists and objects of every kind. They were warned against telling their parents what was happening in class and beaten if word got out. They were beaten if they testified against a teacher in court, if they were late for school, if the teacher didn’t like a parent, if they didn’t learn quickly enough. Parents across the country were terrorized into providing or paying for fuel for school buildings, and paying for the upkeep of classrooms. Their children were beaten if they came to school without the money demanded or if they didn’t sell enough raffle tickets. Parents were misled about Department of Education rules, while teachers, managers, inspectors and Department officials conspired to deprive entire families of their rights. Parents who dared to confront teachers risked assault or making matters worse for their children. Principals transferred or threatened to transfer children to other schools to control and punish interfering parents, sometimes obliging children to attend schools far from their homes. They often refused

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transfers for the same reason. If parents dared to keep their children out of school to protect them, teachers immediately informed the police. Parents could then be fined and their child potentially sent to an industrial school. The power wielded by teachers was enormous and enormously abused. Successive Ministers did nothing to change the situation and their Department abandoned parents and children to their sort. (Staunton and Sebbane 2015, 161)

It is important to point out that, despite substantial pressure from their colleagues, many teachers refused to hit the children in their care and respected the rules of the Department of Education without question for their entire careers. Violence that went beyond reasonable chastisement was not universally tolerated. This is evidenced by the documentary work of the SCPO and the lively debate it provoked in the press. Twenty years later, the Irish Union of School Students (IUSS) published a survey they had conducted in seven counties which revealed that The leather strap seemed to be the most common method [of corporal punishment] but others included, canes, rulers, bunches of large keys, T-squares, hurleys, tree branches and chair legs. The survey found several instances of actual physical assault […] In some schools punishments were administered indiscriminately to all parts of the body, face, chest, neck back, arms legs, etc. […] [I]t would seem that there are some sadists and sexual perverts in charge of classes in Irish schools. (IUSS 1974, 10)

We would argue that the measures taken by the Vice Principal to make sure that his rule-breaking activities had no witnesses also demonstrate that this sort of behaviour was not widely accepted in the 1980s. What changed between 1955 and 1988 was not a shift in public opinion about maltreatment but a growing willingness to defend children’s rights on the part of parents and the consequent withdrawal of tacit support by the Department of Education for teachers who did not respect the internal rules of their profession. Without this support, the violent methods of teachers like the Vice Principal gradually disappeared as the perpetrators retired or died.

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Historiophobia, Narrative and Visuality From the perspective of conventional empirical-analytical historians who attempt to construct meanings around referentially truthful accounts of the past by writing up archive-based research, the print room is historiophobic. It is document-repellent and prevents such historians from getting a grip on any of its surfaces. Like police detectives faced with headless, handless corpses, burnt-out cars and bags of shredded paper, historians have to shoulder some of the blame for this and similar dilemmas, however: without the existence of investigators (police, journalists, historians) there would be no need to eliminate usable evidence in advance. The print room, the room under the stairs and the windowless or roof-lit closet provided the spatial framework for maltreatment in the past because they are efficient devices for blocking archive-based research in the present. In other words, historians have a retrocausal impact on the perpetrators of maltreatment and have always already made their own work more difficult simply by existing. We will look for support for this claim in the work of philosophers Arthur C. Danto and Jacques Derrida, and visual culture theorist Nicholas Mirzoeff. Taken together these scholars provide us with some of the tools we need to delineate the fuzzy figures of the past who appear to show signs of being aware of our historical gaze in the present. We sometimes find traces of their passage through the archives in the form of non-­ contemporaneous alterations to documents, missing pages and rectangles of empty space where a name has been cut out of a manuscript with a razor-blade. Far from discrediting the empirical-analytical historiographical process (many historians consider memory too unstable a foundation on which to construct a history—what of untrustworthy archives?)— these traces are rarely discussed and the activities of fuzzy actors remain globally unproblematized. How can we bring them into focus? We begin with Danto (1985) who engages at length with the epistemological questions provoked by potential foreknowledge of what historians will say about us in the future. His conclusions appear, at first glance, to be of little assistance to us:

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What we don’t know is what the historians of the future are going to say about us. If we did, we could falsify their accounts. […][T]o be alive to the historical significance of events as they happen one has to know to which later events these will be related […] by historians of the future. One has to be able to predict the interests of future historians. (Danto 1985, 180)

What he means is that we cannot know exactly how we will be treated in the complex matrix of interrelated statements about past, present and future time that make up a history. This is because we do not know now what future historians will be interested in. It is in Danto’s analysis of how this matrix is constructed that we begin to see answers to our own questions. In a chapter on ‘Evidence and Historical Relativism’ (1985, 88–111), he unpacks celebrated American historian Charles Beard’s declaration that there really was a past6 and examines how history relates to it. The past, or ‘History as past actuality’ as Beard terms it, is the sum total of ‘all that has been said, done, felt, and thought by human beings on this planet since humanity began its long career.’ Clearly, replies Danto (1985, 88), we do not have direct access to this past, but only indirect access through using ‘history as record,’ that is to say, documents, monuments, symbols, memories, or bits and pieces of the present world which stand in certain relations with history-as-actuality.

It is these bits and pieces of the present world (history-as-record) which form the basis of the referentially truthful accounts of empirical-­analytical historians today. These are the archives in which archive-based researchers look for their evidence. Danto’s primary focus is on narrative, however, and he is careful to tease out its symbiotic relationship with evidence: [W]e cannot really make historical sense of whatever bits and pieces we may possess of ‘history as record’ until we are able to find a narrative for them to support. Indeed, until we have a narrative for them to support, it is something of a misnomer to regard them as evidence. (Danto 1985, 122)  As opposed to Bertrand Russell’s (1921) hypothesis that it is possible that the world sprang into existence five minutes ago populated by people with ready-made memories of a non-existent past. 6

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Narrative, then, is prime. Without one, we walk naked into the archive and the bits and pieces of our contemporary world which stand in relation with the past are nothing more than units of potential evidence which might one day be deployed in support of a yet-to-be-elaborated story. Our simple narrative of maltreatment in an ancillary room (initially built on our personal school experiences and a lifetime of relevant knowledge gleaned from friends, family, books, the media, television and cinema) led us to conduct and look for evidence in oral history interviews. The data recovered from these sources, in turn, led us to look for archaeological, architectural and documentary evidence to support what was now on the way to becoming a history. Our practice, here, is far from unproblematic and will not satisfy dyed-in-the-wool empirical-analytical historians. Our narrative is predominantly supported by conceptual evidence conceived in our own thought processes as logically correct but not yet validated by empirical methods. Crucially (and Danto is explicit on this) the ratio of conceptual to independent (history-as-record) archival content is what makes a narrative a history rather than a fiction, or vice versa, in the eyes of our empirical-analytical peers: [W]e can stretch a few facts rather a long way and […] an imaginative appeal to our general concepts will fairly soon get us a narrative of some sort which we might then use as a guide for future research, seeing whether some further but independent evidence might be found for our narrative. Without this future independent evidence (and here we are at the mercy of the resources of history-as-record), our narrative would float on air: it would, for all we knew, be fiction […] [A] fictive narrative is one which requires solely conceptual evidence. (Danto 1985, 123)

What does this understanding of narrative and evidence imply for the historiography of maltreatment and what function does the print room have in the interplay between documentary evidence (history-as-record) and conceptual evidence in the construction of empirical-analytical history? We will consider the findings of the Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse (CICA), which ran from 1999 to 2009, as we attempt to answer these questions.

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In the Ireland of today, beating schoolchildren with hands, fists and hand-held objects, banging their heads against doors, walls and other heads, and pulling their hair is generally considered wrong. Parents are now in a position to refuse to accept this behaviour and pupils increasingly defend themselves if it occurs. It is currently against both the rules of the Department of Education and the law of the land. What happens if we try to apply the conceptual evidence we have at our disposal today— our collective knowledge and theories of maltreatment—to events in the past? One thing that generally happens is that many retired teachers and the spokespeople and legal representatives of the religious orders who ran most of Ireland’s schools claim that we are wrongheadedly engaged in a type of temporal provincialism, seeing the past through presentist eyes, anachronistically judging behaviour which was considered acceptable for most of the twentieth century by our own twenty-first-century standards rather than trying to understand the position of people tasked with difficult jobs ‘back then’ in its proper context. During the CICA hearings it became clear that those organizations accused of systematic abuse had integrated this perspective into their defence strategy and adopted the seemingly unassailable position that documentary evidence was the only acceptable medium for engaging with the past. The Congregation of Christian Brothers, in particular, denigrated survivor testimony and conceptual evidence, and what had been promoted as a sympathetic forum for survivors to tell their stories became an adversarial contest to define the rules of evidence. The tension between oral testimony and archival sources is clear in the following two extracts from the Commission’s report: As far as the Congregation were concerned, when something was documented it was more likely to make some concessions but not otherwise. An example of this was when he was asked about boys being punished for bed-­ wetting. Even though individual Brothers had conceded that this occurred and many ex-residents had testified about their experience, he was unable to accept that punishment for bed-wetting was a feature of life in industrial schools: ‘Yes, they may have happened in instances, and all I am saying is I haven’t any documentary evidence.’ (CICA 2009, Vol.1, 6.191)

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The Congregation stated that they took no account of the statements of complaints made by former pupils. They confined themselves for this exercise to the archive material. (CICA 2009, Vol. 1, 6.192)

