.
As we drove up to the prison I was struck by the amount of resources dedicated to this endeavor. The fence that partitioned the prison land from the rest of the world started long before we got into the vicinity of the real prison. We even drove by a sizable technical college campus before getting to the main facility. I could not help but notice the irony of two institutions set next to each other. One existed to provide opportunity and the other to restrict.
High fences with razor sharp barbs glinting in the Southern African sunshine announced our approach to the prison. We parked outside the fence and proceeded on foot to the huge green iron gates, where a guard opened the gate to let us in. The compound was sterile with barely any plants to soften the harshness of the barbed wire or the fence. The vegetation that grew in thrust its thorns and barbs in solidarity with its surrounding. Someone had mentioned that the people held in here needed constant surveillance and plants were up to the task.
We walked into the reception/guard station area, notable for its starkness. The white walls in concert with the large bay windows and the overhead fluorescent bulbs provided a probing light. It was a reminder to everyone that there was no place to hide; not your person or thoughts or color for that matter. The picture of the president and the commissioner of prisons hang on the wall. The pictures along with the day's newspapers were the only items that interrupted the landscape. Three guards in their crisp green uniform sat behind a large white desk that rose chest high on the average person standing on the other side. Two sat or stood looking out of the windows and the other facing the entry way. Their presence and cordiality brought humanity into the room.
The guard facing the entry pulled out a large book with a black hard cover. It was the image I have had in my mind whenever I hear the scripture about the "book of life" and I waited to hear whether my name would be found. He demanded our identification and that carried with it a sense of relief at least for a moment, for then my name would be written in the book. The guard scrutinized our identification as he wrote down the details in the book, after which we were ushered into another room. In this room, similar to the first had a guard at the station. There the missionary inquired about the use of the library. "This place has a library?" I thought to myself.
The library we were told would only be available if there was a guard that would be willing to accompany and keep an eye on us. The usual guard was off duty on this day, so we were out of luck. In the meantime, the guard at the station found another hard covered book and asked one of the young men with us to fill out our information. Since the library was unavailable, we needed another option and the only available one was at the end of the hallway, maybe.
We walked around the building to get to the end of the entrance on the other side. Myself and one of the university students walked into the building to look for an electrical outlet, for we needed one for the laptop. As we walked back out of the building, I noticed a second fenced section. This I was told was the real prison, where the immigrants were housed. The fence and gates were not unlike the outer fence in how it was built. Tall, strong iron gates provided the only form of access surrounded by high chain link fence with razor sharp barbs. Next to it was a guard station and judging by its appearance, it shared the same building contractor and interior decorator as the other stations. In the middle was wall that separated the men's sections from the women.
Outside this gate I saw a group of men sitting along a curb and I inquired from my companion who they were. He informed me that they were "fence jumpers" from Zimbabwe who were about to be deported. They would driven back to the border and dropped off on the other side. Many of them I was told would try again, for the situation in Zimbabwe has been dire for a lot of people. I was struck by similarity of this reality to that in the USA, only this time with immigrants for Central America.
Since the library was not available, our only option it turned, out was to sit at the guard station for the leadership training seminar. Only four prisoners participated in this portion from different countries around Africa. There were three men and one lady varying in age from 22-40. The topic today, was Vision and how it is essential in being a leader. One of the University student walked us through the power point presentation about vision that he had prepared with discussion opportunities along the way.
After the presentation, the conversation turned to the topic of grace. One of the four leadership candidates posed a question about leadership in relation to leading but yet missing entry into heaven. He was worried that as a recently converted christian that he may not make it into heaven because of sin that seemed to beset him every often along the way. It was interesting to listen as everyone offered him counsel on grace and the law and its intersection with walking a daily christian life. In the midst of some level of hell, he was afraid of another hell known to him through the Bible and was convinced that somehow, it had to be worse than this. He wanted to know how to ensure that he would be on the other side of the gate, when the time came.
We moved from the guard station into the inner sanctum of the prison. We walked by different groups of men sitting around talking to each other. I felt hemmed in. On my right side by the wall separating us from the women's side pressing down on us, and to my left, the palpable sense of despair mixed with a heavy dose of hope as well as resignation.
We walked into a big hall that served as the multipurpose room. Again I noted the handiwork of the same contractor and interior designer. There work seemed easily identifiable and prevalent across the compound. We gathered the few plastic chairs in the room into a circle and waited for a few other men to join. In a few minutes we were about 15 of us, representing different countries; Burundi, Somalia, Democratic Republic of Congo, South Africa, Kenya, Botswana, Malawi.
In that hall we were gathered by our acceptance to the invitation to live under the governance of the Kingdom of God. We were also gathered because of lines that neither of us nor our ancestors had a hand in drawing but somehow seemed to dictate our fate. Those lines determined our nationalities and as a result access to resources for most of the people in the room. Few of us who were lucky, had different opportunities and lives. As one of the men from the DRC led us in singing "How marvelous is your name oh Lord" I could not help but wonder.....
Immauel
Outside this gate I saw a group of men sitting along a curb and I inquired from my companion who they were. He informed me that they were "fence jumpers" from Zimbabwe who were about to be deported. They would driven back to the border and dropped off on the other side. Many of them I was told would try again, for the situation in Zimbabwe has been dire for a lot of people. I was struck by similarity of this reality to that in the USA, only this time with immigrants for Central America.
Since the library was not available, our only option it turned, out was to sit at the guard station for the leadership training seminar. Only four prisoners participated in this portion from different countries around Africa. There were three men and one lady varying in age from 22-40. The topic today, was Vision and how it is essential in being a leader. One of the University student walked us through the power point presentation about vision that he had prepared with discussion opportunities along the way.
After the presentation, the conversation turned to the topic of grace. One of the four leadership candidates posed a question about leadership in relation to leading but yet missing entry into heaven. He was worried that as a recently converted christian that he may not make it into heaven because of sin that seemed to beset him every often along the way. It was interesting to listen as everyone offered him counsel on grace and the law and its intersection with walking a daily christian life. In the midst of some level of hell, he was afraid of another hell known to him through the Bible and was convinced that somehow, it had to be worse than this. He wanted to know how to ensure that he would be on the other side of the gate, when the time came.
We moved from the guard station into the inner sanctum of the prison. We walked by different groups of men sitting around talking to each other. I felt hemmed in. On my right side by the wall separating us from the women's side pressing down on us, and to my left, the palpable sense of despair mixed with a heavy dose of hope as well as resignation.
We walked into a big hall that served as the multipurpose room. Again I noted the handiwork of the same contractor and interior designer. There work seemed easily identifiable and prevalent across the compound. We gathered the few plastic chairs in the room into a circle and waited for a few other men to join. In a few minutes we were about 15 of us, representing different countries; Burundi, Somalia, Democratic Republic of Congo, South Africa, Kenya, Botswana, Malawi.
In that hall we were gathered by our acceptance to the invitation to live under the governance of the Kingdom of God. We were also gathered because of lines that neither of us nor our ancestors had a hand in drawing but somehow seemed to dictate our fate. Those lines determined our nationalities and as a result access to resources for most of the people in the room. Few of us who were lucky, had different opportunities and lives. As one of the men from the DRC led us in singing "How marvelous is your name oh Lord" I could not help but wonder.....
Immauel
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