Groundviews

Behind Bars

Featured image from Sri Lanka Mirror

On August 13, 20 female inmates climbed onto the roof of Welikada Prison and began a protest. There were various reasons attributed to the prisoner’s motivations, many of which are outlined in this video from Ada Derana – one, more stringent regulations on food brought in from outside. In the past, the police have claimed that this is a commonly used method to smuggle in narcotics at Welikada. The 2017 Prisons Headquarters report tabled in Parliament revealed that over 2000 kilogrammes of narcotics and 53 mobile phones have been smuggled into prisons.

To the wider public, the inside of the women’s ward of Welikada prison is inaccessible and remote. Once the protests end, the story fades from headlines and from public consciousness.

The following was written in 2013, following a visit to the female ward of Welikada Prison on Women’s Day. It is interesting to note how some of the issues discussed following the protest on August 13 still hold true, five years later.

It’s pouring with rain, so hard that the air is white and foggy with it. You can’t see two feet in front of our van’s windshield. We stop at a turnstile, turn another corner, then run inside to shelter from the rain.

The first thing you notice is the meeting room where inmates can speak to visiting family members.

In movies, inmates are led into a long white room, sometimes divided by a two-way mirror. There are chairs, and tables. At the women’s ward in Welikada Prison, there is a long mesh window, with dozens of women pressed up against it. Every one is talking at a million miles an hour. There are no stools. No telephones. Just people shouting at each other through the mesh. Amidst the agitation I noticed a woman, a foreigner, head and shoulders taller than the rest.

On the other side, a thickset man was standing, answering her shouted questions. He had a bag in his hand, but he wasn’t trying to give it to her. I couldn’t sense much agitation in the shouted conversation, nor emotion in the man’s face. He was clearly not a first time visitor.

It’s wet, and muddy, but we are in an open quadrangle. There are rooms on either side. We don’t get more than a passing glimpse. Here, there is no mesh. No bars on the windows as I had subconsciously been expecting.

Many of the women are dressed in white. One or two hold umbrellas. They smile and move away, watching us curiously.

We come to a hall of sorts where a show is going on. This is the annual ‘International Women’s Day’ programme. Last year, the women put on a fashion show.

This year, there’s a microphone, and a man wailing into it. He sings a song about being a mother, how a child is nothing without a mother’s love.

There are around 16-18 mothers who are currently inmates here. They get pride of place- getting seats indoors, holding their children on their laps. As visitors, we get a seat inside the hall too. The rest have to squat outside in the continuing drizzle. I listen to the man singing about a mother’s love and realise that almost all of the mothers are crying.

Mothers who are inmates can only keep their children until they are 5 years old (on a court order). Then they are released to relatives and in some cases, to orphanages when there are no relatives who come forward as caregivers.

The children themselves are enthralled by the show, and don’t seem to notice their mother’s tears.

Some of the children are skinny, sporting dresses a few sizes too small, or long trousers brushing the floor. Others are neatly dressed, complete with flowered shoes and colourful backpacks.

One of the women recognises one of the visitors. She was here the last time she visited, a year ago. She is in Welikada on drug-related charges – specifically, for what is known as ‘brown sugar’ (adulterated heroin).

“I got out,” she says in answer to a question. “But then I started using again.” She tells us that this time she will definitely stick to the rehabilitation programme.

The woman we are speaking to says most of the women inmates are here on drug-related charges. There are a few who have been arrested for being sex workers, which is still governed by the Vagrants Ordinance, with a fine of just a few rupees. However, there are those who can’t pay the fine (and even those who don’t want to). They stay in Welikada for three months or so.

Every time some leave, more come in. It’s a cycle, she says.

At one point during the performances, one of the women begins to dance, twirling into the middle of the quadrangle. Her enthusiasm is infectious – at least to us, as onlookers. The other women are not amused, however. Some of the older ones pick up stones and hurl them at her. She turns to look- not with anger, or pain, or even surprise. She just walks back to her corner to continue dancing. This, it turns out, is not an unusual occurrence. The pecking order is revealed when more of the young inmates start dancing. A swiftly hurled stone (hurled by one of the more senior women) is followed by a tactical retreat.

One by one, several of the women also come to the microphone and sing. Some are popular and greeted with thunderous applause. Soon everyone is dancing, even the little children. One of them can barely toddle. She totters to my chair, looks up at me, then bounces unsteadily up and down. Her mother holds her fiercely, nattering at her to stay still, but she squirms irrepressibly.

I see a little girl with shoulder length hair run to the policewomen standing guard behind the stage. Soon they are carrying her, cooing over her. The child snatches at one of the policewoman’s hats and tries it on, and the policewoman hurriedly stuffs it onto her own head again.

Now another woman is singing a mournful, long song in Tamil, marking time with one foot. No one else is singing along. “We can’t even understand what she’s saying, no?” says a sari and high-heel clad Prisons Department official next to me.

I’m not sure how to react.

Eventually, we rise to leave- past the room with tea and dry butter cake and pastry, past the platitudes of smiling prison officers.

My colleague says she doesn’t have enough material for a story.

Shortly after the prisoner’s protest, Minister of Justice Thalatha Athukorale speaking from an event in Ratnapura said that she had given instructions to the Prisons Commissioner to restore order, adding that she had also instructed that no statements be given to the media. “The prison system cannot be reformed by constantly speaking to the media,” she said.

A prisons rights group – the Committee to Protect Rights of Prisoners, held a demonstration in solidarity alongside the female inmates, contending that the protest was actually due to prolonged detention periods and delays in sentencing.

2016 Prisons Department Statistics show that there were over 2000 direct admissions of unconvicted women were being held inside Welikada prison, with a total of over 5000 female inmates islandwide.

Although these figures appear high, the actual number of inmates is much lower in each institution and fluctuates from day to day. Welikada Prison remains one of the larger prisons, and one of the few with a separate section for females.

The plight of political prisoners under the PTA does receive some coverage in the media (Former Special Rapporteur on the promotion and protection against counterterrorism and arbitrary detention, Ben Emmerson in his report said the numbers amounted to between 81 and 111 prisoners).

The situation of the wider prison populace, and of women inmates, however, does not.

Editor’s Note:

This piece has been updated to reflect that the 2016 figures quoted for unconvicted prisoners are direct admissions, with the actual figures fluctuating day to day and being much lower. 

Also read “PTA detainees in Sri Lanka: Prospects for Justice” and “The President, prisons and a question of justice“. 

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