Irish empirical-analytical historian and champion of archive-based research Professor Diarmuid Ferriter was commissioned in 2006 by the lawyers of a group of abuse survivors to deal with this very question and his findings were published in CICA (2009). His stated aims were to establish a balanced sense of historical perspective and ‘put more historical context on the events discussed in the hearings’ (Ferriter 2009, 1–2) in order to respond to complaints from those accused of maltreatment that it was understood differently or not understood at all in the past. Ferriter took this task seriously and set about working up a referentially true account of how maltreatment was perceived using the available archival sources. In the introduction to his final report he shows that he is aware of the issues at stake and the challenges historians must face in this inhospitable field. He seeks, he says, to ‘draw attention to issues of class, gender and sexuality generally […] as well as looking at the manner in which information emerged and was sometimes suppressed’ (2009, 2). Promisingly, he draws attention to the fact that he includes ‘some autobiographical and semi-autobiographical work because of the light they shed on the themes that need to be examined in order to place the institutional abuse in a broader context’ and, even more promisingly, quotes national archivist Catriona Crowe on the value of memoirs of Irish childhood: The private domain of personal experience has always been at odds with the official stories which were sanctioned, permitted and encouraged by the state and the Catholic Church […] [T]hese memoirs run like a parallel stream of information alongside the official documentary record and compliment it with personal immediacy and vibrancy. (Ferriter 2009, 3)

Unfortunately, this awareness of the existence of suppressed information and a parallel stream of personal testimony does not prevent Ferriter from failing to engage with and problematize the production and manipulation of narratives and evidence in the rest of his study. Staunton and Sebbane (2015) describe the shortcomings of the report in the following terms:

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Instead of context for abuse we discover a kaleidoscopic representation of raw data on the social and sexual ills of 20th-century Ireland, with a particular focus on the interrelation of church, state, and family. We learn about hiring fairs, unmarried mothers, venereal diseases and other STDs, prostitution, workhouses, poverty, the sodomy of a mare donkey, adoption, children finding comfort in the church, Christian Brothers as victims, emigration, and the Garda Síochána’s incredible descriptions of its zealous pursuit of paedophiles, but the report fails to overcome the absence of archival material that it announces in its own preamble […]. Opting for breadth rather than depth, he paints a portrait of a very ugly and troubled society that has failed its children, which could function as a contextual framework for any number of social issues or crimes. (Staunton and Sebbane 2015, 150)

This failure does not mean that the historian has not done an exemplary job of applying his formidable empirical-analytical research skills to the available documentary evidence. This he certainly did. It is, rather, the result of a fundamental flaw in the research project as a whole. This flaw should be obvious from what we have said above but we will make it explicit here: the empirical-analytical historian is tasked with supporting an unwelcome (to the accused) narrative built on oral testimony (of the survivors) discredited as faulty memory (by the accused) and conceptual evidence (of contemporary society) rejected as anachronistic (by the accused) with non-existent or inaccessible documentary sources (controlled by the accused). Alarm bells should be ringing. The raison d’être of the CICA was to allow suppressed narratives to emerge and to valorize the oral testimony of survivors that supported them. In other words, it was the absence of archives—the convenient but unexplained disappearance of which was highlighted during the hearings—which made the collection of testimony necessary in the first place. To attempt to invalidate this testimony while calling for impossible evidence is nothing short of negationist. The print room and the many similar spaces around Ireland (and indeed the world) are very much the epicentres of this negationist project. Returning to our first quote from Danto, it should now be easier to accept what he denies—that certain individuals and institutions can

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indeed be alive to the historical significance of events as they happen, even if (as Danto correctly points out) they cannot know word-for-word what historians will say about them in the future. It is safe to say, for example, that some of the teachers, journalists and historians involved in the Irish revolution were very well placed to understand their place in future histories. Altered and missing documents, and the creation of the Bureau of Military History,7 suggest that some people understood this very well indeed. On a larger scale, institutions, churches and governments can accurately predict that historians will interest themselves in the crimes against humanity, systematic child abuse and assassinations that they perpetrate. Boiled down to its essence, though, our position is much less dramatic: empirical-analytical historians are interested in archives. An event in the past that is not or cannot be recorded and held in an archive is generally not going to attract their attention nor will they consider a narrative of that event to be historical if it is not built on the solid foundation of documentary evidence. This we can predict. For a deeper understanding of what we have called the manipulation of narratives, we turn to Mirzoeff (2011). Taking his lead from Thomas Carlyle, Mirzoeff develops the notion of ‘visuality’—a term coined by Carlyle in 1840 to describe how heroic leaders visualize their world to sustain autocratic authority—into a critical tool for engaging with the authority behind the plantation, imperial and military-industrial complexes. The individual actors in a theatre of war, for example, are not alive to the historical significance of events as they happen around and to them. They know only their own roles and see only the aspects of the war they are themselves involved in. The general on the hill (Napoleon Bonaparte is his prime example), however, sees, understands and imagines much more. He visualizes with the eye of history, combining what he sees with his own eyes with intelligence from spies, reports from subalterns, maps, images, statistics, histories and all he can imagine into ‘the big picture.’ According to Mirzoeff, the practice of visuality is  The Bureau of Military History was established in 1947 by Oscar Traynor TD, Minister for Defence and former Captain in the Irish Volunteers to give individuals who played an active part in the events which brought about Irish Independence a chance to record their own experiences. Arguably, this enterprise concealed more than it revealed, especially where atrocities were concerned. 7

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imaginary rather than perceptual, because what is being visualized is too substantial for any one person to see and is created from information, images and ideas. This ability to assemble a visualization manifests the authority of the visualizer. (Mirzoeff 2011, 2)

The visuality sustaining the plantation, imperial and military-industrial complexes seeks to present authority as self-evident and right, something we would never dream of contesting. As such, it is aesthetic: it is a discursive practice composed of visual perceptions and a ‘set of relations combining information, imagination, and insight into a rendition of physical and psychic space’ (2001, 3). It classifies people into groups which are then separated and segregated to prevent them from cohering as political subjects. These classifications are aestheticized as right and proper and all the means at the disposal of the visualizer are focused on maintaining the status quo and a generalized respect for authority. We find a version of the visualizing eye of history in the ever-present gaze of Big Brother in Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) and the ever-­ vigilant network of firemen in Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 (1953). In both dystopias, visuality involves the falsification and destruction of documents by the autocratic authorities. At the beginning of both novels the protagonists know nothing more about the organization of their states than their allotted jobs as public servants allow them to know. They do not question their roles or the activities of their leaders. For both Orwell and Bradbury, maintaining the status quo is achieved by manipulating the traces of the past in the archives of the present and deploying propaganda in every conceivable context around the clock. Countervisual activists (and eventually the protagonists) respond to these aesthetic strategies by creating their own private archives, Winston Smith by writing in his notebook and Bradbury’s outlying ‘Book People’ by memorizing entire books and congregating on the margins of the city to share and protect their knowledge, re-aestheticizing their world in their own image using curatorial techniques. In twentieth-century Ireland, schoolchildren were arguably in a similar position to the slaves, colonized peoples and military enemies described by Mirzoeff as the targets of aestheticizing, visualizing, discursive autocratic authority. The authority of the Irish Church-State chimera was

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directed at maintaining the credibility of and respect for the visualization of children who had been classified and separated off as a category of human beings not deserving of dignity and human rights. In this reading, the failure of successive governments and Departments of Education, headmasters, teachers, police and the judiciary to protect children from maltreatment was not a failure at all. It was a very successful defence of the status quo as visualized by the Church-State. In the 1950s, as we have seen, the SCPO deployed what can be considered a countervisualization to contest the authority of the visualizing Church-State over their children and make what Mirzoeff (after Derrida) calls a claim for ‘the right to look,’ the right to aestheticize the world of their children on their own terms. That this was immediately recognized as a challenge to the visualized status quo is evidenced by the (otherwise perplexingly) extreme declaration by the Education Minister, General Richard Mulcahy, that the SCPO’s modest campaign to get teachers to respect his department’s own rules was ‘an attack by people reared in an alien and in a completely un-­ Irish atmosphere [,] an attack on the whole spirit of our educational system and […] an endeavour to attack our educational roots’ (Dáil Éireann debates 1955). From this perspective, the ban on corporal punishment in 1982 and the introduction of the Non-fatal Offences Against the Person Act in 1997 represent not a growing respect for children but the definitive failure of the Church-State to develop a successful counter-strategy to undermine the countervisualization of children espoused by an increasing percentage of the population. With all of this in mind, we will circle back now to the print room and to our claim that this historiophobic space is at the heart of a retrocausal relationship between the historian today and the perpetrator of maltreatment in the past. We return also to Danto who (very sensibly) denies that cause and effect can be reversed in history. The future actions of the historian, he argues, permit a richer description of a past event than it could have enjoyed at the time but the actions of people in the present simply cannot change the past (1985, 155–81). Derrida (1995), however, very elegantly suggests an example of effect preceding cause in the relationship between archives and the events which cause documents to be recorded and placed in them:

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the technical structure of the archiving archive also determines the structure of the archivable content even in its very coming into existence and its relationship to the future. The archivisation produces as much as it records the events. (Derrida 1995, 17)

In other words, the impact of the existence of the archive operates backwards as well as forwards in time. The future archive can cause people to avoid producing documents, to avoid doing documentable things in front of witnesses, to destroy evidence of doing things that will one day be investigated or researched, to discredit witnesses in advance, to create and control archives and to be generally sneaky. Thanks to their umbilical connection to the archive, empirical-analytical historians have the same impact. If the existence of future researchers is anticipated (and who better to anticipate such a future than a teacher or a Minister for Education?) then it is no great leap to imagine that influencing them must be an important part of present-day strategies of visualization. The print room, as we have seen above, was a document-repelling locus of power-knowledge instrumentalized by the Vice Principal to protect his narrative (a narrative he shared with his employer) from empirical-­ analytical researchers in his future. The room under his control was a carefully lubricated device, functioning perfectly for decades, so perfectly that the oral sources we have used in our attempts to historicize his activities (there is no documentary evidence) emerged only after his retirement, which very aptly coincides with the passing of the Non-fatal Offences Against the Person Act and the introduction of the glass-viewing panel in 1997. This was very much the end of an era. The definitive collapse of the Church-State visualization of children manifested by this law stripped the room of both its transformational (blackguard-­conditioning) function and its indefensible, outhenoptic properties as what had been a parallel stream of countervisualizing, contesting voices swelled and engulfed the main stem of the Church-State narrative. New narrative and historiographical possibilities were opened up and we, for example, were able to recover the testimony of the former colleague and pupil. The CICA and its paradigm-transforming emancipation of survivor narratives is the beating heart of the re-aestheticization of Ireland’s relationship with its children. It is also the site of the last confrontation

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between the declining visualization of the Church-State and the flourishing countervisualization of the former subjects of its autocratic, aestheticizing authority. Some of the former have demonstrated that they will not relinquish this ideological ground without a fight and with the help of sympathetic journalists and academics, defend their position against all comers. The visualizers have now become the countervisualizers of a new status quo. That said, despite the collapse of the old order, the lack of archival sources will continue to make conventional, referentially truthful empirical-analytical histories of maltreatment difficult to produce in the future.

Conclusion: Where Nothing Makes Sense In the course of this chapter, we have focused on a typical ancillary room in a typical Irish Christian Brothers school and narrativized it as historically as we could. Despite the impossibility of referencing the sorts of documents that satisfy conventional historians, we have no doubt that this was the site of maltreatment for several decades. In attempting to historicize this maltreatment, we have laid bare the limitations of empirical-­analytical historiography when faced with subjects who are aware of our gaze and careful to cover their tracks. The rising value and increasing visibility of survivor testimony are inversely proportional to diminishing confidence in the capacity of archives to support historical narratives of maltreatment. We welcome this development with enthusiasm but some empirical-analytical historians, motivated, it seems, by a restorative nostalgia for a time before oral history emerged as a widely accepted methodology (and, in certain cases, for the old visualizing order) rail against it vigorously, counselling their peers to stick to ‘proper’ empirical analysis and evidential justification. Megill (2007), for example, complains that ‘oral history interviews’ (which he places in inverted commas) do not constitute what a properly trained, professional historian can accept as a primary source. He also laments the fact that what he calls ‘self-defining communities of survivors’ are increasingly designating the memories of their own experiences of past events as valid evidence for historical narratives (2007, 46). This,

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he says, is no more than a projection of their subjectivity and has no historical value: ‘[m]emory is a domain of obscurity: it is not to be trusted’ (2007, 58). MacMillan (2009), for her part, ungenerously equates bad and non-professional history, arguing that professional historians should not surrender their territory to amateur, local and oral historians so easily (2009, 37). Alarmingly, the rigidity of her position leaves her no choice but to question the validity of oral testimony from holocaust survivors (2009, 47). Megill (2007) finds himself in a similar position (2007, 19–20). Maguire (2009) applies the same empirical-analytical inflexibility to the fate of children in twentieth-century Ireland. She, too, is very uncomfortable with the rise of oral history and complains, like Megill (2007), that ‘public discussion on child abuse has become polarised to such an extent that no-one questions the accuracy or validity of any “survivor accounts”’ (2009, 10). Also, like Megill (2007) her ironic use of inverted commas speaks volumes. She is critical of historians who take auto-­ biographical accounts at face value, accuses Raftery and O’Sullivan (1999) of ‘unscholarly, polemical and sensationalist journalism’ (2009, 10) and attacks the lack of credibility and objectivity in the historiography of the industrial school system. Despite their claims of professionalism, objectivity and referentiality, such historians are easily misdirected (or unwittingly enlisted) by forward-­ thinking malefactors deploying outhenoptic strategies in the past. An eloquent sign for this misdirection can be found in the title of Maguire’s (2009) fifth chapter, ‘The Abused Child?’, where punctuation challenges a century of testimony, autobiography, journalism and other sources whose credibility and objectivity she finds dubious. This question mark is, perhaps, the most interesting statement in her monograph, signposting as it does a site of intense ideological conflict and revealing that ‘proper,’ ‘objective,’ ‘professional,’ history and justice do not go hand in hand. News (Irish Independent, 16 September 2019) that at least 19 files relating to the abuse perpetrated at the Kincora Boys Home8 in Belfast  The Kincora Boys’ Home in Belfast, was the scene of serious organised child sexual abuse, causing an attempted cover-up in 1980 with allegations of state collusion. The Northern Ireland Historical Institutional Abuse Inquiry began examining allegations relating to the Home in 2016, including claims that there was a paedophile ring at the home with links to the intelligence services. 8

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will be sealed until the mid-2060s emerged as we were preparing this chapter for publication. How would inflexible empirical-analytical historians like Megill, MacMillan and Maguire approach a case which began with an attempted cover-up and continues to be obfuscated 40  years later? Would they deploy ironic punctuational strategies and mitigating terminology like ‘alleged’? Would they attempt to undermine the credibility of ‘historians’ who make divergent methodological and epistemological choices and invent innovative strategies to produce historical narratives? Would they attack the survivors who have dared to construct their own narratives of maltreatment—people who could surely be shown to possess faulty memories or to be profiting financially or socially from victimhood? Or would they, like Smith (2007, xvi), simply state that these events cannot be historicized until the documents are released almost half a century from now? In our study, it is the empty space in the archive that emerges as our true subject. Like the empty square in a sliding tile puzzle, it is the element around which the full picture is articulated. Spaces like the historiophobic print room and the empty razor-bladed rectangles in archived manuscripts constitute voids in documentary reality that bar the way for conventional historians but they have captured our attention as a result. Rather than admitting defeat or waiting patiently for unseen hands to release documents into the public domain when it best suits them, we choose to explore the emptiness and discover what it can tell us about the precarious position of children in twentieth-century Ireland. This implies a curatorial strategy borrowed from the visual arts: constructing an archive in the present using available and, crucially, new and specially created documents to support our narratives and furnish researchers with sources for future studies. This was the approach adopted by the SCPO to circumvent the lack of evidence and the government’s hostile standpoint, and this is our solution to the historiographical and epistemological problems posed by the print room. An important model for our work here is the exhibition Voids: A Retrospective which took place at the Centre Pompidou, the Kunsthalle Bern and the Centre Pompidou-Metz in 2009. This was an experimental re-actualization of nine empty exhibitions from Yves Klein’s La spécialisation de la sensibilité à l’état matière première en sensibilité picturale stabilisée

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(1958) to Roman Ondák’s More Silent then Ever (2006). Surprisingly, it deliberately did not feature the usual archive—the room with cabinets displaying documents and books—that helps to guide visitors in their reading of the works exhibited. In this case, the only texts on view were the labels indicating which empty room corresponded to which artist’s work. The publication accompanying and extending the exhibition by Armleder, Copeland et al. (2009), by contrast, is a 500-page documentary extravaganza incorporating the catalogue of the works exhibited, an anthology of texts either republished or specially written for the occasion and a collection of commissioned interventions by artists. This is both a critical tool for retrospectively engaging with the exhibition and a sourcebook for researchers who wish to explore the notion of voids more fully than the experience of being in the rooms can offer. The empty spaces in the exhibition do not block or delay the creation of meaning. On the contrary, they are the impetus for its creation. Our purpose in this chapter is to accompany and document the print room with available and newly commissioned documents (such as the archaeological assessment) and to set up and stock our own archive. We aim to show in the context of child maltreatment, that, after Pavel Büchler (Armleder, Copeland et  al. 2009, 443–5), nothing makes sense. The ambiguity of this phrase is deliberate. Forward-looking agents in the past have, for the most part, succeeded in undermining the creation of meaningful historical narratives in their future so that nothing makes sense for our empirical-analytical colleagues. In the context of child maltreatment, however, we see a wealth of sense in nothing. By exploring this nothingness (what it is and what it is not) and the sense that it generates or obliterates, who and what are missing and what this means for those who find their narratives left out of histories, we aim to insert a viewing panel into the frontiers that surround the maltreatment of children in the past, transform the narrative territory inside into a defensible space and develop new historical forms and methodologies.

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Bibliography Abrams, L. 2010. Oral History Theory. London: Routledge. Armleder, Copeland, et al. 2009. Voids: A Retrospective. Zurich: JPR|Ringier. Bakan, D. 1971. Slaughter of the Innocents: A Study of the Battered Child Phenomenon. Boston: Beacon Press. Bradbury, R. 1953. Fahrenheit 451. New York: Ballantine Books. Büchler, P. 2009. Where Nothing Makes Sense. In Voids: A Retrospective, ed. Copeland Armleder et al. Zurich: JPR|Ringier. Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse. 2009. CICA Report. Dublin: CICA. Dáil Éireann debates. 1955. Vol. 152. 8 July. Col. 470. Danto, A. 1985. Narrative and Knowledge. New York: Columbia University Press. Derrida, J. 1995. Archive Fever. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ferriter, D. 2009. The Ferriter Report. In CICA Report, 5. Dublin: CICA. Foucault, M. 1977. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. London: Allen Lane. ———. 1979. The History of Sexuality. Vol. 1. London: Allen Lane. Hirst, P. 2005. Space and Power: Politics, War and Architecture. Cambridge: Polity Press. MacMillan, M. 2009. The Uses and Abuses of History. London: Profile Books. Maguire, M.J. 2009. Precarious Childhood in Post-Independence Ireland. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Megill, A. 2007. Historical Knowledge, Historical Error: A Contemporary Guide to Practice. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Mirzoeff, N. 2011. The Right to Look: A Counterhistory of Visuality. Durham: Duke University Press. Munslow, A. 2010. The Future of History. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Newman, O. 1972. Defensible Space: People and Design in the Violent City. London: Architectural Press. Orwell, G. 1949. Nineteen Eighty-Four. London: Secker & Warburg. Piotrowski, A. 2011. The Architecture of Thought. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Raftery, M., and E. O’Sullivan. 1999. Suffer the Little Children: The Inside Story of Ireland’s Industrial Schools. Dublin: New Island Books. Russell, B. 1921. The Analysis of Mind. London: George Allen & Unwin. School-Children’s Protection Organisation. 1955. Punishment in Our Schools. Dublin: SCPO.

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Smith, J.M. 2007. Irish Magdalene Laundries and the Nation’s Architecture of Confinement. Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press. Staunton, M., and N. Sebbane. 2015. Authority and Child Abuse in Ireland: Rethinking History in a Hostile Field. In Ireland: Authority and Crisis, ed. C. Berberi and M. Pelletier, 135–162. Oxford: Peter Lang. The Irish Union of School Students. 1974. Corporal Punishment: The Brutal Facts. Dublin: IUSS.

Incarceration, Disavowal and Ireland’s Prison Industrial Complex Ronit Lentin

In November 2017 a rally in support of asylum seekers in central Dublin heard moving speeches by several asylum seekers living in the Direct Provision for-profit incarceration system where men, women and children are held often for up to ten years while awaiting decisions in their international protection applications. The Irish Times reported Mavis, who had then been living in Direct Provision with her three children for 15 months, as saying: ‘For me every day is a struggle, to watch my children suffering and getting sick. I wish one day somebody, an Irish citizen would go into my life for one week and they would know what a hell it is. I don’t even have words. Waiting and waiting for a decision is one of the hardest things a mother can do. What can we do? We have to pray and hope’ (Holland 2017). The rally was part of an ongoing campaign to Based on a paper presented at the ‘Irish Prisons: incarceration, repression and control’ conference, Crumlin Road Gaol, Belfast 26–27 October 2017. My thanks to conference organiser Fiona McCann and to conference participants for their helpful feedback.

R. Lentin (*) Trinity College Dublin, Dublin, Ireland e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2020 F. McCann (ed.), The Carceral Network in Ireland, Palgrave Studies in Prisons and Penology, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-42184-7_12

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close the Direct Provision system, end deportations and grant asylum seekers the right to live in Ireland and to work. According to Lucky Khambule of the Movement of Asylum Seekers in Ireland (MASI), the restrictions imposed by the government on asylum seekers’ right to work, including not being allowed to work while appealing their applications for refugee status, amount to a total denial of asylum seekers’ right to work. Besides being given over-crowded accommodation and full board, asylum seekers receive a small weekly ‘residual income maintenance payment to cover personal requisites’ of €38.80 per adult and €29.80 per child, raised in 2017 from €9.60 per child and €19.10 per adult, and raised again in March 2019 from €21.60 for both adults and children (Pollak 2019). Asylum seekers’ lives are regulated by Irish and international for-profit companies running the Direct Provision centres; centre managements dictate who shares their rooms, what and when they eat, who can visit them, when they can do their washing and what facilities their children may enjoy. The Direct Provision system racialises, dehumanises and segregates asylum seekers, about whose plight Irish society ‘manages not to know.’ Incarceration in Direct Provision continues decades of disavowing Ireland’s long-standing practice of coercive confinement, as Una Mullally (2017) has written in The Irish Times: The Mother and Baby Homes and Magdalene Laundries were hiding in plain sight for years. We knew they existed, we knew – in broad brushstrokes – what went on there. Direct Provision centres hide more successfully in our communities, towns and cities. Many of us are not aware of their locations. That makes their presence even more insidious. But we know that they’re there. We know this system exists. We can’t keep repeating the process of unjustly hiding people away. They are not less than. They are people just like us, with families and aspirations.

The current rise of racism and Islamophobia is accompanied by a constant rise in the number of refugees. According to the UN Refugee Agency (UNHCR), there are 70.8 million displaced people worldwide, of whom 25.9 million are refugees and 3.5 million asylum seekers, who

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are targeted by Western racial states as many of them are being detained in refugee camps throughout the world. The UNHCR claims that ‘putting people in detention has become a routine – rather than exceptional – response to the irregular entry or stay of asylum-seekers and migrants in a number of countries. Some governments view detention as a means to dissuade irregular migration to or applying for asylum in their territories. While acknowledging that irregular entry or stay may present many challenges to States, detention is not the answer’ (UNHCR 2014). In Ireland, asylum seekers have, since 1999, been dispersed to ‘Direct Provision’ accommodation centres, managed by private for-profit companies under the supervision of the Reception and Integration Agency (RIA), an arm of the Department of Justice and Equality, costing the state millions of euro per annum. Sociologist Steven Loyal (2011) writes that the Direct Provision centres are akin to Goffman’s (1991[1961]) ‘total institutions’, where residents are controlled as to what and when they eat, who they share rooms with, who can visit them, and what access they can have to crèches, laundries, kitchen facilities and appliances, and he argues that the negatively socially valued category of ‘asylum-seeker’ becomes their master status. Although the Direct Provision system was originally aimed to provide asylum seekers with a safe place to live while their applications for international protection were being considered, and although it was intended for no more than a six-month stay, about a fifth of them have stayed in the system for over three years. According to RIA’s 2018 figures, the mean length of time spent in Direct Provision was 38 months, while 450 people had been living in Direct Provision for more than seven years, leading to people becoming depressed, de-skilled, bored, destitute and institutionalised. According to a 2019 Department of Justice and Equality review, in 2018 there were 39 Direct Provision centres, with an occupancy of 6139 asylum seekers. In addition there were 1435 asylum applicants living in newly opened privately run emergency accommodation facilities throughout the country (The Journal 2019). Many asylum seekers live with deportation orders in a state of deportability (De Genova 2002; Lentin and Moreo 2015), the threat rather than the actual act of deportation, which explains how nation-states seek to resolve the ‘problem’ of asylum. As migration scholar Eithne Luibhéid

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argues, ‘Direct Provision institutionalized the construct of the “asylum-­ seeker” as a distinct, undesirable type of person who must be subjected to relations of governance that were intended to deter, control, and incapacitate’ (Luibhéid 2013, 91). In 2014, asylum seekers in Direct Provision staged protests demanding that all Direct Provision centres be closed, that all residents be given the right to remain and work in Ireland, and that all deportations end. These demands are organised and led by MASI, the Movement of Asylum Seekers in Ireland, a platform for asylum seekers to join together in unity and purpose, seeking justice, freedom and dignity for all asylum seekers. In 2015, following these protests, the government appointed a Working Group ‘to report to Government on improvements to the protection process, including Direct Provision and supports to asylum seekers’ (Working Group). The Working Group was made up of representatives of government officials and of white Irish migrant-support NGOs but had no significant representation of asylum seekers themselves. While the then deputy Justice Minister Aodhán Ó Ríordáin admitted that the Direct Provision system was ‘inhumane,’ and that ‘the way we treat asylum seekers and people in the (Direct Provision) system says a lot about us as a country’, the Working Group was charged with merely reforming rather than ending the Direct Provision system (The Journal 2014). Furthermore, the Working Group’s recommendations were largely not adopted by the government (although the Minister for Justice and Equality said in October 2017 at the Seanad that 98% were adopted) (Oireachtas), and in 2020, 21  years after its establishment, the Direct Provision system remains in place. However, in 2016, and again in 2019, the government increased the ‘comfort allowance’ paid to asylum seekers in Direct Provision centres, albeit by insulting amounts. In 2015 the Irish government introduced the International Protection Act (IPA) based on a Single Application Procedure (Irish Statute Book). The IPA raises serious concerns in relation to first, the erosion of refugee families’ reunification rights; second, the impact on the applicants already in the asylum process in relation to the availability of appropriate legal advice and

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sufficient time and resources to shorten the waiting time; and third, the ease with which deportations can be effected. In May 2017 the Supreme Court unanimously ruled that the absolute ban on asylum seekers’ right to work was unconstitutional (Carolan 2017), and in October 2017 the Minister for Justice and Equality announced the government’s intention of giving asylum seekers in Ireland the right to work after six months in Direct Provision. The right to work, however, is limited as many restrictions remain as argued by MASI (Kahmbule and Mulhall 2018). Against this background, this chapter makes three interlinked propositions. First, I propose that just as the Irish state and Irish people managed to ignore Ireland’s system of ‘coercive confinement’ in workhouses, psychiatric asylums, Mother and Baby Homes, Magdalene Laundries and Industrial Schools (O’Sullivan and O’Donnell 2012), they also ‘manage not to know’ about the plight of asylum seekers currently incarcerated in Direct Provision. The Direct Provision regime isolates asylum applicants, makes them dependent on state handouts and on carceral rules, and makes it difficult for them to organise on a national level. Though ‘managing not to know’, or disavowing, erases the Direct Provision regime from Ireland’s collective consciousness, I propose that asylum seekers signify the return of Ireland’s repressed, confronting Irish people, themselves e/migrants par excellence, with their own migratory past. Second, I propose that we must not theorise asylum seekers in Direct Provision as passive victims at the mercy of sovereign power, to whom everything is done, but must rather see them as active agents of resistance. Third, and more broadly, the incarceration of asylum seekers should be seen as continuing the tradition of administrative detention of political prisoners in the north of Ireland and of the widespread Irish practice of coercive confinement. I, therefore, theorise the Direct Provision system as the current embodiment of the island of Ireland as two parallel carceral states, where a ‘prison industrial complex’ has historically incarcerated 1 in every 100 people in the Republic and administratively detained political prisoners in the north. I conclude, following Angela Davis, by calling for the total abolition of imprisonment and incarceration.

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Denial and Disavowal Denial, according to sociologist Stanley Cohen (2001, 5–6), is a paradox. We must assume that when using the term ‘denial’ to describe a person’s statement ‘I didn’t know’, they know about what it is that they claim not to know. The public shock about the revelations since the mid-1990s about the incarceration of unmarried women in ‘Mother and Baby Homes’ and Magdalene laundries, and the abuse of thousands of children in Irish industrial schools represents a disavowal of something Irish people were aware of but were repressing. Ireland has a breath-taking history of incarceration. According to O’Sullivan and O’Donnell (2012), who coined the term ‘coercive confinement’, the Irish state locked up 1 in every 100 of its citizens in psychiatric hospitals, Magdalene Laundries, Mother and Baby Homes and industrial schools. This carceral practice continued the legacy of the 1838 British colonial Irish Poor Law that led to the establishment of 130 workhouses to cater for the destitute poor during the Great Famine (Fitzsimons 2014). At any given time between 1926 and 1951, about 31,000 Irish people were forcibly incarcerated in these institutions. This also applied to children—1 child in every 100 was enslaved in a reformatory or an industrial school. Irish Times columnist Fintan O’Toole (2012) links this vast incarceration regime to emigration, which banished many ‘misfits’ who otherwise might have been locked up. The fact that the Irish institutions of incarceration were located in towns and cities throughout the country meant that people claiming ‘not to know’ about them were disingenuous. According to O’Toole (2012), the system served as a warning to the disobedient, particularly as family members were forcing pregnant daughters into Magdalene Laundries or Mother and Baby Homes, where they had their out of wedlock children out of sight, and sending the hapless children of ‘bad’ or poor mothers to industrial schools, where many were physically, sexually and emotionally abused. The harm done to the incarcerated, he writes, was augmented by the damage done to Irish society as it taught ‘a whole society very deep habits of collusion, of evasion and, perhaps most insidiously of all, of adaptation’.

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The mechanism of denial—of what we actually know—can be illuminated by Freud’s (2003[1919], 125) work on the unfamiliar or ‘uncanny’: ‘that class of the terrifying which leads back to something long known to us, once very familiar, which can become uncanny and frightening’. Freud argues that we often repress that which we are afraid of, which is familiar and known to us yet becomes estranged in the process of repression. And the repressed, he reminds us, always returns to haunt. Ireland’s incarceration system, which Irish society knew about but chose not to know about, was only acknowledged publicly in the mid-­1990s after media revelations of the plight of children in industrial schools and women in Magdalene Laundries. The revelations began with two television programmes broadcast by the national television channel Raidió Teilifís Éireann (RTE), Louis Lentin’s drama documentary ‘Dear Daughter’ (19961) and Mary Raftery’s series ‘States of Fear’ (19992). They were followed by the Ryan and Murphy reports, the Residential Institutions Redress Board3 and the 1999 official apology for the industrial schools by Taoiseach Bertie Ahern.4 I propose that although the revelations that forced Irish society to acknowledge the abuse constitute the return of Ireland’s repressed, they do not prevent present-day Irish society from ‘managing not to know’ about asylum seekers living in dire conditions in Direct Provision centres. The disavowal is not accidental, but rather engineered by the state. The state chose to dehumanise the incarcerated and hide from view the plight of psychiatric patients coercively confined by families and the medical establishment, of unmarried pregnant women spurned by Catholic Ireland (while the men who impregnated them enjoyed impunity), and  All relevant information about this documentary can be found on the Trinity College Dublin Irish Film and TV Research website: https://www.tcd.ie/irishfilm/showfilm.php?fid=36476 (accessed 25 April 2019). 2  Information about this documentary can be found at the following website. https://en.wikipedia. org/wiki/States_of_Fear (accessed 25 April 2019). 3   See the Residential Institutions Redress Board website: http://www.rirb.ie/ (accessed 25 April 2019). 4  For information on this see the website for Caranua (support for survivors of institutional abuse): http://caranua.ie/useful-resources/government-responses/ (accessed 17 May 2019). Only in 2013 did another Taoiseach, Enda Kenny, issue a public apology to the survivors of the Magdalene Laundries. 1

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of the hapless children of poor, often unwed mothers who church and state punished for their mothers’ alleged ‘sins.’ In the case of asylum seekers, the story is complicated by state racism as the state chooses to racialise and dehumanise asylum seekers whom it removes from sight and constructs as a (financial) ‘burden’, enabling their disavowal by today’s Irish society. As Luke Lamont (2017) says in his thoughtful paper on theatrical representations of the Industrial Schools and the Magdalene Laundries (‘The Blue Boy’ and ‘Laundry’), present-day Irish society can choose between remembering or forgetting the past evils that it had chosen—encouraged by church and state—to know and not know about at the same time: When the details of Ireland’s history of abuse and enslavement were made publicly available by the Ryan and McAleese reports, much of the rhetoric in defence of the institutions which perpetrated and perpetuated these crimes described that these were ‘different times’, it was a ‘different Ireland.’ Productions like ‘The Blue Boy’ and ‘Laundry’ show us that the past is present; we can decide as a society what to prioritise, and who to remember. (Lamont, np)

Like its history of incarceration, Ireland’s refugee reception history is also shocking. Having refused to admit more than 60 Jewish refugees during the Nazi era between 1933 and 1946 (Lentin 1997), Ireland accepted small groups of Programme Refugees in 1956, 1972, 1979, 1985 and 1992 (Ward 1998). Asylum seekers (‘Convention Refugees’) began arriving in Ireland in the early 1990s: the number of applications increased from 39  in 1992 to a peak of 11,634  in 2002, decreasing ever since (Lentin and McVeigh 2006, 45). According to the Reception and Integration Agency (RIA), between 1991 and October 2018 Ireland received a total of 100,894 asylum applications. However, the UNHCR ranks Ireland poorly among European states: Ireland recognised fewer asylum claims than smaller or similarly sized states, and is ranked 55th out of 183 states worldwide. Placed above fellow EU members the Czech Republic, Lithuania and Slovakia, Ireland is placed significantly below similarly populated Norway and Finland, and poorer states such as Zambia and Armenia (The Journal 2015).

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In 1999 the then Minister for Justice, Equality and Law Reform justified the establishment of the Direct Provision system by claiming that the ‘burden’ imposed by asylum seekers whose numbers were ‘spiralling out of control’ must be spread throughout the country (FLAC 2003). Twenty years later another Minister for Justice and Equality was enthusiastically, albeit disingenuously, extolling the virtues of the DP regime as protective and benevolent: The Direct Provision system is a guarantee that every person who walks into the International Protection Office today will tonight have a bed, food, a shower, medical care, information and access to a wide range of services. They will not be forced to spend the night on the streets or be left to their own devices to look for emergency housing as in the early years under previous governments. They will not be vulnerable to ruthless criminals stealing any welfare payment that would replace direct provision and leaving them in abject poverty. I have yet to hear a credible alternative being proposed in almost two decades to the current system. (Flanagan)

I argue that the Direct Provision system is part of Ireland’s systems of coercive confinement, as suggested by historian Fiona Fitzsimons (2014): Just like the old workhouses, the Direct Provision system has meal-breaks at specific times of the day and a ‘curfew’ system at night. But unlike the workhouses, the people detained in the Direct Provision system do not have the option of leaving. They haven’t broken any laws to end up there but they are in the Direct Provision system indefinitely as they wait for their case to be concluded.

Irish people tend to adopt an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ attitude to asylum seekers in Direct Provision centres that could be theorised as Giorgio Agamben’s (2005) ‘zones of exception’ (Agamben 2005) or rather as Franz Fanon’s (1967) ‘zones of nonbeing.’ Direct Provision centres ‘signal a sort of surplus of “bare life” that can no longer be contained within the political order of nation-states yet cannot be entirely disposed of, and is thus trapped in between spaces and statuses’ (Walters 2002, 286). Thus isolated, asylum seekers, like the inmates of Ireland’s workhouses, psychiatric hospitals, industrial schools, Magdalene laundries and Mother and

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Baby Homes, are perched at the edge of Irish life, and disavowed as Irish society manages not to know of their existence. In 2002, in the first edited collection on racism and antiracism in Ireland (Lentin and McVeigh 2002), I argued that during the ‘Celtic Tiger’ era Ireland’s vehement opposition to in-migration entailed a disavowal of the pain of emigration. The immigrant other, I proposed, represented the return of Ireland’s repressed painful experience of e/ migration, known to every Irish family, but disavowed during the boom years (Lentin 2002). Denying that Irish people may be racist—having themselves been colonised and racialised by the British—and disavowing both the pain of emigration and the experiences of immigrants, Irish society was looking away, looking and not looking at the forbidden other, who represented what Irish people did not want to see, namely themselves, undressed. Moving from 2002 to 2019—with 20  years of Direct Provision, extremely low refugee acceptance rates, and a growing housing and homelessness crisis—disavowal is again becoming apparent. The familiar of poverty and emigration is returning to haunt Ireland’s collective consciousness, making Irish people disavow, yet again, the plight of people being incarcerated in their midst. In the process Freud’s familiar becomes uncanny and frightening, enabling the denial not of what ‘we’ do not know, but of what ‘we’ know only too well. The protests by asylum seekers in direct provision—extensively reported by social and mainstream media—confront Ireland with the return of its repressed as many Irish people make a choice to disavow asylum seekers languishing in Direct Provision centres. At the same time, disavowal is coupled with racism as growing opposition to the establishment of Direct Provision centres in Irish towns and villages throughout the country increases and as several local protests were held during 2019, which also saw several arson attacks on proposed Direct Provision centres.5

  See Masi’s statement on this question: https://www.masi.ie/2019/01/16/attacks-on-direct-­ provision-centres-movement-of-asylum-seekers-in-ireland-anti-racism-network-joint-statement/ (accessed 1 July 2019). 5

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Racialisation and Resistance During their 2014 protests, asylum seekers spoke about over-crowded rooms which residents have to share with total strangers, about badly maintained buildings, about inadequate services such as insufficient transport arrangements making it difficult for residents to travel from remote centres and for children to reach school, about being controlled by centre managements which often prohibit visitors, about centre managements providing out of date, insufficient food served at specific times and not available out of hours, leaving many children hungry, and about parents being unable to cook for their families. Grievances included the indignity of parents forced to share a room with their children, often leading to inappropriate sexual behaviour by young children, and women being sexually harassed and girls and LGBT+ people feeling unsafe in Direct Provision (KRAC 2014; MASI 2019). When I started working on this topic, I was tempted to theorise asylum seekers as Agamben’s ‘bare life’, inmates in a space of exception that ‘distinguishes and separates what is inside from what is outside’ (Agamben 1995, 131), their lives controlled by the sovereign state and its agents, in this instance, the Reception and Integration Agency as well as managements and staff of the Direct Provision centres. However, Agamben’s theory is ultimately inadequate because categorising and incarcerating asylum seekers are deeply racialised, and Agamben’s Eurocentric analysis occludes the legacy of colonialism and slavery and does not consider the workings of race (Weheliye 2014). Race and racism have been part of Ireland’s reality despite Ireland being colonised by the British. In recent times, racialised differentiation was consolidated in Ireland by the 2004 constitutional referendum on citizenship which ended the 83-year-old jus solis citizenship entitling all people born on the island of Ireland to Irish citizenship. Instead the constitutional referendum brought about a blood-based jus sanguinis citizenship entitlement, whereby only children born to citizens are entitled to citizenship, leaving thousands of children born in Ireland to non-citizen migrant parents without citizenship, existing in a permanent state of exception (Lentin and McVeigh 2006, 51–55).

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Race theorist Alexander Weheliye (2014) critiques Eurocentric theories of biopolitics (Foucault) and ‘bare life’ (Agamben) that link racism to the Nazi Holocaust while occluding the histories of colonialism, slavery, apartheid and racialisation. Weheliye employs a black studies framework of ‘racializing assemblages’ that centres the enfleshed experiences of dehumanisation and categorisation of people into fully human (in this case white Christian and settled Irish people), not quite human (‘desirable’ white labour migrants), and non-human (non-white, non-Christian ‘undesirable’ asylum seekers and migrants, as well as Ireland’s own indigenous racialized group, Irish Travellers). Furthermore, though Agamben’s theories may be useful in critical race and migration studies, William Walters critiques Agamben’s positing refugees as ‘subjects to whom all manner of things are done, often in arbitrary and violent ways, but rarely agents in their own right’ (Walters 2002, 188). I, therefore, propose that positing asylum seekers as mere victims of sovereign Irish governmentalities is far from the reality, as attested by the protests by asylum seekers and the ongoing campaigning work by MASI, and as demonstrated by work by former asylum seekers such as Vukašin Nedeljković, who has documented the Direct Provision regime in his photographic work Asylum Archive (Nedeljković 2018). It is nonetheless worth noting that MASI’s 2014 protests were not the first time refugees and asylum seekers in Ireland staged a protest. After the 1956 Soviet invasion of Hungary, Ireland accepted 530 Hungarian refugees as part of the UNHCR resettlement programme. Settling them in an old army camp outside Limerick and expecting them to find work and not become a burden on the state did not provide ideal conditions. In 1958, they staged a hunger strike, and all but 61 of the original group had since left Ireland; those who remained were unemployed or dependent on the state (Ward 1998, 42). A second wave of protests happened in the mid-1990s when a group of asylum seekers established the Association of Refugees and Asylum Seekers in Ireland (ARASI) to campaign for the rights of asylum seekers and against racism. Using a variety of strategies—demonstrations, lobbying, school visits and media campaigns—ARASI became the independent voice of asylum seekers in Ireland. At the same time Irish

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refugee-support NGOs were competing with it for funding because, according to the UNHCR, ARASI was becoming ‘too aggressive’ and ‘too African.’ The result was the appropriation of ARASI by the Spiritan Fathers, who, after having given ARASI free office space, ended up replacing ARASI with their own organisation, which they called SPIRASI—an NGO whose aim was to support victims of torture to rebuild their lives in Ireland (SPIRASI). Reflecting on what he called SPIRASI’s ‘charity model colonial takeover’, former asylum seeker and ARASI member Kensika Moshengwo said that when ARASI resisted the introduction of Direct Provision in 2000, members were prevented from visiting hostels to mobilise support, as SPIRASI took over ARASI’s activism (Lentin 2012, 51–6). These examples of past acts of resistance by asylum seekers illustrate two points. First, ARASI members were able to mobilise because, prior to Direct Provision, asylum seekers were free to reside in urban centres, mostly Dublin, enabling them to organise; by contrast, the Hungarian refugees were deprived of the freedom of movement. Second, the appropriation of ARASI by SPIRASI illustrates the disavowal of the experiences of asylum seekers in Irish society and the hiding of the voices of asylum seekers that are often taken over by white Irish NGOs. This emphasises the huge importance of MASI’s work with residents of the Direct Provision regime in bringing their plight to public knowledge; they are supported in this work by groups such as Anti-Racism Network Ireland and the Irish Housing Network as was evident in their 2019 conference: ‘Towards a more human asylum process’, which celebrated MASI’s fifth year of action. The protests by asylum seekers and MASI’s ongoing work of mobilisation and campaigning demonstrate that theorising asylum seekers in Direct Provision as subject to the sovereign’s arbitrary rule is inadequate and that the protests must be seen as ‘acts of resistance’ (Walters 2002) in the best sense of the word. As Mulhall and Titley argue, ‘the Department of Justice may gesture towards treating asylum seekers with “respect and dignity”, but it is hard to imagine a greater indignity than constantly being spoken about and for’ (Mulhall and Titley 2014, np).

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Conclusion: Carceral Ireland The African American activist and academic Angela Davis uses the term ‘prison industrial complex’ to describe the United States’ widespread incarceration practices, which, she argues, hide social problems rather than solving crime. According to Davis, problems such as homelessness, unemployment, drug addiction, mental illness and illiteracy are only a few of the problems that disappear from public view when the human beings contending with them are relegated to cages. Prisons and other coercive enforcement institutions are seen as performing the magic of disappearing these problems, though in fact they do not disappear the problems but rather disappear human beings and at the same time become big business. As Davis (n.d.) writes: The practice of disappearing vast numbers of people from poor, immigrant and racially marginalized communities has literally become big business […] and to keep the illusion of solving problems penal infrastructures must be created to accommodate a rapidly swelling population of caged people. Goods and services must be provided to keep imprisoned populations alive.

Taking into account the structural similarities and profitability of business-­government linkages in the realms of military production and public punishment, the expanding penal system, Davis argues, should be characterised as a ‘prison industrial complex.’ Davis is clear about the link between the penal system and racialised structures and writes that in order to deliver bodies for profitable punishment, the political economy of institutions of coercive confinement relies on racialised assumptions and on racist practices of detention and sentencing patterns. In the US, bodies of colour constitute the main human raw material in this vast experiment of disappearing major social problems. In Ireland, I propose, institutions of coercive confinement, including, historically, psychiatric hospitals, Magdalene Laundries, industrial schools and now Direct Provision centres, as well as northern prisons for ‘special category’ prisoners, were charged with disappearing social

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problems such as psychiatric illness, female sexuality, poverty, the neglect of children, immigration and so-called terrorism from public view. Angela Davis argues that the ‘prison industrial complex’ uses for-profit companies to disappear problems such as poverty, homelessness, drug use, mental illness and illiteracy from view for the benefit of both state and capital—and in the process it manages to disappear people rather than those problems. Likewise, the vast incarceration of thousands of people in Ireland, most of whom have committed no crime, benefits both state and business. Moreover, incarcerating thousands of asylum seekers in the Direct Provision system does not disappear the problems that force people to travel across the world to seek protection and refuge, nor does it disappear the problems generated by the arrival of asylum seekers, problems caused not by the new arrivals but rather by the adequacies of the receiving states’ housing, health, education and welfare systems. Incarcerating asylum seekers disappears the applicants for international protection behind the walls of the Direct Provision centres, enabling the receiving state to benevolently claim that all it does is provide applicants with bed and board and a roof over their heads. In the US, as prisons proliferate, private capital becomes enmeshed in the punishment industry, depending on racist structures and ideologies to render mass punishment palatable and profitable, and, in providing income not merely to prison managements but also to companies providing services to the many prisons, making prisons a source of wealth to the US economy. Likewise, the long embedded history of incarceration in both the Republic and the north of Ireland, and the involvement of the church in managing institutions of coercive incarceration, where profit from the inmates’ free labour and from the sale of babies for adoption, mostly abroad (Milotte 2011), and the involvement of private businesses in running the Direct Provision system, mean that the two states of Ireland are textbook examples of carceral states, where the ‘prison industrial complex’ operates in insidious ways. While we can hardly argue that people in the north of Ireland did not know of the existence of special category prisoners or of the so-called ‘Troubles’, the legacy of the ‘Troubles’ continues to haunt. At the same time the north of Ireland statelet appears to undergo a clean-up process

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of marketing its expertise in reconciliation and post-conflict justice at the cost of disavowing its troubling past. Meanwhile, in the Republic of Ireland, since the inception of the Direct Provision system, the companies operating the centres have been paid by the Irish government some €1.2 billion to house and cater for asylum seekers awaiting decisions on their applications for international protection. Though the Irish government refuses to disclose details of the money paid to Irish and international corporations (including Aramark, the largest US prison catering company) because the information is deemed ‘commercially sensitive’, Brogan and O’Brien (2019, see also Deegan 2016) report that a number of the companies involved have made in excess of €100 million each from operating what they call ‘the private asylum industry’, and I term Ireland’s ‘asylum industrial complex.’ And it is not merely the companies directly contracted to run the centres which profit from incarcerating asylum seekers. The Direct Provision regime is a source of profit for many suppliers throughout the Irish economy. Besides the buildings needed to house the incarcerated, many local and international suppliers partake in the profit making. These include electricity, heating, communications, sewage and refuse collection companies, food and drink suppliers, hygiene and cleaning products suppliers, and health and transport service providers  – all raking substantial profits from the miserable existence of asylum seekers incarcerated in the Direct Provision system. Moreover, job creation—always a factor in attracting foreign companies to invest in Ireland—is an additional advantage of the commercialisation of asylum, as running the Direct Provision centres provides employment for local (Irish and non-Irish) people. This, and additional employment in companies providing services to the centres, must be an incentive for the Irish government to keep the Direct Provision regime going, even at the cost of the racialisation of asylum seekers incarcerated in Direct Provision. Here is another denial: the Irish state’s benign and sanctimonious description of Direct Provision as benefitting asylum seekers rather than serving to control them and enabling private corporations to make huge profits from their incarceration is part and parcel of the denial by Irish

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people and the Irish state of state racism. And such denial, as Alana Lentin (2017) argues, actually reproduces racial violence: ‘Not racism’ can be witnessed in definitions of racism that either sideline or deny race both as an historical phenomenon and as experienced by racialized people […] the emphatic nature with which ‘not racism’ is declared today can be seen as the culmination of a protracted period of debate and denial. The current period, during which we are witnessing a deepening and expansion of systemic, state and popular racism against migrants and asylum seekers, the undocumented, Indigenous people, Muslims and Black people is, I suggest, accompanied by an ever more vigorous denial that these phenomena are racist. (Lentin 2017, np)

There is little doubt that the DP regime aims to hide away the ‘problem’ of asylum rather than provide asylum seekers with the fastest way of processing their applications for international protection. The state hiding asylum seekers from view has led to Irish society managing to not to know about Direct Provision just as state and society managed not to know about the coercive incarceration of thousands of Irish people in the corrective institutions of the past.

Bibliography Agamben, G. 1995. Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen. Stanford: Stanford University Press. ———. 2005. State of Exception. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Brogan, A., and H. O’Brien. 2019. Cashing in on Direct Provision. The Sunday Business Post, May 19. https://www.businesspost.ie/news/cashing-direct-provision-443853. Accessed 12 Sept 2019. Carolan, M. 2017. ‘Asylum Seekers’ Work Ban Unconstitutional Says Supreme Court. The Irish Times, May 30. https://www.irishtimes.com/news/crimeand-law/courts/high-court/asylum-seekers-work-ban-unconstitutional-sayssupreme-court-1.3101419. Accessed 28 Oct 2019. Cohen, S. 2001. States of Denial: Knowing About Atrocities and Suffering. Cambridge: Polity Press.

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Davis, A. n.d. Masked Racism: Reflections on the Prison Industrial Complex. History as a Weapon. http://www.historyisaweapon.com/defcon1/davisprison. html. Accessed 28 Oct 2019. De Genova, N. 2002. Migrant “Illegality” and Deportability in Everyday Life. Annual Review of Anthropology 31 (1): 419–447. Deegan, G. 2016. State Paid €43.5m to Eight Direct Provision Operators in 2016. The Irish Times, February 23. https://www.irishtimes.com/news/social-affairs/ state-paid-43-5m-to-eight-direct-provision-operators-in-2016-1.2987004 Fanon, F. 1967. Black Skins, White Masks. New York: Grove Press. Fitzsimons, F. 2014. Opinion: Workhouses and Direct Provision – The Parallels Can No Longer Be Ignored. The Journal, December 31. http://www.thejourn a l . i e / r e a d m e / d i r e c t - p r ov i s i o n - p a r a l l e l - w o r k s h o u s e - i r e l a n d 1857751-Dec2014/. Accessed 28 Oct 2019. FLAC. 2003. Direct Discrimination: An Analysis of the Direct Provision System in Ireland. Dublin: FLAC. https://www.flac.ie/publications/direct-discrimination/. Accessed 10 June 2019. Flanagan, Charlie. 2017. Opening Statement on Direct Provision. https://merrionstreet.ie/en/News-Room/Speeches/Opening_Statement_by_Minister_ Flanagan_on_Direct_Provision.html. Accessed July 2019. Freud, S. 2003[1919]. The Uncanny. Trans. David McLintock. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Goffman, I. 1991[1961]. Asylums: Essays on the Social Situation of Mental Patients and Other Inmates. London: Penguin. Holland, K. 2017. Protesters in Dublin Call for End to Direct Provision “Hell”. The Irish Times, November 17. Irish Statute Book. 2015. http://www.irishstatutebook.ie/eli/2015/act/66/ enacted/en/html. Accessed 28 Oct 2019. Kahmbule, L., and A. Mulhall. 2018. ‘Asylum Seekers’ Right to Work Remains a Fantasy, The Irish Times, July 27. https://www.irishtimes.com/opinion/asylum-seekers-right-to-work-remains-a-fantasy-1.3577346. Accessed 1 Ju’ 2019. KRAC. 2014. Concerns by Kinsale Road Accommodation Centre. Kinsale: From All Kinsale Road Accommodation Centre Residents, 10 September (Document Obtained by the Author). Lamont, L. 2017. Performing Permission and Trespass: The Ethical Dynamics of the Blue Boy, Laundry and Theatres of the Real in Neoliberal Ireland. Paper Presented at the Humanities Under Neoliberalism/The University

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Under Neoliberalism, UCD Humanities Institute Annual PhD Conference, 6 October. Lentin, L. 1997. No More Blooms: Ireland’s Attitude to the Jewish Refugee Problem 1933–1946. Documentary for RTE, Broadcast 10 December. Lentin, R. 2002. Anti-Racist Responses to the Racialisation of Irishness: Disavowed Multiculturalism and Its Discontents. In Racism and Anti-Racism in Ireland, ed. Ronit Lentin and Robbie McVeigh. Belfast: Beyond the Pale. ———. 2012. There Is No Movement: A Brief History of Migrant Led Activism in Ireland. In Migrant Activism and Immigration from Below, ed. R. Lentin and E. Moreo. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Lentin, A. 2017. “I’m Not Racist, But…”: How Denying Racism Reproduces Its Violence. ABC Religion & Ethics, October 19. http://www.abc.net.au/religion/articles/2017/10/19/4752363.htm. Accessed 28 Oct 2019. Lentin, R., and R.  McVeigh, eds. 2002. Racism and Anti-Racism in Ireland. Belfast: Beyond the Pale. ———. 2006. After Optimism? Ireland, Racism and Globalisation. Dublin: Metro Eireann Publications. Lentin, R., and E. Moreo. 2015. Migrant Deportability: Israel and Ireland as Case Studies. Ethnic and Racial Studies 38 (6): 894–910. Loyal, S. 2011. Understanding Immigration in Ireland: State, Capital and Labour in a Global Age. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Luibhéid, E. 2013. Pregnant on Arrival: Making the Illegal Immigrant. Minneapolis/London: University of Minnesota Press. MASI. 2019. Journal No 1, Dublin: Autumn 2019. ——— (Movement of Asylum Seekers in Ireland). https://masi.ie. Accessed 30 Oct 2019. Milotte, M. 2011. Banished Babies: The Secret History of Ireland’s Baby Export Business. Dublin: New Island Books. Mulhall, A., and G.  Titley. 2014. Direct Provision Is a Holding Pen Where People Are Kept for Efficient Deportation. The Journal, October 15. http:// w w w. t h e j o u r n a l . i e / r e a d m e / d i r e c t - p r ov i s i o n - c e n t r e s - i r e l a n d 1725662-Oct2014/. Accessed 28 Oct 2019. Mullally, U. 2017. Time to Stand Up for People in Direct Provision. The Irish Times, November 17. https://www.irishtimes.com/opinion/time-to-standup-for-people-in-direct-provision-1.3295790. Accessed 28 Oct 2019. Nedeljković, V. 2018. Asylum Archive. Dublin: Asylum Archive. O’Sullivan, E., and I.  O’Donnell. 2012. Coercive Confinement in Ireland: Patients, Prisoners and Penitents. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

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O’Toole, F. 2012. Repression Shaped Our Passive Society. The Irish Times, February 26. http://www.highbeam.com/doc/1P2-34309190.html. Accessed 28 Oct 2019. Oireachtas Debate. 2019. https://www.oireachtas.ie/en/debates/debate/ seanad/2017-10-04/11/. Accessed 28 Oct 2019. Pollak, S. 2019. Asylum Seeker Weekly Allowance Rises for Adults and Children. The Irish Times, March 25. https://www.irishtimes.com/news/social-affairs/ asylum-seeker-weekly-allowance-rises-for-adults-and-children-1.3837061. Accessed 30 June 2019. Reception and Integration Agency (RIA). 2017. Statistics. http://www.ria.gov.ie/ en/RIA/Pages/Statistics. Accessed 28 Oct 2019. SPIRASI (Supporting Victims of Torture to Improve Their Life in Ireland). https://spirasi.ie/. Accessed 29 Oct 2019. The Journal. 2014. The Way We Treat Asylum Seekers Says a Lot About Us as a Country – Says Ó Ríordáin, 28 July. http://www.thejournal.ie/asylum-directprovision-aodhan-oriordan-1592693-Jul2014/. Accessed 28 Oct 2019. ———. 2015. Asylum and Refugees: How Ireland Compares to the Rest of the World, 5 September. https://www.thejournal.ie/ireland-asylum-refugee-status-compared-to-rest-of-world-2310580-Sep2015/. Accessed 9 June 2019. ———. 2019. State Paying Hotels and Guesthouses €462,000 Per Week to Accommodate Asylum Seekers, 17 October. https://www.thejournal.ie/ asylum-seekers-emergency-accommodation-4854718-Oct2019. Accessed 17 Oct 2019. UNHCR. 2014–2019. Beyond Detention: A Global Strategy to Support Governments to End the Detention of Asylum-Seekers and Refugees. Geneva: UNHCR. https://www.unhcr.org/53aa929f6. Accessed 30 Oct 2019. Walters, W. 2002. Deportation, Expulsion, and the International Police of Aliens. Citizenship Studies 6 (3): 265–292. ———. 2008. Acts of Demonstration: Mapping the Territory of (Non-)citizenship. In Acts of Citizenship, ed. Engin F. Isin and Greg M. Neilsen. London: Zed Books. Ward, E. 1998. Ireland and Refugees/Asylum Seekers 1922–1966. In The Expanding Nation: Towards a Multi-Ethnic Ireland, ed. R.  Lentin. Dublin: MPhil in Ethnic and Racial Studies, TCD. Weheliye, A.G. 2014. Habeas Viscus: Racializing Assemblages, Biopolitics, and Blacck Feminist Theories of the Human. Durham: Duke University Press. Working Group to Report to Government on Improvements to the Protection Process, Including Direct Provision and Supports to Asylum Seekers. 2015. June. http://www.justice.ie/en/JELR/Report. Accessed Dec 2019.

Author Index1

A

D

Abrams, Lynn, 229, 230 Agamben, Georgio, 4, 267, 269, 270 Aguiar, Laura, 78 Aretxaga, Begona, 162

D’Arcy Margaretta, 161, 161n13 Davis, Angela, 17, 70, 263, 272, 273 Dawson, Graham, 80, 196 Derrida, Jacques, 243, 251, 252

B

F

Behan, Cormac, 12, 13, 16, 91n1, 92, 98, 104, 106–108 Bruce, Steve, 139

Fanon, Franz, 267 Farrell, Mairéad, 15, 155–172 Feldman, Allen, 51, 56 Ferriter, Diarmaid, 100, 108, 247 Flynn, Kate, 79, 83, 165 Foster, Roy, 145 Foucault, Michel, 4, 6, 21, 31, 49, 78, 119, 216, 217, 224, 235, 240, 270 Freud, Sigmund, 265, 268

C

Carroll-Burke, Patrick, 23–25, 25n3, 27n7, 29–31, 34–38, 34n10, 40 Cohen, Stanley, 264 Corcoran, Mary, 162, 165n22

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

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280 

Author Index

G

Garland, David, 40, 42 Garland, Roy, 117, 119, 122, 123, 136, 139, 141, 143 Goffman, Ervin, 50, 118, 123, 126, 211 Graham, Brian, 75, 77, 80, 82, 171, 172, 179, 181–184, 186, 190, 192–194, 197, 198 H

Hirsch, Marianne, 155 Hirst, Paul, 240 Hogan, Caelainn, 3, 10 Hutchinson, Billy, 126, 134, 137, 142, 144, 148 I

Inglis, Tom, 211 J

McBride, Ruari-Santiago, 11–13, 15, 48, 52, 64, 66, 69 McConville, Sean, 3, 92, 103 McDowell, Sara, 80, 83, 86, 171, 171n37, 172, 179, 181–184, 186, 190, 192–194, 197, 198 McEvoy, Kieran, 92, 116, 119–121, 189, 191, 196 McKeown, Laurence, 114 McKittrick, David, 120, 120n5, 121n6, 143, 186, 189, 190 McLaughlin, Cathal, 16, 158, 164n20, 164n21, 165, 166, 166n24, 166n25, 168, 168n33, 180–182, 189, 191, 192, 195, 199 McVea, David, 120, 120n5, 121n6 Mignolo, Walter, 4, 5, 12, 13, 17 Mirzoeff, Nicholas, 243, 249–251 Moore, Linda, 168 Munslow, Alan, 257

Jarman, Neil, 171 N L

Lentin, Alana, 275 Lentin, Ronit, 17, 18, 261, 266, 268, 269, 271 Lloyd, David, 5, 7, 8, 11, 14 Lyons, Laura, 40, 158n7, 158n8, 159, 160

Nedeljković, Vukasin, 2, 270 Neill, William J. V., 181, 185, 186 Niblock, Bobby, 14, 134, 143–150 Novosel, Tony, 115n3, 119, 122, 136 O

M

Maguire, Moira J., 254, 255 McAtackney, Laura, 79, 80, 183, 187, 190, 191, 193, 194, 199

O’Donnell, Ian, 2, 3, 6, 93, 106, 108, 263, 264 O’Sullivan, Eoin, 2, 3, 6, 93, 211, 254, 263, 264

  Author Index  P

Parr, Connal, 14–16, 143, 144, 147, 150 Pembroke, Sinead, 16, 17, 205, 213, 216, 225 Powell, Jonathan, 133 Purbrick, Louise, 117, 180, 184, 194

Sinnerton, Henry, 119, 122–124, 126, 135 Smith, James, 1, 9, 167n28, 228n1, 255 Spence, Gusty, 13–15, 115n3, 119, 121–128, 125n11, 130, 133–151, 180 Stoler, Ann Laura, 49, 50

R

Raftery, Mary, 205, 211, 212, 254, 265 Rancière, Jacques, 3, 4, 6 Reed, Richard, 115n3, 122, 133, 135, 139 Rolston, Bill, 53, 140, 160, 161n12

T

Taylor, Peter, 117, 134, 183, 198 V

Viggiani, Elisabetta, 193 S

Sands, Bobby, 56, 183 Shea, Margo, 184, 194, 195, 199 Shirlow, Peter, 57, 149, 193

281

W

Walsh, Catherine, 4, 5, 12, 17 Whalen, Lachlan, 14

Subject Index1

A

Agency, 6, 8, 13, 17, 31, 51, 67, 107, 163, 167 Architecture, 5, 9, 11, 12, 48–60, 66, 69, 75, 80, 81, 167, 172, 229, 231, 233–237, 239 Armagh Gaol, 15, 16, 63, 64, 83–85, 84n4, 155–172, 180 C

Children, 1–3, 10, 17, 39n14, 100, 190, 205–217, 219–225, 227, 228, 229n2, 230, 231, 234–236, 238, 240–242, 248, 251, 252, 254–256, 259, 260, 264–266, 269, 273

Colonial Ireland, 12 Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse (CICA), 2, 205, 206, 210–214, 223, 245–248, 252 Compounds, 13, 55, 68, 113–130, 135, 138, 141, 147, 148, 180, 181, 195, 196 Crumlin Road Gaol, 6, 9, 52, 63, 83–85, 116, 117, 119, 122, 138, 141, 167n30, 169 D

Direct Provision, 2, 5–7, 9, 10, 17, 18, 259–263, 265, 267–275

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

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284 

Subject Index

G

L

Government, 1, 5, 26, 30, 38, 41, 42, 51, 53, 54, 57, 64, 76, 92, 96, 98, 101–106, 108, 109, 113, 113n1, 115–118, 120, 121, 129, 130, 140, 161n14, 195, 209, 212, 231, 236, 249, 251, 255, 260–263, 267, 274

Legacy issues, 75, 87 Long Kesh/Maze, 7, 8, 13–16, 54, 55, 65, 76, 79, 79n3, 82, 83, 85, 113–130, 134–137, 138n2, 139, 141–143, 147, 148, 150, 159n9, 160n10, 164n21, 166n27, 171n37, 179–199 Loyalism/loyalists, 13, 14, 53, 76, 78, 79n3, 116–118, 121n6, 122, 123, 125n12, 129, 133–151, 138n2, 165, 171, 180, 181, 183, 189–193, 195–197

H

Historians, 17, 36, 141, 163, 165, 168, 199, 228n1, 230, 243–245, 247–249, 251–255, 267 Historiophobic space, 17, 227–256 Hunger strikes, 55, 114, 137, 162, 162n15, 165, 166n27, 181, 182, 190, 192, 195, 218, 270 I

Incarceration, 2, 6, 7, 9, 10, 13, 15, 135, 161, 162, 163n17, 166, 167, 196, 206, 259–275 Industrial schools, 2, 3, 5–7, 9, 10, 207–216, 219, 220, 222, 223, 242, 246, 254, 263–267, 272 Institutional life, 93, 101 Intermediate prison, 10, 21, 22, 25, 27, 29–35, 35n11, 40 Irish National Liberation Army (INLA), 78, 166, 183, 193 Irish Republican Army (IRA), 53, 97, 99, 103, 104, 133, 135, 137, 138, 140, 141, 156, 156n3, 164n20, 184, 186, 193, 195

M

Magdalene Laundries, 1, 6, 10, 205, 228n1, 260, 263–267, 265n4, 272 Magilligan prison, 114n2 Mother and Baby Homes, 10, 205, 260, 263, 264, 268 Movement of Asylum Seekers in Ireland (MASI), 2, 260, 262, 263, 269–271 O

Oral history, 16, 17, 181, 190, 191, 195, 196, 229, 229n2, 230, 233, 245, 253, 254 P

Panopticon, 41n18, 81, 167, 235 Penal reform, 8, 10, 12, 13, 91–110 Penal space, 47–50, 56, 57, 64, 69

  Subject Index 

Politics, 3, 4, 15, 37, 41, 57, 65, 75, 76, 78, 82, 127, 135, 140–142, 144, 163, 194, 199 Postcolonial Ireland, 10 Prison Industrial Complex, 17, 259–275 Prisons, 135, 157, 179–199, 208, 228, 272 Prisons Memory Archive (PMA), 16, 180–183, 185, 186, 190–193, 195–199 Protesting prisoners, 8, 121n6 Protests, 5, 15, 53, 58, 91, 92, 97–98, 109, 114, 117, 120, 121n6, 122, 129, 137, 160–163, 166, 221, 262, 268–271

285

S

Survival/survivors, 17, 124, 128, 159, 172, 190, 205–225, 228n1, 246–248, 252–255, 265n4 T

Therapeutic penality, 48, 66, 68–70 Troubles, 13, 15, 75, 76, 78, 80, 82, 84–86, 96, 129, 133, 135, 138, 140, 145, 146, 150, 181, 186, 187, 189, 193, 194, 222, 237, 273 U

R

Red Hand Commando (RHC), 13, 114, 115, 115n3, 119, 122–124, 127, 128, 130 Rehabilitation, 11–13, 21, 24, 31, 58, 92, 93, 120, 130 Republicanism/republicans, 14, 15, 53–56, 63–65, 78, 115n3, 116–118, 121n6, 125n12, 129, 133–135, 141, 149, 155n2, 156n3, 158–165, 158n8, 159n9, 160n10, 163n17, 163n18, 164n21, 165n22, 166n25, 166n27, 168, 170, 171, 180–183, 185, 189–193, 196, 197, 199 Resistance, 6, 7, 9, 10, 12–14, 16–18, 38, 51, 53, 65, 150, 159, 171, 205–225, 263, 269–271 Ryan Report, 2, 210

Ulster Defence Army (UDA), 138, 139, 143n5, 158n8 Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF), 13, 78, 114, 115, 115n3, 119, 122–125, 127, 128, 130, 135, 137, 139–141, 146, 149, 150, 180, 199 V

Victims, 16, 100, 138, 149, 150, 186, 187, 189, 190, 248, 263, 270, 271 Victorian prisons, 50, 52, 53, 80 Violence, 7, 8, 17, 53, 54, 65, 113, 115–117, 120, 121n6, 135, 138–140, 143, 150, 161n14, 162, 181, 186, 189, 191, 196, 198, 214, 215, 228, 234, 238–242, 275